Why Then Oh Why Can't I? (Part 4 of 6)
Title: Why Then Oh Why Can't I? (or, 5 Times Steve Rogers Felt Awkward Talking About Sex, and One Time He Stopped Talking Altogether)
Author:
ladyblahblah
Fandom: Captain America, The Avengers
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Jarvis
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Clearly I own none of this. I can't even imagine a world in which I would be able to make any profit off of something like this. I have nothing, and make no claim to anything but the story itself and the OCs. Please don't sue me. Pretty please.
Summary: “You really never did grow up all the way, did you, Steve? Of course it changes things. But hey.” He lifts his glass, and Steve reluctantly lets go to join in the toast. “Who says change has to be bad?”
Author's Note: That's it. I give up. This fic is now officially an Express Train to Feelsville, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I GIVE IN! HEY THERE, BUCKY FEELS, HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY? WHAT'S THAT, MAKING IT REALLY HARD FOR ME TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET STEVE TO AWKWARDLY TALK ABOUT SEX? I THOUGHT SO.
4. We've Got To Stop Meeting Like This
“All right, I'll admit.” Steve's grinning as they walk out of the theater and into the crowded street of an early New York summer evening. “That was a pretty good show.”
“You've gotta start trusting me on these things,” Bucky says with a little nudge to Steve's shoulder. He tosses the popcorn bag into a trash bin as they pass, sucking absently at the residue of butter and salt on his fingers, and Steve has to come to a sudden stop or risk tripping over his own feet. “I've lived in the world a bit longer than you, all things considered.”
“Ah . . . yeah.” It takes a moment for Steve's brain to come back online and focus on the words instead of slick, shining lips and the tip of a soft pink tongue. He laughs nervously and wipes his palms in what he hopes is a subtle sweep against his legs. “I suppose so. You know, I was thinking.” His heart is hammering in his chest, and his stomach feels like a massive ball of nerves, but he manages to keep his voice level. “It's still early, and that popcorn didn't really fill me up; do you want to go grab some dinner? My treat.”
Bucky laughs at that, catching the attention of a group of women passing by and earning more than a few appreciative glances. Steve takes a half-step closer to him before he realizes his intent, sparking wide-eyed surprise and a round of half-muffled giggles. Maybe they recognize him; maybe they just think he's a jealous boyfriend. Steve finds he doesn't much care either way, just grateful that they're moving on, and he turns his attention back to his friend.
“That sounds good,” Bucky is saying. “But you know you don't have to offer to pay to get me to eat with you, right?”
“It's the least I can do,” Steve replies with a shrug and a smile. “If I'd ended up picking the movie again who knows what garbage we'd have seen?”
“I shudder to think. All right then, lead the way. What are you in the mood for?”
“Um.” Steve starts walking and tries to ignore the fact that that's a loaded question at the moment. Unfortunately, between the mental images bombarding him and the nervous contemplation that's been hounding him all night over whether or not it's too soon to try to take Bucky's hand, it's a struggle to pull his mind back on track. “Have you ever had shawarma? There's a great place not too far from here, if you want to-Bucky?”
He pulls up short, abruptly realizing that his friend isn't beside him anymore Suddenly uneasy, Steve spins around, scouring the streams of people passing around him, but there's no sign of him. He begins to backtrack hastily, peering into startled, unfamiliar faces as a growing sense of foreboding overtakes him.
“Hey!” The call has his head whipping up. An old man is leaning forward out of a news kiosk, calling angrily after a retreating figure. “Hey, you have to pay for that!”
Steve knows that back, knows the slope of his shoulders and the fall of his hair; he runs after his friend, calling out an apology to the angry vendor as he passes, and manages to catch up with Bucky before he's made it more than a few feet.
“Hey! What's going on? Are you all right?”
He lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder. For a split second he feels the muscles there tighten, and then his friend turns on him, right arm tangling with Steve's as a metal fist whips towards his face. Steve manages to dodge, but just barely; he feels the wind of its passing against his cheek even as he tightens his grip on Bucky's other arm. In response Bucky drops, bringing all his weight down at once. It's a calculated risk-Steve has to either let go or risk dislocating his friend's arm, but Bucky's gambled on Steve being unwilling to hurt him too severely, and he was right. Steve releases his hold and lets his instincts take over; he jumps without thinking, and narrowly avoids the sweeping kick that threatens to take his feet out from under him.
Bucky's eyes narrow, and the bottom drops out of Steve's stomach when he sees a familiar coldness there, an emptiness that still plays a starring role in some of his worse nightmares. He stops fighting defensively after that; the next time Bucky swings at him-a feinting uppercut followed by a backhanded slam towards his head that would have cracked his skull if it had connected-he catches his friend's left arm and yanks, sending him off-balance and spinning. Steve ducks inside his guard, strikes the flat of his hand against Bucky's sternum and knocks him back to slam into the brick wall behind him. Using all the leverage he has, Steve keeps Bucky's left arm pinned, and lays his other forearm across the shorter man's windpipe.
“Bucky.” Steve is all too aware of the civilians who are crowded around them, and he's torn between concern for their safety, and worry whether one of them might have called the police and how soon they might be arriving. His friend is still attempting to struggle out of his hold, and Steve bears down just a little harder. “Hey. I know you're in there, okay? Whatever's happened, you've gotta try to fight past it. Focus on me. You know me; I'm your friend, remember?”
A spark of awareness flickers in Bucky's eyes as the fight gradually leeches out of his body, and though Steve doesn't release his hold he eases his arm back enough to let Bucky breathe more freely.
“Hey,” he says again, quietly. “That you in there?”
“Steve? Shit.” Bucky's eyes flutter closed and he draws a deep, ragged breath. The newspaper still clenched in one fist flutters to the ground as his hands go limp. “Did I hurt anyone?”
“No.” Still wary of releasing him entirely, Steve shifts his grip to shoulders that are trembling under some invisible strain. “And you're not going to; just keep coming back.” He glances down, to the crumpled paper lying on the sidewalk. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Triggered.” The word is a harsh rasp; it grates against Steve's ears, makes his fingers involuntary tighten before he checks himself. Bucky lets out a weak, painful laugh. “Guess the S.H.I.E.L.D. docs didn't quite manage to scrub me clean, after all. I never took out my last target before you guys pulled me out, and I still . . . you've gotta tell them she's in danger. They won't be trusting my programming anymore; there'll be others.”
“We'll make sure nothing happens to her, I promise.” Steve has no idea who he's even talking about, but it doesn't matter; whoever it is, he knows that he'll do everything he can to keep Lukin's forces from getting to her. “But we'll worry about that after we get you safe.” He sees Bucky about to argue and gives him a quick, careful shake. “I can't help her if I'm busy worrying about you, too. We need to get you off the street. Get you contained, like you said.”
“My apartment isn't secure.”
Bucky opens his eyes again, and though he looks pale and shaken there's more of the man that Steve knows in there than there was only moments ago. “I need to go to S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Too far.” It's a fifteen-minute trek by taxi; longer, and with more potential for disaster, if they take the subway. “My place is just a few blocks away,” he says after a moment, “and our security's every bit as good as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. We can contact Fury from there, give him a heads-up on the situation. I'm gonna let go of you now; will you be okay?”
Bucky takes a cautious breath. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I'll be fine.”
Steve releases his grip slowly, carefully, muscles tensed and ready in case Bucky attacks again. He stays put, however, leaning pale and unsteady against the wall, and Steve bends down, retrieving the newspaper from their feet. He rolls it up, tucking it into his waistband; Bucky jerks in surprise a moment later when Steve slides an arm around his back, tugging him upright.
“Just like old times, huh?” he says, grinning weakly as he slings an arm around Steve's shoulders.
“Yeah; we've really got to stop meeting like this.”
Bucky laughs quietly, and Steve has to fight the urge to pull him closer. Instead he focuses on keeping their steps in sync, on balancing Bucky's weight against his own as they move. After only a few steps he stops, however, bringing them both up short in front of the newsstand that Bucky had looted. The proprietor eyes them warily, but his expression calms when Steve pulls out his wallet to hand over several bills.
“I'm really sorry about this; will that be enough to cover the paper?”
The man grunts and nods, tucking the money under the counter without taking his eyes off of Bucky. “He a vet?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought so.” The wrinkles around the man's eyes soften. “He's got the look. My grandson went over to Iraq, came home with that PTSD; can't hardly stand loud noises now.” He nods sharply. “You get him someplace quiet, let him come down.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve says again. “I will. Thank you.”
They're off again immediately, and it's almost strange how easily they fall into step together after all this time. They've supported each other like this so many times, countless times over the years, after bullies and beatings and unspeakable horrors. The way they move is muscle memory as much as anything, undiminished even in this far-flung future. Much later, when he's alone in his bed with the memory of his friend's body pressed warm and trusting against his, it will occur to Steve to wonder if they would fit together this smoothly in other ways, as well. For now, though, his mind is fixed on keeping them moving steadily forward, towards the safety of Avengers headquarters.
When they've made it past the doorman, past the codes and identification checks that until this moment Steve always thought were a little excessive, he guides Bucky to the couch within easy sight of the kitchen. He sets the kettle on to boil as he dials Fury's direct line, and keeps his voice low while they talk. With the newspaper spread out in front of him, he fills in all the details he can manage: Senator Horton, Democrat from Louisiana; set to speak in front of a Congressional panel on the new weapons ban next month; in town on a speaking tour for the next two days. Fury's closed-mouthed enough by nature that Steve can't tell if he's caught off-guard as well, or if he's staring at a dossier on the Senator even as they speak. Truth be told, he doesn't much care. As soon as he's relayed the information he gets himself patched through to one of Bucky's doctors, and listens intently as she advises him on what to do next.
Steve adds several heaping spoons of sugar to the tea after he's hung up; hot, sweet liquids as treatment for shock, he remembers, and Bucky's always had a sweet tooth that could send you into a diabetic fit by proxy in any case. He's still sitting on the couch when Steve walks over and hands it off to him; he takes it without looking up, metal fingers wrapped unflinchingly around the hot mug.
“Dr. Godaire will be here soon,” Steve offers, perching on the coffee table in front of his friend. “She said it would help things if you talked, though.”
“What about?”
“Yourself.” Steve clears his throat. “You know, anything that you can remember about . . . being you. I guess.”
“I . . .” Bucky sits up, leans back. “I don't even know what to say. I don't even know who the fuck I am.” He scrubs his free hand hard over his face. “The programming itself isn't the worst part, you know,” he says. “Not at the time. It's after; the drop, when you're falling back into yourself and you can't even remember who that is anymore . . .” He shakes his head once, viciously. “I used to think it was better when they'd just leave me under.”
“Did that happen a lot?” More than anything at this moment, Steve wants to be beside his friend, to lend the comfort of a hand on his back or an arm around his shoulders, to hold him through this so he knows he doesn't have to do it alone. But everything about Bucky's body language is closed-off, drawn inward, and all that Steve can do is keep him talking. “I figured they'd sort of . . . well, kept you that way, when you were awake.”
“Eventually they did, once they figured out it was easier.” Bucky glances down at the tea in his hand, startled as though he'd forgotten he was holding it; after a moment he shrugs and takes a sip. “In the beginning, though, they were still working things out, deciding what they wanted me to be. I think there was a lot of arguing about that, actually. So they'd wipe everything in between missions, give me back . . . whoever I was, and I'd spend a few days curled up on a cot practically begging them to take it back again.” He fiddles with his mug. “I wonder, sometimes, if that's not part of why they did it that way. There were times I would've sold my soul to have that clarity, that . . . certainty again, instead of the scraps they left me.”
He shrugs tightly and takes another drink. “There were a couple other times, too, before they had all the kinks worked out, when it sort of . . .” He pauses, searching for the word. “Fizzled out, I guess. Left me stranded in myself again. Like tonight.” It startles a laugh out of him. “Damn. I was in the middle of a mission the last time it happened, too. That was . . . back in the seventies, I think? Of course, that time ended up a little differently.”
“Yeah?” Steve leans forward a little, pleased when Bucky doesn't move away. “What happened?”
“I, um.” Bucky grins, half-sheepish and half-unrepentant. “I sort of ended up going to bed with my target instead of taking him out. We skipped out of the country the next
day, spent a week in Italy. It wasn't like I was trying to escape,” he says, “not really, or I'd have gone a hell of a lot farther than Rome; but once he got his mouth on me I'd have agreed to fucking anything, damn.”
“Oh.” Steve blinks. “Right.”
“Sorry.” Bucky looks embarrassed now, and shakes his head at himself. “You don't need to hear about that.”
“It's fine,” Steve says quickly. “I mean, if you want to talk about it. It's something that happened to you, right, not . . . whoever they turned you into? So, you, ah. You went to Rome.” He clears his throat. “What happened then?”
“Nothing much, really. We spent most of the week in bed; Jesus, I couldn't keep my hands off of him.” He takes a deep drink of his tea; Steve notices that his own throat has gone dry. “I hadn't actually wanted anyone for so long, and it was like I'd been storing things up all that time. Poor guy got the brunt of it when I finally let loose.”
“I, um.” Steve can feel his face turning red. For once he's glad of it; the more blood he can keep in his head at this point, the better. “I sort of doubt he minded.”
Bucky laughs loudly. His coloring is coming back at last, and there are pink spots high on his cheeks. “That's nice of you to say, but I don't think he was really prepared for how bossy I was.”
“Well now see,” Steve says, proud beyond measure that his voice remains more or less steady. “There's the problem with jumping into bed with someone you've just met: no one who's known you more than a few hours would be at all surprised at that.”
Bucky laughs again. “Yeah, well. He wasn't expecting it from someone who likes . . .” He shakes his head. “I'll spare you the details.”
A part of Steve is grateful for the out, happy with the idea that they can stop talking about this stranger who had the nerve to put his hands on Bucky. Still, despite his burning cheeks and his completely unreasonable jealousy, his curiosity turns out to be too strong to ignore.
“You can tell me.” Bucky lifts an eyebrow at him, and Steve raises one right back. “You'd tell me if it was a girl, wouldn't you? You've never exactly held back on details before.”
“Yeah, well. That was different.”
“You're not going to shock me, I promise,” Steve says, more confidently than he feels. “I've done a lot more reading than I had the last time we talked about this.”
“What do you mean, reading?” Bucky asks, surprise and confusion clear on his face. Steve shrugs.
“I, ah.” He clears his throat. “Jarvis helped me figure out how to get on the internet.” He shakes his head, still a little dazed every time he thinks about it. “I don't remember the world being this obsessed with gay sex when we were growing up.”
That has Bucky letting out a long, loud laugh. “Things have changed a little since then,” he chuckles after a moment. There's gratitude and affection in his expression, and something almost like wonder. “You know, sometimes I don't even . . . only you could make me laugh after something like tonight. You just keep right on saving me, don't you?”
Flustered and pleased, Steve smiles back at his friend. “Seems to me it's mutual.” He clears his throat again, looking away from Bucky's eyes before he does something rash. “So tell me more about this guy. What happened?”
“Nothing much to tell, really,” Bucky shrugs, finishing off his tea. “Like I said, we stayed holed up in Rome for a week. Then he disappeared. I woke up one morning and he was gone; the next day, my handlers finally tracked me down and took me back to headquarters. I don't know if he knew they were coming, or if he just got bored. Either way, as far as I know they never found him again.”
“Wow.” Steve hesitates, unsure what to say or how to say it without sounding affronted on his friend's behalf or jealous on his own. “I'm sorry,” he says at last, since it's all he can manage without being disingenuous. “That must've been terrible.”
“Not really. Like I said, it's not like I was trying to escape; I just sort of got caught up in the moment, you know?”
“No, I mean-just having him leave like that,” Steve clarifies. “It must've been hard.”
“Why?” Bucky only blinks at him and lets out a confused little laugh. “I mean, the sex was great, but it's not like I thought I'd never get laid again.”
“I just . . .” Steve's face is getting warm again, but he soldiers on regardless. “In that kind of . . . intense situation, you know, it would be natural for . . . for some sort of feelings to develop . . .”
Bucky's wearing the sort of shit-eating grin now that Steve's used to seeing whenever he blunders his way through talks like this. “Are you asking if I fell in love, Steve?” he teases, and for once Steve just stares seriously back at him.
“Didn't you?” The question seems to throw his friend; Steve spreads his hands helplessly as he forces his next words out through the sudden tightness in his chest. “He's the first thing you thought to talk about that reminded you of who you are. That time clearly still means a lot to you. Are you really telling me that all there was between you two was sex?”
“It wasn't love.” Bucky sounds unsteady, but not uncertain. “Love divides loyalties,” he adds quietly; “it's the first thing they take when they start to work on you. They stripped it out of me over seventy years ago, and I've never . . .” He shakes his head. “Still. Maybe it wasn't love, but yeah, I guess you could say that there was something between us. He reminded me of someone that I-well, I couldn't remember who; I couldn't remember anything about who I'd been before. Someone I'd cared about, though. That was probably the closest to love I was able to get, so . . . I guess that's something.”
“And now?” Steve's heart is trying to jump into his throat. “You don't think that's . . . I mean, it isn't gone for good, is it?”
Bucky glances at him, then away. “Tough
to say.” He stands abruptly, depositing his empty mug on the table next to Steve and wandering over to his workspace. “Is this the same canvas that was here last time I was over?”
“You're changing the subject.”
“Noticed that, did you?” Bucky asks dryly, and nods towards the empty canvas again. “Is it?”
“Yeah.” Steve stands as well, willing to drop the matter for now as long as Bucky keeps talking. Watching his friend move makes his fingers itch for his sketchbook, and for other things that he's still not quite ready for.; he shoves his hands in his pockets in an effort to keep them to himself. “It's been there for a while now.”
“Not like you to leave it blank. Don't tell me you're out of ideas.”
“No. Not exactly. I have one idea; that is, I know what I want to do. With the canvas, I mean.” Steve swallows nervously. “I just . . . haven't been able to get started.”
“Why not?”
“I've actually . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I've actually been meaning to ask you to sit for me.”
“What, like for a portrait?” Bucky seems surprised but not put off, and Steve takes an eager step forward before he can stop himself.
“Yeah. I haven't had a chance to draw you properly since that project I did for school, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” A distant grin spreads over Bucky's face. “That was pretty good; Ma loved it. I wonder what ever happened to it?”
“I don't know; I don't actually know what happened to any of my old things. But I'd like to do a new one, if you'll let me. Try to capture who you are now.”
“Who I am now.” Bucky nods once, absently, before fixing Steve with a knowing look. “You're talking about this, aren't you?” he asks, gesturing at his left arm.
“Partially,” Steve admits. “It's an amazing piece of engineering, and I'd love to get a better look at it. But I don't just want to draw your arm,” he says seriously. “I want to draw you.”
Silence falls between them for a moment, blue eyes locked on brown and a dozen other declarations hovering on the tip of Steve's tongue. Bucky opens his mouth, but whatever he might have said is lost in the sudden buzz from the door.
“Captain Rogers,” Jarvis's voice calls out smoothly, “Dr. Godaire has been admitted to the lobby and is requesting admittance to your floor.”
“Thanks, Jarvis. Go ahead and send her up.” He turns to Bucky, shifting uncertainly on his feet. “Do you want me to give you guys some privacy?”
“No, it's . . . I'd feel better with you here.” Bucky takes a careful breath before his lips tilt into a wry smirk. “After what you've already seen and heard I doubt there's much left to keep private, anyway. And hey.” He nods. “I'll sit for you if you want. Or stand, or whatever. Provided I'm not about to get locked up, that is.”
“Okay. Good.” Feeling brave and newly hopeful, Steve grins. “It's a date.”
Author:
ladyblahblah
Fandom: Captain America, The Avengers
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Jarvis
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Clearly I own none of this. I can't even imagine a world in which I would be able to make any profit off of something like this. I have nothing, and make no claim to anything but the story itself and the OCs. Please don't sue me. Pretty please.
Summary: “You really never did grow up all the way, did you, Steve? Of course it changes things. But hey.” He lifts his glass, and Steve reluctantly lets go to join in the toast. “Who says change has to be bad?”
Author's Note: That's it. I give up. This fic is now officially an Express Train to Feelsville, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I GIVE IN! HEY THERE, BUCKY FEELS, HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY? WHAT'S THAT, MAKING IT REALLY HARD FOR ME TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET STEVE TO AWKWARDLY TALK ABOUT SEX? I THOUGHT SO.
4. We've Got To Stop Meeting Like This
“All right, I'll admit.” Steve's grinning as they walk out of the theater and into the crowded street of an early New York summer evening. “That was a pretty good show.”
“You've gotta start trusting me on these things,” Bucky says with a little nudge to Steve's shoulder. He tosses the popcorn bag into a trash bin as they pass, sucking absently at the residue of butter and salt on his fingers, and Steve has to come to a sudden stop or risk tripping over his own feet. “I've lived in the world a bit longer than you, all things considered.”
“Ah . . . yeah.” It takes a moment for Steve's brain to come back online and focus on the words instead of slick, shining lips and the tip of a soft pink tongue. He laughs nervously and wipes his palms in what he hopes is a subtle sweep against his legs. “I suppose so. You know, I was thinking.” His heart is hammering in his chest, and his stomach feels like a massive ball of nerves, but he manages to keep his voice level. “It's still early, and that popcorn didn't really fill me up; do you want to go grab some dinner? My treat.”
Bucky laughs at that, catching the attention of a group of women passing by and earning more than a few appreciative glances. Steve takes a half-step closer to him before he realizes his intent, sparking wide-eyed surprise and a round of half-muffled giggles. Maybe they recognize him; maybe they just think he's a jealous boyfriend. Steve finds he doesn't much care either way, just grateful that they're moving on, and he turns his attention back to his friend.
“That sounds good,” Bucky is saying. “But you know you don't have to offer to pay to get me to eat with you, right?”
“It's the least I can do,” Steve replies with a shrug and a smile. “If I'd ended up picking the movie again who knows what garbage we'd have seen?”
“I shudder to think. All right then, lead the way. What are you in the mood for?”
“Um.” Steve starts walking and tries to ignore the fact that that's a loaded question at the moment. Unfortunately, between the mental images bombarding him and the nervous contemplation that's been hounding him all night over whether or not it's too soon to try to take Bucky's hand, it's a struggle to pull his mind back on track. “Have you ever had shawarma? There's a great place not too far from here, if you want to-Bucky?”
He pulls up short, abruptly realizing that his friend isn't beside him anymore Suddenly uneasy, Steve spins around, scouring the streams of people passing around him, but there's no sign of him. He begins to backtrack hastily, peering into startled, unfamiliar faces as a growing sense of foreboding overtakes him.
“Hey!” The call has his head whipping up. An old man is leaning forward out of a news kiosk, calling angrily after a retreating figure. “Hey, you have to pay for that!”
Steve knows that back, knows the slope of his shoulders and the fall of his hair; he runs after his friend, calling out an apology to the angry vendor as he passes, and manages to catch up with Bucky before he's made it more than a few feet.
“Hey! What's going on? Are you all right?”
He lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder. For a split second he feels the muscles there tighten, and then his friend turns on him, right arm tangling with Steve's as a metal fist whips towards his face. Steve manages to dodge, but just barely; he feels the wind of its passing against his cheek even as he tightens his grip on Bucky's other arm. In response Bucky drops, bringing all his weight down at once. It's a calculated risk-Steve has to either let go or risk dislocating his friend's arm, but Bucky's gambled on Steve being unwilling to hurt him too severely, and he was right. Steve releases his hold and lets his instincts take over; he jumps without thinking, and narrowly avoids the sweeping kick that threatens to take his feet out from under him.
Bucky's eyes narrow, and the bottom drops out of Steve's stomach when he sees a familiar coldness there, an emptiness that still plays a starring role in some of his worse nightmares. He stops fighting defensively after that; the next time Bucky swings at him-a feinting uppercut followed by a backhanded slam towards his head that would have cracked his skull if it had connected-he catches his friend's left arm and yanks, sending him off-balance and spinning. Steve ducks inside his guard, strikes the flat of his hand against Bucky's sternum and knocks him back to slam into the brick wall behind him. Using all the leverage he has, Steve keeps Bucky's left arm pinned, and lays his other forearm across the shorter man's windpipe.
“Bucky.” Steve is all too aware of the civilians who are crowded around them, and he's torn between concern for their safety, and worry whether one of them might have called the police and how soon they might be arriving. His friend is still attempting to struggle out of his hold, and Steve bears down just a little harder. “Hey. I know you're in there, okay? Whatever's happened, you've gotta try to fight past it. Focus on me. You know me; I'm your friend, remember?”
A spark of awareness flickers in Bucky's eyes as the fight gradually leeches out of his body, and though Steve doesn't release his hold he eases his arm back enough to let Bucky breathe more freely.
“Hey,” he says again, quietly. “That you in there?”
“Steve? Shit.” Bucky's eyes flutter closed and he draws a deep, ragged breath. The newspaper still clenched in one fist flutters to the ground as his hands go limp. “Did I hurt anyone?”
“No.” Still wary of releasing him entirely, Steve shifts his grip to shoulders that are trembling under some invisible strain. “And you're not going to; just keep coming back.” He glances down, to the crumpled paper lying on the sidewalk. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Triggered.” The word is a harsh rasp; it grates against Steve's ears, makes his fingers involuntary tighten before he checks himself. Bucky lets out a weak, painful laugh. “Guess the S.H.I.E.L.D. docs didn't quite manage to scrub me clean, after all. I never took out my last target before you guys pulled me out, and I still . . . you've gotta tell them she's in danger. They won't be trusting my programming anymore; there'll be others.”
“We'll make sure nothing happens to her, I promise.” Steve has no idea who he's even talking about, but it doesn't matter; whoever it is, he knows that he'll do everything he can to keep Lukin's forces from getting to her. “But we'll worry about that after we get you safe.” He sees Bucky about to argue and gives him a quick, careful shake. “I can't help her if I'm busy worrying about you, too. We need to get you off the street. Get you contained, like you said.”
“My apartment isn't secure.”
Bucky opens his eyes again, and though he looks pale and shaken there's more of the man that Steve knows in there than there was only moments ago. “I need to go to S.H.I.E.L.D.”
“Too far.” It's a fifteen-minute trek by taxi; longer, and with more potential for disaster, if they take the subway. “My place is just a few blocks away,” he says after a moment, “and our security's every bit as good as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. We can contact Fury from there, give him a heads-up on the situation. I'm gonna let go of you now; will you be okay?”
Bucky takes a cautious breath. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I'll be fine.”
Steve releases his grip slowly, carefully, muscles tensed and ready in case Bucky attacks again. He stays put, however, leaning pale and unsteady against the wall, and Steve bends down, retrieving the newspaper from their feet. He rolls it up, tucking it into his waistband; Bucky jerks in surprise a moment later when Steve slides an arm around his back, tugging him upright.
“Just like old times, huh?” he says, grinning weakly as he slings an arm around Steve's shoulders.
“Yeah; we've really got to stop meeting like this.”
Bucky laughs quietly, and Steve has to fight the urge to pull him closer. Instead he focuses on keeping their steps in sync, on balancing Bucky's weight against his own as they move. After only a few steps he stops, however, bringing them both up short in front of the newsstand that Bucky had looted. The proprietor eyes them warily, but his expression calms when Steve pulls out his wallet to hand over several bills.
“I'm really sorry about this; will that be enough to cover the paper?”
The man grunts and nods, tucking the money under the counter without taking his eyes off of Bucky. “He a vet?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought so.” The wrinkles around the man's eyes soften. “He's got the look. My grandson went over to Iraq, came home with that PTSD; can't hardly stand loud noises now.” He nods sharply. “You get him someplace quiet, let him come down.”
“Yes, sir,” Steve says again. “I will. Thank you.”
They're off again immediately, and it's almost strange how easily they fall into step together after all this time. They've supported each other like this so many times, countless times over the years, after bullies and beatings and unspeakable horrors. The way they move is muscle memory as much as anything, undiminished even in this far-flung future. Much later, when he's alone in his bed with the memory of his friend's body pressed warm and trusting against his, it will occur to Steve to wonder if they would fit together this smoothly in other ways, as well. For now, though, his mind is fixed on keeping them moving steadily forward, towards the safety of Avengers headquarters.
When they've made it past the doorman, past the codes and identification checks that until this moment Steve always thought were a little excessive, he guides Bucky to the couch within easy sight of the kitchen. He sets the kettle on to boil as he dials Fury's direct line, and keeps his voice low while they talk. With the newspaper spread out in front of him, he fills in all the details he can manage: Senator Horton, Democrat from Louisiana; set to speak in front of a Congressional panel on the new weapons ban next month; in town on a speaking tour for the next two days. Fury's closed-mouthed enough by nature that Steve can't tell if he's caught off-guard as well, or if he's staring at a dossier on the Senator even as they speak. Truth be told, he doesn't much care. As soon as he's relayed the information he gets himself patched through to one of Bucky's doctors, and listens intently as she advises him on what to do next.
Steve adds several heaping spoons of sugar to the tea after he's hung up; hot, sweet liquids as treatment for shock, he remembers, and Bucky's always had a sweet tooth that could send you into a diabetic fit by proxy in any case. He's still sitting on the couch when Steve walks over and hands it off to him; he takes it without looking up, metal fingers wrapped unflinchingly around the hot mug.
“Dr. Godaire will be here soon,” Steve offers, perching on the coffee table in front of his friend. “She said it would help things if you talked, though.”
“What about?”
“Yourself.” Steve clears his throat. “You know, anything that you can remember about . . . being you. I guess.”
“I . . .” Bucky sits up, leans back. “I don't even know what to say. I don't even know who the fuck I am.” He scrubs his free hand hard over his face. “The programming itself isn't the worst part, you know,” he says. “Not at the time. It's after; the drop, when you're falling back into yourself and you can't even remember who that is anymore . . .” He shakes his head once, viciously. “I used to think it was better when they'd just leave me under.”
“Did that happen a lot?” More than anything at this moment, Steve wants to be beside his friend, to lend the comfort of a hand on his back or an arm around his shoulders, to hold him through this so he knows he doesn't have to do it alone. But everything about Bucky's body language is closed-off, drawn inward, and all that Steve can do is keep him talking. “I figured they'd sort of . . . well, kept you that way, when you were awake.”
“Eventually they did, once they figured out it was easier.” Bucky glances down at the tea in his hand, startled as though he'd forgotten he was holding it; after a moment he shrugs and takes a sip. “In the beginning, though, they were still working things out, deciding what they wanted me to be. I think there was a lot of arguing about that, actually. So they'd wipe everything in between missions, give me back . . . whoever I was, and I'd spend a few days curled up on a cot practically begging them to take it back again.” He fiddles with his mug. “I wonder, sometimes, if that's not part of why they did it that way. There were times I would've sold my soul to have that clarity, that . . . certainty again, instead of the scraps they left me.”
He shrugs tightly and takes another drink. “There were a couple other times, too, before they had all the kinks worked out, when it sort of . . .” He pauses, searching for the word. “Fizzled out, I guess. Left me stranded in myself again. Like tonight.” It startles a laugh out of him. “Damn. I was in the middle of a mission the last time it happened, too. That was . . . back in the seventies, I think? Of course, that time ended up a little differently.”
“Yeah?” Steve leans forward a little, pleased when Bucky doesn't move away. “What happened?”
“I, um.” Bucky grins, half-sheepish and half-unrepentant. “I sort of ended up going to bed with my target instead of taking him out. We skipped out of the country the next
day, spent a week in Italy. It wasn't like I was trying to escape,” he says, “not really, or I'd have gone a hell of a lot farther than Rome; but once he got his mouth on me I'd have agreed to fucking anything, damn.”
“Oh.” Steve blinks. “Right.”
“Sorry.” Bucky looks embarrassed now, and shakes his head at himself. “You don't need to hear about that.”
“It's fine,” Steve says quickly. “I mean, if you want to talk about it. It's something that happened to you, right, not . . . whoever they turned you into? So, you, ah. You went to Rome.” He clears his throat. “What happened then?”
“Nothing much, really. We spent most of the week in bed; Jesus, I couldn't keep my hands off of him.” He takes a deep drink of his tea; Steve notices that his own throat has gone dry. “I hadn't actually wanted anyone for so long, and it was like I'd been storing things up all that time. Poor guy got the brunt of it when I finally let loose.”
“I, um.” Steve can feel his face turning red. For once he's glad of it; the more blood he can keep in his head at this point, the better. “I sort of doubt he minded.”
Bucky laughs loudly. His coloring is coming back at last, and there are pink spots high on his cheeks. “That's nice of you to say, but I don't think he was really prepared for how bossy I was.”
“Well now see,” Steve says, proud beyond measure that his voice remains more or less steady. “There's the problem with jumping into bed with someone you've just met: no one who's known you more than a few hours would be at all surprised at that.”
Bucky laughs again. “Yeah, well. He wasn't expecting it from someone who likes . . .” He shakes his head. “I'll spare you the details.”
A part of Steve is grateful for the out, happy with the idea that they can stop talking about this stranger who had the nerve to put his hands on Bucky. Still, despite his burning cheeks and his completely unreasonable jealousy, his curiosity turns out to be too strong to ignore.
“You can tell me.” Bucky lifts an eyebrow at him, and Steve raises one right back. “You'd tell me if it was a girl, wouldn't you? You've never exactly held back on details before.”
“Yeah, well. That was different.”
“You're not going to shock me, I promise,” Steve says, more confidently than he feels. “I've done a lot more reading than I had the last time we talked about this.”
“What do you mean, reading?” Bucky asks, surprise and confusion clear on his face. Steve shrugs.
“I, ah.” He clears his throat. “Jarvis helped me figure out how to get on the internet.” He shakes his head, still a little dazed every time he thinks about it. “I don't remember the world being this obsessed with gay sex when we were growing up.”
That has Bucky letting out a long, loud laugh. “Things have changed a little since then,” he chuckles after a moment. There's gratitude and affection in his expression, and something almost like wonder. “You know, sometimes I don't even . . . only you could make me laugh after something like tonight. You just keep right on saving me, don't you?”
Flustered and pleased, Steve smiles back at his friend. “Seems to me it's mutual.” He clears his throat again, looking away from Bucky's eyes before he does something rash. “So tell me more about this guy. What happened?”
“Nothing much to tell, really,” Bucky shrugs, finishing off his tea. “Like I said, we stayed holed up in Rome for a week. Then he disappeared. I woke up one morning and he was gone; the next day, my handlers finally tracked me down and took me back to headquarters. I don't know if he knew they were coming, or if he just got bored. Either way, as far as I know they never found him again.”
“Wow.” Steve hesitates, unsure what to say or how to say it without sounding affronted on his friend's behalf or jealous on his own. “I'm sorry,” he says at last, since it's all he can manage without being disingenuous. “That must've been terrible.”
“Not really. Like I said, it's not like I was trying to escape; I just sort of got caught up in the moment, you know?”
“No, I mean-just having him leave like that,” Steve clarifies. “It must've been hard.”
“Why?” Bucky only blinks at him and lets out a confused little laugh. “I mean, the sex was great, but it's not like I thought I'd never get laid again.”
“I just . . .” Steve's face is getting warm again, but he soldiers on regardless. “In that kind of . . . intense situation, you know, it would be natural for . . . for some sort of feelings to develop . . .”
Bucky's wearing the sort of shit-eating grin now that Steve's used to seeing whenever he blunders his way through talks like this. “Are you asking if I fell in love, Steve?” he teases, and for once Steve just stares seriously back at him.
“Didn't you?” The question seems to throw his friend; Steve spreads his hands helplessly as he forces his next words out through the sudden tightness in his chest. “He's the first thing you thought to talk about that reminded you of who you are. That time clearly still means a lot to you. Are you really telling me that all there was between you two was sex?”
“It wasn't love.” Bucky sounds unsteady, but not uncertain. “Love divides loyalties,” he adds quietly; “it's the first thing they take when they start to work on you. They stripped it out of me over seventy years ago, and I've never . . .” He shakes his head. “Still. Maybe it wasn't love, but yeah, I guess you could say that there was something between us. He reminded me of someone that I-well, I couldn't remember who; I couldn't remember anything about who I'd been before. Someone I'd cared about, though. That was probably the closest to love I was able to get, so . . . I guess that's something.”
“And now?” Steve's heart is trying to jump into his throat. “You don't think that's . . . I mean, it isn't gone for good, is it?”
Bucky glances at him, then away. “Tough
to say.” He stands abruptly, depositing his empty mug on the table next to Steve and wandering over to his workspace. “Is this the same canvas that was here last time I was over?”
“You're changing the subject.”
“Noticed that, did you?” Bucky asks dryly, and nods towards the empty canvas again. “Is it?”
“Yeah.” Steve stands as well, willing to drop the matter for now as long as Bucky keeps talking. Watching his friend move makes his fingers itch for his sketchbook, and for other things that he's still not quite ready for.; he shoves his hands in his pockets in an effort to keep them to himself. “It's been there for a while now.”
“Not like you to leave it blank. Don't tell me you're out of ideas.”
“No. Not exactly. I have one idea; that is, I know what I want to do. With the canvas, I mean.” Steve swallows nervously. “I just . . . haven't been able to get started.”
“Why not?”
“I've actually . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I've actually been meaning to ask you to sit for me.”
“What, like for a portrait?” Bucky seems surprised but not put off, and Steve takes an eager step forward before he can stop himself.
“Yeah. I haven't had a chance to draw you properly since that project I did for school, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” A distant grin spreads over Bucky's face. “That was pretty good; Ma loved it. I wonder what ever happened to it?”
“I don't know; I don't actually know what happened to any of my old things. But I'd like to do a new one, if you'll let me. Try to capture who you are now.”
“Who I am now.” Bucky nods once, absently, before fixing Steve with a knowing look. “You're talking about this, aren't you?” he asks, gesturing at his left arm.
“Partially,” Steve admits. “It's an amazing piece of engineering, and I'd love to get a better look at it. But I don't just want to draw your arm,” he says seriously. “I want to draw you.”
Silence falls between them for a moment, blue eyes locked on brown and a dozen other declarations hovering on the tip of Steve's tongue. Bucky opens his mouth, but whatever he might have said is lost in the sudden buzz from the door.
“Captain Rogers,” Jarvis's voice calls out smoothly, “Dr. Godaire has been admitted to the lobby and is requesting admittance to your floor.”
“Thanks, Jarvis. Go ahead and send her up.” He turns to Bucky, shifting uncertainly on his feet. “Do you want me to give you guys some privacy?”
“No, it's . . . I'd feel better with you here.” Bucky takes a careful breath before his lips tilt into a wry smirk. “After what you've already seen and heard I doubt there's much left to keep private, anyway. And hey.” He nods. “I'll sit for you if you want. Or stand, or whatever. Provided I'm not about to get locked up, that is.”
“Okay. Good.” Feeling brave and newly hopeful, Steve grins. “It's a date.”