Archive of Our Own

He bought a bus ticket to Chicago first. He had almost requested one for his final destination, but had worried it would be too unusual. Too memorable. He knew people were looking for him. A bus ticket to Chicago first.

In Chicago he bought a ticket only as far as Kansas City, just to be safe. The bus rides were long, but he barely noticed. Sitting still, being quiet, living inside his head. This was all familiar. He thought, perhaps, it had been familiar before, even. Before they had rebuilt him.

He could have stolen a car, but then he’d have that to worry about. Being caught, having to stop for gas or food. Or sleep. He was tired all the time.

He slept only when he had determined, in the skilled way he had, that no one on the bus was following him. He was anonymous. Just a man traveling alone.

On the bus he could shut down. He knew about shutting down.

In Kansas City he bought a ticket to Flagstaff, Arizona. The money was Hydra’s. In all the confusion no one had bothered to close the accounts that had been available to agents for missions. He had taken as much as he could over three days at three different bank machines. It would be enough.

He bought a final bus ticket from Flagstaff to Grand Canyon. He couldn’t say why he felt compelled to go there. He had no plan after this. He’d had a flash, shortly after visiting the Smithsonian, that he wanted to see the Grand Canyon. That he had never seen it but had always wanted to. It was enough. It was something.

Arizona was hot. Hotter than anything he could remember feeling before. He had, he thought, been sent to warm climates for missions. (He had killed people in warm climates). But he didn’t know heat like this. He only knew cold.

He stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon. There was a parking lot and tour buses and so many people, but the Canyon was gigantic and he found his piece of the edge.

He looked down into it, and far across it. It was breathtaking, but it didn’t fix anything inside of him. Had he expected it to? He had expected it to satisfy something. He had wanted this, and now he had done it.

He wasn’t satisfied. He felt something else. Guilt? That was weird. Like he had betrayed someone. Like he was…

He wasn’t supposed to be here alone. He was supposed to be here with him. The blond man. The man from the bridge. Captain Steven Grant Rogers.

Steven Grant Rogers had been the friend of James Buchanan Barnes. The museum had said that. The man had said that, or something like it, when they were fighting. Before the man fell into the river. Before the man who was maybe once James Buchanan Barnes pulled him to the shore.

He was supposed to be here with Steven Gr-

He was supposed to be here with Steve.

He took a final look at the Canyon. He had to leave. Besides the confusing feelings of guilt and remorse that were gnawing him, he knew he was overdressed. He would be noticed in this crowd of t-shirts and shorts and sandals. He would be noticed in his jeans and canvas jacket and leather glove.

He had no plan now. His self-assigned mission had been to see the Grand Canyon. He had accomplished this. He needed a new mission. He needed a destination.

****

He bought a beat up sedan for $500 cash that had been parked on someone’s lawn. It was in rough shape. It got him as far as Nevada. He drove past Las Vegas, which was a giant city now. Apparently a place people went for fun. Like Atlantic City. He avoided it.

Nevada was vast and hot and empty. There were ghost towns and abandoned everything everywhere. His car was dying. He couldn’t ask much more of it. He found a garage.

The garage was in the middle of nowhere, but it was open. The man running it was older. Indian. No, not Indian. They weren't called that anymore. Except sometimes. He had long, mostly grey hair tied back, and wore a navy coverall.

"I'm not going to be able to fix it for at least a week," the mechanic said.

"I can do the work myself. I just need to buy the parts and...I need a place to work."

The mechanic looked at him. Considered. Nodded.

"Alright. Suppose there's plenty of room."

The mechanic introduced himself as Roy.

"James." He tried it out.

James parked his car behind the building. There were two bays in the garage but they were both occupied. He opened the hood. There was a lot of work to be done.

He knew how to fix a modern car. He didn't remember learning this, but he understood the mechanics of what he found under the hood. The same way he understood computers and smartphones and languages. He didn't remember learning them, he just knew them.

He assessed the damage and made a mental inventory of the parts that he needed. He circled to the front of the building and found the mechanic, Roy, working underneath a black pick-up truck.

Roy rolled out from under the truck. "Need something, son?"

"Pen and paper. Need to make a list."

Roy stood and wiped his grease-covered hands with a rag. He went to a side table and grabbed a ratty notepad and a stick pen. James took them and made his list. When he handed the list to Roy, the mechanic frowned.

"Most of these I'll have to order. Probably take a few days at least." He looked at the younger (older) man. "You a vet?"

James was startled by the question. A vet? A veteran? A soldier?

"Yes," he said, "I am. I was. A soldier."

Roy nodded. "Thought so. Recognized the look in your eyes. My brother had it. He wasn't ever the same after 'Nam."

Vietnam. Had James been in Vietnam? He thinks he might have been. For a few days.

Roy gestured toward James' gloved left hand. "I take it you lost something."

"Yes." Everything.

"Well it's hot as hell here. And it's just me. If you want to take that jacket off and maybe not die of heat stroke, I'm not gonna stare at whatever you've got there to replace it."

James pursed his lips, and for a wild second he almost thought he might laugh. Roy would stare at it, of course.

"You can start with the fan belt and the brake pads. I have those. And I'll order the rest today."

James nodded and turned to walk away.

"Hey, you got a place to stay?"

James turned back. "Was gonna sleep in the car, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, but how about..." Roy opened a drawer in the same table he got the notepad from. He fished out a key and handed it to James. "There's a room above the shop. Used to have a tenant, but it's been vacant awhile now. Nothing fancy. I've stayed there a few nights over the years. I leave here at six, but you can stay if you like."

James stared at the key. "You trust me to stay here alone?"

"Unless you give me a reason not to."

James nodded. "Ok. Thank you."

****

He carried his only possessions — a plastic 7-11 bag full of energy bars, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a plastic water bottle he had been refilling — up the staircase on the side of the building to the door at the top. The room was small but it had a working shower and a bed and that was all he cared about.

He pulled off his jacket, heavy and dirty, and peeled his sweat-dampened t-shirt off over his head. He felt relief as the air that had finally started to cool hit his bare skin.

He turned on the shower. The water was slightly yellow and smelled strongly of minerals, but it got hot quickly and the pressure was strong. He stood under the spray and let it take the layers of dirt, dust, grime and sweat off that he had allowed to build up for days. There was an old bar of soap left in the holder in the tiny shower stall, and he used it to clean his hair as well as his body. For a few minutes he watched, transfixed, as water cascaded down the plates of his left arm.

He hadn't always had that arm. Or, he had. James Buchanan Barnes hadn't. Barnes had died with two flesh arms. Or he hadn't died. He felt him sometimes, inside somewhere, screaming to get out. Screaming as he fell. Screaming as they cut off what was left of his flesh arm…

He finished his shower. He considered his clothes, the only outfit he had. He could wash the t-shirt. It would dry in time for the morning. Probably not the jeans. He would need to buy more things. Basic necessities.

He pulled the dirty jeans on and washed the shirt quickly in the sink with the same bar of soap. He rung it out and brought it outside to hang over the railing. It was dark now, much cooler, and the desert sky was stunning. More stars than James could ever remember seeing. He had probably seen stars like this before. During the war, perhaps. When he was still…

He stayed outside at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing, looking at the black sky and endless stars. Being out here reminded him of something. Brooklyn. A fire escape. A run-down tenement building. Leaning over a railing, looking at the night sky and watching smoke curl from a cigarette against the blackness. Smoking outside because the smoke wasn’t good for Steve’s lungs.

Steve.

James remembered another item he had purchased at the 7-11, tucked, unopened in one of his jacket pockets. He had asked for them almost automatically when he was paying for his other items. “Packet of Lucky Strike. And a lighter.” He hadn’t thought about them since. He wanted one now.

He sat on the top stair and lit his first cigarette in probably seventy years. He inhaled, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes to watch the smoke billow away from his lips, up into the darkness. He sat there in his jeans, barefoot, shirtless, and felt the comfort of something familiar wash over him.

****

It was hot again the next morning, of course. James decided to risk revealing his arm and only wore his t-shirt when he went outside to resume work on his car. When Roy saw him, his eyes widened. “Jesus, what did Uncle Sam do to you?”

James didn’t correct him. Maybe Uncle Sam had done this to him. The U.S. Army. That’s where it all began. He’d never had a choice in the matter. Either way, Uncle Sam sure didn’t do anything to help him.

“I was...sort of an experiment,” James said, feeling that he needed to explain the arm somehow. Hide the truth in a partial truth. The t-shirt sleeve covered the red star. James wanted to get rid of the red star.

Roy looked like he had more to say, but he kept quiet.

James went to work on his car. There wasn’t much more he could do for it, until the parts arrived. He returned to Roy after an hour.

“I could help,” James said, “if you want. You’re putting me up, and I’m...good at fixing things.”

Roy considered this, his eyes returning again and again to the arm he had promised he wouldn’t stare at.

“Alright,” he said, and gestured toward the worn-looking sedan next to him. “Transmission went on that one. Got a new one on order, but I need to remove the old one. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes.”

James went to work, grateful for something to do. Grateful for this man’s trust. He removed the gearbox easily and placed it on a work table. He pulled a stool up and sat, studying the broken part. It was a six-speed, full of intricate gears. Beautiful, really. It had been designed to do something important. Now it sat, a hunk of cold metal. Damaged, useless.

"I can fix this," James said.

"What's that?" Roy asked.

"I can fix this transmission. You don't need to replace it."

Roy looked skeptical. "Seems like more trouble than it's worth. A lot easier to just replace it."

"I'll fix it," James said, his voice determined and almost angry. He was annoyed that this piece of machinery would be thrown out when it just needed someone who was willing to make it work again. He would make it work again.

Roy shrugged. "Go ahead if you think so, but I think it's a lost cause."

James pursed his lips. His brow furrowed. It was not a lost cause. He would fix it.

****

James leaned against the outside of the garage, smoking his second cigarette in seventy years.

"Those things'll kill ya," Roy said.

If only.

"I was thinking,” Roy said, nodding to where his tow truck was parked, “if you want to borrow my truck, there's a town about ten miles away that has a proper grocery store. There's a shop that sells some clothing, too. Thought you might like to get a few things if you're gonna be staying for a bit."

James looked at him. The trust this near-stranger gave him was something he couldn't understand. James had given him nothing more than his first name, and a half-true story about being a veteran. Roy saw the metal arm, saw that James had arrived unwashed and probably looking a little suspicious, but he hadn't judged him.

"Ok," James said after a long pause. He then hastily added "thank you."

In town he bought t-shirts, undershirts, socks, underwear, a hooded sweatshirt with a zipper, and another pair of jeans. He spent quite a while in the grocery store because he hadn't spent time in one before. There were so many items to consider. So many that were unfamiliar.

He knew the nutrients his body needed, and studied the labels on the food packaging to find them. There was a small refrigerator on the floor of the room he was staying in, so he could buy a few perishables. He knew he needed to be eating more than he was. He didn't have Hydra's supplements anymore and he needed his energy in case they came for him. He needed to be healthy.

He bought bananas, apples, milk, bread, and more protein bars. He also bought things he was less familiar with: a bag of almonds, a jug of orange juice, an array of candy bars, and a jar of peanut butter. He added bottles of vitamin pills and a bar of soap from the pharmacy section, and, because he felt a pang of nostalgia when he saw it, a six-pack of glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

There was a young man, a boy, really. Maybe seventeen. He was crouched down, stocking shelves, blonde, slim. James found himself staring at him a moment too long. Long enough for the young man to turn his head and give him a look. What are you looking at? James turned his eyes away and moved to the counter to pay.

He left the store a little shaken. His head swam with murky memories of a young man like that stock boy. Thin, blonde. He remembered wet coughs and a protruding rib cage rising and falling rapidly as its owner struggled to breathe. He remembered a feeling of desperation. Of panic. Of being willing to trade anything — anything — for that young man's survival.

James put the groceries in the truck, then leaned against the vehicle and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and savored the first drag, trying to focus his head. He had his jacket on, despite the heat, and his ball cap pulled low.

He remembered feeling fiercely protective of that young man. He was sickly, frail, but also strong. And beautiful? Bucky had...

Bucky. Jesus Christ.

James got in the truck and drove back to the garage. He was overwhelmed by the flood of memories. His mind was being invaded by Brooklyn. The 1930s. The young man. Friendship. Love.

He was exhausted. When he got back he thanked Roy as he gave him back the keys to the truck, and carried his purchases up the stairs.

****

"I'll be damned."

Roy inspected the fully functional gearbox that he, only two days ago, had declared to be a lost cause. James fought the anxiety he felt about having his work examined. Roy wouldn't punish him. Roy wasn't them.

"Told ya," James said, swallowing his fear, "I'm good at fixing things."

"You say you never worked in a garage before?"

"Not that I can recall." He said it like a joke. It wasn't.

"Now I wish I had the money to hire you," Roy said as he leaned in to examine the gears more closely.

"Not looking for money," James said, "but I'll stay and work for you if I can stay in the room upstairs."

Roy looked at him. "You serious?"

James shrugged. "I got nowhere to be, and I like it here. I like fixing things. I like the sunshine." I never want to be cold again.

****

He made a home for himself in the apartment above the garage. He bought a hot plate and a toaster and a microwave and a coffee maker. He bought dishes and dish soap.

He bought a few paperbacks from the grocery store in town, and he enjoyed reading them. Some were spy thrillers, and he found himself rolling his eyes at the techniques the authors would have their supposedly expert spy characters employ. Some were sci-fi, and he liked those better. He wasn’t entirely sure what, in this century, was still fiction when it came to that genre. He even bought a couple of romance novels, and he liked those too. They were...nice. Relaxing. And they described feelings that were more foreign to him than anything in the spy thriller or sci-fi books.

He spent his days fixing cars and his evenings reading, or just sitting outside under the stars and smoking. Sometimes a memory would be triggered and he would spend time trying to expand it.

He kept his hair long, but he trimmed it from time to time with a pair of scissors he had bought. He shaved about once a week.

He got in the habit of brewing a pot of coffee each morning and filling two mugs. He would bring them downstairs and set one of the side table in the garage for Roy. Sometimes Roy would bring him things he thought he could use, like a table lamp he didn’t need anymore, and an alarm clock radio. One day he brought a stack of old issues of Popular Mechanics, which James had spent hours reading.

One issue in particular.

Included in the stack was a 1985 issue commemorating the fortieth anniversary of Captain America’s heroic death. Almost the entire issue was about Captain Rogers and the serum that had transformed him. James read the issue over and over again. There was a photograph, the same one from the museum, of young Steve Rogers, before the serum. Tiny and frail, but his jaw set and his eyes determined. James would never mistake this man for being weak.

The photo was included in a piece about Steve Rogers’ life in Brooklyn before the serum. It seemed there wasn’t a lot of public information about that period of his life because the article was only one page. Not many people still alive who had known him back then, James supposed.

One of these days, Stevie, the rest of the world is gonna figure out what I already know.

Knock it off, Buck.

They will. Then the whole world is gonna be in love with you and where will that leave me?

You ain’t getting rid of me, jerk.

James ran a finger over the photo. For a fleeting second he could remember exactly how that man had felt in his arms. And that was weird.

Most of the magazine was about the science of creating Captain America. There was a photo of the team of scientists and military and government officials involved. James recognized a couple of them. Howard Stark’s smirking face triggered something in James’ brain that flickered and died, like a bulb popping. And the lone woman in the photo, Peggy Carter. She had been important, he remembered. To him? To Steve? Because the magazine had been published thirty years before Captain America had been found in the ice, the whole thing had a sombre feel. It concluded with a “What If…” feature that philosophized about what Captain America would have done after the war had he survived it. Or how quickly the war would have been won if a Hydra spy hadn’t assassinated Erskine and the formula had been replicated and used to build an army of super soldiers.

The name “James ‘Bucky’ Barnes” came up a few times throughout the magazine. There was even a small picture of Bucky standing beside Rogers. Both men looked hard at the camera in what was obviously a staged photograph. Bucky was holding a rifle.

Could I get less laughter, gentlemen? We’re trying to make you look intimidating here.

I’m supposed to keep a straight face when Rogers is wearing this ridiculous get-up?

Come on, Buck. I’ve been wearing this for months. You still gonna ride me about it?

No, you look great, Stevie. Exactly how people picture soldiers dressing.

That a standard-issue peacoat you’re wearing?

Makes my eyes pop.

I’ll make your eyes pop…

Gentlemen!

James read the issue over and over again, trying to spark more memories. He would lose them as quickly as they appeared.

****

James learned that Roy had recently turned sixty. His wife had died four years ago from cancer. He had a daughter who was married that he hardly ever saw. She lived in California somewhere. Roy's older brother had enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1971 and had been shipped to Vietnam. He had never been the same after returning. He had killed himself in 1985. Roy didn't think much of the American government.

The two men were well suited. Neither liked to talk much, and both were hard workers.

One afternoon, James went to town and returned with a can of white spray paint. It took him almost an hour to work up the nerve to approach Roy.

“Was hoping you could help me with something,” James mumbled.

Roy pulled himself out from under the hood of the car he was working on.

“What do you need, son?”

James set the can of spray paint on the side table and, pausing a moment, hauled up his t-shirt sleeve to reveal the red star.

“You probably have a few questions about this,” James said.

Roy looked at the star, and then at James’ face. “None that I need answered.”

James nodded, and relaxed.

“So, looking for a colour change?” Roy asked.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Kinda hard to paint your own arm, y’know?”

“No problem at all. Let me get some things.”

Roy very carefully lined the star with heavy black electrical tape. He then framed a larger square around the area and filled that in with tape.

“I’m not going to mess up any circuits or anything by doing this?” Roy asked as he shook up the paint can.

“Don’t think so,” James said, “I could probably fix it if you do.”

“Well I’m glad because this machinery looks a little out of my league.” Roy held the can a short distance from James’ upper arm. “Alright, don’t move.”

James turned his head away to avoid getting paint spray in his eyes. When he turned back a minute later, the red star was gone. A fresh, gleaming white star shone up at him.

It stirred something in him. He knew he had wanted to disguise the red star, but he hadn't expected the white one to tug at something deep inside him. He remembered seeing that white star on the chest of a man he would follow anywhere.

He remembered tracing the outline of that white star on that chest with his finger. On a bed in...some room. The man with the star stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, grinning as he watched the finger repeat its journey around the five points. He remembered making that man laugh. And sigh. And moan...

"You alright?" Roy asked, noticing the way James was staring at his handiwork, not moving. Not speaking.

"Yeah," James said finally, "thanks."

That night James lay shirtless on top of the blankets on his bed and traced his finger over the freshly painted star. He felt calmer, reassured, having it there. Having the red that symbolized everything he hated and feared replaced by something that he was sure had once meant a lot to him.

He had all these pieces. He knew Steve had been (still is?) Captain America. He knew he had fought beside him in the war. Somehow Steve was still here seven decades later. He had been frozen too, like James had been. But not like James had been. Steve hadn’t been captured or...used. He had crashed a plane into arctic waters and had survived, frozen, all those years. James understood that, as fantastic as it was. It sounded more like a science fiction story than actual fact. But he wasn’t one to talk.

He knew that before the war, and during the war, Steve had been his friend. He had been important to him, and James had been important to Steve. Or Bucky had. James couldn’t find Bucky inside of himself, beyond the screaming. The only evidence that he and Bucky were the same person were the sudden and overwhelming pangs of emotion he would feel sometimes that he had no explanation for. The slender young man stocking shelves in the grocery store. The sound of a wet, hacking cough. A worn-down pencil stub. An orange (why an orange?).

The triggers had been few and far between because very little in this century was familiar. He had been free of Hydra’s control for months now, though, and memories were starting to surface on their own.

The white star calmed him. It kindled tiny feelings of warmth, comfort and belonging. He decided to start there.

Tracing his finger around the star. Going back to that flash of memory he had had earlier. The man — Steve — lying on a bed in his officer’s quarters in London. James closed his eyes and concentrated on the memory. Steve had met with their superiors, and James (Bucky) had waited for him in...their room? No, Steve’s room. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be in there.

Steve had entered the room, found Bucky there and he had...smiled. God. James remembered that smile. They hadn’t had time alone together in…

Something twisted inside of James, deep in the pit of his stomach, as he remembered the hunger. Having time alone together had been important. It had been precious and cherished and thrilling. Because Bucky and Steve had been…

Steve had smiled at Bucky and it had been full of promise and mischief and Bucky had found himself pressed against a wall, away from the door. That smile had pressed itself against Bucky’s lips, his throat, his collarbone, as long fingers had unbuttoned Bucky’s shirt.

Steve had been wearing the red, white and blue uniform, and was still wearing it as he dropped to his knees. James remembered the look Steve had given him through those impossibly long eyelashes. Bucky had shuddered helplessly in response, then watched as Captain America devoured him.

James felt something stir inside him. Something that he couldn’t quite remember ever feeling before. Certainly not since before the fall. The fractured memory of Captain America, in full uniform, on his knees with his lips stretched around Bucky’s rigid cock, had awoken something in him. He felt, for the first time that he was aware of, his own cock twitch with interest.

With a mixture of excitement and fear, James concentrated harder on the memory. He wanted more. What had it felt like?

The body, Steve’s body, had been new. That night hadn’t been the first time they had been intimate since the serum, but they had still been getting used to it. The serum had given Steve the body and strength and stamina he had always wanted, and he had been eager to give Bucky everything he hadn’t been able to before. No more risk of an asthma attack. No more risk of anything, really.

James remembered the relief Bucky had felt about that, but it wasn't...there was something else. Remorse? Anger? Steve had gone off and gotten himself a new body while he and Bucky had been apart, and Bucky had missed the old one. Because they had done that stuff...intimacy, sex. Before. James remembered his hands gliding over sharp pelvic bones, a visible rib cage, thighs he could almost wrap one hand around. He remembered pouty red lips and fierce blue eyes and a strength that couldn't be contained in such a small package. He remembered curling his body around a much smaller one, and lifting the smaller man right off the ground to pin him against the wall of a dingy apartment.

He had missed that smaller man. His Stevie.

The new version — Captain America — he was still that man. The strength that could not be contained had found a new home. His new body was beautiful, perfect, and Bucky had enjoyed exploring it and testing its limits.

James was suddenly hit with the vivid sensation of Steve’s mouth, hot and wet and relentless, wrapped around Bucky’s cock. His wide, eager tongue caressing his hard length. His throat clenching around the head. His low moans and encouraging hums.

James felt his cock becoming uncomfortably hard in his jeans. He cautiously moved his flesh hand to the noticeable bulge and pressed down. He gasped into the empty room, his whole body shuddering. It wasn’t pain. It was the other thing. The thing he had forgotten about completely.

He went back to the memory, squeezing his eyes shut so he could grab as much information as he could. He remembered pushing Steve off of him, almost knocking him over, because he had been close to the end and he hadn’t wanted to be. He wanted more from Steve that night. He remembered shoving Steve down on the bed and unfastening Steve’s belt and trousers. Steve’s cock had been long and thick and beautiful. Bigger than before, but not by much. He had always been larger than people would expect. James was startled by that particular memory. It wasn’t something he would expect to remember.

His brain skips ahead a bit and suddenly James’ senses are flooded with the memory of fucking Steve. The new Steve, huge and strong and fearless. He still had the Captain America shirt on, rucked up to expose his stomach, his trousers on the floor.

James undid the fly on his jeans and pushed them down off his hips. He experimentally wrapped his hand around his now achingly hard cock and trembled at the feeling of being enveloped in heat and pressure. It was like, but not like, feeling Steve stretched around him as he slammed into him on the bed because Steve could take it now. Steve liked it as hard as Bucky could give him. And they weren’t in a thin-walled apartment in Brooklyn anymore.

James stroked himself, dry except for the thick beads of moisture that were leaking from the swollen head and Christ. He didn’t know. Didn’t remember that he could feel like this. He kept stroking, harder and faster despite the burn of doing it dry. It was good. His memories of fucking Steve drove him closer and closer to something that he wasn’t quite sure of, but he knew he wanted it. He felt heat curl up from his abdomen, tendrils snaking throughout his body tightening everything. Pulling everything down to the intense pressure that was building, threatening to burst. He wanted it to burst and flood him. He remembered Steve’s face when he had reached his breaking point. His sapphire eyes fixed on Bucky, full of wonder and...love. Steve had loved Bucky.

James’ whole body arched off the bed when he came. The thick, hot strings spilled over his hand and shot up onto his stomach. He let out a loud, shocked noise. He may have said Steve’s name. He kept his hand on his cock, gently stroking, until the last tremors subsided and it began to soften in his hand.

Fuck. Fuck.

He had been in love with Steve. He knew that now. He had been in love with Steve before the war, and during. Steve, Captain America, the man on the bridge. His target. His mission.

No wonder he hadn’t been able to kill him. No wonder he had recognized him. Nothing less than what he had felt for Steve could have broken through his programming. Jesus.

For the first time, James felt a real connection to Bucky. He could believe they were the same person once. It was an overwhelming, devastating feeling.

For the first time since his escape, James cried, raw and loud and ugly, into the lonely room.

****

James started a fitness regimen. Every morning, and every evening, he would do sets of push-ups with his left arm tucked behind his back. He ran, sometimes five miles, sometimes ten or more, out into the desert where no one would see him, military style in his combat boots. He did deep stretching to keep himself limber.

His body had stayed very well honed even before he started exercising, but he needed to be perfect. He had gotten lazy. And the exercise felt good.

The structure of his days — exercise, making coffee for himself and Roy, working, preparing and consuming food, showering, reading, smoking, and sleeping — relaxed him. It helped him get his thoughts straight. He felt more like a human and less like a monster.

It also helped that Roy treated him like a human.

When James finished the work on his own car, Roy said “Maybe a little celebration is in order.” He drove both men into town to the diner there.

“They have the best chocolate cream pie you’ve ever tasted,” Roy promised. James was sure that would be the case.

The diner was small, and drab, with eight booths and a row of seats along the counter. James led them to the farthest booth against the back wall, and he sat in the seat facing the door. He wasn’t dumb enough to think Roy didn’t notice behaviour like this.

"I'm not asking for your life story,” Roy said as he put down his menu, “but I gotta ask if you staying with me puts me in some kind of danger."

James wasn't sure how to answer.

"You make yourself scarce when people come by, and you seem awful jumpy being out in public like this. I don't know if the police are looking for you or...someone worse."

"Worse," James said finally. Roy deserved to know something, "but they might never come. I don't know. It's um..." He almost laughed to himself, "it's kind of a long story."

“Well, like I said, don’t need to hear it if you don’t think it’s important, but I wouldn’t mind a heads up if there’s some sort of risk to you being here.”

In that moment James wondered if he should tell Roy everything. Everything that he knew, anyway, which wasn’t all that much. Might not even be true. He had a hard time deciphering which of the information in his head was real.

The waitress interrupted to take their orders, buying James some time. James ordered a cheeseburger because Roy ordered a cheeseburger, and James didn’t feel up to making decisions about food right now.

“You heard of Hydra?” James asked, after the waitress was a safe distance away.

“Yeah,” Roy said with noticeable unease, “heard they aren’t as finished as we all thought they were.”

James pulled his ball cap down a bit and leaned forward. “They took a hit. In Washington. Don’t know what their status is now, but, no, they’re not finished.”

James wasn’t sure how to continue. He knew what he wasn’t ready to share. He chose his words carefully.

“I was...a prisoner. Of Hydra. I was a soldier, U.S. Army, I mean, and they captured me. For...a long time. After Washington, I escaped.”

Roy studied him. He looked somewhat relieved but also puzzled. “If you escaped, why not go to the army? The government? Why do you have to hide?”

That was not an easy question to answer without telling Roy things he didn’t want to get into. He considered a moment before landing on an answer that was partially truthful, but would also satisfy Roy.

“I don’t know who I can trust.”

Roy nodded. As James had predicted, he accepted and understood this answer. The government was not to be trusted.

“So, no family? Friends?”

“No,” James said. Then, “I don’t know. I, uh, I lost some memories when I was...in captivity.”

Roy looked at him for a long time without speaking. James flinched.

“I’m sorry, son,” Roy said finally, “I’m sorry you went through all that.”

Roy's sympathy was jarring. “I can go,” James said, “I can leave. I should never have-”

Roy held up a hand. “Stay. As long as you need,” he offered a small smile, “I think you picked a good hiding spot.”

James felt his own mouth twitch up a bit.

“Thank you.”

They ate their cheeseburgers.

****

Bucky was breaking through. Since James had allowed himself to remember pleasure and desire and Steve, all of the walls had started crumbling.

He would be tightening an engine valve and be struck suddenly by the memory of eating a hot dog at a Dodgers game. The sharp taste of mustard would fill his mouth, accompanied by a vision of Steve smiling, his tongue darting out to lick the yellow condiment from his own upper lip.

He would be washing the engine grease from his hands and have a vivid memory of trudging home from work through shin-deep snow, full of anxiety about the state of Steve’s health. He’d had such a high fever the night before, and though it had broken by morning and he had insisted Bucky go to work…

The memories came out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason to them. Except when he was jerking off. Then they were specific and detailed and he could just stay in them until he was finished. The jerking off had become a regular thing because of this. At the end of the day he would lie on his bed and let himself drown in memories of Steve.

Tonight his memory gifted him with something he never thought he’d get back: Bucky’s first time with Steve.

And there had been an orange.

Steve standing next to their tiny kitchen table, home from his job at the grocers. It had been summer and Steve had stripped to his undershirt and trousers, his suspenders dangling at his hips. A paper sack of the sensible, basic foods they could afford sat on the table next to him. Usually Steve would have been turning those groceries into dinner by the time Bucky got home, but that day he had been standing in the kitchen peeling an orange.

Steve had...apologized? No, smiled, then apologized.

“Hey, Buck. I got one for you, too.”

Steve tossed him an orange before biting into the juicy flesh of his own.

James tried to remember why this moment had been the breaking point for Bucky. He had, he was sure, been in love with Steve for years before this moment. He concentrated, his hand slowed and then he stopped stroking himself altogether. This was an important memory. He needed to focus.

He remembered the late afternoon sunlight streaming into the window behind Steve. It had made him glow. He hadn’t been sick, no coughing or wheezing. Just beautiful and happy to see Bucky. Juice from the orange glistened on his lips, and a drop rolled down his chin. Bucky followed it with his eyes and could think of nothing other than how badly he wanted to lick that drop of juice off of him. How he wanted to kiss those orange-flavoured lips and…

He remembers thinking — Bucky thinking — that there was a possibility that Steve wanted that too. That he had thought it for awhile but had been too scared to act on it.

James could not remember what had made him do it, but Bucky had decided, in that moment, that he needed to go for it.

Bucky had closed the distance between them, setting the orange Steve had tossed him on the table along the way. He stood close to Steve. Close enough to make Steve look at him with questioning eyes that had held a trace amount of fear. And maybe, hopefully, something else.

“Was thinking maybe I could share yours,” Bucky had said in a low voice, head tilted down. Terrified but trying not to show it. Needing to end this torture one way or the other.

Steve, brave and stubborn as always, hadn’t blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky had kissed him, open and wet and messy, and Steve had kissed him right back with his fists balled in Bucky’s shirt. Bucky had kissed him until the orange flavour was gone and he could finally, finally taste Steve on his tongue.

He had hoisted Steve up and sat him on the table to get a better angle. Steve had protested feebly at being manhandled, but had eagerly welcomed the return of Bucky’s mouth on his. Bucky had been surprised, given Steve’s lack of experience, to feel Steve’s slender hands pulling Bucky’s shirts out of the waistband of his pants. Before Bucky could react, Steve had slid his palms up the bare skin of Bucky’s stomach and up onto his chest. Bucky had gasped against Steve’s mouth, then chuckled a bit. He should have guessed Steve would be impatient and fearless like this. He should have guessed that Steve had wanted this as much as Bucky had.

On his bed, James had his right hand splayed over his chest as he tried to remember exactly how those first electric touches from Steve had felt. Steve’s hands had always been cold, but in that moment they had felt like they were branding Bucky’s skin. They may as well have been. Bucky belonged to him completely and always had.

He remembered feeling relieved and giddy and worried that now that he could have this he would never stop. Would never want to do anything else.

He had been worried, as always, about hurting Steve. Bucky knew that Steve wasn’t as fragile as the world thought he was, but still…

Steve hadn’t been worried. He had wrapped his legs around Bucky’s waist and pulled him in closer, his fingers pulled out from under Bucky’s shirt and started opening buttons. Bucky had sworn against his mouth and helped him pull the shirt off, then yanked his undershirt over his head. Steve had looked at him like he was everything. And Bucky had seen that look on Steve’s face before many times. How could he not have known?

Bucky had leaned forward then, pushing Steve down so he lay flat on the table, Bucky covering him completely. He kissed Steve’s mouth and chin and jaw and neck and Steve gasped. The rickety table creaked ominously beneath them and they both laughed and decided, without words, to move to their only slightly more sturdy bed.

They hadn’t done everything. Not that day. They were just kids. Probably twenty? Maybe twenty-one? James wasn’t sure. Neither of them had any idea what they were doing. Bucky had been with girls, sure, but…

James remembers rutting against Steve on their bed, pants not even off. Both desperate and impatient and delirious. When Steve came his eyelashes fluttered closed and mouth fell open and he had been so beautiful. If Bucky hadn’t been a goner before, he was done for sure after seeing Steve’s face in that moment, and hearing the reverent way Steve had gasped Bucky’s name.

Afterward they had stayed in the bed, Steve curled around Bucky with his head on his chest. As the room had gotten darker, Steve had gotten braver and finally he asked, “Why do you, I mean...do you really want me, Buck?”

Bucky had tightened his arm around Steve and kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, Stevie. I want you.”

“But why?”

“Whaddaya mean why?”

“You could have anyone. I mean, look at you! Why would you wanna-”

And Bucky had sat up then, almost knocking Steve onto the floor. Bucky reached for him and pulled him in for a long kiss.

“Don’t want anyone else,” he murmured against Steve’s neck, “never have. And you know why.”

“I don’t-”

“You know why.”

Steve had sighed against him. “Yeah.”

****

One morning James picked up his jeans off the floor and found a scorpion. He crouched to look at the creature, tiny and deadly. He hadn’t ever seen a real one before, he didn’t think. It was so much smaller than James, but it held its ground, stinger raised and threatening.

James could have crushed it easily.

He gently scooped the scorpion up in his metal hand. He looked at it a moment, still threatening, still defiant, before closing his fingers carefully around it. He walked outside and down the stairs and out into the desert a ways. He found a rock and placed the scorpion on it. It stayed perfectly still a moment before it skittered away.

James walked back to his apartment. He never wanted to kill anything again.

****

James bought groceries and cigarettes and left town quickly. He kept his head down as usual, his ball cap pulled low.

He wondered, as he returned to his car, if he would ever be able to stop hiding. His life hadn’t been his own for over seventy years. Not since he had been drafted. It was long enough that he had forgotten what it might feel like to not be scared.

Bucky had been scared sometimes, even before the war. James knew that. But Bucky would also go dancing and play baseball and whistle and flirt. James couldn’t imagine doing any of that.

He took off back down the highway toward the garage. The sun was getting low.

That night, in his room, James turned on the radio in his bedside alarm clock. He scanned the stations until he landed on one playing music. It was Spanish. His brain translated the lyrics easily. The music was upbeat and celebratory. It was meant for dancing.

He sat on his bed and listened. Music was something Bucky had loved. Bucky had favourite songs and he would whistle parts of them sometimes. Music had sounded different then.

James turned the dial and found another station. This time the lyrics were English, and the music was slow. The lyrics were sad and the music twanged.

Another station had a female singer belting out lyrics that were downright filthy. No clever metaphors here.

James spent most of an hour scanning through stations and listening while sitting still on his bed. He didn’t have an emotional reaction to any of it. It was all unfamiliar and he couldn’t find the appeal. He turned off the radio and went to warm up a can of soup.

He decided to make himself a sandwich to go with the soup. As he layered meat and cheese on the bread, he heard himself humming softly under his breath. The melody came out of nowhere, but it was so familiar.

He kept humming and found that he could just keep going. He knew this tune. Did it have words? He wasn’t sure. But he used to listen to it.

The tune continued to run through his head while he ate his dinner. It just kept playing on a loop, like it was stuck. He had a song stuck in his head, and suddenly he remembered that was thing that happened to people. That used to happen to Bucky all the time.

As he cleaned his dishes in the sink he involuntarily started humming the tune again, and the humming turned into whistling. By the time he was putting the bowl and spoon away he was softly singing lyrics under his breath.

“Believe me, darlin', when I say, I won't know sweet music until you return someday.”

He froze. A very clear memory struck him of Steve — little Steve — rolling his eyes as Bucky sang those lyrics. Of Bucky teasing Steve with those lyrics when Steve was just leaving the apartment to go to the store or something.

James smirked at the memory, and went back to whistling the song as he grabbed his cigarettes and headed outside to sit on the stairs.

****

James had been living and working at the garage for almost six months when Sam arrived.

James hadn’t recognized him at first. He had pulled up to the bay door in a new-looking black SUV.

“Can I help you, sir?” Roy had asked.

The man had pulled off his sunglasses and looked directly at James. “Could use an oil change. I've been doing a lot of driving lately.”

James locked eyes with him and did not move. He knew this man somehow. He couldn't remember if he was a threat. Probably. Everyone was.

“This the new Explorer?” Roy had asked.

“Yeah,” the man answered, still looking at James, “just got it a month ago. Needed a new ride after the steering went in my old one.”

Ah. The bridge. This man had been driving the car with Steve in it.

This man was Steve’s friend.

“I can take care of this, Roy,” James said, keeping his voice even though his heart was racing. Roy nodded and went back inside.

The man extended his hand. “Sam Wilson.”

“James.” He shook his hand. If he had to fight him he would, but he had a feeling that wasn't why Sam Wilson was here.

“You're not an easy guy to find,” Sam said, almost cheerfully.

“How did you?”

“Steve had a hunch,” Sam said, his head turning to the horizon a moment. “Mentioned you had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. We have access to some pretty impressive facial recognition technology, and it turns out a lot of people like to take pictures at the Grand Canyon and put them on the internet.”

Oh.

“So once we found you in the background of a few selfies, we focused on this area. It was still damn hard to locate you, though.”

“We?”

“Yeah, me and Steve. And Natasha. We sort of formed a Bucky Barnes search party.”

“Why?”

“Well you'll have to ask Steve that question. You...remember Steve?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember Steve.”

“Then you probably know why.”

James’ heart — Bucky’s heart — clenched.

“Does Steve know I'm here?”

“Not yet. I'm thinking the second I tell him, he’ll be here. Nothing would hold him back. Believe me. That guy cares a hell of a lot about you.”

James felt his throat tighten.

“But here's the thing, James. I'm not gonna tell him unless you tell me you want me to. Seems like you've got a good thing going here. Quiet, safe, productive. I’m honestly impressed at how well adjusted you seem.”

James swallowed. He wasn't well adjusted. He was just existing and trying to piece things together and everything was so hard.

“Can I think about it?” James asked.

“Sure, man. You can think about it while you're changing my oil.”

****

Sam said he'd give him a couple of days.

“I think I've earned a little time off in Vegas,” Sam had said, holding out a scrap of paper. “This is my number. Call me and I'll call him. Don't call me and I'll be back in two days to make sure. After that, well, you can always change your mind.”

“You would really do that? Not tell him, I mean?”

Sam looked seriously at him. “You need to be ready, James.”

Sam had turned to walk to his car when James spoke, so low he was surprised Sam heard him.

“Is he...is Steve doing ok?”

Sam gave a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, man. But I think he'd be doing a whole hell of a lot better if he could see you.”

James nodded, trying to imagine how Steve could possibly still want to see him after all of the horrors James had committed. After knowing the monster James had become. After he had tried to kill Steve.

And Sam.

“Hey, uh...I'm sorry. For...your car. And for trying to kill you.”

Sam looked at him, stunned, and then snorted. “It's ok, man. Buy me a beer sometime.”

James almost smiled. He liked Sam. He was glad Steve had found a friend.

James watched Sam drive away.

Who was he kidding? As if he could possibly exist in the world without Steve. And he knew, he knew, Steve couldn't exist without him. They had been apart for seventy years, and that hadn't gone well for either of them.

James walked inside the garage and picked up the phone.

“Wilson.”

“Call him,” James said, and hung up.

****

Because he was an unstoppable force of nature, Steve showed up that very evening.

There had been a knock on the door of James’ apartment for the first time ever, and it could only be one person.

He opened the door, and there he was. Steve. Huge and perfect and hopeful and determined. Blue eyes and red lips and weird new hair. The last time James had seen him his face had been broken apart and swollen. Now it was all back together and gaping at him with disbelief.

“Bucky.”

Yeah? “Yeah. It's me.”

“Damn it, Bucky. Goddammit,” his voice broke, his eyes were wet.

Bucky. Bucky swallowed because he couldn't speak. What could he say?

Steve threw his arms around him and squeezed him so tight Bucky’s face was mashed against his shoulder.

“Don't leave me again,” Steve choked out, “don't ever leave me again.”

“I won't. I…” He meant it, he realized. Of course he wouldn't. “Steve.”

Steve made a noise between laughter and sobbing. “Yeah.”

Bucky exhaled against Steve’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He placed his right hand on the small of Steve’s back and, with some hesitation, his left hand just above it.

Steve’s whole body was shaking as he cried silently into Bucky’s shoulder. It was alarming, Steve crying. Bucky wondered if Steve hadn’t allowed himself to cry this whole time, and if it was all coming out now.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said.

He felt Steve's head shake back and forth. “No. Why are you sorry? Don't be sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He didn't know what else he could say, if he wasn't apologizing.

“I'm just...I’m just so relieved. I thought you were dead, Buck, and then…”

Bucky's flesh hand found its way to Steve’s hair and began to stroke through it soothingly. He felt the same. God, he smelled the same.

“I was,” Bucky said.

Steve sniffed. “Yeah. Me too.” Then, “God, I missed you.”

Bucky didn't say anything back. He hadn't missed Steve. He couldn't have. But he had felt Steve’s absence. Beneath all the programming, Steve had lurked like a spectre.

Steve was suddenly concerned about Bucky’s silence. He stepped back.

“Do you remember me, Bucky? Sam said...I'm sorry, I should have asked first. Do you remember?”

Bucky looked at Steve, tall and strong and young. Wearing modern jeans and a brown leather jacket and an expression of cautious hope.

They were really here. Together. In the future.

“I remember,” Bucky said. He moved his flesh hand slightly toward Steve’s and Steve didn't hesitate. He reached out and grabbed it and twined their fingers. Bucky felt a jolt go through him. Steve tugged gently on their joined hands, pulling Bucky toward him. He pressed their foreheads together and Bucky felt, for the first time he could recall, calm. He was where he was supposed to be.

“I remember,” Bucky said again, almost a whisper.

Steve brushed the fingers of his free hand over Bucky’s cheekbone. Bucky sighed and leaned into it. It was so wonderful, being touched like this by gentle, loving hands.

Steve ran his fingers over Bucky’s cheek again, but this time continued their path down along his jaw, and up to his lips. Bucky parted his lips, air escaping in a faint gasp.

“I can't believe it's really you,” Steve murmured. “I can't believe we're really here together. Bucky, I-”

Bucky cut him off by tilting his head slightly and pressing his lips to Steve’s. He did it gently, barely touching at first, until Steve made a desperate noise and kissed him back.

Steve’s lips were dry because everything here was dry, and Bucky instinctively touched his tongue against them to wet them. Steve shuddered and opened his mouth, meeting Bucky’s tongue with his own. Then Bucky found himself with his back pressed against the wall next to them, Steve’s hands cradling his face as he kissed Bucky with everything he had. Like he had been starving for it.

Bucky wasn’t sure how he even remembered how to do this, but it was effortless. Kissing Steve, touching Steve, breathing him in...it was relaxing in a way that he hadn’t known anything could be.

It should bother him, being crowded against the wall like this, but it doesn’t. Instead, he balled the front of Steve’s jacket in his fists and pulled him tighter against him. Steve’s taste was so familiar, the feel of his tongue in his mouth, the softness of his hands on his face…

“God,” Steve breathed against his lips, “I didn't think...I didn't expect you to want this.”

“Want it,” Bucky rasped, “I…” Bucky struggled to find words. His body was overloaded with sensation. Not just arousal, but comfort, familiarity, belonging. This was who he was. Who he had always been, under everything: a man who loved Steve Rogers beyond all sense.

“Shhh, s’ok,” Steve said soothingly, pressing his forehead into the crook of Bucky's neck. “We're together now. We have a lot to talk about, but I just want to hold you right now, if that's alright.”

“It's alright.” Bucky found touching so much easier than talking.

Steve took both of Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, in his own. He held them at their sides, rubbing gently with his thumbs, while he breathed against Bucky's shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky said, “about the metal. I know it must feel strange.”

“No apologizing,” Steve reminded him, “told you already. You've got nothing to apologize to me for.”

Bucky was quiet a moment as he searched for the right words.

“I hate that I don't have both hands to touch you with.”

Steve gave both of Bucky’s hands a squeeze. Bucky could feel an increase in pressure on the left hand. He felt Steve’s reassurance on the right.

“Would you like something to drink or...I have some food, if-”

Steve stepped back to look at him. He gave a small smile, “Sure, Buck. Whatever you've got. Let's just sit.”

The only place to sit in the tiny apartment was the bed, so Steve sat there while Bucky grabbed two glass bottles of Coke from his little bar fridge. He opened them with his metal hand and handed one to Steve, who grinned when he saw it.

“I was so happy when I found out Coke still existed,” Steve said.

“I saw it at the store,” Bucky said, “the glass bottles. Made me remember. Started buying it regular after that.”

He sat on the bed beside Steve, who raised his bottle and tipped it toward Bucky before taking a drink.

“How long have you been here?” Steve asked.

“A few months. Six months maybe? The guy who owns the place, Roy, he let me stay here. Good guy. Owe him a lot.”

“Well then I'd like to shake his hand. I'm glad you found somewhere safe.”

Silence between them. Steve took another sip, seemingly gathered some courage, and said,

“You know you would have been safe with me, too, right?”

“Now I do. I didn't then.”

Steve nodded. After a moment Bucky added,

“Besides, I wasn't sure you'd, uh, want me around, you know? After everything I did.”

“You didn't do anything, Buck. Hydra did.”

Bucky grimaced. “I've killed a lot of people, Steve.”

“So have I.”

“I wasn't killing the right ones, though.”

“You didn't have a choice.”

“Doesn’t make it easier to live with.”

He glanced up to meet Steve’s eyes. Steve's jaw was clenched, and his eyes flashed with anger.

“I'll kill every last one of them. Bucky, I swear to God I won't rest…”

“Yeah, I know, pal. I know. But maybe we could just...take a break from the killing? I'm so tired, Steve.”

Steve's expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you want. I just want to be with you.”

“I'm not very good company these days,” Bucky said with a sad attempt at a smile.

“You're the only company I want, Buck. One thing I know for damn sure is that my life makes no sense without you.”

Bucky actually snorted at that. “Our lives haven't made sense in a really long goddamn time.”

****

Bucky woke up with Steve wrapped around him. The bed wasn't nearly big enough for the two of them, but when had that ever stopped them?

Both men were still fully clothed. The relief of being back together, the soothing familiarity of being this physically close, had quickly lulled them both to sleep.

They had stayed up talking for awhile, until Bucky had noticed how exhausted Steve looked. He must have been so worried for so long. Bucky had felt guilty, and apologized again. Steve was about to protest when Bucky cut him off and asked if he would like to go to bed. Steve had grinned and reached out to tuck a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “Yeah,” he had said, “I really would.”

They had lain down on the bed facing each other. They were both grinning like idiots, and Steve leaned forward and kissed Bucky again. It was so sweet and loving, when it was over Bucky had felt drunk.

He must have fallen asleep right after that, because that was the last thing he remembered.

The morning brought questions and panic. What would happen now? Where would they go? Was Steve in danger? Steve had a life and friends now, and Bucky would ruin everything.

But Steve’s eyes fluttered open and his face lit up as soon as he saw Bucky lying next to him. And Bucky was helpless. He was helpless and selfish because he couldn’t possibly let Steve go without him.

Steve was beautiful and strong and Bucky would give up his remaining three limbs just to lay here with Steve for as long as possible.

Was love supposed to be this excruciating?

“Buck,” Steve said, his voice husky with sleep. He took Bucky’s hand and pulled it up to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Bucky closed his eyes and sighed happily.

“What time is it?” Bucky asked.

Steve craned his neck to get a look at Bucky’s alarm clock radio. “Almost nine.”

“Damn,” Bucky said, his lips quirking up, “I gotta go to work.”

“Want me to pack you a lunch?” Steve asked, smiling back.

“You used to do that,” Bucky said. Not a question. Not anymore.

“Yeah. You know, you used to work as a mechanic back in Brooklyn. Do you remember that?”

“No,” Bucky said. He hadn’t remembered that at all.

“Not for very long. A year or so, I guess,” Steve said quickly, almost apologetically.

“Huh,” Bucky said. “I’m good at fixing things. It’s one of the things...I know how to do. I don’t know how I know these things. I mean, I do. But I don’t remember learning them.”

Steve raked his fingers through Bucky’s hair and Bucky closed his eyes. Everything Steve did felt marvelous.

“I’m so…” Bucky heard Steve clear his throat, “I’m so sorry. I read the file. What they did to you, Buck, I-”

Bucky opened his eyes.

“I should have jumped after you,” Steve finished, almost a whisper, “ I should have...I should never have left you, Bucky. God, how could I have just left you like that?”

Steve’s voice was breaking and Bucky couldn’t speak at all. He just shook his head slowly, trying to make Steve understand with his eyes. You couldn’t have known. You would have died. I should have died. None of it is your fault.

“I was asleep all that time,” Steve said, his voice strained and wet, “and you...I can’t think about it, Buck. I can’t think about the best person in this godforsaken world being put through that nightmare.”

“Steve-” Bucky attempted, but it was all coming out of Steve now.

“If I couldn’t get you back, Bucky, I didn’t want to live anymore. I didn’t want to live anymore when you fell…I thought when I crashed the plane maybe...maybe we would be together again.”

Bucky was stunned. Steve, who never quit anything…

“But then I was in the future and it was horrible. I hated it, even before I knew...before I knew how fucking twisted this world could be,” Steve was shaking now. He was furious. “It should have been me. It should never have been you, Bucky. You did nothing but take care of me and love me and I let you fall.”

“Steve, you didn’t-”

“I failed you, Bucky. Everything they did to me to make me stronger wasn’t worth a goddamn because I couldn’t protect the only thing that mattered to me.”

Bucky finally found his voice. “You done?”

“What?”

“I said, are you done? Because I will let you say that bullshit exactly once, Rogers.” Bucky propped himself up on his elbow so he was looking down at Steve. Steve, of course, immediately propped himself up to meet him.

“It’s not bullshit, Bucky, I-”

“It is, Steve. And I am not joking. I don’t want to hear you say anything like that again.”

Steve's jaw clenched. He looked hard at Bucky as he chose his next words.

“I have replayed that moment, when you fell, so many times. What I could have done differently. How I could have stopped you from falling…anything other than just…” Steve cut himself off by burying his face in Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky held him.

“Shhh. You caught me, Stevie. You caught me.”

Steve sighed heavily. “I need you, Buck.”

“You have me, Stevie. End of the line, right?”

Steve laughed wetly, “Yeah, Buck. Always.”

Both men were silent a moment. Then Bucky had to say something.

“You really...you really tried to end it all? ‘Cause you thought we’d be together? Like, what, in Heaven or something?”

Steve pulled back and looked at him. “I guess so, yeah. Had to try, at least.”

Bucky snorted. “You really thought I’d end up in Heaven after everything?”

Steve looked scandalized. “Of course, Bucky! No other place for you. I couldn’t imagine believing in a Heaven that wouldn’t take you.” He grimaced and then added, “I don’t really believe in any of that anymore. Not since learning about what Hydra did to you. I can’t give thanks to a God that would let that happen to you.”

Bucky felt something twist inside him. Steve had always been the better Catholic between the two of them.

“I forgot about God,” Bucky admitted quietly, “I forgot about the whole damn thing.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve said, “I could believe that my prayers had been answered because we’re together again, but…”

“Kind of a fucked up answer to your prayers.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky leaned forward and kissed Steve. They were together again. It was ridiculous, but here they were.

When they broke apart, Steve was smiling.

“You’re going to be late for work.”

“I was thinking about quitting anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Might be time for a change.”

Steve’s smile widened.

“I do have a suggestion for where we can go.”

“Ok.”

“Natasha has a place...uh, Natasha is my friend. My teammate. You…”

“Tried to kill her.”

Steve frowned. “Yeah. She has a place in Palm Springs. She said we could use it for as long as we want.”

“Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Steve kissed him.

“I have so much to tell you, Bucky,” Steve breathed as he nuzzled Bucky’s face.

“I wanna hear all of it.”

“I love you so much.” Steve froze. “Oh God. Is that ok for me to say? I’m sorry if-”

“Yeah, Steve. S’ok. I love you, too. You know I do.”

****

Bucky saw a very large and very expensive-looking SUV parked beside the garage.

“This yours?” he asked Steve as they walked together around the front of the building.

“For now,” he replied, “I'm borrowing it. Stark had it waiting for me at the Vegas airstrip.”

“Stark?”

“Tony Stark. Howard’s son.”

Bucky froze.

December 17, 1991. Long Island. Howard and Maria Stark. Make it look like an accident.

A hand landed on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky flinched. He heard Steve’s voice, murky behind the blood that was pounding in his ears. He reached out with his metal hand, bracing himself against the wall of the building with it.

“Buck? Buck, I know. I know about...it’s not your fault, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head. Howard Stark. He had known Howard Stark. He had known him and Hydra had made him kill him. Just like they tried to make him kill Steve.

Howard and Maria Stark had a son. Bucky had orphaned their son.

Bucky crumpled to the ground, metal palm still pressed against the building. He could see the whole thing.

“How...how old was he?” Bucky rasped, “their son. How old?”

“He was an adult, Buck. Twenty-one, I think. Older than I was when Ma died.”

Bucky exhaled. Knowing their son was grown made him feel slightly better, though he knew it shouldn't.

“Does he know?”

Steve was silent a moment.

“Steve?”

“Yes. He knows. And he knows it wasn’t really you.”

Bucky sat on the ground and leaned his head back against the building. He closed his eyes.

“How many?”

Steve didn't reply.

“How many did I kill, Steve? You read the file. How many?”

“Twenty-seven official targets.”

“Official,” Bucky snorted, “and how many others? Witnesses...people who got in my way…”

“No one knows,” Steve said. His voice was even but Bucky could tell he was struggling with it. He crouched down to look Bucky in the eye.

“They used you like a weapon, Buck. It was never you.”

One of Steve’s big hands cradled Bucky’s face.

“It was them, Buck. Not you.”

Bucky closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, letting Steve’s touch ground him. After a moment he stood up. Steve stood to meet him. Bucky wanted to say something to remove the concern from Steve’s eyes, but he couldn't think of any words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders and waist pulled him tightly against himself.

“Hey,” Steve sighed, kissing Bucky’s temple.

They broke apart after Bucky had settled himself by breathing Steve in and enjoying Steve’s fingers in his hair.

Roy was sitting on a stool reading the newspaper when they walked in.

“There you are, James,” Roy said, “I thought-” He paused when he noticed the other man standing behind Bucky.

“I'd ask who your friend is, but I think I know the answer,” Roy said, standing.

“Steve Rogers, sir,” Steve said, extending a hand as he crossed the floor to meet him, “I can't thank you enough for helping my friend.”

Roy shook Steve’s hand and raised an eyebrow at Bucky. “You have some impressive friends, son.”

“I know it,” Bucky mumbled.

Roy’s expression changed suddenly. He looked scared, almost.

“You…” He started, pointing a finger at Bucky, “I didn't see it before, but you look just like him. And your name…”

Bucky grimaced. After a moment’s consideration, he held out his hand. “James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky works, too. Sorry I didn’t give you all that before. Just...well, y’know.”

“If you don't mind me asking,” Roy said as he released Bucky’s hand, “how is this possible?”

“Long story,” Bucky said, “but everything I told you before is true. I just left out a few details. I’m a veteran, but maybe not from the war you were thinking. And I was a prisoner of Hydra. As to why I’m still alive, why I haven’t aged much in almost seventy years...you’d have to ask them.”

Roy nodded, calmly listening to Bucky as if he was telling him what high school he went to or something. “I have a feeling you're about to give me your notice.”

Bucky smiled sadly. “I hate to leave, to be honest. But, yeah. I gotta move on.”

Roy looked at Steve. “James is a good man. But I probably don't have to tell you that.”

“No, sir,” Steve said, smiling.

Roy laughed then. “I've been calling you ‘son’ this whole time, James. Seems inappropriate now. I'm the youngest one here!”

Bucky smiled and Steve handed Roy a card. “This has my cell number and email address,” Steve said, “I want you to contact me if you ever need anything at all. Please. I really am- we’re both very grateful for your help.”

“Hopefully I’ll never need the kind of help you usually provide, Captain,” Roy said, but he put the card in his chest pocket.

“You, uh, you can keep my car, Roy. Use it for parts or whatever. I’m riding with him now,” Bucky said as he nodded at Steve.

“Don’t blame you. I saw his ride,” Roy grinned, “you planning on driving back to New York?”

Steve looked at Bucky. Their eyes met, and Steve spoke for both of them. “Not yet,” he said, “we’re gonna take some time. See where the road takes us.” Bucky felt a surge of giddiness and love. He pressed his lips together.

Later they sat in the car, Steve in the driver’s seat and Bucky beside him. Bucky’s meagre possessions sat on the backseat in a couple of plastic grocery bags.

“Palm Springs?” Steve asked as he put the truck in reverse.

“You lead, I follow,” Bucky said. “Way it’s always been.”