stark_spangled | [PSL] Steve & Bucky, post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier

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psl: bucky

[PSL] Steve & Bucky, post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier

Even with the serum, it took a small coma and a lot of PT to get over the physical wounds he sustained when the helicarriers went down. The emotional ones would take a little longer.

"You're my mission!"

Bucky was out there, and Steve was going to find him. He should have died in the crash, but he didn't, and something in his gut tells him Bucky's the reason why. Whether it was mercy, loyalty, or sick curiosity, he knew Bucky would always bail him out of trouble. Steve owed him a fight. He'd fight for him, for their friendship, for their history, till the end of the line.

With Sam's help, it wasn't too difficult tracking Buck back to Kiev, and from there Steve could guess where he was going. The old Hydra facilities where they gave him his cybernetic arm and wiped his memories has been long defunct, a hollowed-out shell of former greatness, but they still housed information. Steve wanted to know what they did to Bucky, surely Buck would be wondering the same thing.

He's got his uniform on under nondescript civvies, but it's kind of hard to get his shield to blend in. He doesn't look all that different than he did on the bridge, but if he finds Bucky here he hopes that's not the first thing he's reminded of. He steps over tipped filing cabinets and loose wires, footfalls quiet and precise. There's no guarantee he'll find Bucky in here, but if he doesn't it's going to take weeks to figure out what his next move would be. Steve's hanging on hope when he rounds a corner, and discovers a dust-covered chair straight out of a horror movie, leather straps decaying from time and neglect, but metal clamps still imposing. He steps inside the room, eyeing the machine with dull horror.

At first, he doesn't even see the shadow in the corner.

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A familiar sound wafts through the normally deserted place, footsteps, and while most might not even note them he was trained to listen for such things. He wonders absently if it was a Hydra agent or worse-- were they looking for him, or was it just some lost soul wandering the archives? The answer presents itself easily enough when the sound stops and he's presented with the familiar; the man from the bridge standing there. It might not be the same uniform but the weapon is familiar, as is the face even if he's still not sure what part of his brain decides that.

Probably the same part that keeps him from attacking on instinct alone; counter productive, maybe. A piece of leather slips from between his fingers, some of the instruments left behind, replaced by those that were better or even worked out of the system. If he had to guess. He doesn't exactly remember past the blurs of pain and the way just looking at the chair sends a flash of pain ghosting along his spine like lightening. Not that pain has ever stopped him, not when he was on a mission, but that didn't change that it was there.

There's no words to be offered from him, it's clear he's been followed for whatever reason to this place. He doesn't need to ask how-- it doesn't matter. Perhaps a failure on his part, perhaps it's some sort of familiarity that he hasn't acknowledged yet. Either way he steps out into the light, identifying himself easily enough with the slow crunch of broken glass under his boots, the second light long since broken, pieces scattered around the dusty floor.

Tipping his head up he takes a long look at him, it's apparent, even past the predatory nature of his stance he doesn't look to be moving in for a fight.

He still palms his knife.

Steve whirls around.

"Bucky." The name comes out dry and cracked, Steve's mouth feeling like the Sahara. This is what he came here for. To find him, talk to him, and now his tongue feels useless and heavy. Until he catches the glint of that knife.

He watches it, then looks at the Winter Soldier's face. He looks different than he did on the helicarrier, but not by much. His hair is still badly in need of a trim, not slicked back the way Bucky used to wear it. There's no spark in his eyes, no taunting smirk curling his lips. It's his friend's face and it's not, all at the same time. But he knows he remembers him. There's no Hydra to strap him down and take away his memories this time.

"Thank you," he says, when he finds his voice.

The words actually stop him in his tracks, and for a brief moment he actually looks a little lost. There was never any thanking him, because he was a tool, and one does not thank a hammer for driving in a nail-- the simply do. They do the work till they are no longer of use and then are disposed of and replaced. Which is simply what he expected to be, had resigned his life to being; the fist of Hydra.

He takes a step forward, leaning just a bit to the side, making his way around the chair, glinting like a knife. He didn't touch it, though the decision isn't entirely conscious, he's spent enough time strapped into it that he doesn't need to see what it feels like again; he already knows. The hand at his hip doesn't move, there's no slashing or dashing, instead he's just watching Steve. Staring like a predator who has simply accepted his cage.

"You came this far to thank me?" And he knows it isn't true, knows there's more here, because just looking at him brings back vague memories; but he won't be afraid of them, not now. If he needs to leave, he knows at least sixteen exits to this place and he's not afraid to have to make a way out.

Steve watches, unperturbed. He doesn't want to fight him, not any more, but he knows he can defend himself. And he trusts, hopelessly and completely, that Bucky won't make him have to.

"You saved my life," he shrugs. It's more than I could do for you. "I owed it to you."

He takes a careful step to the side, keeping himself just outside of striking range. He isn't holding his shield defensively. He won't, unless that knife is bearing down on him. "You once followed me into hell, Buck. You didn't have to. You could have gone home. You chose to follow me, to fight alongside me. Now I'm here to fight for you."

Steve seems so sure of himself, and it unsettles him, because he doesn't remember enough to be sure of anything. But that sincerity is there, in a way that makes everything all the more confusing. He had saved him, he couldn't deny that, had little slivers of Steve in his mind, in his memory-- but they didn't look the same, everything didn't line up quite right; but he had read, about himself, about Steve-- things he couldn't remember.

He can't understand holding this kind of importance in anyone's life, he existed simply to do a task; but there was more there, more with Steve, enough that the man followed him here to this ruined facility. He feels a little broken, but that's familiar, a feeling he knows.

"I'm not who you think I am, I'm not... him." Not anymore.

Steve watches him, trying to decipher what's going on behind his eyes. Once, he could read those eyes like a phone book; nothing was kept secret from him. But they've changed. Just like the rest of the man. It's the eyes, though, that have changed the most.

"You're always going to be my friend," Steve says. No matter what he says, no matter what they did to him. Bucky's been alive for the last 70 years, and Steve wasn't there for him. He can't just give up now. "I don't know what you've been told, but you're James Buchanan Barnes, and you're my best friend in the world."

The sensation that rolls through him is so painfully bitter he wants to laugh. He's a killer, a machine, a weapon-- those are titles he understands, can embrace, not being a best friend, not being important to someone; not like this. He's been followed so far, been offered a life he didn't take and he knows why. Knows it's the truth even if he can't remember it, and part of him desperately wants to, to be able to fill that gap but the rest doesn't know what will happen to who he is if he does. Bucky hasn't felt fear in forever, he doesn't know what to do with the sickness it causes.

"You're a fool." Maybe he intends to hurt with the words, he doesn't know, he just needs to push Steve away. Nothing is supposed to get under his vest, under his skin, but he's doing it with words and Bucky doesn't like it. He's trained to deflect these kinds of things.

"You know, I hear that a lot," Steve says. And maybe it's true. But he can see the way the words get to him; maybe he's mistaking Bucky's discomfort with progress, an opening, but he sees it and he isn't going to back down. "Tell you what, Buck. You ask the questions."

The vibranium hums as he drops his shield. He raises his hands to show Bucky he isn't armed, and shakes his head. "I told you before I didn't want to fight you. But I don't think you want to fight me either."

If he did, he wouldn't have hesitated this long. So maybe, just maybe, he does want to talk.

There's no missing the clang of metal on cement when the shield hits the flooring, a small roll giving before it settles and Bucky knows he shouldn't take his eyes off a mark, yet he watches it with a strange ghost to his expression. He's seen it before, he knows he has, but he doesn't know when or where. He's seen that tight, worn expression before, those blue eyes. Some things may have changed, but he knows he knows it, even if he doesn't know how.

His throat flexes under a swallow, trying to push down anything else that threatened to choke him with words he shouldn't be speaking. All of this was wrong, skewed in a way that made his head ache so painfully. Why would he do this, all of this?

"And if you're wrong?" But he still isn't attacking, which means Steve might be more right than he's ready to admit.

He chokes down the knee-jerk response he wants to give, I'm not wrong, and just stares at him with even blue eyes. Bucky would snort a laugh, punch his arm, and call him an arrogant punk for being so sure, but whatever they've done to him since the war has made him forget why that arrogant punk was his best friend. Steve feels, numbly, like he's standing on the catwalk of the helicarrier again, staring straight down the barrel at a friend he no longer knows how to predict.

He swallows, wets his lips, and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "I guess we'll find out." Win, lose, or draw, he isn't moving.

For a while they linger in some sort of unspoken stand off, Bucky watching Steve like he's ready for him to leap at any moment. He doesn't, however, and after a slow shift of his posture-- standing a little more upright, weight a little less balanced, his hand lifts from his hip. Blade twirled around his fingers before it's slid down into the pouch at his side; he wont drop it, he doesn't have enough trust to do that, but this is more than he would have given anyone else.

Evening his shoulders he glances past Steve, out the door, before back to him, his own approach slow but lacking any real fear.

"Stop following me." He offers, the words detached, cold, perhaps a little harsh. "You're going to die."

Somehow, the simple action of sheathing that knife makes Steve tense and relax simultaneously. He knows what to do in a fight, no matter how much he wants to avoid one. Now all he's left with are words, a desperate, "Bucky." And the silence of not knowing where to go from here.

He holds out his hand, bodily blocking the exit. "I thought I was as good as dead twice before now. The way I see it, I'd rather die doing something important than live forever knowing I let you down."

That arm jutting out in his path, blocking the exit, actually surprises him; enough that he stops and blinks a few times, as if trying to assess what to do next. There were so many unpredictable things about the person standing before him, the way he wouldn't fight, how he offered kindness that was not deserved-- whatever attachment he had to him, it was all so foreign and strange. Kindness hadn't been a friend of his for far longer than a man should admit.

"I don't know what you want from me." And that's the crux of the issue, because he doesn't feel as if he has anything to offer. He's a weapon more than he is a man, he isn't the person in those photographs, not anymore-- what use could Steve possibly have for something this broken?

He doesn't know how to answer. How is he supposed to tell him that he just wants him, Bucky, his best pal, one of the last things he still has from home in his life? He wants it all, Buck. He wants you to come home. How is he supposed to explain home?

"I just want you to listen," he says, shifting on the balls of his feet. "You and me grew up together. Maybe you think all you're good at is following orders, but I knew you back when you would save some skinny kid from being bullied for no good reason other than just because you could. You've saved my neck from more beatings than I can tell you, Buck. And when me and my mom, when we didn't have nothin', you and your family watched out for us. We watched out for each other."

He pauses, biting down on his lip. A little bit of Brooklyn is bleeding through in his voice. "You're my family. You're everything I've got. Even when I didn't have anything, you ... I just want you to come home. I want to be there for you, help you remember."

The words should bring something forward, something other than the hallow he felt in his chest and little slivers of things he couldn't understand-- but they don't. He can't piece these things together like Steve tells them to him, even if they are true-- he'd read about himself, but it didn't feel like he was that man, that there was any way he ever could have been. He didn't know why he felt a longing for so long, how broken he could really be when he stared at someone offering him such compassion and all he felt was a need to distance himself. He didn't know how to accept it all, even as he listened to Steve tell him things he should be starving to hear.

He wanted him as a man, as a human, not as a tool and Bucky didn't know if that would ever work. If he could ever be anything more than the footnote of history Steve knew him and and the murderer he was.

"I know you." He whispers, almost more to himself than Steve, feeling that surge of pain rush through him again; he struggled to remember, struggled with the idea that there was an entire life he knew nothing about waiting for him. "I know you."

Relief crashes down on him so hard he can actually see stars in his peripheral, but it's not just relief. It's regret, and heartache, and anger over how much time has been lost; it's joy that he's getting through to him, and the kind of sick feeling that comes with seeing someone you care so deeply about in such obvious turmoil.

Bucky, The Winter Soldier, could kill him if he let him. He could crush his throat with one angry snap of that metal hand; he could eviscerate him with the practiced flick of that knife he made sure Steve knew he was carrying. Steve understands the danger, but right now he doesn't care. He closes the distance between them, curling his hand around the back of Bucky's neck, cradling him as he whispers: "You've known me your whole life, you stupid punk."

And then he hugs him. Not so tight to scare him, but just firm enough that if Bucky tries he can sense the longing and the desperation in the embrace.

He doesn't return the gesture, not for a long moment, but ever so slowly his fingers flex, spread out and there's the cool of metal at Steve's back. The slow slide of the palm as he held him more than hugged him. He didn't know what to do with that kind of contact, with being so close to him physically-- so he just accepted it. Let whatever feelings it dragged up wallow in his gut as he held him there. It was affection he doesn't ever remember feeling, it's Steve being himself-- and he knows it even if he doesn't know how he knows it.

His whole life. It was such an abstract concept, because he remembered so little of it-- but this feeling, the way Steve pulled close, offered such comfort-- he knew it was right. In some strange way he knew it had happened before, that every word of it was true-- that the slighted words were nothing but affection.

He stews in silence, just rests in it before his eyes slip closed and he presses his face lightly into Steve's shoulder. "Yeah."

He can't feel the coolness of Bucky's hand through his layers, but a chill races up his spine anyway. He remembers how he'd sometimes have to get on his tiptoes so his face didn't crash into Bucky's shoulder when they hugged, but now their roles are almost reversed, and he can't really express what it feels like to have Bucky's head pressed against his shoulder.

Relief. Heartache. Regret. Anger. Joy. He lets himself breathe, maybe for the first time since he walked into this room, and smiles.

"Come home, Bucky. You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to stay. Just give me a chance to help you." His arms curl a little tighter. "Come home."

Home. He didn't know what that was, where it was, if it was even something he'd be able to really do for long. He doesn't know if he can come back to society in any sense, if he can be a person again as opposed to a killer; these are all things he can't figure out, but he knows staying here isn't going to give him any more answers. A puff of breath escapes as he feels the pressure of Steve's arms, the tight hold he has and all the meaning that comes with it. If nothing else perhaps home is with Steve-- he doesn't know right now, it's too soon to tell, but he's got no reason not to try.

So he nods, gives this much, because in the end he has no where to go-- nothing left but the little pieces he remembers and what he's read. Steve has answers, if nothing else, and right now he'll take what he can get...

Steve's mom always used this little phrase from when she was a girl, any time Steve looked intent or pensive or upset about something. She'd ask him if he had heavy boots.

Well, he has them now. And it isn't because he's sad, it's because that small nod from Bucky throws him straight into a role he hasn't played since his mom got really sick. The caregiver. Bucky is his responsibility now, and he owes it to him for all the years their roles were reversed. He took care of Steve when he needed it, now Steve is going to do the same for him. He's got heavy boots because he's so damn relieved, and so damn certain that he can't mess this up, won't mess this up. He's not going to lose him again.

He pulls back, clutching Bucky's shoulders; one clad in ratty fabric, the other unforgiving metal. "Yeah?" he says, because he needs to see in Bucky's eyes that he's okay with this. "Do you trust me, Buck?"

Choice in and of itself is such a strange thing; because he doesn't doubt for a moment he could turn away now, move back into the shadows and forget this-- that Steve would be hurt but in the end it would be for the best. Bucky wasn't the person Steve wanted to save, not anymore, and he didn't know if he ever could be. But he knew he would try, he was too stubborn, always stubborn, and Bucky could trust in that enduring quality if nothing else.

"Yeah." His lips press, a wet line, thoughtful if not a little absent. It's still strange to be called something, anything, more than the Asset more than just a soldier; he had a name, and someone knew that name.

Steve nods almost imperceptibly, clenching his jaw once, twice, three times, and then he allows himself to relax at last. It's a start. A good start.

"Good," he says, voice soft. "Because I'm with you till the end of the line."

From here on out, nothing's going to stand between them again. "Come on. Let's get out of here, if you're ready."

It's those words again, twisting something in his stomach that he doesn't know how to deal with. He's been hurt before, he's been broken plenty of times, but he's only ever pulled the pieces back together himself, did what he can to make it to the next day, the next fight. Now Steve is trying to help him and the weight doesn't feel as heavy, but it's stranger, frightening, because he can't just dive into another fight. He can't ignore the way being around him is like walking through ice water.

"There's nothing left here." He forces himself not to look back, to not linger on that chair, because just thinking about it lets him feel the burn on his skin, down his throat, the way everything convulsed and he struggled without really struggling.

Steve's hand slips to Bucky's jaw.

"There's nothing left of them anywhere," he rumbles, cradling his best friend's face. "I promise. No matter where they try to hide, no matter how deep underground they go, I'll find every last Hydra agent and destroy every last lab. No one's gonna put you in that chair again, Buck. I swear."

Steve desperately wants to protect him from that, but maybe he can even offer him something better. The both of them, working side-by-side the way they used to. Together, they'll make his captors pay for the last seventy years, once Bucky's back on his feet again.

It was hard for him to think HYDRA was gone, they had been his everything for so long that Bucky doesn't know how well he'll function in the absence. He's been doing decently, but mostly relishing in the idea of breaking the pieces of HYDRA he could find. Even the mention of the chair makes his lips press together, that little throb of an ache in his chest, but he doesn't want to mention it. He doesn't know if he likes Steve knowing about it, what had happened in that chair, the way the electricity had burned into his skin.

Leaning forward he let his forehead press against Steve's own, just staring up at him for a long second. There's something in him that finds a bit of peace he's been missing in staring at Steve.

"I believe you."

He lets out a slow breath, leaning into Bucky's touch. Part of him wants to close his eyes, pretend they're boys again and Bucky's just pulled him from a fight, salved his wounds, hugged him close and called him an idiot, but he keeps his eyes open. He holds Bucky's gaze until he can feel his eyes burn.

'You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?'

"It's you and me, Buck," he whispers. "Just like old times."

Well, not exactly like old times. They're both a little worse for the wear, but together Steve knows they can rebuild home. He shifts his weight, wrapping his arm around Bucky's shoulders like he's congratulating him on a good test score, but his smile is a little dim compared to what it used to be.

He stomps on the edge of his shield to send it up high enough for him to catch it with his free hand, and points them in the direction of the door. "I don't expect you to remember all at once, and that's OK. I just want to get to know you; the man I missed out on for the last 70 years."

Edited 2014-06-11 19:34 (UTC)

( ooc: I've stared at this tag forever ~~its so lovely, btw~~ but I'm not sure where to go from here so I was thinking, maybe a new thread. Skip forward a biiiiit? )

( ooc: Sure thing, that's fine by me! ^__^ I figured we were probably close to a fade or a wrap anyway. Let's hash out the details and pick up wherever you like. )

( ooc: Okay, I'm thinkinggggggg... maybe been home for a few days, but Bucky's avoiding Steve (kinda, watching him when he doesn't think Steve's looking) and basically trying to figure out who Steve is, and by proxy who he was to Steve, and more so... who he is to Steve now. )

( ooc: Guh, yes. That sounds good to me! Steve will be very conflicted about giving Bucky his space while wanting to hover. Do you want to set it up or shall I? New sub-thread, or fresh post? )

( ooc: I guess since you set this one up, I should, haha. /lazybum. That said, probably just a subthread unless you wanna take this to my musebox. I'm lazy and dont post in my own journal because i dont wanna organize it.

Is Steve gonna be living in his apartment for this or in Avengers Tower? )

( ooc: I'm pretty flexible about both these things. Musebox or subthread, either one. If you prefer I set something up, I can do the subthread, but if you have an idea we can move? Whichever!

I figured on going to his apartment, but wouldn't be opposed to Avengers Tower. You got a preference for the latter? )

The soft sound of footsteps echoes against the hardwood floor in the middle of the night. A constant thump, ticking away at the darkness like a metronome. The rest of the apartment was fairly silent, as to be expected when it had just slipped past 3AM. He didn't wander the entire place, just through the living room, winding around the table a few times, up the hall and then back. He isn't especially loud, either, but not the trained silent steps of a killer. He's just pacing, he's been pacing for maybe a half hour at this point. Around the apartment like a caged animal.

There might have been more space at the tower but Bucky is still recovering, still learning. He's been "back" for a few days now; though most of it he's spent avoiding Steve. Standing just out of sight, watching him. Every night so far he paces. Occasionally those footsteps will stop right outside the door to Steve's room, but he never says anything, never even knocks. Just silently waits for a few minutes before beginning to pace again. Like he'd been startled out of his own thoughts and resumed the pattern.

Maybe he wasn't ready for this yet.

Steve doesn't always get his solid eight hours anyway. His lifestyle keeps him away from anything resembling a routine, and sometimes there are dreams at night so bad that he wakes up feeling more tired than when he laid down. The serum helps keep him going, so nobody really knows about this but him.

Except now there's someone else in his apartment. Someone who should feel familiar, be comforting, but they're just starting on a long hard road to putting their lives back together. Tony's a little much when you're trying to get your head on straight, the Tower's a little too busy, but this... Steve doesn't want to push him. Bucky's been keeping his distance, hanging around the edges, watching. Steve's patient, and willing to give him all the space he needs. But he's usually awake when Bucky's footsteps stop outside his door, and on the nights when he isn't it jolts him out of sleep soon enough. He lays perfectly still and watches the shadow that slips under the crack, holding his breath, waiting and wondering if Bucky wants to talk, wants to come in and sleep beside him, or if he wants to finish his mission.

The footsteps move on, and Steve doesn't sleep for hours.

Tonight, for some reason, it's different. He's memorized the pattern, knowing just when the footfalls will stop in which room, how long he'll linger outside his door, where he'll turn when he's through. Steve pushes the covers back and gets out of bed, slips a t-shirt on, and leaves his room. He moves silently down the hall to the living room, shoulders tense just in case. He doesn't want to startle Bucky, so he makes sure not to avoid the loose flooring just outside the kitchen. It creaks, and Steve reaches over to turn on the light.

"You want some coffee?" he asks, like all of this is normal. "Since neither one of us is sleeping."

[OOC: I just have a lot of feelings about these threads and needed you both to know about it.]

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[PSL] Steve & Bucky, post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier

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OOC