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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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? )

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

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