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Waking was slow. It always was, gradually gaining function in his limbs, the fog starting to dissipate from his brain. And it was cold. The deep chill settled in his very bones, an imprint of a memory he could never shake.
The Soldier let himself lie very still, ramrod straight on his back. Perhaps, if he didn’t move, if he didn’t open his eyes, he could delay the inevitable just a few moments more. That he was even lying down in the first place instead of stumbling to his knees and jerked to his feet was a blessing in itself. He waited, but no one came. As his senses started to come back online, he listened for an approach, the sound of footsteps, sharp words in English or Russian. Nothing. Except for a very curious melody muffled by closed doors and distance.
He chanced to open his eyes. He was looking up at a ceiling, white, possibly a bedroom. The soft cotton beneath his fingers and his toes were sheets. This was not protocol. Trepidation filled him, worry gnawing the edges of his mind. He wasn’t prepared for this. He did not know how the proper response.
A quick glance around the room from his reclined position revealed 3 doors — closet, half open, overflowing with hangers and athletic shoes; bathroom, possibly; and a door to what he presumed to lead to the rest of the dwelling. There were two nightstands, one on either side of the bed. The surfaces were cluttered with mugs and stacks of paperback books and other trinkets. Of note, a tattered leather-bound book sat on the one closest to him. A pile of blankets and pillows and sheets were jumbled near the foot of the bed, as if torn from it. (By him?) As he’d previously assessed, no one else was present. Just him. Just the Soldier.
After an indeterminable amount of time contemplating this, he sat up. The chill had disappeared as if it was never there. Hesitantly, he pushed himself off the bed and felt the soft carpet beneath the soles of his feet. The long pants he was wearing were warm and the bottoms brushed against the floor as he crept across the room. The plates in his metal arm shifted beneath the long sleeve of his shirt. The bedroom door was closed but not locked. As he turned the handle and pushed, he positioned himself so that his left arm would be facing out should he encounter enemy assailants beyond the door.
He blinked.
The blinds had been closed in the bedroom, but they were raised and open here. Large, single-paned windows took up the entire eastern wall. He resisted the urge to shield his eyes against the early morning light.
The music was louder here but still soft. He shouldn’t be able to discern the words at this volume, but they came to him, floating through his mind, as if the lyrics were something he should know as dearly as if he’d written them himself. He felt a clutching sensation in his chest that nearly caused him to double over. It was like a void opening up inside him, one he’d only just realized had been there all along. He tried to focus, to maintain his breathing. If enemies were here, if this was some sort of test, he had to remain alert, he had to —
“Oh. Hey. You’re up.”
A man — tall, well-muscled, possibly an even match for himself if it came down to a fight — stood in a wide doorway on the opposite end of the room. He was dressed in a tight t shirt and athletic shorts, a small hand towel thrown over his shoulder.
The Soldier froze. He had no weapons, but his body was weapon enough, despite having just woken from the cold. He could possibly take out this stranger and still have enough strength left to walk away if he caught him by surprise. But. The man had been expecting him.
“Most times the book is enough to catch your attention,” the stranger said, patting his clean-shaven face dry with the towel, “but I’m guessing that isn’t the case today.”
That was enough to puzzle the Soldier. The man was not treating him as if he was an enemy, but protocol drilled deep into his brain dictated his handlers only speak in direct orders and reprimands.
“I’m Steve,” the man said matter-of-factly. He didn’t move any closer, just threw the towel back over his shoulder and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “I’m not your handler. I’m definitely not HYDRA. The only thing I want is to help you. Always.”
“Wha —?” the Soldier started and then flinched back, ready for the hit. Questions unrelated to mission objectives were impermissible.
Again, Steve didn’t make a move toward him. He only dipped his head and motioned for the Soldier to continue.
“What happened to me?” he asked slowly, the last two words coming out weak and barely above a whisper.
Steve smiled, and the Soldier wasn’t sure how he could read so much into the expression, but he could tell the smile indicated Steve was sad.
“Is it okay if I come closer?” Steve asked, and he waited for the Soldier’s nod before walking over to him and leading him back to the bedroom the Soldier had woken up in. Steve went to the nightstand and picked up the leather journal. “Best for you to hear it in your own words.”
When Steve held the journal out to him, he took it. It was clearly well-used. The cracked spine opened immediately to a page thick with small, loopy writing on one side and a photocopied picture pasted to the other. The Soldier studied the picture, dragging his fingers across the jawline of the serious-faced man in it, and then looked up at Steve. It was him. He was sure.
“Probably better to start at the beginning.” Steve’s smile seemed in actual good humor this time. “There’s more, too. This is just to introduce you. And there’s a video I can put on if you want. Sometimes, you’re not in a state to read it all. Just let me know. I’m going to leave you in here, but I’ll be right outside the door in the living room. I’m right here if you need me.”
Once Steve was gone and the door closed with a soft click (not locked), the Soldier sat on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers over the picture once more and then flipped to the front of the book.
He didn’t leave the room that day.
He read through every page in the journal, and then flipped to the front and read them again. Steve left his meals at the door, knocking gently to let him know.
In the early evening, he heard voices coming from the rest of the apartment. One was Steve’s. The other, unfamiliar. After several minutes, Steve approached the bedroom. He waited for permission before opening the door and poking his head in.
“I’m going out with Sam for a little while. Do you want anything in particular for dinner? I’ll get it while we’re out. I’m serious. Anything you want.”
He shook his head, too much new information swirling around in his brain to be able to make a decision so inconsequential.
“Alright. I’ll grab something you usually like. Do you want to pick out a few more journals to read?”
To this, he assented. He saw no one else in the apartment as he followed Steve down the hall. Sam must have been waiting outside. There was an entire shelving unit in the spare bedroom of the apartment stocked with journals in varying colors, sizes, and bindings.
“I’ll let you have the final say, of course, but you told me that you generally find these the most helpful at first.” Steve pulled down three different journals from the shelves and handed the stack to him. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Steve reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cell phone.
“This is yours,” Steve said. “It uses biometric data to unlock. My name is at the top of the contacts list. Just call or text me and I’ll come home immediately.”
Steve walked him back to the bedroom. He made an abortive little movement, like he wanted to reach out but thought better of it. Steve smiled, genuine again, and then left.
“Do I have to stay here?” he asked later that night after Steve returned.
“Up to you.” Steve tilted his head back and closed his eyes, arms across his chest and leaning back into the sofa cushions. “Obviously, I’d prefer you do. But, sometimes, you don’t. Sometimes, you leave and then come back. I’m not here to trap you or to force you into something you don’t want or aren’t ready for.”
He went back to the bedroom, surrounded himself with a pile of open journals. He didn’t know where Steve slept that night. Not here.
He stayed in the bedroom another day, venturing out only to retrieve more journals from the spare bedroom. The bed was neatly made, but the compression shirt and sweatpants tossed on the dresser suggested this was where Steve slept the previous night.
Late at night, in the very early hours of the morning, he crept out of the room, only to see Steve crouched low over the dining table. He was drawing, making quick lines in pencil in his sketchbook. This was something Bucky had seen many times before. He wasn’t sure if these were actual memories or if, due to his close study of his journals, his imagination was simply giving life to what likely happened in the past, but the images overlapped in his mind. Steve, skinny with a hoarse cough, hunched over a kitchen table that was missing a leg. Steve, in army dress, leaning over close over his desk, briefly ignoring the maps spread out around him. Steve, here in this apartment, sitting at the dining table just like this, but different. He had a beard and his hair was longer.
“Steve?” he called out, too late to stop himself. Steve immediately looked up and zeroed in on him. “Do you want to —?”
Steve smiled and closed his sketchbook. Bucky didn’t need to find the words to finish his question. Steve knew.
“Let me grab my toothbrush and I’ll be right in,” Steve said, passing by him on the way to the spare room. “I need to move some of my stuff back to our room.”
Bucky went back into the bedroom, not entirely sure he was ready for this. This wasn’t what he’d originally intended when he left his room. He moved all the journals off the bed and settled himself on his side under the covers anyway. Steve came in carrying an armful of clothes and a toiletry bag. He dropped the clothes in the hamper and his toiletry bag in the bathroom. Then, he slipped into bed, sliding up behind Bucky. Spooning him.
“This okay?” Steve asked, voice low and so close to Bucky that he could almost feel the words rather than hear them.
And maybe it was too fast and maybe Bucky’d been anxious before Steve came in, but this felt right. Steve was warm behind him, one of his thumbs rubbing circles on Bucky’s side over his t-shirt. He pulled Steve’s arms tighter around him.
It’d be nice to wake up warm.
Steve slept in their room with him every night after that.
They were facing each other now in bed now, foreheads touching and holding each other close. Bucky had read almost all his journals now, many of them more than once, but he hadn’t had many actual memories return to him. There were a few fragments, but most of the things slipping back into his head were relatively mundane.
He remembered Steve’s least favorite vegetable (cabbage) that he’d still eat anyway. He remembered the name of the grocer down the corner from where they grew up. He remembered his preferred brand of conditioner and the 3-in-1 kind Steve had bought him one time when he was out. He remembered the gap in Sam Wilson’s smile, and he remembered the way the sun would catch the red of Natasha Romanov’s hair and made it glow.
He reached up and stroked his hand through Steve’s hair now.
“All the lives we’ve lived,” Bucky said, searching Steve’s face, his eyes, “everything we’ve been through together — I’ll never remember. I’ll never hold on to all of it.”
Steve brought Bucky’s hand down to his mouth and kissed the palm, closing Bucky’s fingers around it. “But I’ll hold on to it. I love you just the same.”
After about a week, Bucky felt confident enough to go out into the rest of the facility by himself. Steve had taken him on a tour a couple days after he’d woken up, and he and Bucky had gone out to the common kitchen and lounge a few times so that Bucky could be properly reintroduced to all the permanent residents while they were in and out between missions. But Steve wasn’t here now. He wasn’t in the Avengers facility at all. He’d taken a mission. He said it wasn’t a big deal, mostly business since he’d been out of commission here with Bucky for the past week. But then he’d taken Wanda and Vision and Rhodey with him.
Before Steve left, he’d given Bucky a sweet kiss on the cheek and said, “It’s okay, Buck. I’ll come back.”
“How often do you go out like this?” Bucky had asked, not properly satisfied.
“To be honest? Not much anymore. Sam takes the shield most of the time.” And then he had strapped the shield that Bucky was only just starting to remember the weight of to his back and headed toward the hangar.
This was the first time Bucky had spent any significant amount of time with someone other than Steve. In front of him, Sam and Natasha were playing a vicious game of ping pong. It was mesmerizing, watching the ball go back and forth. Their streak so far was fifteen minutes before Sam eventually missed a shot because he’d been distracted teasing Bucky.
It was interesting to compare the two of them in life against the notes he’d made in his journals and the scraps of memory that were clawing their way back to him. They were the two people closet to him aside from Steve.
Sam threw his hands up and whooped in victory when he scored an ace against Natasha for the match point.
She set her paddle down. “I’m tired of playing. I’ll let Bucky have a turn.”
“Yeah, that’s what you always say when you lose,” Sam said, grinning wide and eyes crinkling. “Alright, Barnes. You’re up.”
Bucky didn’t move from his seat. “I don’t think I know how to play.”
“It’s alright. Consider that making us even, since you’ve got super soldier reflexes and a metal arm. Come on. I love new Bucky when you’re still getting the hang of things. I get to reuse all my jokes until you start remembering them again.” Sam smiled again and tossed Bucky Natasha’s paddle. Bucky snatched it out of the air. “See? Super soldier reflexes. Now come over here. I wanna go two for two today.”
As Bucky was moving to get up, Natasha leaned into him conspiratorially and whispered so Sam wouldn’t hear, “I think one of your journals is just a list of all Sam’s jokes. See if Steve can help you find it. It’s fun when you start to finish his sentences.” She put her finger up to her lips and then slinked off to the kitchen.
“Hey, don’t listen to anything she’s saying, Buck. She just wants you to cheat.” Sam knocked the table with his paddle a few times. “Let’s go.”
Steve got back the next afternoon, dirty and tired. He’d taken a quick shower and then slumped onto their bed for the next few hours.
By the time evening rolled around, Steve was back on his feet and they’d decided to have a movie night and ordered takeout. Bucky could sense that Steve was a little peeved. They switched to a documentary twenty minutes into the movie they’d planned because Bucky had accidentally spoiled it. He didn’t even realize it. The memory of watching it with Sam just sat in his mind like it had never left.
“That must have been during your last stay. This movie just dropped on the streaming app not long ago,” Steve grumbled.
Bucky read about this in one of his journals. Sometimes, when he knew he was fading, he’d make promises to Steve that he’ll read or watch something with him first and then does it by himself or with one of the other Avengers. Not technically a lie. Just a little joke Bucky sets up for himself.
He moved closer to Steve on the sofa and snuggled into his side. Steve couldn’t be mad after that and, despite not knowing everything about their relationship, Bucky knew that. Then a thought occurred to him.
“How long do I stay, usually?”
Steve pressed pause on the documentary and angled himself so that he and Bucky were eye to eye.
“Few months,” he sighed. “Sometimes more, sometimes less. One time, it was less than five days. That one was tough. I’d barely gotten to know you.”
Bucky considered that. A few months wasn’t very long. And then he had to start again. It was difficult to imagine. He wasn’t sure how Steve and all his friends had the strength to do this over and over.
In Bucky’s silence, Steve started up the documentary again, but after a couple of minutes, Bucky asked, “What was the longest?”
Steve rubbed his hand over Bucky’s metal shoulder and tangled his fingers in some of the pieces of Bucky’s hair that had fallen out of his braid.
“Two years.”
Several days of quiet went by, Bucky slowly knitting together some of the gaps between his returning memories and the contents of his journals. He was starting to get his footing. He was getting comfortable, with Steve and with the hand he’d been dealt in this world.
And then another mission came in. This time, Steve didn’t try to downplay it. It was big. And dangerous. All the Avengers were running frantically around the facility, grabbing their gear and weapons, prepping for the fight, and some of those who weren’t currently in residence, like Clint and Scott, were briefed and set to meet them at the rendezvous point.
Bucky caught Steve by the arm as he was coming out of the weapons room.
“You’re going?”
“Yeah, Buck. Something like this? I can’t ignore it. It’s not who I am.”
“I know,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve’s arm tighter with his metal one and not breaking eye contact. “Always putting yourself out there. Protecting others. But who’s looking after you?”
Steve’s face broke into a soft, fond smile. “That’s what I got you for.”
Bucky suited up. His body knew the motions, where to go to find his knives and his guns, even if his mind didn’t.
Fighting side by side with his teammates was similar, and the memories of Nat at his back and covering for Sam as he flew above them slotted into place. As Steve threw his shield, Bucky remembered just the angle to catch it on the other side and he knew just where to place his shot to help but not hinder Steve as he took down enemy after enemy.
Days later, when it was finally over, the Avengers all slumped down in their seats in the quinjet. Everyone was bruised and tired. Natasha had fractured her wrist and Tony had a large, purple bruise blooming across his face. But otherwise, they were mostly okay.
Bucky had eyes only for Steve. He’d been growing his beard back in, after Bucky’s suggestion. It and his hair were wild now, smeared with blood and dirt and who knows what. And yet, looking at him, Bucky felt nothing but warm, burning desire pooling low in his gut.
Steve seemed to sense Bucky’s eyes on him and he tilted his head, eyes tired but full of interest. Bucky just knew, somehow, that Steve could tell exactly what he was thinking. Steve jerked his head to the back of the quinjet and made to get up. Bucky followed him.
They hadn’t. Until now. Bucky knew it was part of their relationship, of course. He’d read his own retellings in his journals. But they hadn’t since he’d woken up this time.
It was hot and cramped in the tiny storage room in the back of the jet. Steve had Bucky’s legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers were digging deep into Bucky’s thighs. Each deep thrust of Steve’s cock knocked Bucky’s head back against the wall, but he didn’t care. All he had the capacity for was the flex of Steve’s back muscles underneath his hands and the warmth of Steve’s lips sucking along his collarbone and the feeling of Steve’s fat cock balls deep in his ass, where it belonged.
They didn’t put much effort in putting themselves back together. As long as their cocks were out of sight and there wasn’t come on Steve’s uniform top, it was good enough.
Tony was standing just outside the storage room when they left, an aghast expression on his face.
“Right in front of my spare suit parts?”
On a rare outing, Bucky went with Wanda and Vision to the nearby town. They were playing it cool. Vision was pretending to be human and Bucky had covered up his arm and Wanda dressed herself casually with a beanie hiding her hair and pulled low over her forehead. Despite not being able to eat anything himself, Vision had his CPU set on trying out the new locally owned bakery.
“They source local ingredients when possible and when not, they make sure all are sustainably and humanely grown. It’s good to support the local economy,” Vision was saying. And, yeah, that was all good, but Bucky had his eyes on the white chocolate cranberry scones. Between him and Steve, they could eat the whole display cabinet of pastries.
As they waited their turn to approach the counter and Wanda debated what sweet she wanted, Bucky glanced up at the TV mounted to the wall in the corner. One of the news channels was on and an image of Steve’s face flashed across the screen. Then footage of Steve hurt, Steve injured, Steve’s body being carried out of wreckage by Rhodey and Sam.
Bucky didn’t think, couldn’t think. He scrambled to get out of the shop, knocking tables and people out of his way, ignoring Wanda calling out to him. And then he ran. He’d run back to back to the facility and take a quinjet to Steve all by himself.
At the edge of town, he was stopped by Vision, who’d shed his disguise and had flown to catch up with him. Vision put one red hand up to Bucky’s chest completely impeding his ability to move forward.
“Bucky,” he said in his usual even tone. “I know what you saw, but I need you to consider this for a moment. Steve is safe. We left him at the facility half an hour ago. The footage was from several years ago. The news broadcast was replaying it in connection with a different story.”
Bucky stepped away from Vision and collapsed on the ground, tucking his head in his hands. Wanda drove up to them soon after.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
As soon as Wanda pulled into the garage, Bucky unlocked his door and jumped out while the car was still moving. What Vision said made sense and Bucky believed him, but he had to see Steve himself, he had to make sure Steve was truly alright. Bucky sprinted down the corridors to the residential section and when he got to their apartment, he burst through the door with such force that the door banged against the wall.
Startled, Steve turned around from where he was sitting on the couch. “Buck?”
Bucky could cry. He was so relieved. Steve’s hair was rumpled like he’d just woken from a nap and he had the dumbest fucking expression on his face. Bucky ran right to him and dropped to his knees.
“Buck?” Steve said again, voice high-pitched, as Bucky tugged on the drawstring of his sweats and started pulling them down.
Bucky felt like he’d been holding his breath until he got Steve’s cock in his mouth and then he exhaled through his nose. Steve’s cock was soft, but quickly filling up. Bucky swallowed and tongued around the head, and Steve groaned above him.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” Steve said, laughing and petting through Bucky’s hair, “but I’m okay with it.”
He woke up slow, blinking his eyes. He was alone and cold. The duvet was tossed on the floor and sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed.
And then he heard a toilet flushing. And Steve stepped back into the bedroom. Steve padded over to the bed and pulled the duvet back on it with him. He snuggled in close, pressing his chest to Bucky’s back. Bucky could feel his steady heartbeat start to calm his own.
And then Bucky remembered.
One time, he and Steve had two years together before Bucky’s memory faded again. Bucky stretched over the edge of the bed and reached into the middle drawer of his nightstand. He slipped a ring over the finger of Steve’s hand that was holding tight to Bucky’s chest, and then he slotted the other in place on his metal hand.
Steve kissed him gently, right where his jawline met his ear. Bucky interlocked his metal fingers with Steve’s left hand and drifted back to sleep.