Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

England, 1470 – Winter, An Hour Before Midnight

The night was brittle with cold.

The forest breathed fog between its trees, a slow inhale that blanketed the narrow cobbled path ahead of them in silver mist. The torchlight barely touched it. Shadows coiled between naked branches like waiting serpents.

Commander Myles grunted beside Steve as they rode, his warhorse plodding steadily ahead, hooves echoing off frozen stone. The older knight’s armor creaked with every shift of his bulk, and the weight of his chainmail was audible in the silence like a second heartbeat. “You’re too quiet,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Means your head’s full of thoughts. That’s how men get themselves killed out here.”

Steve, perched tensely on his smaller destrier, blinked into the fog. “Sorry, sir. Just listening.”

“Don’t listen. Watch. The things that wait in these woods—they won’t give you the decency of warning.”

Steve adjusted his grip on the reins, frowning. “Is it really that dangerous around these parts?”

Myles scoffed. “Are you wearing a blade for decoration, then, Captain?”

Steve didn’t answer. The cold was making his fingers ache, even through his gloves. He flexed them once, twice, forcing feeling back into the joints. “We haven’t seen a soul all night.”

“We’re not meant to. This isn’t for finding trouble. It’s for showing presence. Let the locals see steel on the roads and sleep easier in their beds.”

That made a little sense, but not much comfort.

Still, Steve held his tongue. This was his first patrol since being promoted to Captain. He wasn’t about to earn a reputation as the brat who talked back to his new Commander.

The village of Hollowmere lay behind them, nestled in a river basin at the edge of the royal woods. It was the kind of place that aged with the trees—its homes built of sodden timber and stubborn stone, its people quiet-eyed and reluctant to speak after sundown. Something about Hollowmere felt off, like it was always waiting for something to go wrong.

Steve had only been there a day before they’d set out on patrol, but he’d seen the signs. Talismans hung over doorways, silver coins sewn into hems, crosses carved into windowsills until the wood bled. And salt. Salt everywhere.

You don’t hang salt unless you’re afraid of things you can’t fight.

They were just passing the treeline when Steve felt it.

A chill—not from the cold, but something deeper. A wrongness. Like being watched by something old.

The fog shifted.

Something stepped into the path ahead of them.

Steve’s horse whinnied, stumbling back. He barely kept his seat, hands tightening on the reins as the figure came into view.

A man. Or what looked like one.

Tall, pale, dressed in a cloak darker than the night. He looked old and knowing, but his face had barely any wrinkles, his features sharp like someone had carved them from stone. His eyes—

Not right. Too dark. Too deep. Like looking into a well with no bottom.

Commander Myles reacted fast, already off his horse, sword half-drawn. “State your business,” he barked.

The man smiled.

It was not kind.

“Too old,” he said simply, glancing at Myles with disinterest. “You creak when you breathe. Not worth the effort.”

“What—” Myles didn’t get the chance to finish.

The man didn’t move so much as appear. One moment he was standing ten paces off, the next his fingers were at Myles’ temple.

A snap, like dry wood breaking.

Then Myles was falling.

Steve choked on his own breath as the knight hit the ground, limp and boneless, eyes wide in shock that had no time to become pain.

“Now you,” the man said, turning to Steve.

His eyes gleamed.

Steve scrambled backward on his horse, panic turning his hands to ice. “What the fuck are you—?”

“You’re perfect." the man murmured, voice like silk sliding over a blade.

And then he moved.

Steve didn’t have time to scream. He barely had time to breathe.

The man hit him like a wall of iron. One clawed hand wrapped around the front of his armor and yanked, lifting him bodily off the horse and slamming him to the ground. His shoulder struck first—then his ribs, then the back of his head. Pain sparked white behind his eyes.

He gasped—then shouted as he was pushed into a wall of stone.

And then—

Agony.

The fangs pierced his neck like twin knives, punching straight through flesh and muscle, hitting something deep that his body instinctively recoiled from. He thrashed beneath the man’s grip, but the vampire—because that’s what he was, he had to be, nothing else could move like that—held him down effortlessly.

It burned.

It burned.

Like acid eating through his veins. Like wildfire licking up his spine. The pain didn't just radiate outward—it tunneled inward just as much, dragging something from his core. Something sacred. It felt like the creature was taking more than blood—stealing something that couldn’t grow back.

Steve’s back arched. He shouted again, hoarse, raw, barely human.

And then the vampire bit his own wrist—jagged and deliberate—and forced the bleeding wound against Steve’s mouth.

Warm, thick blood poured between his lips. Steve gagged, instinct screaming to spit it out, to fight, to run—but the hand at the back of his head was like iron. Holding him there. Forcing him to swallow.

The blood was wrong.

Too sweet. Too heavy. It coated his tongue like honeyed wine but boiled when it hit his stomach. His body seized up, nerves sparking, chest heaving against the weight of his own screaming bones.

His heart thundered.

Then skipped.

Then stuttered.

He felt a shift.

A deep wrenching pull, like his soul being forcibly peeled from the inside out. His vision bled into black-red streaks. He could feel his teeth ache—like they wanted to break free from his gums. His fingers curled, nails slicing into his own palms, bleeding freely.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The vampire leaned in close, mouth against Steve’s ear, voice a velvet threat.

“There,” he purred. “Let it take you. You’re a part of the family now.”

Then everything went black.

The dark wasn’t silent.

Even unconscious, Steve’s body screamed.

His heart, though slowed, pumped distorted blood now—thick with something unnatural. Each beat spread the tainted warmth like fire under his skin. His limbs jerked with spasms, muscles tearing and reknitting with unholy precision.

His bones cracked.

It was as if his body was being hollowed out and rebuilt from the marrow up. Vertebrae shifting. Teeth reshaping. He coughed once, hard—blood splattering from his lips as the sharp points of fangs began to emerge, slowly forcing themselves from beneath his gums like tiny daggers being born.

His nails blackened at the edges.

Every vein beneath his skin turned dark, like ink drawn through frost. His eyelids fluttered, showing glimpses of a storm beneath—red veins webbing out from his pupils like fractures in glass.

His body knew it was dying.

But something else refused to let it.

The turning wasn’t kind. It wasn’t gentle. It was war.

And Steve was losing.

—

The forest was too quiet.

Bucky rode low in the saddle, his hood pulled up over silver-white hair, eyes narrowed against the creeping mist. His warhorse, Fen, picked its way over the uneven cobbles without complaint. Trained to silence, like its rider.

They’d been riding since dusk.

He was close.

The bastard had passed through Hollowmere—Bucky had caught the scent himself. A whisper of Baldwin’s presence still clung to the village, woven into the fear of its people like rot behind the walls. Fresh blood. Feral residue. And something else...

Desperation.

He knew Baldwin’s trail by heart by now. Too many years. Too many bodies. Always the same pattern—kill a hunter, turn a new one, move on before they rot from the inside out.

Not this time.

This time, Bucky was going to finish it.

He shifted slightly in the saddle, wincing as the cold bit through the joints in his metal arm. The damn thing hated winter. But he welcomed the ache of the cold. Better to feel pain than nothing at all.

The trail had gone cold for almost a month. But then came the rumors—a knight found dead outside Hollowmere. Another missing. The Blood Soldiers weren't notified. That meant it had Baldwin’s stink all over it.

Bucky hadn’t even stopped to sleep. He could rest when Baldwin’s corpse was ash.

Fog still clung low to the ground in thick, heavy ropes, but Bucky knew this road. He’d patrolled it in another life, back when his blood still ran warm. Back before everything he loved was ripped from him and twisted into something that stared back at him through Baldwin’s eyes.

His cloak snapped behind him in the cold breeze as he dismounted. The leather of his glove creaked as he adjusted his grip on the reins, then looped them loosely around a tree branch. Fen didn’t need tying—he’d wait.

Bucky stepped forward.

The scene wasn’t fresh. Not exactly. Hours old, at least. Long enough for the scent of blood to start curdling in the air, but not yet long enough for rot to take root. Still, the horses were gone. Probably bolted. He could still hear the iron in the soil, feel the way it thrummed beneath his boots.

He found the first body slumped in the road, twisted unnaturally.

Knight Commander Myles.

Bucky grimaced.

The man had been a bastard to him when they’d crossed paths a few years back—too proud of his title and his sword, too slow to notice he was speaking so disrespectfully to a half-breed donned in Blood Soldier gear and insignia. Bucky hadn’t liked him then, and he definitely wouldn’t mourn him now. But there was something about the way his head lolled to the side, eyes open to the night sky, jaw slack in death—

He deserved better than this at least.

Bucky crouched beside him. Studied the neck.

“Didn’t even feed off you,” he muttered. His voice didn’t echo here. Too much fog. Too much death.

The break was clean. Precision with malice. Baldwin’s signature.

Bucky stood again, glancing around. Tracks in the mud. Drag marks. He followed them.

The stone wall was crumbling from age and neglect, but fresh blood splattered its base like someone had been smacked into it. He could see the smears—fingers clawing for grip, failing.

The smell was worse here.

Not just blood—change.

The air reeked of it. Old, sour magic. Like metal burning in moonlight. It made Bucky’s own blood itch under his skin. He clenched his jaw, trying not to breathe too deep.

Then he saw the body.

A young man around the age of twenty-four or twenty-five.

Armored, though not a veteran. The lines of his breastplate were too clean, only slightly marred by time and blade. His boots still had shine on the leather. A new recruit, maybe. Newly promoted, possibly? Just to be thrown into the wolves' den.

Bucky only saw the pale stretch of skin at the throat, the black veins spiderwebbing across his collarbone, the twitch of fingers curling unconsciously against the stone. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow pulls—wrong. Too slow. Too quiet.

Still warm, though.

Still changing.

And worst of all—unclaimed by a sire.

Bucky crouched beside him, not close enough to touch.

He hated this part.

Fledglings were unpredictable. Especially unclaimed ones. Turning wasn’t just physical—it broke something, rebuilt it with fangs and instinct. Without a sire to anchor them, most turned feral in hours. If this one had already tasted human blood—

His hand moved to the dagger on his hip.

But the newboron shifted again.

A small sound escaped his mouth. Not a growl. Not a snarl.

A whimper.

Bucky froze.

Those eyes fluttered open.

The color hit first—vampiric gold, threaded with veins of deep crimson, still changing, burning faintly even in the low torchlight.

Fangs barely peeking past parted lips.

Still trembling. Still breathing.

Alive.

Awake.

Aware.

The man stared up at Bucky, panic dawning slowly across his face.

He scrambled back against the stone wall, breath ragged, blood smeared across his jaw and throat. His hands, shaking, scraped against the frozen earth, desperate for distance he wasn’t going to get.

“Easy,” Bucky said low, holding up one hand. The other stayed near his dagger.

The blonde didn’t stop moving. His eyes flicked between Bucky’s metal arm, his face, the dagger at his hip.

“Wh—what—” His voice cracked. “Who are you? What’s—what the hell is happening to me?”

“Name,” Bucky said.

“What?”

“What’s your name, kid.”

“S-Steve Rogers. I don’t—”

“Have you fed yet?”

“What are you—?”

“Answer the question. Have you killed a human being and drank their blood yet? Yes or no.”

Steve recoiled at the word 'killed.' “No! Why would I—I don’t—what are you talking about—”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. That was something.

He looked the guy over again, scanning for signs of a fresh kill, for blood around the mouth, for madness in the eyes. There was blood, sure. Plenty of it. But it wasn’t the right kind. It hadn’t fed him, only turned him.

Baldwin had been sloppy. Or maybe he didn’t care if the fledgling survived the transition. More bodies, more chaos, more mess to cover his trail.

Typical.

Bucky could feel his jaw clenching. His fangs ached—not from hunger, but from memory.

He knew what would happen if Steve didn’t feed soon. The turning would rot him from the inside out. His own blood would start burning, hollowing him until instinct took over and left nothing behind but a feral, snarling husk. It happened all the time. Bucky was too late for the last one.

An innocent young woman.

He’d had to put her down himself.

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t have a choice.

With a practiced flick, Bucky rolled up the sleeve of his right arm. Not the metal one. That one didn’t bleed. He reached for the dagger, unsheathed it, and pressed the tip against the inside of his forearm. Not too deep. Enough to bleed.

The cut opened.

Red welled up, dark and warm in the chill night air.

Steve’s breath hitched. His pupils dilated. His fangs dropped lower, just slightly.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He’d been through this before.

He held his arm out. Close, but not touching. He’d force it if he had to, but he was giving the man one chance to make the right decision.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Steve blinked at him. “I—I can’t—”

“You have to. If you don’t, you’ll go feral in an hour. Maybe less. That’s not a threat, that’s just biology. So you either feed off of me and live, or die screaming in your own head. Your choice.”

Steve’s lips parted.

The scent of Bucky’s blood must have hit him full-force then, because the decision wasn’t really a decision at all.

He lunged forward.

Not graceful. Not practiced. Instinctual.

His hands clutched Bucky’s arm like a lifeline, and his mouth latched onto the bleeding cut. Bucky hissed through his teeth—not from pain, but the pull. It was always like this. The moment blood passed between a fledgling and a sire or adult vampire, something clicked beneath the skin. A tether, invisible but strong. A training bond asking for permission to set.

Steve drank.

And moaned.

A broken, primal sound—hungry, wrecked, alive.

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment.

He hated this part, too.

Because it always reminded him of that night. The night he woke up starving and alone, aching and afraid, tasting blood that had been offered by a stranger who was killed a couple days later.

That man had saved him.

So maybe this was the closest thing Bucky could do to pay it forward.

“Don’t bite,” he muttered. “You’ll ruin the artery, and I’ll knock your teeth out.”

Steve made a soft, overwhelmed noise but obeyed, licking instead of biting, greedily now.

Bucky kept still.

Steve licked at Bucky’s arm like a man dying of thirst, but there was a kind of reverence to it. Like he didn’t want to need it—but he did.

Eventually, his body sagged against the wall, the worst of the spasms passing. The black in his veins began to lighten. His lips still shone crimson.

“You feel better?” Bucky asked tightly.

Steve looked up at him through glazed eyes. “I feel...alive.”

Bucky snorted.

“You’re not. Not fully."

The air between them was too quiet.

Steve’s lips were still stained red. He’d gone slack against the wall, head resting against the moss covered blood-slick stone, the hunger in him sated—for now. The tension in his limbs had unwound slightly, his pulse (if it could be called that anymore) stabilizing into something faint and slow.

Bucky sat back on his heels, wiping the remaining blood from his arm with a cloth, eyes fixed on the fledgling like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

No signs of immediate ferality.

That was unusual.

Most turned ones—especially sired by Baldwin—came out of the shift half-rabid. He’d seen it more times than he wanted to count: newborns ripping out their own teeth in a frenzy, chewing off their fingers for want of blood, going for their own shadows with animal sounds in their throats.

But this one…

Steve blinked at him.

His eyed were still in that strange in-between turning stage—burnt gold at the center, threaded with crimson—but they weren’t blank with madness. They were alert. Scared. Still human, in some unsettling, stubborn way.

And Bucky didn’t like that.

“Say something,” Bucky ordered.

Steve flinched. “What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever’s in your damn head. Talk.”

A long pause.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“No.”

Another pause. Steve swallowed.

“I thought I was dead.”

“You are, technically. Kind of in a limbo of life and death."

The words hung in the air like a snapped rope.

Steve’s throat worked around a reply, but nothing came.

Instead, he looked down at his hands. Turned them over slowly, studying the skin.

“Why does everything feel...louder?” he murmured.

Bucky didn’t answer at first. Just watched.

Because this was the moment he hated the most—the realization. That first sliver of grief.

It wasn’t the thirst that broke them. It wasn’t even the killing.

It was the moment they realized the world had moved on without them—and they could never go back.

“It’ll pass,” Bucky said at last.

A lie.

He got to his feet and paced away a few steps, bootheels crunching over gravel and old leaves. He needed to think. To breathe.

This wasn’t what he came for.

He came for Baldwin. For justice. For vengeance.

Not to babysit some half-baked fledgling who hadn’t even fed properly yet.

And yet...

There was something wrong here.

Wrong with how Baldwin had left the scene. Wrong with how fast the change had taken hold. Wrong with the look in Steve’s eyes—too clear, too steady.

Too quietly aware.

Baldwin doesn’t leave his victims alive, Bucky thought. Not unless he wants something from them.

Which meant...

This one was meant for something.

And Bucky didn’t like that at all.

He crouched beside the newborn again, slower this time, appraising him like a wolf assessing an intruder in its den.

“You know who did this to you?”

Steve shook his head.

“You remember anything at all before you blacked out?”

“I remember...blood. Teeth. An accented voice that somehow sounded like death itself. Cold hands.” He blinked hard. “Then nothing.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

Damn it.

It was Baldwin. That voice was unmistakable.

Baldwin never did anything by accident.

So what’s the play here, old man? Bucky wondered. Why this kid? Why leave him behind?

It smelled like a trap.

But the problem was—Steve didn’t.

In fact, Bucky leaned in slightly now, nose twitching instinctively. He didn’t usually let himself get close enough to scent others like this. It felt invasive. But...

Steve smelled wrong.

Not bad. Just...

Unusual.

There was something in his scent that clung like cold smoke—like petrichor on old stone. Not the metallic rot of most fledglings. Not the cloying sweetness of the overfed. Something raw. Like the earth just after a lightning strike.

And underneath it...a thread of something long forgotten but yet, still familiar.

Something warm.

Bucky pulled back sharply.

No.

It wasn’t real. It was just the blood. The strain of the night. A trick of memory, maybe. A shadow in the dark.

He looked at Steve again.

Still trembling. Still staring at his hands like they’d betrayed him.

Bucky cursed softly and ran a hand through his hair.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Try.”

Steve pushed off the wall. His legs wobbled immediately, and Bucky caught him before he hit the ground.

Their bodies collided awkwardly—chest to chest, Bucky’s arm around his ribs.

And there it was again.

That pulse.

Not heat. Not shock.

Just the soft...alignment.

Like something invisible inside Bucky shifted half a degree and clicked into place.

He felt it low in his chest, behind the ribs. Faint. Easy to ignore.

So he did.

“Don’t get used to that,” he muttered, letting Steve lean on him just long enough to catch his footing. “I’m not your damned nursemaid.”

Steve gave a small, exhausted laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Bucky scowled. “You talk too much.”

“And you’ve got a leaf in your hair.”

They stared at each other for a second. The forest around them whispered like it was listening.

Then Bucky turned away.

“Come on,” he muttered. “We can’t stay here.”

—

The night air wasn't as cold as Steve remembered.

Or maybe it was his skin that was colder now. He couldn’t tell. Everything had a sheen of wrongness to it—too bright, too loud, too sharp. The forest whispered around them, branches groaning and shifting like they were alive. The moon carved silver across the narrow path, and every time the horse's hooves hit stone, it cracked like thunder in Steve’s ears.

His savior rode on the saddle in front of him in silence. 

The man's horse was wide and powerful beneath them, its heavy body steady beneath Steve’s still-weak limbs. He was sitting close, closer than he meant to, pressed up against the line of the white haired man's back with his forehead tucked down to block the wind. The movement jostled him slightly with every step, and each sway of the horse made his sore muscles scream.

But he didn’t say anything.

He was too busy trying not to fall apart.

The blood had dried on the back of his tongue, but the taste lingered—rich, heavy, wrong. He could still feel the phantom ache of fangs pushing against his gums, as if they were trying to stretch free again. His heartbeat was too fast. Or maybe too slow. He couldn't tell. It didn't feel like his anymore.

And his savior hadn’t said a word to him since helping him onto the horse.

The man’s presence was like steel. Solid, silent, untouchable. He rode like he’d been born in the saddle, with one hand on the reins and the other resting near the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. Steve could see blood drying along the cuff of his coat. He could smell it—could smell everything, all at once—and that made his stomach lurch all over again.

Steve swallowed hard. He felt like he was going to be sick, but the feeling came and went in waves. Whatever was happening to him… it wasn’t done yet. Not fully. His body was still trying to decide what it was now.

He blinked up at the back of the man in front of him, tracking the way the moonlight caught in the tangled white of his hair.

There was blood there, too.

Old or new? His or someone else’s?

The thought made his mouth dry.

He didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to talk at all. But the silence was crushing, and he couldn’t keep riding in the dark behind a stranger without at least knowing something.

“...What’s your name?” Steve asked, his voice rough and low. It cracked on the last syllable, like it hadn’t been used in years.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

The wind rustled the trees. The horse snorted.

Then: “Bucky," the man said.

Just that.

Steve blinked at the back of his neck, confused by the pause. There was something careful about the way he said it. Too careful. Like the name didn’t quite fit his skin, or like he didn’t want it to.

“You can call me Bucky.”

Something about that made Steve frown. His head tipped slightly. He wasn’t sure why that phrasing caught his attention, but it did.

That wasn’t his actual name. That was the name he was giving.

Still, Steve nodded against the cold leather of Bucky’s coat. “Okay.”

A few more hoofbeats passed before Steve found the courage to speak again. “Thanks. For not… killing me.”

“Didn’t do you a favor, kid.” Bucky’s voice was quiet, clipped. “You’ll wish I had.”

That silenced Steve all over again.

The path narrowed as they dipped down into a rocky slope, and the horse's pace slowed. Steve felt the shift in the beast’s gait ripple through his spine, and his hand reflexively curled around Bucky's side—just for balance. The leather under his fingers was cool. Damp in places. Stiff from wear.

Bucky didn’t react.

But Steve could feel the tension beneath his coat. Tightly wound muscle. Unmoving.

There was something strange about the contact. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a quiet hum, like the first flicker of static in dry air. Something deep in Steve’s chest twitched—like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.

He frowned faintly. That didn’t feel normal.

He shifted his hand away quickly, pretending it was nothing. Just a slip of the saddle. Just balance. But when he pulled his hand back into his lap, he could still feel the ghost of warmth radiating from his palm.

Behind Bucky’s ear, he looked again at the blood still caked into the white strands of his hair, turning silver to rust.

Steve stared at it for a moment too long.

He should say something. Or maybe try to wipe it away. It didn’t look like Bucky noticed—or cared—but something about it tugged at him.

He hesitated.

Then thought better of it.

No touching.

Bucky hadn’t looked back once.

They rode on, the cold thickening. Branches creaked overhead, blackened and skeletal, like they reached for something just out of reach. The moon was bright and low, washing the world in pale blue light. The shadows between the trees danced and shifted, but Steve saw every movement, every twitch of a rabbit’s nose or flick of a squirrel’s tail. Too clearly. His brain couldn’t filter it all.

The silence pressed in.

Steve’s fingers twitched.

So instead, he asked, “Where are we going?”

“Shelter.”

A pause.

Then, “You’ll need to feed again in a few hours. I don’t keep blood stocked, so we’ll find a deer if we’re lucky.”

Steve swallowed, the taste of Bucky's blood still in the back of his throat—warm, vital, horrifyingly good.

“I… I didn’t want this,” Steve said softly. “None of this.”

“You think I did?” Bucky replied instantly, quietly vicious. “You think most of us fucking did?”

Steve flinched.

Bucky didn’t turn around, didn’t apologize.

They rode in silence again. The wind picked up. The trees thinned. A low stone wall appeared along the edge of the trail—crumbled and moss-eaten, overtaken by roots. Beyond it, nestled in the hills, the silhouette of a hunting cabin emerged from the fog.

Not much more than a shack, really. But to Steve, it looked like a cathedral.

Bucky dismounted with a practiced swing, landing silently despite the metal arm. He held the reins as the horse stomped and snorted, then turned to glance at Steve.

“Get down,” he said. “Carefully.”

Steve’s legs didn’t want to move. He slid off awkwardly, knees buckling a little when his boots hit frozen ground. His body still hadn’t settled. Muscles clenched and relaxed out of order. He felt too strong and too fragile all at once.

Bucky watched him impassively, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. Not golden. Not red. Somewhere between. Something deeply, deeply tired.

Steve caught a flicker of something else too.

A tug. Something faint and warm and impossible beneath his ribs.

After Steve was stable, Bucky turned sharply away, yanked open the warped wooden door of the shelter, and disappeared inside without a word.

Steve stood in the cold and stared at the crack in the door left open behind him, that whisper of warmth within.

Then he followed.

The moment he stepped through the door, the scent hit him—old blood soaked deep into wood and stone. Not fresh. Not human. But thick. Saturated.

A vampire had lived here once. Maybe died here, too.

Bucky moved like he belonged. He crossed the room without looking at Steve, unbuckling gear piece by piece, laying each down on a crooked wooden table that groaned under the weight.

Steve hovered just inside the threshold, watching him.

The silence stretched. The ache behind Steve’s eyes pulsed in time with his new heartbeat.

Finally, Steve spoke.

“Are you…?” His voice was rough. His throat raw from screaming hours ago. He swallowed hard. “Are you a vampire hunter?”

Bucky paused only a beat before looking at him like he’d just asked whether the sun set in the west.

Then he turned back to his gear and said nothing at all.

The silence dragged. Steve shifted, uncomfortable. “You’re wearing their uniform,” he tried again, gentler this time. “The Blood Soldiers.”

Bucky turned.

Not quickly. But with purpose.

Steve tensed.

Bucky stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his white hair still streaked and dried with blood behind his ear, stiff like wire. His jaw clenched.

He pointed a gloved finger toward the floor in front of Steve.

“Rules,” he said, voice low and cold. “No feeding unless I say so. Don’t speak to me unless you must. No stupid fucking questions. And don’t touch anything. Got it?”

Steve blinked. Heat crept up his neck, but he nodded, fists tightening at his sides. “…Got it.”

Bucky didn’t wait for more.

He took of his glove, places it on the table and grabbed a thick fur-lined cloak from a wall peg, shoved the door open, and disappeared into the cold.

The wind howled behind him. The door slammed shut.

And Steve was alone again.

—

The forest beyond the clearing held a different kind of silence—colder, older, familiar. Bucky moved like a shadow beneath the trees, breath ghosting through the air. The scent trail was faint, but fresh enough: a buck, big, close. Perfect.

He stalked it quietly, feet not even whispering over the frost-laced undergrowth. His senses stretched out, long and far—every heartbeat in the woods a drum, every breath of prey a flag in the dark.

There.

The buck’s flank flashed pale through a copse of crooked trees. Bucky broke into a sprint and leapt, fangs already down, golden and organic claws sharp. He struck hard—clean—and tore the beast down in a crash of branches and snow. It kicked once. Then he sank his teeth in deep.

Blood filled his mouth, hot and heavy and fast. He drank like he hadn’t in weeks, jaw working, throat pulling, gulps messy and instinctive. His body, even after all these years, remembered this. The taste of strength. The scent of wildness.

He fed until it was dry, until his belly ached and his veins sang and the buck lay boneless in his grip.

He sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

There would be enough for the fledgling now.

His eyes dropped shut.

And just like that, memory came.

He had been alone, once, just like Steve.

Staggering through woods darker than pitch, lungs on fire, fangs aching, his own blood drying on his hands. His throat burned worse than any fever. He’d gone borderline feral in a village square, almost ripped a girl in half before someone knocked him out.

A man.

A vampire.

Older, calm. Dark skin, broad shoulders, eyes like still water.

He’d caught Bucky, knocked him cold.

When he woke, there was deer blood waiting.

“I know what you are,” the man had said. “But I think you can still choose who you’ll be.”

Baldwin found them two nights later and killed the man in front of Bucky like it meant nothing.

Bucky had shouted until his voice bled.

And then he stopped screaming for the next seventy-three years.

Now, in the silence of the forest, Bucky’s breath fogged the air. His stomach was full. His head still quiet.

And Steve was back at the shelter, starved, scared, unsteady.

He stood, brushed snow from his knees, and hefted the dead buck onto his shoulders like it weighed nothing.

He would make sure the kid had blood.

He would make sure the kid didn’t turn feral.

Because someone once did the same for him.

And because he wasn’t going to let Baldwin win again.

The door creaked on its hinges as Bucky pushed it open with a shoulder, his flesh hand still gripping the antlers. Snow spiraled in behind him, dancing briefly in the firelight before dying on the stone floor.

Steve was sitting where Bucky had left him—on the floor, spine to the wall, arms around his knees. He looked up quickly. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. They fully gleamed now with faint gold. 

Neither of them spoke.

The buck thudded to the countertop with a wet slap.

Bucky shut the door with the heel of his boot.

The cabin smelled like blood even before he opened the buck’s belly. Warmth bloomed once the skin split—sour and wild, copper-thick. Steve flinched at the scent. His head snapped toward it like it wasn’t his choice.

Still fighting instinct.

Still human enough to hate what he wanted.

Good.

Bucky knelt and filled a worn tin pitcher from the buck’s stomach cavity, hands practiced, steady. The fire in the hearth had nearly died, but it was enough light for this. Enough to see the flush creeping up Steve’s neck as the blood steamed in the air.

He held the pitcher out.

Steve didn’t move.

“Drink,” Bucky said, flat.

Steve looked at it. Then at him. “Is it—?”

“Freshly caught. Now hurry the fuck up before it cools.”

Steve took it with both hands. It sloshed, warm and dark. His hands trembled. But he drank. Not all at once—cautiously, like he was afraid it might burn. His lips stained quickly, and his expression turned faintly ill.

“Keep going,” Bucky said without looking at him. He had turned back to the carcass, methodically gutting it. “You need it.”

Steve kept going.

Each swallow came a little faster. A little less reluctant. Until the pitcher was nearly empty and the tremor in his limbs had faded to a twitch.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the tin down.

“You said 'most of us asked for this,'” he said quietly. “Back on the road.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Steve tried again. “You said it like you knew.”

He received only the wet sound of sinew and flesh in return.

“Are you… one of them? Or I guess... one of us?"

Silence.

Steve stared at Bucky’s back. He was crouched low over the deer's body, hands working like a butcher, face unreadable in the firelight.

Steve’s voice dropped lower. “A vampire?”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause.

But he said, “Eat. Sleep. Don’t ask again.”

Then he rose, hands soaked to the wrists in gore, and crossed to a shelf near the wall. There, he pulled down a bundle of waxed cloth and unrolled it—salt, dried roots, bitter leaves. He worked without words, stuffing a few into a pot with what blood was left and placing it over the fire.

He moved like this wasn’t new.

Like feeding a newborn vampire was routine.

Steve watched him. His new senses sharp but confused, dragging in every sound and smell, the blood still thick in his mouth. He felt a question itch on the edge of his tongue—but stopped himself.

He turned around. His eyes, in the firelight, were old. Testing. They basically dared Steve to speak.

Bucky stared a moment longer, then pulled a chair near the fire and sat with a creak of leather. His hand moved to his belt, pulling free a dull hunting knife, and he began sharpening it slowly, the rhythmic rasp loud in the stillness.

Steve didn’t say another word.

The silence stretched long between them, broken only by the pop of the fire and the quiet rasp of Bucky’s blade against the whetstone. The scent of blood still lingered—thick, earthy, bitter—but it had softened, mingled now with something richer. Meat. Root vegetables. A hint of iron and spice.

Steve’s stomach clenched.

He hadn’t realized he was still hungry.

Bucky leaned forward, lifted the pot off the coals, and poured the contents into a dented wooden bowl. Steam rose in curls, catching the firelight. The stew looked like it had no right to smell as good as it did—chunks of meat and potato, all swimming in blood-thick broth so dark it was almost black.

Bucky stood and crossed the short space between them, setting the bowl down near Steve’s side without ceremony. He didn’t speak.

Steve stared at it for a second. “It smells… good.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just turned back toward the fire, reclaiming his seat without breaking stride.

Steve reached for the bowl. His hands weren’t shaking anymore.

The warmth seeped into his fingers, his wrists, his elbows. His chest. The smell pulled at something deep in him—old hunger, new thirst. He didn’t want to admit how good it felt when the first bite hit his tongue.

The meat was soft and rich. The potato soaked through. The blood-broth was metallic and strange but warming in a way that settled both the clawing hunger in his stomach and the ache still humming in his bones.

He ate all of it.

By the time the bowl scraped empty, his limbs had gone heavy again—lead-warm and thick. The floor seemed softer than before. The firelight blurred at the edges.

“Why is it…” He trailed off, blinking slow. “Why does it make me so tired?”

Bucky's voice came low, steady. “Because you’re still turning.”

Steve looked at him. Bucky’s expression hadn’t changed. Neither had his posture. He still sat like stone in the chair by the fire, blade resting on one thigh, his hands idle now but alert.

Steve’s brow furrowed. “I thought the turning was over.”

“It’s not,” Bucky said simply. “Not yet. Your body’s still burning out the old. Tomorrow you’ll wake up all the way.”

Steve’s hand drifted to his chest. His heart beat strange. Steady, but slower. Deeper. His senses still felt like they were vibrating—too much light, too much sound, the scent of the blood stew still burning behind his eyes.

“I feel…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have the words for it.

“Sleep,” Bucky said. Not unkind. But firm. “You’ll need it. I’m not explaining shit twice.”

Steve blinked at him. The pull of exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but something in him resisted—some stubborn flicker of will that still hadn’t accepted the shape of this new world.

He lay down anyway, curling on the fur-padded floor near the hearth, pulling one edge of it over himself. The stone was hard beneath him, but the warmth was enough.

“Are you going to sleep too?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn’t move.

“No.”

Steve didn’t ask why.

He closed his eyes.

And sleep, thick and dreamless, took him.

—

Steve slept like he was drowning.

Bucky could hear every heartbeat—slow now, sluggish and deep, echoing through the stone floor like a drum underwater. The final hours of the turning always sounded like that. The last breaths of the old body giving way to something new.

He didn’t look at him.

Instead, he watched the fire.

The flames had burned low, no higher than his hand. They whispered against the stones, barely more than glowing embers. Enough heat to keep the cabin from freezing. Not enough to make it comfortable.

Bucky didn’t need comfort.

He sat still as a statue, boots planted, knife resting in his lap. Blood had dried under his fingernails. He hadn’t bothered to wipe it off.

His eyes were hollow, watching the flames. But his mind wasn’t there.

He thought of the buck, strung up outside.

He thought of the blood, still warm in his stomach.

He thought of the fledgling—Steve—curled near the hearth like a stray dog, new instincts barely beginning to stretch.

He thought of Baldwin.

And, bitterly, of the man who had once crouched beside him that first night—who had offered him blood, not questions. Shelter.

That man was long dead.

And Bucky had stopped being the man he helped a long, long time ago.

His eyes shifted briefly toward the bundle by the hearth. Steve’s clothes were still stained in dried blood. He would need new ones. A bath. Training.

Discipline.

Bucky exhaled once through his nose, slow and shallow.

You’re going to make me remember what it's like to not be alone, he thought, not unkind, not quite angry. And I hate you already for it.

The fire hissed softly. Outside, the wind screamed across the mountains.

He didn’t sleep, he watched over the sleeping blonde.

Chapter Text

The world smelled wrong.

Too clear. Too sharp.

Steve’s eyes opened slowly. Light scraped against his vision like the edge of a blade, even though it was soft—just early sunlight bleeding through the window curtains. The stone walls of the cabin no longer felt quiet. Everything hummed.

His skin felt tight. Not painful—just too aware. Like every inch of him was listening.

The hearth was cold. The fire must have gone out sometime during the night.

But Bucky was still there.

He stood across the room with his back turned, leather coat hung and red buttondown undershirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, flesh forearm tense as he worked at something on the table. There was no sound. No shifting, no rustling cloth. Just stillness. Animal stillness. Like a predator waiting for something to move.

Steve sat up slowly.

He didn’t remember standing. But the next thing he knew, he was upright, barefoot, and Bucky was watching him.

His eyes were… wrong. Not because of their half-breed red color, no. Something deeper. They weren’t cruel or even cold—but they held nothing soft. Just the weight of years. Like stone left out in rain.

“You’re awake,” Bucky said simply. “Good.”

Steve swallowed hard. His throat felt better, but dry in a way water wouldn’t fix. His hands twitched.

Bucky stepped away from the table and picked something up off a wooden dish. A knife.

For one stupid second, Steve thought he was going to throw it.

Instead, Bucky held it out.

“Come here.”

Steve hesitated—but he moved.

Bucky met him in the center of the room and turned the blade toward himself. Without flinching, he opened a shallow cut across his palm. Bright red welled up instantly—a little thicker than Steve remembered blood being. It glistened like syrup in the firelight.

Steve’s body responded before his mind did. His lips parted, mouth watering and fangs dropping, itching for his next meal. Hunger curled up from somewhere deep in his chest like smoke.

“Feel that?” Bucky asked, voice even. “That’s your instincts waking up.”

Steve nodded, dazed. “Yeah, I feel it.”

“You’ll learn to manage them. Not suppress. Not starve. Manage.”

Bucky let the blood run down his wrist and then wiped it clean with a rag. His skin healed even before he pulled the cloth away. The cut was gone, no mark left behind.

Steve stared.

Bucky lifted his chin slightly. “Let me show you something.”

He opened his mouth.

His fangs slid down with a 'snick'—not just the canine teeth, but the entire top row seemed to shift subtly, the two central points descending like needles. They were clean and sharp, wicked and elegant. And Steve—

Steve felt something jolt through him.

Not fear.

Not hunger.

Something else.

It sat low in his stomach and buzzed like heat. His mouth went dry.

Bucky seemed not to notice. Or didn’t care.

“This will happen automatically when you’re hungry, angry, territorial, fighting, or aroused,” he said clinically, like listing symptoms. “You’ll learn how to control it. Retract them now.”

Steve tried.

The sensation was alien—like trying to flex a muscle he hadn’t known he had. After a moment of fumbling, he felt and heard them slide back with a faint pressure, like pulling back into his skull.

“Good.” Bucky nodded once. “Again.”

They went through it several times. Fangs out. Fangs in. Until the motion started to feel natural, like blinking. Still strange—but not horrifying anymore.

Next came scenting.

Bucky led him outside for that after loaning Steve an outer shirt to cover up his blood stains. The cold slapped Steve in the face as soon as the door opened, but it didn’t sting like it used to. He smelled frost. Woodsmoke from another cabin down the mountain. Bark and damp earth. Blood—old blood—in the dirt.

Bucky took a deep breath and said, “Try it. Pull the scent in through your nose. Think of it like tasting the air.”

Steve did. And instantly regretted it.

Everything hit him at once. Too many layers. Too much depth. It was like being thrown into a river after standing still too long. He stumbled, grabbed the doorframe.

Bucky raised a brow. “Not bad.”

Steve gritted his teeth. “Feels like drowning.”

“It won’t later.” Bucky turned and reached for the post beside the door. “Now watch.”

He pressed his hand against the wood. Then leaned in and exhaled against it, slow. His mouth was half-open. His eyes had narrowed, like something primal was sliding just beneath the surface.

“That’s scent marking,” he said without turning. “You’ll use it to claim spaces. Objects. Sometimes people.”

Steve blinked. “People?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Did I stutter?”

Steve swallowed again.

Bucky walked past him and back into the cabin. “You’ll try it later. We’ve got more important things to deal with.”

—

They left the cabin after midday.

The sun was weak this winter day, bleeding pale light through the heavy cloud cover as they crossed beneath pine boughs and climbed out of the valley. Bucky let Steve follow behind him in silence. He didn’t speak, didn’t guide with words. If the newblood wanted to learn how to move, he’d have to learn by watching.

Bucky’s boots barely made a sound whilst Steve kept almost falling on his ass, not yet aware of his body's new reflexes.

It had rained during the night, turning snow into slush, and slush into ice patches as the weather chilled again come morning. The scent of the temperature shift still lingered in the plants and the earth, stirred now and then by the wind carrying new flurries of snow to cover the ground once more. But Bucky could smell other things. Further out. Old ash. Fresh sweat. Soap and linen. Woodsmoke. Hearths. Domestic animals. Lives.

A village.

He stopped at the top of the rise, gaze sweeping the field ahead. The trees thinned, revealing a scattering of homes—stone and timber, sloped thatch roofs, crooked fencing. One woman carried a basket of wet clothing toward an open back door. A boy sat on the steps of a house with a stick in his mouth, whittling and watching his father tend to chopping firewood. A dog barked.

Bucky tilted his head, listening. Breathing it in, reminiscing for all of a second.

Then he glanced back.

Steve was behind him—shoulders stiff, eyes too wide.

The color in them was different now then what he had seen the night prior during the knight’s transformation. No longer constantly glowing gold due to fresh instincts, but blue. Bright blue. Warm as a summer's cloudless sky. Those wide eyes landed on Bucky’s own.

“You’re hungry,” Bucky said. Could basically smell it off of his still human scented body.

Steve didn’t answer. His jaw flexed.

“You’re going to stay hungry,” Bucky continued, voice flat. “Until I say otherwise. Let’s see how long you can last.”

He stepped off the ridge and headed toward the outermost fence line.

Steve followed.

The village had no guard. Most small ones didn’t, not this deep into the wilds. The sight of Bucky’s insignia—his knife, the dark red thread stitched through the black and crimson leather, the glint of gold that was his left arm—was usually enough to settle nerves, to make people feel safe when in his presence. Blood Soldiers didn’t take sides in village disputes. They just passed through, quiet and sharp-eyed, hunting if needed. Sentient vampires that fed off of humans didn’t hunt in villages for a while when they knew a Soldier had been there not long ago.

Bucky didn’t stop. He walked the edge of the houses, slow and steady, never looking directly at anyone. He let Steve trail him, let him feel it all.

The warmth of the people.

The pulse behind their skin.

The sound of hearts beating.

The scent of blood under skin.

Steve was rigid. His hands curled at his sides. His breathing slowed, then hitched, then stopped entirely as he held it.

Bucky said nothing.

Let him struggle. Let him fight it.

Let him learn.

They passed a small pen of sheep. Steve’s head turned. His teeth clenched.

Seventeen minutes.

A child darted out of a door with a loaf of bread and dropped it into the fresh snow. The scent of it—salt, yeast, life—filled the air. Steve stared at it too long.

Thirty-one minutes.

A man emerged from a nearby hut and stretched. His arms lifted, and his collar slipped. A clean line of throat exposed to the air.

Forty-six minutes.

Bucky didn’t look at Steve. Just listened. Watched his reflection in windows. Noted the color of his face, the edge of his mouth.

One hour.

A woman laughed, high and breathy, down by the well.

Steve flinched like he’d been slapped.

One hour, fifteen minutes.

His walk was slower now. Less human.

One hour, twenty-nine minutes, and fifteen seconds.

Bucky felt the change before he saw it. Something coiled in the air. A break. A fracture in Steve’s posture. The softest of poke at Bucky’s mind from the weak training bond between them.

Then—movement.

Silent. Predatory.

Steve’s legs moved before his mind could stop them. His pupils were blown wide, irises glowing gold. His fangs had dropped. His hands were out, not clawed, but reaching.

The woman doing her laundry didn’t see him.

Bucky did.

He crossed the distance in three steps and grabbed Steve by the back of the collar.

The shirt strained. Bucky pulled.

Steve staggered, snarled low under his breath—then stilled, blinking like he was waking from something.

Bucky said nothing.

Not here.

He dragged him out of the village the same way he’d brought him in—quiet, fast, clean.

They didn’t stop until the houses were out of sight and the treeline swallowed them whole. A hawk circled overhead. The wind cut cold through the boughs.

Steve collapsed to his knees the moment Bucky let go.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

Bucky didn’t wait for an apology. Didn’t want one.

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled a cloth-wrapped pheasant—fresh, warm, blood still near the skin. He’d caught it that morning, drained it mostly dry to keep it from staining, but left just enough to feed himself after feeding Steve too.

He dropped his fangs and brought his wrist to his mouth, biting deep.

Not enough to maim. Just enough to bleed.

The wound opened cleanly—his body protested, but obeyed.

Steve looked up, wide-eyed, lips parted. His fangs gleamed.

“Come on, then,” Bucky muttered, and shoved his arm against Steve’s mouth.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

His mouth opened, tongue flattening against the wound, and he sucked.

Not hard. Not frantic. Just desperate.

Bucky stood there, staring past the trees.

His arm ached faintly. The skin throbbed. But the sensation of being fed from—direct, hot, intimate in a way that didn’t need to mean anything besides satiating hunger—was one he hadn’t let himself feel in decades.

He waited until Steve had enough. Until the trembling stopped. Until the shaking breath evened out. Until his fangs retracted.

Then he pulled his arm back.

The wound was already closing.

He looked down at Steve, who was still breathing hard, hair falling into his eyes, blood drying faintly at the corner of his mouth.

Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost thoughtful.

“Gotta say,” he said, “you surprised me.”

Steve looked up.

Bucky tilted his head, expression unreadable.

“But you could’ve been better.”

He gave Steve a full minute to recover. Bucky sank his fangs into the bird still in his hand, draining the last bit of blood in it for himself.

The fledgling leaned back against a tree trunk, legs bent, fingers curled against the dirt. He was quiet now. Alert, though—still riding the instinct that had almost made him kill an innocent human being. Good. That meant it stuck.

“You’re lucky I was watching,” Bucky muttered, rewrapping the bird and tucking it under his coat. “Would’ve ended with a dead woman and a dead you.”

Steve didn’t look at him. His eyes were focused somewhere far away.

Bucky turned, letting his eyes track the break in the trees. He sniffed the air once, then again. The scent trail they’d left in the village was clean—he’d make sure it didn’t linger. No need to risk local half-breeds asking questions. For now, though, the forest was theirs.

He glanced back at Steve. “Get up. You’re not done.”

Steve blinked, swiped the corner of his mouth, and stood.

“Next lesson,” Bucky said. “Scent.”

He waited until Steve was closer, then deliberately stepped past him. “You’re going to learn to identify what’s around you before it sees you. Not by sound. Not by sight. By smell.”

Steve looked skeptical. “Like a dog?”

Bucky paused. Then he smiled, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re not far off.”

He drew in a deep breath, lifted his head slightly, and let the scents settle.

“Blood,” he murmured. “Tree sap. Berries. There’s a buck northwest of here—limping, old wound. Pine rot behind us. Fungi… over there.” He pointed. “And you.” He turned sharply. “Can’t not smell you now. You must've just gotten your vampiric scent when we were in the village.”

Steve tensed. “What do I smell like?”

Bucky considered.

He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Jesus—Steve’s scent was strong. Not just because of newblood volatility. It was clean, startlingly warm. The scent of heat and iron and something sharp beneath it—old fire, or burned sugar. Not bad. Too good.

It’d been stuck in Bucky’s nose since he fed him from his wrist. He hadn’t had time to be bothered by it before since Steve was still in the process of fully turning.

Now, it was bothering him. He furled his nostrils dramatically.

“Like sweat and dirt,” he said flatly, turning away again. “That’s not the point. You’ll learn to tell vampire from human. Fledglings from elders. Fresh blood from old. It’ll keep you alive.”

He stopped in front of a tree and ran his hand along the bark.

Then he pressed his face close to the tree, breathing slowly. It wasn’t just about smell—it was intent. Claim.

“Scent marking,” he said. “Like I said earlier, you leave a trace behind. So others know you were here. So they know you own something.”

He glanced at Steve. “Try it.”

Steve hesitated.

“Don’t overthink it. Use your instincts.”

Steve stepped forward. Mimicked the motion. Touched the bark. Exhaled, slow.

The scent was immediate.

Bright, fresh. Like the heat behind a heartbeat. Youth and blood and something unformed.

It made Bucky’s throat tighten slightly.

He stepped away before it could get worse.

“Good enough,” he muttered. “You’ll refine it with time. Let’s move.”

They ran.

Bucky set the pace—brutal, fast, sharp. He didn’t warn Steve. Just moved.

Branches slapped past them. Rocks blurred underfoot. The wind cut across their faces. But Steve kept up. That was the damn surprise.

At first, his stride was awkward. Human muscle memory hadn’t caught up to his new center of gravity. But his body adjusted quickly. Feet striking faster. Breathing evenly regulated. The newblood’s speed was rough but instinctive.

He wasn’t polished. But he could run.

Bucky slowed only when they reached the stream—ice-fed and narrow, its water slicking the rocks. He stopped beside it and dropped to a crouch.

Steve landed two seconds later, breathing hard.

“Next,” Bucky said, scanning the underbrush. “Hunting.”

He waited for Steve’s reaction—some protest, maybe. Some stupid sentiment.

None came.

Just a silent nod.

Good.

-

Bucky opened the door, the cabin fire a low orange flicker now as he stepped inside to grab his animal carving knife. They had been out for a long while earlier, Bucky teaching the fledgling hunting tips and how to utilize his new predatory stealth. The two came back to warm up for a bit after Steve failed for the fourth time at catching a raccoon. Once the sun went down, they went back out, but Bucky was doing the hunting this time. He caught them a deer and Steve was outside with Bucky's kill, waiting for him like he was told. The Soldier’s wrist was tight from where he’d fed Steve earlier. He grabbed the knife off the table and turned to go back outside—

—then paused.

There, folded near the hearth, was Bucky’s outer shirt that Steve had worn into the village earlier to cover his blood stained clothes and then hunt.

It carried hours of scent from sweat, anxiety, fresh hunger, and something far beneath all that—Steve.

Bucky didn’t mean to reach for it.

He didn’t mean to lift it close to his face.

But he did.

The moment the fabric touched his nose, it hit him.

Like a fist to the chest.

His breath caught. His stomach twisted. Not pain. Not revulsion.

Heat.

He dropped the shirt like it burned him.

It hit the floor with a soft plop.

Bucky stared at it. Jaw tight. Expression blank.

Then he turned away, hands flexing once at his sides.

“Not dealing with that shit. You're lonely, that's all it is.” he muttered, and didn’t look back as he death-gripped his animal knife and stormed back out the door.

—

The world was quiet again.

The fire had burned low, casting long, pulsing shadows across the walls of the cabin. Steve lay curled on the same thick fur pelt by the hearth, limbs heavy, skin still tingling from exertion, and stomach full from Bucky’s blood. His body was… different. Lighter, sharper. Restless under the skin, but also spent.

Bucky had long since disappeared into the back room of the cabin.

Steve didn’t move. He only breathed. He could hear the creak of beams overhead. The scrape of branches in the wind outside. Every sound layered in clarity. Every movement felt like it belonged to a stranger’s body.

And beneath it all: scent.

God, scent.

It was overwhelming now that he knew what to pay attention to. The air was filled with it. Musk, iron, pine smoke. Old blood. Weathered leather. Wood. And under that—threaded through every surface, embedded into the fur beneath his cheek, the fibers of the shirt wrapped around his shoulders, the pillow under his head—Bucky.

Steve’s fingers curled into the fur.

He hadn’t realized how much of it he’d been inhaling the last twenty-four hours. It was the same scent that had wrapped around him on horseback. That had hit him when Bucky first walked into the cabin, cold and wild with fresh hunt. That clung to the wrist Steve had sucked clean twice now. But here, in this confined space, it was everywhere. Saturating.

Bucky’s scent was—

He didn’t have words for it.

It was dark, and warm, and sharp like steel. Something herbal like clove and pine needles threaded underneath—mountain wind, petrichor, leather, and blood. It wasn’t like the other scents he’d picked up. It was singular. Grounding.

And it made his gut twist strangely.

Steve shifted, turning his face fully into the pillow, seeking more of it without understanding why. The scent coated the fabric. It sank into his sinuses, into his chest. His eyes fluttered half-shut.

His eyes glowed lightly.

His gums ached.

It wasn’t painful—just a soft pressure.

His fangs had begun to descend again. Not from hunger. Not from fear.

Steve didn’t fight it.

He lay there, face buried in Bucky’s scent, with his mouth parted slightly and his sharp new teeth catching on the pillowcase. His body felt boneless. Tired in a way that seeped into his marrow. And safe.

God help him, he felt safe.

He let his eyes close.

Let the scent cradle him.

Sleep took him slowly, with his fangs still half-dropped, lips just parted in a way that felt indecent, even in solitude.

And in the dark corner beyond the hearth, Bucky leaned back against the cabin wall, unseen, silent, watching with eyes that glinted like coin in firelight.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

But he’d seen enough.

Chapter Text

The door creaked on its hinges as Bucky stepped outside into the chill.

The air had a bite to it—sharp, morning-cold and still damp from the fog that clung low over the trees. The mountains stretched long and grey to the east, dusted faintly in mist, and the pine-thick woods below swayed with soft wind.

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing deep. The cold chill of winter made his lungs feel light, made him feel like just a half-breed again.

He hadn’t intended to go far. Just far enough to find something warm to kill. A hare, maybe. Another pheasant. Steve would need blood again by nightfall. Best to stay ahead of it.

It had been three days since Steve's willpower test, and things were going surprisingly well. Steve was taking to Bucky’s training like a fish to water, and the Blood Soldier wasn't going easy on him.

Bucky looked over the expanse of fresh snow, the crystals sparkling in the sunlight that did nothing to help melt them. He scented the air—

Then froze.

It hit him like a knife to the temple. Faint but foul. A curl of something spoiled and wrong. Not rot—not quite—but close. Like iron and sulfur and smoke left in sunlight too long.

His eyes snapped open.

Baldwin.

Bucky didn’t think. He spun on his heel and strode back inside.

“Coat,” he said sharply.

Steve blinked up from the fur pile near the hearth, clearly startled. “What?”

“Coat. Now.” Bucky was already yanking on his own, thick black leather stiff from weather and wear. He grabbed his belts with the knife sheaths and alchemical potions, buckling them tight around his hips and upper thigh.

Steve rose quickly, grabbing the coat Bucky had found for him a few days ago. He put it on fast, then stood next to Bucky like he was looking for his next order.

“What is it?” Steve asked, pulling the garment tighter around his shoulders as they stepped outside. “Something wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he moved past Steve and opened the single stable's door, the cold rush of mountain air chasing in behind him.

Fen snorted and tossed his head from his stall, black mane rippling. His heavy blanket swayed with the movement.

The war horse was already half-awake, hooves pawing, restless.

He smelled it too.

“C’mon, big guy,” Bucky muttered, reaching up to grab Fen’s halter. The stallion shoved his head into Bucky’s chest hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, snorting wildly, his nostrils flaring at Bucky’s hair.

“Easy, Fen,” Bucky said, but the brush of Fen’s nose against his forehead made his chest clench. Like the horse was checking he was still there. Still him.

He cinched the saddle tight, threw the bags over the back, and climbed up first—then reached a hand down.

Steve took it, hauling himself onto Fen’s back behind him, arms automatically wrapping around Bucky’s middle. Bucky said nothing, just urged the horse forward with a sharp whistle and a shift of weight.

They rode fast and silent.

The trail Baldwin had left wasn’t hard to follow. He’d never been the kind to cover his tracks. It was deliberate. Like he wanted Bucky to follow. Wanted him to see what he left behind.

Come find me, little soldier.

The bastard’s scent led them down into the valley—through shadowed glades and across a half-frozen stream—until the trail thickened like a noose around the throat.

The town came into view just as the sun broke the tree line.

Small. Quiet. One main road, two rows of squat stone houses, a smithy, and a chapel squatting like a toad at the end of the lane. There were no sounds but the creak of Fen’s tack and the wind scraping over rooftops. No signs of life.

Something was wrong.

Bucky slowed the horse to a walk. “Don’t say anything,” he muttered to Steve. “And don’t move unless I tell you.”

Steve nodded behind him, tense.

Fen’s hooves clopped hollow over the frozen mud road.

They passed the town square.

There was blood.

Splattered across the stones like someone had dropped a wineskin from the sky. Dark and congealing. Flies already buzzed, sluggish in the cold.

Bucky slid from the saddle.

“Stay,” he said, looking at Steve over his shoulder. “I mean it.”

He didn’t wait for the answer.

The knife slid from his belt in one smooth motion while his left hand's golden claws were at the ready as he moved toward the chapel.

The scent was stronger here. Not just blood now—death. Fresh. Less than an hour old. And beneath it, the curl of vampire that had fed on uncycled blood too early.

He rounded the side of the chapel—

—and stopped.

The fledgling was crouched in the dirt, back to him.

A young man. No more than seventeen. Barefoot, shirtless, smeared head to toe in blood and mud. He was hunched over something—someone—but the body beneath him was too far gone to save.

The teen’s shoulders jerked.

Feeding still.

Bucky moved fast.

His boot hit stone. The fledgling spun.

Golden eyes. Wild. Bright with hunger. His mouth dripped with blood, fangs fully out—too long, too new. His hands had claws out, his fingers dirt-crusted and trembling. His body shook from the effort of holding itself upright.

The fledgling—feral—snarled.

Then charged.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

He sidestepped, spun behind him, grabbed him by the back of the neck with his golden hand, and slammed him into the chapel wall with enough force to shake loose mortar. The feral shrieked, thrashing like a caught animal. He basically was.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said under his breath.

And he meant it.

The blessed blade plunged deep into the teen’s chest, sliding through skin and bone and heart. He spasmed once—mouth falling open in a silent cry—and then crumpled in Bucky’s arms like wet cloth.

His body hit the dirt, lifeless.

Behind him, Fen whinnied.

Bucky turned to scold, but it fell flat when he saw the look on the ex-knight captain's face.

Steve was standing now, half off the horse, eyes wide. It was obvious that Fen was the one to bring him closer to Bucky, not Steve himself guiding the horse, because the reins were exactly how he had left them.

Bucky wiped his blade on the dead fledgling’s shirt and sheathed it.

He looked down at the kid. At the blood. The open eyes.

He hated seeing them like this. Turned without consent and then left alone. No guidance. No voice. Just hunger and pain and the sick twist of something stolen from them before they even had the chance to live.

He crouched beside the body and closed the boy’s eyes with blood-warmed fingers.

No grave. No name.

Just another corpse left in Baldwin’s wake.

He looked up at the chapel.

Then at the bloody stones.

Then at the pale face of the dead woman the fledgling had fed on.

A message.

A fucking message.

He stood, jaw clenched, and turned back toward the road.

“We ride west,” he said, voice flat.

Steve blinked. “But—”

“We’re following his scent. He wants us to find him? Fine. Let’s see how far he’s willing to run this time.”

‐

The fire crackled low between them, hissing softly as pine sap burst in the flames.

Bucky sat cross-legged, one hand outstretched to the warmth. Fen stood off a little ways, grazing in the tall brown grass near a small stream, saddle loosened but still on, the blanket underneath hopefully keeping him nice and warm.

The sky above them was moonless — just a sheet of black velvet studded with stars, silver and indifferent. They had rode West, following Baldwin’s trail until nightfall, only stopping to camp for Fen and Steve’s sake. (But mostly for Fen.)

Bucky kept his eyes on the fire.

Not on Steve.

He didn’t trust himself to look too long. Not when the man’s skin still looked flushed from the blood that he drank from Bucky after they built the fire, not when his scent slightly clung to Bucky’s coat like heat and iron, fire smoke and perfectly burnt sugar. Like something still ripening. Still sharpening into something Bucky hadn’t yet learned to name besides “Steve.”

They hadn’t spoken since that fledgling turned feral earlier.

Steve had ridden behind him on Fen’s back in silence, arms wound tight around Bucky’s waist, breath sometimes hitching. Sometimes holding too long.

He’s shaken, Bucky thought. He should be.

They had gone farther than any trip yet since their ‘sire/fledgling’ relationship began—deep into a rocky patch of forest shielded by cliffs and trees, hidden by elevation. Good visibility. Better defense. He had drawn alarm wards and sigils onto the nearby trees with the quicksilver powder in the pouch from his hip, just to be safe.

He didn’t want to be caught by surprise.

Not by Baldwin.

Not again.

Steve sat hunched by the fire across from Bucky, arms folded around his knees. The red shirt he wore under his coat (Bucky’s) was too thin for the mountain cold, but he hadn’t complained. His fangs had receded after feeding—Bucky could tell from the shape of his mouth—but his eyes were shadowed.

“You’ve got questions,” Bucky finally said.

Steve looked up. His expression was unreadable in the dark. “Yeah.”

Bucky stared into the flames.

“Ask.”

A beat passed. Then:

“That boy,” Steve said quietly. “The fledgling. He didn’t even… know what he was.”

“No.” Bucky shook his head. “He didn’t.”

“He was just—hungry. Just—”

“He was gone, Steve. You can't save a feral."

The sharpness in Bucky’s voice made Steve flinch.

Bucky drew a breath. Let it out slower.

“He wasn’t a person anymore. His brain was animalistic. He’d been turned without care. Left to starve. No cycled blood to ease the transition. No guidance. No voice to ground him.”

He looked across the fire. Steve’s eyes caught the flames like mirrors.

“That’s what happens when someone like Baldwin turns someone. It’s not a gift. It’s not a transformation. It’s a death sentence.”

Steve swallowed hard, then looked down at his hands.

“I could've become that…”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because of you.”

Bucky didn’t reply.

Not immediately.

He didn’t want to say I know. Didn’t want to admit how Steve definitely would have ended up a feral if Bucky had shown up only a few hours later. Didn’t want to confess that every instinct he’d had—every protective thread of instinct—had screamed don’t let him fall the moment he’d laid eyes on Steve’s confused, but sane expression that night.

He stood instead.

Moved toward his saddlebag. Unbuckled one of the side flaps and pulled out a bundle of dried roots and leaves, wrapped in oilcloth.

Steve’s gaze followed him.

“What’s that?”

Bucky settled back down beside the fire and began to pull the herbs apart one by one. “One of my suppression blends.”

“For hiding yourself?”

He nodded. “From other vampires and half-breeds. And from humans who know what signs to look for. Blood Soldiers can smell what we are. Hunters like I used to be full-time. But these herbs confuse the scent. Dampen the trail.”

“Will I need it?”

“Soon. If we get too close to any other vampires.”

He threw some of it into the open fire, the smoke from it didn't smell awful, but it wasn't the best. 

Then, he started chewing a small piece, grinding it with his back molars before swallowing.

The taste was vile. Bitter. Ash and root rot and something caustic.

It burned all the way down.

He handed a piece to Steve without a word.

Steve took it, sniffed it, and grimaced. But, he ate it anyway without complaint.

They chewed in silence. The fire hissed, spreading the scent into their clothes and gear. Fen snorted and stamped the ground nearby.

“You didn’t have to help me,” Steve said suddenly.

Bucky looked at him.

Steve’s face was mostly shadow now, but the fire caught his profile—sharp cheekbone, thick lashes, jaw tight with something half-regret, half-gratitude.

“You could’ve let me die after I turned. I was a stranger to you.”

Bucky exhaled, a sound halfway to a scoff.

“Believe me,” he muttered. “I tried.”

But it wasn’t true. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

And Steve knew it.

He looked at Bucky through the firelight, and though he said nothing, something passed between them. Not a pull—not a tug of anything unnatural—but something like gravity. Heavy. Lingering.

It stayed with Bucky long after Steve fell asleep beside the dying embers, curled in his coat, face half-buried in the sleeve.

—

It was sunset once they reached a town for Bucky’s supply run. 

The town nestled into the side of a shallow valley, quiet and modest, smoke curling up from chimneys, the scent of bread and wood ash thick in the air.

Steve adjusted the collar of his coat and walked beside Fen as Bucky led the horse down the main street.

Bucky was all sharp motion and wariness now. Every step calculated. Eyes scanning doorways. Shoulders tensed.

“We won’t stay long,” Bucky said. “Just need some poultice herbs. A bit of cloth. Maybe some alchemy items.”

Steve nodded, hands tucked into his pockets.

He tried not to look suspicious. Tried to mimic the same quiet presence Bucky had perfected—head down, mouth shut. He had even started to mimic Bucky’s gait without realizing it.

They reached the apothecary first.

Bucky went inside.

Steve stayed with Fen, patting the horse’s flank gently as he watched the street.

A man walked past. Then a woman. Then a pair of children skipping in the snowy street.

Then a knight.

A knight.

Chainmail clinked faintly under a wool cloak, and the crest on his shoulder was unmistakable—silver eagle, wings spread.

The man turned.

He looked once at Steve.

Then twice.

Then stopped.

Steve felt his chest seize.

“Captain Rogers?” the knight whispered.

No.

Panic gripped his ribs.

“You—! You were—!” The knight’s voice grew louder, and heads began to turn. “You’re alive? You—he killed Commander Myles! It was you! You ran—!”

Shit.

“Bucky!” Steve yelled, backing closer toward Fen.

The apothecary door flew open.

Bucky was already running.

“In the saddle,” he barked, pushing Steve up in one shove.

Steve scrambled onto Fen’s back.

The knight drew his blade.

More shouts.

Bucky grabbed the reins and swung up behind Steve, snapping them hard. “Move, go!”

Fen reared, hooves striking the air—then thundered forward down the cobbled street.

Villagers screamed and scattered.

“Hold on,” Bucky snarled in Steve’s ear. “Don’t let go.”

Steel rang out behind them as the wind lashed against Steve’s face like knives.

They tore through the streets, Fen’s hooves echoing off stone and wood, villagers ducking out of the way with startled shouts. Bucky’s body was solid in front of him — back tense, legs braced, every muscle radiating motion like lightning waiting to strike.

Steve clung to him like a lifeline.

His hands fisted in Bucky’s coat, chest pressed flush to his spine, every instinct screaming don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.

Behind them came the unmistakable pounding of other hooves.

More than one.

“They’ve got backup!” Steve shouted, breath catching in his throat.

“I know!” Bucky’s voice was sharp, half-lost in the wind. “Hold on tighter!”

Steve did. His fingers ached from the pressure, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t.

A sharp left—Fen veered around a narrow corner so hard that Steve’s shoulder slammed into a wall. He winced but didn’t cry out.

They burst into a side alley, mud and broken cobblestones underfoot, wooden carts and barrels rushing past in a blur.

One of the knights behind them shouted. Steel rang again. Another hoofbeat cracked closer.

Steve’s heart was hammering too fast. His skin felt too tight.

He could hear the pulse of the men chasing them—smell it.

Hot.

Sweaty.

Adrenaline-slicked.

Too much.

His fangs ached. His vision sharpened.

Too much—

He buried his face against the back of Bucky’s neck without thinking.

There was scent there, but it was the scent of Bucky only.

Pine needles, clove, mountain wind, petrichor, leather. Something dark and warm and steady.

It hit him.

Right in the gut.

Steve inhaled without meaning to, chasing that grounding scent like a lifeline. It flooded his senses and shoved everything else out.

The fear didn’t disappear, but it dulled. Muted. Like being wrapped in a thick blanket.

His fangs retracted a little. His jaw unclenched.

He clung harder.

Bucky hadn’t said a word.

Steve didn’t know if he’d noticed.

He didn’t care at that moment.

He kept his nose pressed to the back of Bucky’s neck like a drowning man finding the only piece of driftwood in a storm.

They cleared the alley and galloped into an open field beyond the town walls. The noise fell behind them, swallowed by trees and the roar of the wind.

But the knights didn’t stop.

Steve could hear them behind, yelling orders and kicking hard to catch up.

“Why aren’t we outpacing them?” Steve rasped, breathless.

“They know how to ride.” Bucky’s voice was tight. “And Fen’s tired.”

The horse’s flanks were damp with sweat. He stumbled once, recovered, but Bucky swore low under his breath.

Then Steve caught it—a glint of steel armor just over his shoulder.

Too close.

Bucky turned sharply again—this time into thick brush.

Branches lashed against Steve’s arms and face. The coat protected most of him, but not all. Leaves slapped across his mouth. Dirt flung up into his eyes.

Still, he didn’t let go.

Still, he kept his face near Bucky’s neck, breathing in that anchoring scent like it was the only thing keeping him from losing control.

Because maybe it was.

Then Bucky yelled, “Brace—!”

They burst out into a clearing—

—and vaulted a shallow ditch at full gallop.

Steve’s stomach dropped. The world tilted sideways.

Fen landed with a grunt, his muscles straining.

Behind them, a yelp.

Then a crash.

Armor hitting earth and a horse neighing.

A broken shout.

Steve turned, just enough to see one of the knights had gone down with his steed—the  animal thrown off balance by the same ditch.

But the second rider was still on them.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t speak.

He jumped.

Not off Fen—no, just up. Off the saddle for a moment—twisting in the air like a striking hawk, a throwing knife already in hand—and launched it.

The blade whistled through the air.

It struck true.

The knight cried out and fell hard, armor thudding into the mud with an echo of steel and pain as his horse whinnied and galloped away.

Silence followed. No more pursuit. No more hooves.

Just the sound of Fen’s ragged breaths and the wind rushing over them.

Steve collapsed forward, chest heaving against Bucky’s back. The raised Blood Soldier insignia dug into his sternum, but he couldn’t have cared less. 

The scent was still there, but a little different now—clove and old fire, pine needles and burnt sugar, petrichor and warmth, leather and iron—and Steve realized dimly that his fangs had slid out again.

Not from bloodlust or adrenaline.

From something else entirely.

He pulled back sharply, guilt blooming in his chest as he realized why Bucky’s scent was different.

It was mixed with Steve’s own.

He'd just scent-marked Bucky.

Bucky twisted slightly in the saddle, looking over his shoulder, brow furrowed.

“You alright?”

“I—I think I—” Steve fumbled. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying to—I just needed—”

Bucky stared at him for a moment. His face was unreadable.

Then he turned forward again.

Said nothing.

But Steve could feel the heat rolling off him.

Most likely anger.

But beneath it all, Steve could still taste that scent at the back of his throat.

Like embers.

Like want.

Like home.

-

The fire crackled low between them, more smoke than flame. Steve sat cross-legged on the far side of it, arms folded, staring into the glow like it might swallow him whole.

He didn’t know what he’d expected from Bucky after the chase. 

Most likely some kind of scathing remark about losing control, about acting like a dumb fledgling. About scent-marking him like—

Steve winced and looked away.

Across the small clearing, Bucky knelt beside Fen near the stream, brushing the stallion’s flank down with a handful of dried grass and calm murmurs. The horse snorted softly, ears flicking as he nudged into Bucky's chest like a child seeking comfort.

Steve swallowed.

He still hadn’t said anything since they dismounted.

Bucky had simply tossed him the bedroll from the saddlebag and left him to start the fire while he led Fen to drink. Now, in the darkness, with only firelight and moonlight to shape the night around them, Steve was left alone with the heat of his own humiliation and the ghost of instinct lingering in his throat.

Fen whickered as Bucky fed him a split apple from his palm. Then a carrot from his coat pocket. Steve watched the movements—quiet, fluid, methodical—and felt like he was witnessing something private.

The kind of gentleness that Bucky didn’t seem to offer easily.

And Steve had—

He ran a hand down his face, jaw clenched. “Bucky.”

Bucky didn’t turn.

Steve pushed up to stand anyway, legs still unsteady. His voice came out quiet, rough. “About earlier. When we were riding.”

The Blood Soldier glanced over his shoulder, one white brow raised, but he kept brushing Fen’s damp coat.

Steve took a few steps closer, then stopped just shy of the streambank.

He couldn’t quite look at him—embarrassment colored the blonde's cheeks.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I mean—I did, I guess, but I wasn’t thinking. It just—happened. My instincts—”

Bucky fed Fen another apple slice. “You don’t need to explain it.”

“I do.” Steve’s voice was too sharp, too fast. “Because I could feel it. I scent-marked you. You—you must be angry. My scent. It’s probably still on your coat.”

That made Bucky pause.

Not long—just for a breath. But Steve caught it.

He exhaled. “I know what it means. That it’s… not casual. That it’s personal. You said that scent-marking means something.”

Bucky let the silence stretch. Fen lowered his head to drink again, the water rippling out across moon and ice-glazed stones.

Then the half-breed finally stood and turned.

His expression was unreadable in the dark. But his voice was calm. “You were scared. You were trying to ground yourself. That’s instinct. Not intention.”

“That doesn’t change what it was.” Steve looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment.

Then he moved forward—slow, sure, boots quiet over the snow and pine needle covered ground—until he stopped a foot away. “Do you actually think I’m upset?”

Steve lifted his eyes hesitantly. “…Aren’t you?”

Bucky tilted his head. “If I was, would I still be wearing this coat?”

Steve blinked.

He looked—really looked—at Bucky now, and realized with a little jolt of shock that yes, he was still wearing the same coat Steve had buried his face in.

He hadn’t changed.

Hadn’t washed it.

Hadn’t flinched.

“You didn’t—” Steve started.

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

Steve stared.

And Bucky—Bucky looked back, patient and impossibly steady, like the quiet hum of something ancient beneath stone.

“Don’t mistake instinct for weakness,” he said softly. “It’s how you survive. If scenting me kept you from losing control—then good. That means you're learning. You don't know how to control your own scent yet, so I know you didn't mark me on purpose.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that.

His chest was too tight. His throat too dry.

“You don’t owe me an apology for trying to stay alive,” Bucky added. “And you don’t owe me shame for wanting something familiar to hold on to.”

The air went still between them.

Then Bucky turned and walked back toward the fire.

Steve remained by the stream for a moment longer, heart pounding with something that wasn’t fear.

Chapter Text

Fresh snow sparkled on the ground. The fire had a small flame to it, and the sky was still pale with dawn when Bucky tossed a sheathed sword at Steve’s chest and said, “Get up.”

Steve blinked blearily. “What?”

“Training,” Bucky said, already walking away.

He sat up, fingers curling around the smooth black leather. “You want me to fight you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just drew his knife from its sheath and turned back, standing loose-limbed and casual near the edge of the clearing, firelight licking the dark hem of his coat.

“Combat training,” Bucky said at last. “You’ll need it.”

Steve hauled himself to his feet, every bone stiff. “Because of the knights?”

Bucky shook his head. “Because this world doesn’t care how scared or new you are. Other vampires. Ferals. Hungry animals.”

His mouth twitched into something humorless.

“You need to know how to survive all of it.”

Steve stepped into the clearing, his boots crunching in the snow. “I’m not sure how well I'll do.”

“You have experience,” Bucky said. “You just need to learn your new instincts.”

Steve stood a few paces away, his borrowed sword hanging loosely in his hand. It felt familiar—balanced, forged for a knight’s grip—but somehow, now, everything felt... different. Too light. Too fast. Too slow. Too easy to overcorrect.

His heartbeat was a faint, background hum now. Barely there. The world came in sharper now—every sound, every scent, every vibration underfoot. It was disorienting. It was a lot different than the last time he had used a sword.

Bucky was watching him. Not saying anything. Just watching.

“Attack me,” Bucky said. His voice was as crisp as the winter air, clipped and cold.

Steve adjusted his grip and attacked—not sloppily, not with hesitation. His form was trained, drilled into him through years of grueling knight’s instruction. He moved fast—too fast. His body surged forward like it had its own momentum. He overshot the first strike, had to pivot on a dime, breath catching.

Bucky stepped to the side with almost casual ease. “You’re overcompensating.”

Steve growled under his breath, frustration pooling under his ribs. “It’s like everything’s off. I’m too fast for my own arm.”

“You’re not too fast. You’re not used to controlling it yet.” The Soldier flicked his blade up, gesturing for Steve to come at him again. “You’re still behaving like a human. You need to start behaving like a vampire.”

Steve struck again, this time aiming with restraint—less force, more control. It was better, but Bucky still parried it without flinching.

A pause. Bucky looked him over like a craftsman examining a tool that needed sharpening.

“Close your eyes.”

Steve hesitated.

“Now.”

Steve obeyed.

“Don’t think. Just listen. Feel.”

The forest was alive around them. Wind through trees. The creak of branches. A fox skittering somewhere off to the left. Bucky’s breathing—low, shallow, deliberate.

Then—

A flicker of movement.

Steve turned, blade up, reacting to the sound and shift of air before Bucky’s knife even touched his sword. Steel clashed in a burst of sparks. Bucky’s pressure was strong, but Steve held the block.

“There,” the Blood Soldier murmured. “That was instinct.”

Steve blinked his eyes open, startled. “I didn’t even think.”

“Good. Stop thinking so much. Out here, instinct will keep you alive a lot longer than logic.”

Bucky backed away, lowering his sword again. He circled Steve slowly, predatory, eyes scanning him like he was testing pressure points.

“You’re definitely trained, I’ll give you that,” Bucky muttered. “But now you’ve got retractable claws on your hands and fangs in your mouth, and you’re still trying to grip the world like a human. That’ll get you killed.”

Steve frowned. “So what do I do?”

“You learn again.” Bucky tapped his temple with two fingers. “Not just with your head. You listen to what your body tells you now. If it says run, run. If it says strike, don’t hesitate. It knows more than you do.”

Steve exhaled, nodding.

“I’ll train you,” the turned half-breed said, voice quieter now, but firm. “Not because I want to. But because you’re mine to manage now, and I’m not about to drag around deadweight—especially when I know you can be useful. But we're very far from that."

Steve didn’t rise to the insult. He nodded again, more certain this time. “Then please teach me.”

Bucky held his stare for a long beat, then lifted his blade once more.

“Try to hit me again. And this time, stop pulling your punches.”

-

His muscles hummed from the last strike against Bucky’s knife. They had been at it for about a half an hour at this point.

Bucky didn’t offer praise. He didn’t coddle like a knight’s instructor would, but he did correct certain things.

Steve watched him aa he simply stepped back, nodded once in that unreadable way of his, and said, “Drop the sword.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You won’t always have steel in your hand,” Bucky said, tilting his head. A piece of his white hair fell with the movement. “What’ll you do if someone knocks it away? Or if you wake to someone standing over you before you can reach it?”

Steve eyed the weapon, then dropped it.

Bucky took two slow steps closer, eyes unreadable. “You have weapons now that can’t be taken from you.” He reached up, tapped his temple with a single gloved finger. “Up here, you know how to fight. But in here—” He touched Steve’s chest with two fingers, just above the sternum, “—you haven’t learned yet what you’re capable of.”

Steve swallowed thickly. “You mean the claws.”

Bucky nodded. “The claws. The fangs. The speed. The reflexes. You’re a predator, like it or not. Time you learned how to move like one.”

He stepped back and shrugged off his coat, letting it fall neatly over a branch. He took off his glove too, then cracked the knuckles of his hand, slow and deliberate. “Come at me.”

Steve just stood there. Barehanded, it felt… different. His stance shifted without the weight of a sword to center him. And that hum—that low thrumming in his muscles and bones—it felt harder to ignore now. More insistent.

Bucky didn’t give him more time.

He struck without a sound, a blur of motion that had Steve stumbling backward, barely blocking the blow. Not a punch—Bucky had aimed to grab him, and his golden fingers were curled just enough that the claws felt too sharp. Too close.

Steve righted himself, fangs already slipping partway down without his permission. Bucky noticed. “Good. Let them drop. Don’t hold back.”

He rushed again.

This time Steve moved better—ducked and twisted, catching Bucky’s arm and managing to throw him off-center for a heartbeat. But the older vampire was fast—faster than Steve still—and already recovered, twisting, and sweeping a leg out to knock the blonde to the ground.

Steve hit the snow covered forest floor hard. His fingers tore into iced over earth—deep gouges in the dirt he hadn’t meant to make.

He looked down.

His nails weren’t nails anymore.

They’d extended—elongated and blackened, like curved bone blades—sharp enough to cut through hide.

“Felt that, didn’t you?” Bucky asked from above. “Your body knows when to shift.” He crouched beside Steve, tone clinical now. “Learn to use it on command, not just in panic.”

Steve stood. Snow clung to his back and arms, but he didn’t brush it off. He stared down at his hands, flexing the clawed fingers. They felt simultaneously like his own and not. Foreign and yet familiar.

“How?” he asked, voice rough. “How do you control it?”

Bucky’s eyes were sharp. “You don't at first. You let it in. You stop pretending you’re human. Once you stop fighting it—once you start listening to it—then you shape it.”

He raised his hand and without warning, his own claws unfurled from beneath the skin—sleek and sharp, almost elegant in their lethality.

Steve watched, fascinated, as Bucky stepped into a low stance. “Now try to get me down. No sword. No hesitation.”

Steve snarled—low, involuntary—and lunged.

The two collided with a crack of impact, claw against claw, weight against weight. Steve tried to hook Bucky’s leg, but the Blood Soldier twisted and forced him back. One of his claws caught Steve on his shoulder, making him bleed. The snow and earth was scuffed beneath them, claw marks carving into ice and soil as they locked arms.

Steve’s strength flared—he felt it, the surge of it in his shoulders and spine, the pure muscle power beneath his skin that hadn’t been there before.

Bucky let out a grunt as Steve pushed him back two full steps.

And then—snick.

Steve’s fangs fully dropped.

Bucky caught the motion.

There was a glint in his eye as he said quietly, “You’ll learn to fight with those too.”

Steve blinked, panting slightly. His fangs ached. His claws were bloodless, yet still tingled.

Bucky took a step back and straightened. “Biting in combat can be fatal. Especially if you tear into the neck. You break skin and taste blood mid-fight, and it’ll be hard to stop. Might even lose control.”

Steve swallowed, hard. “Then why teach it to me?”

“Because someone else will try to use it on you one day. Better you know how to respond with someone safe helping you.” Bucky nodded toward him. “Go on. Bite me.”

Steve stiffened. “What?”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Not my neck.” He extended his arm, already rolling his red sleeve up higher. “Here. Wrist. Controlled.”

Steve stared at the offered limb, tension gripping his spine like a vice.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” Bucky stepped closer. “You need to. You need to learn how to use your fangs anyways, may as well do both.”

The scent of him hit Steve first—pine, clove, leather, petrichor. Blood hummed under the skin, close to the surface. His stomach clenched. His fangs itched.

Steve stepped forward like he was in a trance.

Slowly, his hands lifted, gripping Bucky's forearm. His lips brushed the skin. He heard Bucky breathe out, steady and prepared.

Steve bit down.

Not deep. Not violent. Just enough to pierce.

Blood hit his tongue like a lightning strike. He swallowed instinctively, his entire body tensing. The taste along with the absolute thrill of biting another vampire—of biting Bucky—had Steve’s knees weak. It was the first time his fangs had ever been used, and it was a rush.

The adrenaline from fighting still ran through his veins, making him want to sink his teeth deeper, to maim his opponent, to drain them of their crimson goodness.

But he couldn’t. He would never do that to Bucky. Steve snarled as he faught with his instincts, the blood dripping deliciously onto his tongue didn't help.

Then—he let go. Pulled back. Panting.

Bucky hummed 

Steve looked up, dazed. The other man was looking over the bite mark like he was judging the execution of it, before looking at Steve. The fledgling’s mouth was wet with red. His body was on fire.

Bucky offered a scrap of cloth to wipe his face, and then gazed up at the sky.

“We still have some time. Next,” he said, as Steve took the cloth, “we teach you how to track other things besides dinner by scent.”

—

Steve’s blood was in the air.

He could smell it, faint and iron-rich, tinged with the smallest trace of his own. Not much—just the shallow bite he’d invited. An impressively clean one. Precise. But it lingered like fog on a winter morning such as the current one, subtle and persistent.

Bucky stood with his back turned to the clearing, facing the trees, his coat pulled on again while Steve cleaned himself up behind him. The forest air helped. Diluted the weight of instinct and memory clashing in his chest.

He’d expected messier.

Hell, he’d prepared for it—for Steve to lose himself in the moment, to rip too deep or hold too long, or tremble afterward with that cold-sweat panic of having gone too far. First time biting and drawing from another vampire could be like that.

But Steve hadn’t trembled.

He’d pulled back.

Controlled. Measured. Caught himself before anything broke loose.

It should have relieved Bucky.

It didn’t.

Instead, it sank in somewhere uncomfortable. Somewhere low in his ribs. He folded his arms, eyes scanning the distant tree line without seeing it, jaw tense.

The scent hadn’t just lingered—it had settled.

Like Steve’s blood was trying to plant roots in the back of Bucky’s skull.

It’s because you let him bite you.

You made that choice.

And Steve had marked him. Not a scent mark or a bite mark—nothing that bold or deliberate—but he’d left something behind. On Bucky’s wrist, sure. But worse was the breath of it caught in his coat now, on the red undershirt sleeve where Steve had gripped him. That half-feral pulse of instinct and want—control barely maintained.

He could feel it.

Still could.

Bucky exhaled, slow and long, like that might clear the phantom pressure across his spine.

He and Steve didn't have a full training bond, and of course weren't mated. There weren't any substantial bonds to speak of—nothing that should pull.

But...

There were signs of something. Too early. Too subtle for Steve to notice or understand even if he did.

But Bucky did.

The scenting, the hunger tangled with restraint, the way Steve’s instincts had latched onto Bucky when fear took hold. That ride on Fen's back, when Steve had buried his face in Bucky’s neck to steady himself—it had left Bucky stiff and silent for hours afterward, blood moving too quickly, too aware.

He'd told himself it was nothing.

That it was just biology. Hunger and adrenaline. Sire and fledgling.

Part of him knew better. He could smell the strong arousal wafting off of Steve even with the blonde behind him. Yes, fledglings got aroused easily by almost anything, but it just felt too... real.

He clenched his jaw and turned. Steve stood a few paces away, finishing the last wipe of blood from the corner of his mouth, brows drawn, focused. The claws had retracted. His fangs were still half-down, though he didn’t seem to notice.

He looked more vampire than man in that moment. But still Steve underneath.

Still him.

Bucky’s voice came out quieter than usual. “Well, you weren't terrible.”

Steve looked up, surprised. Bucky rarely gave compliments out loud.

“Thanks,” he muttered, a little breathless. “I wasn't sure if I could stop myself.”

“You did.” Bucky stepped closer, adjusting his potion belt around his thigh. “Means you're listening to your body.”

Steve blinked at him, clearly unsure whether that was praise or warning.

Bucky didn’t clarify. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he flicked a glance toward the east. “Up for your next lesson now?”

“I’m up,” Steve said immediately. Then, with a dry laugh, “I feel like I could throw a bear.”

“You probably could,” Bucky said without inflection, already moving.

He paused by the saddlebag on a fallen log, retrieving a small pouch. It smelled of dried herbs, crushed earth, something sharp and stinging beneath it.

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Is that another scent blocker?”

Bucky nodded.

“This one is specifically used by the Blood Soldiers to mask scent from ferals.” Bucky handed it over. “You won’t need it today. I want the ferals to smell you.”

Steve looked nervous. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“It is,” Bucky said simply. “But it’s the best way to learn.”

He clipped the pouch into his belt and grabbed the saddlebag, then turned toward the path leading deeper into the woods.

“Come on." He said over his shoulder.

—

The wind carried more than just air through the woods.

There was texture to it now. Weight. A layered complexity that hadn’t existed for him as a human, even in the height of battle when adrenaline made the world feel sharper. Now, every breath he drew painted the air in colorless ink—blood and water, moss and rot, fur and old sweat. Tree sap bled sweetness into the undercurrent of decay. A squirrel’s piss left a stale trace on the bark to his right.

And behind it all, steady and unwavering, was Bucky.

Bucky's scent clung to the fur-lined collar of Steve’s coat from their fight. It haunted the sleeves and made his skin prickle beneath layers. It wasn’t just scent. It was presence. Comforting and deeply embedded in the air around him.

“Breathe slower,” Bucky said from just ahead, his voice quiet but clear. “You’re flooding yourself.”

Steve blinked and tried, dragging the air in more carefully through his nose. His throat still felt faintly warm from earlier, from the bite—Bucky’s blood, that Steve had bitten and drank from him, lingering in his chest like a low simmer. Not pain, heat. Something very warm. Something strange and... almost euphoric.

He focused. Focused harder.

They were off the path now, navigating through thick woodland. Snowy brambles clutched at Steve’s boots as they crossed a shallow, rocky stream, and Bucky walked like he belonged there—graceful and silent. Steve followed behind him, trying to mimic his gait and failing more than once.

The scent hit him like a cold hand pressed to the back of his neck.

It wasn’t human. And it wasn’t Bucky.

It was wet and rotted, bitter like old copper and wrong in the way spoiled meat turned the stomach. Blood—yes, but not fresh. Not healthy.

Steve slowed, the hairs rising along his arms. “I smell something,” he said, nose twitching. “Like blood, but... tainted?”

Bucky halted and looked back over his shoulder. His eyes were serious, unreadable. “Feral.”

Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “How close?”

“You tell me,” Bucky said, stepping aside. “You’re leading this time.”

That was a test. Steve knew it.

The smell was sharp now, weaving between the trunks like thread. The longer he stood still, the more it seemed to move, like it was breathing with him, leading him east. There was a hint of something else in it, too—sweat, desperation, a tinge of hunger so sharp it cut straight to Steve’s teeth.

He turned without thinking and followed it.

“Good,” Bucky murmured, close behind. Steve didn’t look back, but he felt the approval pulse through him like heat against his spine.

Each step forward brought more detail. The scent wasn’t just drifting anymore—it was grounded. Claw marks scraped against a trunk they passed. Dirt had been torn loose from a shallow hole near a copse of trees. Something had been here, dragging its limbs, heavy and disoriented.

The scent sharpened.

Steve crouched low near a broken bush, nostrils flaring. “It’s recent,” he whispered.

Bucky knelt beside him. “Keep going.”

Steve didn’t need a reply. He moved.

The wind bent around a slight incline, and Steve followed it without question. His fingers brushed the moss of a fallen log, still damp with fresh impact. A smear of dark blood painted the bark. Not red—blackish, thick and reeking.

He paused.

“There.” His voice was tight, and he pointed. “Beyond that ridge.”

Bucky moved up beside him in a blur of silent motion, shoulder brushing Steve’s. He lifted his head and inhaled, once.

“Good nose,” he said.

Steve felt a strange pulse of pride—not from the praise itself, but from him. From Bucky.

Then Bucky's tone shifted, lower. “Stay behind me.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue—but didn’t.

Because the thing that crawled into the clearing below them was no longer anything close to a man or woman.

The creature stirred.

It jerked upright like it heard something neither of them had—head cocked, spine bent at an unnatural angle, shoulders trembling like it was wired too tight beneath its skin. Blood glistened in the corners of its mouth. Its nails were black with rot or gore. Maybe both.

Bucky shifted forward with such fluid silence it didn’t even register as movement. One hand reached back, fingers brushing briefly over Steve’s arm—a silent instruction to stay put.

Steve’s breath caught in his chest.

The thing in the clearing sniffed the air. Slowly. Dragging the breath in like it hurt to do it. The raw skin around its nose cracked with the movement. Its lip curled back, revealing fangs that hadn’t grown in correctly—jagged, uneven, more like bone shards than proper teeth.

It turned.

Eyes locked on Bucky.

And it screamed.

Steve flinched. The sound didn’t belong in a human throat. It split the silence of the clearing, drove birds from the trees in a crashing panic. The feral launched itself forward, springing on all fours like a beast.

But Bucky was already moving.

He dodged left, boots silent on the snow, body a streak of movement that blurred at the edges. The feral snapped at the space where Bucky had been a second before, teeth clicking, claws gouging bark.

Steve couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

Bucky swept in low from the side—one hand catching the feral by the back of the neck and slamming it into the dirt with a sound like breaking ribs. It howled, writhing. Its fingers clawed the earth. Kicked. Bit.

The creature twisted, shrieking through bloodied teeth, and lunged again.

Bucky met it with a knee to the chest, and the thing dropped, wheezing. Still snarling. Still trying to rise.

Steve saw it then. In its eyes.

Fear.

Madness.

A horrible hunger.

It had no self left. Just the need. And it was going to keep lunging until it either fed—or died trying.

The feral lunged again—and Bucky drove his hand to his hip and drew the long knife from its sheath.

The blade glinted once in the thin daylight.

Then he stepped in, grabbed the feral by the throat with one hand—and shoved the knife straight into its chest with the other. It went in to the hilt, the steel sinking between ribs with sickening ease.

The feral went still.

Its claws jerked once.

Then twice.

Then curled.

Its mouth opened soundlessly.

Bucky twisted the blade.

The body bucked once beneath him—and then fully collapsed, breathless and boneless. Blood bubbled faintly from the corner of its mouth. Its eyes, still gold, blinked once—and then stared at nothing.

Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Bucky stayed crouched there for a moment, chest rising and falling slowly. His hand was still wrapped around the hilt of the dagger. His mouth a grim, hard line.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked tired.

After a moment, he exhaled. Reached out. Closed the feral’s eyes with two fingers.

Then he stood. Pulled the blade from the chest with one slow, careful twist. No blood followed. The heart had already stopped.

Bucky turned the knife in his hand and began wiping it clean on his pant leg.

“That knife…” Steve finally managed, voice rasping. “That’s not just steel.”

“No,” Bucky said. “Something better.”

“What is it?”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “Its edge is blessed silver. Forged by a priest who knew what he was doing. Looks like any blade—but it works like a stake, and I don’t have to leave it in to kill.”

He slid it back into its sheath. “It was a gift.”

Steve’s eyes flicked back to the body.

“What do we do with him?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “Bury him. He deserves that much.”

He knelt again, this time quieter. Slower.

Steve joined him without asking.

The two of them dug the shallow grave in silence, their fingers and Bucky’s golden claws carving through dirt and roots and clay. The feral’s body was light. Lighter than it should’ve been. Like it had already started to disappear.

They laid him down in the earth with as much gentleness as they could. Covered him. Smoothed the ground.

They sat there for a moment until Steve looked over at Bucky.

His brows were furrowed and his red eyes stared down at the cold dirt in what Steve recognized as his pensive look.

The ex-knight stayed next to him.

—

Fresh earth, turned and pressed down but not yet settled, always looked too alive—like it might breathe, or shift. He’d buried enough vampires to know. Some of them hadn’t deserved it. Some had.

He wasn’t sure where this one landed. Young, that was certain. Couldn’t have been turned more than a few days ago. Baldwin’s scent had been faint—faded—but there. Traces of it in the blood, clinging to the feral's mouth, his throat.

“Cruel,” Bucky muttered, brushing the dirt from his fingers. “Fucking cruel.”

He stared at the disturbed ground.

Just another victum turned feral. 

Bucky felt the weight of it press in behind his sternum.

He’d seen that same golden eyed panic all ferals have before—in the mirror, once. In another man's face, recently turned thirty, dragged out into the woods with blood on his teeth and rage in his throat. That man had screamed too, just like this one had. Almost attacked a human, then got incapacitated.

And lived, somehow.

Bucky hadn't screamed like that in decades. But the sound of it still scraped at the back of his skull, the way Baldwin’s scent still turned his stomach.

He touched the mound again—not for the grave, not for prayer. Just to touch the dirt.

“Could’ve been you,” he whispered to the ground. “Was, once.”

Next to him, Steve was quiet. He hadn’t said anything since they’d covered the body. Just stayed kneeled beside him, hands playing idly with the hem of his coat, jaw set like he wanted to speak but hadn’t found the shape of the words yet.

Bucky could smell the adrenaline bleeding out of his pores. He could smell the fear too, soured at the edges. And something else under it—something warmer, more confused.

Not quite grief.

Not guilt, either.

Compassion. Maybe. Disgust with the fact that he could feel compassion for a creature that had tried to kill Bucky and would have tried to kill Steve too..

Good, Bucky thought. Let it make him sick. Better that than to be too comfortable with death.

He stood, brushed his palms and knees off, and gave the grave one last glance before turning away. Steve stood with him.

The woods were too quiet now. Even the birds hadn’t come back yet.

Bucky let his eyes scan the treeline.

“You’ll see more like that,” he said finally, voice quiet. “They don’t last long. Most don’t make it past a week. They either die of old age or explode after gorging themselves too far. Sometimes both.”

Steve didn’t respond.

Bucky didn’t expect him to.

He adjusted his knife on his belt and started walking toward the stream.

Behind him, Steve followed without a word.

-

The air stank of rot and wrongness.

They were too far out for anyone sane to be living here. The forest had grown denser around them, trees packed close together like ribs in a cage, their branches clawing overhead, snuffing out the sky. The underbrush crackled beneath Fen’s hooves, and each step stirred the ghosts of dried blood and feral breath—old, but still clinging.

They’d followed the trail from the shallow grave they’d dug two days back and now Bucky was hunting backwards—looking for where the feral had been turned, where the bite had been given. Where Baldwin might’ve stood.

The path was barely there, but it was there—a warping of scent and soil, a bruise of presence pressed into the world. Bucky could feel it, thin and foul, drifting on the air like a fingerprint left too long in the sun. The Blood Soldier unmounted his stallion, petting the horse's face and asking him to stay put. Fen whickered and snorted, and that was all that Bucky needed to hear as he set the reins loosely on a branch.

Steve followed behind without a word. He didn’t ask questions now—not when Bucky’s shoulders were locked tight and his hand hadn’t left his blade for the last hour. Smart kid.

Bucky stopped at the base of a shallow gully and held up a hand, signaling Steve to stop behind him. Damp leaves, torn brambles. A crushed patch of underbrush where something big had thrashed and gone still.

“Keep your ears open,” Bucky said softly. “Your instincts’ll want to tune to my heartbeat. Don’t let ‘em. Broaden your focus. Take in the scene.”

Steve nodded, brows drawn tight with concentration. He knelt beside Bucky, eyes scanning the disturbed ground.

“What do you see?”

Steve hesitated. “Blood,” he said first. “There’s blood on the rocks there.”

“Good. And?”

“Drag marks. Something was pulled into that low spot—maybe a body?”

“Closer.”

Bucky stepped aside, letting Steve take the lead. He followed quietly behind, watching—not just how Steve moved, but how he breathed, how he scanned the earth and the trees, letting instinct settle into muscle.

The blood wasn’t fresh. Two nights old at least. But the shape of the violence was still there.

Steve pointed to a curved indent in the mud. “Knee print. Deep. Someone was struggling—then there’s a break, a smear here…”

“Throat torn out,” Bucky said, gesturing. “Whoever it was dropped hard and fast. Blood stopped spraying.”

Steve blinked. “This was a kill.”

“Was it human?”

Another pause. Steve turned, face serious. “No. Too fast. Too much damage for a blade. Something ripped—not cut.”

Bucky gave a single nod. “You're getting it.”

He crouched beside the print Steve had indicated, dragging two fingers over the edge of the mark, then lifted them to his nose.

“Dirt’s disturbed deep, but see how the prints scatter after the body fell? Something ran on all fours after it finished. Feral behavior.”

He watched Steve’s expression darken with understanding.

“Human violence is calculated. Messy, but planned. Vampires? Just messy.” Bucky gestured around them. “Ferals hunt like animals. That’s how you tell the difference between the three.”

Steve knelt and sniffed the air—slowly, just as Bucky had shown him before. “Still faint scent in the snow. Sweet, a little sharp. Not blood.”

“Residual pheromones. You’re smelling the feral.”

They stood there in the woods, surrounded by rot and quiet and the memory of a death that hadn't needed to happen. No grave. No closure. Just blood in the dirt and snow and a forest that had moved on.

“Sometimes,” Bucky said after a moment, “the only way to tell what happened is by what isn’t here.”

Steve looked over. “Like what?”

“No signs of a second party. No attempt to hide the scene. That’s not a murder—it’s a feeding.”

Steve’s frown deepened, thoughtful. He was already sniffing again, tracking the scent’s direction like he wanted to be tested.

Bucky just watched him.

The kid moved like he was meant to be out here. Born to it, maybe. Long limbs fluid, every shift of his weight practiced now. His knuckles brushed leaves. His jaw ticked as he tasted the air. There was no hesitation in the way he turned toward the tree line, every step deliberate.

He was learning.

Too damn fast.

And Bucky couldn’t decide if that made him proud or terrified—but one thing he was sure of, was that Steve was definitely a "perfect" vampire. He had to be. No regular fledgling would be improving as fast as Steve had been.

“You’re not bad at this,” he muttered gruffly. “For a fledgling.”

Steve gave him a crooked look. “Thanks, I think.”

“You think right.”

They reached a small clearing—if you could call it that. A crumbled stone shrine sat half-sunken into the snow. Something old, long abandoned. Bucky’s nose twitched. The scent was stronger here. Human blood. Feral saliva. Earth disturbed.

He crouched low, fingers brushing a dark stain on the rock, still visible despite the freezing rain from a day ago. There were drag marks in the snow—a body pulled. Then a kneeling shape. Two sets of footprints. One gone. One that never got back up.

Baldwin had been here.

Too bold, Bucky thought grimly. Daylight, ferals… he’s not being careful anymore.

He leaned in to study the prints more closely, golden claws brushing snow aside. That’s when it happened.

The sound was wrong—not the usual shift of wind or leaves, but a snap-crunch like dry bone underfoot. By the time his instincts flared, it was too late.

Something barreled into him from behind.

Bucky’s body hit the ground hard, breath punching out of him. His spine slammed into the soil, and a weight pressed down, clawed and snarling, breath rushing over his throat.

A feral? No—too fast, too silent. It wasn’t snarling, it was smiling, lips peeled back in a jagged grin. Half-rotted face. One eye missing. Some thing between vampire and corpse. Not newly turned—just way too overexposed to blood magic. A half-feral. One of Baldwin’s castoffs as soon as it started to decay no doubt.

Its claws drove down toward Bucky’s ribs—

—and then Steve hit it like a thunderclap.

The weight was gone in an instant, tackled off Bucky’s chest by a blur of motion and snarling rage. Steve’s body slammed into the thing, sending both of them crashing into a tree with a sickening crack of bark. Bucky sat up just in time see Steve rip his claws across its back.

The creature shrieked—a high, wet sound like steam whistling through meat—and Steve didn’t flinch.

He crouched over Bucky now.

A barrier between Bucky and the half-feral.

Breathing hard. Shoulders hunched. Wide stance. Fangs bared. Eyes gleaming gold.

A growl curled low in Steve’s throat, the sound not quite human. Not quite vampire either. Something primal. Protective.

Then Steve pressed his face against the Blood Soldier's neck, eyes never leaving the half-feral.

He’s scent-marking me, Bucky realized, stunned. Claiming me.

The air reeked of Steve—not sweat, but the new, blooming scent of Steve being in full instinct: like a roaring open fire, gooey caramel, almost unbearable heat, and freshly smelted iron. It clung to Bucky’s coat, his hair, his skin.

The half-feral tried to rise.

Steve lunged, claws flashing. He sank them deep into the it’s throat and ripped. A spray of dark, decayed blood splattered the tree trunks, the scent thick and cloying. The creature twitched once, then slumped as its decapitated head hit the ground.

Dead.

Steve stood over it, chest heaving, claws dripping, fangs still down.

Bucky rose slowly from the ground, brushing snow and leaves from his coat.

“Not bad,” he muttered, watching the way Steve’s shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice.

The younger vampire turned, face still caught somewhere between instinct and recognition. His eyes were still gold, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“I… I don't know what came over me—” Steve started, voice rough.

“You just scent-marked me,” Bucky said flatly.

Steve swallowed, looking ashamed. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I just—wanted whatever that was away from you. I saw it attack and I just—I don't know.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment.

Then he huffed out a breath and wiped a smear of blood from his jaw.

“Well, we're not dead,” he said simply. “So I’m not complaining.”

Steve blinked.

“Next time, try announcing the tackle first.”

That made the corner of Steve’s mouth twitch.

“Got it. ‘Bucky, duck,’ then maul.”

“Exactly.” Bucky stepped past him, giving the corpse a final glance. “Come on. If this bastard was here, Baldwin can’t be far.”

He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t push Steve away either.

And as they went back for Fen and moved deeper into the woods again, Bucky didn’t mention the scent still ghosting his entire being.

—

The forest blurred past them in a wash of dark green and heavy shadow.

Steve wasn’t paying attention to the trees. Not really. His arms were looped around Bucky’s waist, loose now, but still there—not clenched like before, not the panicked grip of someone hurling themselves between danger and someone they cared about. Now it was just warmth. Familiar. Necessary.

The wind cooled the sweat at the nape of his neck, but the heat inside him hadn’t faded yet. His skin was still buzzing. Not from fear—not anymore—but something quieter. Stranger.

He blinked down at the now visible back of Bucky’s neck.

His coat’s collar had been pulled tight earlier, but it’d shifted during the fight. Just enough. Steve could see the edge of skin—a narrow stretch of pale, sweat-sheened flesh where Bucky’s white hair had stuck damply to the nape of his neck.

It was saturated with Steve’s scent.

The moment from before played back in his mind: the half-feral, Bucky had told him, rushing them, that hideous face, and the way his own body had simply moved. No hesitation. No thought. One second Bucky was under it, the next—Steve was over him. Protecting.

But it hadn’t stopped there.

He remembered pressing his face against the back of Bucky's neck without even realizing what he was doing. His breath had caught on the heat of Bucky’s skin—and he’d breathed him in. Just for a second. Just enough to calm the storm inside his head, all the while scent-marking him unknowingly.

Bucky hadn’t pushed him away.

Now, riding behind him, the evidence was everywhere. The coat still smelled like him. Bucky still smelled like him.

Steve’s chest rose in a slow, shaky breath.

And something shifted.

It was subtle, but sharp—a tickle in his gums, a pulling sensation deep in his jaw like a wire being slowly wound tighter. It wasn’t pain. It was… hunger. Heat. A need that had nothing to do with blood.

His fangs dropped down.

Not fully—not the sharp, urgent drop of hunting. Just a half-sink. An unconscious pull, like his body was reacting without permission.

Steve went rigid.

God.

He ducked his head, pressing his brow gently to the back of Bucky’s shoulder, pretending it was fatigue. Bucky didn’t react. Just kept riding. The steady sway of Fen’s gait kept them both grounded, but Steve’s thoughts were spiraling.

Why did that happen?

He knew about scenting—Bucky had explained the basics almost a month ago. He understood the significance of vampire instincts. Feeding, scent-marking, territory.

But this wasn’t about territory.

This was about him reacting to Bucky—not because he was afraid, not because of instinct, but because his body read Bucky as safe. Comforting. Right.

And the fangs—

Shit.

He clenched his jaw, willing them to recede. They did. Slowly.

He couldn’t let Bucky notice. Not now. Not when Bucky was already keeping him at arm’s length. If he knew Steve was starting to react this way—scenting him like a touchstone, fangs down just from his closeness—he’d pull away fully.

Steve forced himself upright again, straightening behind Bucky, gripping the saddle horn instead of the man in front of him.

He stared out at the trees.

Let the silence stretch.

Let his breath slow.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About how, when he’d been terrified in that run in with the knights—it wasn’t the trees or the sky or even the idea of surviving that had helped him calm down.

It was Bucky.

It was the scent of him.

And now it was all Steve could smell.

Chapter Text

Their next stop on Baldwin's dwindling trail,  was a village. It was a good size, pressed between two ridgelines like it was hiding from the rest of the world besides its many occupants. Smoke trickled from chimneys, and the market square smelled like wood shavings, horse musk, damp wool, and freshly baked goods. Nothing suspicious on the wind today—not right at that moment.

Still, Bucky's eyes kept scanning. Old habits.

Steve was a few steps behind, his boots ready to be retired for a new pair. His shoulders were too broad for the borrowed undershirt and the coat Bucky bought off that villager close to a month ago.

“Try not to look like you crawled out of a grave,” Bucky muttered under his breath as they passed the old stone statue in the square. “We’re supposed to be blending in.”

Steve shot him a look, only slightly defensive. “I’m wearing your clothes and my old, tattered boots.”

“Exactly.”

They passed the local bulletin board where parchment notices flapped in the breeze, corners weighted with nails and bits of charcoal. Bucky paused, eyes flicking over the usual fare—missing sheep, traveling peddlers, a baker advertising sourdough on Wednesdays.

Then one caught his eye.

Scrawled in messy ink, smudged like the writer had rushed:

'My daughter vanished two nights ago—last seen near the edge of the woods. Please, anyone who can help. Brunette with brown eyes wearing a cream colored dress. She’s not the first. I think it’s a vampire. —Mira T.'

Bucky yanked it down and folded it into quarters without a word.

Steve had already noticed. “A job?”

“Practice,” Bucky said. “For you.”

He shoved the paper into his coat pocket and turned. “C’mon. Tailor’s this way.”

-

The tailor, an older woman with sharp, blue eyes and chalk-stained hands, sized Steve up with a mix of interest and pity.

She made a face when Bucky gave his request.

"All black and olive?" she repeated, squinting at Steve like he was a shadow come to life. "Do you want him to look like a tree, or a grave robber?"

"Neither," Bucky said, flipping a coin between his fingers. “Just make it quiet. Fitted. No stupid frills, no bright colors. Something that protects the neck.”

She grumbled something about fashion being murdered, but got to work all the same.

Steve stood awkwardly on the fitting platform, arms out, as the tailor pinched, tugged, and clucked over the measurements. Bucky leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching her scissor dark cloth and tug out buckles from a trunk that hadn’t seen daylight in years. She dragged Steve further into the shop.

Steve emerged from behind the curtain after a long while, and for a moment, Bucky forgot how to scowl.

He didn’t look like a lost peasant anymore.

The shirt was fitted, the sleeves cut close to the arms and cinched at the forearms with soft leather bracers. The cloth was a deep, inky black with accents of dark olive green. The high collar was fastened at one side with silver metal clasps—something that would keep his neck covered unless he chose otherwise.

Over it was a sleeveless leather tunic, dyed in dark olive with black stitching, reinforced with silver studs down the ribs and cross-strapped with a few horizontal belts. Not armor, not quite, but it would hold up in a scuffle and had enough loops for a small blade or pouch. The trousers matched—dark and fitted with a leather belt and a rectangular piece of silver stamped with a star as the buckle, tucked into soft-soled black boots that came just under the knee.

The base of the outfit was already striking—but in Bucky’s opinion, it was the longcoat that sealed it.

It draped from Steve’s shoulders like shadow poured into shape—full-length black leather, fitted at the torso and flaring just below the hips with movement. The lapels were deep and structured, trimmed in that same rich olive that caught the firelight in the right angle, just enough to give shape to the silhouette without breaking its stealth. Its collar was high, standing up in a way that would protect from the cold and fangs. Twin rows of small silver buttons ran down the front, though it was worn open, swaying around his boots like a hunter just stepping out of myth.

Buckled cuffs. Reinforced shoulders. Slits in the back for ease of riding. The craftsmanship was no accident.

And—he actually looked good in it.

He looked like something new.

Steve glanced up at Bucky, shifting his weight. “Too much?”

Bucky stared for another second before replying.

“You’ll blend in better with the coat,” he muttered. “Breaks up your shape at night. And you’ll want the weight to cover your weapons and belt items.”

Steve blinked, surprised by the practicality. “Right. Good point.”

Something settled into place.

And Bucky, God help him, felt it.

'He looks like a hunter.'

Still green, still not nearly ready—but the shape of what he could become was staring him in the face.

“Not bad,” Bucky said with a tilt of his head. “You don’t look like you stole my clothes this time.”

Steve looked down at himself, tapping the toe of his new boots on the wooden floor, then grinned. “Feels… right.”

“Good. You’ll need to move in it.”

The tailor handed off a small stack of folded extras—two more shirts, another pair of trousers, a thick travel cloak with a hood—and muttered something about Blood Soldiers buying clothes instead of helping with the town's vampire problem.

Steve frowned, but ignored her. Bucky still paid her extra for her speed and craftsmanship despite the comment.

They packed the rest onto Fen’s saddle while Bucky pulled a belt from one of his packs—a proper weapons belt with a silver-buckled clasp, a reinforced sheath, and small loops for supplies or throwing knives. He fitted the steel sword into it and handed it to Steve.

“You’ll need to earn a better blade. But this’ll do for now.”

Steve accepted it with a slow nod, then—perhaps before he even thought twice about it—stepped forward and hugged him.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

It wasn’t stiff. It wasn’t formal. It was a real, full-body hug, solid arms around Bucky’s shoulders and gratitude radiating off him like heat from a forge.

Bucky froze.

The scent hit first—warm, smokey, and sweet and Steve’s—followed by the unfamiliar heat of being touched somewhere that wasn’t horseback, wasn’t battlefield. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Didn’t know why he didn’t just shove Steve back.

He did, after three heartbeats too long.

Steve stepped back immediately, looking guilty. “Sorry. I just—I appreciate it. You didn’t have to—”

“Don’t get used to it,” Bucky said sharply, dusting off his sleeves like Steve had creased them. “And don’t touch me without warning unless you want your hand bitten off next time.”

Steve looked sheepish, the tips of his ears pink. “Right.”

Then Bucky cleared his throat and pulled the folded paper from his pocket. “That message on the board. Looks like a bloodsucker’s been snatching villagers out past the trees. Probably just a regular human feeding vampire, a dark sire teaching a fledgling, or a feral, but it could always be worse.”

“Think it’s Baldwin?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. He doesn’t hide. This? This is either something hungry and scared or just plain old malicious. You’ll be taking the lead.”

Steve straightened at that. “I won’t let you down.”

Bucky gave him a sidelong glance, lips twitching toward a frown that never quite formed. “You already did, hugging me in public.”

Steve laughed once, just barely, and tightened the sword belt around his hips with a new kind of confidence.

They mounted up, Fen snorting as Bucky swung into the saddle first. Steve climbed up behind him like second nature, the weight familiar now.

They rode out of the village under heavy clouds and a setting sun, the path narrowing, the scent of pine creeping back in with the wind.

There was work to do.

-

The trail was weak at first—thin as mist, lingering like regret in the underbrush.

Bucky crouched low over a faint scuff of dirt beside a broken hedge line that Steve had pointed out, his gloved fingers brushing the disturbed soil. The night was still, the moon a sharp half-circle behind layers of drifting cloud. No wind, no owl cries. Just the soft hiss of Fen's breath where the horse waited, reins looped over a branch, and the sound of Steve’s boots crunching carefully over fallen pine needles and snow behind him.

“It’s fresh,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself. “Yesterday. Maybe day before. No more than that.”

He rose to stand, eyes scanning the woods. Every movement was calculated—controlled in that unnervingly quiet way that always seemed to get under even other vampire's and half-breed's skins He tilted his head and scented the air again. There. Just a thread of it—fear, blood, hunger warped by compulsion. Not feral.

Behind him, Steve frowned, already keyed into the nuance of scent work, though still fumbling at times.

“Doesn’t smell like the others,” Steve murmured, eyes narrowing. “There's... restraint, almost. Like they’re trying not to be noticed.”

Bucky turned to him. “Good. You’re catching that.”

The compliment was tossed out without weight, but Steve’s shoulders straightened just slightly.

“Something’s wrong, though,” Bucky went on, scanning the forest with the hard eyes of someone who’d seen worse than death. “Too clean. Too quiet. If this was a feral, they wouldn’t have made it three miles from here without blood sprayed across every tree. But this—they’re hiding.”

Steve nodded, but the wariness hadn’t left his face. “Hiding from us, or hiding from something else?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just moved.

They followed the trail in silence. Sparse drag marks. A half-buried carcass of a deer that had been drained through the ribs instead of the neck—efficient, but brutal. No signs of a proper kill. No care taken. Just utility. Like someone was learning how to eat while terrified of being seen doing it.

Bucky crouched again over a series of snapped branches leading toward a hollowed tree stump. He didn’t speak, only gestured with two fingers for Steve to flank right.

Steve crept through the underbrush with his new coat whispering against the branches—dark as pitch, the olive trim helping him vanish into the thicket. He moved like both a knight and a predator, controlled but still a little loud to Bucky’s ears. He’d learn.

The scent grew stronger. Wrong. Not just vampire blood—magic. Old binding magic, faint but threaded into the air like wire, acidic and sharp, bitter on the back of the tongue.

Bucky’s lip curled.

He unsheathed his knife and kept it low at his side. Ahead, the woods opened into a clearing shaped like a bowl, the trees dead on one side as if burned or drained, sap crusted in veins down the bark.

He saw it then.

A nest.

Built low to the ground with damp leaves and stolen furs, barely hidden beneath thorns and moss. The stench of blood was thicker here—animal and human, but muted by time and distance. He circled it, slow, motioning for Steve to stay hidden behind the thicker tree line.

Then, he crouched and listened.

A breath. Just one. Thin and quick, like a mouse caught in a trap.

“I know you’re there,” Bucky said, voice level. “You’ve been following orders, haven’t you? Whatever you’re running from—it’s worse than us.”

A faint whimper. Then a scrabbling sound, like a body trying to press deeper into the dirt.

Steve shifted behind him but didn’t move forward.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Bucky continued. “But if you run, I won’t chase. He might, though.”

He thumbed toward where Steve lurked in the dark.

The breathing stopped.

Then—slowly—a figure crawled from under the debris. Small, emaciated. Young. The fledgling couldn’t have been more than fourteen when turned. Blood clung to the corners of his mouth, and his eyes glowed faintly gold, dulled by exhaustion.

“Please,” the boy rasped. “Don’t take me back.”

Bucky frowned. “Back to where?”

The fledgling shrank, like a touchless flinch.

“…Him.”

Steve emerged from the brush, stepping quietly, careful not to spook the boy further. “Who is he?”

The fledgling didn’t answer. But his silence said enough.

Bucky stepped forward, just once, slowly enough to show no threat. “You were bound. I can smell it. He made you do this.”

A nod.

“Who?” Steve pressed.

The fledgling looked up, and the terror in his face was primal. “He’s old. I don’t even know how old. He tells us to call him 'Master.' He—he said if I disobeyed, he’d rip my spine out and make me watch him kill the others—”

“What others?” Bucky’s voice was sharper now, knife glinting as he sheathed it again.

“The kids like me. He’s not alone. There’s three. Two others like him. They said I was the lucky one. That they only turned me to bring them food. I—I don't know what happens to the others…”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Steve looked sick.

“We’ll deal with them,” Bucky said at last. “But you’re not going back there. Not now. Not ever.”

The fledgling crumpled in relief.

“They're living in the hollowed woods just southeast of here, not too far, sirs.” 

“Stay here,” Bucky told him. “Don’t run. We’ll come back, I promise you.”

The fledgling nodded, tears in his eyes as Bucky turned away, motioning for Steve to follow, the wind shifted—and the first hints of another scent caught the Blood Soldier’s nose.

Two familiar ones.

Steel and wood shavings.

Anise and ash.

They were close.

—

They didn’t travel far before Steve felt the shift in Bucky.

It wasn’t visible at first—Bucky always moved like a taut wire—but Steve could sense it: a silence that wasn’t empty, a stillness that meant listening. Then he stopped completely, eyes narrowing, face turned slightly toward the dark woods.

“They've finally caught up,” he murmured.

“Who?” Steve asked, stepping up beside him.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just raised his voice—not loud, but clear enough to carry.

“You’re getting slow, Romanoff.”

A dry voice floated out from the trees.

“And you’re still a pain in my ass, James.”

Steve blinked. 'James?'

From the undergrowth, a woman emerged—slim, red-haired, dressed in a long, black and red coat like Bucky’s. The Blood Soldier insignia shimmered in the moonlight on the sleeves along with her twin silver axes strapped to her back. Her presence filled the clearing like smoke: elegant, dangerous, unreadable. Her expression twisted into something amused when her gaze landed on Bucky.

From the opposite edge, a figure dropped soundlessly from a tree—blonde, armed with a sleek black bow and a quiver on his back, adorned in a similar leather coat. He grinned easily, pulling a twig from his bun.

“Told you I scented him,” the man said to the woman. “Same scowl, same clothes. I’d bet my last arrow he hasn’t changed since we saw him last.”

Bucky made a sound in his throat, halfway between annoyance and reluctant recognition. “I don’t change for anyone, you know that.”

Steve tried not to stare.

'James?' That’s what she’d called him. Not Bucky. James. Like it wasn’t strange. Like they’d known him a long time.

He leaned slightly closer, voice low. “James?”

Bucky—James?—didn’t even look at him. “Not now.”

The woman shifted her gaze to Steve, assessing him like one might assess a weapon: noting the blade, the balance, the scent.

“Who’s this?” She asked Bucky.

“Steve Rogers,” Bucky said. “My adopted fledgling.” Bucky gestured between the red-headed half-breed and Steve, “Steve, Natasha, Natasha, Steve.” Then did the same with the archer, “Clint, Steve, Steve, Clint.”

Steve stood a little straighter. He wasn’t sure what ‘adopted fledgling’ meant in vampire or half-breed circles, but the way Natasha nodded in understanding made it sound like something that mattered.

The man—Clint—grinned at him. “Adopted? Thought you hated responsibility now.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “He’s not feral. I’m keeping him that way.”

“Mostly,” Steve muttered.

Clint gave him a chuckle.

“The Blood Soldiers got a letter from head of the village,” Natasha said, returning her gaze to Bucky. “Five missing, maybe more. All taken at night. Thought we’d find a feral, but the signs were wrong. Clean kills, no leftovers. Couldn’t track a damn thing.”

“We found a fledgling,” Bucky said. “Not the one doing the killing—he’s being used to lead prey. Bound.”

Clint’s face darkened. “Binding blood magic? That’s old as sin.”

Natasha crossed her arms. “Whoever’s behind this is clever. We haven’t found a drop of blood in town. Everything’s happening outside the borders. Fewer witnesses. Makes it harder to pin down.”

“We have a location,” Bucky said. “They’re nesting in the hollowed woods southeast. Three of them.”

“You counted?”

“No. Fledgling says there’s three. One of them’s old—most likely an ancient, hence the binding magic. Kid’s terrified. Says he was turned to fetch food and that there's more like him being kept inside. I'm thinking for disgusting reasons, but am hoping that's not the case.”

Clint grunted, disgust and anger on his face. “Classic. Older vampires get lazy, bored. Make some poor soul do the dirty work—and they touch kids. Now I really want to get these bastards.”

Steve swallowed. “And what if the fledgling fails to get them food?”

“They kill him,” Bucky said, voice flat. “He knows it. He was scared enough to talk.”

Clint’s gaze moved back to Steve, still appraising. “You’re lucky he adopted you.”

“I know,” Steve said honestly. He followed the archers’ eyes back to Natasha.

“We haven’t fought one this old in a while,” Clint said, not sounding worried at all. “Reminds me of when we first found Maggie.”

Bucky stiffened. Clint didn’t notice—just kept talking, voice drifting somewhere fond.

“She was maybe two weeks turned. Big eyes. Would’ve handed a rabbit to a priest and called it a good deed. Gods, she was—”

“Don’t.”

Clint stopped.

Steve felt the temperature shift. Bucky hadn’t raised his voice, but the change was instant. Fangs bared, expression hard.

Clint swallowed, then nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

Natasha didn’t look surprised. She moved to Bucky’s side and said gently, “We’ll follow your lead."

Bucky gave a tight nod.

Steve looked at him, confused. But the older vampire had already turned away, shoulders rigid with something unsaid. The name 'Maggie' meant something. More than a fledgling. More than a memory. A wound, still raw.

Steve waited until the others had moved to speak again, his voice low. “James...”

Bucky looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

“You… never told me people call you that.”

“It’s old,” he said. “Before.”

Steve waited. No explanation came.

“I like it,” Steve said, softly.

Bucky didn’t answer—but his jaw twitched, just slightly.

Steve lingered at the other man's side, his voice just above a whisper.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look—”

“I said I’m fine, Rogers.”

But Steve didn’t flinch. “They care about you.”

Bucky snorted, humorless. “They tolerate me.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

Bucky turned toward him then, shadows making his pale features sharper than usual. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Steve met his gaze. “I know what you’re doing now.”

For a moment, Bucky looked like he might say something more. But then the wind shifted again—and the faintest scream echoed in the distance.

Not human. Not beast. Something in between.

Bucky met Natasha’s eyes, then Clint’s.

“Let’s move.”

-

The cavern stank of wet stone, decaying life, and stale blood.

Steve followed close behind Bucky, who moved with fluid, silent precision. Natasha and Clint fanned out to flank them from opposite sides. Their footsteps were almost soundless, yet Steve’s ears caught every shift in weight, every breath, like whispers on a taut string.

The den was old. It showed in the curve of the stone and the strange, chalky runes scrawled across the walls—sigils that pulsed faintly when he passed. Bucky muttered something under his breath about old blood magic. The scent in the air was coppery, heavy with rot and fear.

Bucky held up a fist. They stopped.

Low breathing. Not the shallow gasps of someone hiding—something steadier. A presence. It was around the corner. Steve could feel it now—not just smell it, but feel it.

They turned the corner.

And there he was.

Another fledgling, possibly younger than the one they met outside. !!! His eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, lips split and chapped, neck bruised and freshly punctured, obvious hand shaped marks over his arms and barely covered waist. !!! Shackles around his wrists gleamed faintly in the light from the wall torch.

He flinched hard when he saw them. Tried to crawl backward, hissing.

Bucky took a single step forward, voice calm. “Easy. We're not here to hurt you.”

The fledgling wrapped his arms around himself. “They said you’d come. Said you’d try to get them. Told me not to talk or—” He stopped. Something unseen shifted behind his gaze.

“Or what?” Natasha asked, her axes lowered but ready.

He looked up at them, eyes wild. “He’s in my head. The bad man. I can’t—can’t think too long. He knows. He knows when I talk too much.”

“Your ‘Master’?” Bucky asked, stepping closer.

The fledgling whimpered, nodding. “The really old one. He did something with my head. Blood and words. Every time I try to run, it burns. Not just my body—my brain. I—I wasn’t allowed to speak to you. Not after Issac.”

Steve’s heart stuttered.

Issac?

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the fledgling outside. The one we already spoke to.”

The fledgling curled into himself, trembling. “He’s gonna hurt me now. You don’t get it. The others, they’ll make it last—”

He broke off with a gagging sound, clutched his head, and let out a hoarse scream before collapsing forward in the dirt, spasming briefly—not from pain, but from influence.

“Shit,” Clint muttered, already moving forward to check his pulse.

“He’s not dead,” Natasha said grimly. “Just shut off.”

Steve glanced at Bucky. “What do we do?”

Bucky stared at the boy. Quietly, he said, “We finish this. There’s no breaking that kind of magic while they’re still alive.”

“And if they kill him before we get to them?” Steve asked.

“We make sure they don’t.”

Bucky crouched beside the unconscious fledgling, scanning for signs of deeper damage beneath the bruised skin and bloody mouth. The boy’s pulse still thudded erratically beneath the thin skin of his throat—shallow, but steady enough to keep him alive.

This type of magic was old. Subtle. Slippery, like it had roots in something worse than blood alone.

“He’s definitely bound, no mistaking it.” Bucky murmured.

“How tight?” Natasha asked, one axe still loose in her hand.

“Tighter than I’ve seen in a long time.”

Bucky stood and turned to her. “Start drawing containment sigils. Standard warding circle. We need to block psychic access.”

Natasha nodded and knelt, unslinging her kit bag and pulling out the chalk and quicksilver. Bucky turned to Clint.

“Go back to the forest. Set one around the fledgling Steve and I spoke to outside. Now that we know how far the binding stretches, it’s possible he's being watched through them. Do it fast. Follow the scent of deer pelt, rabbit blood, and dry leaves.”

Clint nodded once, serious now. “On it.” He vanished into the tunnel.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rubbed the back of his neck.

Steve hadn’t moved, still staring at the collapsed fledgling like he wanted to burn the memory into his mind. His hands were clenched. His shoulders tight.

“They’re using them like bait,” Steve said, low.

“Yeah.” Bucky looked at him sidelong. “And they know we took it.”

Steve looked back. “So now what?”

Bucky's fingers traced the hilt of his knife where it lay at his belt.

“Now we hunt,” he said. “But we don’t go in swinging blind.”

He gestured for Steve to follow him a few paces away, toward a bend in the stone corridor where they could speak without bothering Natasha while she worked.

“We know there are three vampires,” Bucky started. “One for sure an ancient—maybe even primordial—and two who are most likely a hundred years or less since they follow him so willingly.”

“You’re not sure?” Steve asked.

“If I was sure, I’d already be swinging.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”

“They’re holed up somewhere deeper in the den. Older vampires build nests when they’re planning to stick around, especially if they’re grooming fledglings for obedience. That means traps. Layers of protection.”

Bucky pulled a piece of coal from his coat and began sketching a rough layout in the dirt wall. “We hit hard and quiet. Natasha and Clint will take the flanks and isolate the underlings. You and I go for the oldest. If he dies, the influence dies with him.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we adapt.”

He looked at Steve. Really looked at him. Dirt on his cheek, blood dried at the edge of a healing nick near his jaw from a branch, that black longcoat somehow making him look older, deadlier—and more like a real hunter than Bucky had expected at this stage.

“You don’t run unless I say,” Bucky said. “And if things go bad, you pull the fledglings and get out.”

Steve frowned. “What about—”

“I’m serious.”

Their eyes locked. Steve didn’t nod, didn’t grin—just looked back with the same steel he'd shown when he stood between Bucky and the half-feral back in the woods.

“All right,” Steve said quietly. “But I’m not leaving unless you tell me to.”

Bucky looked away before that conviction could sink too deep.

Clint returned a few minutes later, brushing dust off his hands. “The outside kid’s shielded. Couldn’t feel the link anymore once the sigil finished pulsing.”

“Good.” Bucky nodded once. “Then we move.”

He turned to Natasha. “We’ll take the right tunnel. You and Clint flank through the left entry once it splits. Circle them.”

She smirked, silver axe spinning once in her palm. “Been waiting months for a job like this.”

Bucky didn’t smile. Didn’t let himself smile.

Instead, he unsheathed and slid his knife into his palm, turned, and started into the darkness with Steve right at his back.

—

The moment they entered the deeper part of the den, the temperature seemed to drop. Fresh and old blood clung to the stone walls like mold. The smell of rot and strange vampiric scents churned in Steve’s gut. Bucky moved ahead of him—silent, controlled. His silver-edged knife glinting faintly in the low light, the blue soul lattern on his right hip casting a cold glow onto Steve behind him. Clint and Natasha had gone left, just as they planned.

Then he saw them.

Three vampires.

The oldest was at the back of the chamber, seated elegantly but dangerous. His gaunt figure was taller than either of the other two, draped in threadbare robes that may have once been fine. His eyes burned gold in the dimly lit room. His aura was suffocating. Ancient. Malicious. Hunger layered over madness, and worse—control. The kind that stripped a person down to their marrow and rebuilt them in chains.

The other two vampires flanked him. Mid-stride, predatory. Younger, but older than Bucky—Steve felt their age and darkness in the way their scents bit into his nose like acid. They turned toward Natasha and Clint.

But the ancient one... His gaze locked onto Bucky.

“Well,” the vampire rasped, voice dry as parchment. “I thought the scent was familiar. I know Baldwin. And you... you stink of him.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You talk too much.”

Clint loosed an arrow without hesitation, silver whistling through the air and striking one of the younger vampires in the shoulder. It howled, veering off course, and Natasha was on the second in a blink—her silver-edged axes sang, a blur of flashing steel and severed flesh. She ducked a wild swing, twisted, and buried a blade in her opponent’s gut. Sparks hissed as consecrated silver met vampiric flesh.

Clint moved like a phantom, drawing and firing with brutal precision, forcing the vampire to dodge, stumble, retreat. “We’ve got these two,” he shouted. “Take the bastard down!”

Bucky was already moving.

He lunged at the ancient vampire, claws and blade clashing with a screech that rattled Steve’s fangs. The ancient was fast—faster than anything Steve had ever seen—and strong. His hands struck with the force of battering rams, sending Bucky skidding back across the stone.

Steve leapt in, bringing down his blade. The vampire blocked it with his bare forearm, grinning as Steve’s weapon barely nicked his skin.

“You’re new,” he hissed. “Still freshly formed. Attractive. You’d make a better pet than a fighter, pretty boy.~”

“Not interested, creep.” Steve growled through his teeth, his fangs out and ready to bite if necessary.

He spun, feinted low, then swung high. Bucky was back in an instant, striking at the same time from the other side. The ancient twisted between them like smoke, his claws raking down Bucky’s ribs. Blood flew—but Bucky didn’t fall.

They fought in tandem—clashing steel, silver, claw, fist, fang. Every blow they landed seemed to barely slow the vampire down, but Steve could feel it. The rhythm. The grind. The heat rising in his blood. A tether between them tightened now, drawing them into an almost sync.

But then the vampire roared and lunged straight for Bucky, too fast for Steve to intercept. His mouth opened, fangs gleaming as he aimed for Bucky’s throat.

“No—!”

Steve was too far, and Bucky was only able to move slightly to avoid a fatality. The fangs sank into his shoulder where his coat had slipped down after the dodge.

The turned half-breed shouted in pain, his glowing golden eyes widened and he staggered, trying to shake the older vampire loose. Blood gushed down his chest, absorbing into the already crimson undershirt and rolling down the leather of his coat.

Something inside Steve snapped.

The world went red.

With a shout, he launched himself forward, sword forgotten. He slammed into the vampire, knocking him off Bucky and across the chamber. The ancient crashed into the wall, crumbling stone around him.

Steve didn’t stop.

He was on him again, fists flying—blow after blow, relentless, savage. He struck with all the fury of a soul set ablaze. Claws. Fists. Rage.

And then Bucky was there beside him. His shoulder still bleeding, face paler than usual, eyes glowing like cold fire. Together, they pressed the attack. Steve held the vampire down—arms locked like steel traps—while Bucky drove his knife into the malevolent, old bastard’s chest.

The vampire shrieked.

The blade sank deeper.

Steve grabbed the vampire’s jaw, pried it open, and stared dead into the other's golden eyes. “You don’t get to bite anymore.”

Bucky twisted the blade.

The ancient convulsed once, then disintegrated in a burst of ash and smoke.

Silence.

Heavy breathing. Dripping blood. The scent of death and silver.

—

The ash was still settling.

Bucky wiped the worst of the blood from his shoulder. The bite burned. Not from venom—there was none—but from the insult. The closeness of it. Teeth meant for power, meant for claiming, had tried to take something from him.

They hadn’t succeeded.

Steve had seen to that.

The gash at his ribs was painful too, but no affliction was like a non-consensual bite.

“You okay?” The blonde asked, fully turning to him.

Bucky nodded, but didn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t. But he hadn’t missed the way Steve had looked at him, or the way he fought once that bite landed. There was something there—too new, too dangerous to name. A fire Bucky wasn’t ready to feed.

Just another thing to be ignored.

The younger vampires’ bodies were already shriveling into black husks. Clint and Natasha kicked the corpses over and began retrieving their weapons. Bucky didn’t speak until the silence dragged on too long.

“Let’s check the fledglings.”

Steve followed him into the corridor, their footsteps quiet now, careful. The den’s scent had shifted. No longer rot and power, but dirt and dust. Old suffering lingering in the bones of the place.

They reached the room holding the fledgling, Clint rushed ahead to check on the first one outside.

The bound kid was still curled where they left him, shivering despite the sigils etched around him. The scent of the ancient vampire’s influence was starting to thin now that the source was gone. His wide eyes locked onto Bucky the moment he entered.

“You’re safe,” Bucky said quietly, kneeling beside him and removing the restraints from around the boy's wrists. “He’s dead.”

The boy looked between Bucky and Steve. “You—you really did it.”

“We did,” Steve offered gently. He didn’t crouch or loom. He simply stood, voice calm. Warm.

It was enough.

The fledgling nodded, once, sharp and fast like he was afraid the kindness might vanish if he delayed.

Something shifted in the dirt behind them. Bucky immediately turned around, simultaneously grabbing the hilt of his knife. He felt Steve mimic the movement. 

What awaited them was not a threat, but instead was a beautiful young girl. Her innocent green eyes and pale blonde hair made her look like an angel even with her little fangs. 

She stared up at Bucky and Steve, looking between the two with curiosity. 

"We're safe now, Liara! Those guys can't do weird things to us anymore." He pointed at the visible insignia on Bucky’s undershirt. "Mommy told me about this bat thingy! She said that if I see it, I'm safe by that person's side." The boy said, looking into Bucky’s half-breed red eyes with absolute certainty. 

A gentle tug pulled his attention back to the little girl—Liara. She had the hem of both his and Steve’s coats clenched lightly in either hand. Steve knelt down to brush some dirt off of her head and shoulders while she played with the buckle at the blonde's jacket collar.

She still held onto Bucky as well. Once Steve stood again, Liara threw her arms up and did  a grabby motion with her small fingers.

"Do you know what she wants?" Steve leaned closer to Bucky, not taking his eyes off the child.

The older vampire rolled his eyes and chuffed at the question. Bucky bent down and picked her up with his golden arm, ignoring the ever present pain of his ribs and the deep bite mark still bleeding on his right shoulder.

"You obviously don't have experience with kids." Liara wrapped her arms around Bucky’s neck, burying her face into his shoulder. Steve gave him a gentle smile.

"No, I don't." The ex-knight said, moving Liara's hair away from Bucky's face, revealing the other half of his facial scar again. "Didn't know you did."

-

Clint came back with the other fledgling, the boy holding tightly onto the archer's hand and coat.

“You all will be moved,” Bucky told them once they were gathered near the den entrance. Natasha took Liara off of him when she started noticing his fatigue. “To caretakers. Somewhere far from all this. You’ll be looked after. Fed properly. Cared about.”

“By people like you?” the first boy from outside asked, hesitant.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “No. People who are better.”

Steve gave him a strange look at that, but said nothing. Natasha and Clint were already figuring out where to take the kids, quiet and efficient. Bucky could hear the familiar names being passed—trusted caretakers, animal-blood-only, old allies of the Blood Soldiers.

Steve shifted beside him.

Then, too casually:

“Sooo… can I call you—”

“Absolutely not.”

Steve blinked. “I didn’t even say it yet.”

“Still no.”

Natasha snorted behind them.

Clint, without missing a beat, added, “You should’ve heard him when I called him Buckaroo. Nearly took my face off.”

“I was younger,” Bucky said, deadpan.

“You were twenty-seven.”

“Exactly.”

Steve smiled, but the question lingered behind his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, watching the fledglings being gently led out by Clint and Natasha. He waited for a moment, then asked:

“Why didn’t you do that with me?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He stared ahead, past Steve, past the trail of ash leading out of the chamber. The question hit something he didn’t like. Something soft.

He’d thought about it. In the beginning.

But the way Steve had looked at him in the forest, the rawness in his voice when he’d asked "Who are you? What’s—what the hell is happening to me?", the sheer wreckage of his soul—it had felt too familiar. Too much like looking into a cracked mirror.

Bucky couldn’t send that away.

So instead, he said flatly, “You weren’t in a state to be passed off. You had a good chance to get blamed for murder, and you were way too fresh to just drop on some poor caretaker.”

“You’re dodging,” Steve said, not unkindly.

Bucky turned to him. “I’m redirecting.”

Steve didn’t push. Which, somehow, was worse.

They stood in silence a few more minutes before Bucky added, softer, “Some fledglings can be returned to the world. Some can’t. I’m still deciding which one you are.”

It wasn’t cruelty. It was truth.

Steve accepted it with a nod.

But he didn’t stop standing close.

—

Somewhere far from the den. Underground. Clean stone. Quiet as the grave.—

The candlelight didn’t flicker in Baldwin’s chamber. He didn’t allow drafts. The room was airless, still—like a tomb lined in velvet and bone.

A blood courier knelt before him. Shaking. Not from the cold.

“The old one is dead,” the courier said, voice nearly inaudible. “The den outside Black Hollow. Burned. Two fledglings rescued. His sons are dead as well."

Baldwin raised one hand, slowly. The courier went silent.

“Who?”

“We—we don’t know yet. Witnesses say… a woman with silver axes. A man with a bow.”

Baldwin’s eyes closed.

Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton.

Which meant the third was—

“White haired man?” he asked, voice lazy and low.

The courier hesitated. “Yes.”

Baldwin’s lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “Ah.”

He stood from the throne he never sat in for long. A long black coat draped over his shoulders like wings. His boots echoed off the stone as he walked to a large glass case. Inside: blades. Maps. Memories.

He took none of them.

Just stared for a moment. Then turned.

“I liked Alaric,” Baldwin said absently. “He was loyal. Sentimental. Flawed. But he understood what power should look like.”

He looked back at the courier.

“You understand what this means.”

The courier nodded frantically. “Yes. Of course. You want them punished.”

“No,” Baldwin said.

The courier blinked.

“I want him reminded,” Baldwin murmured. “What he lost. What I gave him. And what I can take away again.”

Chapter Text

The forest had quieted since the fight.

Steve sat on a snowy log, watching Bucky feed from the deer they’d managed to bring down. This one had been older, stronger—had fought harder before Bucky sank his teeth in. It was messy, even with Bucky’s practiced hand. He was trembling by the end, blood smeared down his throat and chin, pieces of snow-white hair hanging wild over his forehead.

Steve didn’t interrupt. Just kept watch.

When Bucky staggered and dropped to one knee, Steve was there instantly.

“You need to lie down,” Steve said firmly.

Bucky tried to wave him off. “I need to—”

“You lost a lot of blood. You had nothing in reserve before we even started that fight.”

Bucky tried again. “I’m fine—”

And then promptly tipped sideways.

Steve caught him.

Bucky didn’t pass out. Not fully. But the tension finally left his shoulders, like he’d stopped fighting gravity for the first time all day. Steve gently guided him to a bed of snow covered pine needles, and helped him lie down with what little dignity could be preserved when blood was still drying across your neck.

“Is it safe for you to sleep?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s voice was thin. “We heal faster if we do.”

“You want me to stand watch? Do you need anything?”

Bucky opened one eye.

“I need you to shut up.”

Steve chuckled, but didn’t argue.

Bucky exhaled slowly and let himself fall.

-

The woods were heavy with fog, thick like breath in winter, coiling around the trees in ghostly tendrils. Damp moss squelched beneath James’ boots as he followed the trail, the scent of blood—old and sour in some areas, and new in others—lingering on the air like a warning. Every step forward was a step into a dangerous situation.

He flicked his hand once, and Natasha fell into step beside him, her twin axes held ready at her sides. Clint was somewhere ahead, nearly silent among the trees, his bow always half-drawn, half-breed red eyes sharp and searching.

They’d gotten the letter two and a half weeks ago. A child missing. Several, actually, but the most recent girl had vanished right from her bed. Her mother swore she’d heard nothing. No broken windows. No footprints in the mud outside. Just an open door and a cold bed. It had taken a while to actually track down a suspect since there was absolutely no evidence found in the small town.

No witnesses, no leads. Nothing.

James had a bad feeling about this case ever since he had been briefed with Clint and Natasha.

The trail they eventually had found, led them to the edge of an abandoned settlement deep in the forest, half-swallowed by ivy and silence. It reeked of old blood, the kind that stains stone and never fully washes out. Vampires had used this place before, long ago. He could feel it in his teeth, in his half-vampiric blood.

They stopped near the husk of a crumbling chapel, its steeple broken and canted sideways like a snapped neck.

“Anything?” James asked.

Natasha shook her head, frowning. “Dead air. But something was definitely here recently. You feel it?”

“Yeah,” James said quietly, scanning the shadowed entry. “Something’s wrong.”

Then—snap—a sharp rustle from deeper in the trees.

Both of them turned instantly, James’ hand already at his knife, and Natasha gripped her axes tighter. Clint emerged from the brush at a run, his face pale, mouth set in a grim line.

“I found a kid,” he said breathlessly. “She’s alive.”

James was already moving. “Where?”

“Not far. She's... she’s been turned.”

The words hit like a brick to the ribs. James stopped in his tracks.

“She’s just a kid,” Clint added, voice frayed around the edges. “Six, maybe? I—I killed the vamp that was there. He was… nevermind that—she’s not feral. Probably was turned at least a couple of weeks ago and was fed correctly for once.”

That was all James needed to hear. He pushed past Clint and sprinted, Natasha right behind.

They found her curled in the hollow beneath the roots of a great oak, shivering, small hands pressed over her eyes. Her dress was stained with blood, none of it hers. Her fangs looked more like a housecat's small teeth than a vampire's. She seemed weary, like she didn’t understand what was happening to her.

James dropped to one knee slowly, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

The girl peeked through her fingers, her eyes glowing faintly gold in the dark.

“I’m hungry,” she whispered.

James felt something twist deep in his chest.

He pulled a blood vial from his belt—rabbit, freshly drawn just in case for a type of situation like this—and offered it to her gently. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”

She took it with trembling hands and drank quickly, hungrily, but didn’t lash out. No thrashing, no screaming. Just a child trying to survive.

Natasha knelt beside him, brushing the girl’s tangled hair back. “She doesn’t even know what’s happening to her.”

“I know,” James said, voice rough.

He watched her drink, watched the panic in her eyes dim just a little. She was still just a little girl—transformed by something she never asked for, and already on the verge of being labeled a monster by townsfolk deathly afraid of vampires.

Something inside James clicked into place.

He’d always wanted children. Thought maybe someday he’d find someone, settle down, have a family when he eventually out of the Blood Soldier life.

But maybe life had something else in store.

When the girl finished the vial, she reached for his hand.

And James let her take it.

He felt how cold and small it was in his palm, fingers sticky with drying blood, her pulse faint but present. Still quite newly turned, just a few weeks old, and already so quiet. Too quiet. Not the silence of a predator hunting, but the eerie stillness of a child stunned into survival mode.

Clint crouched nearby, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just killed the culprit while you two comforted her. Burned the remains. Too young to dust, and not decrepit enough either. Bastard was holed up in a hunter’s cabin not far from here. Old, greasy thing. He's been gathering kids for a while if the multitude of corpses was anything to go by.”

James didn’t look up, but his face and tone were somber. “Gonna need to let the guild know to send a cleanup crew…”

“Yeah…” Clint said, his head lowered.

Natasha swore under her breath. “We should’ve gotten here sooner.”

“No other squad could’ve found this fucker faster than the three of us,” James murmured. “We came as fast as we could.”

The little girl tugged lightly at his hand.

“What’s your name?” James asked gently.

Her lips parted just enough to whisper, “Maggie.”

“Hi, Maggie,” he said just as quietly, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’m James. But you can call me whatever you want.”

She blinked slowly at him, then nestled closer to his side without a word, her eyes slipping shut even though the blood had only just begun to settle in her system. Trust, fragile and new, threaded between them like a wisp of silver.

“I’m taking her with me,” James said quietly, looking up at the others.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “You sure? We can always take her to a caretaker.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” He looked down at her, already dozing. James smiled and gently squeezed her hand in his. “She's already kinda grown on me. I’ll keep her on animal blood, and I know that I can teach her more about her new lifestyle.”

Natasha’s eyes softened. “You’ve always wanted kids.”

James gave a crooked smile. “Guess I didn’t expect to start with one who drinks blood.”

Clint glanced toward the trees. “We’ll need to clear the site. If there are others, they could come looking.”

“I’ll handle it,” Natasha offered, rising to her feet and sliding one of her axes free. “I’ll mark the area and send a warning to the local trackers until we can get a cleanup squad out.”

James barely heard them. His focus was on Maggie’s face—soft, round, now free of tension as she drifted into exhausted sleep against his side. She’d be hungry again soon. He’d have to bring her more blood, teach her how to scent properly, show her how to hide her fangs. There was also the talk he would have to have with the guild about the adoption, but he was pretty sure Stephen and the other priests wouldn't give him too much trouble over it.

He could do all of it.

He would do all of it.

She was his daughter now.

-

James carried Maggie the entire walk back to the inn they were using as a field base, wrapped gently in his coat. She didn’t wake once, and he took that as a small mercy—her body was still adjusting. It would take time. Her scent was faintly wrong, like overripe fruit, still wrong in a way. He’d bathe her later. Get her clean.

When he laid her in one of the beds upstairs, she stirred, clinging to his sleeve. He stayed until her hand loosened.

Natasha appeared in the doorway. “We’ll get word to the caretakers. See who can take her if you end up not being able to keep her.”

“I’m sure I'll be able to,” James said simply, “you know how much the head priest likes me.”

She gave a small smile. “Then I guess we’re aunt Natasha and uncle Clint now.”

Clint leaned on the railing outside. “Did you ask her for her name yet?”

“She already told me,” James said, voice softer now. “Maggie.”

He stayed beside her all night, seated on the floor with his back to the wall. He watched the rise and fall of her breath. Listened to the faint hum of her heartbeat. When she whimpered in her sleep, he placed his hand on hers and whispered that he was there.

And when morning came, he brought her fresh rabbit’s blood and a soft scarf to hide her fangs for the time being.

She smiled at him. Just once.

And James felt his dream of being a father slowly becoming reality.

-

The scent of pine and blood were the first things Bucky smelled once he woke up. The bedroll underneath him was a wonderful alternative to the snow that the turned half-breed remembered falling asleep on. A fire had burned to low flames in front of him. Somewhere nearby, Fen’s familiar noises drifted to his ears, the sounds calming while his body went through the aching drag of healing.

Bucky stirred.

His limbs were heavy, his body sluggish with the effort of mending itself. A deep throb echoed from his shoulder, muscles and tissue knitting with a heat that shimmered under his skin, each cell in his body clawing its way back from the brink. The deer blood had helped. Not enough to make him strong, but enough to pull him back from the darkness.

He blinked slowly, vision blurred.

To his right, seated with his sword laid across his lap and his fingers rhythmically polishing its edge, was Steve. The ex-knight was just far enough away for Bucky to see.

Awake.

Still.

His golden hair was tousled, his expression unreadable, but his eyes scanned the perimeter of their shelter like a sentry carved from stone. Alert. On edge. The moment he finished cleaning his blade, he started over again. Every so often, his hand would drift unconsciously toward the major places Bucky had been wounded on his own body, gaze narrowing.

Watching for danger. Ready to protect.

Bucky’s throat tightened as he let his eyes fall half-shut again. Blood still pulsed sluggishly through him, but warmth trickled into his chest like sunlight through a half-drawn curtain.

He let his head sink back into the furs and closed his eyes fully, a tired, crooked smile brushing his lips.

'I guess I have the protector now.’

—

The forest swallowed sound like it did the snow around them.

Up here, high in the spine of the mountains, there was only wind and pine and the soft crunch of boots over cold earth and ice crystals. Thin mist hung in the undergrowth, bleeding silver through the dead plants like smoke, and every branch above was heavy with white, weighed down like a world bowed in silence.

Steve’s breath steamed faintly in the morning light. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, watching the mist curl around his feet as he walked. The air was clean. Too clean. Empty of smoke, blood, or ash. But his body still hummed with low, constant alert.

He kept a hand resting near the hilt of the blade Bucky had given him, the one that smelled faintly of old silver coating and leather. His ears strained for movement in the trees. His eyes flicked between the path ahead and the dark tangle of underbrush to either side. They weren’t being hunted—but the memory of being hunted apparently never went away.

And even if he couldn’t smell an enemy nearby, he could still smell him.

Bucky.

He was just ahead, maybe fifteen feet up the trail, moving in silence the way he always did. Fen's reins were gripped loosely in his gloved hand, the stallion moving just as quiet as his rider. Coat dark as pitch with crimson, boots quiet on the hard, ice-slick path, shoulders square despite everything he’d just been through.

Steve watched the sway of him, the steady, almost lazy rhythm of each step. He moved like a ghost that had learned to wear a body, but only barely. Controlled. Precise. No motion wasted. No emotion wasted, either.

But Steve had been there. He’d seen what that control looked like when it shattered.

It had been days since the fight in the den. Since that ancient vampire nearly tore Bucky’s throat out, jaws locked over his shoulder, the wet sound of muscle tearing. Steve still remembered how it felt—how he felt—when it happened. Like something inside him cracked down the middle. Like the world had narrowed to nothing but blood, rage, and the need to protect.

Bucky had passed out not long after they’d moved the kids to close caretakers and Bucky had the deer blood. Pale. Bloodless. Shivering in the pine needle ladden snow while the cold crept in. Steve had ran so fast to get Fen, he didn't even remember the sprint there. Once he mounted the beautiful beast, Fen galloped as fast as he could through the trees, almost like he knew something was wrong. 

They got back fast, and to Steve’s relief, Bucky was still there in the snow, his hair blending in perfectly unlike the contrast of his dark clothes. Steve quickly unrolled Bucky’s bedroll from Fen's saddle as the horse leaned down and lipped at his rider's forehead. He snorted softly when Bucky's face twitched. 

After getting Bucky onto his bedroll and building a good sized fire to keep him warm enough to help the blood flow and heal him, Steve hadn’t slept. He’d cleaned sword in the dark with shaking hands and watched for movement in the trees, sharp-eyed and hungry and aching in a way he didn’t yet understand.

But now?

Now Bucky walked like it never happened.

And that, more than anything, made Steve’s nerves crawl.

Because he could still smell it.

Not the blood—though that memory was carved deep. Not even the scent of rot and ash that lingered after the ancient one had crumbled. No—what clung to Steve’s senses like smoke was Bucky. The ghost of his scent left behind on Steve’s coat. The way the forest still felt like Bucky’s territory, even now, days later after the fight.

It was wrong, somehow, that Bucky didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t say anything. That seemed more likely.

But Steve noticed. God, he noticed everything now.

Bucky’s scent had always been Steve’s favorite thing ever since he first smelled it. Dark, and warm, and sharp like steel. Clove and pine needles threaded underneath—mountain wind, petrichor, leather, and blood. 

And when the wind changed, and it came toward him in a fresh wave, Steve felt his fangs itch. Just the faintest press beneath the gums, like a bruise blooming. Not pain—just pressure. Want. Something hot and deep and wrong, but not in the way that made him afraid.

In the way that made him feel like he’d walked into a memory he didn’t have.

“Keep up, Rogers,” Bucky said without looking back.

His voice was quiet, dry—but Steve caught the faint roughness under it. Just the smallest fray.

He bit back the instinct to ask how he was feeling. He already knew the answer. He could hear it in his gait: the pause when his foot came down, a micro-hesitation. Could see it in the way his right arm stayed a little closer to his side, his shoulder hunched forward. Not cradled—never that—but protected, guarded.

Steve lengthened his stride and came up alongside him.

The trail narrowed through a cut of rocks, and they walked in silence, flesh and gold shoulders nearly brushing, until the pines opened up into a low plateau overlooking the ravine below. The sun was higher now, stretching cold gold light across the valley, but it didn’t warm the wind that rushed up from below.

Bucky stopped at the edge of the overlook, scanning the treetops below with narrowed eyes.

They stood there a moment, quiet.

Then Steve tilted his head, eyes catching the way the sunlight hit the long scar slicing down the left side of James’s face. It started high at the temple, just beneath the hairline, and carved a clean line down through brow and cheek, ending near the edge of his jaw. It looked old, healed clean, but it shone faintly darker in the cold light.

Steve had been meaning to ask. Now felt like the right time.

“Where’d that one come from?” he asked quietly, nodding toward the scar.

Bucky didn’t move. Not for a long breath.

Then he said, still facing forward, “I was about twenty. Fresh into the Blood Soldiers. Dumb enough to think being fast meant being invincible.”

His tone didn’t carry pride or pity—just fact.

“There was a vampire preying on a border town near the Hemlock Run. Feral, turned young, fast as hell. My trainer had taken three of us with him on the job. I didn’t wait to check his movement patterns or agility—just ran in blind. Thought I could take him myself.”

Steve turned to watch his face.

Bucky’s lips curled faintly. “He took my arm instead.”

Silence. Just the wind and the soft rustle of leaves below.

“And the scar?” Steve prompted gently.

“Collateral.” A beat. “That feral was a clever hunter. Didn’t go for the throat. Raked a nail down my face as he spun me. Bought enough time to tear my arm out of the socket and crush it.”

Steve grimaced.

Bucky finally looked at him, pale eyes gleaming like ice behind cloud. “It grew back wrong. Bone was too splintered. They took it clean off later. Told me if I wanted to keep fighting, I’d have to get creative.”

Steve looked at the glint of the metal prosthetic protruding from the shoulder of his coat. “So you did.”

Bucky huffed a faint sound that might’ve been a laugh. “More like our Head Priest did.”

They started down from the ridge in silence.

No birdsong stirred the air, only the faint whisper of branches overhead and the soft crunch of boots on snow and packed soil. The trail narrowed through a wind-scoured draw, the trees older here, thicker, their gnarled roots clawing over ancient rocks like veins.

Bucky stopped first, Fen swiveling his ears right next to him.

Steve nearly walked past him before he caught the shift in posture—subtle, but unmistakable. The slight tilt of the head. The stillness. The way his gloved fingers had dropped the reins and hovered just above the pommel of his knife like he was listening to the air itself.

Steve inhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

Something was off.

The earth smelled old, thick with rot and frozen water. But buried under it, faint as a dying coal, was the stench of blood not quite gone to dust. Not feral blood. Not human.

Vampire.

Bucky knelt without a word, coat settling like a shadow around him. Fen stood still, not moving from his spot and barely making any noise. The older vampire brushed back a thick swath of leaves, revealing a scuffed mark in the snowy dirt—jagged heel prints and drag-lines, the sign of something stumbling or resisting.

Then another footprint. Clean. Deliberate. The weight sat heavy in the heel. Not fresh—but not more than a few days old, judging by the way the edge of the print still held its shape in the half-frozen dirt.

Steve crouched beside him.

“This was recent,” he murmured.

“Mm.” Bucky didn’t look up. “Worse. It’s familiar.”

That made Steve’s shoulders tense.

“Baldwin?”

“Not him directly. Someone that’s followed him before. One of his disciples. The older ones. Might be one of the ones who trained under him before the cities fell.”

Steve swallowed against the taste in his mouth. There was something bitter on the back of his tongue, thick and wrong.

They were getting close.

Too close.

His fangs ached again, faintly pressing against his gums like they wanted out—even though there was no danger. Not immediate danger, anyway. And his skin itched with a familiar pressure, his thoughts flicking—not to the signs on the ground, not to the scent in the air—but to the shape of the man next to him.

To the scar still glinting faintly on his cheek. To the way Bucky’s short hair caught the light in white strands, a few pieces swaying in the wind over his forehead. To the heat radiating off him that Steve could feel even from two feet away.

Steve blinked and stood, shaking it off.

He didn’t understand it. It felt… personal. Like something that didn’t belong to words. A secret curled low behind his ribs.

As they started walking again, Steve kept pace beside him, silent at first. Then—

“Hey.”

Bucky glanced at him sidelong.

“That manual you have. For fledglings. Think I could read some of it? When we find somewhere to stay again?”

There was a pause. Just a moment.

Not long. But enough for Steve to feel it.

Bucky hesitated. He always hesitated before sharing too much.

Then he said, “Sure,” low and easy. No emphasis, no inflection. Just 'sure.'

But Steve still caught the subtle shift in his scent. That faint, grounding bitterness that only showed up when he was thinking hard or second-guessing something. His jaw clenched a little tighter. His shoulders didn’t relax.

Steve didn’t push.

The vampire trail was growing warmer. And with it, so were Steve’s instincts.

He didn’t know what he’d find in that manual.

But something in him whispered that it might help explain the way his fangs and instincts felt around Bucky—like they were waiting.

Waiting for something that hadn’t happened yet.

They reached a point where the sun didn't touch this part of the woods.

The snowy canopy hung thick and low overhead, the needles of towering black spruce filtering the light into a thin, colorless haze. Every footfall sank into loam and frost, the silence so complete it rang in Steve’s ears. No animals stirred. No insects. Even the wind had gone still.

The trail twisted down into a narrow cut, lined with moss-covered stone and pale birch. Bucky moved with the ease of long habit, boots barely scuffing the earth. He’d gone quiet again, scenting the air more than tracking with his eyes.

Steve followed behind, still chewing on the bitter scent of an unknown vampire—stale, acrid, underpinned with something older. Rot. The word came unbidden. His nose wrinkled at it.

He didn't mean to scent Bucky again. But he did. Without thinking.

There was a grounding edge to him, something that stuck in Steve’s teeth. It made his fangs flex again—worse this time.

He pressed his tongue up to them one at a time absently, hoping Bucky hadn’t noticed a change in him.

Then Bucky stopped.

Steve halted behind him instinctively, hand brushing the hilt of his sword. The woods ahead dipped into a shaded basin. A shallow cave split the hillside there, more of a rocky overhang than a shelter, but deep enough to keep sun off whatever lurked inside.

A low sound dragged from the dark—wet, guttural, and sick.

Feral.

The scent hit Steve next. Sour, off, halfway to rotting. Like blood left too long in a sun-warmed bottle. It made his stomach churn.

Bucky turned to him, face unreadable in the cold light.

“Yours,” he said quietly.

Steve blinked. “You’re not—”

“I’ll be here.”

A faint shrug. A slight shift of his weight. “But if you’re going to fight, I want you to be able to hold your own. You won't always have me around to help you.” That made something in Steve ache. “You’ll need to start learning how vampires move on your own. Feral first.”

He stepped back, the frost underfoot crunching slightly.

“But, this sword is steel, am I even going to be able to kill it?”

“It has old silver coating over it still. Not enough to do more than scratch a regular vampire, but can still easily damage a feral.” Bucky explained, then narrowed his eyes. “Now go.”

Steve tightened his grip on the sword at his hip. His senses were already keening outward, the world narrowing to a tunnel of breath and scent and distant heartbeat. The cave mouth loomed ahead. Something moved just inside—lurching, dragging, hunched wrong, its skin a blotched patchwork of grey and purple veins.

The feral emerged low to the ground, its limbs too long, head twitching toward him at an unnatural angle. It was emaciated, ribs sharp beneath bloodstained cloth, eyes pale and unseeing—but its nostrils flared wide the moment it caught Steve’s scent.

It screamed.

And lunged.

Steve moved sideways, fast. His new reaction time like a coiled wire loosened from its cage, sending him blurring out of reach. The feral crashed past him, snarling as it slid in the frost and skittered back upright.

“Don’t let it get behind you,” Bucky called evenly. “They go for the spine.”

The creature darted again, mouth gaping too wide, blackened gums full of needle teeth. Steve brought his sword up mid-lunge, slashing a clean arc through its forearm—but it barely flinched. Blood sprayed in slow arcs, dark and congealed.

“Go for the throat or the base of the skull.”

Steve didn’t answer. He was already moving again.

The feral was erratic—fast in bursts, but clumsy. Desperate. It didn’t guard, didn’t plan. It flailed and lunged and tried to rip. It fought like it was starving. It was starving. Always starving.

Steve dodged another leap, swept low, and drove his blade up under its ribs—missing the heart but catching something vital. It gurgled, collapsed, then reared back up again.

He grimaced. “Tough little bastard.”

Bucky said nothing. Just watched.

The next strike came fast. Steve ducked under a clawed hand, slipped past its shoulder, and drove his blade clean through the base of its neck from behind.

It jerked once, a horrible sound catching in its throat before Steve sliced the rest of the way through bone.

Then it's head fell to the ground and the body slumped.

Steam rose from the cooling corpse in the winter air. The blood pooled sluggishly on the frozen moss, never seeming to end.

Steve stood still for a long moment, panting lightly. The scent was thick. His fangs ached from adrenaline.

Behind him, Bucky approached with calm steps. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t need to.

“Could’ve been cleaner,” he said mildly. “But you adjusted. You read it.”

Steve didn’t expect praise. That… kind of was praise.

“I didn't expect it to bleed this much.”

“They always bleed a lot from overfeeding,” Bucky said, then pointed at his temple. “Doesn’t always mean anything’s alive up here.”

Bucky nudged the body with the toe of his boot. The thing barely looked human anymore. Its skin was torn in places where the veins had ruptured. Its head held wide golden eyes and an open maw.

“What would’ve happened if I lost?” Steve asked.

Bucky tilted his head.

“You wouldn’t have. Or I’d have stepped in. But I’m not here to fight your battles.”

Steve looked down at the sword in his hand.

“Feels more real now. Killing something like that.”

Bucky made a soft sound—agreement or dismissal, Steve couldn’t tell. 

They buried the corpse quickly, then started walking again.

“Come on. We’re getting closer.”

-

The trail bent west, then looped north again.

They’d been walking for hours alongside Fen—through the moss-soaked forest, across a half-frozen creek, and now into the edge of the rocky hills that curved back toward a main road. Somewhere behind them, the dead feral’s scent was already fading beneath the rot of fungus and pine needles. The air had grown damper, heavier, clouds crawling in over the trees.

Steve stepped carefully over a patch of lichen-slick stone, frowning.

“We’re going in a circle,” he said.

Ahead of him, Bucky exhaled hard through his nose. “No,” he grumbled. “He went in a circle. I am unfortunately just following it.”

Steve bit back a smile. “So we’re heading back to the town?”

Bucky didn’t look back. “Apparently. Our vampire friend thought it’d be clever to double back. Waste our time. Or maybe he’s testing something.”

“Like what?”

“If he’s smart, he knows someone’s tracking him. Maybe he’s laying false trails. Maybe he wanted to see if we’d kill the feral.”

They walked on in silence for a stretch, branches brushing overhead like skeletal fingers. The wind was rising again—just a whisper through the spruce needles, carrying with it the damp scent of river stones and smoke from distant hearths. They’d hit the edge of town by nightfall.

Steve waited, then asked the question that had been sitting in his chest for days.

“Why do Natasha and Clint know you’re a vampire?”

Bucky didn’t stop walking, but his gait shifted slightly. A hesitation, subtle as a dropped breath.

“They were the first people I went to after everything settled down.”

Steve blinked. “After what settled down?”

“After I got freed from Baldwin.”

The words were flat. Not emotionless—just packed down, like snow that had been trampled and frozen into ice.

“I was a half-breed my whole life before everything went sideways. You obviously must have picked that up since I'm a Blood Soldier. I worked with them, and they were my best friends. It's a long story…” His jaw flexed. “And it doesn’t matter. They helped cover for me after. Helped me talk to our Head Priest and explain my unwanted turning. Helped me keep my Blood Soldier status.”

He reached up and ran a hand through his hair absently.

“No one's ever seen a turned half-breed before, so white hair didn’t mean anything to my peers, but I still hid it when going to speak with the Head Priest. I didn’t show my fangs. Didn’t act different besides hiding my hair. Kept eating what I always did. So no one asked while I visited the stronghold every so often. I haven't been back in a long time.” 

Steve didn’t speak at first. He could feel the weight in those words. Could imagine how many years Bucky had held them.

“So those three are the only ones who know?” he said finally.

Bucky nodded once. “Far as anyone else is concerned, I’m just a tired half-breed who prefers the woods and has a tragic backstory.”

They passed under a bent pine branch, ducking together as the trail narrowed. The canopy broke enough for a sliver of grey sky to peer through. Fen whickered as Bucky gave him a carrot from his pocket.

“And your knife?” Steve asked. “I know I've asked about it before, but what’s so special about it besides being able to kill like a stake?”

Bucky gave him a sidelong glance, like he’d been waiting for the question.

“It’s a Blood Soldier weapon. You can’t just… order one. They’re forged and blessed for each specific Soldier by our Priests and Head Priest.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “By Priests?”

Bucky nodded. “They’re steel covered with silver. But they won’t do the job if they’re not consecrated properly. It’s not just the metal—it’s the ritual. Otherwise the wound seals instead of festering. A lot of vampires survive bad kills that way. You have to know how to use the weapon, too.”

Steve's eyes dropped to Bucky's hip, where the black-handled knife rode comfortably against his thigh.

“You said they’re forged for the user?”

“Each one’s different,” Bucky said. “Some get swords. Some get knives. One guy I trained with—Reece—used a pair of hooked scythes. Silver-tipped. Fast as hell.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“They give you your weapon after you pass your requirement.”

Steve tilted his head. “What was yours?”

Bucky’s hand lingered at Fen’s mane, fingers curling and uncurling slowly, like he hadn’t decided yet whether to answer.

“Judgment,” he said finally.

Steve blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“That’s how they like it.” A corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched, humorless. “They sent me alone to retrieve a sanctified relic. Guards everywhere. None of ’em monsters. Just people. Armed. Scared.”

Steve slowed without meaning to, listening.

“The rule was simple,” Bucky continued. “Complete the mission. Don’t kill anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to die.”

Steve’s stomach tightened. “And if you did?”

“Then I failed.” Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t matter if I got the relic back. Didn’t matter if I survived. One unnecessary kill and they’d never let me operate without a trainer.”

Steve glanced at him. “Most people would’ve taken the easy way out.”

“Most did,” Bucky said quietly. “That was the point.”

He didn’t sound proud. Just… factual.

“I disarmed,” he went on. “Broke a few bones. Took a knife in the shoulder. Left ’em breathing.” His jaw set. “There was one thing in there that needed killing. Corrupted. Unstable. That part wasn’t optional.”

Steve exhaled slowly.

“So they decided you were… what. Trustworthy?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and unreadable. “They decided I wouldn’t lose myself the second someone put a weapon in my hand.”

That landed heavier than Steve expected.

Bucky’s fingers brushed the hilt at his thigh, not possessive—familiar.

“They forged and blessed it after,” he said. “Bound it to me in a morning ritual full of sunlight. To how I fight. Precision. Intent.” He hesitated, then added, “It doesn't react well to anger much.”

Steve huffed a quiet breath. “Sounds inconvenient.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “But it keeps me more calm.”

They walked on in silence after that, Fen’s hooves soft against the dirt. Steve couldn’t stop thinking about a young Bucky, alone in hostile territory, choosing restraint when no one would’ve blamed him for violence.

It told him more about the man at his side than any story of strength ever could.

By the time they reached the road into town, the sky was fully dark, streaked with cloud and starlight. The lanterns lining the outer gates glowed dim amber, reflected faintly in the puddles along the path. The horse stables were tucked into the back edge of the market street—quiet at this hour, but still warm with hay and low lamplight. A brown mare rested in a small farthest to the right.

Fen’s disgruntled snort was audible before they even reached the door.

“He hates being left in communal stables,” Bucky muttered.

“He hasn't tried to walk away,” Steve pointed out.

“No, but he's going to stomp my foot when I walk him in there.”

Steve grinned faintly, the tension of the day unspooling just a little.

He was beginning to understand this strange rhythm they’d fallen into. The mission. The forest. The moments between. Bucky didn’t talk often—but when he did, it was like cutting into frozen earth and finding blood-warm water underneath. Quiet. Startling. And real.

And he was still thinking about what Bucky had said.

Judgement.

—

The scent of many fledglings hit him halfway up the walkway.

An abundance of new vampiric scents, faint but tangled. Twisting like thread through the seams of the threshold—alongside milk and ink and dried lavender. Not unpleasant. Just sharp.

Bucky paused on the stone stoop, one hand resting against the warped old gatepost. A soft wind passed through, nudging the shutters, and somewhere inside, the low voices of children rose and fell like waves.

Behind him, Steve waited quietly.

“Still want to go in?” Steve asked, and Bucky didn't look back.

He nodded.

“Yes.”

Bucky pushed the door open.

The cottage wasn’t large. The roof sloped sharply on one side, as though the house had been hunched against the wind for years. A round hearth sat cold at the far wall, though the room was warm with lampglow and quiet activity. Paper charms were nailed above the windows—sigils of calm and warding—and the air held a hush that came not from silence but from care.

Six fledglings were tucked into the home’s seams like stitches. One reading on a wool blanket beside the hearth. Another in the far corner drawing with a piece of coal. A third curled asleep in a rocking chair, thumb half in their mouth. Two more played together in the middle of the room with stuffed toys, giggling and talking in different voices. 

The sixth fledgling—a familiar one—stood close to the threshold of the kitchen and living room, wide-eyed, a broom in his hands.

He froze when he saw Bucky.

The boy was thin but not sickly, face pale but fed. His wrists were wrapped in soft cloth where the silver shackles had once dug into the soft skin there. His fangs weren’t showing, but his scent spiked with caution and recognition.

Bucky stepped in fully, holding the door open behind him for Steve.

The caretaker appeared from the rear room a moment later—an older woman with dark hair and warm brown skin, dressed in a faded blue robe with a Blood Soldier insignia stitched into the hem. Her eyes lit with something kind when she saw Bucky, and she crossed to greet him with quiet efficiency.

“James,” she said, offering her hand. “I’d wondered when you might stop by. I haven't seen you in a long time.”

“Wasn’t sure if I should,” he replied, shaking it. “Didn’t want to unsettle you or the kids.”

“The boy that Natasha and Clint brought over has asked about you,” she said simply. “It’s good that you came.”

Her eyes flicked past him to Steve, who inclined his head politely.

She gave him a warm smile in turn, then turned to the fledglings, voice steady and practiced.

“This is James and his own fledgling. They helped rescue Kallin. They are vampires, but you’re all safe. He’s bound to the Blood Soldiers. You remember what that means.”

The boy with the broom—Kallin—stood a little straighter. His fear hadn’t vanished, but it was sharper now, cleaner. Respect, maybe. Or memory.

Bucky met his gaze.

“You doing alright?”

Kallin nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“Feeding regular?”

“Twice a day. Animal blood only. No cravings since last week.”

The caretaker gave a small, approving sound. “He’s adjusting faster than I expected. The silver left some scarring, but his senses are intact. No signs of bonding damage. The others here are younger—turned later. But they’re watching over him just as much as myself.”

Bucky let that sit for a second, absorbing it.

Steve had drifted to the side, glancing curiously at the fledglings but not speaking. Smart. Letting them come to him. Not forcing it. Bucky appreciated that. A little girl showed Steve her doll and he crouched to her height to talk to her more about it.

“Can I ask something?” Kallin said quietly, voice cutting through the soft clatter of the house.

Bucky nodded.

“Were they going to kill me? Before you got there?”

A muscle twitched in Bucky’s jaw.

“Most likely.”

The boy swallowed but didn’t look away.

“Would it have been fast?”

“No.”

The caretaker didn’t interject. Didn’t try to soften it. Bucky was grateful for that.

“I’m glad you did what you did,” Kallin said finally.

Bucky didn’t answer. Just gave a short nod.

The boy shifted again, hesitated, then stepped forward and held out the broom.

“Do you… want to see my room?”

It was the most earnest thing Bucky had seen in weeks.

He took the broom from him gently.

“Lead the way.”

Kallin’s room was at the back of the house, down a narrow hallway that smelled like old books, dried herbs, and the faint metallic trace of blood. The door was open. Kallin walked ahead of him, barefoot, silent except for the gentle scrape of his heel on the wooden floorboards.

The room was small but bright. A wide window looked out over the woods behind the cottage, soft with dawnlight. Paper wards were tucked into the corners of the sill. A thick rug covered most of the floor—threadbare in patches, but warm underfoot.

And tucked in the corners of the space were the careful marks of a child reclaiming control.

A stack of sketchbooks by the bed, half-full of rough pencil drawings—animals, mostly. Deer, wolves, rabbits. A few were more fantastical: a four-winged fox, a horse with vines growing from its back. The bed was neat, but not perfect. A stuffed creature, hand-sewn and uneven, sat upright on the pillow. A moth plushie, judging by the floppy antennae and clumsy thread wings. There was a wooden rack of blunt training daggers in one corner, sized for a child’s hand.

Bucky stood in the center of the room, broom still in hand, and just took it in.

“I made that,” Kallin said, gesturing to the moth.

“I figured,” Bucky replied softly. “Looks good.”

“Thanks,” Kallin mumbled. “It’s better than the first one. The first one had no eyes.”

“Still useful,” Bucky said. “Might be scarier that way.”

That earned the barest twitch of a smile.

Kallin moved to the sketchbooks and opened one carefully, flipping to a middle page. He handed it over without a word.

The drawing was messy but full of motion—charcoal lines capturing a man crouched low with a blade in hand, hair artfully styled back, eyes focused. Kallin had drawn Bucky from memory.

“You got my good side,” Bucky said dryly, crouching beside him to study it better.

“You have a bad side?” Kallin asked with an arched brow.

Bucky snorted. “Plenty.”

They sat together for a moment, Kallin cross-legged on the rug, Bucky squatting beside him. The window behind them caught the pink and purple sky.

“Do you remember much from before?” Bucky asked finally.

Kallin was quiet.

“I remember being hungry,” he said. “And scared. And being told not to speak. Being touched in places that felt… weird. But then I remember the four of you guys saving us all.”

Bucky didn’t smile. Not quite. But his face softened.

“You were bleeding.”

“I’ve bled a lot worse, kid.”

Kallin’s small fangs poked down as he pressed his lips together. Then, almost inaudibly: “Thanks for not killing me.”

Bucky looked at him.

“I never would’ve.”

Kallin nodded, then leaned very slightly against his arm.

Bucky let him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stiffen or pull away. Just sat there with the child leaning on him, moonlight in his pale hair, and tried not to let the image of a six-year-old girl with rabbit’s blood on her lips rise up behind his eyes.

Kallin’s heartbeat was steady.

Safe.

This one was safe.

—

The door opened behind him with the soft creak of wood and the hush of Bucky’s footsteps.

Steve looked up from where he’d been waiting in the front room, politely ignoring the quiet rustling of one of the younger fledglings playing in the corner with a stuffed crow.

The caretaker rose from her seat. Her presence filled the room, but not oppressively. A steady flame, not a raging one.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, low, to her. His voice had a touch of gravel to it now, not cold, but grounded—like stone turned over in a field.

She dipped her head in return. “And thank you. For bringing Kallin here when you guys did. He’s coming back to himself.”

Bucky didn’t respond to that, but his eyes flicked to the small boy peeking out from behind the doorway, now mostly hidden in the folds of the curtain. Kallin gave the smallest of waves. Steve lifted a few fingers in quiet return.

The house smelled of warmth. Of cinnamon bark, candle wax, dried blood herbs, and safety. Steve almost hated to leave it.

They stepped out into the night.

The sky was starting to turn pink and orange above them, the moon setting for the daytime to come. The town had started into that early morning murmur of people and shops waking up. Lanterns flickered in soft halos along the cobbled road as they made their way back toward Fen’s stable.

Steve walked beside Bucky in silence for a while, listening to the songs of distant birds, the wind stirring the leaves, the creak of leather and metal with every step Bucky took.

“Now I've seen it twice.” Steve said, breaking the quiet.

Bucky didn’t look at him. “Seen what?”

“How good you are with kids.”

“Mm,” he grunted. Noncommittal. Unwilling.

Steve glanced at him, caught the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed on the road ahead. There was something in the way he’d sat beside Kallin, something in his body language, so still and steady, like he’d known exactly how not to scare the boy. How to give space while still offering presence. It wasn’t practiced. It was instinct.

But Steve didn’t push.

They reached the stable. Fen whickered as they entered—the horse’s displeasure at being left behind the day before still clearly lingering. He stamped once, then turned his head away dramatically, snorting.

“Oh, come on,” Steve said, scratching her cheek. “You’ll get double fruits and vegetables next time we stop.”

Fen glared at him with one eye before finally nudging his shoulder in concession.

Steve mounted behind Bucky and they rode out through the last open gate at the town’s edge. The road turned narrow, trees reaching over them in an arched canopy, their shadows long and strange in the moonlight.

Steve leaned back slightly, one hand resting on one of the bedrolls strapped to the saddle. His gaze drifted up—then forward.

He watched Bucky.

Watched how the morning light caught in the strands of white hair, turning them golden. Almost unearthly. The motion of the horse jostled some strands loose from his hairline, and the wind carried them just enough to let them sway over his forehead, weightless and shining like threads of silk.

It was stupid, but he couldn’t stop looking.

The way Bucky’s profile looked carved from bone and shadow. The long line of his back. The hand loosely curled around the reins, metal and leather glinting alike.

Steve felt that same pull again—that low thrum behind his teeth, an itch just beneath his skin. Something in his chest that beat not-quite-right when Bucky was close like this. When he wasn’t injured. When he didn’t look worn down to the bone.

It was worse at night and early morning.

Or better, depending on how he thought about it.

He could smell Bucky clearly now. The layers were always subtle but distinct. Steve didn’t even know he was scenting him until his nose brushed against the leather of Bucky’s collar.

He jerked his head back like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

Then—far ahead.

A sound.

A scream.

Not close, but not far enough to ignore. It echoed once, drawn thin across the trees, brittle and sharp like a bird’s cry swallowed by a storm.

Bucky stiffened instantly, his whole body going alert. Fen’s ears pricked forward.

In one breath, Bucky shifted his weight in the saddle, clicked his tongue low and sharp, and the horse launched forward in a gallop.

Steve gripped tighter.

They surged down the road, wind tearing past Steve’s face, leaves scattering behind them. Bucky leaned low, guiding Fen with nothing but knees and instinct, eyes locked forward, as if he’d already marked the direction like a compass needle drawn to blood.

The scream had stopped.

But the scent hadn’t.

Steve caught it mid-gallop: sour, old blood—feral. And something else.

Something worse.

Something wrong.

They rode faster.

Chapter Text

The scream was already gone by the time they left the road behind.

But its echo stuck in his teeth like a sliver of bone.

Bucky leaned low over Fen’s neck, his weight easy, the reins held loose. The large stallion knew what to do—he didn’t need to guide him. The moment that scream cut through the air, he’d shifted from tired defiance to trained urgency. He was bred for this.

Behind him, he could feel Steve’s grip tighten. Just enough. Not panicked. Alert.

The scent hit a second later.

Feral.

A newer one. Only three days old by the sharpness of the sourness. No control. Mind unraveled fully at the edges.

But beneath it—

The scent of human, and something older alongside both. Deeper. A coil of scent that made his spine go straight and his pulse sink into cold focus.

That vampire they were trailing for a week, Baldwin’s old apprentice. Finally close, Bucky was able to pull more things from the ancient’s scent.

He had the same perfume of decay and magic as all other old and malicious vampires did. But there was also a sharp and ceremonial type of undertone, like ancient coins soaked in blood mixed with the other vampire’s own pheromones. Bucky knew that scent. Had chased it for decades. Had bled under it.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t let it show. Didn’t need to say anything yet.

Fen veered between trees just like he’d done a thousand times before. Bucky braced himself as branches whipped past, the early morning light flashing through the canopy in bright streaks. A broken rhythm of pink and orange.

He pulled the reins gently, and Fen slowed. A second nudge, and he stopped completely.

Steve didn’t ask why.

The air had changed.

Still.

Heavy.

Even the trees were quiet.

Bucky slid off the saddle with barely a sound, motioning for Steve to stay mounted. He stepped forward, slowly, boots sinking into the pine mulch and snow slush. The scents were clearer now—close. Very close.

A whimper.

He turned his head. Focused.

Thirty paces out, hidden behind the brush near a fallen log, he saw her.

A woman, curled on her side, half-conscious. Her skin was pale and sweaty, mouth red. Her eyes were glassy with hunger and confusion, pupils blown wide, but the transformation hadn’t taken hold fully yet. She was still herself—for now.

But she would be fully conscious soon. And hungry.

Bucky crouched. Listened.

Another sound, behind her.

Something moved.

Limping.

Breathing too shallow to be an animal. More like a thing pretending to be one.

The feral stepped into view.

It had once been a man. Thin now, drawn. Skin too tight over cheekbones. Back overly hunched and walking on all four gangly limbs. His eyes were gold and wide, teeth clicking together softly like a rodent’s. Blood smeared across his chin. But it wasn’t the woman’s.

Older blood.

She wasn’t food.

She was bait.

Shit.

The real threat was still hiding somewhere close by.

Bucky inhaled deeper.

There.

To the far left—still upwind. That vampiric scent, masked by the feral’s rot and human's change. Controlled. Older.

This was definitely the vampire they’d been tracking through the woods. The one who’d doubled back to throw them off. Clever bastard. Bucky’s lip curled.

So this was the trick.

Drop a feral. Leave a half-turned human. Let the Blood Soldiers—or any other brave individual—come in close.

Then strike.

He stood slowly.

“Steve,” he murmured, not looking back. Voice low. Barely above breath. “Off the horse. Quiet.”

No hesitation. He heard Steve dismount, barely a whisper of leather.

“Feral’s yours,” Bucky said softly. “Do it right. Kill it before that woman wakes up fully. I’ll be watching.”

He stepped back, letting Steve take the lead.

And kept his senses locked forward, eyes fixed beyond the brush.

Waiting.

Because he knew—

That second vampire was still there.

Watching.

Waiting for Steve to stumble.

Waiting for Bucky to flinch.

Waiting for the right moment to strike.

But Bucky wasn’t going to give it to him.

He crouched again, hand hovering near the hilt of his knife.

Ready for anything.

Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

The woods around him were steeped in silence, save for the sound of Steve’s quiet, purposeful approach—his footfalls feather-light, paced. Bucky had trained him well.

The feral turned its head sharply as Steve stepped forward, nostrils flaring, jaw twitching in little jerks like a dog half-mad with scent. It crouched instinctively, lips pulling back in a raw snarl, its blood-slick teeth barely catching the rising sunlight.

Steve didn’t flinch.

’Good.’

Bucky kept his gaze elsewhere.

He’d already marked the feral’s location—its posture, its blind side. That was Steve’s fight.

What concerned Bucky was the stillness to the left. The way the trees didn’t sway there. The way the forest held its breath.

That scent had curled deeper into the roots of the earth. A heavy, old signature. He could taste the power on the back of his tongue, bitter and rusted with age. Not primordial—but old enough to be as dangerous as one. Experienced.

And worse—patient.

The vampire was letting Steve handle the feral. Watching. Measuring. A hunter testing the other predators in its woods.

Bucky tilted his head ever so slightly, then let his eyelids lower until he was barely peering out from between his lashes. A trick from long ago. From his Blood Soldier training days. Let the opponent believe you’re relaxed. Unaware.

But his hand was still over his knife. Slow breath in. Breath out. Muscles loose but ready.

To his far right, Steve spoke—calm, commanding. “Stop moving.”

The feral hissed.

Then a thud—quick and clean. A sharp noise of metal cutting through tissue and bone. A thud and a body hitting earth.

Bucky didn’t look. He couldn’t afford to.

Instead, he whispered into the air.

“Come on then.”

A pause.

Stillness.

Then a voice, rough like gravel and low like smoke, curled out of the thick trees.

“You’re not half as blind as you look, Blood Soldier.”

Bucky’s lips twitched. “You’re not half as clever as you think, either.”

A chuckle.

And then—

A figure stepped from the trees. Cloaked in long gray robes, darker where they clung to dried blood. His skin was pale, paper-thin over high cheekbones, but his eyes were dark, shrewd.

He moved like a man with nothing to fear.

“I’ve heard of you,” the vampire said, hands at his sides, nonthreatening. “The Soldier who was turned. Baldwin’s runaway project.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Just watched.

“You’ve come a long way from cleaning up his messes,” the vampire continued, stepping in a slow arc to the left. Testing. “Now you make your own.”

“You were one of his.”

A half-smile. “Still am.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the hilt of his knife.

“Funny thing about Baldwin,” the vampire mused, “he doesn’t like to lose track of his things. You, especially.”

He took another step.

At Bucky’s right, Steve was standing again. Silent. Bucky could sense the tension rolling off of him like heat.

“Run back to your master,” Bucky said. “Tell him the next one of you I find gets shredded.”

The vampire’s smile grew.

“Oh, I will. But he’s already expecting you. He’s hoping you’ll lend him a hand with an ongoing plan.”

The moment the last word left his mouth, he lunged.

Bucky was ready.

Silver-edged steel flashed as he unsheathed his knife.

He twisted to the side, letting the first strike whistle past him, then ducked low and drove his knee up hard into the older vampire’s ribs. Bone cracked. But the bastard only laughed, turning with unnatural speed and slamming his elbow toward Bucky’s face.

He blocked it with his forearm, twisted, and raked the blade across the vampire’s hip.

The other vampire recoiled, but immediately retaliated with another slash of his claws.

This one grazed Bucky’s shoulder—shallow, but enough to sting. He pivoted with it, knife flashing again, going for the throat.

The vampire ducked back, hands up now.

“You’re faster than I've heard,” he rasped, blood still on his teeth from his victim.

“Guess you don’t hear much worth knowing,” Bucky growled.

Next to him, Steve moved.

The vampire saw it—and Bucky did too.

The moment he turned his head to track Steve’s motion, Bucky struck.

Blade in his side.

Deep.

Twisting.

The vampire shouted—then vanished.

A flash of movement, too fast for the human eye. Gone into the trees, smoke and blood in his wake.

Bucky stood still, breath steady, blood from his shoulder dripping down his sleeve. The wound wasn't mending itself yet despite how minor the cut truly was. Bucky frowned.

Steve appeared at his side again, panting softly. The feral lay crumpled to the far right of the clearing—dead. Head cleanly decapitated.

“You okay?” Steve asked.

Bucky nodded once. “Flesh wound.”

Steve looked past him, into the trees. “By the way he was talking, I'm assuming that wasn’t Baldwin.”

“No,” Bucky muttered. “Just another dog. He's the one we were tracking for that whole week.”

He wiped the knife onto his pant leg, then slid it back into its sheath. The burn of the wound was weirdly persistent, but something else stayed in his chest.

Those words.

“He’s hoping you’ll lend him a hand with an ongoing plan.”

Bucky frowned even harder.

That sentence made him nervous.

A gasp pulled his and Steve’s attentions to the woman on the ground further away as she regained her consciousness. 

“Wh—where am I? What happened? Why am I so… hungry?” She asked frantically, her brunette curls bouncing on her shoulders as she looked around the woods. 

Bucky opened his mouth to answer, but Steve was already at her side explaining things before he could even get a word out.

“So now what do I do? If I don't have a sire…” She looked sadly down at her clenched hands in her dress. 

“It's okay. Bucky and I can help you find your way to someone who can help you.” Steve said reassuringly. Bucky watched him roll up one of the sleeves of his coat and undo the leather bracer to get at his skin. “But first, we need to feed you.” 

Bucky was surprised when Steve bit into the artery of his own arm and offered it to the woman. She looked at the pooling blood like a fresh loaf of bread or sweet bun, the hunger very clear in her gaze despite her reluctance. 

“I know it's weird at first, but you need to drink it. I promise you'll feel better afterwards.” She nodded, hesitantly grabbing onto Steve’s forearm, her dainty fingers barely even wrapped around the entirety of it. She brought his arm closer to her mouth, then put her lips over the wound.

Bucky remembered when he had first done that for Steve. How it had felt strange to have blood pulled from him by another vampire for the first time, Steve’s involuntary moan from finally tasting what his changing body craved and needed to survive.

The woman finished with a quiet “thank you,” the hunger quelled for a short amount of time.

“Now head West,” Bucky said, pointing to where he knew Fen was still standing in the condensed trees, “and keep going until you reach a town. Find a well sized cottage with paper wards in the windows and a windblown look to it. Tell the woman inside that James sent you.” She thanked them again as they walked the same direction to grab Fen. Bucky gave her a curt nod and Steve wished her luck as they both saddled up to hunt down their runner.

Bucky scented the air and pointed Fen in the direction where it stank the most of Baldwin’s loyalist. The stallion huffed and started into a gallop after Bucky clicked his tongue and gently snapped the reins. Steve was warm at his back, his hands rested on Bucky’s hips loosely.

“I'm glad that I didn't have to deal with her.” The Blood Soldier said over his shoulder. He felt Steve look at him, but couldn't see what kind of expression he was making. The ex-knight stayed quiet for a moment, playing with one of Bucky’s coat buckles as he seemed to process his thoughts.

“Yeah, I know you're not too much of a people person.” Steve said loud enough for Bucky to catch. They were getting deeper into the woods now, the trees becoming even more dense and harder to see through than before. He felt Steve shift in the saddle. “I also… didn't like the thought of her feeding from you.” 

Bucky's eyebrows shot up. He wasn't able to say anything back before the vampire came out of nowhere—fully distracted, the Blood Soldier hadn't been aware of him closing in on them. Sloppy. Fen reared back with a furious whinny, kicking and twisting as something streaked past his flank. Bucky barely had time to shove Steve off the horse before he was yanked from the saddle—jerked through the air like a ragdoll by a grip like steel.

He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him, vision spinning. A second later, the vampire was on him.

Bucky shoved his metal arm up just in time to block the strike. The impact rang through the woods like a bell—metal slamming against claws. He twisted, trying to use the vampire’s momentum against it, but it was fast. Too fast.

Claws pierced his coat, then his shirt, then the flesh just under his ribs. It was deep—but the attack didn’t reach his lungs or heart, just his liver and large intestine, which were obsolete to a vampire's survival. Despite the claws not hitting their target, it sent a large gush of blood pouring down his side and his leg.

He snarled with dropped fangs, grabbing the other vampire’s wrist with his metal hand, crushing down until the bones cracked like twigs. He shrieked, tried to tear away, but Bucky used the leverage to drive his knee into the vampire’s gut, rolling them both over in a vicious scuffle of limbs, snarls, claws, and fangs.

Steve came out of nowhere, eyes glowing like the sun, fangs bared. He was on the older vampire in a blur of movement, tackling him off Bucky and pinning him down with a strength that he had been learning to use well. His growl was guttural.

Bucky staggered upright, hand pressed to his bleeding side, watching as Steve flipped the older vampire and kept him restrained—arms pinned behind its back, his weight braced across the loyalist's torso. He thrashed under Steve, hissing.

Bucky limped over, reaching for a potion vial hooked to the belt at his thigh. The contents shimmered in the morning light—opaque and dark, with flecks of something like ash suspended inside.

“You know what this is,” he said to the vampire, voice low and cold. “Drink it. Or we’ll break every bone in your body before I pour it down your throat.”

The vampire hesitated. Then spat at Bucky’s boots.

Steve bared his fangs again, the sound that came out of his throat more beast than man. Bucky locked eyes with the blonde, giving him a slight nod.

Steve pulled him up and twisted the other vampire’s arm until it cracked. The scream that followed was satisfying.

“Again,” Bucky warned, raising the vial.

This time, the vampire relented. Bucky forced the bottle to its mouth, fingers pressing tight to the jaw until it opened. The liquid burned going down—Bucky could see it in the way the vampire spasmed, body arching as it choked and shuddered.

“I want locations,” Bucky said, crouching despite the stabbing and stinging pain in his side. “Where is Baldwin? Where are his others hiding?”

The vampire’s eyes rolled and his head smacked back into Steve’s chest, veins bulging further as he was forced to tell only truth. “You’ll never reach him,” he rasped. “He’s protected. The second-in-command—Ravan—he could wipe you two from existence. You won’t touch him. You—”

Bucky didn’t wait for him to finish.

He drove his metal hand into the vampire’s chest—the sternum bone and ribs crunching wetly beneath his golden claws as he plunged further, grasping onto the older vampire's heart and squeezing as hard as he could. The vital organ exploded with an audible pop!

The vampire went still, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream.

Then he turned to ash, leaving only blood dripping from Bucky’s raised arm.

Steve kneeled there, panting. His chest heaving, fangs still bared, eyes glowing gold, and claws extended.

Bucky remained crouched for a moment longer, the blood from his side soaking the ground in steady drops. The trees seemed to close in again, the silence swallowing the violence just as fast as it had erupted.

He exhaled slowly, wincing as the adrenaline faded and the real pain began.

“Shit,” he muttered, staggering back a step, still bleeding badly as he went.

Steve caught him before he could fall, arms wrapping around him with too much care for a fledgling. But Bucky didn’t have the strength to protest or squirm away.

The potions on his belt were for gaining the upper hand in fights or gathering information—but Bucky had no potion for himself. Just blood loss and exhaustion and the steady, encroaching dark at the edges of his vision.

“…We need shelter,” he said quietly.

Steve nodded, not loosening his grip.

They limped into the woods, leaving nothing behind but blood, ashes, and footprints as Steve shouted for Fen.

-

They found the cabin tucked between a jagged line of trees, half-swallowed by moss, shadow, and snow slush. The door creaked open without resistance—no lock, no barriers, no scent of recent life. Only the faint aroma of old wood and dust and the distant memory of humans long gone: leather oil, pine tar, something like tobacco.

Bucky stumbled over the threshold, his weight sagging heavier with every step. Steve was at his side, one arm around his waist, the other steadying him by the elbow. The wound in Bucky’s side had stopped gushing, but the bleeding still hadn’t ceased. It soaked his crimson shirt, sticky and warm, the fabric clinging to his skin.

“Here,” Steve murmured, guiding him to the low wooden cot by the far wall. There was no bedding left—just splintered slats and an old fur throw crumpled beneath dust—but Bucky sat without protest. He didn’t have the energy for defiance.

His metal hand pressed to his side automatically, trying to apply pressure. His flesh hand braced against the cot frame, knuckles pale. Steve crouched in front of him, brow furrowed, expression taut with worry and something deeper beneath it—something fierce.

“I’ve had worse,” Bucky muttered, more out of habit than truth.

“You’re bleeding too much,” Steve said quietly. “You’re not healing fast enough.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He knew. It was that other vampire’s claws. They had definitely been dipped in something that slowed regeneration—silver? Sage oil? Something Baldwin’s alchemists had cooked up just to piss him off? He didn’t want to think too hard about that.

Steve stood again, pulling off his coat. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed up onto the cot beside Bucky without asking—one leg bracketing Bucky’s thigh, the other crossing behind him to box him in. Not touching too much. Just… close.

“You need blood immediately,” he said. Not a question.

Bucky flinched faintly. “No.”

“You’re hurt badly, and I don’t know if I'd be able to catch anything fast enough.”

“I'll be fine.” His voice was low. Hard. “I don’t feed from fledglings.”

Steve’s expression twisted. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say while you're dying right in front of me.”

Bucky looked up at him—really looked. Steve’s fangs were slightly extended. His eyes gleamed gold, catching the scant daylight from the half covered window. His scent filled the cabin like heat from a hearth: smelted iron, open fire, caramel, and something underneath it—a specific scent so entirely unique to him. Bucky’s senses were scattered, raw from blood loss, but he couldn’t block it out.

“You think it’s safe?” Bucky asked tightly. “With your instincts flared the way they are?”

Steve leaned in slightly. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just… firm. “I think mine are better than yours right now.”

The silence that followed was long. Thick.

Bucky exhaled through his nose and looked away.

Then Steve did something that made Bucky’s breath hitch—he tilted his head to the side, baring his neck in offering. Not dramatically. Not like he knew what he was doing. It was clumsy, uncertain—but the innocent intent of offering blood became way different than Steve intended with one simple action.

Bucky’s whole body went still.

“Don’t,” he said, but it was too late.

The air shifted.

Something primal stirred in the space between them. Not hunger—something older than that. Older than time. Something written into every instinct buried in their vampiric flesh. The offer of blood from the neck. A willing bond. Steve didn’t know that was what he was doing, didn't understand the way it made Bucky’s biology scream.

Steve’s heartbeat thundered in Bucky’s ears. Strong. Steady. Alive. Calling.

And then—without thinking—Steve growled.

It wasn’t directed at Bucky. It wasn’t threatening. It was for him. Protective. Territorial. Encouraging. A sound pulled from a place Steve hadn’t yet explored, one that made Bucky’s spine straighten and his stomach twist.

It worked.

Something inside him cracked.

His resistance crumbled like rotted wood, and before he could stop himself, he reached out. Flesh hand to Steve’s covered wrist. He undid the leather bracer of the fledgling's right arm, the one that the woman from earlier hadn't fed from.

Steve let him.

The veins there were pale and visible, throbbing with the beat of his heart. Bucky’s fingers lingered a moment too long on the skin, not for intimacy, but for control. He didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to slip just because of blood loss.

His fangs slid down without effort. Pain flared behind his eyes. The scent of Steve was stronger now—close and warm and maddening.

He bit.

Steve shuddered.

His blood hit Bucky’s tongue like wildfire. Heat and life and something that didn’t taste like any other blood he’d taken before—fresher, cleaner, and inexplicably familiar. It wasn’t just fuel. It was something else. Something that pushed into his chest like hands, pried his ribs apart, and settled there warmly around his heart and lungs.

He swallowed, once, then again.

Steve’s breath hitched. His muscles tensed beneath Bucky’s grip, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t hiss or protest. In fact—he leaned in a little, resting his other arm behind Bucky’s back, not to cage him but to anchor him.

Bucky drank until the worst of the fog lifted from his head. Until the bleeding began to slow and the tight ache in his ribs dulled to something survivable. Then he forced himself to stop.

He licked the wound closed and released Steve’s arm, breath shaky.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was charged, but comfortable.

Steve’s eyes were still glowing faintly, even as he pulled his arm back and flexed his fingers. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded once, slow. He couldn’t look at him. Not yet. “Yeah.”

Steve shifted behind him again and lowered them both gently onto the cot. His coat was half over and half beneath them now, acting like a barrier between wood and cold. He adjusted his position until he was half-sprawled over Bucky—protective without being overbearing. Guard dog mode. Fangs still out, barely.

“Steve—” Bucky started, trying to move.

But Steve only let out a low, rumbling noise and nudged his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

His arm settled across Bucky’s chest and side like a blanket.

It should’ve been uncomfortable. Confining.

But it wasn’t.

Bucky stared up at the ceiling for a long time, breathing in the pine-damp air, the warmth of a body pressed close to his. Steve’s scent clung to him now—sunk deep into his coat and skin, heavier than before. His wound still ached, but less. His limbs still trembled, but only faintly.

Eventually, despite himself, he dozed off.

-

He stood at the threshold of his childhood home, door half-hanging from its hinges, the air thick with the stench of blood and burnt wood.

The fire had been recent. Smoke still curled from the walls. The candles inside were melted to nubs. The hearth was cold.

He stepped in.

And stopped.

His mother’s body was facedown, her long braid soaked through with blood. His sister—Sarah—was crumpled beneath the window, her eyes open, mouth frozen mid-scream. Her hands were covered in cuts, like she’d tried to fight.

James' stomach turned, but he stepped further into the room. His knees hit the floor beside his mother before he even realized he was moving.

A shadow moved in the doorway behind him.

Not fast.

Slow. Deliberate.

Boots tracked soot and blood over the wooden floor.

He turned his head, tears dripping silently onto the floor.

The man in the doorway wore a dark cloak, the kind a noble might wear to court. His hair was brown with silver at the temples, long and combed back. His eyes were empty.

“I had a feeling you'd come home today,” the man said. Calm. Conversational. Like they were talking about the weather.

James rose, too fast. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man tilted his head. “Don’t you recognize me?”

And then James did.

A painting. In the hall. One his mother always kept covered.

He didn’t speak the name.

Didn’t have to.

The man crossed the room in a blur. James' body hit the wall hard, then the floor. His mouth filled with blood. Hands grabbed his shoulders, pinned him, and then—

The bite.

Teeth in his throat, blood forced into his mouth. A turning. A curse. Something that would ruin his life further.

Fire in his veins.

The last thing he saw before the dark took him was the man's smile. Wide. Joyful. Uncanny.

-

Bucky jolted awake, breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t move—just stared at the ceiling for a long moment, letting his senses recalibrate.

Steve didn’t stir. His head was tucked under Bucky’s chin now, breath warm against his collarbone. One thick arm was draped across Bucky’s chest. The other curved protectively around his waist, right over the wound.

He was scent-marked to hell and back. He could feel it in his skin. Every inch of him was covered in Steve’s scent now, especially after being 'cuddled.' He probably reeked of him.

Bucky brought both hands to Steve’s arms—metal and flesh. He patted.

“Move over, dumbass,” he muttered, but not too loud, his energy not matching the words 

Steve snorted in his sleep. Didn’t move.

Despite the weight and the vulnerability, Bucky didn’t push him off.

He let the silence settle again, then closed his eyes, too exhausted to keep fighting it.

Maybe just for a little while longer.

—

The moon hung low and full, slung heavy in the black of the sky like an unblinking silver eye. The air outside the cabin was thick with pine, loam, and wild musk, the forest muffled beneath layers of night. The door creaked shut behind him with a groan like old bones. Bucky was safe, breathing, healing. Steve could still smell the faint, acrid sting of his blood clinging to the air, but it was already going stale. He slept until nightfall, and Bucky was still asleep. 

Fen snorted softly from where he stood just beyond their shelter, ears swiveling toward Steve like he’d sensed his thoughts before he even stepped close. Steve crossed the distance slowly, boots whispering against damp needles and moss, letting himself breathe for the first time in hours.

“I know,” Steve murmured, dragging a hand along the horse’s thick neck. “Wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

Fen gave a low, disgruntled huff in response, the kind that said 'obviously' without saying anything at all.

Steve set to work checking the saddle straps, smoothing the animal’s mane with a touch that was more about grounding himself than any real grooming. When his fingers brushed the edge of a leather pouch looped against the saddlebag, he paused.

The manual.

He pulled it free. The leather binding was worn and softened from years of use, the pages inside slightly warped and ink-faded in places, but still legible. He carried it to a fallen log near the outdoor fire pit and sat down, propping it against his thigh. Fen remained nearby, chewing on something in the underbrush, content in his closeness.

Steve thumbed through the pages, passing sections that he would come back to read, until he stumbled upon a chapter title that made his heart stumble in his chest.

“Bonds and Mating”

He stared at it for a second too long before slowly turning the page into the chapter.

"> Bonds are helpful in vampire lives and have many different uses. The training bond allows both sire and fledgling to find comfort in one another while the fledgling grows and learns. This bond also helps the sire determine their fledgling's hunger, growth, and state of mind. (This bond is severable after a fledgling graduates to adulthood after their training, but can also be kept intact if the pair so chooses.) In rare cases, a sire-fledgling bond may evolve beyond its typical bounds if the fledgling in question possesses strong instincts, power, or emotional pull (this tends to happen most frequently with a "perfect" vampire fledgling, but can still happen with regular ones too). These are called Evolving Bonds. This newly evolved connection forms a pre-mating bond, and may begin to form even within the first moon cycle after turning."

Steve exhaled quietly, his eyes darting across the page.

"> Pre-mating bonds are marked by behavioral shifts including, but not limited to: involuntary scent marking, heightened aggression toward threats, possessive tendencies, and acute scent sensitivity. The fledgling may begin scenting their sire without realizing it and have aching fangs along with intimate thoughts. The sire may also experience physical reactions—most commonly aching fangs and urges to be close and exchange scents—when close to the fledgling."

His fangs had definitely been aching. Especially when Bucky got too close or gave him the smallest amount of praise.

Steve swallowed.

He skimmed further.

"> Half-bonds may not be made lightly. The one who gives the bite is bound to the other until death and may not form another half-bond or a mating bond. To many vampire bloodlines, this is an acceptable and honorable bond between fighters or partners who wish to trust one another with their lives. The neck is an intimate place for a vampire—never force yourself upon another's neck during intimate moments. (Half-bond bites are permanent.)"

Steve closed the book slowly, fingers tightening on the leather.

'That pre-mating bond seems to be what I’ve been feeling…'

He hadn’t understood it, not really. Why the scent of Bucky was always in his nose—like smoke, like something he needed. Why his fangs ached when Bucky talked in that deep raspy voice, or bled, or even looked at him too long. Why that protective haze had nearly swallowed him whole in the den and earlier when Bucky had been stabbed, blood gushing into the dirt. Steve had almost ripped the attacker’s throat out with his bare hands.

This wasn’t just instinct. Not just survival.

It was the start of something new.

He stood, suddenly aware of how long he’d been outside without hunting something. Fen looked up at him expectantly, tail swishing. Steve stashed the manual back in the leather saddlebag and grabbed some oats in the palm of his hand. The horse immediately started eating, Steve petting his head until he whickered and drank some water from a nearby bucket. “I’ll be back,” he told Fen, then turned toward the trees.

—

He stirred when the door creaked open, the ache in his side sharp and sticky like rusted nails. The wound was still leaking a little, but already closing faster than it should’ve been. He knew why.

He’d drunk from Steve, and something had shifted.

Bucky opened his eyes as Steve crouched beside him, a fox cradled in his arms. The coat he’d left behind was still wrapped around Bucky like a second skin, saturated in Steve’s scent. Musk, fire, iron, burnt sugar and caramel, warm blood. It was everything Bucky didn’t know he’d needed.

“Caught us something,” Steve murmured, gently settling the fox nearby. “It’s fresh.”

Bucky tried to push up on one elbow, grimaced, and let out a shaky breath.

“You’re healing faster,” Steve noted, dropping beside him with a hand hovering near Bucky’s side. “Because of earlier.”

Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I did.”

The silence between them filled with the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of some melting snow outside. Then Steve said, “I read the manual.”

Bucky’s stomach turned colder than the air outside.

“I want a half-bond,” Steve said simply. “I want to do that with you.”

Bucky went death-still.

Steve had gone quiet, crouched beside him with calm he wore like armor. There was a weight to the silence between them now, thick and pulsing.

Just like that. Like he was offering to hand over his throat and everything that came with it. Like it didn’t matter what the bond could mean, what it might do to him.

Bucky still couldn’t look at him straight.

He should’ve said no. Told him to walk away, burn the manual, pretend they’d never met. But the truth had sunk its claws in two months ago. Since that night Steve seemed to get hot and bothered by Bucky’s scent by the fireplace. Since the moment his scent had lingered on Bucky’s coat in a way that would never really go away.

A bond had already started to take root. This would just… make it undeniable.

Bucky swallowed hard. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me for.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Bucky said, his voice low and tired. “You’d be bound to me. Forever. Even if I die. You'll be stuck with me.”

Steve replied immediately. “I like your company.”

“You only get one of these,” Bucky rasped. “One mate or one half-bond. If you ever meet someone down the line that you grow feelings for, even if you love them—this can't be undone.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver. “That's okay."

Bucky finally looked at him then, eyes wide and dark and full of something tangled and aching. He wanted to snarl, to spit venom at him until he backed off and ran like he already should have been.

But all he could do was stare.

“Fine,” he said, the word rasping out like something torn from a wound. “Fine. Only because it'll help us in fights. That’s it.”

Steve knelt beside him without a sound. The heat of him was immediate, invasive. He smelled like snow with his usual warm scent and a thread of raw, coiled instinct. Underneath that was Bucky’s own scent. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but Bucky’s chest clenched around it.

“There's a few things we have to say before you initiate the bond. So, look me in the eyes and repeat after me.” Steve nodded, adjusting his coat over Bucky’s lap before his blue eyes found Bucky’s red ones. 

“Hoc semi-vinculo,”

“Hoc semi-vinculo,” 

“fidem meam singularem tibi ostendo.”

“fidem meam singularem tibi ostendo.”

“Accipisne hanc propositionem?”

“Accipisne hanc propositionem?” Bucky held a finger to Steve’s lips for the next line.

“Hanc propositionem accipio.” He lowered his hand back to his own lap.

“What'd we just say?” Steved asked, watching as Bucky loosened his collar and black protection scarf around his neck.

“‘With this half-bond, I show my loyalty to you. Do you accept this proposal?’ Is what I had you say. I said, ‘I accept this proposal.’”(In Latin) He let his coat slide down his shoulder for better access.

“Now, listen carefully,” Bucky murmured, forcing his voice steady. “If you bite too shallow, it won’t take. Too deep, you’ll sever something. Don’t drag your fangs. Puncture, not tear. Understand?”

Steve nodded as he leaned in, his breath already ghosting over Bucky’s jaw.

“It most likely won't hurt for me,” Bucky said, lying a little. “It’ll feel… different. So don't freak out unless I tell you to stop.”

Steve was so close now. But he wasn’t ready for the way the blonde touched him.

A soft palm against the back of his neck. A breath, warm and steady. It felt grounding—not restraining, not possessive. Just a gentle point of contact.

“Let me,” Steve murmured.

Bucky exhaled shakily and finally tilted his head to the side, baring his throat. The gesture alone felt like surrender, and every instinct he’d ever trained to suppress after Baldwin flared up at once—fight, flee, bite back. He forced them down. This was consensual, this was something that was agreed upon. No one was taking advantage of him or trying to kill him.

Steve’s breath warmed his skin, leaving goosebumps and raised hair in its wake. Then his nose, brushing along the length of Bucky’s neck. He lingered—not biting yet—just nuzzling. Scenting. Marking.

Bucky’s hands clenched into the leather of the coat draped over his lap, not touching Steve.

Then the fangs slid out.

Bucky felt the change in Steve instantly—not just in scent, but presence. The sharp crackle of power under his skin. The stillness of a predator waiting for the perfect moment.

The first touch of fangs wasn’t pain—it was just pressure. Steve brushed over the spot once, lips parted against Bucky’s neck like he was whispering something only the blood could hear.

And then—he bit.

Bucky gasped. His spine bowed forward before he could stop it, mouth falling open on a breathless moan as his fangs dropped and his instincts flared. His flesh hand flew up into Steve’s hair as his golden claws dug into the ex-knight's shoulder. The fangs pierced cleanly, smoothly—perfectly.

Warmth flooded him. Not just from the blood loss—though it came fast—but from the bond itself. A latching, living thing unfurling inside his ribs and spine, threading into bone and sinew. It hooked into him, not like a chain, but like a root system—twisting, growing.

Steve was shaking slightly, but he didn’t move. His mouth stayed pressed to Bucky’s neck, drinking slowly, carefully, reverently. His hand slid up to cradle the side of Bucky’s face, fingers sliding through the longer white hair at his neck, and thumb brushing over the hinge of Bucky's jaw as if to soothe him.

Bucky couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Every nerve was on fire. He could feel Steve’s heartbeat, not just through the contact but inside himself, echoing in his own chest.

A sound escaped him—a low, rough whimper that made him want to crawl out of his own skin and disappear. He hadn’t made a sound like that since he was still just a half-breed.

Steve pulled back just a little. Not to stop—just to breathe against the skin he’d broken. The fangs retracted slowly, but the bond didn’t loosen. If anything, it clenched tighter.

Then came the tongue. Gentle, slow. Licking away the blood, sealing the wounds. The touch wasn’t just practical—it was intimate.

And then—a kiss.

A soft one, placed right over the twin puncture marks. Just lips. Still. Warm. Almost like an apology.

Bucky jerked. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t prepared.

His hips bucked and his hand clenched tighter in Steve’s hair as he came untouched.

It wasn’t even sexual—it was instinctual, involuntary, cruelly gentle. His whole body locked up, pleasure crashing through him like a wildfire under his skin. He barely made a sound—just a shudder and a strangled gasp, golden fingers clenching hard in the fabric of Steve’s shirt.

Steve held him through it. Never said a word. Just stayed close, grounding him, thumb brushing softly against his scarred cheek like it meant something.

The silence after was deafening.

Bucky stayed very, very still, breathing raggedly through his nose. His limbs were trembling, and he hated that he couldn’t control it.

Steve finally leaned back, eyes gold and heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide.

“Still breathing?” he asked softly.

“…Barely,” Bucky rasped.

They sat there for a long time. Neither moved.

The bond pulsed between them like a second heartbeat.

—

The air felt different now.

It wasn’t just thicker. It was alive. Humming with something old and electric, like lightning caught in amber or a song too ancient to remember the words to. It curled around him—inside him—slow and syrupy and strange.

He could feel Bucky.

Not just beside him. Not just beneath his fingers, though he still had one hand gently cupping the other man’s jaw. No—this was deeper. Within. Somewhere behind his own ribs, nestled between the flutter of his heart and the new cold-fire thrum of his blood. Like a chord had been struck inside him, and it kept ringing.

He’d known it would change him. The manual had explained as much, in its oddly clinical way.

But sitting here, now, feeling Bucky’s pulse inside his own skin?

He didn’t regret it.

Bucky’s breath was shallow. Steve could hear it—hear the strain behind it, the tremor in each inhale. He’d felt Bucky go rigid when the bite landed, then soft again, pliant and gasping. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected the sound Bucky made, or the way his entire body arched toward him like a bow pulled tight.

It had been intimate. Far more than Steve had braced for.

And now?

Now Bucky looked… wrecked.

Not from the wound in his side, though it was bleeding again, sluggishly soaking through the shirt he hadn’t had time to change. No—this was something deeper. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes glassy, like he was holding himself in his own body by sheer force of will. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, dried dark along his lower lip. He hadn’t wiped it away after feeding earlier.

Steve’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and do it for him.

Instead, he sat back just a little, enough to let Bucky breathe. His own heart was still hammering. This feeling was something vast and wordless that felt like falling and flying all at once.

The new born bond curled tighter in his chest.

It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t like the hunger, or the first stretch of the turn. No burning, no gnawing. Just a quiet sort of anchoring—like some small part of his soul had just settled, as if it had been looking for Bucky his whole life without knowing it. It was comforting.

He looked down at Bucky instead. The older vampire’s lashes had lowered, silver in the firelight, casting shadows on his high cheekbones. His white hair was slightly damp at the temples, either from fever or the fading aftershock of what just happened. His metal arm lay slack at his side, glinting gold and red, the fingertips just brushing the floorboards.

Steve had never seen a vampire look so… mortal.

That thought made his chest ache.

He cleared his throat gently. “Did I do it right?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low and raw.

“…Too right.”

A faint pulse of heat rolled through the bond—like an echo of Bucky’s voice had whispered directly into his bloodstream.

Steve swallowed hard.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of him—small and tight and caught on the edges of something that wanted to be more. “You’d rather I tore your throat out?”

Bucky gave him a sidelong look, weary but laced with the ghost of sarcasm. “Would’ve been less complicated.”

Complicated. That was one word for it.

Steve ran a hand back through his hair and let his eyes wander around the cabin—anywhere but Bucky, just for a moment. The fire was low now, casting deep orange shadows against the wooden beams. The cold wind outside had picked up, rattling the shutters gently like bones against wood.

It felt like a pause between storms.

Eventually, his gaze drifted back to Bucky. “So. Now what?”

Bucky shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted the way he sat. “Now,” he said, voice rough, “we deal with the fact that I’ve just tied myself to a fledgling with a martyr complex.”

Steve blinked. Then grinned—sharp, fang-bared, but not unkind. “You say that like it’s a surprise. And I'm not a martyr.”

Bucky huffed, and it might’ve almost been a laugh. Or a growl. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

“I know what I meant to do.”

“And if the bond deepens?”

Steve leaned in slowly, tilting his head. “Then you’ll have to live with me close to you, forever.”

Bucky finally looked up at him fully—eyes dark, the pupils blown wide, ringed in red. But there was something else beneath them now. Something scared. Not of Steve—but of what this could become.

Steve didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to feel anything,” he said quietly.

Bucky’s jaw twitched like he wanted to say something else, but shut it down immediately.

For one long, aching moment, neither of them spoke. The bond sat coiled like a serpent between their ribs, pulsing slow and inevitable.

“I'm going to get you some new clothes off of Fen, okay?” Steve asked, getting up and putting a water filled pot over the fire. “It should be alright for you to change and clean up a bit now. You should feed while I'm out there.”

After a while of Bucky grunting and growling at Steve to ‘let him bathe himself’ and ‘he can dress again just fine without any help,’ Steve leaned back again at last next to Bucky on the cot.

“Get some rest,” he said softly. “You’re healing slow.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “Don’t leave the cabin.”

“I won’t.”

And he didn’t.

Chapter Text

He was sinking.

That was the first sensation—sinking, not falling, though his limbs felt weightless. Warmth cradled him, thick as blood, wrapped in shadows that pulsed and breathed like a heartbeat not his own.

Then—scent.

Familiar. Off in how right it smelled.

Pine, clove, petrichor, mountain wind, leather. Blood.

Bucky.

Steve breathed it in like oxygen, like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to himself. But the air was charged, too sharp, too clean—the way a forest felt right before a storm, or the second before a blade found skin.

He was somewhere vast and dark. The walls bled mist. The floor pulsed beneath his bare feet like wet stone.

And then he was there.

Bucky. 

James.

No weapons, no clothes. Just pale skin and golden arm kissed by shadows and war-paint blood. Pupils blown with hunger, mouth parted, fangs catching the light like blades. Muscles taut beneath pale scars. His metal arm gleamed, wet with something too red to be oil.

He smelled like want. Like violence and permission.

Steve’s own fangs were dropped before he realized it. His skin itched. His fingers ached with the need to claw. The bond thrummed in his chest like a snare drum, like a war cry, like his name spoken from Bucky’s mouth with reverence and rage.

“You came,” James said, voice rough with hunger. “I was calling you.”

Steve’s mouth was dry. “I heard you.”

The air between them crackled.

James moved first—fast and silent, a blur of pale skin and golden limb. His hand was on Steve’s throat before Steve could speak again, not squeezing, just holding, thumb brushing over his pulse. His mouth was right there, by Steve’s cheek, breath hot.

“Unclaimed.” James rasped.

Steve’s breath caught.

“I marked you,” he said, throat working.

“Not enough."

James pressed closer. His bare chest met Steve’s. Skin to skin. Hunger to hunger. Steve could feel his own pulse stutter, feel the throb low and hard in his gut and between his legs, the fire behind his fangs.

“You want this? Want my fangs?” James growled, low and terrible and perfect.

Steve bared his throat without thinking. “Yes.”

Then the world fractured.

Hands. Teeth. Nails. The press of skin and blood and heat and want. James was everywhere, all at once—on him, over him, inside his senses. Steve’s legs hit stone. His back arched. His fangs found skin, but James found him first.

The bite came fast. Right in the middle of his neck, puncturing his carotid artery. Deep. Possessive. Fucked in how good it felt.

Steve moaned.

His hands scrabbled at Bucky’s hips, pulling, demanding, grounding. The bond howled in his head—white static, lust and hunger blurred until they were indistinguishable. It was Bucky and James and blood and himvand mine and—

“Steve,” Bucky hissed into his throat. “Do it. Finish the mating bond.”

And he did.

He bit. He drank. He took.

James was on top of him, grinding into him, fangs bared, nails and golden claws dragging lines down his ribs. And Steve wanted more. More blood. More scent. More skin. He wanted to mark and be marked. Wanted to keep. Wanted to take. To fuck.

“Mine,” he snarled against Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky growled like a beast and shoved their mouths together, pushing his way into Steve’s open lips.

Fangs. Tongues. Blood.

Everything.

He shot upright.

Breath ragged. Sweat on his spine. Fangs dropped, aching.

His cock was throbbing, hard and leaking, pressed painfully against the front of his pants. The scent of the dream clung to him like smoke. It wasn’t gone—not fully. Not even close.

But worse—or better—was Bucky’s scent.

It was so close and his healing seemed to amplify how much it spread around.

The cot. Steve’s coat made blanket. The air. Steve himself—smelled like Bucky.

His eyes snapped toward the lump beside him.

Bucky, still asleep. Deeply. Heartbeat slow but steady. Mouth parted slightly. Neck bare where Steve had bitten him, earlier, under control. Not like the dream.

But that scent…

Steve made a noise in his throat—part growl, part gasp.

He needed to cover him.

He lunged before he could stop himself.

One hand in Bucky’s hair. The other on his chest. He leaned in, nuzzling his face along Bucky’s throat—scenting, pressing his cheek against warm skin, rubbing the side of his face along Bucky’s jaw and collar. He was leaking scent, spraying it onto the older vampire, instinctual, almost helpless.

He whispered, hoarse, “James…”

Bucky stirred, eyes fluttering, but somehow didn’t wake.

Steve pushed closer, rubbing against him, growling softly under his breath. His thighs shook with need. His fangs ached. His skin felt wrong without Bucky’s scent layered on every inch of it.

Bite him. Bite him. Bite him.

He didn’t bite.

But he ran his tongue, gently, over the same spot on Bucky’s throat where his fangs had sunk in hours ago—soft and reverent and just enough to leave spit. His saliva. His scent.

And Bucky… didn’t wake. Didn’t stop him.

Just breathed, slow and deep.

Steve stayed pressed close, panting, grinding just barely against the bedding, too wound up to sleep again, too overwhelmed to do anything but scent and mark and breathe and hope.

He didn’t know what the dream meant.

But he knew what it felt like.

And he knew exactly who he’d call for if it ever happened again.

—

The ache in his side was a slow pulse, not sharp enough to wake him.

It was the scent that did it.

Thick in the air. Soaked into the bedding. Pressed against his skin like a second shirt. His nose twitched as soon as consciousness touched him, and the first thing he thought was:

‘Steve.’

It wasn’t just Bucky’s own blood—though it was there too, faint and iron-rich from the earlier bite and his healing wound.

It was Steve, pure and unfiltered. Heat and iron and fire and caramel. Something natural and smokey. Something even sweeter beneath it, like the scent of warm bark, or honey scraped from comb with teeth.

It was everywhere.

His lashes fluttered open. Still dark outside, but pale morning was leaking through the slats. The cabin smelled like Steve had fought a war in it.

Or fucked one.

Bucky blinked slowly, trying to sit up—and failed.

Pain flared across his ribs. The wound on his side still hadn’t closed yet, but it was getting closer.

He let out a low breath through his nose—and regretted it instantly.

Steve's scent flooded his lungs like a punch to the sternum. Thick and marking, clearly deliberate, though probably unconscious. Too strong. His stomach twisted.

His fangs dropped.

'Goddamnit.'

He ground his jaw and forced them back. He’d never been scent-marked like this—not even by people who meant to. Not this thoroughly. Not with this much… intent? Need?

His fingers twitched against the bedding. It smelled like Steve had been climbing him in his sleep.

Was he dreaming? Grinding?

Bucky didn’t want to know.

He shoved the thought into the back of his mind and tried again to sit up, hand braced behind him on the mattress.

Soft movement.

Steve appeared beside him—quiet, gentle, eyes too warm for someone with that much of their scent smeared across Bucky’s body.

“You’re up,” Steve said softly, crouching beside the cot. “You shouldn’t be yet.”

“Tell that to my back,” Bucky rasped.

Steve smiled faintly, that knight’s grin, all bashful steadiness. But his hand went out instinctively—broad and callused—sliding behind Bucky’s shoulder blades to help him up. He was so close.

Too close.

And Bucky was too weak to wave him off.

“Easy,” Steve said, bracing him gently. “I caught a deer and drained some for you. Badly… but, the blood's still warm. You didn’t move all night.”

“Didn’t have to. You moved enough for both of us,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shifted upright with Steve’s help, suppressing a wince as his side twinged. “Give it here.”

Steve handed it over wordlessly. The thick cloth smelled like blood and sinew, heavy with heat, but not even that could overpower the haze of Steve’s scent clinging to Bucky’s skin and clothes.

He drank.

Not because he wanted to—not really. His stomach was twisted too tight with confusion and faint… heat. But the blood was necessary. His body was rebuilding. Tearing tissue back together. Patching muscle and sealing vein. Every swallow helped, even if it felt like drinking through a haze of Steve.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and finally looked at Steve again.

“You need to work on your scent control.”

Steve’s face gained some color as he scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah…”

“I reek of you.”

Steve’s face went fully pink.

“You scent marked me in your sleep,” Bucky continued flatly, like it was an accusation. “Repeatedly. From the strength of it? You were probably rubbing up against me like a stray dog.”

Steve looked like he wanted to fall through the floor.

“I had a… dream. It was unlike any I've ever had before. I read the manual about it because I was curious. A ‘blood dream,’ it called it.”

“That makes sense,” Bucky muttered.

Steve was still flushed, sitting back on his heels like he’d been caught doing something shameful. But there was a line between his brows—a crease of curiosity and something else. Not regret.

“You said… ‘repeatedly,’” he said after a pause.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

Steve swallowed. “You noticed when I was scenting you?”

“No. I woke up smelling like a bond-struck fledgling after a rutting match. It’s not hard to figure out.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Bucky pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Next time it happens, wake me up before you start marking me like a breeding partner, would you?”

Steve's ears flushed red. “I—”

“I know.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging. “I’m not angry. It’s the bond. New ones hit hard. Especially when blood’s involved.”

Steve hesitated, then asked softly, “Did… did it hit you hard too?”

“No.”

(Yes.)

Bucky looked away, tightening his grip around the empty skin bag.

“I’ll teach you how to suppress it, but not today.” he said at last.

Steve nodded, but was quiet again.

Then he said, “So… does it mean anything if I keep doing it to you unconsciously?”

“It means your instincts like me more than they should.”

Steve didn’t deny it.

“Now, can you help me stand up?” Bucky asked, and Steve immediately got closer to help.

It wasn’t awkward, exactly—but it wasn’t easy either. The moment Bucky leaned into him, hand braced lightly on his bicep, the scent hit harder, curling like heat behind his eyes. Steve was trying to hold still, be respectful, but his body betrayed him. Still scenting. Still warm from whatever his subconscious had done all night.

Steve’s skin radiated heat like a live brand. Even through layers of fabric, the bond between them hummed, unsettled and raw.

Bucky pulled away as soon as he could.

“Stay inside,” he muttered, already heading for the door. “I need air.”

He didn’t wait for Steve’s response.

The air outside was colder than expected, sharp with newly fallen snow and pine needles. He breathed it in slowly, trying to clear his head.

It didn’t work.

The scent still clung to him. His scent. His half-bondmate's. His fledgling. Knight-turned-vampire-turned-walking embodiment of chaotic, unconscious longing. Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand through his white hair.

'Goddamn blood dreams.’

Bucky acted like the bond didn't have any effect on him, but last night had cracked something open in him. Between the fight the day prior, the blood, the heat of Steve’s mouth on his throat—something primal had sunk its claws into Bucky’s spine. His own dream had been a blur of strength and scent, heat and teeth, bodies slamming together like instincts trying to burn each other clean.

Bucky, Steve had whispered in the dream. Then again, louder. James.

His own voice, answering.

'Mine.'

Bucky curled his lip.

No. He wouldn’t go down that road. Baldwin had taken too much from him already—his half-breed life, his mother, his sister, his daughter. He’d be damned if he handed over his future, too.

He turned away from the tree line, sharp movement pulling at his side—and stilled.

Something shimmered in the air ahead of him.

A subtle fold in space. A slice of green opened up mid-air.

Then—Loki.

He stepped out from the tear, as if the world itself had forgotten to keep him out.

Dark hair. Green eyes. Pale skin. A smirk that belonged on someone who’d watched empires fall and thought it amusing.

“James,” Loki drawled, hands clasped behind his back. “Still brooding like a Byronic hero in the woods, I see.”

Bucky didn’t move. “You’re not supposed to be around here.”

Loki arched a brow. “If I obeyed rules, darling, I’d be someone else entirely.”

His eyes glittered with mischief—but beneath that was something else.

Something grim.

“You've heard something,” Bucky said.

“I have.” Loki stepped forward, boots soundless on the grass. “Rumors. Whispered through the oldest bloodlines. Someone’s been hunting… deliberately. Leaving staked corpses. Using tools Baldwin trained only his inner circle to recognize.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched.

“I thought you weren’t interested,” he said flatly. “Last time I asked, you said Baldwin wasn’t your problem.”

“I said Baldwin wasn’t my job,” Loki corrected. “You made it clear you didn’t want my help. I respected that.”

“You've shown up again anyways.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Loki tilted his head. “Because I think you’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been. And I hate everything that bastard stands for.”

He smiled then, sharp and gleaming.

“And because I owe you. I offered to take you in, once. You denied me and walked away.”

“You offered to be a sire that I didn't need.” Bucky said coldly.

“I could have taught you things that even the Blood Soldiers know nothing of,” Loki replied, just as easily. “But no. You took your Blood Soldier training and taught yourself how to be a vampire the wrong way. Alone. Starving. Nearly feral. Admirable, if stupid.”

Bucky didn’t rise to the bait.

He just exhaled slowly. “If you want to help, I need intel. Not rumors.”

“On who?”

“Baldwin’s second-in-command. Any movements. Any new holdings. I want to know if he’s regrouping somewhere old.”

Loki’s smile widened.

“Finally delegating. I'm touched.”

“You’re the only one who’d dare spy that close to Baldwin’s chain of command,” Bucky said, voice flat. “And you have the wards to keep him out of your head.”

“That I do.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Then there was a creak from the door.

Steve stepped out, barefoot and rumpled, chest rising with sharp tension the moment he saw Loki. The protective flare in his shoulders was almost audible. His fangs hadn’t dropped—but they wanted to.

He moved forward instinctively, placing himself between Bucky and the stranger. One hand brushed Bucky’s side, like checking for weakness.

Bucky swatted it away. “I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t move.

Loki’s eyes sparkled with sudden amusement.

“Ohhh,” he murmured. “That’s new. I thought you smelled different.”

“Don’t,” Bucky warned.

“Too late.” Loki sniffed the air, then wrinkled his nose dramatically. “He reeks of vampling lust. You poor thing. You’ll never get that scent out of your clothes.”

Steve flushed but didn’t flinch. “Who the hell is this?”

“Steve,” Bucky said tersely, “this is Loki. He’s—annoying. But useful.”

Steve didn’t relax. Not quite.

But he nodded once, eyes never leaving Loki.

“He’s going to get me intel on Baldwin’s second. Loki, this is Steve, my adopted fledgling abd ex-knight.”

Loki gave an exaggerated bow. “Pleasure.”

His grin widened.

“Well,” he said, stepping back. “Duty calls. I’ll be in touch, James. Don’t do anything I would.”

Then he sliced another streak of green through the air with his finger. The cut opened up like a mouth, a large library visible inside of it. Loki stepped through and it closed, the green tear popping out of existence.

Bucky stood silent.

His side hurt. His body still smelled like Steve. His thoughts were tangled.

Steve’s hand ghosted near his shoulder, not touching, just hovering.

“You okay?”

Bucky didn’t answer for a moment.

Then—“No. But I’m here.”

And he turned toward the woods. There was blood to burn and instincts to bury.

The trees didn’t ask questions.

They didn’t look at him like Steve had, all worried brows and lingering fingers. They didn’t whisper like Loki, glinting with knowledge Bucky hadn’t shared. They just stood tall and silent, branches creaking softly above his head, roots giving beneath his feet as he moved through them.

The air was cold and crisp with a winter chill, birds called out from the many snow covered pines.

Bucky didn’t bother hiding his scent. He let it bleed out of him—dominance and frustration, blood and old grief—as he dropped into a low crouch beside a torn patch of bramble.

Deer. Two. Moving together. His body already craved more blood to heal. 

It was time to hunt, but carefully so as to not ruin what his body worked so hard on binding.

He tracked them easily.

They were cautious—just enough to make it interesting—but not smart. Not like predators.

It was over in seconds.

One clean kill. One body drained. The other fled.

He didn’t chase it.

Not this time.

Instead, he leaned back on his haunches, licking the last of the blood from his palm, eyes burning with hunger that couldn't have been fed by blood.

Steve.

His scent had been all over the cabin. The cot. The walls. Bucky's clothes and skin.

It wasn’t just some accident of instinct—it had been possessive. Drenched in desire.

If anyone else had walked into that room, they’d have thought Steve was staking territory.

And worse—it had stirred something in Bucky.

Something that wanted to answer it.

No.

He pushed up to his feet, wiping his mouth.

He was letting this get out of hand. He’d trained himself out of these reactions centuries ago—shut them down, locked them beneath a thousand hours of meditation and forced discipline. And now some golden-haired half-bonded fledgling was undoing it with one unconscious blood dream and a scent that Bucky couldn't get enough of?

No.

No.

This wouldn't be anything more than a platonic bond between two vampires.

He moved quickly through the underbrush, using his speed in short bursts, letting the wind strip the scent of blood from his clothes. By the time the cabin came into view again, he was cold-eyed and clean. Mask back in place.

Steve was sitting near the hearth, barefoot, leafing through Bucky’s old manual.

His fangs were still just barely dropped. His pupils too wide.

He looked up as Bucky entered, and Bucky caught the tail end of a scent-surge.

Not intentional. Just need, pulsing through him like static.

Bucky shut the door with more force than necessary.

Steve flinched.

“I changed my mind.”

Steve closed the book slowly. “About?”

“Teaching you how to suppress your scent.” Bucky crossed the room, stopping short of the cot. “Going around scent-marking like you are right now—especially after a blood dream—could and will get you killed.”

Steve swallowed. “Killed by who?”

“Other vampires who have half-bonds or mates. Doesn’t matter. You walk into the wrong place like that, with your scent claiming everything around you? Someone will take it as a challenge.”

Steve went rigid.

Bucky walked past him, pulled one of the faded curtains off the window, and tossed it on the ground.

“Get down on the floor.”

Steve raised his eyebrow, confused. “What?”

“You’re gonna scent-mark this. On purpose.”

Steve looked at him like he had sprouted wings.

“You heard me. You’re going to learn how to control it by doing it. Not flaring out like some hormonal stray, but targeted. Controlled.”

Bucky carefully crouched beside the fabric, his voice low and measured. “Think of something that brings it up. The bond. The dream. Whatever. Let it stir. But hold it. Don’t let it spill out.”

Steve hesitated. “...That sounds like the opposite of what I should do.”

Bucky frowned. “Do you want to learn or not?”

Steve took a breath.

His fangs had fully dropped now, just peeking behind parted lips. His eyes glowed faintly gold, pupils wide. The bond between them pulsed faintly at Bucky’s awareness—but he shut it down. Refused to feel more than the surface.

Steve touched the fabric with careful fingers.

Breathed in.

And exhaled.

The scent changed.

Thickened.

It wasn’t as sharp or overwhelming as before—but it was deliberate. Focused. Like it had shape.

Bucky watched him carefully.

The curve of his spine. The set of his jaw. The way he concentrated like a knight drilling a weapon, trying to shape something primal into something useful.

After a moment, Bucky nodded. “Good. Now reel it back.”

Steve gritted his teeth, chest rising and falling once, twice.

The scent pulled in like a tide.

Still present—but no longer smothering.

Steve looked up at him, sweating slightly. “That okay?”

“For now.”

He stood.

Steve stood, too. Still watching him like he wanted to say something more.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.”

“But—”

Bucky turned toward the hearth.

“If you want to talk about the dream,” he said quietly, “we can. Later. When your instincts aren’t screaming.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He just let the fire crackle and climbed into the cot without another word, willing himself to stillness while Steve’s scent hummed faintly from the coat behind him.

It was progress.

But it was going to get worse before it got better.

-

The thirst was unholy.

It burned through his bones like dry rot, flaying him from the inside out. His throat was a shredded pit, his skin fever-hot, every heartbeat in a five-mile radius like a war drum echoing in his skull.

He jolted upright with a gasp, claws dragging furrows through the cold ground beneath him.

Not ground. A floor. Wooden. Splintered.

A room?

A cabin?

He blinked, light knifing into his eyes.

Too bright. Too loud.

He clutched his head with both hands.

Somewhere, a door creaked.

“Hello?”

The voice was soft. Female.

James jerked toward it on instinct.

She stepped into view—middle-aged, bundled in a green shawl, with silver-streaked hair and the steady gait of someone used to carrying baskets across long distances.

“You poor thing,” she murmured. “You’ve been feverish all day. Found you half-dead by the creek.”

She came closer.

Too close.

Her pulse thudded in her throat. Rich. Fast. Sweet.

He couldn’t hear anything else.

Not her words. Not the wind. Not the distant rustle of forest. Just that bloodbeat—vibrating in her like a plucked string. The scent hit him like a blow: iron, sugar, something floral beneath.

His fangs ached like broken bone.

He stumbled to his feet.

She steadied him gently. “Easy now. You’re safe. Just lean on me—”

'Don’t.'

But he couldn’t stop.

Everything in him screamed to bite, to feed, to sink in and drink until the fire went out and the silence came back.

His jaw trembled.

Her fingers circled his wrist. “Come on. There’s a doctor in town. He can help—”

She walked him forward, step by step, into the open.

The town was small. Distant voices, children playing.

Laughter.

But all James could see were throats.

All he could hear were heartbeats.

A man hammering nails into a barn door. A woman shucking corn with plump fingers. A boy tugging on his mother’s sleeve.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

He staggered.

“Are you alright?”

His tongue flicked against his fangs.

He turned toward her, vision tunneling, everything else dimming.

So close.

So warm.

Her pulse skipped.

Just one bite. Just one. He needed it. She’d understand. She’d—

A hand slammed into the back of his collar and yanked him away like a misbehaving dog.

He snarled, twisted, and bit down—his fangs tearing into skin as the man grunted, cursing and flinging James into the dirt.

The last thing James saw before blacking out was a flash of pale eyes and a cloak lined with herbs.

He woke to the scent of animal blood.

A bowl sat in front of him.

Behind a closed door, a man’s voice said, “You bite me again, I’ll bite back.”

James blinked, dazed, throat still raw. “Where am I?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Who are you?”

“Vampire. Like you.”

James winced. “I’m not like you.”

A pause.

“No?” the voice said mildly. “You drink blood. Your fangs are out. You almost killed a woman a few minutes after waking. Sounds like one of us.”

James groaned. “I don’t have a sire.”

Another pause.

“That’s not normal.”

“I know.”

The voice softened. “You’re a fledgling, then. Newly turned?”

James swallowed dryly. “Yes.”

“Do you want to hurt anyone?”

“…No.”

“Will you if I open the door?”

“…No.”

The door creaked open.

The man stood in the frame—older, wiry, with sharp cheekbones and knowing eyes. He tossed a tattered book at James’ feet.

“Fledgling manual. Got it from my sire. Read it.”

James stared.

“I already know a lot,” he said hoarsely. “I was a half-breed before. I'm a Blood Soldier who specializes in Survey and Hunt.”

The man blinked.

“Well. That explains the control. And the red eyes behind the gold glow."

James took the bowl and drank without pride.

It helped.

So did the silence that followed.

The man’s name was Lucan. He lived alone. He didn’t ask James’ name, and James didn’t offer it. But they sat together some nights, and Lucan taught him things that weren’t in the manual—about scent control, bond sensitivity, and how to resist the itch in your fangs when it got too much.

And for a few days, James didn’t feel like he was unraveling.

And then, on the fourth night, Baldwin came.

The attack was silent and brutal. The door blew off its hinges with unnatural force. Lucan barely had time to rise from his chair before Baldwin’s hand was through his chest, black claws cutting clean through bone.

James didn’t scream. He didn’t move. He stood frozen, caught in the haze of Baldwin’s presence like a rabbit under the shadow of a hawk.

Lucan’s eyes found him—bleeding, shocked—and then Baldwin crushed his heart. He was gone. Just like that.

Baldwin turned to James, shaking gore from his fingers as Lucan’s body dropped to the floor.

“I see you’ve made a friend. Shame. He would've slowed you down.”

James’ voice cracked. “Why—why did you—”

“He was only a puppet. Get you attached, then kill him right in front of you. A magnificent plan, yes?”

Then he smiled. That horrible, Cheshire grin.

“Why don’t you go check on your daughter, James? I'm sure she'd be eager to see you after so many days without her 'papa.'”

James went white.

He ran.

Ran so fast he couldn’t tell the sky from the trees. His feet barely touched the ground. The manual was still in his coat. His arms felt weightless. The wind burned his lungs, and still he ran.

His cabin and small surrounding woodland area were already painted in blood.

The cabin was ruined. The door hung askew. The windows were shattered. Chickens lay dead in the yard.

He couldn’t breathe.

He moved forward, heart pounding so hard it hurt. The inside of the house smelled like iron and rot.

And there—on the floor by the hearth—was Maggie.

Or what was left of her.

Her small body was torn, twisted. Her little red scarf—the one she liked to wear even in summer—was wrapped around one bloodied wrist. Her glassy eyes stared up at nothing. Her limbs were bent the wrong way.

James collapsed. Fell to his knees with a sound that didn’t feel human. Couldn't have been human. Just a painful, animalistic wail of grief.

He didn't even hear Baldwin arrive. Just felt him behind him, voice like smoke.

“You did well. I watched the whole thing.”

James' mind reeled. “No. No, I didn’t—”

“You did. I guided you here and let your instincts take over. You tore her to pieces, James.”

“No.”

“The best soldiers are forged in fire. In loss. You needed to be heavily broken before you could be built into perfection.”

James reached for Maggie, sobbing now, pulling her small hand into his.

It was cold and stiff.

He didn’t remember what happened next. Only that Baldwin poisoned his mind with blood magic, and then it all went sideways.

-

“Maggie!”

The name tore out of his throat like a blade. Bucky jackknifed upright on the cot, chest heaving, eyes wide, throat raw from the scream. The cabin was dark except for the low flicker of firelight, but it felt blinding—every shadow, every sound too loud, too close.

Breath slammed in and out of his lungs. His hands trembled violently against Steve’s coat tangled around his waist.

A startled noise across the room. Movement. Steve.

Bucky’s head whipped toward him, and for a beat too long, the dream still clung to him—wood soaked in blood, the stench of blood magic, Baldwin’s voice in his ear like poison.

“Bucky?” Steve said, half-asleep and blinking in confusion. “What—?”

Bucky couldn’t speak. His mouth worked around air and memory. And then his voice cracked around a whisper: “Steve…”

His eyes burned. His cheeks were wet.

Steve moved fast, no hesitation now. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped down beside Bucky on the edge of the cot. Didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Just pulled Bucky into his arms and held him close like it was the only thing that made sense.

And for once—just once—Bucky didn’t pull away.

He buried his face against Steve’s neck, arms clinging to the back of his shirt, and let the trembling overtake him. He didn’t sob, didn’t keen like he wanted to. But the tears came anyway, silent and hot and endless, soaking into Steve’s skin and cotton shirt.

Steve just held him. One hand on the back of Bucky’s head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades, comforting him.

Like an anchor.

“You’re okay,” Steve whispered. “I’m right here, Buck.”

Bucky’s voice came out hoarse against Steve’s throat. “She was only six.”

Steve didn’t ask who.

His whole body was trembling, skin fever-hot, jaw clenched against something primal and broken.

But Steve was warm.

Real.

Silence settled thick in the cabin. The fire popped again, but the rest was still.

Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to meet Steve’s eyes. He knew his own were red-rimmed, face drawn and pale, but the worst of the storm had passed.

Steve didn’t say anything unnecessary. Just pressed their foreheads together and breathed with him.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, barely audible.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Steve replied.

But Bucky did.

Because this was the first time in forever he’d let someone see him cry. The first time in decades he’d spoken Maggie’s name aloud and not felt like the world was ending.

And Steve had simply stayed and helped him through it.

—

Steve didn’t sleep after Bucky woke up shouting something.

He stayed curled on the edge of the cot, back pressed to the wall, watching Bucky breathe. He’d never seen the man like that before—shaking, crying, so obviously needing comfort. It gutted him more than he could say.

Bucky had gone still just before dawn, finally surrendering to exhaustion. Steve held him close until the older vampire’s body slackened into true rest, then pulled away slowly, careful not to wake him again. He stoked the fire. He sat with the silence. And when the light broke over the treetops outside the cabin, Steve didn’t close his eyes.

He was learning to live inside this new body. Slowly. Quietly. Every day a little more.

A tearing noise from outside had drew his attention.

Steve rose to his feet just as something small and black slipped through the open upper window and shot into the rafters. It hung upside down there for all of two seconds before its tiny form shimmered—twisted—unfolded—and then a green eyed man stood in its place, grinning with all the satisfaction of someone who lived for his own dramatics.

Loki.

He brushed imaginary lint off his long green coat and surveyed the cabin like a critic entering a poorly lit theater.

“Well,” he drawled. “Still not dead. I'm honestly surprised."

Steve stepped instinctively in front of the cot. Bucky still hadn’t stirred.

Loki’s grin widened. “Ah, the fledgling knight. You smell significantly less like lust than the last time I dropped in. Bravo.”

“Keep your voice down,” Steve said, low. “He’s sleeping.”

Loki blinked as if just remembering who “he” was, then cocked his head. “Shame. I brought news.”

Bucky stirred behind him at that—head turning slightly into the pillow, breath shifting from deep to lighter and shallower. Then, with a soft groan, he sat up, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Steve turned to him immediately. “You okay?”

Bucky nodded once, a little rough. “Yeah.”

“Good morning, Sleeping Tragedy,” Loki purred, stepping closer. “I have information you might actually thank me for.”

Bucky blinked blearily. “Loki?”

“Indeed. Looking devastating as always.”

Bucky ignored that. He swung his legs off the cot and stood. Still clearly tired, but more himself again. “What did you find?”

Loki twirled his fingers like a conductor. “Baldwin’s second-in-command, a delightful little monster named Ravan—but that you already knew—is currently holed up in the caverns east of Norwen Pass. Surrounded by wards, blood traps, and half-feral guard dogs wearing human faces.”

Steve frowned. “That’s… poetic. Or horrifying.”

“Why not both?” Loki offered, winking.

Bucky crossed his arms. “How close to Baldwin?”

“Close enough to take a command with a twitch of the old man’s eye. Not quite clever enough to act without it. The perfect middleman. Dangerous, but dumb in the right ways.” Loki paced a slow circle through the room. “He’s got six blood-bound thralls with him—permanent, not temporary. Fledglings, half-feral and loyal. And a priest warding the lower levels with holy sigils Baldwin had corrupted.”

“A priest?” Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“Oh yes. Turned centuries ago. Broken as a mirror dropped from heaven.” Loki smiled thinly. “Still believes he’s doing God’s work.”

Steve’s stomach turned.

Bucky exhaled. “Maybe that’s where Baldwin is keeping the next step of whatever plan he’s running.

Loki nodded, and for once, his voice dropped its playfulness. “He’s growing bolder. Ravan’s movement patterns have changed. Less patrol. More reinforcement. I believe he’s preparing for a siege—or expecting someone to come knocking.”

“Us,” Bucky muttered.

“Which is why I suggest you don’t go charging in like a shamed knight with something to prove.” Loki looked at Steve deliberately. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Steve replied.

Loki turned back to Bucky. “If you want to get to Ravan, you’ll need a counter-ward. And someone who can distract his thralls long enough for you to gut him.”

“Do you know anyone?” James asked.

Loki smiled wickedly. “Oh, I am someone.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You’re offering to help?”

“I’m offering to help because it will piss Baldwin off, and because I hate everything that smug bastard stands for.” Loki tilted his head. “Not to mention you still reek of vampling.” He sniffed the air, then made a show of recoiling dramatically. “Disgusting. It’s practically a perfume.”

Steve flushed. Bucky groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Just get me what I need to burn through those protections,” Bucky muttered. “And try not to steal anything this time.”

“No promises.” Loki grinned again, then turned back toward the rafters. “I’ll return when I have the spell structure decoded. Try not to bond too hard in my absence. Your hormones are already a fire hazard.”

He turned into a bat with a shimmer of green and vanished back out through the window in a flurry of tiny wings. Then came the noise of the tear closing.

Steve stared after him for a beat. “He always like that?”

Bucky just sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “That was tame.”

—

The wound still pulled tight when Bucky moved too quickly, skin knitting itself closed over muscle that had been ripped apart less than a week ago. He adjusted the leather strap on his shoulder, biting back a wince, not willing to let Steve see him falter.

They'd been camped in that goddamned cabin too long already.

The maps were spread out on the table, corners weighted down by whatever objects were heavy enough—an old iron candleholder, Bucky’s dagger, a potion bottle. Fen snorted outside, his heavy hooves shifting in the soil and snow as he waited, tail flicking in irritation.

Steve stood near the hearth, buckling the last of their supplies into saddle bags and pulling his coat over his shoulders. He had changed his shirt to one without the leather bracers, opting instead for one that had sleeves that easily rolled up. The older vampire watched him as he rolled both the shirt and coat sleeves up and buckled them in place. Steve moved with easy strength, but even Bucky could see the slight difference now—the way he could balance without even trying, the faint sharpened scent of his blood humming under the surface.

Still new. Still dangerous. Still his responsibility.

Bucky finished lacing his boots, tested the tightness with a flex of his ankles, and exhaled.

“It’s time,” he said.

Steve looked over, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “You sure you’re ready to ride all that way?”

Bucky gave a quiet grunt. “Doesn’t matter. We need more eyes. More blades. If Baldwin’s got someone that entrenched under him, it’s not just about us anymore.”

Steve nodded, but there was something in his eyes—concern, maybe. Respect. And that made Bucky shift his weight, uncomfortable with the heat that flared in his chest at being seen that way.

“I packed some extra blood for you just in case,” Steve offered. “You need anything else before we go?”

Bucky shook his head. “Just movement.”

They stepped out into the cold morning light together. Fen tossed his head and huffed like he knew exactly what they were up to. Steve swung up behind the saddle with ease, offering Bucky a hand, which Bucky ignored in favor of gripping the pommel and hauling himself up the way he always had.

Steve didn’t comment.

The scent of snow and ozone lingered in the air, crisp as flint. Trees bowed in the breeze, whispering. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cried out, sharp and solitary.

Behind them, the cabin sat quiet and small. A place of blood, of dreams, of hunger. Bucky didn’t look back.

“Southwest,” he said, voice low near Steve’s ear. “Blood Soldier fortress is tucked into the cliffside past the edge of the old marshland. We’ll need to skirt the edge of the broken hills—too many old wards that way. Those won’t like our vampirism.”

Steve nodded and gave Fen a nudge. The horse surged forward with the smooth confidence of something half-wild, and the trees swallowed them up within minutes.

They rode in silence for a while, the kind that came easy between them now. Bucky’s thoughts turned over with the rhythm of Fen’s hooves. Baldwin. Ravan. Half-ferals. Six of them, packed together like dogs. Something was wrong.

Something was changing.

And if he was right, if Baldwin was making a move that broke millennia of instinct and rule—then they were going to need help from the only ones Bucky trusted with a blade in their hand.

The Blood Soldiers.

Even if they hadn't seen him in eighteen and a half years.

Chapter Text

The woods had thinned just enough to let the moonlight drip through like silver blood, cold and quiet. Steve dismounted first, patting Fen’s massive side in thanks. The horse huffed, lowering himself to drink from the half frozen stream.

Bucky slid off more cautiously. He was still favoring the side where he’d been injured, movements subtle but stiff. He made no comment on the ache, just threw his pack down and started arranging the clearing like it was second nature.

Steve followed his lead, the silence between them wasn't strained—it hadn’t been, not for a while. But it still carried weight, like a long breath held between heartbeats.

“You sure always are talkative when we set up camp.” Steve finally joked as he struck flint for a fire.

Bucky gave the faintest of grunts. “Why waste words on something that doesn’t change?”

Steve looked up, squinting at him through the firelight. “You mean the way stars are always stars, and trees are always trees, so why bother saying anything?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Then, barely visible in the flicker of flames, his mouth tugged up at one corner.

Steve blinked. “Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“That was definitely a smile.”

Bucky tossed a stick into the fire. “If it was, it's rare, so I'm sure you'll never see it again.”

“That so?”

“Swear to god, Rogers.”

But the warmth in his voice betrayed him, and Steve didn’t let him off the hook. “Good to know I’ve caught a glimpse of a unicorn. I’ll remember it.”

They both settled into a tentative calm. It was the kind of moment Steve hadn’t known he’d missed—this slow, deliberate quiet shared between two people not trying to impress or posture. Just... existing.

After the fire had burned a while, Bucky stood. “I’m going to hunt.”

Steve started to rise. “Want help?”

Bucky paused, then nodded. “You take the western bend. Stay upwind. You smell blood before you hear it.”

They parted into the woods, each tracking on their own. Steve felt the bond between them like a faint tether—quiet, unobtrusive, but present. He kept his senses sharp, hunting down a stag that had wandered too close to the camp’s perimeter. When he returned, Bucky was already back, crouched beside the fire, his face lit by soft orange glow as he skinned his drained kill in clean, efficient strokes.

Steve knelt beside him and set his own catch down.

“We skin these for profit, then rest,” Bucky said. “Tomorrow’s the hard stretch. Lots of rocky climbs, some that Fen even has a hard time on.”

Steve nodded, taking the extra skinning knife from Bucky. They worked quietly.

“Hey,” Steve said after a moment. “Thank you.”

Bucky looked at him in confusion. “For what?”

“Just… this. The teaching. Taking me in. Everything you've done for me.”

Bucky looked down. “Mhm. It wasn’t entirely outta the goodness of my heart, remember? But, you're more helpful than what I estimated you could be.”

Steve grinned at the compliment. “Thanks.”

And for a moment, just before Bucky looked away, there it was again—the barest twitch of a smile.

-

The village crept into view in the pale light of dawn, roofs hunched under frost, chimneys coughing thin threads of smoke. It wasn’t much more than a single main road with uneven buildings leaning toward it like gossiping old men.

Bucky swung off Fen’s saddle before they even reached the outskirts. “Stay close. No wandering.”

Steve hopped down after him. “I wasn’t planning on wandering.”

The main street was sparsely populated—traders setting up stalls, a woman sweeping her doorstep, a boy darting past with a loaf of bread under one arm. People glanced at them, the way people always glanced at newcomers—curiosity first, suspicion second, then relief once they noticed Bucky’s insignia.

Bucky moved through the small crowd with practiced ease, every step deliberate, his body language muted enough to avoid drawing too much attention. Steve trailed him, feeling like a looming shadow by comparison.

They stopped at the first stall and sold there mix of animal skins, then went to the second stall, a grizzled old man selling dried meats and root vegetables. Bucky picked through the goods in silence, tossing a few into his pack and handing over coins without a word.

They moved from stall to stall—bandages from an apothecary, flint from a blacksmith’s table, a few folded blankets from a weaver who tried, unsuccessfully, to strike up conversation with Bucky.

It was near the end of their circuit that Steve noticed the stares had shifted—less curious now, more assessing. A pair of men leaned against a wall, watching them too intently. A third, across the street, was doing the same.

“Bucky,” Steve said under his breath.

“I see them.”

“Trouble?”

“Not unless they’re stupid.”

Bucky led him down a side alley that opened onto a smaller square. Here, they stopped at a modest tavern, Bucky sliding a coin across the counter for two mugs of warmed mead to blend in. They drank standing, watching the square through the window without turning their heads toward it.

After a while, the watchers dispersed.

Steve exhaled. “What was that about?”

Bucky’s lips twitched downwards. “Some idiots think it’s a good idea to try and mug Blood Soldiers, and those same idiots rarely ever succeed.”

When they finished, they walked back to Fen, loaded their new supplies, and headed toward the road again. The village shrank behind them, its frost and smoke fading into the winter landscape.

Bucky didn’t speak until the rooftops were gone from sight.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “if you feel eyes on you, don’t look at them.”

Steve raised a brow. “Why not?”

“Because prey looks at predators. Predators don’t look at anything—they listen.”

Steve mulled that over as Fen’s hooves thudded against the frozen earth.

-

The smell hit first.

It rolled over them on the wind—a sour, rotting tang of old blood and decay laced with something sharp and feral. Bucky’s hand came up, palm down, signaling Fen to slow. The stallion obeyed, hooves sinking into the frost-hardened dirt with deliberate silence.

Steve felt it too, a twitch in his gut, his teeth aching faintly, ready to drop. He leaned forward, voice low. “That’s not one or two.”

“No,” Bucky murmured. “It’s more.”

They slid down from Fen’s back, boots crunching softly. Bucky’s eyes were fixed on the treeline ahead, where bare branches clutched at the gray winter sky. The air was dead-still, heavy with the stink of unwashed bodies and old kills.

“Ten of them,” Bucky said finally. His voice had that distant focus Steve had heard before fights—like the world narrowed to angles and timing in his head. “Spread close together, not killing each other.”

“That’s… not normal.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. “Feral instinct is to turn on anything breathing, even each other. Means something’s holding them together. Or someone.”

They moved into the trees, steps so soft the frost barely cracked underfoot. Bucky led them to the edge of a clearing—and there they were.

The ferals milled and stalked in loose circles, their movements twitchy but not chaotic. Some were old, so old they should have fallen apart or exploded weeks ago—skin hanging in gray tatters, eyes clouded to milky pits, but still on four limbs, still moving. Others were younger but no less ruined, mouths working constantly as if tasting the air for prey.

Steve’s instincts surged. His muscles coiled without conscious thought, blood singing with the pulse of a coming hunt.

Bucky felt it. Steve didn’t know how—he just knew Bucky’s head turned slightly, pale hair catching a stray shaft of light, and there was the faintest pull in his chest like an answering heartbeat.

“We take the old ones first,” Bucky said, voice low. “They’ll be slower, but they’ll try to take you down by weight.”

Steve nodded. “And the rest?”

“They’ll panic when we start dropping them. Don’t give them time to scatter—pin and finish.”

The moment they broke cover, the clearing exploded into movement.

An old feral lunged for Steve, its claws black and curling. Before Steve could even bring his sword up, Bucky was there, intercepting with a blur of white hair and steel. His blade punched through the feral’s ribs, and Steve’s body was already moving in answer—pivoting to intercept the next attacker without a word being spoken.

It was like their instincts were speaking a language their mouths didn’t know. Steve could feel Bucky’s position without looking, could sense when Bucky shifted or dropped back, and his own body moved to fill the gaps without hesitation.

Two ferals came for Steve’s flank—he ducked under the first’s swing, and the second’s head vanished in a clean arc before it reached him. He didn’t have to check to know Bucky had been there, a heartbeat late but perfectly timed.

The fight blurred into a rhythm—strike, shift, cover, kill—each movement answered by the other as if they’d been training together for years.

At one point, Steve caught sight of Bucky across the clearing, his fangs bared, eyes glowing gold, lit with that cold focus, and felt a strange surge of satisfaction that wasn’t entirely his own. Bucky was enjoying this—the precision, the efficiency, the way Steve matched him beat for beat.

The last feral, one of the younger ones, broke for the trees. Bucky started after it, but Steve was already moving—cutting it off, knocking it to the ground, and finishing it with a quick, clean strike.

Silence fell, broken only by their breathing and the faint hiss of steam from the cooling bodies in the frost.

Bucky stood a few paces away, knife lowered but ready. He looked at Steve for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.

Then, just barely, he gave that rare, almost imperceptible smile. “Not bad.”

Steve wiped his blade. “That felt awesome.”

Bucky’s smile faded back into something neutral, but there was still a trace of warmth in his eyes as he turned away. “Let’s burn the bodies and move. Whatever kept them together might still be around.”

They worked in silence, but Steve kept catching that almost-electric sense of Bucky’s presence—close, steady, and reassuring.

-

Their next fire crackled low, sending up thin ribbons of smoke into the brittle night air. Fen stood a few feet away, eating grain from the feed bag, his breath misting in the cold.

Bucky sat cross-legged near the fire on a thick log, his knife cleaned with care and set beside him, the faint orange glow casting sharp shadows over the angles of his face and white hair. A faint stain of dark blood on his jaw was the only evidence left of the ferals they had fought earlier.

Steve crouched opposite him, holding the heavy carcass of the bird they’d brought down after making camp. It had been big—eagle or hawk, he wasn’t sure—and its blood was hot enough to sting his throat pleasantly.

They passed it between them without speaking. Bucky drank with neat efficiency, barely moving his jaw, his red irises catching the firelight like coals. Steve had known ever since he was a kid about half-breed eyes and their color, so he knew immediately when first meeting Bucky what he was. Well, except for the bampire part. He's seen those crimson eyes every day for the last two months, and yet they still made Steve’s breath catch with their beauty.

When the bird came back to Steve, his gaze drifted—past Bucky’s scar, down his face, down the pale column of his neck, to the twin puncture scars there. Faint but unmistakable. His own marks against the older vampire's throat.

Something hot and instinctive surged in his chest—an urge that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite violence, but it was definitely something in between. His jaw twitched, fangs aching faintly, and the thought of Bucky’s teeth sinking into his own neck hit so fast and so hard it startled him. Mating. The bond completed. A thought that made his instincts sing.

He looked away quickly, forcing a slow breath, but the pull was there, persistent as heartbeat.

Across the fire, Bucky’s head tilted just slightly. His eyes narrowed—not hostile, but searching. The half-bond didn’t share full thoughts, not exactly, but Steve felt certain he’d sensed something.

Before either of them could speak, the air bent.

Not in a way Steve could see, exactly—more like the fire wavered wrong, and the night sounds went distant. A ripple of pressure swept through the clearing as a now familiar green tear streaked a few feet above the ground, and then Loki was there, stepping neatly out of the opening portal.

“Really, Barnes,” Loki said, brushing a speck of imaginary dust from his sleeve. “You should have called me sooner. The things I have to learn from my own investigations…”

Bucky groaned under his breath, leaning back on his hands. “You came to us.”

Loki ignored the commentary entirely, stepping into the circle of firelight like he owned it. His green eyes glittered in the glow, mouth curling in a satisfied smile. He flicked a small satchel onto the ground between them. It landed with a dull clink of glass and the faint rustle of parchment. “Anti-ward vials, freshly brewed, and a sigil you’ll draw on yourselves before you set foot near Ravan’s nest. The potion is for when you get deeper.”

Steve leaned forward, curiosity edging out suspicion. “Sigil for what?”

“To keep a particularly old vampire from sliding into your head like oil through a cracked lock.” Loki’s voice carried a shade of seriousness, though his mouth still curled in mock amusement. “Ravan isn’t Baldwin, but he’s got a similar… taste for puppetry. You’d be amazed how many people march to their deaths believing it’s their own idea.”

Bucky finally looked up, eyes narrow. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is you follow the instructions exactly.” Loki crouched, retrieving a folded scrap of vellum from the satchel and sliding it across the dirt. “One drop of your own blood, trace every line in sequence, make sure you do it just above your heart. And before you ask—yes, it has to be there. The magic needs to sit against your will.”

Steve picked it up, scanning the precise black spirals and curling lines. “Looks complicated.”

“Not really. Just don’t skip a stroke, or you’ll end up giving him an open door instead of locking it.” Loki tapped his temple. “And you, Captain Sunshine—don’t think about anything you don’t want him to see. Even with the sigil, he’ll try to scrape around the edges.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “And if I do?”

“Then I hope your vampire babysitter here is ready to save you.” Loki smiled like it was all a joke, but his gaze flicked sideways to Bucky in quiet warning.

Bucky didn’t rise to it, though Steve noticed his jaw tense. “We’ll take it.”

“Good. I’d hate to waste the effort of stealing from a coven of paranoid blood mages just so you could get your brains scrambled.” Loki straightened, dusted off his hands. “Speaking of—how’s the half-bond? Settled in yet, or are you still making moon-eyes at each other?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, looking away. Steve gave the smallest, embarrassed smile.

Loki saw all of it, of course. “Ah. Adorable. Disgusting, but adorable.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but Steve caught the faintest flicker of annoyance. “So, you can for sure get us in past the blood magic?”

“I can get you in,” Loki said, smirking. “But, you’ll need more bodies if you want to get out again. Your old Blood Soldier friends, perhaps? Assuming your favored ones haven't been killed by now.”

Steve caught the barest twitch at the corner of Bucky’s mouthbefore the vampire leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then we ride in the morning.”

“Wonderful,” Loki said, looking perfectly pleased with himself. “I’ll meet you at the cavern. Try not to die before you get there. I’d hate for Baldwin to win by default.”

And just like that, he was gone—the air bending, the fire flickering, and the night sounds creeping cautiously back in as the tear sealed itself, then popped away.

-

They were close enough now to see the fortress’s tallest watchtowers stabbing up from the treeline ahead, black against the gray sweep of cloud. The old Blood Soldier stronghold sat crouched at the edge of a cliffside plateau, its outer wall sloping like a great iron-backed beast toward the main gate. It was absolutely ginormous.

Bucky slowed Fen with a firm hand on the reins, easing the stallion toward a shallow cut of the road where the earth dipped low and the view from the wall was mostly blocked. Fen gave a grudging snort, stamping once before settling, though the flick of his ears said he knew he was going to be put in a communal stable.

Bucky was already swinging down, boots crunching on frost-hardened earth. One of the saddlebags hit the ground beside him, and he was digging through it before Steve could even ask what they were doing. The man was all economy of movement, fingers finding what they needed in the jumble without looking—until he came up with a cloth-wrapped bundle that sagged with weight.

The scent hit Steve before Bucky even undid the knot: bitter pine crushed almost to dust, a metallic tang like wet iron, and the nose-prickling sharpness of something he couldn’t name but which made his instincts recoil.

“Off,” Bucky said flatly, nodding at the saddle. Steve slid down, boots meeting frozen dirt. Fen watched them both with the patient suspicion of a creature used to being read into plans whether he liked it or not.

Bucky crouched and unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a rough mash of dried herbs ground fine, the green-brown dust clinging to the cloth like it didn’t want to be let go. He didn’t explain, just dipped two fingers into the mix and stepped closer.

The first swipe across Steve’s jaw made him jerk back. The stuff was gritty, damp with some kind of binding oil, and the smell was worse up close—like something rotting under a pine tree in summer heat.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Hold still.”

Steve gritted his teeth but didn’t move again as Bucky smeared the powder in careful, almost ritual strokes across his cheekbones, along the line of his jaw, and down the column of his throat. Then his collar was tugged aside and the same treatment pressed into the skin of his neck, the powder working its way into the fabric of his shirt.

The air between them shifted—Steve could feel the faint brush of Bucky’s breath against his temple, the scrape of calloused fingertips as they worked the mix into his sleeves, his shoulders, even the backs of his hands. Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but the efficiency of the motion had weight behind it, the kind that came from knowing exactly why every inch mattered.

“What is this?” Steve muttered.

“Masking mix I made,” Bucky said simply. “It’ll keep the Blood Soldiers from asking the wrong questions. We can switch to burning herbs again once we get a place to stay."

Steve started to open his mouth, but Bucky cut him off without looking up.

“And keep your fangs in. Don’t let them catch a whiff of hunger on you. If they do, we’re both in trouble.”

The warning wasn’t barked—it was low, even—but it was the kind of even that meant the risk was very real.

When Bucky finally stepped back, Steve’s visible skin was streaked faintly darker in places where the mix was rubbed, the scent clinging stubbornly despite the open air. He felt like he’d been rolled in some hunter’s talisman, every nerve aware of the residue on his skin.

Bucky gave the barest flick of his eyes toward the road as he applied the mix to himself, especially onto the half-bond marks so as to hide them from prying eyes. “Mount up. Don’t look at anyone longer than you have to.”

He hopped up onto Fen’s back, waiting for Steve. Once the ex-knight was situated back into the saddle, Bucky turned Fen’s head toward the fortress gates and clicked his tongue.

The gates yawned open slowly, gears inside the walls grinding like an old giant waking. Two guards in Blood Soldier uniforms stood to either side, their eyes flicking over Bucky and Steve in that practiced way—quick, thorough, nothing left unchecked.

Bucky didn’t so much as glance at them. He rode Fen through with the quiet confidence of someone who’d passed through these gates more times than he could count, though Steve caught the slight shift of his shoulders, like a man tucking a knife out of sight.

The fortress’s inner yard was busy even in the gray chill. Training dummies stood scattered across the packed dirt; the clank of steel-on-steel rang from one corner where sparring pairs moved in quick, brutal exchanges. The scent here was different—less wild earth, more metal, oil, and the faint iron bite of old blood from past injuries.

The stable sat along the far side of the yard, its long roof dark with age and its walls wind-worn smooth. Fen’s ears pricked at the sight of it, but the big stallion didn’t exactly hurry. His stride took on the careful, deliberate rhythm of a beast already planning his resistance.

The stable hand—a sturdy woman with windburned cheeks and a thick braid—stepped out to meet them, wiping her palms on her apron. Her eyes went to Fen first, then to Bucky, narrowing slightly in recognition when meeting his face.

“Been a long time,” she said, tone even but not unfriendly.

Bucky swung down from the saddle, handing her the reins without ceremony. "Yes it has.”

Fen planted his hooves, head coming up, the muscles along his neck bunching. Steve could feel the tension ripple down through the saddle.

“Don’t start,” Bucky muttered to the horse, giving his neck a brief, firm rub before stepping back. “Go on.”

Fen didn’t move. The stable hand gave a little huff through her nose, not inclined to play games.

“Open stall, third from the end,” she said, giving the reins a tug.

Fen’s ears flicked back. He blew a loud snort, tossing his head just enough to make the reins jingle.

Bucky’s voice sharpened—still low, but with an edge. “Behave.” His hand came up to pat the stallion’s cheek once, then he leaned closer, murmuring in a voice pitched for the animal alone: “And don’t bite her.”

Fen gave a short, almost offended whicker, the sound vibrating against Steve’s boots through the ground.

The stable hand arched one brow but said nothing, simply turning to coax the stallion toward the open stall. Fen resisted with one last backward glance, ears twitching like he had opinions he wasn’t allowed to voice, and then trudged inside.

Bucky watched until he was settled, then turned on his heel without lingering. His eyes were already scanning the yard, cataloguing who was here and where, his stride long enough that Steve had to half a step to keep pace despite his slight height advantage.

And that’s when a voice cut through the clatter of the yard.

“James?”

Steve didn’t have to know the man to recognize the way the name landed—half surprise, half disbelief, like seeing a ghost where you’d been sure there was a grave.

Heads turned. A few sparring pairs broke apart, their blades lowering as their eyes locked on the tall, broad-shouldered figure striding across the packed dirt in weathered Blood Soldier gear.

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle tightening at the corners of his mouth. He kept walking, chin up, gaze level. Steve felt the faintest tug in the air—his instincts pricking in response to the sudden attention, a quiet ripple of tension that pressed against his ribs.

The man who’d called out jogged forward, slowing only when he was close enough to take in the details: the same posture, the same way Bucky’s eyes seemed to measure everything in the courtyard in a heartbeat. But his hair—

“What happened to you?” the man blurted, voice dropping. “Your hair—”

Bucky cut him off before the question could take shape. “Someone cursed me,” he said, smooth as steel, “but I got every part of it lifted besides the hair. You should see the other guy.”

The Soldier blinked, thrown off just enough to let Bucky keep moving. But the ripple of curiosity had already spread. Steve caught bits of low conversation as they passed—murmurs about ten years gone, about impossible fights survived, about how no one had seen him since—

And then the inevitable:

“Who’s your friend?”

The voice came from a woman leaning against a post near the entrance to the main hall, arms folded, eyes sharp. She nodded toward Steve, not unkind but appraising.

Bucky didn’t pause. “Training him,” he said.

That earned a few raised brows. Someone muttered, “A human,” and another replied, “Breaks tradition.”

Steve kept his gaze forward, jaw set, doing his best to keep his scent locked down like Bucky had warned. Still, he could feel the subtle tightening of the air around the Soldiers—tradition here wasn’t just habit; it was the bones of their order.

A familiar voice broke through the murmuring.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Steve turned just in time to see Clint striding toward them, bow slung over one shoulder, expression split between disbelief and the beginnings of a grin. His bun looked messier than the last time they had met, but not in a bad way. Natasha followed, quieter but with eyes that flicked from Bucky to Steve and back again, sharp enough to cut glass.

“Didn’t think we’d see you two again so soon,” Clint said, his gaze narrowing on Bucky. “And definitely didn’t expect you of all people to just stroll into the fortress, especially without sending word.”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise,” Bucky replied, deadpan.

Natasha tilted her head, assessing him. “You’re hard to surprise, Clint.”

“Not anymore,” Clint muttered, though there was something like amusement under it.

The change in Bucky was small but unmistakable—a fraction looser in the shoulders, a half-degree less guarded. The three of them shared history, and whatever had gone unsaid between them during the den fight was still hanging there, waiting for the right moment.

Before any of them could say anything else, movement from the training yard drew their attention.

“Is that—?” A young man crossed the yard in quick strides, his expression splitting into a grin. “It is! You’re back.” He clasped Bucky’s forearm in greeting, then glanced at Steve. “And you brought… a stranger. Who’s this?”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve supplied, holding his ground under the younger man’s once-over. Peter smiled kindly after his assessment and held his hand out for Steve to shake as he introduced himself. 

“Peter Parker! Nice to meet you, Steve.” Steve shook the hand and gave the kid a smile back.

Another man wasn’t far behind Peter, walking with the easy stride of someone who knew exactly how much space he took up. “Training a new recruit, James? That’s not like you.” His gaze sharpened. “And he’s not a half-breed.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but it might as well have been.

Bucky’s mouth ticked in the faintest almost-smile—so quick Steve would have missed it if he weren’t already tuned to him. “He’s got potential, Sam.”

Sam’s brow rose, but he didn’t argue.

A woman arrived last, her presence more felt than heard. She didn’t greet anyone, only fixed her steady gaze on Steve like she could sift through his thoughts if she cared to. “Training outside the tradition can be dangerous,” she said quietly. “For both of you.”

Steve wasn’t sure if she was warning him or Bucky.

Clint broke the moment with an easy tone. “If Buck’s breaking tradition, you can bet he’s got a reason, Wanda.”

Natasha didn’t smile, but there was a ghost of approval in her eyes. “We’ll see if the reason’s worth it.”

Steve stayed quiet, letting the conversation swirl around him. The courtyard’s air was heavy with scent—steel, sweat, the faint tang of herbs Bucky had rubbed into his skin earlier. But beneath it all, that thin hum of the half-bond threaded through his senses, a steady reminder that even here, surrounded by strangers, he wasn’t untethered.

Steve looked around him at Bucky’s old acquaintances, taking them in one by one. They were different—different from the types of people he’d trained with as a knight, different from the half-breeds he’d met in the field. There was a kind of lived-in ease here, even among the wariness.

Beside him, Bucky’s voice cut through the hum of conversation. “Nat, Clint—need a word.”

Steve caught the flicker of understanding between the two before they followed Bucky toward one of the shadowed corridors of the main hall. Whatever they were about to discuss, it wasn’t for his ears.

Left with the others, Steve found himself fielding questions. Peter wanted to know how fast he could run now. Sam asked if his sword work felt different with his new strength after Steve shared he was an ex-knight captain. Wanda asked nothing, just watched, as though waiting to see if he’d slip.

Steve gave answers where he could, dodged what he couldn’t, and kept one ear tilted toward where Bucky had gone.

—

They passed into shadow beneath the entry arch, the chill of the courtyard giving way to fire warmed air and the faint mineral tang of water seeping somewhere far below. The muted thrum of activity fell behind them until it was just the three of them and the distant creak of the fortress settling in the morning air.

Bucky didn’t waste time. “I’ve got word from a trustworthy source.” He kept his tone low, even.

Natasha’s brows ticked upward, a subtle reaction most people would miss. Clint shoved his hands into his pockets. Neither of them asked who the source was, which was why he’d pulled them aside in the first place. They knew how to leave the right questions unspoken.

“There’s movement in Baldwin’s loyalists,” Bucky continued. “Not the kind that stays in the dark. Old blood, and it’s gathering. Building toward something ugly.”

Natasha’s weight shifted slightly to one hip. “And you want backup.”

“I want people I can trust.” His gaze went from her to Clint. “That means you two.”

Clint’s mouth quirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That bad?”

“That bad,” Bucky confirmed. “And worse, if I’m right.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t soften so much as it settled, the kind of measured calm that came right before she made a decision. “We’re in.”

“Good.” He straightened from the wall, letting the conversation drop. That was enough agreement for now. “Head Priest in?”

Natasha nodded once. “Last I saw, Stephen was in his office. You planning to tell him everything that's going on?”

Bucky allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch—just slightly. “A good bit of it, yes.”

Natasha didn’t press. Clint just let out a low whistle and muttered something about “never a dull moment” as they headed back toward the noise of the courtyard.

The fortress swallowed him the moment he stepped beneath its deeper arches, the light narrowing into thinner, colder beams that slanted down from high-set windows. The echo of his boots on the stone was both alien and familiar—alien because it had been years since he’d walked these halls, familiar because his feet still knew the rhythm of them without asking.

Every surface carried the weight of long use. The walls, built of massive blocks, bore hairline cracks and pale scuffs where weapons had glanced. In places, centuries of hands had polished the stone smooth near corners and doorframes. The air smelled the way it always had—like cool stone, lamp oil, and faintly of old leather from the many Blood Soldier uniform coats.

He passed a pair of young Soldiers in the corridor, their uniforms cut in the same style he used to wear when first starting training: all black, tight at the wrists, high-collared for warmth, reinforced at the joints for speed and protection. One of them glanced at him curiously, eyes catching for a moment on the white of his hair before looking quickly away. Too new to know his face.

That didn’t sting. Much.

Further down, someone did know him. Eric—a black, broad-shouldered half-breed who’d once helped stitch Bucky up after a fight gone sour—was leaning in a doorway, hands ink-stained from paperwork rather than blood. His specialization was Multi, and he was damn good at any task he did. His eyes lit in recognition, and before Bucky could sidestep, the older man’s smile widened.

“Well, I’ll be damned. James Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky gave him a small, tired smile in return. “Still breathing, Eric.”

The man’s gaze dropped, just briefly, to Bucky’s side—right where the wound had been all those years ago. “That old gash scar bad?”

Bucky shook his head. “Your stitching kept it from looking as bad as it could’ve. Held together better than it should have.”

That earned him a warm, satisfied chuckle, and Eric gave his shoulder a pat—a human gesture, solid and unthinking. “Glad to hear it.” No further questions, no pointed comments about his hair. Just that.

Bucky inclined his head, murmured a farewell, and moved on.

The deeper he went, the more ghosts there were in the stone. He passed the narrow alcove where he’d once sat with Natasha after a training bout, both of them nursing bruises and laughing quietly over some joke he couldn’t recall now. The stairwell where he and Clint had once raced, risking the wrath of the upper officers. The long hall where, on his first day, his trainer had walked beside him in silence, as if giving him the chance to let the fortress speak for itself.

A decade of his life had been carved into these walls, and for all that he’d left them, they had not left him.

At last, he turned down the final corridor toward the Head Priest’s office. The air here smelled faintly different—burnt herbs, clean parchment, holy oil, ink, and something sharper that was uniquely Stephen Strange. The door was closed, but the faint rasp of turning pages and the scrape of a chair leg told him the man was inside.

Bucky knocked, a muted rap against the heavy oak.

A familiar voice, warm and amused, called from within. “Enter.”

Chapter Text

The hinges groaned as Bucky pushed the door open, the wood heavier than it looked. Inside, the light was softer, filtered through thin curtains dyed the deep burgundy that matched the trim of the Blood Soldier priests’ robes. The air smelled of rosemary and cedar inside—burning low in a small brazier in the corner—and the faint, grounding scent of parchment and ink.

Stephen Strange stood beside a broad desk cluttered in a way that made perfect sense to him alone—stacks of worn leather tomes leaning precariously, sheets of parchment held down by knives and sealed jars, and a map of the southern territories pinned flat with a pair of silver stakes.

The man looked up, and for a heartbeat, the years fell away from his expression.

“Barnes,” the old half-breed said warmly, his voice carrying the same easy authority it always had. He crossed the room in a few long strides, one hand coming up to clasp Bucky’s flesh shoulder, fingers pressing in just enough to feel the strength beneath the uniform. “You have a bad habit of disappearing for years at a time.”

Bucky gave a faint huff, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “You know me.”

“I do,” Stephen replied, and there was a thread of fond exasperation beneath it. He stepped back, but his gaze lingered, sharp as ever. His eyes—precise, assessing—took in the white of Bucky’s hair but didn’t linger. “So. How has the… new state of things been treating you since we last talked?”

It was asked lightly, but they both knew the weight under it.

Bucky rolled his eyes, though the edge of it softened here. “Like it treats everyone affected by it. Comes with a list of rules I didn’t write and can’t change. But—” He shifted, leaning a hand against the desk. “—I took on a fledgling. His name is Steve Rogers. Found him in Baldwin’s wake. He’s learning fast. Faster than most would.”

Stephen’s brow lifted. “That sounds unlike you.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Wasn’t planned.”

“Either way, I am proud of you for taking responsibility for something unplanned, especially a fledgling.”

Stephen’s gaze stayed steady on him, but there was something in it—something knowing—that made Bucky narrow his own eyes.

“How fast is he improving?” Stephen asked.

“Fast enough that he’s saved my ass a few times already,” Bucky admitted. “More than I’d like to tell him. I'm more than certain that he's a ‘perfect’ vampire.”

Stephen’s mouth curved faintly, and for a few seconds, there was the shadow of a smile that felt paternal. “You must be a proud sire.”

The words landed heavier than Bucky expected. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the thought roll through him—images of Steve holding his own on hunts and duels, fighting side by side against ancient vampires, watching and learning without protest, but with just enough questions to know he was trying to understand better.

'Proud.' Yeah. Against his better judgment, he was.

He cleared his throat, looking away toward the brazier. “Maybe I am.”

Stephen let that sit for a moment, then glanced toward the desk. “And I’m guessing you didn’t stop by just to reminisce, although it is very nice to see you again.”

“It's good to see you too.” Bucky said. “But, no. I need a favor.”

The shift in Stephen’s expression was subtle—shoulders squaring, attention sharpening. “Tell me, and I will do what I can, James.”

Bucky did. Quietly. Carefully. The kind of request you didn’t voice as a Blood Soldier unless you trusted the priest you were asking.

When he finished, Stephen was silent for a long moment, considering. Then he nodded once. “It can be done. Two days.”

Bucky inclined his head in thanks. “We’ll stay.”

Stephen’s tone softened just enough to let the steel fade. “Good. You’ve been gone too long anyway.”

And for a second, it felt like he was just a half-breed at home again.

-

The corridors of the fortress had a way of carrying sound—muted footfalls, the low thrum of conversation, the faint echo of training steel from the practice yard bleeding through stone. Bucky let them guide him as he made his way toward the mess hall, the faint warmth of the cedar-scented office still clinging to his coat.

He passed more soldiers he recognized, some offering nods or quick greetings, others sliding their gazes past him without a word. The newer ones wouldn’t know his face—just the stories, if they’d heard any at all. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for recognition.

The mess hall’s heavy double doors were propped open, the smell of bread, cured meat, and woodsmoke drifting out to meet him. Voices overlapped in that low, constant hum that came from dozens of people speaking at once.

Inside, the space was warm in a way the rest of the fortress rarely managed—thick beams overhead, long tables worn smooth from years of elbows and mugs slamming down. The fire in the large central hearth painted the room in flickering gold, catching on plates, cutlery, and the occasional weapon and polished buckle.

Steve was easy to spot. He was sitting with Clint, Natasha, and—Bucky’s mouth pulled into something wry—Sam, Peter, Wanda, and Wanda's brother Pietro.

Steve was half-turned in his chair, engaged in conversation with Peter, who was animatedly gesturing with one hand while balancing a mug in the other. Natasha had her elbows on the table, watching the exchange with her usual calm focus, while Clint was smirking into his drink and Pietro gestured to him. Sam looked like he was in the middle of telling Wanda something that was either a joke or a challenge, given her arched brow. 

For a moment, Bucky didn’t move. He just watched.

Steve fit here in a way Bucky hadn’t expected. He wasn’t trying to prove himself—wasn’t sitting stiff-backed like a man in enemy territory. His shoulders were loose, his expression open, and his voice—when it cut out loudly to answer Peter in the murmur of Blood Soldier chaos—had that low, sure steadiness that drew people in without him realizing it.

Bucky felt the pull of that, same as the others did.

He made his way over, boots silent on the flagstone. Clint caught sight of him first, tilting his head in greeting before sliding over slightly to make room at the bench next to Steve.

“Head Priest says we can use one of the partner rooms that isn’t taken,” Bucky said once he was close enough, his voice pitched low to Steve but carrying to the rest. “Two beds. Quiet.”

Steve glanced up at him, warm blue eyes catching the firelight, and nodded. “Thanks, J—” He stopped himself, lips pressing together, and switched smoothly. “Bucky.”

Bucky gave no sign he’d noticed, just slid onto the bench in between him and Clint. 

The conversation around the table resumed without missing a beat. Sam leaned forward on his elbows. “So, James—want to expand more upon the elephant in the room?”

Peter’s curiosity flared bright in his expression as he leaned around Steve to speak. “Yeah, I didn’t think you would ever want to train anyone, especially a human. S and H has always been your thing. Did Stephen have anything to say about it?”

“I can make exceptions,” Bucky said, deadpan. “And nothing besides that he's proud of me.”

Wanda tilted her head, studying Steve. “And what did you do to earn that kind of exception, Steve?”

Steve’s mouth quirked. “I always wanted to be a Blood Soldier despite being human, that's why I became a knight. I guess he saw my hard work and took pity. Then I stayed alive without him biting my head off through his training, so I think I'm doing okay so far.”

That got a round of low laughter, even from Natasha. Clint raised his mug in mock salute.

Bucky didn’t add anything more. He just let the noise and warmth of the table fill the space, listening to his old friends swap stories—some familiar, some new—and catching the way Steve leaned into it without forcing his way in.

It was easy, sitting here. Too easy, maybe. Something that felt familiar and comfortable. Something he didn't want to leave again, but had to.

Bucky told himself he was only staying because they had two days before they moved on. Not because it felt good to be here again. 

He would tell himself anything to make sure these people were kept safe.

-

The partner room Stephen had given them was tucked down one of the quieter side corridors, far enough from the main hall and mess hall that the sound of voices and clanging dishes faded into nothing but the faint creak of the old stone settling.

Once Steve was back with their things from Fen's stable, Bucky pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly. The air inside was cool and still, smelling faintly of cedar and old wool. The room wasn’t much—two narrow beds on opposite sides, a single wooden chest at the foot of each, and a desk wedged under the single, high-set window. Thick curtains hung over the opening, blocking the night outside. A good sized hearth with an already fed fire was against the far wall.

He stepped in, boots silent on the worn rug between the beds. “Not bad,” he murmured, running his fingers briefly over the edge of one of the blankets. It was close to what his and Clint's old room looked like. He wondered who roomed with the archer now.

Steve followed, ducking his head slightly out of habit, even though the doorway was tall enough for him to clear easily. His eyes swept the space, cataloging it the way someone trained to survive always did—checking corners, exits, the weight of the door.

“Definitely better than those random shacks and cabins.” Steve said after a beat, and Bucky’s mouth quirked upwards despite himself.

He dropped his pack on the bed nearest the window and tugged off his glove. The fortress had always been like this—functional but with just enough care to make the rooms feel lived-in. He remembered nights here after long training missions, the slow thaw of muscles by a fire, and the quiet that came with being surrounded by people who knew you.

“You settling in all right?” Bucky asked without looking up, his tone as casual as if they were talking about the weather.

Steve shrugged, moving to the other bed. “It’s… different here. But not bad. Your friends seem like good people.”

“They are,” Bucky said simply, pulling his coat off and folding it over the chest.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that settled like a blanket—heavy enough to make you aware of it, but not pressing.

Eventually, Steve sat on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You must have a lot of history here.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Ten years’ worth. Feels like I could still walk some of these halls blindfolded.”

Steve’s eyes softened at that, though he didn’t push for more. Bucky appreciated that. Most people wanted to pick through his past like it was some locked chest they could jimmy open if they asked the right way. But Steve didn't press unless Bucky was already talking about it, and sometimes just knew when to not ask anything else.

“Get some rest,” Bucky said after a moment, reaching to unbuckle the potion strap on his thigh. “We’ve got a busy couple of days ahead.”

Steve’s answering hum was low and agreeable. He unlaced his boots and set them aside along with his sword and belt. He took off his long coat and folded it over the chest at the foot of his bed, then grabbed the corner of the red wool blankets on the bed and threw them to the other side. Steve stretched out on the mattress as he covered himself up, one arm draped over his eyes in obvious tiredness.

Bucky lingered a little longer, stripping down his gear and setting each piece neatly in the chest before easing his soul orb lantern into a softer glow. The fire crackled across the room, one charred log rolled further back into the hearth.

He sat on the edge of his bed, listening to the slow rhythm of Steve’s breathing.

The fortress had always been a place of order, of discipline, yet still—warm, and comfortable. But tonight, with someone else in the room of his old home besides Clint—someone whose presence didn’t set his nerves on edge—Bucky felt a strange, quiet tether settling between them. A tether that even gave their half-bond a little hug.

—

The forge lived at the heart of the fortress like a second hearth, deep in the stone belly where heat could never escape. The air was close, thick with coal-smoke and old prayers. Every priest of the order had worked here at some point, but when Stephen took the hammer in hand, the chamber changed.

The fire stirred brighter, as though the very stones knew who stood at the anvil.

He laid the steel and silver across the coals, stoked the bellows until the flames licked white, then pulled it into the open with long tongs. The metal sang as he struck it, each blow deliberate, each blow a verse in the litany he whispered under his breath.

This was no common request. No standard issue weapon from one of the lesser priests. James Barnes had asked this of him. James, whom he had seen bleed and crawl back to his feet more times than he could count. James, who had stood in this very room a long time ago when Stephen had crafted the silver-edged dagger he carried. He had put it into his hands the morning it was done, right after the sunrise ritual. Told the young man to stand tall, to trust himself.

He had thought of the man as a son then. He still did. And now here he was, many decades later, shaping another such piece—because James believed in someone enough to ask for it.

And so, he prayed harder.

“Benedictum sit metallum, benedicta sit flamma. Vere percutiat, protegat ubi manus deficiant. Lucem in umbram ferat.” (‘Blessed be the metal, blessed be the flame. Let it strike true, let it protect where hands may fail. Let it carry light into shadow.’ In Latin)

The anvil rang with each hammer-fall. Sparks scattered like fireflies, clinging to his sleeves before winking out. The forge stank of burning oil, thick smoke, and the faint sweet tang of consecrated incense that he had cast into the flames before beginning.

He worked through the night, sweat pouring down his temples, robes darkened at the collar. Each layer of the steel was folded upon itself, tempered not just in fire but in holy water ladled with care, steam rising like incense toward the vaulted ceiling.

Stephen tempered the blade, not rushing, never rushing. The forge-fire reflected in his eyes, bright as comet trails. Words murmured between hammerfalls, the language of rites older than the fortress itself, syllables meant to bind steel not only to purpose but to soul. He curled the silver in a ‘U’ around the rough shape, the metal soon to be sharpened and ready to flay vampires.

By dawn, his arms trembled with fatigue. The form on the anvil was taking shape, though still rough, unfinished.

He pressed the hammer to the side of the anvil and drew a rag across his brow. His throat ached from the prayers.

This was not just a weapon. It was a passage, a declaration. To have a weapon forged by the Head Priest himself was to be marked as chosen, worthy. To hand it to James’ fledgling would be to anchor him fully into their world, to give him both the burden and the honor of it.

The priest smiled faintly, pride and sorrow braided together. “You chose well, James,” he murmured into the forge’s heat. “Just, please manage to make it back home after your hunt concludes.”

Then he set the blade back on the anvil, raised the hammer, and let the rhythm carry on until the sun fully rose in the sky.

—

Steve woke to the faint glow of sunlight slipping through the narrow slit of the fortress blinds. It was not meant for beauty—no grand drapery or carved shutters framed it—but for function, letting a measured band of day filter into the otherwise austere stone chamber. The room smelled faintly of the herbs Bucky had burned in the small hearth the night before, smoke and bitterness clinging to the air. It grounded Steve more than it choked him now; the sharp tang masked their vampiric scents well enough that he had slept soundly without worry of being found out.

When he sat up, the heavy wool blankets slid from his shoulders and the cold of the stone seeped in, reminding him how much these walls were like the woods they’d been traveling through. Still, there was comfort in it. It felt secure, like they were folded inside a place of order, a place where people lived and trained and ate side by side.

He changed his clothes and dressed slowly, drawing on the black and dark olive tunic and black trousers, then putting on his belt and coat last. He slipped his sword belt on as he glanced at Bucky, who was already awake—of course he was. He stood at the basin, sleeve rolled to his elbow, washing his hands and face in silence. His pale hair caught the morning light in sharp strands, stark against his blood soldier gear. Steve couldn’t look at him long; every time he did, the sight pressed into him like a memory trying to surface, something unnamed and persistent.

“We should go down,” Bucky said, flicking water from his fingers, flesh and gold, before rolling his sleeve back down. His voice was low, clipped. “Mess hall first. Eat what they eat. Blend in. We feed later.”

Steve nodded, trading places with the older vampire to wash off his own face. The words sounded simple, but he knew they carried weight. Eating regular food wasn’t for nourishment—not anymore. It was camouflage. A ritual to maintain the illusion of belonging. He thought about the bitter bread he’d had the night before, how it had tasted like sawdust, how hard he’d had to swallow it down while pretending it was enough. He was glad that they had stopped to hunt about an hour before getting to the fortress yesterday, or he'd be going feral right now.

The hallways of the fortress were already alive when they stepped out. Boots scuffed against stone floors, weapons clinked as Soldiers carried them, low voices traded greetings. Every now and then someone glanced at Bucky, some eyes widening in recognition, others flicking past without pause. Steve walked half a step behind, trying to mirror Bucky’s ease—though Bucky’s gait wasn’t ease at all, Steve realized. It was calculation, control. Every stride was measured, like he was walking across ice and knew the strength of every footfall mattered.

The mess hall was cavernous, a long stretch of stone walls and timber beams with banners of faded insignia hanging from the rafters. Smoke drifted from the central hearth, the air thick with the smell of porridge and bread, of salted meat and leather. The clamor of voices hit Steve as soon as they entered: hundreds of Soldiers seated at heavy benches, eating and talking, the scrape of wooden bowls and mugs on tables punctuating the din.

Bucky led him through without hesitation, drawing a few stares—curious ones, wary ones. Steve’s shoulders tightened, but he kept his fangs pressed firmly back, breathing slow through his nose the way Bucky had taught him. He tried to smell only the food, only the smoke, but beneath it all lay the sharp copper edge of blood, pulsing faintly in every living body. It made his jaw ache. 

'Half-breeds don't taste good, half-breeds don't taste good, half-breeds don't taste good…'

He chanted the fact that Bucky had told him on the ride there in his own head like a mantra as he shoved the hunger down hard and kept following. Steve guessed it didn't apply to turned half-breeds, because Bucky tasted the absolute opposite of what he was told.

They took seats at the end of one of the benches, bowls of porridge and cups of coffee set before them. Steve lifted his spoon, forcing himself to eat. The taste was as thin as ash in his mouth, but he chewed slowly, eyes down, matching the rhythm of those around them.

“Relax your shoulders,” Bucky murmured without looking at him.

Steve did, or tried to. He swallowed another spoonful and was about to push the food around in his bowl when familiar voices drew his attention.

“Oh, good morning,” Clint said, striding over with his bow still slung across his back. He dropped onto the bench opposite them with all the subtlety of a stone through glass. “Didn’t expect to see you two in here this morning. Thought you'd skip breakfast.” 

Natasha followed, graceful as a shadow, her eyes flicking to Steve with sharp assessment before resting on Bucky. They didn't speak, but their eyes had a conversation all their own. 

Steve watched the exchange, the undercurrent of old familiarity in every mannerism. He remembered how they’d all fought side by side against the ancient vampire and his sons—not so long ago, but it felt like months had passed since then.

Clint leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We were heading into town this morning. Supplies, gear, a few other things the fortress stockroom doesn’t cover. You two should come. Good chance to move around, maybe get some ‘snacks.’”

Steve glanced at Bucky, waiting for his say.

Bucky gave a small nod, eyes still guarded but less cold than usual. “Fine. After breakfast.”

And just like that, it was settled.

Steve forced down the last of the porridge, the taste still strange on his tongue, and sat back. He tried to relax into the clamor of the hall, but his ears caught every heartbeat, every scrape of a blade against a whetstone nearby, every faint rush of blood beneath skin. He kept his face neutral, kept the mask in place.

'Half-breeds don't taste good, half-breeds don't taste good…'

Beside him, Bucky ate with the ease of someone who had done this countless times before, every gesture deliberate, every swallow convincing. Watching him, Steve realized it wasn’t the fortress walls or the Soldiers around them that made this place feel unfamiliar—it was the act of pretending, of wearing humanity or half-breed like a second skin. And Bucky, for all his silence, wore it well.

-

The sun sat higher by the time they left the mess hall, its light spilling through the cold fortress courtyard in warm shafts. The stone underfoot gleamed where snow had melted, and the banners strung above stirred faintly in the breeze. Soldiers moved about their business—some crossing the yard with bundles of supplies, others sparring in the training ring, the ring of steel against steel carrying sharp into the morning air, Trainers teaching their pupils.

Steve followed close behind Bucky as they crossed the courtyard, with Clint and Natasha on either side. The four of them together drew looks, though no one said anything outright. Bucky’s presence alone seemed to dissuade curiosity, his pale hair catching like frost in the light, his posture sharp and unyielding.

At the outer gates, Clint fell into step beside Steve with his mare, his bow already slung casually across his back. “Town’s not far,” he said, tipping his chin toward the wooded hills beyond. “Couple miles through the pines. Quiet stretch, usually.” His grin carried a dry humor that put Steve faintly on edge, like the man found more amusement in tension than in peace.

Natasha, walking just ahead with her own horse, added without looking back, “Usually doesn’t mean always. Keep sharp.”

Steve nodded, though his gaze slid to Bucky, who gave no acknowledgment as he climbed into Fen’s saddle. Bucky’s silence wasn’t empty—it was heavy, as though he was listening for something beyond the sound of their boots and the horse's hooves on the dirt path.

The road down from the fortress curved into a narrow trail through the trees. Pines rose on either side, their trunks straight and tall, the canopy letting slanted light fall in broken shards across the ground. Birds stirred above, their cries sharp, and somewhere deeper in the woods a brook whispered.

Steve inhaled. The scents came layered: pine resin, damp earth, a trace of animal musk. Beneath it all, the faintest pull of human settlements—a thread of smoke, baked bread, something sweet like honey on the air. His fangs tingled, and he clenched his jaw, focusing on the steady rhythm of boots and the occasional murmur of conversation.

Clint, riding ahead a few steps, glanced over his shoulder. “So,” he said, casual as if tossing stones into a pond, “how’s training going? You keeping up with him?” He jerked his head toward Bucky.

Steve hesitated, then answered, “He’s… thorough.” It was the safest word he could think of.

Clint’s grin widened. “That’s one way to put it. He ever let up?”

“No,” Steve admitted, and despite himself, he felt something close to pride at the answer.

Natasha gave him the briefest sidelong look, unreadable. “Good,” she said simply.

The forest thinned as they descended, giving way to open fields dappled in late-summer light. Crops bent in the breeze—rows of wheat and barley, a scatter of grazing sheep in the distance. The path widened into a road, ruts from wagon wheels cut deep into the dirt. And beyond, smoke curled from chimneys, roofs clustered tight, and the sound of distant voices began to rise.

The town came into view like a painting taking shape—stone cottages with thatched or tiled roofs, timber-framed shops along the main street, a square where a market was gathering. The smells hit Steve first: bread fresh from ovens, spiced meat roasting, leather oiled and warm in the sun. His throat tightened, the scents of blood beneath it all like a low drumbeat. The group loosely tied up their horses, and Steve forced a slow breath and followed Bucky’s lead into the bustle.

People moved about in clusters, bartering at stalls, hauling baskets, calling to one another. Children darted between legs, laughter shrill. A few heads turned at their group—four figures dressed in darker, sterner clothing than most—but no one lingered. Steve realized that these people were used to seeing Blood Soldiers, given that they were the closest town to the fortress.

“Supplies first,” Natasha said, her tone quiet but decisive. “Alchemy items, herbs, horse food.”

Clint added, “And whetstones. Oh, and a freshly baked pie! God, I love pie…”

They split naturally into pairs—Natasha guiding Clint toward the smithy while Bucky steered Steve toward the row of general stalls. The wood planks beneath their boots creaked as they moved past crates of dried fish, bundles of herbs, bolts of cloth. Vendors called out their wares in voices hoarse from repetition.

Steve lingered near a leatherworker’s stand, running a hand over the smooth strap of a harness. It reminded him of his old knight’s gear—different cut, different use, but the same feel of strength in something worn close to the body. He didn’t realize he’d slowed until Bucky stopped beside him, pale eyes flicking to the leather before resting on Steve.

“You need one?” Bucky asked, his voice level.

Steve shook his head. “No. Just—looking.”

Bucky regarded him a moment longer, then moved on without comment. Yet something in the way he’d paused, the way he’d asked, lingered with Steve as they continued through the stalls.

By the time they regrouped with Natasha and Clint near the market square, the sun was already past its zenith and their packs carried the weight of new supplies—bundled herbs, dried meats, plenty of quicksilver along with other alchemy items, spare tools wrapped in cloth. Clint tossed a pouch of cookies into his satchel with a satisfied grunt.

“That’s most of it,” Natasha said, checking the list she’d kept folded in her palm. “If we move quick, we can be back by dinner.”

Steve glanced at the sky, then at Bucky. “Why not just leave today?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “We’ve got what we need, don’t we?”

Bucky’s gaze slid to him, cool and unreadable. “Not yet.”

Steve frowned. “Why not?”

Bucky’s reply came after a pause, measured as always. “I asked the Head Priest to craft something for me. It’ll be ready in the morning.”

That was all he said, and Steve knew better than to press further. Still, curiosity tugged sharp at him. Something crafted by Head Priest of the Blood Soldiers, Stephen Strange himself, wasn’t a small request. Whatever it was, it mattered—and Bucky was keeping it close to his chest.

As they began the ride back toward the fortress, the town’s clamor fading behind them, Steve found his thoughts circling the words. Something crafted. Ready tomorrow. He didn’t know what it meant, but he felt the weight of it hanging just out of reach—like the scent of smoke on the wind, close but not yet seen.

-

Clint and Natasha peeled off toward the fortress gates on their horses, Fen’s reins in Natasha's unoccupied hand. Bucky caught Steve’s arm to grab his attention. A small tug, enough to draw him without making it obvious to any Soldier’s watchful eyes.

“I’m going to show you my favorite animal watching spot here,” Bucky said. His voice was low, the kind that offered no room for debate.

Steve nodded, knowing exactly what they were actually going to be doing.

—

They slipped from the main road into the treeline, the noise of the courtyard falling away behind them. Pines rose around them again, dark pillars against the afternoon light, their needles shivering faintly with each gust of wind. The air smelled sharper here—moss, sap, damp earth, melting snow—and beneath it all, that steady thrum of blood from the creatures moving unseen through the undergrowth.

Bucky walked in silence at first, his boots soundless on the pine needles. He didn’t have to scent the air to know Steve’s hunger was riding close to the surface; the stiffness in his shoulders gave it away, the way his eyes tracked movement at the edges of the trees.

“Hold your breath a little,” Bucky said finally.

Steve blinked at him, startled out of whatever haze had caught him. “What?”

“You’re too open. Letting every scent hit you at once.” Bucky lifted his chin, inhaling slow and precise. “Filter it. Focus only on what you need.”

Steve tried, jaw tightening. His chest rose, fell. Bucky watched the faint shift in his expression—the way his brow eased when the torrent dulled, the way the sharp edge of hunger softened. Not gone, but controlled.

A rustle carried from deeper in the woods. Bucky stopped, one hand lifting to halt Steve. The sound was small: a branch snapping, the quick shiver of undergrowth. Deer. He could tell by the weight of it, the steady pace of its steps.

He moved without speaking, silent through the underbrush. Steve followed close, imitating the careful precision of his movements. It was clumsy still—his foot caught on roots, his breaths uneven—but it was improving sharply.

They broke through a thicket and found the animal grazing in a patch of sunlight. Its hide gleamed bronze, head low as it tore mouthfuls of winter berries from a bush. The air sang with its pulse, steady and strong, each beat ringing like a drum in Bucky’s ears.

“Your kill,” Bucky murmured, stepping back.

Steve’s throat bobbed. His fangs caught the light as he let them drop, instinct pulling sharp at him. He drew a slow breath. Moved.

The strike was awkward but sure. He caught the deer at the neck, pinning it hard against the earth. Its cry split the air, brief and pained, before Steve’s fangs sank deep. The forest quieted, the only sound the wet pull of feeding.

Bucky stood still, watching. Not just the act—any vampire could take down prey if starving enough—but the restraint. Steve drank, but he didn’t drain, didn't overfeed. He pulled back with blood still in the deer’s veins, breath harsh. His lips were red, his teeth bared, but he stopped.

Bucky stepped forward, kneeling by the animal. A quick, clean slice across its throat with his knife ended what struggle remained. The body stilled. The forest exhaled.

Steve swallowed, meeting his stare. “Didn’t feel like enough while I was drinking it.”

“It never does,” Bucky said quietly. He sheathed his hunting knife, drank his own fill, then rose and tilted his head toward the path as he wiped off his mouth. “Come on. We’ve taken what we need. Let's leave the rest for the wolf not far from us.” 

They moved back through the trees, the world around them alive with birdsong. Bucky glanced sideways at Steve, catching the faint smear of red still at the corner of his mouth. Something in the sight twisted sharp inside him, something he forced down before it could rise too far. Bucky cleared his throat.

“You've uh, got some blood right here.” He gestured to his own mouth.

“Hmm? Oh, thank you.” 

By the time they reached the fortress gates again, the sun had begun to dip westward, throwing the courtyard in long, gold-lit shadows. The four of them had spent more time than previously thought at the market place earlier. Steve’s steps were steady, the hunger dulled for now. And Bucky, silent as ever, let the quiet between them speak louder than words.

—

The mess hall was a river of noise. Laughter, tankards striking wood, the iron smell of stew and roasted meat drifting in waves. Steve had never known a place so alive—and never felt so out of place in one.

The moment he stepped inside with Bucky, his skin prickled. Half-breeds, natural born vampire hunters. Their blood was sharp in his nose, threaded with steel and smoke. Instinct clawed at him, urging him to bare fangs at the hundreds of possible threats.

He forced himself still. Sat when Clint waved him over.

They gathered at a long table near the wall: Clint slouched with his usual lazy grin, Natasha poised like a blade beside him, Sam leaning back with easy charm, Wanda with her cool, curious gaze. Peter perched at the edge, wide-eyed but eager, as though being at a table with them all was an honor he hadn’t yet grown used to. Pietro looked tired and already half asleep as he ate.

And in the center of it all, Bucky sat.

He didn’t speak much, but when he did, the others leaned in. Steve could feel it, the weight of their history, the way respect for him ran deeper than words. Even Clint, all sharp sarcasm and restless hands, cut his jests short when Bucky’s ruby eyes pinned him too long.

Steve kept his hands folded tight in his lap. Every brush of someone walking by sent his senses sparking. Every scent—iron, wine, woodsmoke, blood under skin—threatened to burn down the fragile walls he’d built inside himself. Why he was having way more trouble today than he was yesterday was beyond him.

Conversation rolled on without him. Talk of patrols, sigils on the outer walls, rumors of ferals stirring in the north. Bucky offered little, only small nods and low-voiced answers when pressed. But at one point—just once—Steve caught it.

A curve at the corner of his mouth. The faintest smile, quick and fleeting, at something Wanda had said.

It hit Steve harder than any battle wound. 

The urge slammed into him then, harder than hunger ever had. To lean close. To press his scent over Bucky’s skin until no one else at this table, no one else in this fortress, could mistake who he belonged to. His fangs itched in his gums, but he didn’t move.

Not when Clint barked a laugh, not when Peter asked some eager question, not even when Sam’s gaze lingered on him too long. Steve sat still, knuckles white against his thigh, and fought.

The quiet after the hall felt unreal. No voices, no scents but the faint musk of old stone and the pale drift of candle smoke and burnt concealer herbs. The fire in the hearth and the blue glow of Bucky’s spirit orb lantern painted the walls in an almost white color.

Bucky dropped onto his bed without ceremony after changing his clothes and tugging off his boots.

“You did well,” he said, almost an afterthought.

Steve raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Keeping calm.” Bucky lay back, folding one arm beneath his head, eyes half-closed. “Could’ve lost it in there. I sensed you having some issues, but you didn’t crack.”

It was nothing, spoken like the weather. But it sank deep into Steve’s chest all the same. Praise, rare as rain on stone.

He swallowed hard. His body thrummed with need—the instinct screaming at him to cross the space, to bury himself in Bucky’s scent, to lay claim with every fiber of his being. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress until it creaked.

‘Don’t.’

Not now. Not when the line between them was so sharp and Bucky’s trust so fragile.

Instead he rose, fingers brushing the lantern on the table. The orb flared faintly at his touch, its glow shifting to a gentler shade of blue. He pulled the fledgling’s manual from his pack, settling onto his own bed with the pages spread across his knees.

The words blurred at first, his mind still tangled in instinct, but slowly he forced himself to read.

Bonds. Half-bonds. The rules of them.

It shouldn’t feel like this. The manual was clear: a half-bond was nothing more than a tie of absolute trust, of partnership, a tether but never a pull—the drag at his chest when Bucky lay only a few feet away, the thrum in his fangs whenever he was near—that wasn’t supposed to exist. It all felt even stronger than that ‘pre-mating bond’ he had read about in the book before. 

The fire in the hearth crackled low, no more than embers and the occasional snap of wood surrendering to flame. The glow painted the stone walls in muted orange, a counterpoint to the cool blue light of the lantern.

Steve set the manual aside, unable to focus on the inked words anymore. His body ached with restless energy, instincts twisting inside him tireless wolves, but his mind was heavy with exhaustion.

He lay back, staring at the ceiling.

At first, all he noticed was the fire. The dry hiss of sap boiling out of the wood, the rhythm of it, steady as a heartbeat. But then—other threads wove through the air. Subtle. Hidden under the layers of herbs Bucky used to mask them.

Smoke, sharp and acrid. Resin from pine sprigs burnt down to ash. Metallic tang from the protective wards of the fortress.

And beneath it all—faint but undeniable.

Bucky.

Steve closed his eyes. His chest ached with the weight of it, the instinctive pull toward the man only a few feet away. The book had said a half-bond was supposed to be neutral, flat. But this… it was like being caught in a tide.

The warmth of the hearth seeped into his bones. The scents tangled together, softening with the haze of fatigue. The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him was the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing.

—

That evening, when the bells tolled and shadows had lengthened, Stephen returned to the forge. He came barefoot this time, an old priest’s ritual—to feel the stone beneath his soles, to root himself to the fortress. He had dressed in his plainest robe, cord belt tied high, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

The weapon lay on the anvil where he had left it, wrapped in linen soaked in holy water to keep it from cooling too quickly, to keep the blessings bound tight within its metal.

He removed the wrappings carefully. The steel gleamed pale in the torchlight, humming faintly as if it remembered the prayers already spoken.

Tonight would be for refinement. Tonight would be for soul-binding.

He set out the bowls one by one: salt, ash, oil pressed from sacred olives, blood from himself and the rest of the priestly line mixed into the water. He lit candles at each corner of the forge, their flames guttering in unseen drafts.

Then he began.

The hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, each strike ringing like the toll of bells. The fortress itself seemed to listen. Stephen’s voice deepened with the cadence of chant, Latin curling through the smoke, every syllable a nail driven into the spiritual architecture of the weapon.

When the steel-silver mix glowed red once more, he quenched it in the basin—steam erupting, filling the forge with the sharp bite of salt and iron. He lifted the weapon, pressed his palm against it, and did not flinch though it burned. His blood hissed as it touched the metal.

By the time the second dawn lightened the slitted windows above the forge, Stephen’s work was nearly complete. The weapon’s edge gleamed faintly with silver where he had folded consecrated filings into its seams. Its shape was refined, its spine strong.

All that remained was sharpening and tthe blessing ritual at sunrise.

Stephen straightened slowly, joints protesting. His hammer rested heavy in his hand, but he did not set it down yet.

“Sleep, James,” he murmured, though he knew Barnes could not hear him. “Sleep, and know I have given him more than a blade. I have given him a future.”

He set the hammer down and picked up his work. The weapon flared in answer, singing softly, like breath drawn into new lungs.

Stephen smiled through his exhaustion.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice rasping with certainty as he brought it over to the sharpening wheel. “You’ll do.”

—

Steve woke to the press of a hand against his shoulder. Not rough, not insistent—just enough weight to draw him out of the shallow doze he had slipped into. His senses sharpened before his eyes even opened: the faint shift of air, the quiet scrape of boot leather against stone, the muted rustle of fabric as someone moved nearby. He opened his eyes to find Bucky already dressed, the long fall of his dark coat lit up slightly by the dying fire.

Steve sat up slowly, ribs expanding with a deep breath. The air of the fortress carried its own signature—stone cooled overnight, wood smoke lingering faintly from a dozen hearths, and beneath it all the faint iron tang of old holy sigils. But closest was Bucky himself, sharp edges dulled by the bitter haze of herbs, though Steve’s instincts cut through the veil anyway. He swallowed hard, dragging his gaze up before it lingered too long.

“Up,” Bucky said. His voice was low, softened by morning but still carrying that same clipped weight, the tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed. There was no edge of impatience—just expectation.

Steve swung his legs from the bed and pushed to his feet. He moved like someone still learning how to live in his own skin: not uncoordinated, but with a taut energy humming beneath the surface, like a string drawn almost too tight. He adjusted his coat, fastening the black fabric at his throat, and tugged the hem straight, then slipped on his boots.

Bucky watched only long enough to be sure he was ready, then turned toward the door without further word. Steve followed, the faint creak of the hinges swallowed by the immensity of the fortress.

The corridors were hushed at this hour, though never truly silent. Their boots clicked softly against ancient stone, the sound swallowed by heavy walls that had stood ever since the first generation of half-breeds. Here and there, torches guttered low, their flames thin, nearly exhausted after burning through the night. The smell of wax clung to the air. A single patrol passed them, spears tapping faintly against the ground in unison, but no one stopped them. It seemed Bucky's presence was permission enough.

They descended stairwells, the air shifting cooler, the faint scent of iron and ash winding in from somewhere ahead. Steve’s chest tightened as he realized where Bucky was leading him. He hadn’t been here before, but he recognized the change in atmosphere: warmer, denser, threaded with the dull thrum of heat still lingering from banked forges.

Bucky's pace was steady, neither rushed nor dragging, but each step carried weight. This wasn’t casual, Steve realized—it wasn’t just a walk. It was procession.

The corridors widened until they opened onto the great forge hall. Even half-dimmed at this hour, the place burned with a kind of reverence. Great anvils lay dark and heavy, their surfaces scarred with centuries of labor. Tools lined the walls in meticulous rows, each polished with the oil of use and care. The air itself shimmered faintly with the ghost of flame, the forge beds holding onto their heat, coals dull-red but still alive.

At the far end of the hall stood Stephen Strange. His figure was tall—red, black, and white robes dusted faintly with soot, sleeves rolled to the forearms where faint scars spoke of long years spent at the anvil as much as the altar. His hair, streaked silver at the temples, caught what little light the forge offered.

Before him, resting on a black cloth stretched across a broad stand, was a long, covered shape. Its form was deliberately obscured, but even veiled, it carried presence. Not simply a thing waiting to be lifted—something more. Something alive in its ringing silence.

The priest’s gaze lifted as they approached. The lines of his face softened when they found Bucky, and then Steve.

For a long moment, the half-breed simply regarded him—those sharp, crimson eyes, steady and intent, weighing more than Steve thought possible from a single look. Then he stepped forward, closing the distance with the unhurried certainty of a man long accustomed to being both judge and craftsman.

Steve straightened instinctively, every instinct of knightly discipline snapping into place. He had fought men twice his size, crossed steel with killers in midnight alleys, but there was something in this man’s bearing that tightened his throat far more than any blade at his ribs ever had.

“You must be Steve Rogers,” the Priest said. His voice was firm, neither cold nor warm—simply… absolute. “The one James hid from Baldwin’s shadow.”

Steve nodded once. His palms itched, but he held himself steady. “Yes, sir.” His voice came quiet but certain.

Stephen extended a hand. The faint trace of soot clung to the lines of his skin, like ash that could never fully be scrubbed away.

“Stephen Strange, Head Priest of the Blood Soldiers.”

Steve took the offered hand.

The grip was firm, grounding—neither a test nor a challenge, but a recognition. In that clasp Steve felt both weight and measure, as though Stephen was taking stock not just of his strength, but of the steadiness of his will.

Stephen’s expression shifted, just slightly. Not a smile, but something lighter than before. “Stronger than you look,” he said, releasing Steve’s hand. Then, with the faintest glance toward Bucky, “I approve.”

Heat crawled across the back of Steve’s neck, though he said nothing. Bucky didn’t so much as twitch, though Steve thought—perhaps—he caught the faintest flicker in his gaze.

Stephen turned then, drawing their attention back to the covered form laid upon the black cloth. He rested both hands on it, reverent, like he was before an altar.

“The sun is close,” Stephen murmured. “We’ll do this properly.” His voice seemed to grow heavier with each word, wrapping the forge hall in quiet ceremony.

He gestured to the great staircase leading upward. The air inside the forge shifted as though the fortress itself was listening.

“Come,” he said. “The sunrise waits for no man—not knight, not soldier, not priest. And certainly not us.”

The doors at the top of the staircase groaned as they swung open, the hinges singing low with age. Beyond lay the fortress courtyard, still shadowed, its stone and moss covered ground washed in the faintest pre-dawn blue. The horizon glowed like banked coals, slow and steady, waiting for breath to stir them to flame.

Stephen carried the veiled creation in his arms with both hands, as though it were not metal but something living. Bucky followed at his side, his posture tight but composed, while Steve kept close behind, the cool air brushing against his face.

The courtyard was empty save for them, its expanse wide and solemn, every stone seeming to know it had borne witness to rites like this for centuries. A wide altar of pale stone stood at the center, low and plain, but marked with the faint scoring of blades and the burned traces of countless offerings.

Stephen laid the covered form upon it with care. He did not yet lift the cloth. Instead, he stood with his palms flat against the altar, head bowed slightly, as though listening.

The silence deepened.

The first line of gold broke the horizon.

Light spilled into the courtyard, slow at first, then cresting. It struck the stone, turning each weathered edge into something sharp and holy. It spilled over Stephen, outlining him in fire, then Bucky, whose white hair flared somehow even brighter in the dawn. Steve squinted against the brightness, his chest tightening with something that wasn’t breath at all.

Stephen’s voice rose then—not loud, not booming, but resonant, carried on the new light itself.

“This is the hour when night and day trade dominion. Steel born of shadow is tempered in flame. What is carried from this altar is no longer metal, but oath. No longer tool, but bond. Let the sun see, let the forge hear, and let history keep its record.”

His hands closed on the black cloth.

The world seemed to still.

The cloth whispered as Stephen pulled it away, folding it back with the precision of someone who understood ceremony was not in flourish but in restraint. Beneath, steel gleamed faintly in the dawn—but not enough to show its shape, the form still obscured by shadow and angle. All Steve could see was the faint ripple of light chasing along an edge, the unmistakable shimmer of both silver and steel blessed and tempered in fire.

His heart lurched in his chest, though he did not yet know why.

Stephen set the cloth aside, then placed both scarred hands upon the weapon as the sun climbed higher. The light struck it fully now, spilling across the surface with a brilliance that felt less like reflection and more like fire taking breath.

He spoke low, voice measured, each word etched into the courtyard stone:

“By forge and flame, by blood and bond.

By oath given and oath kept.

Silver and steel tempered in shadow, now consecrated in light.

To cut falsehood.

To guard the living and innocent.

To burn the wicked.

So sworn, so sealed, so carried.”

The words seemed to sink into the weapon itself. The air trembled with them, a hush falling so deep that Steve swore even the distant birds held their voices.

When Stephen lifted his hands, the steel lay gleaming and silent, as though waiting.

He turned—not to Steve, but to Bucky.

“It is ready,” Stephen said simply.

Bucky inclined his head, his expression unreadable, though the faint tightness around his mouth gave him away. There was weight there, something almost personal.

Steve’s gaze flicked between them, throat dry. He wanted to ask what it was, why it mattered so much—but the gravity of the moment pressed his words down.

Stephen stepped back from the altar, leaving the weapon resting in the growing blaze of dawn. His hands folded before him, his face turned toward the rising sun.

“Take it when the hour is right,” he murmured, his voice carrying as though to both of them. “Until then, let the light bind it fully.”

The ritual was not done, Steve realized—it was only sealed by waiting. The weapon would belong not to the night it was forged, nor the priest who had made it, but to the day it was born beneath.

The three of them stood in the courtyard until the sun crested fully, the light washing every stone pale gold. Steve tried not to stare at the steel, but his eyes were drawn to it again and again, a strange hum prickling beneath his skin. He couldn’t tell if it was his instincts or something in the weapon itself.

Bucky said nothing, his gaze fixed straight ahead, pale hair bright as frost in the blaze.

When the sun had risen high enough to gild the courtyard stones in white-gold fire, Stephen inclined his head.

Bucky stepped forward, the crunch of his boots on gravel steady, unhurried. Steve’s pulse hammered anyway.

Bucky reached the altar and lifted the weapon as though it might break. For an instant the light caught the silver edge again, dazzling, before he turned and crossed the space between them.

Steve swallowed, rooted to the spot.

And then Bucky went to one knee.

It was not casual. It was not for show. The motion was precise, carrying weight Steve had no name for. The white-haired vampire bowed his head briefly before looking up, red eyes like ruby struck with with fire.

“Steven Rogers,” James said, his voice low but carrying, steady as stone. “I name you not fledgling, nor burden. You’ve stood where blood runs, and you’ve held to yourself. You’ve learned restraint where others would falter. You’ve fought beside me, and you’ve endured both the fights themselves and my less than friendly nature.”

The weapon lay across his open hands, offered not as a master gives to a servant but as a soldier gives to another—equal measure, equal weight.

“I grant you silver and steel born of fire and light, of a man whom I trust with my deepest darkest secrets. Take it, and take with it my old name I guard.”

He drew a slow breath, as though the words cost him something, and finished with quiet finality:

“Call me James.”

The name struck harder than the gleam of the silver. Steve felt it in his chest, deep and low, like a door opening he hadn’t even known was locked. His throat worked soundlessly.

The weapon—James’s gift—seemed to hum faintly in the sunlight, as though urging his hand forward.

But all Steve could do for a moment was stare at the man kneeling before him, white hair haloed in dawnfire, the name he’d guarded now laid bare like a wound and a vow both.

Steve’s throat tightened. He tried to speak—tried to shape a word, any word—but the air snagged in his chest. That name—James—still rang in his ears, heavy as iron, warm as fire. It wasn’t just a name. It was a door unlatched, a trust placed in his hands.

The tears came quiet, unbidden. They weren’t the messy, gut-dragging sobs he remembered from battlefields and funerals. These were soft, spilling warmth, running tracks of salt down his cheeks as if his body simply needed to release the weight of the moment. He let them fall.

Bucky watched him, steady, still kneeling with the weapon laid across his palms. No reproach. No barked order to pull yourself together. Just that quiet patience, a faint shift of his mouth that might have been the ghost of a smile. The kind of expression that told Steve it was alright—that Bucky possibly had expected this. Maybe even wanted him to feel it.

Steve reached out at last. His hand trembled as his fingertips brushed the cold metal, then the back of Bucky’s knuckles, brief and shocking, before curling around the hilt.

The weapon came to him smooth and certain, its weight perfect, as though balanced to the measure of his arm alone. The silver edge flared in the sunrise, gleaming so bright it seemed to carry its own light.

It was a double-edged sword—no ordinary blade, but a weapon of rare craftsmanship, each line precise, each curve singing of a hand that had shaped it with prayer as much as steel. Runes were carved into the midrib from the rain guard, almost all the way to the tip. The black hilt and steel crossguard bore more subtle engravings, almost hidden unless caught at the right angle, runes so fine they shimmered in and out of sight as the dawn touched them.

It was made specifically for him.

Steve sucked in a breath, chest tight, fingers clinging to the hilt like if he loosened his grip it might vanish.

His voice came low, rough, ragged from both awe and tears.

“Thank you… James.”

James dipped his head once, a motion spare but heavy with meaning.

Behind them, Stephen lifted his hand in benediction. The blessing lingered in the air, a warmth that seemed to settle into the steel and into Steve’s skin.

And for the first time, standing at James’ side with the weapon glowing in his grip, Steve felt not like a fledgling, not like a mistake—but like he belonged.

Chapter Text

Bucky hadn’t expected the tears.

Not really. He’d thought maybe Steve would stiffen with that knight's composure he always carried in his shoulders, or maybe smile at him with a murmured thank you and little else. But when the fledgling’s eyes brimmed and spilled over, silent and raw, Bucky felt something seize in his chest.

It wasn’t weakness, not by any stretch. It was pure—too pure. He’d seen men cry before, battle-worn knights, soldiers, bawling at the loss of comrades, weeping into mud and fire. That was grief. That was something negative.

Bucky could tell that Steve was crying because he felt something good. Because the weight of the moment, of trust freely given, pressed too heavy on his heart to contain. His eyes said everything.

And damn if Bucky didn’t find that endearing. His lips twitched, threatening a smile he held back out of habit, out of the armor he wore even with those he trusted most. But he let a trace of it show, just enough for Steve to see. Just enough for the kid to know he wasn’t being judged.

Then came his old name.

“Thank you… James.”

Hearing it in Steve’s voice was like being touched where no hand had a right to reach. Not the name itself—he’d heard it countless times since reconnecting with his past. But from Steve’s mouth, it was different.

It was careful. Reverent. Like a vow spoken aloud.

A shiver went through him, sharp and uninvited, crawling down his spine like fire across nerve. He clenched his jaw, hiding the way his body reacted, the way some deep, buried part of him wanted to close his eyes and ask to hear it again.

When Steve finally turned to Stephen and bowed his head, Bucky let out a slow breath.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said, voice still rough with emotion, though steadier now. “It’s absolutely beautiful. I’ll carry it well, I swear this to you.”

Stephen’s mouth softened into that tired smile that no one other than Bucky had the privilege of seeing often. The Head Priest inclined his head, replying simply, “That is all I ask.”

Bucky stepped forward then, clasping the priest’s arm in both gratitude and respect. “Thank you again, Stephen. I owe you more than one favor now.”

Stephen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped in and pulled Bucky into a tight, fatherly embrace that caught him off guard. His body stiffened for an instant, but then he let himself return it, one arm across Stephen’s broad back, breathing in the faint scent of ash, parchment, and consecrated oils that clung to the man.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Stephen murmured against his shoulder, low enough that only Bucky heard. “You’ve already given me what any father would want—to see his son live long enough to pass something forward.”

The words cut through his composure sharper than any blade. He swallowed hard, willing the sob of happiness out of his throat. Bucky steadied himself as the priest released him and clapped a hand over his shoulder with firm warmth. 

“Go safe on your hunt,” Stephen said aloud, his gaze flicking between them both. “Come back with your heads high.”

Bucky nodded once. Steve mirrored him, clutching the new blade with both hands like it was an extension of his soul.

For a fleeting moment, as the sun burned gold through the fortress courtyard and warmed the steel between them, Bucky let the pride rise unchained in his chest. Not just pride in Steve for enduring, for growing—but pride in himself, that he’d let this man close enough to see him. Close enough to call him by a name of a dead past self: James.

Before they got too far, Bucky turned around abruptly.

“Stephen.” The man in question looked up into Bucky’s eyes from the slight distance. He felt Steve turn around with him. “Just in case I don't make it back—I'm proud to be your son, blood or not.” Bucky saw the many expressions pass over the middle aged half-breed's features. Stephen cleared his throat into his fist, composing himself.

“Be on your way. The faster you two leave, the quicker you will return.” 

Bucky nodded once again, turning back to the main doors of the fortress, lightly shoulder checking Steve in a way that said, ‘come on.’ 

The walk back through the fortress corridors was quiet, but not in a hollow way. The kind of quiet that filled itself, weighted down with things unspoken but understood.

Bucky’s eyes kept sliding to Steve’s hip. No matter how hard he tried to keep his gaze forward, that damned sword caught the morning light like it was meant to be looked at. It hung sheathed in the same leather harness Bucky had given him a few weeks ago in some nameless village—a stop on a road that had felt endless at the time.

That harness had been nothing then, just a necessity to keep Steve armed. But now… now it carried something forged in fire and faith, etched by Stephen’s hand, and Bucky couldn’t look at it without feeling something coil tight in his chest. Pride, mostly. But also that gnawing pull—an ache deep down in bone and blood that he shoved ruthlessly aside.

Steve walked close, not so close their shoulders brushed, but close enough that Bucky could feel the heat radiating off him in faint waves. Younger vampires always ran a little hotter, blood adjusting to the change, muscles coiled with new power. Bucky told himself that was all he was noticing.

They reached their door, the heavy wood still bearing the faint scratches of past occupants. Their shared room smelled faintly of ash and herbs, their own scents hidden heavily beneath.

Inside, Steve lingered near the small table where their packs sat, his hand brushing the hilt of his new blade as if he was half-afraid to let go of it. His other hand raked nervously through his blonde hair, and when he turned, his summer sky blue eyes landed square on Bucky.

“Thank you,” Steve said again. His voice was softer now, the weight of earlier tears still lingering in it. “For… for all of it. Not just the sword. For… trusting me with something like this.”

Bucky leaned against the edge of the bedframe, arms folded, letting his expression stay unreadable. “I wouldn’t’ve, if you hadn’t earned it.”

That made Steve’s lips twitch, like he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if it was allowed. Then he took a step closer, his voice dropping with a tentative roughness.

“Can I…” He hesitated, fidgeting with one of the buckles on his tunic. “Can I hug you?”

The question hit Bucky harder than it should have. He felt his instincts flare immediately—sharp, feral, and weirdly tactile, wanting to grab Steve and drag him close, hold him tight until there was no space left between them. To bury his face in that wild, too-honest scent Steve carried and let the purr in his throat out like some domesticated animal.

Instead, he gave the most noncommittal shrug he could manage. “Whatever.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. He stepped right into Bucky’s space, closing the small gap between them in a heartbeat, and wrapped his arms tight around him. The younger vampire was warm—too warm—and strong, pulling him in as though he meant to anchor himself there.

Bucky stilled, for half a second, mind clawing at him to stiff-arm the closeness. But then Steve’s hand slid up, fingers finding the longer white strands at Bucky’s nape. He buried them there, not tugging, not gripping hard, just pressing in as though to ground himself.

Something inside Bucky uncoiled.

He let his arms come up, resting lightly around Steve’s back. Not crushing, not desperate—just enough to acknowledge the hold, to give back a fraction of what was being offered. And god help him, it felt good. Too good. Like sliding into a place he hadn’t realized had been waiting for him all along.

The urge to purr rose up, thick and insistent. He swallowed it down, jaw tightening, but still he felt his chest vibrate faintly, dangerously close to giving it away.

Steve’s scent pressed in through the layers of herbs and fortress smoke. Underneath it, the ex-knight’s own scent was impossible to ignore. Bright, steady, stubborn. Like the sharp edge of steel warmed in sunlight. Bucky could feel it in his teeth, in the twitch of his fangs, in the way his body betrayed him by relaxing just a fraction too much into the hold.

Steve exhaled against his shoulder, a low sigh of contentment that made the fine hairs at Bucky’s nape prickle. For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. No looming hunts, no fortress walls, no shadows of Baldwin haunting his steps. Just the steady thrum of another heartbeat pressed against his, steady and alive, holding him like it mattered.

When Steve finally eased back, his hand lingered just a moment too long in Bucky’s hair before sliding away. He looked flustered, like he’d just crossed a line he wasn’t sure he had the right to cross, and yet there was something steady in his eyes.

“Felt like I needed that,” Steve admitted, voice low, almost sheepish.

Bucky forced his shoulders into a roll, arms crossing again to cage the moment back into something smaller, less dangerous. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

But the words didn’t carry their usual bite. And Steve must’ve heard that too, because the corner of his mouth tugged upward—just slightly, just enough.

Bucky busied himself with his pack, cinching straps tighter than necessary, trying to will away the echo of warmth still lingering on his skin. But the faint buzz of contentment humming through his chest refused to go.

-

The mess hall was already alive when they walked in, long beams of sunlight slanting through the narrow windows to cut across the room. Smoke from the hearth curled upward in lazy ribbons, carrying with it the heavy scent of porridge and roasted meat. Steve stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mingled aromas, but Bucky noticed the difference—no sharp flinch, no tightening of jaw like yesterday. Hunger was there, always would be, but he was holding steady.

Bucky had told him last night he’d done good, and Steve had looked at him like the words were worth just as much as the blade Stephen had set into his hands. Now, watching him keep his breathing even as they crossed the room, Bucky suspected Steve was determined to prove it wasn’t just a fluke.

They spotted their comrades immediately—Sam, Peter, Wanda, and Pietro gathered at one of the middle tables. Sam was halfway through a story, gesturing with his fork; Peter leaned in, hanging on every word; Wanda’s small smile suggested she’d already heard this one before; Pietro shoved a heaping spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Natasha and Clint sat across from them, both with plates nearly cleared. Natasha’s expression was unreadable, but Clint was grinning like he’d said something clever.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Sam called, waving them over.

Bucky slid onto the bench with practiced ease, Steve settling beside him. For a moment, Steve looked like he might fold in on himself due to the increasing hunger, but then Peter lit up.

“Steve! You should’ve seen it,” he said quickly, bouncing forward on the bench. “Clint tried to cut an apple in the air with one of his arrows—”

“And nailed it,” Clint interrupted, raising his mug with a smirk.

“Missed it,” Natasha corrected, tone as dry as ash. “Nearly took Peter’s ear off.”

Pietro chuckled, slapping the table. “Lucky for him, Wanda was there to swat it aside.”

The whole table laughed, and Steve’s shoulders eased, the tension bleeding away. He even leaned forward, smiling crookedly. “Guess I missed quite the show.”

“Stick around long enough, you’ll see plenty,” Sam said, grinning at him like they’d been friends for years instead of days.

Bucky let the chatter roll on, eyes flicking to Steve now and then. He was talking more than yesterday, almost as much as their first day here, not just answering questions but asking them. Wanda mentioned a new batch of herbs she was growing for the Medic's salves; Steve asked about the soil she used. Pietro tried to poke fun at a funny looking out of place hair on the ex-knight’s head, and Steve teased him right back, voice steady and amused. Even his laughter—quiet, but real—didn’t carry any edge of strain.

Something in Bucky’s chest unclenched.

Then Clint leaned back, eyeing Steve with that sly, needling grin of his. “I haven't seen you two looking for another horse—are you going to keep riding behind Bucky on Fen?”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “I—”

Natasha arched a brow, lips quirking faintly. “It does look like a child clinging to a parent’s cloak.”

Steve flushed, lips pressing thin. But before he could defend himself, Bucky cut in, voice flat. “He rides Fen until I say otherwise.”

The table quieted for a beat. Steve ducked his head, embarrassed but grateful, and Bucky caught the subtle brush of his hand against the hilt of his new sword—a reminder of what he did have, what he’d earned.

Sam cleared his throat, grinning again to lighten the moment. “Can’t fault him for it. Fen’s a damn warhorse, not some plow nag. Probably safer than Clint’s dun, anyway.”

“My gelding’s steady,” Clint protested.

“Steady dumb,” Sam shot back, and the table broke into laughter again.

Breakfast stretched on in easy conversation. Steve stayed engaged the whole time, his hunger an undercurrent but not the focus—something managed, not feared. Bucky found himself almost forgetting to keep watch, though his instincts never let him truly relax. He was proud, even if he’d never say it out loud.

When plates were cleared, Natasha rose with her usual precision, adjusting her coat before heading toward the courtyard. Clint followed, tossing a wink at Peter as if promising some mischief when they returned. Sam clasped Bucky’s hand in a firm grip, murmuring, “Bring him back in one piece,” with a pointed glance at Steve. Wanda’s farewell was quieter, but she pressed a sprig of something green into Steve’s hand—a charm against fear, she said softly. Steve thanked her like it meant the world. Pietro smacked both of their backs multiple times

Outside, the morning air was brisk, heavy with the scent of dew still clinging to the stones. Their horses were waiting in the courtyard. Natasha’s bay mare pawed the ground restlessly; Clint’s dun gelding flicked its ears. Fen stood taller than both, black coat gleaming, his breath steaming in the cool air.

Steve’s gaze lingered on Fen, then on the others’ mounts. His shoulders stiffened as Clint glanced over with a smirk.

“Stevie riding pillion~,” Clint teased.

Natasha swung onto her mare without a word, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Steve muttered under his breath, “You heard James in the mess hall,” and moved toward Fen without further argument.

Bucky’s throat went tight at the sound of his name—that name—spoken so easily. He smoothed a hand down Fen’s neck to cover the reaction.

“Mount up,” he said simply.

Steve obeyed, climbing onto Fen’s broad back and settling in close behind him. The warmth of him pressed steady and certain. He just rested one hand lightly at Bucky’s side, confident, ready.

Bucky clicked his tongue, and Fen surged forward, hooves striking sparks against the stone. Natasha and Clint led the way, the morning sun throwing long shadows before them. Behind, Sam, Peter, Wanda, and Pietro lingered at the gate, four figures watching with hope and worry mingled in their eyes.

The hunt for Ravan had begun.

—

The stallion’s gait had smoothed into something hypnotic by midday, a long rolling rhythm that traveled through Steve’s bones. He’d gotten used to the sway, the rise and fall of Fen’s stride, but it was the man he rode behind that anchored him more than anything. James’s back was a solid line, broad shoulders wrapped in dark fabric, white hair catching the light whenever it broke through the trees.

The world looked different from here—clearer, sharper, as if someone had stripped a film from Steve’s eyes. The pines crowding the road were so green they almost glowed, and every shift of the wind carried scents he never would’ve caught before: the resin of the needles, the musk of deer bedding down somewhere in the underbrush, the faint metallic tang of distant water. He blinked hard more than once, overwhelmed by it all.

Ahead, Clint and Natasha rode side by side on their own mounts. They’d fallen into easy conversation as soon as they left the fortress gates and hadn’t stopped since. Steve caught fragments of it whenever their laughter drifted back—a story about Clint nearly getting thrown from his horse, Natasha’s dry retort about how she’d warned him, his insistence that it had been “all part of the plan.”

“You always talk this much on the road?” Steve called ahead after a while, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Only on long trips,” Clint shot back, twisting in his saddle. “Keeps the mood light, y’know?”

Natasha didn’t look back, but Steve saw her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “He’d talk to the horses if no one else were around.”

“Better conversationalists than him,” Clint quipped, thumbing toward James.

Steve felt more than saw the faint roll of James’s eyes in front of him. “You two keep yappin’ and we’ll never hear the wolves comin’.”

Steve chuckled quietly, surprised at how easily the sound came. Yesterday, hunger had hollowed him out, left him brittle and afraid of what he might do if he lost his grip. Today was different. The gnawing was still there, but it wasn’t consuming him. He held it down. He remembered the rough kindness in James’s voice—'You did well.' Simple words, but they’d settled something restless inside Steve. He wanted to do even better today.

The road wound on. Hills lifted them into sunlight, then dipped them back into shade where moss grew thick and cool. Once, a fox darted across the path, red fur a flash against the green, and Clint swore his horse nearly startled. Steve caught the sharp scent of the animal even after it vanished.

“You’re smelling everything, aren’t you?” Natasha said suddenly, as if she’d plucked the thought straight from his head.

Steve blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’ve had your nose in the air since dawn,” she replied, the faintest curl of amusement at her lips. “Like a hound catching its first trail.”

Clint barked a laugh. “Careful, rookie, or James’ll start expecting you to track dinner for him.”

Steve grinned despite the flush creeping up his neck. “I think he’s got that covered.”

The banter eased the weight on his chest. Hours passed that way, the four of them moving as a loose knot down the long road, trading words and silence in equal measure. Every so often, Steve let his fingers drift to the sword at his hip, reassuring himself it was real—the weight of it, the cool touch of the pommel, the quiet promise that he carried something more than just vampirism now.

By the time the sky bled orange at the edges and shadows stretched long across the dirt, Steve’s body ached from the ride, but he felt steadier than he had in days. Clint pointed out a clearing not far from a burbling creek, and the little caravan angled toward it. Horses were led to graze, and Natasha slid from her saddle with the easy grace of someone born to travel. Clint was already gathering wood before the sun fully dipped.

Steve followed James’s lead as they dismounted. His legs wobbled under him for a moment, but he steadied quickly, the scent of pine smoke and cool water crowding his head. They’d made their first camp. The road behind them stretched endless, and the road ahead promised more of the same—but for the first time since he’d woken changed, Steve felt like he could walk it.

The clearing settled into its own rhythm quickly. Clint had coaxed a fire from the wood he gathered, the thin orange flames licking upward and snapping as they bit into pine. Natasha crouched low beside him, laying out the bundles of dried meat and root vegetables she’d carried in her saddlebag, efficient hands moving as if she’d done it a hundred times before.

Steve, still learning where to put himself, offered to help.

“Here,” Clint said, tossing him a rolled bundle. “Bedrolls. Figure you know how to make a corner tight, knight boy.”

Steve caught it with a smile. “I’ve done my share.”

The ground was soft with needles and leaves, but he swept a clear space near the fire, laying out the rolls with steady hands. He worked the knots until the bedding spread flat and firm. The movements were calming, muscle memory from campaigns past—digging in after long marches, making camp with knights who’d joked and argued around fires much like this. Only now his senses flooded with too much: the resinous smoke curling sharp in his nose, the whisper of every plant and animal in the dark.

When the bedrolls were finished, he straightened and crossed to the fire where Natasha was stoking the flames higher with a slender branch. “Can I help?” he asked.

She tilted her head, weighing him with her red eyes. “Stoke it. Keep the flame hot.”

He crouched beside her, feeding the fire with careful pushes, listening to the crackle as if it could drown the quiet hunger curling in his belly.

Across the clearing, James moved with Fen, loosening the stallion’s bridle and rubbing him down with a damp rag. The horse leaned into him like an oversized hound, ears twitching in satisfaction. Steve found his gaze snagging there more than once—the easy way James’s gloved hand worked, the soft murmur of his voice meant only for the beast. It was… grounding, somehow. Proof that even after everything, James carried gentleness in him.

When the chores had settled into a rhythm and Clint started spearing slices of root over the fire, Steve finally let himself sink onto his roll. His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the sword strapped at his hip.

He eased it free.

The blade caught the firelight instantly, its silvered edge flashing in shifting patterns of orange and white. He held it across his knees, staring at the craftsmanship. He’d glimpsed it briefly at the fortress, when James had presented it to him, but he hadn’t studied it. Not like this.

The hilt was wrapped in black leather, soft but firm against his palm, fitting his grip as though it had been made for him—which, in reality, it had. A pattern of runes traced along the guard, subtle but precise, their edges glimmering faintly in the fire’s glow. He didn’t know their meaning, but he could feel the care in every carved line.

His thumb brushed along the rune covered midrib of the blade, marveling at the balance, the weight.

He let his eyes linger on every detail, memorizing it. The flawless edges, the way the steel seemed to drink in both shadow and flame.

From where he sat, the sounds of camp life carried around him: Natasha giving Clint a short, scolding swat when he tried to snatch food early; Fen’s heavy snort as James whispered into his mane. The world was both sharp and soft at once, and the sword gleamed steady through it all—like a tether.

Steve exhaled slowly, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Gratitude. Resolve. Maybe both.

He ran a thumb along the guard again, slower this time. He wanted to carve every inch of it into memory. The weight of the hilt. The exact sheen of steel in firelight. The faint smell of oil rubbed into the leather grip. Because this wasn’t just silver-edged steel. This was trust. This was James saying you are my equal.

The hunger throbbed faintly at the edges of his mind, never gone. But here, now, with the blade across his knees, he felt steadier. It reminded him of the discipline drilled into him as a boy—the patience of sword forms practiced until sweat slicked every inch of him, the bruises of sparring, the voice of his commander barking corrections. He’d thought that part of his life gone forever after being turned. But the steel in his lap whispered otherwise.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just listening. The quiet pop of the fire. Natasha’s low murmur to Clint. Fen shifting his weight as Bucky worked along his flank.

And beneath it, always, that second pulse. Not his own heartbeat—but a different rhythm, softer, steadier. It was James. His presence was a constant now, like a tether strung somewhere behind Steve’s sternum. Steve swallowed against the pull, throat tight.

He opened his eyes again, staring at the runes along the guard. 'I’ll be better today,' he promised silently. 'Better than yesterday. You won’t have to watch me like a hawk forever. I’ll prove it.'

The fire shifted, a log collapsing into sparks, and with it came footsteps across the clearing. Slow, deliberate. Steve didn’t need to look up to know who it was—he already felt him.

“Ready to hunt?” James’s voice was low, pitched only for Steve to hear over the crackle of flame.

Steve blinked, lifting his gaze. James stood there with Fen’s tack still in one hand, white hair lit up in the fire, eyes steady on Steve.

Steve tightened his grip on the sword, heat rising unbidden in his chest.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m ready.”

The forest pressed close around them as they went deeper, thick with shadows and silver where the moon broke through the canopy. Steve followed a few steps behind James, matching his soundless stride across the frozen ground. His senses stretched wide without effort now—the rustle of leaves sharp as steel, the scurrying of a vole beneath the soil, the faint echo of wings overhead. The hunger stirred, yes, but it no longer roared like it once had. It was something he could hold in his hands and shape, not something that shaped him.

He breathed in, slow and deliberate. The night fractured into scent—wet bark, pine needles, the trace of frozen earth. For a moment the sharp tang of rabbit blood hooked at him, quick and frantic. His muscles tightened, but Steve shut his eyes, exhaled, and reached past it.

There. Heavy musk, warm, alive. Twin heartbeats like slow drums. Deer.

When he opened his eyes, James was watching him sidelong. No words, just a faint, approving tilt of his head. The knot in Steve’s chest loosened.

They moved together, slipping through the undergrowth until the clearing opened ahead. The two deer stood broad and proud, antlers catching moonlight like blades. Their ears twitched. Pulses thundered in Steve’s skull.

For a moment, his fangs pressed against his lower lip, his breath catching sharp. He stilled himself, grounding on the hilt of his sword at his side, reminding himself he didn’t need it here—reminding himself that control was part of the hunt, too.

He drew another breath, eased his shoulders down, and his body settled. Hunger, yes, but not frenzy.

James’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable, but Steve caught it—saw the almost-smile at the corner of his mouth, quick as a flash before it was gone.

They shifted lower, circling with care. Steve matched James’s crouch, each step deliberate, measured. The deer he focused on lifted its head, but Steve stilled before it bolted, instincts reined in, muscles coiled without exploding forward. The animal turned back to grazing, and Steve’s chest filled with quiet triumph.

This time, he didn’t need the reminder to breathe.

Steve waited until James shifted forward, then moved with him, both of them gliding through shadow like they were one body split in two. The deer grazed, oblivious until the last second when its ears flicked up, sensing. Steve struck fast, precise—not wild, but measured.

The stag went down hard under Steve’s weight, muscles snapping tight, legs jerking once before Steve broke its neck clean. He held steady as he fed, careful, measured, pulling away before greed could set in. His chest heaved with the effort of restraint, but he hadn’t lost himself.

Across from him, James wasn’t as neat. The beast he’d chosen thrashed longer before he could snap its neck, antlers gouging the earth, and for a moment Bucky wrestled it down in a brutal tangle of strength and instinct. When his fangs sank deep, the animal’s last kick splattered hot blood up the side of his face. A streak caught in the sharp line of his hair where it had been combed perfectly back, staining pale white into something wild and scarlet.

Steve froze mid-breath, transfixed.

The blood clung to him like war paint, glistening in the moonlight. It threaded through the always slicked back style of his white hair, bright and terrible and beautiful. And his eyes—God help him—his eyes burned red as molten rubies, shining with half-breed fire. The sight made Steve’s own fangs ache in his gums, itching, pressing down before he could stop them.

'He looks…' Steve swallowed, throat bone-dry. 'He looks like something holy. Or damnation itself.'

James swiped his mouth with the back of his gloved wrist, smearing the blood further across his cheek without even noticing. His feeding was efficient, clinical once the neck was snapped and the thrashing stopped, but that flash of feral wildness had already branded itself into Steve’s mind.

He forced his gaze away, dropping back to his own kill before it showed. But even as he cleaned himself and rose, the itch remained. The scent of iron and James’s skin mingled heavy in the night air, and Steve’s chest felt too tight with the want of it.

By the time they returned to camp, Natasha and Clint had finished their cooking, the air rich with roasted meat and herbs. Natasha glanced up first, brow arching at the mess streaked in James’s hair and down his face.

“You missed a spot,” she said dryly, flicking her spoon toward her own cheek.

James ignored her, crouching to unbuckle Fen’s saddle. Clint chuckled under his breath, muttering something about feral wolves and bad table manners, which earned him a sharp glance from Natasha.

Steve busied himself with stoking the fire again, trying to chase the picture of blood in white hair from his mind. His hands shook once on the wood, but he covered it quick.

When everything was settled for the night and alarm sigils were drawn around the camp perimeter, Clint leaned back on his bedroll with a yawn. “So, whose unlucky job is it to shake us awake at dawn?”

“Not me,” Natasha said at once, sipping from her cup without looking up.

“Not me either,” Clint countered, smirking. “I’ll be grumpy.”

“You’re always grumpy in the morning,” Natasha shot back.

James’s voice cut in, low but even. “Steve and I will take it.”

Steve blinked, then nodded quickly, hiding the way his heart had jumped. “Yeah. We’ll do it.”

Natasha hummed as if that settled it, while Clint gave a mock salute.

The fire cracked between them, warm and steady, while Steve sat with the weight of his sword in his lap and the raw memory of red eyes still burning behind his own.

-

Steve woke to the low scrape of leather against leather and the faint metallic click of buckles. For a moment he stayed perfectly still, listening. The world was still dark, but not with the same velvet weight of night—this was the edge of dawn, that pale-blue hush where even the trees seemed to hold their breath.

Then came James’s voice, quiet but firm.

“Up, Rogers. Time to move.”

Steve blinked his eyes open. James was already crouched beside his bedroll, fastening the strap of his potion belt. His hair—short and brushed back, though still unruly from sleep—looked silver against the dim firelight, and the faint smear of blood he hadn’t fully managed to clean last night remained along his temple. Steve had the sudden urge to reach up and clean it off himself, but he bit it back, pushing upright instead.

“Mornin’,” he muttered, his voice thick.

James just gave him a sharp nod, then stood and crossed to where Clint and Natasha still lay bundled in their blankets. Steve followed him, stretching the stiffness from his arms as he did.

“Romanoff,” James said, nudging Natasha’s boot with his own. “Up.”

She stirred immediately, eyes flashing open with a predatory awareness that reminded Steve she wasn’t human either—not fully. She sat up, smoothed her dark braid over one shoulder, and gave a pointed glance toward Clint.

“Your turn,” she said.

James’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk, as he crouched and jabbed a clawed, golden finger hard into Clint’s shoulder. The archer groaned, rolling onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

“You could at least say ‘good morning,’” Clint grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning,” James deadpanned, already turning away to roll up his own bedroll.

Natasha chuckled under her breath while Steve fought not to smile. Clint sat up muttering something about vampires and their bedside manners, but he got moving all the same.

Within minutes, camp was broken down. Bedrolls were strapped tight, saddlebags fastened, and Natasha poured the last dregs of last night’s water over the smoldering fire until it hissed into steam. Fen stamped impatiently as Bucky tightened his bridle, the great stallion’s breath pluming white in the chill air. Clint and Natasha’s horses snorted, ears twitching toward the forest as though sensing the long ride ahead.

“Mount up,” James called, already swinging into Fen’s saddle with practiced ease.

Steve crossed the short distance and climbed up behind him, settling against the familiar breadth of James’s back. 

They set off, hooves muffled against the frozen earth, the road stretching long and pale ahead of them. The forest closed in on either side, the air smelled of pine and cold stone. Steve inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs.

The road was waiting.

-

The farmland bled away behind them, fading into darker lines of trees that rose thicker with each passing mile. Snow to Steve’s boots, and coated the tail of his long coat. The sun was fully behind winter clouds, the air cold and light, yet Fen carried them with tireless patience, his dark hide stood out against the white, his breath a steady rhythm that matched the clop of his hooves on the narrowing road.

Steve had ridden horses all his life, but never like this—pressed so close to someone else that he could feel the rise and fall of each breath. His chest was firm against Bucky’s back, his knees braced tight around Fen’s broad frame, and still it wasn’t enough distance to keep him from breathing in the scent that clung to Bucky like a second skin.

Leather and clove. The faint medicinal bite of herbs Bucky carried to mask what he was. And beneath it, something warmer, darker, a pulse of iron-sweet that no amount of herbs could fully disguise. That scent curled into Steve’s skull and refused to leave, driving him half mad with its persistence.

He tried to look past it, to keep his focus outward. The world narrowed from rolling tundra into woodland shadows, the road pinching into rutted strips hemmed by dense trees. Birds wheeled above, calling sharply, while the wind stirred branches heavy with heavy powdered snow.

He thought back on the teasing from Clint about still riding with James.

The truth was, Steve didn’t mind. Not at all. If anything, he minded too little. Every breath filled his lungs with that scent, grounding and overwhelming all at once. Every sway of Fen’s stride pressed him tighter against the line of James’s spine. The hard edge of the older vampire’s knife hilt occasionally nudged his thigh where it hung at his hip. The brush of James’s white hair sometimes caught against his cheek in the breeze.

Hours passed like that—long and slow, the forest thickening, the road twisting ever deeper between shadowed trunks. Steve’s thoughts circled endlessly around the same point: James, his scent, the impossible nearness of him. By the time the sun began to sink and Clint called for them to set camp, Steve’s jaw ached from keeping his teeth clenched, from holding himself together against an instinct he barely understood.

-

Steve felt strung thin by the time they set camp. The firelight didn’t soothe him tonight, not the way it had the night before. His skin felt too tight, his senses stretched sharp enough to cut.

Clint sat cross-legged near the fire, stripping goose-feathers and binding them to arrow shafts with quick, deft motions. A little pile of finished arrows already gleamed at his side. Natasha had unbuckled her axes and laid them out on a blanket, carefully running a cloth over them until the metal caught firelight like liquid. She worked with quiet precision, her face as still as a mask.

James had found a whetstone and crouched with it in hand, dragging his hunting knife across its surface in measured strokes. The faint rasp of steel on stone set Steve’s teeth on edge, the sound ringing sharp in his skull.

Steve tried to keep busy. He unrolled the bedrolls, stacked kindling, even checked the straps on his boots twice, but none of it quieted the restlessness crawling under his skin. Every breath carried too much—smoke, leather, sweat.

He sat down eventually, his sword balanced across his knees, but the blade blurred in front of him. His eyes kept sliding to James instead, tracing the careful angle of his arm as he sharpened steel, the gleam of his red eyes when he glanced toward the fire.

By the time James finally rose, sliding the whetstone into his belt pouch and standing to his full height, Steve’s restraint was little more than splintered glass.

“You ready?” Bucky asked. No wasted words—just the same even tone he always used.

Steve nodded too quickly, pushed up to his feet. His chest felt tight with everything unsaid, but he swallowed it down, kept it buried. Not here. Not in front of Natasha and Clint.

The forest waited just beyond the glow of the fire, shadows deep and heavy with night. Steve followed James into it, the weight of his secret pressing harder with every step.

The campfire’s glow dwindled behind them until it was nothing but a faint smear of orange through the trees. The forest closed in, thick with the smell of fresh snow and winter foliage, every breath cool and sharp in Steve’s lungs.

James moved ahead in silence, his steps soundless over the leaf litter, every line of his body coiled and sure. Steve followed, matching him stride for stride, trying to focus on the hunt. But it wasn’t hunger for blood gnawing at him now—it was something else.

The longer he stayed close to James, the worse it got. That scent again—herbs clinging faintly to his collar, leather warmed by his skin, and underneath it all that note that was only James, rich and sharp enough to make Steve’s chest ache. He swallowed hard, trying not to breathe too deeply, but it was useless.

James crouched suddenly, raising a hand. Steve mirrored him automatically, muscles tightening, fangs tingling faintly in his gums. He thought he saw a shadow slip between the trees ahead—a deer, maybe—but the moment stretched too long, his nerves buzzing too hot.

He should’ve stayed quiet. Should’ve kept his mouth shut, just like he had at camp. But the words broke free before he could stop them, rough and raw in the dark.

“I… I want to scent you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

James turned his head slowly, the faint light catching in his half-breed red eyes, making them gleam like embers. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t flicker—but Steve felt heat rush to his face anyway, shame burning through him.

He wanted to take it back, swallow it down, but the words hung there, thick and ugly between them. His fingers curled tight against his knees, nails biting into his palms. “I didn’t mean to just—” He broke off, teeth clenched. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The smell of you—it’s driving me half mad.”

For a moment, James didn’t answer. The forest pressed close, the night heavy with sound: crickets, the rustle of something in the underbrush, the distant hoot of an owl.

Then James’s voice came, calm but firm, low enough that it almost blended into the dark.

“Instincts aren’t something to be ashamed of. But you need to go easy, Rogers.” His gaze sharpened, steady as a blade. “You choke me in your scent, fine. But you choke Natasha and Clint too? That won’t fly.”

Steve’s chest rose and fell too fast, hunger, shame, and need scraping against each other in his ribs. He thought that might’ve been the end of it—James catching the urge in his voice, putting it down quick and clean. But he didn't.

James’s expression shifted. Not softer, exactly, but something more measured. He studied Steve a long moment, then said quietly, “It’s the bond.”

Steve’s brows knit.

James went on, his tone calm, matter-of-fact. “Shared blood ties a thread between us. Not a full knot, but enough to tug at instincts. Makes everything run hotter. The urge you’re feeling—that’s it. That’s the bond pushing.”

Steve swallowed. The words landed heavy, rational, clinical. They should’ve explained it, should’ve taken the edge off. But they didn’t.

Because deep down, he wasn’t sure that was all it was.

It didn’t feel like just the bond that made him memorize the way moonlight caught in James’s pale hair, or that had him staring too long at the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scars at his throat. It wasn’t just instinct that had his chest tighten whenever James offered him the rarest flicker of something close to a smile.

He held the thought close, buried it deep, because saying it aloud would’ve been too much.

James tilted his chin, exposing the strong line of his throat as casually as if he were offering nothing more than his wrist. “Go on, then,” he murmured. “But go easy, Rogers.”

Steve hesitated only a breath after Bucky tilted his chin. That small gesture—unguarded, deliberate—was all the permission he needed.

He stepped forward, closing the last inch of space like it was a chasm. His arms went around James’s shoulders, instinct guiding him into a hold far too desperate to be casual. James was solid beneath his grip, warm and steady, and Steve clung tighter than he had back in the fortress, as though some part of him feared this chance might be ripped away.

Then he buried his face against the collar of James’s red shirt and inhaled.

The rush hit him like a blow.

Herbs, petrichor, clove, pine, leather—those scents he’d come to recognize and associate with ‘safe’ and ‘home.’ It seared into Steve’s senses, hot and stabilizing, and his whole body trembled with the force of it.

He inhaled again, deeper, greedier, pressing his nose hard against the skin just above Bucky’s collarbone. He wanted more, needed more.

His fangs itched like fire in his gums. His chest rose and fell too fast, his throat tight with the effort of holding back the sound threatening to escape.

God, it felt like he’d been starving in ways he hadn’t even known until now.

He shifted closer, mouth brushing fabric, then skin. His nose traced along the column of James’s throat, mapping out every ridge and scar like he’d been born knowing them. Each breath he dragged in fed something feral and fragile in him at once, some hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

His fingers threaded into James’s short hair, nails grazing scalp. The sensation rooted him even as it pulled him deeper. A low groan spilled out before he could choke it back.

James stood still through it, a steady weight in his arms, silent except for the faintest catch in his breath when Steve’s mouth ghosted over his pulse point.

The twin scars at Bucky’s neck drew him like a lodestone. Marks he made, healed but not forgotten, pale against pale skin. Steve hovered there a long moment, shuddering with restraint, before instinct tipped him over.

His tongue flicked out, tasting.

The response inside him was violent—relief and want crashing together, dizzying and euphoric. His grip cinched tighter, and his knees nearly gave out with the force of it. He pressed harder against tye older vampire, desperate to sink into him, to lose himself in that scent and taste.

A sharp breath escaped James then, quick enough that Steve felt it vibrate through his chest.

Steve stilled, panting, shame rising even through the haze.

James’s hands settled on his shoulders—firm, steady. Not shoving, but holding him there, keeping him from falling further.

Steve pulled back, face burning, breath ragged, fangs dropped.

In the moonlight, James exhaled slow. The faint glint of fangs showed as his lips parted—not bared in threat or any other negative emotion, but there all the same. His pale cheeks had the slightest pink hue to them, his eyes looked relaxed and half-lidded.

And Steve’s chest clenched. The image scorched itself into him, a brand he knew he’d carry forever.

“I—I’m sorry,” Steve blurted, stumbling over the words as if he could outrun them. His hands dropped away from James’s shoulders like they’d been scorched, shame already clawing at his throat. “I shouldn't have—"

He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Before James could answer, Steve turned sharply and pushed into the trees. The moonlight thinned, swallowed by the dark, until only the crackle of branches under his boots and the heavy drum of his heartbeat followed him.

He didn’t stop until the shadows grew thick, a stand of trees arching above him like cage bars. He pressed a hand to the rough bark of one trunk, chest heaving. His body shook with restraint that felt one breath away from breaking.

The scent still clung to him. James’s scent. It lingered on Steve’s clothes, on his skin, in his hair—thick and wonderful, laced with herbs, edged in the faint sweetness of blood. He’d breathed it in too deeply to escape now.

His fangs slid down fully with a painful snap. Not for food, not for blood—for him. The ache in his jaw only sharpened the heat wracking his body, as if his instincts were tearing at the edges of his self-control.

Steve dropped to his knees into the snow before his legs buckled, fumbling with his belt buckle his trousers. His hands trembled too much to be precise, but desperation did what care couldn’t.

The first touch of his hand encircling his hard cock had him groaning, raw and low, forehead braced against the tree trunk as though the sting of bark against skin might keep him tethered. His hand pumped hard, too fast, too rough—but it didn’t matter. The need demanded it.

Images burned through him with every drag of his palm:

James’s blood-smeared hair, gleaming white strands clotted red.

The curve of his throat, scarred where Steve’s own fangs had marked him.

The glimpse of his own reflection in James’s eyes, twin rubies glinting in the moonlight.

Steve’s fangs throbbed in his mouth, aching with every gasp. He wanted—needed—something to sink them into. Without thinking, his free hand jerked upward. He brought it to his mouth and bit down, deep, hard, until copper filled his tongue.

He pretended it was James’s wrist. Pretended it was the same skin he’d pierced before.

The taste of his own blood, metallic and hot, made his body jolt. He groaned into the wound, grinding his teeth tighter, hand pumping harder as his hips rocked helplessly.

“James—” The name slipped out, ragged and wrecked.

His fangs sank deeper, mouth clamped around his own skin as if he could fool himself. The fantasy was too vivid—James offering his arm, letting him feed, letting him keep moving up his arm until he got to his neck and would bite. Claim. His release tore through him violently, his whole body bowing forward, seed spilling across the tree and snow.

He shuddered hard, biting down until pain sharpened the pleasure, muffling the broken sounds clawing their way out of his throat.

When it was over, Steve collapsed forward onto one hand, blood still wet on his arm, breath ragged. The taste lingered in his mouth, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

And through it all, James’s scent clung to him still. Heavy. Irresistible. Inescapable.

It owned him.

Steve returned to camp with blood still sharp on his tongue, the memory of his own loss of control clawing at him. A rabbit’s quick death had steadied his hands, but not his conscience. He slipped back into the glow of the fire like a shadow, catching the faint flicker of James’s eyes as they lifted to meet his.

“I—” Steve started, then faltered, the words sticking like ash. His fists clenched at his sides. “Sorry. Again. For earlier.”

James’s expression didn’t change, though the fire carved his profile into something sharp and unyielding. “There’s no reason to apologize,” he said evenly, as though it were simple fact, not something up for debate. “Instincts aren’t easy to deal with. You’re managing them better than most would, especially given that you're still so young.”

Steve swallowed, gave a faint nod, and moved to his bedroll. Natasha and Clint were long gone to sleep, their even breathing filling the quiet.

“Clint’s on wake-up,” James murmured, low enough that only Steve could hear. Then he lay back, turning slightly onto his side, his white hair catching the firelight before shadow claimed him.

—

The camp sank into silence. The kind of silence that wasn’t truly still—the whisper of wind in branches, the faint hiss of fire, the steady pulse of horses nearby—but one that pressed close, heavy and private.

Bucky closed his eyes. He should have been letting exhaustion drag him under. Tomorrow meant more road, more vigilance, more danger. Instead, his mind circled back like a hound on a scent.

Steve.

The memory hit too clearly, too sharply: the young vampire’s hands gripping his coat and shoulders, his face buried against Bucky’s throat, his breath hot where it ghosted over fang scars. The press of him, fierce and unhesitating, like he had a right to hold on that tight. Like Bucky was something worth holding.

Heat pooled low in his belly, unwelcome and insistent. His fangs slipped down slightly, a traitorous prickle against his lip, and his cock stirred, heavy with interest he hadn’t let himself feel in… God, too long. He clenched his jaw, dragging in a steadying breath.

But the air only made it worse.

Steve’s scent lingered close, rich caramel and fire layered with something that was him*. Bucky’s gaze flicked to where the knight’s long coat lay folded near his bedroll, dark against the pale dirt. Before he could think better of it, his hand reached.

The leather was cool at first touch, but it held Steve’s scent like it had been stitched into the seams. Bucky drew it in close, burying his face against the collar, letting himself inhale deep. His lungs filled with it—heady, grounding, intoxicating. His eyes fluttered shut, chest tight with something dangerously close to want.

He hadn’t been touched like that since before he was turned. Touch had been pain for so long. A hand meant a strike. An embrace meant restraint. Even gentle touches—on the rare occasion they came—always seemed to carry the weight of loss that followed. Injury. Death. Baldwin.

But tonight, in the woods, Steve’s touch hadn’t hurt. It had been fierce, yes—clutching, overwhelming, unrestrained—but it hadn’t broken him. It had steadied him. Made something inside him ache in a way that wasn’t all wound and scar.

Good touch. He hadn’t thought there was such a thing anymore.

For one dangerous, reckless moment, he let himself want more of it. The warmth. The closeness. The press of Steve’s mouth near his throat.

Then he shoved it down. Hard. There was no time for anything like that. No sense in chasing ghosts spun from a half-bond. That was all it was. An urge written into blood. Steve didn’t actually want him. Not like that. Who would?

No one could ever want someone like him.

Bucky exhaled, sharp through his nose. One last breath—deep, shuddering—pulled Steve’s scent into him again, and then he pushed the coat away, closer to its owner’s bedroll. He turned onto his side, spine to the fire, fists pressed tight against his chest as if to cage the heat inside.

Sleep claimed him slow, reluctant. His last waking thought was not of death or danger, but of Steve’s face pressed close, and the ache of wanting what he could not have.

-

Bucky remembered the room by its sound before anything else.

Music—too loud, too layered, instruments bleeding into one another until it became a pulse more than a melody. Laughter rode over it, sharp and bright, like glass clinking together. The smell of blood was everywhere, thick enough to coat the back of his throat. Spilled wine. Spilled lives.

He stood near one of the columns, motionless.

Hands folded. Posture perfect. Eyes forward.

Waiting.

Waiting was all he ever did now.

Baldwin liked to keep him close during these things. Not as a guard—not exactly. As proof. A living demonstration of control. A beautiful monster at his shoulder, eyes glowing red, jaw tight, fangs never quite retracted.

'See?' Baldwin’s presence whispered inside his skull, warm and invasive. 'Look what obedience makes.'

Bucky did not think the words. They were placed in him, layered over his own thoughts like rot over bone.

Baldwin’s hand had brushed his shoulder—possessive, dismissive—and the command slid into place as smoothly as breath.

'My office,' the voice said inside his skull. 'The lower drawer. Bring me the vial with the black seal.'

Bucky turned without hesitation.

The party continued behind him—music swelling, laughter sharp and cruel, the air heavy with blood and old power—but it all dulled as he walked the familiar halls. His boots struck stone in even, obedient rhythm. Every step was measured. Controlled.

He did not question.

The office door opened at his touch.

The room smelled like Baldwin: old blood magic, molasses, parchment, and violence. Candlelight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across shelves lined with artifacts taken from the dead.

Bucky crossed to the desk and knelt.

Lower drawer. Black seal.

His fingers closed around the vial.

And then the air bent.

Not loudly. Not violently. Just enough that Bucky’s instincts screamed before his mind caught up.

Green light spilled across the stone floor in a tight, controlled arc, a portal slicing open reality itself directly behind him.

Bucky spun and lunged on pure reflex.

He hit the intruder hard, claws snapping free on his flesh hand as he went for the throat. They crashed into a bookshelf, glass and bone rattling together. Bucky snarled, fangs scraping skin, tasting strange blood—old, powerful, wrong in a way that made his head ache.

The man didn’t shout.

Didn’t panic.

He caught Bucky’s wrists with startling precision, magic flaring cold and sharp around his grip.

“Well,” the man said mildly, even as Bucky tried to tear him open. “That’s one way to be greeted when trying to steal something I suppose.”

The command inside Bucky screamed.

Kill him.

Bucky fought harder.

That was when the magic hit him.

Not like a blow.

Like a blade sliding between layers of his mind.

Green light flooded his vision as the man’s spell tore into Baldwin’s blood magic—surgical, furious, personal. The compulsion snapped, unraveling in burning ribbons that peeled away from Bucky’s thoughts one by one.

Bucky convulsed.

His scream stayed trapped in his chest as decades of control ripped loose all at once. Memories surged—orders, punishments, obedience layered so deep they’d replaced his own instincts.

His claws, flesh and gold, gouged stone. His body shook violently.

“Don’t fight me,” The man said, voice suddenly iron beneath the silk. “Fight him, you caged animal.”

The blood magic screamed as it was torn free.

And then—

Nothing.

No voice.

No command.

Just silence so sudden it hurt.

Bucky collapsed.

When he came back to himself, he was choking.

Air burned his lungs. His body shook uncontrollably, muscles locking and unlocking in violent waves as decades of control backlash tore through his nervous system.

He was no longer in the office.

No music. No blood. No Baldwin.

Stone floor. A wide hearth. Tall windows shuttered tight against dawn. The scent of old alchemy and oil and something warm—home like. It made him think of the Blood Soldier fortress.

He rolled onto his side and retched.

Hands appeared in his peripheral vision, careful, not touching him until he nodded weakly. A cup was pressed to his lips.

“Drink,” a new voice said. Male. Warm. Concern threaded through it. “Slow.” Vampire, ancient, yet safe.

Bucky drank. Blood—fresh, human, mixed with something bitter and grounding. It steadied him enough to stop shaking.

He looked up.

The man kneeling beside him had kind brown eyes that held a clever glint, mussed brunette hair, and expertly kept facial hair. Another vampire leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching him with an intensity that made Bucky’s instincts curl—but not in fear.

In recognition.

“You’re safe,” the brunette one said. “Name’s Tony. This is my mate.”

“Loki,” the other supplied dryly. “Try not to bite me again.”

Bucky swallowed. His throat felt flayed.

“Where—”

“Nowhere Baldwin can reach,” Loki said. “I made sure of it.”

Days passed.

Bucky drifted in and out of consciousness, nightmares clawing at him whenever he slept. Tony fed him carefully, never too much. Loki layered wards around the house so thick they hummed, checking on him with irritating regularity.

Sometimes Bucky woke to Loki sitting nearby, fingers glowing faintly as he unraveled leftover strands of blood magic Baldwin had buried too deep to decay on their own.

“You were close,” Loki said once, voice unusually subdued. “Another decade and you would’ve lost yourself entirely. Being a half-feral most definitely would not have been a good time.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling. “Why.”

Loki paused, obviously catching the question underneath that single word.

“…Curiosity,” he said lightly. Then, after a beat, “And spite.”

When Bucky was strong enough to stand, Loki made the offer.

“I could teach you,” he said, pacing the edge of the room. “Magic. Control. The deeper rules of what you are now.”

Bucky shook his head immediately.

“No more masters.”

Loki studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Fair.”

When Bucky left, he bowed his head—not deeply, but sincerely.

“Thank you,” he said. “Both of you.”

Tony smiled. Loki pretended not to.

Years later, Bucky had learned how to survive.

He lived on the road now searching for tracks of the man who ruined everything, moving when the dreams got too loud. He was no longer half anything—fully vampire, instincts honed sharp, control earned the hard way.

He sensed Loki before he saw him.

Green light flickered at the treeline. Loki stepped through like he’d always belonged there, expression unreadable.

“You look less feral than last I saw you.” Loki observed.

“Practice,” Bucky said.

They stood in silence for a while.

Loki asked questions. Bucky answered in grunts, nods, half-sentences. It wasn’t rudeness. It was caution. Words still felt dangerous.

Eventually, Loki opened a portal.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” he said, stepping back. “It would be inconvenient.”

“Wait.”

The word slipped out before Bucky could stop it.

Loki turned.

Bucky hesitated, jaw tight, pride warring with something older and quieter.

“…Teach me something,” he said finally. “Just one thing.”

Loki’s eyes sharpened.

“What kind of thing?”

“A spell,” Bucky said. “One I’ll only ever need once.”

The portal hummed, waiting.

Loki smiled—slow, sharp, and far too knowing.

“Ah,” he said softly. “So that’s what you've been planning.”

Chapter Text

The world was gray when Steve blinked awake, caught between shadow and dawn. The fire had burned down to a bed of faintly glowing coals, barely giving off heat, but the smell of smoke lingered in the clearing. He lay still for a moment, listening.

The forest had a language of its own in the mornings—soft wind through pine needles, the distant rush of water, the creak of leather when a horse shifted weight on its tether. He could hear it all, each sound crisp and distinct, sharper than it ever would have been before he turned.

And beneath it, nearer—Clint’s voice. Low at first, muttering to himself as he prodded the ashes with a stick. Then louder, pitched toward the bedrolls.

“Up, soldiers. Or I’ll start singing.”

Steve groaned, pushing himself upright. His body didn’t feel heavy the way it used to after poor sleep; turning had stripped that from him. He felt too aware, senses buzzing, skin prickling in the cool air as he unfolded his coat and slid it on.

Next to him, James stirred. He came awake with a predator’s stillness—no yawn, no slow rub at his eyes. Just a flicker of lashes, the faint tightening of muscle, and then he was sitting up, pale hair falling forward into his face. He blinked once toward Steve, gaze assessing, sharp as a blade’s edge.

Steve’s chest tightened. The memory of last night—of losing himself in instinct, of James’s quiet hands steadying him—burned like an ember.

“Morning,” Steve said softly, his voice carrying across the fire.

James studied him a beat longer before answering, voice low and even. “Morning.”

Steve dropped his gaze, fumbling with the edge of his bedroll. The apology clawed its way up again, raw and insistent. “About last night—”

“Stop,” James cut in, calm but firm. He rose to his feet, moving with practiced efficiency as he folded his blanket. “I already told you, instincts aren’t easy to deal with. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The finality of his tone left no room for doubt. Still, Steve hesitated, searching his face, needing to be sure.

“You mean that?”

“I do.” James’s eyes met his, steady and certain. “Don’t tear yourself apart over it.”

Something inside Steve finally unknotted. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the tension draining from his shoulders.

Behind them, Clint clapped his hands together, smirking. “That’s heartwarming, really. But unless we want Natasha snapping necks before breakfast, maybe get moving.”

Natasha, who had already risen and begun packing her gear, shot him a flat look. “I wouldn’t waste the effort on you.”

“See?” Clint grinned, unrepentant. “That’s affection.”

Steve found himself smiling at the exchange.

They fell into the rhythm of breaking camp. Bedrolls folded tight, saddlebags checked, fire scattered and smothered with earth and snow. Steve worked quickly, the motions easy from long habit, though now each knot tied, each strap cinched felt effortless under his sharpened strength.

The horses nickered as they approached, breath steaming in the cool dawn. Steve reached for Fen's reins, smoothing a hand down the stallion’s neck. The animal tossed its head but settled at his touch, recognizing him. He could smell the warm musk of the horse, the faint tang of leather and sweat.

James moved among them with quiet precision, checking straps, testing buckles. His hands were sure, efficient, his presence steadying even in silence.

Clint hummed a bawdy tune as he cinched his saddle, off-key on purpose just to needle Natasha. She ignored him, tightening her own girth strap with a sharp tug.

By the time the sun crested the treetops, they were ready. Horses watered and fed, gear packed, the clearing left bare save for the darkened ring of firepit stones.

Steve swung into the saddle shortly after James, settling easily. The older vampire’s words still lingered, quiet and solid in his mind.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

He held onto that as they turned their horses toward the road and rode out of the trees into the wide morning.

-

That day's journey carried them into warmer weather—snow fell away to grass and different foliage as the sun beamed down onto them happily. It felt like a whole different season the further they traveled. 

By the time they stumbled upon the lake, the sun had begun its slow tilt toward late afternoon. The trail bent through a copse of ash and pine, and then, almost suddenly, the trees fell back to reveal water.

It was as though the earth had cracked open to hide a jewel. The spring-fed lake stretched wide and clear, its surface so smooth it looked like glass. Sunlight poured through the canopy and scattered across the water in broken shards, dazzling bright, so that the pale stones at the bottom gleamed like coins.

The air here was different—cooler, washed clean by the spring, rich with the mineral tang of fresh water. The horses pricked their ears forward and quickened their pace of their own accord, hooves crunching over stones as they made for the bank.

Natasha was the first to swing down from her saddle, silent and efficient as always. She looped her mare’s reins to a low branch and crouched to cup water in her hands, testing. Clint followed, stripping off his archery gloves with exaggerated relief.

“Finally,” he muttered, splashing his face like a man half-drowned.

James dismounted with his usual quiet precision, leading Fen to the water’s edge. The stallion plunged his muzzle deep, drinking greedily, while James checked the cinches of the saddle as though even here, in a place so peaceful it could have been painted, discipline couldn’t be set aside.

Steve followed his lead, easing down from Fen’s broad back. His boots sank into damp earth, cool and soft, the smell of moss and wet stone rising up to meet him. He stood for a long moment just breathing, letting the freshness of the air fill him.

Natasha arched a brow at the rest of them. “If we’re stopping, we may as well not reek like travel-worn horses.”

Clint grinned. “That's not a very nice thing to say, what if the horses hear you?”

Natasha planted her fists on her hips, unimpressed. “You three first. I’ll take my turn alone.”

Clint was already half undressed by the time Steve had set his own boots aside, his usual chatter carrying him straight into the water.

Steve hesitated. He wasn’t shy about his body—knighthood had meant drills, sparring, and bathing shoulder-to-shoulder with other men for most of his life—but something about stripping down here felt different. The quiet of the forest, the crystal sheen of the lake, the presence of him.

James.

Steve’s eyes strayed despite himself. The vampire was tugging his glove off with sharp, efficient movements, setting it neatly aside before he shed his coat, then began working at the buttons of his crimson shirt. The sun caught his hair—snow-pale, impossible not to notice—and gilded it faintly gold where the longer strands clung damp to the back of his neck. When he pulled the shirt free and folded it once before laying it down, Steve caught the sudden shock of many scars. He stared while James messed with his own pants and boots.

His chest was a tapestry of them under a dusting of white hair. Thin lines, almost faded to nothing, crossed like pale brushstrokes across hard muscle. Others stood out in ridges, thicker, brutal things that told stories of blades, claws, fangs, and burns. He stood fully—naked—and walked out into the lake. The faint sheen of water lapped higher with every step he took, gliding against his skin, against the gleam of his prosthetic arm. Gold caught sun, water caught gold, until both glimmered with living light.

And there, against the strong column of his throat, were two puncture scars. Perfectly placed, evenly spaced, the mark of a bond from Steve’s own teeth.

The young vampire’s breath left him before he realized he’d been holding it as Clint jumped into the water, excitedly shouting nonsense before he was fully submerged.

He waded after them, stripping down quickly, but he couldn’t stop seeing James in the corner of his vision. The curve of muscle shifting under pale skin, the way water beaded on his shoulders before running down the line of his back, the stark contrast of white hair against the darker blue of the water.

Steve trudged through the rocky shoreline, then dove into beautiful blue at the fast drop off point. Underwater life greeted his blurry vision when he opened his eyes. Aquatic plants swayed, fish swam in both calm and startled patterns. When he looked further ahead of him into the abyss of the lake, he could just make out James and Clint's bodies a little further out. 

Steve swam for a moment in cool water, the temperature enough to pebble his skin, but being a vampire meant no need to worry about hypothermia. He came up for breath way before he had to, rubbing his face with his hands to try and scrub the grime of travel out of his pores. 

His gaze dragged up, James was closer now than he was originally, and Steve's eyes caught on the older vampire’s body again. He trailed up James's scar adorned abs, to his hard pecs, up his strong neck, over his sharp jawline, then collided with those red eyes staring back at him. For a heartbeat, Steve couldn’t breathe.

He ducked back under before he could think, plunging headfirst into the cold. The shock bit at him, sharp and clean, drowning out everything else. He stayed there, scrubbing at his arms, his chest, his face, as though he could wash the heat from his skin.

But the images clung to him as stubbornly as the water. Scars. Red eyes. White hair slicked wetly back. Sharp cheekbones. That facial scar. The weight of that gaze.

When he finally came up for air, lungs burning since he didn't breathe in before diving, he prayed the water could hide the flush on his face.

—

The lake was quiet in a way the world rarely was. It wasn’t dead silence—no, it had its own kind of music. Water slipping against stone. The restless shuffle of horses on the bank. Clint humming a tune as he swam around. Natasha sharpening a knife. A hawk’s sharp cry circling somewhere high above. All of it carried on the cool air, sharpened by his senses until every note struck clean.

But beneath that… there was a hum. The low, restless hum of awareness he hadn’t been able to shake since the night before.

James waded deeper into the lake until it lapped at his waist, the chill biting even through his battle hardened skin. He’d welcomed worse. The water here was clean, cutting, the kind that stripped away dust, fatigue, old blood. It wrapped around him like glass made liquid. He completely soaked his hair, the shorter strands stuck to one another as he brushed them all back with his hand. His scars stood out sharper in the water, pale ridges catching the light whenever a ripple moved across his chest.

He was used to eyes on him—human, vampire, half-breed alike. He’d long since stopped caring. But Steve’s gaze on him at the shore and just moments ago… there had been a weight to it.

He didn’t know what he expected when the young vampire broke the water’s surface, mouth opening to take in air greedily. But the sight hit harder than it should have.

Steve came up fast, golden hair slicked back and plastered against his temples. The water turned him to something else—sharper, more defined. Water ran in rivulets down his throat, down the lines of his chest, tracing the new definition vampirism had carved out of what was already a strong frame.

Steve had been broad before. The man was built for the shield and the sword; Bucky had seen that the first night Steve rode behind him on Fen. But the turn had filled him in further, honed every angle. The width of his shoulders now seemed cut from stone, his chest drawn tighter and stronger, the muscle beneath sharper, cleaner.

Water streamed down his throat, traced over the curve of collarbone, over the hard plane of his chest. Droplets caught on his lashes, clung stubbornly before sliding down flushed cheeks. His mouth parted on a slow breath, and for a heartbeat, Bucky had the sharp, dangerous thought that the Steve looked almost—

'Beautiful.'

The realization struck like a blow.

He stared a fraction longer than he should have. His gaze caught on the slope of Steve’s shoulders, the clean line of muscle drawn taut across his chest, the way his skin flushed pink under the cold—an unnatural warmth for most of their kind, spreading down his throat, down to where the water cut it from view.

Steve’s ears were red too. Burning, really. That blush sank low, crawling down his chest until it seemed to glow under the surface. And when his eyes flicked up, for half a moment it looked as though he knew. Steve ducked his head, his ears somehow burning even brighter.

Did he notice?

Bucky turned his head sharply toward the treeline, pretending interest in the shifting leaves. He had discipline enough to pretend. He’d mastered far worse temptations. And yet—

The image stayed, seared into him like fresh blood spilled across snow.

He didn’t want to see Steve that way. 

Something in Bucky’s instincts stirred. A whisper low in his bones, older than humanity, older than words.

'Mate.'

The thought hit like an arrow striking a prey animal.

No. No, that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

He ducked under the water.

The cold did nothing. Not really. It went into his open eyes, over the ragged scar tissue that banded his body, and still the word clung stubbornly.

'Mate.'

Bucky grit his teeth, jaw locked tight beneath the surface, and came up in a slow surge of water. The word pulsed in his marrow, hot and insistent, as unneeded instincts he’d buried long ago had decided to crawl up from the grave.

He told himself it was false. It had to be. Vampires were fickle creatures; instinct could be twisted, confused, baited by proximity and blood. He’d seen it before. The idea that this man could be anything more than a battle partner was absurd.

And yet.

His gaze slid despite himself. Steve stood waist-deep a few feet away, scrubbing water across his shoulders, unaware of the storm he’d just ignited. Muscle cut clean beneath skin, his frame filled in like stone shaped under a sculptor’s chisel. Every line of him spoke strength. Endurance. Something built to last.

'Beautiful. Perfect. Mate.'

Bucky’s chest burned at the words, the old instinct settling with quiet certainty, as if it had been waiting for him to notice.

“No,” he muttered, low enough the water swallowed it whole. His fingers flexed in the cold, gold catching the sun before he dropped his prosthetic hand beneath the surface. “No.”

He could not afford this. He could not allow it.

Not after Baldwin. Not after his mother and his sister. Not after Maggie. Bonds were weapons in the wrong hands, leashes pulled tight until you strangled. Love was blood on the floor, soft throats torn open, laughter silenced by cruelty.

Steve was a partner, nothing more. A burden he’d taken on for one reason only: to stand against Baldwin when the time came. That was all.

And still—his instincts whispered otherwise, threading beneath every disciplined thought.

The way Steve’s blush had spread from his cheeks down the clean lines of his chest was burned into the back of his eyelids. The widening of his eyes, the way he ducked his head as if hiding. Bucky couldn’t tell if the blonde had noticed his own hungry stare, or if Steve himself had been staring just as openly. Either option burned.

He turned away again, short hair plastered in sharp white lines against his temples, water dripping from his chin. His throat ached where his bond scars were.

'Mate.'

It rang in his skull, deeper than words, a pull like gravity.

He wanted to tear it out of himself. He wanted to believe the instinct was wrong, just a trick of proximity, blood, and the bond that had been forged by necessity. He wanted to believe the ache in his chest was nothing but the cold.

But he had lived long enough to know better. Instincts did not lie. They only revealed what you least wanted to face.

Bucky clenched his jaw and ducked under again, letting the icy water close over him until the weight of it pressed heavy against his lungs. He stayed there, punishing himself with stillness, with silence, until the ache in his chest was from lack of air instead of the word that would not leave him.

When he rose again, he forced his expression blank. The soldier’s mask. The one that had carried him through battlefields, deaths, betrayals.

Steve was not his mate. He could not be.

And yet, for the first time in decades, Bucky wasn’t entirely sure if he was lying to himself.

—

Clint broke the tension with a splash loud enough to startle the horses on the bank. He launched himself backward in the water, floating spread-eagled. “God, this is the life. Who needs vampire hunts, eh? We should just stay here till Baldwin dominates the human race.”

“If I didn't know that was a joke, I'd drown you right here, right now.” Bucky muttered, wading toward the shallows.

“Not if Nat does it first.” Clint let himself sink beneath the water, limbs flailing dramatically, before popping up sputtering. “Help, help, slain in my prime!”

“Slain from stupidity, maybe.” Natasha’s voice was flat as steel from the bank. She didn’t even look up from checking her knife.

Steve’s mouth quirked at the exchange, though he quickly ducked his head as if to hide it. He moved toward the edge with James, water slick across his chest, droplets shining against skin flushed from the cold.

Bucky kept his expression carefully neutral, though every nerve still thrummed with the weight of his instincts. Soldier’s mask. Nothing more.

As they reached the shallows, Steve’s gaze snagged on the twin marks at James’s throat again. His chest tightened at the sight of them—his fangs had made those scars, sunk deep with James’s consent, their half-bond sealed in flesh and blood.

Before he thought better of it, Steve’s hand lifted, hovering toward the pale punctures. He wanted to touch, to trace them, to feel the proof that James had let him that close. The thought sent heat flooding his chest, an ache that was borderline pleasure.

But his fingers froze a breath away as James's eyes snapped onto the movement of his hand. He blinked, caught himself, and pulled back fast, jaw tightening.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice low, ashamed of his own impulse.

James tilted his head slightly, the motion sharp as a blade. His expression didn’t give away a thing. No censure, no surprise—just the flat, unreadable calm of a man who’d worn masks all his life.

Steve’s throat worked. His eyes darted lower, to the long gash carved into the swell of James’s right shoulder. A scar ragged at the edges, wider than most of the others. “That one,” Steve asked, voice low. “What left it?”

James’s gaze dropped to the scar in question, then back to Steve. His voice came clipped, factual. “A halberd. Caught me outside a fortress wall. Should’ve taken the arm. Didn’t, thanks to a medic's quick thinking.”

Steve’s eyes traced the jagged line with quiet focus, lingering longer than he should have. His cheeks flushed again, faint color dusting high and spreading down toward his collarbone.

Bucky saw it. And against his will, against every wall he’d built around himself, he thought—'it brings out his eyes.’

Natasha arched a brow from the bank. “You three take longer than a bride on her wedding day.”

Bucky turned away, shaking water from his white hair, pulling on his fresh pair of pants like nothing had passed between them. But he didn’t shake the sight of Steve’s hovering hand.

Steve lingered near the water’s edge, slowly getting dressed in fresh clothes from his and James's open saddlebags. His eyes kept drifting, unbidden, across the pale lines scattered all over the older vampire's front, back, and arm. He knew he shouldn’t stare, but he honestly couldn’t help it anymore. Each scar was a story etched into skin, and he wanted to know them.

Steve’s lips pressed together. His eyes lingered too long on the ragged mark from the halberd, tracing it with silent focus. His cheeks colored faintly, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the next scar that caught him—a long, precise line along James’s ribs.

“And that?”

James gave a short huff through his nose. “A traitor's blade. Chase Adler, a Blood Soldier who we thought was K.I.A., but was actually groomed by an ancient and helped her kill many of us. Close fight. I moved quicker than he did, but not quick enough. Blessed silver hurts like a bitch even as just a half-breed.” His mouth quirked in something that was wild and all predatory, his teeth glinting dangerously in the setting sun's light. “He didn’t walk away though, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Steve swallowed, but his eyes never left the mark. He moved again, pointing—this time to a deeper scar that cut diagonally across James’s abdomen.

“That one looks pretty bad too.”

James’s gaze followed the direction of his hand. For a heartbeat he hesitated, jaw tightening before he answered. “Vampire claws covered in sage oil. Burned just as much as it bled thanks to the oil stopping my healing factor. Clint killed the bastard then rushed me back to the fortress on horseback.”

“Damn right I did,” Clint called from the water, still floating on his back. He raised a hand in mock salute. “You’d be walking around with half a stomach if not for me.”

Bucky ignored him. His eyes stayed on Steve, who was still staring at the wound like he could feel the pain of it himself.

Steve drew in a breath, lips parting like he wanted to ask about more—but then he looked down at his own body. His hand brushed over his side, where a large puncture scar, pale and raised, puckered the skin just above the blonde's hip bone.

“I’ve only got three,” Steve admitted quietly, eyes dropping. “This one—spear, when I was still training. Caught me low because I was too stubborn to yield. Another across my back, from another knight’s blade during a tourney. And…” His fingers touched the faint mark along his forearm. “Arrow. My first patrol.”

He gave a short, almost sheepish laugh. “I thought they’d be enough to make me look like I'd been through some shit. Next to yours though…” His voice trailed, blush deepening along his cheekbones.

Bucky should’ve cut the moment short, should’ve deflected with some sharp remark. Instead, he watched Steve’s face—the heavy flush that shouldn’t have been possible, the way his eyes shone brighter for it. Something in his chest gave an unwilling, traitorous ache.

Clint’s loud splash cut the silence as he climbed out of the water. “Alright, scar-comparing contest is over. Nat, your turn before Barnes grows moldy.”

Natasha rose gracefully from her rock, blade sheathed, and passed by the men with a single lifted brow. Bucky pulled his shirt over his damp skin and buttoned it, expression cool, mask firmly in place again.

But he couldn’t forget the way Steve looked at his scars as if they were something worth admiring instead of just being muddled flesh.

—

The lake faded not far behind them, leaving the sharp scent of clean water clinging to their skin and clothes. The walk back to the clearing was quiet except for the creak of leather, the heavy steps of the horses, and Clint whistling some bawdy tune under his breath. The sunset filtered through the canopy in long, shifting beams, painting everything in deep peach and shadow.

By the time they reached the hollow where they’d rest, the air was cooling fast. Fen bent his dark neck to tear at the grass, ears flicking lazily, Natasha was downstream from them for her private turn at the lake. Clint immediately sprawled across a big rock, one boot hooked over the other, his arms folded behind his head like he was king of the camp.

Steve unrolled his bedding near Fen’s flank, taking comfort in the familiar horsey musk mixed with the faint tang of fresh water. His movements were careful, precise, though his mind was elsewhere—still back at the lake.

The sight of James’s scars lingered with him: pale ridges and old lines, stories carved into flesh. And worse—the two perfect marks on his throat. His own marks. He could still remember the feel of the older vampire’s golden claws in his hair, how James hadn’t shoved him away but grabbed onto him, welcomed it. His body had nearly betrayed him by reaching out tonight, fingers almost tracing them.

The shame of that burned hot in his chest, but beneath it was something else, something warmer, almost sweet. James hadn’t snapped at him, hadn’t shut him down. He’d let Steve ask questions, had answered them, flat as his voice had been. It had been more honesty than Steve expected, and he’d carried it like a secret treasure all the way back.

James crouched by the makeshift firepit now, gathering kindling. His shirt clung faintly to his shoulders and arms, still damp from the lake, and his white hair caught the last of the sun, gleaming pink at the edges. He moved with steady, economical motions, every gesture controlled.

Steve was still watching him when James spoke, low and even.

“You said three.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “Three?”

“Scars.” James laid another piece of wood across the pile, eyes fixed on his work. “You only told me about three. Spear, tourney blade, arrow. That all?”

The words hung in the air. For a moment Steve just stared at him, struck by the fact that James remembered, that he cared enough to bring it up at all. He was listening.

Heat rose in Steve’s chest, but not the embarrassed kind this time. Something steadier, warmer.

“Those are the big ones,” Steve admitted, settling back on his bedroll. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ve got smaller ones too, but they’re nothing to look at. Scrapes, mostly. Training cuts. Climbing injuries.”

James finally glanced up, one brow lifting. “Climbing?”

Steve rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Trees. Walls. The belltower at the edge of the village. I was always better at going up than I was at getting down. Broke my wrist once jumping off the stable roof. My mother nearly tanned me alive for it.”

Clint’s laugh burst across the clearing. “Ha! That’s familiar. I did the same at twelve. Took out my front tooth on a fencepost. My ma hissed at me and told me to be more careful.” He sat up for a moment, holding out his finger like he was reprimanding a child, and softened his voice to make it more feminine. “‘Just because you got a healing factor from me doesn't mean you should be trying to hurt yourself.’” Then he laid back down. “Dad said it improved my smile, and ma smacked the back of his head.” 

Steve shook his head, half a laugh catching in his throat, but his gaze slipped back to James. The older vampire’s face gave away little, but he hadn’t cut Steve off, hadn’t dismissed him. He’d asked.

And that felt different. It felt like James wanted to know.

Encouraged, Steve added softly, “The tourney scar—that was my own fault too. I was sixteen. First proper match. He caught me across the backplate, just shallow enough not to kill. I spent weeks worrying my mother would never let me hold a sword again.” His voice softened further, the memory rising like smoke. “She mended the shirt three times before giving up on it. I think she hated the scar more than I did.”

He paused, eyes falling to his forearm where the faint mark of the arrow still traced a pale line. “The patrol one was worse. It was my first after being knighted. Bandits. Not even trained soldiers, just desperate men with bows. One of them loosed wild and it caught me right between my armor. Bled a lot more than it should’ve, but I kept fighting through it. I thought I was going to die in the dirt with nothing to my name. But my captain pulled me out and told me I’d done well.” He exhaled, slow. “That was the moment when I felt like I’d finally earned it—my place. Like I wasn’t just pretending to be a knight anymore.”

The fire cracked softly as James set a spark, the glow flickering across the hard lines of his face. He still said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Steve longer than it needed to.

Steve felt it—the weight of it, steady, unblinking. For all James’s silence, for all the stone walls in his voice, he’d asked about Steve’s life. Not about his training or his vampirism, but him. His past.

It shouldn’t have mattered so much, but it did.

Steve lowered his gaze, smiling faintly at the fire. For the first time since waking in this new hell of immortality, he felt a strange, fragile kind of happiness.

—

The fire caught at last, orange light licking up over dry wood, crackling low. Bucky sat back on his heels, letting the warmth bleed into his skin while Steve talked. The blonde's voice carried soft through the clearing—careful, thoughtful, weaving stories of scars earned too young, of training, of mistakes, of victories that seemed small but had meant everything to him at the time.

Bucky hadn’t expected to ask. Hadn’t expected to want to know. Yet he found himself listening more closely than he meant to, each detail drawing a sharper picture of who Steve had been before the fangs, before the hunger. A boy with a stubborn streak, a mother who sewed torn shirts, a knight who bled but stood anyway.

When Steve’s voice trailed off, Bucky sat down next to him, his own slipping out before he could think better of it.

“Your mother,” he said, low. “She miss you? Now that you’re gone without a trace —and with half the kingdom thinking you murdered Commander Myles?”

Steve went still. The firelight played across his face, catching on the faint lines of tension at his mouth. Slowly, he shook his head.

“She can’t miss me,” Steve whispered. “She died. A few months before my knighting ceremony.”

The words landed heavier than a blade. Bucky watched his eyes grow glassy as he spoke, the sheen building until it finally broke, tears slipping past his long lashes. His voice trembled, soft and raw.

“She never saw me knighted. Never saw me stand before the court. I wanted it for her more than for myself, y’know? To show her she hadn’t worked herself raw for nothing.” His throat tightened. “I miss her every day.”

Bucky’s chest tightened like a vise. He wasn’t built for this—for comfort, for gentleness—but something in him moved before he could stop it. He reached out, hesitant, with the golden prosthetic. The metal caught the firelight as he laid it carefully against Steve’s back, claws resting gentle atop the black and dark olive leather of his long coat.

Steve gasped at the touch—sharp, audible. Bucky instantly pulled back, shame prickling down his spine. He’d overstepped. Too rough. Too cold.

But then Steve turned, all at once, abandoning the firelight to fold himself into Bucky instead. His arms wrapped firm around him, his face burying in the collar of Bucky’s coat and crimson shirt. Dampness bloomed hot where his tears pressed into the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered against him, the words muffled and aching. “I know you hate it when I hug you. I just… I really need this right now”

Bucky stilled for half a heartbeat. Then, stiff but steady, he let his arms come up, one flesh, one metal. He patted Steve’s back, awkward but certain, not shoving him away. His chin hovered above the ex-knight’s blonde head, the scent of him—open fire, caramel, smelted iron—curling sharp in his senses.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Bucky muttered, low, rough.

Steve clung harder for a breath, shoulders shaking. Then, slowly, the tremors eased, his breathing steadying into something calmer. Bucky stayed where he was, silent, letting him hold on until the fire settled and the night sounds crept in—crickets in the grass, an owl in the trees, Clint whistling low behind them, Natasha joining them with her mare.

When Steve finally drew back, his eyes were rimmed red but steadier, his mouth soft with exhaustion.

Bucky cleared his throat. “C’mon. Hunt’ll do you good. Clear your head.”

Steve nodded, wiping at his face quickly with the heel of his hand. His voice was hoarse but firm. “Yeah. Hunt sounds nice.”

Bucky rose, brushing off his knees. Fen lifted his head from the grass, ears flicking. The night stretched wide and waiting around them. For the first time all day, Bucky didn’t feel the press of silence between them like a weight. Instead, it felt like something new—fragile, uneasy, but closer than before.

-

The woods still clung to them when they returned. Damp earth in the tracks of their boots, the iron tang of fresh blood ghosting on their tongues, the faint musk of deer hide carried in the folds of their coats. Bucky’s shoulders ached pleasantly from the chase—the kind of ache that spoke of hunger satisfied, instincts muted, for now. Fen lifted his head as they crossed the clearing, ears flicking toward his master with a quiet whicker of recognition.

Bucky shrugged his coat from his shoulders and laid it over the stallion’s saddle. The leather was damp from night fog, the weight of it sinking heavy into the dark hide. His fingers lingered at Fen’s mane a moment, scratching lightly behind the ears, before he turned, and froze.

Steve had gone down on one knee beside his bedroll, lowering his sword with a reverence that caught Bucky off guard. The young vampire’s hands eased the sheathed blade down as though it were a sleeping child. No careless clatter against the ground. No thoughtless toss aside. Steve placed it carefully at the head of his bedroll, angled just within reach.

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. He felt the now familiar tug in his chest before he realized what it was. Pride. That Steve cared for the silver-edged steel—cared for it enough to treat it like more than a weapon—pleased him in a way he didn’t have words for.

'He’s a knight even without the title,' Bucky thought, jaw tight. 'Maybe more of one than most ever were.'

He turned away before the thought could sink deeper, running a hand down Fen’s neck.

Fen huffed again, ears flicking toward Steve. The man stepped closer, pulling a carrot free of his pack. He held it out flat-palmed, and Fen’s soft lips closed around it, crunching loud in the night. Steve smiled then—a quiet, fleeting thing, but real. The sort of smile that unknotted the line of his mouth, softened the edge in his eyes.

Bucky watched him stroke Fen’s cheek, fingers smoothing over dark hide before plucking a stray leaf from the horse’s mane. Gentleness came easy to him, even now. The pull in Bucky’s chest sharpened, something low and dangerous curling under his ribs.

“James,” Steve said at last, voice low.

Bucky looked over, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What is it?”

Steve shifted his weight, as though embarrassed. “Would it be alright if I… slept a little closer tonight? My instincts are off. Like my body’s yelling at me, telling me to be near. I can’t shake it.”

The words should have been a warning. They were a warning. Letting Steve closer would only feed the thing clawing at the edges of Bucky’s control.

Every thought screamed ‘no’.

But his mouth betrayed him with something else. “Fine,” he said, voice gruff. “Just don’t crowd me.”

Relief broke across Steve’s features in an unguarded flicker. He nodded, dragging his bedroll closer—not touching, but close enough that the heat of his body carried through the night air. He lay down on his side, feet by the fire. His breathing slowed while Bucky did his last checks for the night.

The Blood Soldier lowered himself to his own bedroll, turning his back. He told himself it was fine.

-

The forest was a cathedral of silence when Bucky woke. The fire was smaller now. The moon had risen higher, cutting the clearing in pale silver, the Milky Way twinkling happily in the sky. Crickets hummed low in the grass. An owl caught a mouse somewhere far away.

What woke him wasn’t sound. It was weight. Heat. The unmistakable presence pressed against his back.

Steve.

The blonde had rolled in his sleep, drawn by instinct more primal than conscious choice. His body was curved flush to Bucky’s, chest firm against his spine, legs aligned. One arm looped loosely around his middle—not tight, but steady. And his hand…

Bucky’s throat closed.

Steve’s hand had threaded itself through the golden claws of his prosthetic. Their fingers were intertwined, the faint scrape of calloused skin against cool metal. They looked like they’d chosen it. Like it belonged.

Steve’s face was buried against the side of Bucky’s neck, his breath warm against the pale scarred skin there. Each exhale ghosted hot over his throat, raising gooseflesh.

Steve was scenting him, even in sleep. Keeping his scent close. Their combined scent. A bond preserved without thought, instinct carving its own truth into the night.

'Mate,' something in Bucky roared, deep and insistent. 'Our mate.'

He shut his eyes hard. 'No. Not ours. Not now. Not ever.' He ground the thought down like a blade against stone, refusing to let it spill free.

Slowly, carefully, he raised their joined hands. The moonlight caught on the golden plates of his prosthetic, shimmering like molten fire. Claws curled around Steve’s strong fingers, enclosing them, the gesture almost protective.

He flexed once, soft. And Steve’s hand squeezed faintly back, unconscious, still locked in sleep.

Bucky’s chest tightened. He shouldn’t have let this happen.

Then Steve shifted again, nuzzling closer. His lips brushed the curve of Bucky’s neck, feather-light, a phantom of a touch. And from his mouth came a whisper, raw and half-slurred with sleep, but clear enough to gut Bucky where he lay:

“…James…”

The name was a thread of sound, intimate, almost reverent. Loving.

For a few long moments, Bucky didn’t move. He let it linger—the clasp of their fingers, the heat at his back, the breath against his skin. He let himself feel it, dangerous though it was.

Then, slowly, he eased Steve’s arm away, gently disentangling their hands. He turned the young vampire back toward his own bedroll, tucking the blanket over his shoulder. Steve murmured faintly, lips still parted, but didn’t wake.

Bucky lay back on his own bedroll, staring up at the canopy of stars. The moonlight painted his short white hair silver, cold against the dark. His gold hand flexed once, then again, as though memory lingered in the metal.

He exhaled slow, the sound rough, and only then did sleep claim him again.

Chapter Text

At first the dream was bliss.

Steve’s mouth was on his, urgent and insistent, a mixture of heat and hunger that stole Bucky’s breath and gave it back red. Their lips slid together with an ease that made his chest ache, fangs flashing, tongues licking, tasting blood from each other’s mouths. Iron covered his tongue, heady and intoxicating, but sweeter than anything Bucky had ever known—because it was Steve’s.

He couldn’t stop touching him. One hand clutched at Steve’s hip, fingers digging into hard muscle through damp linen, while the golden claws of his prosthetic threaded deep into Steve’s hair. The strands coiled around the sharp joints, thick and warm, tugging Steve closer until he gasped into Bucky’s mouth. That sound—low, wanting—struck something deep in his chest.

Steve moved against him like he belonged there, pressing chest to chest, broad shoulders braced and trembling as he held Bucky against the wall. The sound of his breath was ragged in the older vampire’s ear, a rhythm that matched the pounding of his own heart. The bond between them sang with every brush of skin.

“James,” Steve whispered, his voice raw, cracked open. “Please—”

The plea undid him.

Bucky kissed down his throat, his fangs aching with a pulsing hunger that wasn’t about blood alone. His instincts screamed mate. They drove him, fangs brushing that long stretch of skin, lips parting over the flutter of Steve’s pulse. His jaw throbbed with the need to seal it, to mark, to claim.

One bite. That was all it would take. To make their half-bond a full mating bond. To finally make Steve his.

Steve tipped his head back, baring his neck with a shudder of trust. Bucky’s lips hovered, his breath catching as he pressed closer—

—and then a hand tore Steve away.

The dream cracked.

Steve was wrenched from his arms, his body flung like it weighed nothing. The sound came first: a sharp, sickening snap of bone and tearing flesh. Then silence.

“No—NO!” The scream ripped from Bucky’s throat as he lurched forward, but too late. Steve’s head lolled at an impossible angle, hanging on only by sinew, the bloody mess of his broken vertebrae laid bare to the low light. His body was limp, his eyes wide and glassy, staring at nothing.

His mate. Broken in an instant.

Bucky staggered, choking on sobs. “Steve! Please—”

And then he saw him.

Baldwin stood there, tall and pale, Steve’s corpse crumpled at his feet. His dark eyes gleamed in the shadows.

“That,” Baldwin said, voice low and cutting, “is what love costs you.”

Bucky’s knees nearly buckled. He clawed at the air as if he could drag Steve back, but his hands were slick with blood—whose, he couldn’t tell. His sobs came raw, harsh, tearing out of him.

Baldwin took a step closer, boots darkening with the stain of Steve’s blood. “You remember, don’t you?” he asked, voice smooth with mockery. “The night you came home. The stench of their bodies in the room. Your mother’s throat torn out. Your sister’s body cooling before you.”

Bucky’s vision blurred. “Stop—”

“And then me,” Baldwin went on, eyes alight with vicious pride. “Their killer. And you, on your knees, crying like a pathetic child. Do you remember what I gave you that night, James?”

Bucky shook his head, trembling. He knew. He didn't want to hear it.

“I gave you eternity. I turned you. Right there. While your family lay dead by my hand.” Baldwin leaned in, whispering like a serpent. “So you could never forget that the night I destroyed your life was also the night I made you mine.”

Bucky let out a broken, ragged sound, half sob, half snarl.

“And Maggie,” Baldwin said, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “Do you remember what you did to her? That little girl who clung to you, called you papa? The one you fed rabbits, the one you swore to protect? Do you remember how her bones snapped beneath your hands when you were in your haze? How she screamed while you tore her open?”

“NO!” Bucky roared, clutching his head, sinking to his knees. “Stop, stop, stop—”

Baldwin crouched, voice a hiss of poison. “You’ll never keep anything. Any time you think you’ve won, any time you believe you’ve found something to call yours, I’ll take it away. Just. Like. This.”

He gestured lazily at Steve’s broken body.

“Just as fast.”

Bucky shouted until his throat tore—

-

—and woke with a ragged gasp, his whole body jerking upright as though he’d been thrown. His chest heaved, every muscle taut, sweat chilling his skin.

The fire was smaller, camp dim and quiet under the press of the night. But Steve was there, hovering over him, his hand firm and steady on Bucky’s shoulder, shaking gently.

“James?” His voice was soft, low with concern. “You’re dreaming. It’s alright. Wake up.”

The sound almost broke Bucky again. That voice, alive. Those eyes, real. Not glassy, not dead at Baldwin’s feet.

Bucky’s hand lifted before thought, reaching toward Steve’s face—needing to touch him, to make sure. His fingers hovered inches from Steve’s cheek before he curled them into a fist and dropped it.

His throat was raw, the words torn out of him in a rasp.

“He needs to die,” Bucky whispered.

Steve’s brows drew tight, confusion flickering across his face. “Who—?”

Bucky met his gaze, red eyes hard and burning with fury that had nothing to do with the dream.

“Baldwin,” Bucky said, and the name felt like ash in his mouth.

Steve didn’t move at first, his hand still steady on Bucky’s shoulder, the low glow of the firelight catching faintly in his blonde hair. His blue eyes searched Bucky’s face, not prying, but holding him there, grounding him in a way that cut through the nightmare’s haze.

Bucky wanted to look away. His whole chest still ached with the ghost of Steve’s broken body, Baldwin’s voice echoing like rot in his ears. He wasn’t sure if he could stand to see pity on Steve’s face, or worse—fear.

But it wasn’t pity that met him. Steve’s brow furrowed, his lips parting as though to speak, but for a moment he didn’t. He just *looked* at him, as if silently reassuring Bucky that he was there.

Finally, softly: “He won’t be able to hurt you, or anyone else ever again after we're through with him. I don’t know him or all of the atrocities he's done like you do, but I swear it. We will end him.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. His instincts flared at the words, sharp and demanding, as if Steve had already spoken vows that bound them. His jaw locked against the surge of it, against the tremor that wanted to run through his hands.

“You don’t know anything, Steve,” Bucky rasped. The words scraped out, harsh and uneven. “You don’t know anything he's done to me, or what he’ll do if he finds us before we find him.”

“Then tell me.” Steve’s hand slid down from his shoulder, pausing just above the bend of Bucky’s elbow, warm and steady. His thumb pressed lightly into the crimson linen, a small, grounding weight. “Tell me, James. You don’t have to carry it all yourself.”

The sound of his name in that quiet, earnest voice, nearly undid him. For a heartbeat he let himself imagine leaning forward, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder, letting someone else hold his grief. But he could see it too vividly: Steve’s head torn off, his body slumped and bleeding on the floor. Baldwin’s mocking laugh in the background.

He dragged in a breath through his nose, sharp and ragged. He shook his head, “I can’t.”

Steve’s lips pressed into a line, but he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted, closing the gap between them just enough that Bucky could feel the warmth radiating off his body. His hand didn’t leave Bucky’s arm.

“Then you don’t have to,” Steve murmured. “Not tonight.”

The words settled into him like a balm and a blade both. His instincts clamored—ours, mate, keep him close—while his mind hissed with Baldwin’s reminder: anything precious could be ripped away in an instant.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a hand against his brow. The memory of Steve whispering into his neck in sleep, the press of their hands laced together beneath the moon, the ghost of his dream’s kiss—they all twisted together until he thought his chest might split.

Steve stayed close, silent now, as though he knew words were knives where presence could be a salve.

When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was rough, but steadier: “Get some sleep, we ride early tomorrow. We're only two days out from our destination.”

Steve hesitated, as if weighing whether to argue. In the end, he only gave Bucky’s arm a last squeeze, then shifted back toward his bedroll. But even as he lay down, Bucky felt the faint pull of his presence—near, watchful, instinctively guarding.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

And as Bucky settled back, eyes burning against the dark, he thought of Baldwin’s laugh, Steve’s touch, and the word that seemed to live like a curse in his chest now.

Mate.

—

By the time they broke camp that morning, the sky had already begun to sour.

It wasn’t a storm yet, but the air carried that heaviness that pressed against the lungs, thick and damp. Clouds rolled low over the mountains, darker at their edges, curling like smoke. The sun struggled through, pale and wan, turning everything the color of dull pewter.

No one said much, the tension of what was to come once they reached the Pass in two days pressed down heavily onto them all.

Steve had never minded silence before. It used to comfort him, especially during his years as a squire, when his body had ached too much to sleep and he’d lie awake in the stables, listening to the horses shift and sigh. But this kind of silence was different. It felt alive—like something waiting, something watching.

Steve had noticed it first in James. The way his shoulders, always taut, now seemed wound tighter still, like a bowstring ready to snap. His white hair stirred faintly in the damp wind, short strands catching the light and then darkening again under the heavy sky. His left hand rested on the reins, gleaming dully where the faint light touched gold. Steve couldn’t help but stare at that hand sometimes. The way it caught the light—the way it looked like such a beautiful weapon when the claws clicked faintly while moving. But more than that, it reminded him of what James had survived.

And what he was capable of.

When they’d first met, Steve had thought of him as cold. Unreachable. A creature shaped by rules, discipline, and long, lonely years. But somewhere along this road—between lessons about hunger control, how instincts as well as scenting and scent-marking worked—something had changed. He saw the flickers now: the smallest crease at the corner of James’ eyes when he caught something amusing; the ghost of pride when Steve showed restraint; the rare, quiet sighs when he thought no one was listening.

Those small pieces had built something in Steve—trust, and something more.

He looked at James’ back again and felt the bond stir. It was quiet, but stronger now. Constant. Like a second heartbeat that belonged to someone else. He could feel James’ presence through it—not thoughts or words, but impressions: steadiness, discipline, an undercurrent of sharp hunger carefully caged.

Sometimes he thought he could feel when James was angry or when his focus shifted. And now, that focus was all edge.

The closer they rode to their destination, the less human he looked.

Even Clint had noticed. The half-breed’s sharp eyes kept flicking toward James whenever the older vampire’s jaw tightened or his nostrils flared faintly as he scented the air. Natasha didn’t speak, but her hand rested almost constantly near one of her axe handles, her senses sharpened like her weapons.

The wind changed by midday.

It came from the north now—cold, carrying with it the scent of far-off ozone and rain. The sky had gone fully gray, clouds dragging low enough to skim the mountain peaks. The light bled flat across the land, draining color until everything looked painted in shades of ash and stone. Even Fen seemed restless, ears flicking, his steps more cautious on the rocky ground.

James brought him to a slower pace, scanning the horizon. His voice, when he spoke, was low enough that Steve would have thought he imagined it without the vibration from the Blood Soldier's back.

“Smell that?”

Steve lifted his head, breathing in. Rain, mud, pine—and something else. Something faint but out of place. A tang beneath the clean scent of earth, like rusted iron.

“…Blood?” he guessed quietly.

James nodded once.

“Old. Maybe a day, maybe two. Human.”

Steve glanced toward the side of the road where the grass dipped low. There, half-buried in mud, was a dark patch that hadn’t dried. A trail led off into the woods 

—faint prints, narrow and spaced unevenly, like someone had been running.

Natasha’s horse snorted behind them.

“Bandits?” she asked flatly.

James didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked the trail, then the trees.

“Not bandits. The stride’s too long. Too erratic. Could’ve been a fledgling, but the blood’s too old for that.”

Clint made a low sound. “Which leaves what? A feeding gone wrong, or a feral’s dragging bodies off the road?”

No one replied.

The wind picked up, rattling through the branches above, and Steve felt a shiver crawl down his spine.

They kept moving.

No one wanted to camp near that long stretch of woods, not even James. By the time they found higher ground, the sky had deepened toward evening, thick clouds bruised purple where the last of the sun tried to break through. The smell of rain had grown stronger—not clean rain, but something heavy, electric, like the air before lightning.

They stopped to water the horses near a stream. Steve crouched by the bank, watching the water rush past in gray ribbons, and tried to calm the unease coiling under his ribs. It wasn’t just nerves about the coming fight. It was something deeper, instinctual.

The bond pulsed again.

James was standing a few yards away, talking in low tones with Natasha. Steve couldn’t hear the words, but he could feel the weight of them. Something about the air between them made it obvious—strategy, caution. Clint leaned against a tree, tapping a restless pattern against its bark.

No one laughed. No one smiled.

Even the horses had gone quiet, their ears twitching toward the tree line every few minutes.

Steve found his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. He traced a thumb along the guard, the metal cool under his touch, and thought again of how James’s face had softened, just barely, when he’d seen Steve care for it. It wasn’t the kind of gift given lightly.

It was a weapon, yes—but also a tether between them.

By the time they saddled up again and started down the narrowing trail that would lead them toward their next camp, the little bit of light from the sunset had vanished. The clouds had thickened to a solid sheet of black that covered the stars and moon, and the wind smelled of lightning.

The world felt smaller.

The silence heavier.

And in the pit of Steve’s stomach, something deep and old whispered that the next time they saw dawn, the world might not look the same.

—

By the time they made camp that night, the forest had turned black as oil. A cold mist had rolled in from the lowlands, swallowing sound and making even the horses uneasy. Fen’s breath came out in great white clouds, ears flicking toward every small noise beyond the firelight.

They were a day’s ride from Norwen Pass now—from Ravan’s cavern, from the last barrier between them and Baldwin’s shadow.

The world felt as if it were holding its breath.

Bucky rubbed a hand down Fen’s neck and murmured something low to calm him. The stallion snorted, pawing at the ground before settling, though his head remained high, eyes flicking toward the trees.

Steve was unpacking the bedrolls, quiet, thoughtful as always during the task. Natasha and Clint moved like clockwork—one tending the fire, the other checking their packs with soldierly precision. The low ring of metal buckles and shuffle of searching through bags sounded louder than usual.

“Tomorrow’ll be the last long stretch before the we enter the Pass,” Bucky said after a while, half to himself. “Once we cross, Ravan will know we're there. There won't be any turning back.”

“Then we make this camp count,” Natasha replied, crouching near the flames. The firelight painted gold across her cheekbones, catching the faint scars that lined her temple.

Clint grunted, still busy restringing his bow. “Something about the air feels wrong tonight.”

Bucky said nothing, but he felt it too—that charged, prickling weight pressing against his skin. Not danger, exactly. Not yet. But something coming.

He was about to move closer to the fire when Fen’s head shot up, nostrils flaring. The horse gave a low, warning rumble that made the others freeze.

“Someone’s here,” Bucky said quietly.

Natasha was on her feet before he’d finished speaking, twin axes drawn and gleaming like slices of moonlight. Clint had an arrow notched, pivoting toward the treeline.

Steve stood automatically between them and Bucky, sword drawn.

A heartbeat of silence. Then—

Rrrrip

The sharp sound echoed once through the trees like tearing fabric.

“Relax, darlings,” came a voice, smooth as wine and just as dangerous. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be decorating the underbrush already.”

A figure materialized out of the dark—tall, lean, graceful, every movement too smooth to be human. Black hair tied back with a strip of green silk. A long traveling coat of shadowed velvet, beaded with fine droplets of rain.

Clint’s draw tightened. “Who the hell—”

“Stand down,” Bucky ordered, voice low but carrying.

“Like hell,” Clint snapped. “He's a vampire—”

“I said stand down, Barton.”

Something in his tone made even the night itself hesitate.

Steve’s expression flickered with recognition—relief and caution mingled. “Loki.”

“Captain,” Loki purred, as if greeting an old dance partner. His eyes, green and sharp, swept over the group until they found Bucky. “And Barnes. You look marginally less tragic since last I saw you.”

“Loki,” Bucky said, tone warning.

“Is that how we’re doing this? No warm welcome? Not even a thank-you for the priceless information and items that will almost certainly save your brooding little hide?” Loki sauntered closer, utterly unbothered by the weapons aimed at him.

Natasha took a step forward, gaze like a blade. “You didn’t say your ‘trusted source’ was an ancient vampire.”

“Elder,” Loki said airily, “I’m almost an ancient, but not yet. You should be flattered that I'm showing myself to you at all.”

“Funny,” Clint muttered. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

Loki smiled, teeth just a little too sharp in the firelight. “You must be the archer. Always so quick to aim, so slow to think.”

Bucky stepped forward. “Enough.”

That single word cut through the tension like steel through silk.

Loki stopped immediately, the grin fading to something cooler, sharper. Then, with a faint flick of his wrist, he dug a small satchel out of his coat pocket. It was bound in dark leather and sealed with runes that pulsed faintly blue.

“I believe this is what you asked for,” Loki said, tossing it lightly toward Bucky, who caught it one-handed. “Counter-wards, sigil map, and a touch of my own craft to keep you from walking face-first into a blood trap. There's also a potion to help with Ravan’s half-ferals: drink it, and they'll smell only what I choose for them to smell.”

Steve sheathed his sword but didn’t relax. “You did all of this really fast.”

“I don’t waste time when my interests are at stake,” Loki replied, dusting invisible dirt from his sleeve. “And Baldwin’s ambitions have a nasty habit of ruining everyone’s fun.”

Natasha still hadn’t lowered her axes. “So you’re here to help us? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Oh, darling,” Loki said, smiling faintly, “there’s nothing good left in my heart. But yes—I’m here to help. Baldwin’s second is an idiot with too much blood on his hands and too little imagination. If you intend to kill him, I’d rather watch it happen from the winning side.”

Bucky studied him for a long moment before replying. “You said there were wards.”

“Corrupted holy ones,” Loki confirmed, the teasing gone from his voice for once. “Twisted by that broken priest I mentioned. You’ll need to move carefully. The wards feed on guilt, and you, Barnes, are practically bleeding with it.”

The fire hissed as a drop of rain struck it.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Then we move early?”

Bucky nodded. “Early.” He turned to Natasha and Clint. “He’s with us. For now.”

Clint muttered something that sounded like “great, just what we needed,” but he didn’t argue.

Loki smiled again—that foxlike, knowing curve of his mouth. “See? Already we’re a happy little family. Don’t worry, Soldiers. I only bite when invited.”

Natasha shot him a glare that could’ve felled a lesser creature. Loki merely grinned wider.

Rain began to fall, thin and steady, beading on clothes and skin alike. The fire hissed lower, turning the clearing to a dim cocoon of gold and shadow.

As the others moved to secure the camp from rain and to draw sigils, Bucky lingered where Loki had stood a moment ago, clutching the satchel in his hand. The faint thrum of the magic inside vibrated against his skin—potent, old.

Tomorrow would be their last dawn before the confrontation—and if Loki’s words were right, it would be bloodier than anything they’d yet faced.

—

The rain had thinned to a soft mist by the time James stepped away from Fen, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. The fire cast him in soft amber light—pale hair gone almost silver, the faint sheen of his metal arm catching each flicker like molten gold.

Loki was still talking, lounging near the fire on a tree trunk like he owned it, one boot crossed lazily over the other. Natasha and Clint were a matched pair of tension across from him, twin silhouettes that never quite took their eyes off the stranger.

“We’re heading out,” James said, cutting through the conversation.

Loki looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Midnight stroll?”

“Dinner,” the turned half-breed replied flatly.

Loki’s grin curved slow. “Of course. Try not to bring back something still screaming.”

James didn’t bother responding. He jerked his chin toward Steve. “Let’s go.”

Steve followed him wordlessly out of the firelight and into the misty forest.

The trees were dense here—oaks and birch weaving shadows so deep they looked carved from smoke. The ground was damp and silent under their boots, only the soft rustle of leaves marking their passage.

The hunger was there, waiting, always. Not too sharp anymore, but deep—a pulse that lived somewhere between his chest and throat. He’d learned to keep it quiet, to breathe around it.

But tonight, it stirred differently.

Tonight, it pulled.

James moved ahead, soundless. Even here, with no moon, Steve could see the glint of him with his enhanced eyes—the faint shimmer of white hair, the whisper of a blade being drawn, the creak of his worn leather coat.

They found a pair of deer near the creek’s edge. Steve let James gesture silently to him—the silent language they’d built from hunts and practice.

He crouched, waited, timed his breath to the deer’s movement. Then attacked, snapping the animal’s neck—quick, clean, painless. The body went still in his arms before it ever had time to thrash. He sunk his fangs home.

Warm blood filled his mouth. Sweet, metallic. His body relaxed as the ache in his stomach eased, but that other ache—deeper, instinctual—didn’t. It stayed there, throbbing under his ribs.

James fed nearby, efficient, quiet. When he looked up, his mouth was red at one of the edges, his eyes faintly gold from the rush.

Steve wiped his own mouth and looked away.

The forest felt alive, almost sentient—each drop of water falling from the canopy sounded too loud, the air thick enough to chew.

That’s when it hit him again.

The pull.

Harder this time.

Like a hook behind his sternum, dragging him toward the older vampire. His breath hitched, and he stumbled a step forward without meaning to.

James turned immediately. “You good?”

Steve nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—” He gestured vaguely toward the trees. “Instincts.”

James’s expression softened by a fraction. “They’re always stronger when you’re feeding. You’ll learn to quiet them with time.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

Steve forced himself to focus on the deer carcass, on the dark slick of its fur, anything that wasn’t James’s voice or scent. But every inhale carried it—clove, pine, leather, ozone and something dark-sweet beneath, like smoke curling through old wood.

His veins hummed.

He barely heard himself say it: “You think instincts are ever wrong?”

James looked over at him, golden eyes fading back to crimson. “Sometimes they’re inconvenient or confused. But that doesn’t make them wrong.”

The words struck deep, though Steve didn’t know why.

They dragged the bodies close the creek for other predators to finish, washing their hands clean in the cold water. Steve could feel the pull still thrumming faintly, soft as a heartbeat—a tether, invisible, stretching taut between them even as they walked back.

By the time they reached camp again, he could breathe normally, but the world still felt slightly off-balance—like the ground itself tilted gently toward James.

Loki sat where they’d left him, cross-legged and comfortable, as though he’d been born beside campfires. He’d taken off his coat, draped it over his shoulders, making it look like a makeshift throne, and now twirled a twig through the flame, watching it blacken.

Natasha and Clint hadn’t moved far, though they looked less tense than before. Natasha’s hands were still near her weapons; Clint’s bow was half-strung, resting across his lap as he munched on some dried meat. Their eyes tracked every shift Loki made.

James ignored all of it. He crouched by the fire, grabbing a piece of charcoal that looked perfect to be a pencil, and sat down on a log with the quiet grace of someone who didn’t need to prove his strength. His coat settled around him, dark leather catching the light like smoke made solid.

Steve followed, feeling the warmth soak into his bones the moment he sat next to him.

“Feeding time complete?” Loki asked lightly, watching James’s movements as though he found them fascinating.

The turned half-breed gave a short nod. “We’re good for the night.”

“Splendid,” Loki said, stretching like a cat. “Now we can have a civilized conversation without anyone gnawing on a throat halfway through.”

Clint’s lip curled faintly. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I like my audience.” Loki’s smile flashed sharp and quick.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You said you had information. That’s the only reason you’re not pinned to a tree right now.”

“Ah, yes. The ever-delightful Blood Soldiers—all discipline, no sense of humor.” Loki tilted his head, the firelight carving his face into something mythic. “If your human side would ever let your fangs grow, you might understand what you’re missing.”

Natasha didn’t rise to the bait, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

James broke in before Clint could. “They’re fine, Loki. Just tell us what you've found since last time.”

“Straight to business,” Loki sighed dramatically, but his tone softened as he leaned closer. “Ravan hasn’t moved from the caverns. His numbers have grown, though. Possibly three new thralls since I last checked. Baldwin’s funneling blood and resources through that region like a plague, and the priest is getting twitchy. I think he knows someone’s coming.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “We’ll move before dawn.”

“That soon?” Clint asked.

James nodded once, eyes still on Loki. “We’ve delayed long enough.”

Loki studied him, something sly and sympathetic behind the usual smirk. “You always were eager to walk into a monster’s mouth, weren’t you?”

“Only if I know I can tear my way out alive,” James said quietly.

That silenced even Loki. The fire popped, filling the space with the sound of sap bursting.

Steve found himself watching James’s hands—the gloved flesh one resting loosely on his knee, the gold one half-curled in the dirt. The claws caught the firelight and shone like blood-polished coins. The motion looked idle, but Steve could see the small tremor in the metal where tension lingered.

Loki’s gaze followed Steve’s without a word, then flicked back up, unreadable. “You’ve definitely come a long way from that blood magic poisoned pawn, James.”

Bucky shot him a look, half warning, half weariness. “Don’t start.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Loki replied, but his grin had softened into something that almost resembled fondness.

Steve slumped slightly, the rhythm of their voices blurring with the fire’s crackle. He didn’t know when exactly it happened, but the weight of his body shifted until his shoulder brushed James’s—lightly at first, then a little more firmly as consciousness started slipping away.

He didn’t mean to rest there. But the warmth, the exhaustion, the quiet murmur of conversation all conspired against him.

Loki noticed first, eyes darting down to where Steve had leaned. His smirk grew subtle and sharp, though he didn’t comment.

James noticed next—Steve felt him stiffen, just barely, then relax again. He said nothing.

Steve’s eyelids were heavy now. Loki’s voice became a background hum, lilting and smooth. Bucky’s low rasp rumbled beneath it, grounding, steady.

He couldn’t make out all the words—only the tones, the push and pull between Bucky’s dry calm and Loki’s silken sass. He heard names, maybe plans, a few curses. But it all blurred, soft and indistinct, until there was only sound and heat.

He shifted again, the leather of James’s coat and the fabric of his neck guard brushing his cheek. The scent of him was comforting.

The last thing he heard clearly before sleep took him was James’s voice, low and rough-edged, saying something to Loki that made Loki chuckle softly.

Then, nothing.

Just warmth. The steady thrum of other heartbeats near his own. The world narrowing to breath and heat and the faintest echo of safety.

-

He woke to the sound of whispering.

At first, he thought it was the forest—wind threading through the trees, the creak of branches, the rasp of animals. But the cadence was wrong. Softer. More deliberate. Voices.

He blinked, letting the darkness resolve around him. The fire had burned low to ash and ember, painting the clearing in dull red light. Clint was sprawled out on his bedroll half covered by his blanket, his bow still gripped in his hand, mouth half open in sleep. Natasha had rolled to her side, her axes within reach.

Bucky lay a few feet away. Steve could see the line of his back, the red linen of his shirt just poking out from under the blanket, the white strands of hair still somehow perfectly in place. His breathing was steady, deep.

The whispering came again—from beyond the treeline. Faint.

Steve sat up slowly, careful not to wake anyone, and reached for his coat. The night air was cooler than it had been earlier, sharp with damp and the faint, metallic scent of the earlier storm.

The voices drew him toward the dark of the forest. He moved quietly, instinct guiding his steps the way it always did now—feet soft on the ground, body ghostlike between shadows.

And then he saw them.

Loki stood near the creek, back to a birch tree, the shimmer of his hair ribbon slipping through his fingers. Another man stood before him, close enough that their chests brushed with every breath.

Steve stilled.

The man was shorter, his build way less compact than James’s, but still strong, his posture loose but sure. Brown hair, neatly trimmed beard, the faintest glint of something metallic along his wrist—a bracelet or a tool. He looked nothing like a vampire. Except for his eyes. There was something ancient in them, a light that didn’t belong to mortals. 

The man leaned forward, and Loki’s breath hitched—quiet but audible in the night’s hush. Steve watched, transfixed, as the stranger kissed along the sharp line of Loki’s jaw, down to the pale column of his throat.

Loki’s hand rose, threading into the man’s hair. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, though there was no force behind it.

The man smiled against his skin. “You say that every time I find you on one of your missions.”

“Because it’s true.”

“And yet you never push me away, or throw my ass through a portal.”

Loki huffed something between a sigh and a laugh—then shuddered when the man’s mouth found the crook of his neck and shoulder. His head fell back against the bark, green eyes half-closed.

Steve’s heart thudded. He should have turned away, should have gone back to camp, but he couldn’t seem to move. It wasn’t just the intimacy of what he saw — it was the tenderness in it. The way Loki, so sharp and cruel in other company, melted beneath this mystery man’s touch. The way the other man cupped Loki’s jaw and looked lovingly into his eyes like something precious.

Moonlight caught in Loki’s hair as the ribbon slipped free completely, spilling dark silk down his back. The man murmured something—too soft for Steve’s enhanced hearing to make out—and Loki’s voice came back low, shaky, “I love you, you reckless fool.”

The man laughed under his breath. “You always say that right before I leave.”

“Because I mean it more then.”

Another kiss, this time on the lips. A promise pressed into skin.

“I love you too, dearest.”

Then the man stepped back. His body shimmered, breaking apart into a flurry of motion—wings catching moonlight. A bat. Small, sleek, gone in a heartbeat.

Loki stayed where he was for a long moment, head tilted up toward the sky where the bat had vanished. His expression was unreadable in the dark, half-smile, half-grief like it hurt to watch the other leave. Then he let out a long, slow sigh and brushed his fingers over his lips as if to hold onto the ghost of a touch.

“Come out, pervert.”

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin.

Loki hadn’t looked his way, hadn’t moved at all, but his voice carried clean through the night. Smooth, amused.

“I—” Steve stepped out from behind the tree, hands raised a little in reflex. “Sorry. I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“To spy?” Loki finished for him, eyes glinting now with amusement. “You’re terrible at sneaking for someone so quiet.”

Steve’s face burned. “I heard voices. Thought— maybe danger.”

“Oh, there was danger,” Loki purred. “Just not the kind you’re used to seeing.”

He took a few languid steps toward Steve, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “You can relax, knight. My mate and I are quite harmless— to humans and you and your companions, at least.”

“Your mate?”

“Mm.” Loki’s smile softened. “His name is Anthony. He’s a genius. A bit of an idiot, but a devoted one. One of the best vampire alchemists and blacksmiths to ever live. And, as you just saw, utterly incapable of following orders.”

Steve blinked. “You’re… mated?”

“For a very long time,” Loki said simply. “Through blood, through bond, through more than either of us deserved. I’m human-born, he was my sire. The universe wanted us together, and I made a very foolish decision to love him even when he didn't love *me* yet.”

There was a pause, long and quiet, filled only by the sound of water moving against stone.

“Does it ever… stop?” Steve asked, before he could help it.

Loki tilted his head. “Does what stop?”

“The pull,” Steve said. “When you’re near him. The way it… gets inside you.”

Loki’s eyes gleamed, ancient and knowing. “Ah. So that’s what this is.”

Steve frowned. “What what is?”

“The half-bond,” Loki said, smiling faintly. “You think it’s simple. A ritual. A matter of consent and exchange. But it isn’t, is it?”

Steve shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The manual said—”

“The manual,” Loki echoed, amusement flickering. “You really are still a knight, aren’t you? Following your little rules.”

Steve bristled. “I’m just— I’m trying to understand it.”

Loki stepped closer, and for once his teasing vanished. His voice dropped low, quiet as the breeze. “Some bonds don’t stay half instinctually. Sometimes, when two instincts fit each other too perfectly, or are made for one another, they start to evolve. They grow teeth. They crawl into places even blood can’t reach. That’s not the manual’s doing. That’s nature’s. That's being something called ‘True Mates.’”

Steve’s throat tightened. “And if that happens?”

“Then you hold on carefully,” Loki murmured. “Because it’s rare and beautiful. But if you mishandle it, it will devour you both. Being True Mates is not something to take lightly, trust in me when I say this.”

The words hung between them, heavy as storm air.

Steve didn’t answer. He only looked at the ground, watched his shadow shiver in the moonlight. The pull inside him throbbed again—slow, steady, aching.

Loki sighed, brushing past him lightly, heading back toward camp. “Get some rest, young knight. Pre-dawn will come soon, and with it, the waking of our dear James.”

Steve stayed by the creek until long after Loki’s footsteps faded.

He watched the mist drift over the water, watched the first faint blush of dawn bleed into the horizon. His chest felt too full. His pulse wouldn’t slow.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw James’s face—pale in firelight, lashes white against his skin, the faint twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to smile.

And Loki’s words echoed, soft and inescapable: “If you mishandle it, it will devour you both.”

He didn’t go back to sleep.

He just sat there until the first early birds started to sing.

The fire had died to a scatter of white ash. Mist hung over the clearing; the ground was cool and damp under Steve’s palms. He hadn’t slept a moment, only watched the dark thin toward gray while the words it will devour you both circled in his head like a prayer turned warning.

Somewhere behind him, a twig cracked.

James’s voice came rough with sleep. 

“You’re up early.”

Steve looked over his shoulder. James was sitting up on his bedroll, his eyes caught the first light and looked almost translucent—crimson and tired.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve said. He meant to sound casual, but it came out like a confession.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than usual before he nodded and pushed to his feet. “We’ll break camp soon before the full sunrise. Nat’ll be happy about the early start.” He stretched, joints cracking quietly, and went to stoke the fire. The smell of char and damp wood filled the clearing.

Steve stood and gently woke Natasha. She rose in a fluid motion, boots crunching on frost, muttering something about cold mornings being good luck before Clint even opened an eye. Clint, predictably, groaned and pulled his blanket over his head.

“Up,” she ordered.

Clint’s muffled protest drew a small huff of amusement from James—the closest thing to laughter Steve had heard from him in days. Natasha smirked in victory and started packing their gear.

The camp came alive with small noises: the slide of buckles, the rasp of leather, the clink of weapons being checked. Fen snorted as Steve approached with a saddlebag; the stallion shook water from his hide and leaned into Steve’s hand with a chuff.

They set off before the sun had cleared the trees, the world still glazed in nighttime purple. Their breath plumed white as they rode, hooves muffled on the damp forest floor as the small team moved to the dirt road.

For a while, none of them spoke. Clint hummed under his breath; Natasha occasionally leaned to study tracks in the mud. Loki had told Steve that he would meet them at their next camp before leaving earlier.

Steve kept close to James, even going so far as to rest his head on the Blood Soldier's back. The older vampire would look back at him every so often, most likely checking to see if Steve had fallen asleep. Each time, the bond inside the blonde pulled a little tighter, an invisible thread tugging behind his ribs. He tried not to notice.

The trees began to thin by midday, giving way to rolling hills washed in autumn gold. From their crest, Steve could see the faint outline of mountains far ahead—jagged gray teeth biting into the horizon.

“That’s Norwen Pass?” he asked.

James nodded. “Beyond these mountains, is Ravan’s territory.” He said it like a warning, voice low.

“Think he knows we’re coming?” Clint called from behind.

James’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “He will.”

The words settled heavy among them. Natasha met James’s eye, and something passed silently between them—a shared understanding.

They stopped only once, by a creek. Clint knelt to refill canteens while Steve crouched beside Fen, running a hand through the horse's mane. Water sang over stones; dull sunlight flashed on ripples. For a fleeting moment, it was almost peaceful.

“You should have rested,” James said quietly without looking up.

Steve glanced over. “I’m fine.”

James tied a saddlebag shut and straightened, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “‘Fine’ doesn’t have shadows under its eyes.”

“Seriously, I’m fine, James.”

He looked away toward the trees. “Right,” he said softly. “Whatever you say.”

They rode again through the long blue of afternoon until the light began to fade. The road turned stonier, winding upward, and the scent of snow drifted down from the higher peaks. Clint started to hum a soldier’s tune to keep pace; Natasha rolled her eyes but didn’t stop him.

By the time the sun sank, they had made it over the mountains and reached the last stretch before Ravan’s cavern. James called for a halt. “We camp here tonight. Once we get closer to his hideout, there’s no rest until we find Ravan.”

They dismounted, weary but alert. Natasha and Clint set the perimeter wards. Steve helped James unsaddle the horses. Their hands brushed once over a buckle—just skin to glove—but the spark that jumped between them felt like fire under his skin. James flinched, barely, then pulled back.

For a long moment neither spoke. The world was dimming, dusk settling in violet and pink, the air humming with the whisper of distant thunder.

Steve wanted to tell him everything—the night, Loki’s warning, the terror and the pull—but the words wouldn’t come. James’s walls were too high tonight; his shoulders too tense.

So instead Steve said quietly, “We’ll kill Ravan. And then Baldwin.”

The older vampire’s eyes flicked up, blood red and fierce. “We will,” he said. His voice was a promise carved in bone.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine and mountain wind and the faint, unmistakable trace of blood somewhere far ahead.

Tomorrow, the hunt would begin again.

Chapter Text

The dawn broke like a struck match.

Mist curled low over the camp, still pale with half-burned moonlight. The first sound wasn’t birdsong or breath—it was the sharp pop! of an alchemical charge hitting dirt. Sparks hissed outward in a spray of red and blue light, filling the air with the tang of iron and singed herbs.

“Rise and regret, darlings,” Loki’s voice drawled from somewhere in the fog. “Or I start using the louder ones.”

Bucky groaned from his bedroll, white hair sticking up in uneven spikes. Steve jolted halfway upright, already reaching for the sword at his side before realizing there was no threat. The faint grin that crept across Loki’s sharp face suggested the chaos had been the point.

Around them, the camp came alive with slow, practiced motions. Natasha sat up, rubbing her face before flicking a glare at Loki that could’ve cut steel. Clint muttered something about “murdering an old man” as he dug for his boots.

The fire had long burned down to glowing embers. When Bucky doused it, the steam rolled through the clearing like breath from a dragon’s mouth. Everything smelled faintly of smoke, horses, and blood that hadn’t quite washed away from his and Steve’s hunt the night before.

“Subtle,” Steve muttered, standing and stretching his broad shoulders beneath the long coat. His sword hung at his hip, black leather creaking faintly as he adjusted the scabbard.

“Subtlety,” Loki replied, tossing a small glass vial between his fingers, “is for people who don’t travel with you lot.” The vial clicked as he pocketed it again, the faint glow within pulsing with alchemical light. “Plus, they are already aware of our presence.”

Bucky ran a hand through his short, snow-pale hair and started moving through the routine—throwing on his coat and buckling all of his gear onto himself.

“Don't forget to draw those sigils on yourselves unless you want to be influenced or controlled by blood magic.” 

Steve grabbed and unfolded the vellum Loki had given them from the saddlebag, careful with the thin edges. The sigil looked no less complicated in the morning light—tight spirals, branching lines, loops that crossed themselves in deliberate order.

“Drawn in your own blood,” Loki reminded. “Trace every line. Press it to the skin above your heart. And don’t skip anything, or you accidentally invite the heathen into your mind.”

“I’ll do it first,” Bucky said.

Everyone looked up.

He’d already had his fangs down, the teeth flashed once in the gray morning light before he brought his right hand up and nicked the pad of his thumb with one of them. The wound was shallow, deliberate. A bead of red welled instantly.

Bucky crouched near the log they had sat on last night for a flat surface, pressing the vellum down against it with his left hand. The other hovered over the sigil for a moment.

“Sequence matters,” Bucky muttered, mostly to himself.

Then he began.

The first spiral took shape in dark red, the blood gliding across the vellum in a slow, steady stroke. Bucky’s hand didn’t shake. Each line followed the pattern exactly—curve, hook, crossing loop, another spiral tightening inward like a coiled spring.

The sigil seemed to grow heavier the more of it he completed, the lines threading together into something older than simple ink and parchment.

Loki watched from where he leaned against a tree, arms folded, expression thoughtful rather than mocking for once.

Bucky finished the final curl and lifted his hand.

For a heartbeat nothing happened.

Then the blood in the sigil gave a faint shimmer, almost like heat rising off stone.

“Good,” Loki said quietly. “It recognized the intent.”

Bucky didn’t comment. He simply lifted the vellum and unbuttoned his shirt to get at his chest. The Blood Soldier pressed the sigil against the skin above his heart.

The reaction was immediate.

A faint pulse of dull red light flickered through the paper, then sank into his chest like water disappearing into sand.

Bucky inhaled sharply.

Steve stepped forward quickly. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Bucky exhaled slowly, hand still resting over his sternum. “Feels… weird.”

“Define weird,” Clint said.

“Like someone knocking on the inside of your skull and finding the door locked.”

Natasha hummed. “Comforting.”

The sigil paper fell away from Bucky’s chest, the blood now faded to a dull brown, its magic spent.

Steve picked up another sheet.

“Alright,” Clint said. “Guess we’re doing this.”

Natasha beat him to it.

She didn’t hesitate—just sliced a small line across the edge of her palm with one of her knives and traced the sigil with quick, precise movements. Her version was smaller but just as exact.

When she pressed it against her chest, the red glow flickered once and vanished.

Natasha rolled her shoulder. “Feels like pressure.”

“Better pressure than possession,” Loki replied.

Clint sighed dramatically and stepped up next.

“Fine. If I die, I’m haunting all of you.”

“Not possible,” Natasha said. “You’re already annoying enough alive.”

He shot her a look and pricked his finger, copying the sigil with surprising care. His lines were a little messier, but Loki only nodded once in approval.

The sigil flashed when Clint pressed it to his chest.

“Okay,” Clint muttered after a moment. “That’s… creepy.”

“Welcome to magic,” Loki said.

That left Steve.

—

The vellum felt thinner in his hands than it had before, almost fragile. He watched the pattern for a moment longer than necessary, committing the order of the strokes to memory.

Then he cut his thumb with his own fang, just like James had.

The blood came quicker than he expected—bright against the pale parchment.

Steve began tracing.

His strokes were slower than James’s had been, but careful. The spiral tightened under his hand, each line building on the last. He could feel James standing nearby, quiet but attentive, like a second set of eyes making sure he didn’t miss anything.

“You’re skipping ahead,” James said suddenly.

Steve froze.

“What?”

“That curl connects to the outer line first,” James murmured, pointing. “Then the spiral closes.”

Steve adjusted the stroke.

“Right.”

He finished the final mark and lifted the vellum.

For a second he just stared at it.

There was something unsettling about seeing his own blood arranged into something deliberate—something that looked less like a drawing and more like a lock.

“Go on, Captain,” Loki said lightly.

Steve opened the collar of his tunic and undershirt.

When he pressed the sigil to the skin above his heart, the magic reacted harder than the others had.

The red glow flared bright—sharp enough that Steve sucked in a breath.

For an instant it felt like something pushed back inside his mind. Not pain, exactly. Pressure. Like a door slamming shut somewhere deep behind his thoughts.

Then it settled.

The light faded.

Steve lowered the parchment slowly.

“Well?” Clint asked.

Steve rolled his shoulders, testing the strange feeling in his chest.

“Feels like… a wall,” he said after a moment.

James’s gaze lingered on him a second longer before he nodded.

“Good.”

Loki straightened from the tree, dusting imaginary dirt from his coat.

“Excellent. Congratulations. Your minds are now significantly harder to crawl into.”

Clint slung his bow over his shoulder. “That’s the most comforting sentence I’ve heard all week.”

The mist had begun to thin as the sun climbed higher, pale light filtering through the branches.

James fastened the last button on his shirt and glanced toward the forest ahead—the direction of Ravan’s nest.

“Let’s get a move on,” he said.

—

Fen stamped his hooves, the black stallion tossing his head when Bucky approached. “Easy, boy,” the Blood Soldier murmured, voice low and rough. The horse leaned into his hand, breath steaming through the cool of the morning. Steve moved to saddle up after Bucky, their motions wordless, practiced—two halves of a rhythm learned through many dawns like this. Steve passed him a plump quail he had caught while everyone was finishing packing, still warm and only half drained of blood. 

“Thanks.” Bucky said before biting into the bird's delicate flesh and drinking his fill. He plucked its large tail feathers for trading purposes, then tossed the carcass towards a fox den. 

Natasha and Clint were quieter than usual. No banter. Just the soft click of buckles and the clink of arrowheads as they mounted up. 

Loki crouched near what remained of the fire and began packing small bottles into his satchel. The air around him shimmered faintly with traces of energy—old magic threaded through alchemy. He sealed each vial with a twist of his fingers and a low hum of magic that made the ground quiver.

“That sound,” Clint said, frowning, “is wrong.”

“It’s protection for me,” Loki answered. “You’ll thank me when I make it so the wards don’t flay the skin from your bones.”

Steve shot Bucky a look that said 'I’ll take his word for it,' and Bucky only shrugged, lips twitching faintly.

The sky was turning gray-gold; the light was thin and sharp. Bucky glanced across the clearing to where Loki stood, his coat a shimmer of green and black against the fog.

“This is it, then,” Bucky said quietly. His voice carried that hard calm he wore before fights. “We’ll meet you there.”

“Indeed. Safe travels.~” Loki purred. Magic shimmered around his person as he transformed into a bat and flew to their shared destination with a shriek.

The cold air bit at the team's faces as they started down the narrow path out of the valley. Frost cracked under the horse's hooves; the sound echoed like breaking glass. Behind them, the remnants of the camp vanished into the trees.

“Today feels off,” Steve murmured after a while.

Bucky’s profile was sharp against the dim light. He didn’t look back, and didn't reply.

Above them, the last shred of dawn light spilled over the ridge—thin, cold gold over stone. The road ahead wound downward into shadow, toward the caverns where blood and ruin waited.

-

The path narrowed as they rode deeper into the valley, the land itself seeming to close its jaws around them. What light had lingered at dawn died by degrees, swallowed by low clouds and the jagged teeth of black stone rising on either side.

Bucky slowed Fen to a cautious trot, his gloved hand resting lightly on the reins, the gold of his prosthetic catching what little gray light remained. Steve’s presence behind him was steady—an anchor pressed close at his back. Natasha and Clint flanked them, their horses silent but tense, trained to quiet in the presence of danger.

The scent of old blood began to thread through the damp air—faint, metallic, and malevolent.

Loki appeared again just ahead of a bend in the path, his long coat stirring like mist. It had been hours ago that he had moved on ahead of them, following the pull of corrupted magic, and now waited where the ground itself had turned black from rot.

“You took your time,” he said as they reined in. “The mountain’s getting impatient.”

“Last I checked, it wasn’t on a schedule,” Bucky replied evenly, dismounting. Fen hooved at the ground and exhaled steam.

He crouched to study the ground—runes half-carved into the rock, their edges crusted with dried blood. They pulsed faintly, alive with the priest’s corrupted blessing and Ravan’s putrid magic.

“That’s holy script,” Natasha murmured from behind him. “But twisted.”

Loki’s expression sharpened. “It was holy once. The priest made it sacrilegious when Baldwin turned him. You’ll feel the sickness of it if you look too long.”

Steve stepped forward, jaw set. “You can break them?”

Loki tilted his head, almost offended. “I can unmake them. The question is whether you can survive being that close when I do.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the slow shifting of horses and the faint hiss of air moving through the canyon.

“I'm just kidding, only humans have a chance to perish.” 

Loki swiftly turned away, crouched near the largest rune, and began unpacking a series of small glass phials. Each one glowed faintly in a different color—blue like moonlight, gold like dawn, red like arterial blood. “Alchemy helps the process,” he said conversationally, swirling the contents of one vial. “Old magic listens to blood. But Baldwin’s wards… they listen to obedience.”

“Meaning?” Steve asked.

“Meaning even when I'm concealing you all from the blood magic, if you so much as think of disobeying the pattern, they will hear it,” Loki said. His tone was clinical now. “They feed on guilt and on intent. Do not think about Baldwin while you cross. Do not think about revenge. Do not think about what he took from you.”

He looked at Bucky then—really looked. “Or they’ll know.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

Loki’s hand began to move in slow, deliberate gestures, his voice dropping into an ancient language that scraped at the edge of understanding. The air around him warped—not visibly, but with a pressure that made Bucky’s teeth ache.

Light spilled from the vials in thin, living streams. They rose from the ground and coiled around the runes like veins igniting under skin. The smell was sharp—burnt silver and rosemary, spiced with something coppery that set him and Steve’s instincts on edge.

When Loki’s voice finally stopped, the light sank into the stone. The symbols hissed, flared once, and went dark.

“It’s done,” Loki said quietly. His face looked pale in the dim light, sharper, almost ancient. “But it won’t last long. You have to slay the priest.”

Bucky moved to mount Fen again, but Loki caught his arm—his grip cold, strong.

“James,” he said, voice low. “We don't know what Baldwin’s planning or what he's making Ravan do for him.”

Bucky met his gaze. “I know, that’s a big reason why we're here.”

“Then you also know you’re walking into the belly of his obsession.” Loki’s eyes glimmered like glass catching starlight. “He’s been building something for decades, and it feels close to a breaking point. Either you and your merry band figure it out and stop it, or humankind could be in danger.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in something that might’ve been a grim smile. “Stopping it is the plan, Loki."

Loki released him, though his eyes lingered. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I never liked seeing you bleed for someone else’s sin.”

Bucky looked at him for a long moment, unreadable, then swung back into the saddle. “You still remember how to keep the wards quiet, old man?”

Loki’s smirk returned, brittle but familiar. “I remember everything, darling.” 

He stepped back, letting them pass. “Go. And don’t look back. Once I begin, the blood magic will see me as its anchor. If I lose focus…” His grin turned sharp. “You’ll know.”

Steve gave him a curt nod. “We’ll try to make it quick.”

“Oh, do,” Loki replied softly, already beginning to chant. “Before the mountain decides it would like to feast on flesh.”

The riders moved forward towards the cave entrance. The air grew thicker—colder—with every step. Behind them, Loki’s voice rose like a storm breaking, the runes along the cliffs flaring one by one, red then gold.

When they passed through the invisible threshold, Bucky felt something brush against his mind—a whisper of blood and memory—and then it was gone, replaced by the iron scent of what waited ahead.

The air changed the deeper they went.

The rough stone walls grew smooth, carved by patient, deliberate hands. Script covered the surfaces—old scripture, etched in patterns that spiraled and overlapped until no holy word remained intact. Every few feet, skulls had been mortared into the rock, hollow eyes holding candles that burned with red-black flame.

Each flicker threw long, twisting shadows that made the cavern breathe.

“Smells like rot and old faith,” Clint muttered, nocking an arrow.

The tunnel widened, spilling into a sanctum the size of a cathedral nave. The altar at its heart was made of stone, but the stains that coated it were not rust. Prayer books lay open on either side—the pages sewn together with black thread, as if the priest had tried to bind the words themselves shut.

The turned priest knelt before the altar, head bowed, skeletal frame shaking as he whispered to something unseen. His once-white robes hung in tatters, held together by filigree chains of silver and bone. What had once been holy symbols were now broken or reversed—crucifixes turned upside down, rosaries wrapped like shackles around his throat.

“Father,” Bucky said, his voice echoing through the chamber, calm and cold. “Your sermon’s over.”

The priest’s head snapped up. His eyes gleamed blood-white, sclera burning like candles. His smile was too wide, corners stitched open with gold wire that glittered in the red light.

“Children,” he crooned. “Blessed are you who walk in the shadow of the Lord’s hunger.” His voice rippled, doubled—the echo of something divine long since drowned in blood. “I can smell the holy rot on your bones.”

He rose, robes shifting around him like something alive. His hands were covered in old scripture tattoos—the ink had been drawn in human blood. As he spoke, the symbols along his arms began to smolder and hiss, dripping molten red onto the floor.

“Let us pray,” he whispered.

Then the candles flared.

The chamber ignited with blinding, black fire—each flame reaching higher, forming long, clawed shapes that twisted toward them. The air thickened with the iron stench of blood magic.

“Move!” Bucky barked, diving aside as a column of flame erupted where he’d stood.

Clint loosed three arrows in rapid succession—silver-tipped shafts whistling through the smoke. Two found purchase in the priest’s shoulder and thigh; the third embedded in the altar. The twisted vampire barely flinched, his grin warping further as he stretched his arms wide.

“Every wound is worship!”

Natasha darted through the firelight, twin axes glinting like mirrored moons. She swung low, cutting deep into his leg—the edge sizzled as it met corrupted flesh. The priest shrieked, his voice rising into a pitch that cracked the candles’ flames.

He spoke a word—old, guttural—and the wound sealed itself with black, pulsing veins.

“Blasphemy given form,” he hissed, and with a wave of his hand, sigils blazed to life on the ground. Circles of ash spun like halos gone mad, snapping up from the floor to encase them.

Steve charged through one of the spinning runes, his sword wreathed in faint crimson light, the metal resonating with the holy energy built into its core in reaction to the blood magic. When the blade struck the priest’s wrist, it burned rather than cut. The smell was unbearable—sanctified silver meeting corrupted flesh.

The priest growled and backhanded Steve hard enough to send him crashing into a pew.

“Stay down!” Bucky shouted, intercepting another strike. His golden prosthetic caught the priest’s clawed hand with a sharp 'clang!'—the impact rattled the chamber, sparks flying. For a heartbeat, they locked eyes: one set gleaming white, the other gold and ready to fight.

Then Bucky twisted, wrenching the wrist until bones cracked. His dagger flashed up in his free hand, slicing across the priest’s throat.

Instead of blood, a gush of black light erupted—a shriek like a choir being strangled.

Natasha and Clint moved in tandem, striking at the forming runes to destabilize them. Silver flashed, fire sputtered. The air buzzed with collapsing magic.

The priest stumbled, hands raised to the dark ceiling. “You cannot unmake God!” he cried, and slammed his palms against the altar.

The entire structure flared white-hot. Lines of corrupted sigils rippled outward in a web. The energy slammed into Bucky’s chest, throwing him backward—but his prosthetic glowed faintly, the enchantments in the gold metal absorbing the worst of the blast.

Smoke curled from his coat as he rose again, eyes glowing. “Wrong church,” he snarled, then launched forward.

The priest caught the dagger between both palms, hissing as it burned his hands. Bucky let go of the blade entirely and drove his prosthetic into the priest’s chest, the claws punching through ribs with a crack like snapping wood.

The priest gasped—a wet, bubbling sound.

“Mercy,” he gurgled.

Bucky’s voice was a whisper. “You ran out of mercy a long time ago.”

He clenched his hand and crushed.

The sound was awful—ribs collapsing, heart bursting like wet bark under pressure. The black light guttered, and every candle in the chamber died at once.

For a moment, nothing moved. Only the smell lingered—burnt blood, incense, and old sanctity turned to rot.

Then the altar split down the center with a grinding crack and collapsed, sending a plume of ash spiraling into the air.

Bucky pulled his arm free and stepped back. The others slowly gathered near him—Clint lowering his bow, Natasha brushing ash from her axes. Steve came to stand at Bucky’s side, eyes sweeping the chamber.

No movement. No breath. Only silence.

“First fight down,” Clint muttered. “Plenty more sinners to go.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He stared at the ruin before them, expression unreadable. The dark light caught in his white hair, the sheen of blood across his coat making him look almost spectral.

He finally turned toward the others, voice quiet but steady. 

“Let’s move. Ravan won’t wait long.”

The corridors ahead twisted like veins. The deeper they went, the more the stone seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Faded wards glowed dull red along the walls—magic that had once been used to keep monsters out now muttering to keep prey in.

A low growl rippled through the dark.

“Six of them,” Natasha murmured, eyes narrowing. Her axes spun in her hands with a soft ring of metal.

“Half-ferals,” Clint confirmed, nocking two arrows at once.

Shapes slunk from the archway ahead—bodies too lean, eyes glowing red from blood magic overexposure. Every one of them wore Ravan’s mark on the throat, an open brand that still smoked faintly. The smell of them—sour and sickly metallic—rolled down the corridor.

Bucky sheathed his dagger and glanced at Steve. “Loki’s brew.”

Steve pulled the small glass vial from his coat pocket. Even sealed, it reeked of zinc and wormwood. “You’re sure this will work?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, and bit the cork free. The liquid smoked on his tongue before he swallowed. “Drink.”

Steve followed suit. The taste hit like swallowing rust and lightning—so bitter his fangs ached. The potion clawed down his throat, leaving a faint shimmer on his skin that faded almost instantly.

Loki’s voice echoed in Steve’s memory: ”They’ll smell only what I choose for them to smell.”

Natasha caught Bucky’s eye. “We’ll keep them busy.”

He nodded once. “Don’t get sloppy.”

Clint grinned, already pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then the corridor erupted. The half-ferals lunged as one, a blur of teeth and claws. Natasha met the first head-on, her twin axes catching its arms in a cross of steel. Clint’s arrows hissed through the air, silver tips finding throats, knees, eyes. The sounds—snarls, metal, the dull thud of impact—filled the space until it was nothing but chaos.

Through the insanity, Bucky and Steve slipped past like shadows.

The potion’s effect wrapped them in a hush, every movement muffled and their scents hidden. They moved close together—almost back to back—as they wound deeper through the hall. The light dimmed, turning from red to a faint violet that bled from cracks in the rock. Strange sigils pulsed along the walls; Steve could feel the hum of them in his teeth.

Ravan’s scent hit them before the chamber came into view—rotting leaves, quicksilver dust, the acrid sting of blood magic. He was near.

They stepped into the final hall.

It was enormous—ceiling lost in shadow, the floor painted with layers of blood sigils that formed a single sprawling circle. At the center stood a throne made of skulls, and on it lounged Ravan.

He was broad-shouldered, skin pale to near gray, dark hair slicked back like oil. His eyes were pure black, no iris, no white—just pits that caught the candlelight and refused to give it back. His voice, when he spoke, came smooth and low.

“So the prodigal soldier decided to pay me a visit.”

Bucky stilled mid-step. “Ravan.”

Ravan smiled, fangs glinting. “And you brought the perfect knight.” His gaze slid to Steve, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Tell me, young one—does he still whisper his creator’s name when he dreams? Or wake up shouting it?”

Steve’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t rise to it,” Bucky muttered.

Ravan stood, stretching lazily, claws scraping metal as he descended the dais. “Baldwin said you’d come. Said you’d try to clean the filth off your soul by killing his mistakes. By finding out his plans.”

“Then let’s make him right,” Bucky said.

Ravan smirked and snapped his fingers, then the sigils on the floor flared crimson.

The circle burst to life—crimson energy crackling across the floor. Blood hissed from the runes like boiling water. Bucky moved first, as always: one smooth lunge, his dagger glinting silver. Ravan was fast—his claws met metal mid-strike, sparks flying.

Bucky ducked under a backhand swing that could’ve shattered stone. The gold of his prosthetic whined as it caught Ravan’s next blow, the impact throwing both men back a step.

Steve was already moving—sword in both hands, his long coat snapping around his legs. He slashed downward, blade biting deep into Ravan’s shoulder. The wound hissed and smoked; the holy-forged metal scorched vampire flesh like acid.

Ravan cried out—a sound between pain and pleasure—and drove his claws into Steve’s ribs. Steve staggered, air leaving his lungs in a sharp hiss. He twisted, breaking the hold, and brought the hilt of his sword up into Ravan’s jaw with a sickening crack.

Bucky was there an instant later, his gold hand gripping Ravan’s throat, slamming him into one of the carved stone pillars. The vampire’s head struck hard enough to crater the surface, dust raining down. Ravan laughed through broken teeth, blood dribbling down his chin.

He shoved Bucky back with an explosion of raw magic that scorched the air and sent both vampires sprawling. The circle pulsed brighter—veins of light crawling up the walls as Ravan began to chant in an ancient, corrupted tongue.

The scent of burning blood filled the chamber.

Shapes began to claw their way up from the glowing sigils. Not corpses—constructs of blood and bone, given life through Ravan’s spellwork. Half-formed vampires, all claws and instinct to fight, their eyes hollow pits of black in borrowed skulls.

“Clint would love this,” Steve muttered grimly, hauling himself upright.

Bucky twirled his dagger, fangs bared, blood streaking down his temple from a cut. “Then we better make sure we live to tell him.”

The ferals lunged.

Steve swung his sword in a wide arc, the holy silver cleaving through two creatures at once, their bodies bursting into black ash. One caught his arm, claws raking deep across muscle—pain bright and sharp. He spun, kicked the creature back, and impaled it clean through the chest.

Bucky fought dirtier, faster—low sweeps, feints, his dagger flashing silver and his prosthetic smashing through skulls with crunching finality. His movements were almost feral themselves; the white of his hair glowed faintly red under the candlelight, like bone under blood.

For a moment, it looked like they were gaining ground.

Then Ravan moved again.

The constructs stopped mid-attack, their bodies collapsing into liquid blood that slithered back toward the circle. The chamber went still but for the sound of dripping.

Ravan’s smirk returned as he flexed his hands, the wounds Bucky and Steve had given him knitting slowly closed, magic swirling like mist over his skin.

“Do you understand yet?” he said, voice rising. “He’s not making soldiers. He’s making gods. The ferals you’ve been slaying—those were my work. A test. I wove blood magic into those little rabid creatures until they stopped dying. Until hunger became endless, and they had to become pack animals to hunt bigger things, bigger numbers. They listen to me.”

He stepped toward them, the light bending around him. “Baldwin will fill the world with our kind. Perfected. His Circle of Blood will rule over the ruins of humankind.”

Steve bared his fangs, breath hissing between them. “Not if we burn it down first.”

Ravan tilted his head. “Brave words. Let’s see if you last long enough to make good on them.”

He lunged—faster than before, fueled by the blood he’d reclaimed—and this time, he was on them.

Claws caught Steve across the face, blood streaking down his cheek. Bucky drove his dagger into Ravan’s side, but the other vampire barely flinched; he caught Bucky’s wrist, twisted it, and drove his claws into Bucky’s gut.

Steve roared and charged, ramming Ravan bodily into the wall and stabbing his sword into the other vampire's abdomen. The impact cracked stone—but Ravan’s claws sank deep into his shoulder, twisting.

Steve’s vision flashed white. He let go of the sword, and sank his own claws into Ravan’s arm, then bit down hard. Fangs tore through flesh and magic both, burning with holy residue from his sword.

Ravan screamed, turning and grabbing Steve’s hair and slamming his head back into the wall again and again until Bucky’s golden claws closed over his throat from behind.

“Off him,” Bucky snarled, prying Ravan’s hands away from the blonde—and then threw the ancient across the room.

Ravan hit the ground hard, sliding through the blood and broken sigils.

He rose again—smiling. Always smiling.

“You can’t kill progress,” he rasped. “You can’t stop evolution.”

Bucky spat on the floor. “We can sure as hell try.”

He glanced at Steve, panting and bloodied but still steady. “You good?”

Steve’s smile was tight, feral. “Just fine.”

They both lunged at once.

The moment their feet hit the stone again, the chamber itself seemed to pulse—every candle guttering at once as if it too were drawing breath.

The magic Ravan had woven into the cavern shuddered under the strain of the three monsters now tearing it apart.

Bucky and Steve moved without words. They didn’t need them with their half-bond.

The bond flared bright and hot between their chests—an electric pulse threading through the distance, syncing heartbeats, sharpening instincts. Bucky didn’t have to see Steve to know when he was moving; he felt it, like muscle memory born in another life.

Ravan came in fast, claws dripping magic, body blurring. Bucky ducked under the first swipe, his dagger ringing off Ravan’s ribs. Steve was already moving to intercept the counterstrike—sword up, body twisting, the edges biting deep into Ravan’s forearm.

The scream that followed split the air. Blood—thick, black-red, smoking—splashed across the floor.

Left side, Bucky’s instincts whispered.

Right flank, Steve’s pulse answered.

They pivoted together, two halves of one lethal body. Steve’s blade slashed upward while Bucky dropped low, his prosthetic arm sweeping out in a brutal arc that caught Ravan’s legs. Bone cracked. Ravan went down—but not all the way. He rolled with the motion, kicked out, and his claws caught Bucky across the ribs.

Bucky hissed—the pain hot, bright—but before he could blink, Steve was there, between them, swinging his sword in a vicious diagonal cut that split Ravan’s chest from shoulder to hip.

Magic poured out of the wound, thick as smoke. It smelled like burnt copper and decay.

Ravan staggered, eyes burning brighter. “He—” he spat blood, “—he’s making us truly immortal! We won't be able to be killed by anything! You could’ve been more, Barnes! He made you! He—”

“Made me a weapon,” Bucky snarled, gold claws catching the light. “But now I’m the one who decides when to bite.”

He lunged—dagger flashing silver—but Ravan moved with him, their speed matching, sparks bursting each time claw met blade. Every impact echoed through the chamber like thunder.

Steve circled, blood soaking the shoulder of his coat, his chest heaving. He could feel Bucky—the thrum of his pulse, the slow hitch when Ravan’s magic grazed too close. Their bond burned hotter, louder, until his fangs ached from it.

When Ravan slashed for Bucky’s throat, Steve felt it before he saw it—his own muscles tensing in answer—and he moved. His sword came up, catching the blow that should’ve split Bucky’s neck, the clang of metal-on-claw lighting up the air like lightning.

The two vampires locked together—Ravan’s sneer inches from Steve’s face.

“You’re not his equal, knight,” Ravan hissed, fangs bared. “You’re his pet. The pet that has no teeth.”

“Guess I have sharper ones than you thought,” Steve growled back—and then drove his knee into Ravan’s gut, hard enough to lift him off the ground.

Bucky was there before Ravan could recover, a blur of white hair and black and red coat. His gold hand punched forward—claws out—sinking into Ravan’s side and dragging down, tearing flesh open in a spray of black ichor.

Ravan’s roar shook the cavern. Magic pulsed out of him in a shockwave that hurled both men backward, slamming Steve into a pillar hard enough to make it crack. His ribs screamed, the other injuries started to become noticeable to him as well. His sword fell from his grasp with a clang that echoed like a shout.

Bucky hit the ground and rolled. Yet again, his prosthetic took the hit for him, but his gut burned where the claws had struck earlier, blood seeping through torn linen.

Ravan stumbled toward Steve, limping but grinning—wild, animal, unbroken.

“You can't stop this tide.” he croaked, eyes bright with madness. “The ferals were just seeds. Baldwin’s dream is a forest. You’ll drown in it. You and your precious humanity will drown in us.”

Steve pushed himself up, chest heaving. His hand closed around his sword hilt as Ravan lunged again—claws bared, blood trailing behind him. But Steve didn’t retreat. He met him head-on.

Their clash was thunder. Silver-edged steel against flesh and claw, fangs flashing in the firelight. Ravan drove a claw into Steve’s wrist; Steve retaliated with a brutal backhand that sent teeth flying.

Bucky surged forward, the bond flared, a pulse that burned hot and cold all at once—a spark that guided him.

Steve feinted left. Ravan followed. That was the mistake.

Bucky came from the right—dagger first. The silver edge slid under Ravan’s ribs and up into his heart. The vampire gasped—a sound that was half snarl, half disbelief. Bucky hissed and twisted the blade.

Ravan staggered back—straight into Steve.

Steve’s sword was already waiting. He drove it clean through Ravan’s chest, the holy-forged blade piercing bone and heart in one smooth motion. Ravan’s body arched, eyes wide, the glow dying by degrees.

He looked at them—at both of them—something almost human flickering across his ruined face.

“You’ll… never stop him,” he rasped. “He made you both… beautiful. And broken.”

Bucky stepped closer, meeting Ravan’s fading gaze. “Maybe. But you’re the one who gets to stay broken.”

He tore his dagger free, and with his gold hand, gripped Ravan’s jaw. The claws of the prosthetic sank into flesh and bone.

Then, with a slow, merciless squeeze—

'Crack!'

The skull gave way like old wood, gray matter splattered across the floor and covered his hand and arm.

Ravan’s body went still before turning to ash soon after.

Silence fell over the chamber again, broken only by the hiss of blood magic dying in the air. The sigils dimmed to nothing, only useless carvings in the stone.

Steve stood, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm and sword alike. Bucky’s white hair was streaked with red, his breathing ragged. For a long moment, they just stared at the ruin in front of them—and the quiet that followed.

Then Steve’s hand came to rest, careful and heavy, on Bucky’s shoulder. The bond hummed low between them—warm, steady.

Bucky glanced at him, eyes still faintly glowing, and let out a slow breath.

“Guess that’s one less nightmare Baldwin can use.”

Steve nodded. His voice was rough when he said, “Let’s make sure it’s not the last."

Chapter Text

Blood slicked the floor in thin sheets that reflected the faint red glow of dying sigils and flickering candlelight. His sword hung loose in his hand, the metal dark with gore. Beside him, James stood silent—his prosthetic dripping black-red ichor that hissed where it hit the floor.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Only their ragged breaths filled the stillness.

Then Steve wiped his blade and sheathed it, the sound of silver-edged steel sliding home cutting through the silence like the closing of a door. “Come on,” he said softly. “Nat and Clint’ll be waiting.”

James nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes fixed on the ashes of Ravan’s body as if trying to make sure it wouldn’t leave its spot. When he finally turned to follow, his shoulders were hunched, his expression unreadable.

They walked in silence for a while—through corridors that still pulsed faintly with spent magic, past walls scrawled with dying sigils. Steve could hear Clint and Natasha somewhere ahead, the echo of arrows flying and blades clashing with claws. But the nearer they got, the slower James moved.

Something in his posture had changed. The usual predator’s ease was gone, replaced by a heaviness that even battle hadn’t put there.

“James?” Steve asked, low.

“Yeah,” the older vampire said, though it came out like a breath instead of a word.

Steve waited, but James didn’t go on. He looked pale—paler than usual—his crimson eyes distant. The golden sheen of his arm caught the candlelight, throwing shards of red across the stone.

“Baldwin,” Steve said finally. “Did you know him? Before everything, I mean.”

That got him a look—sharp, wounded, almost defensive—and then James exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Yes and no,” he said, voice rough. “It's… it's complicated.”

He didn’t stop walking, but the words began to unspool anyway, slow and brittle.

James’s voice cracked. “He killed my ma. My sister, Becca. Said he had to ‘break me’ before I could be his perfect soldier.”

Steve’s boots scuffed against the stone. “James—”

“He made me kill her.” The words landed like stones in a well. “Maggie.”

The name hit Steve harder than he expected. That same name Clint had mentioned when they had first met, the same name James woke up shouting in horror. His stomach turned. Jealousy—ugly and unbidden—clawed up his throat before his mind could stop it. Maggie. A past lover, maybe? Someone he still carried in that quiet ache behind his eyes.

“She was… your mate?” he asked carefully, hating the way his voice sounded.

James’s expression flickered—startled, almost amused through the grief. “My kid,” he said quietly. “My daughter. Adopted. She was… she was honestly just a child, Steve. Barely six when we found her. Turned way too young. Never had a chance to be a regular human kid. Baldwin had me kill her as I went through a turning blood haze.”

Steve felt the jealousy die, replaced by a sick, hollow weight in his chest. “Christ, James…”

“I always wanted a family,” the Blood Soldier went on, voice distant, gaze unfocused on the cavern wall ahead. “Just never met anyone I wanted to start one with. Then Maggie came along. She was small and innocent, scared of the dark and of her own fangs. She used to call me ‘papa.’” His laugh was cracked and wet. “Which is what I used to call my grandfather, and it made me feel old. I guess she wasn’t wrong, even then when I was thirty.”

Steve reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed his fingers against James’s arm—just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. Through the half-bond, emotion flared raw and bright—sorrow, shame, the faint tremor of old guilt.

“How’d you get out?” Steve asked softly.

“Loki,” James said after a beat. “Baldwin had fully ruined my life, completely consumed my mind with dark thoughts and his blood magic. All I did was await orders and follow them. I had no free will for almost forty years.” Steve bit his lip, the urge to get angry in James’s defense bubbling up to the surface. “Baldwin had thrown a party, and Loki was invited to said party. He only went because he knew that Baldwin would have a specific rare alchemical herb he needed. But, when Loki went to snatch it right out from under the old man's nose, he found me instead. He said that I snarled and tried to kill him as he pulled the blood magic outta my head before it rotted me from the inside. Another five or so years of daily exposure, and I would have become a half-feral. Don’t know why he bothered to do it. Probably some fit of curiosity. Maybe pity.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like pity, the way he still watches your back.”

James shot him a look. “Don’t ever tell him I said his name. He likes pretending he doesn’t care. Let him keep it that way.”

Steve huffed a faint smile. “Yeah? You think he’s got a soft spot?”

“I know he does,” James said quietly. “Just not one he wants anyone to see. Not for anyone besides his mate, and even that is hidden behind closed doors. He pretends not to care so it won’t hurt when someone leaves.”

“Sounds familiar,” Steve murmured.

James didn’t answer. The silence between them thickened—not uncomfortable, exactly, but heavy with everything unsaid.

When the tunnel finally opened toward the wider chamber near the entrance, Steve could see flickers of movement—Natasha and Clint finishing off the last of the half-ferals, blood spattered across the stones. He could hear Clint laughing breathlessly, Natasha’s dry reply cutting through the dark.

But Steve didn’t move to join them yet.

He looked at James instead, really looked. The exhaustion in his eyes, the old grief sitting like dust on his skin.

“We’ll end this,” Steve said simply.

James’s jaw tightened, but there was something in his expression that almost looked like relief. His gaze softened—a flicker of warmth through all the ruin, and he nodded once.

They turned toward the light together, but didn’t move other than that. Then, without a word, James turned again, this time towards Steve.

Steve barely had time to breathe before the older vampire reached out, catching the chest buckles of the blonde's tunic in both his hands and pulling him closer. He closed his eyes and leaned in, pressing his forehead to Steve’s, the gesture slow, deliberate. Affectionate. Their breath mingled—iron and dust and exhaustion—and for a few seconds, everything else faded. Just the faint pulse of the bond between them, warm and steady beneath the pain of healing wounds and old scars.

Steve closed his eyes as well. Let his hands find James’s arms, solid and real beneath his palms. He didn’t speak; there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound too small for what James had just given him.

When the Blood Soldier finally pulled back, his eyes were rimmed in red from fatigue, but calmer. “Alright,” he murmured, voice hoarse but lighter. “Let’s go talk to them. You can tell Clint about the constructs.”

Steve gave him a smile and huffed a small laugh. “Sounds good.”

They fully walked into the wide chamber shoulder to shoulder, each step heavy but steady. The faint chill of evening air brushed across their faces as they moved.

Ahead, Clint was crouched near a pile of ash and twisted remains snatching up an arrow, bow drawn but relaxed now that the fight was over. Natasha stood beside him, her Blood Soldier uniform torn at the shoulder, a smear of blood trailing down her temple. She turned first, sharp as a blade, eyes narrowing when she saw them.

“Finally,” she said flatly. “We were starting to take bets.”

Clint grinned, lowering his bow. “Yeah, what’d you two get into back there?”

Steve exhaled through his nose. “Ravan raised half-formed abominations with blood magic. Twisted things with bodies of blood and borrowed bones.”

Clint’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s fuckin’ cool. You think they were necromantic constructs or—”

“Clint,” Natasha cut in sharply, “now is not the time for your little dark magic enthusiasm.”

But Clint just smirked. “C’mon, Nat, you gotta admit—”

He didn’t get to finish because Natasha had already turned on James, stalking toward him with that deceptively calm expression that made even vampires step back. “And you,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. “What did we say about getting torn up every damn time?”

James raised an eyebrow. “I said I’d try not to. Didn’t promise success.”

Natasha’s glare darkened—then she punched him hard in the shoulder, the flesh one. The sound cracked through the air.

James grunted, staggering a step. “Ow. That your way of sayin’ you’re glad I’m alive?”

“It’s my way of saying you’re an idiot,” she said evenly. “And yes.”

Steve tried not to smile. “She’s not wrong.”

“Not helping, Steve,” Bucky muttered.

“You got fucked up too, Steve, I don't want to hear it.” Natasha’s mouth twitched despite herself, and she looked away before the fondness showed too clearly. “All three of you are idiots,” she said, turning toward the cave exit. “Let’s move. Loki’s probably getting pissy.”

They followed her through the stone mouth and into the open air.

The evening was muted—a dim, ashen sky that barely kissed the mountain peaks with light. Outside the cavern, Loki sat on the same stone in the dead sigil circle, palms open, eyes half-lidded as he tried to pull whatever information he could from the collapsing threads of magic.

For a moment, he looked like he was listening to a language only he could hear.

Then, the invisible strands snapped. The last of the magic guttered out.

Loki inhaled sharply, as if the silence itself hurt his ears.

He glanced up as they approached, eyes glinting faintly, their bright green color dulled by exhaustion. “You sure took your time.”

“Had to finish the job,” Steve said carefully. “You alright?”

Loki gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Define alright. The blood magic tied to Ravan collapsed when he died. I was tracing it—following the threads that led toward Baldwin’s sigils—but it all started unraveling the moment his heart stopped. The spellwork died with him. But—” His eyes flicked northward, where the trees grew denser and the mountain ridge cut the horizon in jagged lines. “The direction remains. That much I could hold onto.”

“Wait, Baldwin’s lair?” Natasha asked.

“Yes.” Loki lowered himself onto the flat stone with slow, heavy movement, the afternoon light revealing how drained he looked—paler than usual, shadows under his eyes deep as bruises. Even for a vampire, exhaustion clung to him in visible sheets. “North-by-northeast. That is where Baldwin’s lair must lie. Distance, however… that is beyond retrieval. It collapsed too fast for me to grasp."

“So we head that way,” Steve said. His head hurt from being slammed into that stone wall, his shoulder throbbed where Ravan stabbed him with his claws, and the gash at his ribs ached when he breathed—even with his healing dragging itself along.

Clint nodded, tiredly joking, “Great. Blindly walking into the murder-woods. Love that for us.”

But even he sounded too drained for sarcasm to land.

No one argued. They had no other leads. No time.

Baldwin was on the brink of his plan coming fully together, and every hour they wasted could mean another innocent dragged into it all.

“I need rest. I won’t be able to travel home tonight.” Loki groaned.

“We camp here then, so you don't have to move,” Natasha decided immediately.

They moved the horses mechanically, exhaustion making their motions sluggish, the air thick with shared fatigue. Even Clint, usually restless, dragged his feet like every step tugged at aching muscle and bone. The scented iron of spilled blood still clung to all of them, the aftermath of a brutal battle drawn too long.

Steve and James were hit hardest. They hadn’t just fought—they’d been thrown, slammed, blasted by spells, clawed by abominations half-formed from Ravan’s warped magic. Their healing worked, but slowly. Steve could feel his skin knitting together in tight pulls, like threads being dragged through raw cloth.

James’s movements were stiffer. His prosthetic arm moved fine, but his other shoulder was swollen, torn muscle struggling to fuse back together. And yet, when Steve glanced his way, the oder vampire only met him with a weary, sharp-edged look that tried to say I’m fine when the bond whispered I’m hurting.

The camp they set up was small—just a ring of stones for the fire and a rough boundary marked by Clint’s hastily drawn alarm sigils. No one had the energy for more.

The silence among all five of them sat heavy, but not empty. It was a silence of thought, of aftershocks. Of things left unsaid because speaking them would require strength they didn’t have.

Steve felt the bond humming low and steady, like a heartbeat under water. It warmed gently whenever James drifted close, faded when he stepped away. A tether pulling taut and slack with every exhausted movement.

When the fire finally caught, flickering weakly, James exhaled and tilted his head toward the trees. Not a word spoken aloud—but Steve felt it in their connection.

Hunt.

They slipped away from the others, moving into the deeper dark of the forest. Their footfalls were soft, silent; even injured, they moved in uncanny unison. The soreness in Steve’s bones sharpened each instinct. James’s scent—clove, pine needles, mountain wind, petrichor, and the metallic tang of blood—settled something frayed inside him.

The first prey they found was a stag—old, with thick muscle and a heartbeat that pulsed vibrantly in their senses. Instincts flared between them, not violent but hungry, urgent. Wounds needed fuel to mend.

They circled it, movements wordless but perfectly synchronized. Even exhausted, they worked as one organism—Steve driving it toward James, the older vampire cutting it off with a low growl vibrating through the night.

James took the kill. Steve steadied him from behind, hand on his back as the Blood Soldier sank his fangs into the stag’s throat. Bucky trembled with fatigue as he fed, the bond warming with every swallow. Relief. Pain easing. Relief again.

Steve fed next, his hand braced against the stag’s flank, the cold air biting at his sweat-damp shirt. Bucky lingered near, body heat brushing against Steve’s side. Instinctual closeness. Bond necessity.

By the time they finished, the ache in Steve’s ribs and shoulder dulled to a manageable throb, and the slashes across his brow and the bridge of his nose fully closed with a quiet ‘hiss.’ James’s breathing had evened out, though he still looked pale, shadows etched beneath his eyes.

“You okay?” Steve murmured.

James gave him a small nod. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t quite the truth either.

They walked back slower, fatigue dragging at their limbs like wet sand. When they neared camp, James paused abruptly.

His hand rose—and he tapped their foreheads together gently, eyes falling shut just like earlier at the tunnel exit.

Steve froze at the soft pressure he thought would only be a one time thing, breath catching. A grounding gesture. A reassurance of I’m here. You’re here. We survived.

It ended faster than the previous one, James’s fingers trembled slightly against the back of Steve’s neck when he pulled back, immediately turning and walking the small distance back to camp.

Steve swallowed as he stared at the forest floor, his throat somehow parched despite their feed. He raised his hand to touch his neck where James’s golden claws had just been. The blonde's heart thudded in his chest as his face flushed with heat. Steve bit his lip, the point of his fang nicking the soft skin there and producing a small pearl of blood that his tongue quickly collected.

‘What does this mean, James?’ The young vampire pondered, looking back up at the Blood Soldier's retreating form. He took a deep breath and held it for a moment until James stepped back into camp, then followed. 

Natasha and Clint were half-asleep. Loki hadn’t moved an inch under his borrowed blanket. The fire had settled into a cozy little thing.

Steve rolled out their bedrolls as James fed Fen. His muscles protested, his spine stiff, shoulders sore. James lowered himself beside him—not too close, not too far. Close enough that Steve could feel the warmth of him through the cool night air.

Exhaustion pulled at Steve like a tide. He blinked heavily.

Before he could fully slip under, he felt the bond thrum softly—like fingers brushing through his mind.

James watching him.

Steve didn’t open his eyes. But he felt it. A quiet, lingering presence. Protective. Worried. Something more tender than either of them had words for.

Then the older vampire exhaled shakily, turned away—

—and quickly drifted to sleep.

The last thing Steve registered was the warmth of the bond settling around him like a blanket.

And the sense that something in James was fraying at the edges.

Something Steve didn’t yet know how to name.

—

The dark took him fast.

Too fast.

One blink and the world around Bucky dissolved into cold black water. Sound warped. Distance folded in on itself. The forest was gone, the campfire was gone, Steve’s steady breathing beside him was gone—everything swallowed by a suffocating quiet that vibrated like something alive.

Then a voice broke the silence.

Smooth. Patient. Dipped in rot.

“James.”

Bucky stilled.

The darkness peeled open like a wound, and Baldwin stepped through.

He looked the same as always: immaculate, unhurried, a faint smile curving his lips as though everything before him were nothing more than a game he had already won. His hair gleamed silver at the temples. His eyes glowed with a cold hunger that had no bottom.

But the worst part—the part that made Bucky’s stomach turn—was how familiar that voice sounded in the dream. Too close. Too intimate. Like a hook still buried in his spine.

“My perfect mistake.”

Baldwin’s favorite name for him.

The words echoed through the empty space like a verdict.

The darkness flickered—then rippled—and suddenly Steve was there, in front of Bucky, back turned, shoulders squared. His stance was defensive. Ready. Steady. He didn’t know he was standing in a nightmare.

He didn’t know Baldwin was behind him.

“Steve—” Bucky choked out, reaching.

But Baldwin was faster.

He appeared at Steve’s back like he had stepped through a shadow, hand closing around Steve’s throat with surgical precision. Steve stiffened, eyes going wide as the grip tightened. He tried to twist free, tried to swing an elbow back—

—but he wasn’t fast enough.

Not here.

Not in Bucky’s nightmare.

Baldwin’s smile stretched, thin and amused. “You always reach for what you cannot keep.”

And then—

He ripped Steve backward, wrenching him out of Bucky’s grasp just as Bucky lunged forward. Their fingers brushed, only once, the bond flaring so bright it seared—

—and then snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Bucky staggered, reaching desperately, uselessly.

The darkness swallowed Steve like water closing over a drowning man.

Baldwin didn’t even look at Bucky. He just dragged Steve deeper.

Bucky threw himself forward with force, claws out, throat raw with a scream—but the ground turned to tar beneath him. He sank. Slowed. Couldn’t reach. Couldn’t breathe.

Steve’s silhouette dissolved into black.

Gone.

And Baldwin’s voice curled around Bucky’s ear with a softness that made his skin crawl:

“You lose everyone, James. It’s what you are!”

The scream tore itself out of him—

—right as he snapped awake.

He didn’t breathe at first. Couldn’t. His chest heaved, but no air moved. His vision was red at the edges, his fangs out, his hands deep in the dirt like claws. He’d gouged furrows into the earth without realizing. Cold sweat slicked his skin despite the night’s chill.

The bond thrummed sharply—Steve stirring awake at the shockwave of fear Bucky hadn’t meant to send.

Bucky forced himself still. Forced his breath to slow, though it shook with every inhale. Forced the snarl building in his throat back down.

He looked over.

Steve slept again, but uneasily—brows furrowed, jaw clenched, skin faintly pale from the bond’s echo of Bucky’s terror. Bucky had startled him even in sleep.

Shame rippled hot and acidic through Bucky’s gut.

He wiped the dirt from under his fingernails with a shaking hand, forced his fangs to retract, and curled in on himself until the tremors eased.

He didn’t sleep again.

Not properly.

—

The forest looked washed-out, colors thin and tired under the early gray light. Clint moved stiffly around camp, rubbing sleep from his face. Natasha stretched with a wince, muttering curses under her breath. Loki still hadn’t moved from the rock—the blanket they lent him fully overtop of him.

Steve woke last.

He always did when he’d burned through too much blood the day before. His healing demanded it.

When he sat up, James turned away from him.

Not harshly. Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Just a fraction.

But enough that Steve felt it like a draft through an open door.

“Morning,” Steve said quietly.

James swallowed. “Yeah.”

He didn’t look at him.

Not even when Steve brushed past him to put out the last of the fire. The older vampire flinched—not visibly, not to anyone else—but the bond flickered with the smallest spike of panic.

Steve’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t push.

He wanted to. Every instinct he had roared ask him what’s wrong, pull him close, don’t let him drift.

But James was coiled tight, too raw, too uneasy with himself.

So Steve bit it back. Instead, he approached the rock to check on Loki. 

“Hey, feeling okay?” He asked. When no response came, Steve reached out and gently touched the blanket. At his touch, it fell in on itself, losing its shape. The blonde pulled his hand back in shock, about to shout to the team before he saw a small scroll. 

Steve picked it up and quickly opened it.

'Dear James and Friends,

Thank you for watching over Loki in his exhausted state. You're probably wondering where he is right now after getting freaked out by the whole ‘blanket’ thing. I took him home and have given him some alchemical remedies to help him recover faster from the heavy magical drain. I'm sure I won't be able to keep him here long after he wakes up.

Again, I can't thank you all enough. He means everything to me.

Regards, 

Tony Stark (Loki's Mate)'

Relief immediately flooded through Steve after reading the message. He rolled the small scroll back up and pocketed it, then gathered the blanket and folded it to knightly perfection. The blonde walked back to the others, handing the blanket neck to Clint. 

“Loki’s mate came by and took him home last night, so we don't have to worry about who he's going to ride with.” Steve said. The others nodded and grunted in response.

“Let’s move,” Natasha said, shoulders squared despite her obvious discomfort.

They mounted up. The trail ahead stretched into a long corridor of dark pines and old earth, the wind sharp with the promise of something closing in on them.

-

The morning bled slowly into a gray, muted day.

The sky hung low over the mountains like a lid held down by invisible hands, everything beneath it cold and colorless. The pines leaned inward over the narrow path, branches stripped bare by harsh winds, bark dull and peeling. The forest felt hollow—the kind of quiet that came after too many things had died in it.

Clint rode ahead, humming softly under his breath, scanning the cliffsides with habitual vigilance. Natasha followed beside him, poised and silent on her dun mare, eyes sharp despite the fatigue dragging down her posture.

Steve and James shared Fen as usual.

The black stallion moved steady and sure under them, his breath fogging the air in long plumes, ears flicking at every rustle. He was a good horse—smart, unflappable, strong enough to carry two vampires without complaint—but even he could feel the tension between his riders.

Steve felt it even more keenly this close.

Earlier when they were mounting up, he approached Fen’s side, lifting a hand to grab the saddle and swing up behind James as he always did.

The older vampire’s hand came up out of reflex.

To steady him.

To help him.

Instinctive. Natural. Automatic.

And then—mid-reach—James jerked it back like he’d been burned.

His fingers curled into his own thigh.

Steve hesitated only a fraction of a second, the movement small enough that anyone else would’ve missed it. But James felt it through the bond like a tiny fracture.

Steve swung up without assistance, settling behind him, leaving a careful few inches of space.

Too much space.

Space that shouldn’t have been there.

James’s shoulders tensed.

The complete one eighty from yesterday's closeness threw Steve into a stupor.

Now, the ride had stretched long and quiet. The forest opened in broken patches—burned clearings with charred stumps, slopes where landslides had left scars of bare white rock, valleys where fog pooled thick enough to blur the shapes of trees into gray smudges.

Steve watched the back of James’s head for far too long. The wind tugged at his hair; the short strands brushed against Steve’s chin once, accidentally, and James stiffened like Steve had touched a nerve.

“Your shoulder,” Steve said quietly after an hour of silence. “It’s still tense.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re holding it like it isn’t.”

“It is.”

The words weren’t sharp. Just… shut.

Closed.

Walls rising like reflex.

Steve swallowed down the frustration pressing at his throat. He didn’t want to push—not after how shattered James had felt this morning—but the emotional distance hurt more than the slashes still healing across his ribs.

He lifted a hand.

Hesitated.

Thought better of it.

Let it fall.

James noticed.

The bond pulsed with something raw for a heartbeat—something like apology, like longing—but then it went tight again, thin as a pulled thread.

They kept riding.

Hours passed. The forest thinned. Mountains rose higher around them, tall enough to block half the sky. The air turned thinner, sharper—dense with old magic still bleeding faintly from Ravan’s death.

Clint looked back only once, brow furrowing slightly at the unusual complete silence between Steve and James.

Natasha didn’t look back at all, but her hands sat too ready on her reins.

She could tell too.

-

They camped near a cliffside where the trees had thinned enough to see a swath of sky. The sun died behind the western mountains in slow, tired strokes of red.

Clint built the fire. Natasha handled the traps. Steve unpacked the bedrolls.

James vanished into the treeline for half an hour before returning with a rabbit he’d caught, tossing it to Steve before settling near the edge of camp.

Not next to Steve.

Not even close.

He picked a spot with cold ground and colder shadows, knees drawn loosely up, arms resting on them. His face was lit only by the faint orange spill of the fire, leaving his expression a half-mask of shadow.

Steve sat across the flames from him, elbows on his knees, rabbit in hand, chest tight in a way he couldn’t hide. The bond thrummed like a bruise—too much distance stretching it thin, making it ache under the sternum.

Natasha threw Steve a brief glance, then James, then back again.

That was all.

But it was enough.

Clint whispered, “We good?” under his breath while seasoning a bird he caught for him and Natasha.

“No,” Natasha murmured. “But they’ll sort it.”

Steve tried to offer a half-smile but couldn’t hold it.

Before anyone said more, the fire guttered for a heartbeat—then flared blue at the edges.

A ripple of magic swept through the clearing.

Steve’s hand went to his sword.

Bucky’s golden claws flashed in the light.

And then—

Loki stepped out of one of his portals.

His usually immaculate hair was pulled loose over one shoulder, and the lines of exhaustion on his face were deeper than usual; his magic was still clearly low, but recovering. A faint shimmer of runic residue clung to his coat like dust.

“Relax,” he muttered, waving a hand with all the elegance of someone waving off a bothersome insect. “It’s just me.”

Clint saluted him with a spoon.

Natasha nodded respectfully but coolly.

Steve offered a quiet, “Doing better?”

And Loki—tired as he was—actually winced. “If you lot or Anthony asks me that again…”

“Noted,” Steve said.

Loki scanned the group, gaze lingering a fraction longer on James. His eyes narrowed, taking in the stiffness, the tension in the bond, the too far distance.

But he didn’t comment.

He only said, “Baldwin’s trail is growing colder. And more unstable. He’s moving.”

“Toward us or away?” Natasha asked.

Loki shrugged with one shoulder, irritation flickering behind his eyes. “Both. Neither. He’s cloaked himself. I can only give you direction, not location.”

Steve frowned. “Then we keep moving.”

“Good,” Loki said. “Because he’ll find you before you find him.”

The temperature in the clearing dropped a degree.

And without waiting for questions, Loki stepped back into the portal—and left, just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Silence swallowed the camp.

Clint finally exhaled. “That guy needs a hobby.”

Natasha poked the fire. “He has one. It’s making our lives difficult.”

They settled eventually—Clint finishing the meal, Natasha sharpening her knives, Steve trying (and failing) not to watch James too closely.

Across the fire, the older vampire stayed statue-still except for the occasional twitch of his fingers, golden claws rubbing at a spot on his wrist like he was trying to root himself.

Steve’s chest ached.

Not physically.

Not from wounds.

From the bond—thin, strained, beginning to hurt around the edges from all the distance James kept forcing into it. It wasn’t meant to stretch this far.

Steve could see that the older vampire felt it just as much.

Saw it in the way his jaw tightened every time their eyes almost met.

Almost.

But not quite.

When they finally laid down for the night, James positioned himself farther away than usual—not across the clearing, but far enough that the cold air sat between them like a wall.

Steve lay on his back, staring at the branches overhead.

The ache under his ribs pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

James lay on his side, turned away.

Neither slept quickly.

Neither slept easily.

-

Dawn again came slow and colorless, the light weak as if even the sun was exhausted. The air biting cold. Frost clung to saddles, to the edges of coats, to the stiff grass.

Steve woke with an ache in his chest so sharp it took him a moment to place it.

The bond.

James was already awake, crouched beside Fen and tightening the stallion’s tack with brisk, efficient movements. His hair caught the dawn light in sharp angles. Jaw tight. Shoulders held too stiff.

He didn’t look up when Steve approached.

“Morning,” Steve said quietly.

James nodded once. “You’ll need to hunt midmorning. Your pulse was all over the place last night.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” James murmured, too soft for the others to hear. “You need blood.”

'We.'

The correction stung.

They used to say we when talking about their bodies, their hunger, the way their instincts synced. Now James switched it to you whenever he could, as if refusing shared ground.

The rope of the bond pulled again—tight, thin, and painful.

Steve swallowed hard and got onto Fen behind James, hands going automatically to the older vampire’s hips for balance.

James flinched.

Barely—but enough.

Enough that Steve immediately loosened his hold.

Enough that the bond burned.

-

They peeled away midmorning, slipping off the trail as Natasha and Clint waited for them. James slid off Fen with muted grace, his movements sharper, smaller than usual—less fluid. Steve followed.

The forest was still frozen, branches brittle, ground hardened with cold.

The deer came quickly—two of them. 

Perfect.

They moved in sync without thinking:

Bucky ghosted right.

Steve circled left.

Even with the distance between their bodies, their instincts braided together automatically. The half-bond warmed, easing the physical ache for the briefest moment.

The feed was quick, controlled. Necessary.

Steve wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

When he looked up, James was already stepping back, too fast.

“James—hold up—”

“I need to check Fen’s tack,” the Blood Soldier cut in, backing up farther. “You finish up.”

Steve felt the pain like a physical snap.

He turned and walked back through the trees, shoulders drawn tight under his coat.

Steve stood alone in the silence, breath fogging in front of him.

The bond thrummed with an ache Steve couldn’t muffle this time.

And James felt that pain too—Steve saw the faint tremor in his hand when he reached Fen again at the forest’s edge.

But the older vampire said nothing.

The worst part wasn’t being apart.

It was being this close and still feeling James’s withdrawal.

Steve climbed onto Fen behind James again, careful not to touch him more than necessary.

His knees brushed James’s hips.

His chest brushed James’s back whenever Fen jolted on uneven ground.

Each contact made the Blood Soldier’s breath hitch.

Steve could feel it.

He could also feel James trying—desperately—to hold himself still.

Clint and Natasha rode ahead, giving the illusion of privacy though Steve knew they could hear the tension crackle.

Dead forests stretched around them—skeletal branches reaching like claws overhead. The mountain paths twisted up and around cliffs that caught the weak sun.

Normally, Steve found comfort in the rhythm of riding with James. Fen’s warmth beneath them. The other man’s heartbeat steady and close. Their instincts braided.

Now Steve just felt cold.

James kept his gloved hand on Fen’s reins, shoulders tight, leaning forward more than necessary—anything to keep from brushing back against Steve’s chest.

And every time Fen stumbled slightly and Steve instinctively steadied himself with hands on James’s hips, the older vampire’s muscles went rigid.

Steve withdrew his hands immediately each time, heart squeezing.

Clint kept glancing back with that quiet frown that meant he was noticing too much.

Natasha noticed even more, but said nothing.

They rode in silence.

And every mile stretched the bond thinner.