Work Text:
September, 1936
Bucky is a Brooklyn kid. He loves his home, ain’t no place better in the whole wide world. But it’s not always the best place to be. He cringes at the coughs ringing out from the back room. It sounds like all the air in Steve’s small body is being squeezed out of him with every wheeze.
Frowning deep, Bucky turns to the window. Distant factory smaug and gas exhaust wafts in and under his nose. Usually the ocean breeze could swipe it away for the most part, but right now all it’s doing is adding it’s own blend of seaweed and fish. He shuts the window hard, arms bracketing himself against it as he sighs.
Steve’s always sick, but this is the first time he’s going through a serious period without his Ma and Bucky is trying his best. He always helped Mrs. Rogers care for him before, it’s just obvious to both of them it’s not the same without her.
Bucky thinks he could maybe leave this little home Steve’s mother left them. They just graduated high school and Steve still has only half the applications to art school filled out. They could find somewhere new. Start over.
Something in Bucky’s gut churns as he skims over The Brooklyn Daily Eagle he snatched from a trash basket on his way home from the docks. He really should be paying more attention to the world.
After The Great War, a lot of worldly names have slowly been popping up in the papers. Some fella named Hitler was on the cover of Time magazine a couple months back, but Bucky didn’t have the time to sit down and read it. It doesn’t feel right, though, and he doesn’t know why. Him with his Nazis. Bucky knows Steve lost his Pa to the war. If anything like that were to ever break out again... Bucky doesn’t know what he’d do. They’re over 18 now. Would there be another draft? What if he got called? What if Stevie got called? He might fight every bully in Brooklyn but to go to war? He wouldn’t make it. It’s an awful thought, he knows, but he can’t find reason against it. Bucky crumples the paper in his hand, tossing it aside as he rises to check on Steve. It wasn’t going to happen.
October, 1943
”Barnes, we only been here, what, four months? W’the hell you always got so much to write about. Who’s those letters to?”
“Ain’t none your fucking business, that’s who,” Bucky grins, as least as much as he can grin; lips dry and muscles stiff, dirt splattered and cracked over his face. They’re sat down for the night, backs to the muddy trench. Stray gunshots fire out less as the moon rises, and he uses what light he has to scribble along the words in his head.
The One-O-Seventh somewhere in Rosano. Can’t tell Stevie that, though. His letters are usually pretty vague about the fighting, focusing more on simple discomforts that he could jibe and banter on. Something that Steve could tease back about. And he does, taking his shots on Bucky’s high standards of cleanliness thanks to his sister. Not that Rebecca is very clean, but that the only way he could ever move around his home back in Brooklyn was manoeuvring through her mess. Of course that pushed Bucky to having an act for organization.
Steve is still a sap, though. Sure he’d mention a few of his own grievances, hinting at some gig he got working for a show? He doesn’t say much, but from what Bucky can tell he’s around a lot of broadway drama, tours and lights and all that. Must be working as a stage hand. But that’s about as much as Bucky gets. Steve doesn’t talk about being sick. About his head hurting or his knees aching. Won’t mention his asthma or if he’s making enough to buy food. Hell, Bucky doesn’t even know if he got kicked out of his own home yet. And worse, he doesn’t know if Steve would even tell him if he did. The only reason he know’s he’s still alive is because the punk sends him letters regularly.
His hand pauses, pencil lifted just off the page. It’s never a welcome thought, what he’d do if something happened to Steve while he was gone. Overseas, there’s nothing he can do. No way to help him aside from sending him his pay for serving. He feels a shiver run up his spine remembering that cool summer evening at the world expo. That could have been their last time together and Bucky could only manage a hug. A hug .
Bucky growls, half crumpling the paper against his head. He couldn’t say it. They never talked about it. But those things… those things he wanted to say. He didn’t. He isn’t suppose to. They can’t live that kind of life. Maybe if they had left like he pictured, went somewhere people wouldn’t look too hard, then… then, maybe. But they didn’t.
He sighs, scribbling some nonsense to finish it up and signing ‘Your pal’ along the bottom with a messy signature. His only condolence is that Steve is far on the other side of the globe, away from all this bullshit chaos called war. They couldn’t enlist him. He’s safe.
Date Unknown
There’s a part of him that wants to die. He knows he isn’t supposed to have this- this thought. His own thought. But he does, and it’s his, and he thrives on it.
He wants to die. That’s who he is. That’s all he knows, outside of HYDRA. And the thing is, it isn’t a loathing. It isn’t self-deprecation, a disgust of himself, or a hatred for his own being. No, it’s a rage , burning low but with an intensity that scorches the side of his brain. A fury for what he is doing .
He’s killed before, he knows. Doesn’t know who or why, but he know’s he’s taken a life in the past. Many lives. He feels it in the steady beat of his heart, the little sip of breath he takes before he holds it, taking the shot. How pulling the trigger feels more comforting than anything he can remember. But these missions, his targets. That’s when the alarm in his head starts ringing.
HYDRA. The name sounds the sirens out, blaring, but it doesn’t stay his finger. The shot is still perfect. He still makes it to the rendezvous point without missing a step. Because he know’s what happens if he does anything else.
He wonders if it’s the first time he’s felt this or if he’s always felt this way. If the thought will be gone the next time they wipe him or if they wiped it away before for it to come back. If it can be wiped away permanently if they caught on to how he feels... All he knows is he has it now, and that is who he is.
He wants to die. He is someone who would rather die than take someone’s life in the name of HYDRA. These people who hurt him while saying they help. These people who kill others with a certain profile, yet never with their own hands -- his , they use his. These people who won’t let him know who he is, who let him suffer this off-balance existance. These people who won’t let him go home, wherever it is, was, or could be.
If he could get away, if he could somehow leave the person... the weapon he is now, he wonders what he’d do. He can’t fathom it, simply because he cannot imagine anything other than his training. It’s all he knows. It’s all he remembers.
But if he could… If he did get away, he’d run and never look back. He could find a small little hole to hide in. Lay low for the rest of his life, never speak to another person again if he had to. He could do it, because right now he knows he wants to die.
But his handlers have already grown wary of him and his teeth are settling around the mouth guard as he braces himself, again. When the metal slips over his head, he think’s he’ll never get away.
Present Day
Bucky wakes up with a yawn already passing his lips. He stretches wide, blinking a few times as his bleary vision focused in on the cheeky smile shining down on him.
“...That’s a real stupid look you got on your face, there, Stevie,” he huffs, the corner of his mouth tugging up to flash his teeth.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” Steve laughs, leaning down to kiss the smile off his lips. “Breakfast is ready. Hungry?”
Bucky hums, leaning forward when he stops, a strange weight to his head.
“God dammit- Natalia!” Bucky curses, shaking out the dozens of hair clips pinned to his head, a messy bun he didn’t fall asleep in flopping left and right. “I swear, sometimes I miss when I was the stealthiest person in the room,” he mutters as he counts the clips in his hand. “27? Seriously?”
“The only time you were the stealthiest person in the room was when we were kids. My asthma had me wheezing everywhere and my lousy eyesight left me bumping into everything, day or night. And there are 28. You missed one,” Steve points, a twist to his lips as Bucky begrudgingly combs his fingers through his hair. “It was fun watching her put them all in, it’s her new high score. Clint picked out the ones with purple flowers. I chose the ones with stars. Tony picked polka dots. Banner picked the yellow ones. It was great teamwork. You should join us when we get Thor later.”
“You were all watching? How the hell did I not wake up?”
“You snore. Loud. If you can’t wake yourself up, nothing will.” Bucky shoves him, watching the grin split the blond’s face. “It’s ok, Buck, I love your snoring. ‘S cute,” he gleams, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Now come on, you know Nat owns up to her pranks. She promised you could spar with her after breakfast. Said she might even let you win this time.”
“Oh, it’s on.” Steve moves to go serve their plates when Bucky pulls him back onto the bed, locking them chest to chest in seconds. “Hold on, now. You were apart of it, too.” Their noses touch, Steve watching him under golden lashes. “How’re you gonna make it up to me?”
Steve mocks consideration for a second, eyes searching the ceiling for an answer. “I can go pick us up some dinner from that Romanian restaurant you loved. I’d be back before-”
“You are not flying half-way across the world to actual Romania and leaving me here.”
“So I could go if you come with?”
“Duh. That’s how it’s always worked.” Steve jumps forward with a kiss and Bucky feels as light as air, a sudden rush of warmth filling his chest. For a moment, he’s a teenager again and Steve is sending a wild swarm of butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Then Steve pulls away, eyes peaking open to see a very flushed sergeant.
“How’d I get so lucky?” he whispers against Bucky’s lips and Bucky turns redder than red, cheeks blazing heat.
“Dammit, punk. You can’t just say cheesy shit like that out loud,” he pouts, turning away, but Steve catches him in his arms.
“You love it.”
“No, I don’t. It’s embarrassing for everyone in the immediate proximity.”
“It’s just us here right now. Plus it’s fun.”
“It’s not fun.”
“It’s fun because you’re so cute.”
“What the fuck did I just say?”
Steve bellows out a laugh, shaking both of them as his body jerks in delight. “Oh, man,” he says between breaths. “I love you so much.”
Bucky’s glare sits upon his flaming cheeks for a moment, and suddenly he’s hauling Steve by the hand out of their bedroom and down the hall, past the kitchen.
“Where are we going?” he grins, hopping forward a few quick paces so they’re walking side by side, hands less forceful and settling comfortably intertwined.
“Romania. You’re buying me lunch.”
“But we haven’t eaten breakfast.”
“Tell the team they can have it. There’s more than enough and you know how much they like your cooking.”
“They’re gonna think it’s a trap for the hair clip thing.”
“Good. Then they won’t see me coming when I actually get them back later.” Steve knocks his shoulder against Bucky’s as they make their way to the Quinjets. “Oh, and…” Steve looks at him expectantly. “I love you, too.”