Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1654481.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Captain_America_-_All_Media_Types, Captain
      America_(Movies), The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies), The_Avengers_(Marvel)_-
      All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes_&_Steve_Rogers,
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Original_Male_Character(s), Steve_Rogers/Original
      Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers, Original_Characters, Peggy_Carter,
      Sam_Wilson_(Marvel), Natasha_Romanov
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Minor_Character_Death, Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Alternate
      Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe, Period-Typical_Racism,
      Racism, Period-Typical_Homophobia, Homophobia, Demisexuality, (kind_of),
      Victim_Blaming, Bullying, Reform_School, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-
      PTSD, Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, Reunions, Historical_Accuracy,
      (hopefully), Brainwashing, Slight_Codependency, Up_all_night_to_get
      Bucky, Racist_Language, Torture
  Series:
      Part 1 of A_Century_of_Sleep
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-18 Completed: 2014-07-22 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 71531
****** A Century of Sleep, Vexed to Nightmare ******
by Firefly_Ca
Summary
     Once, when they’re talking about his work with the V.A., Sam mentions
     that bad memories have a way of burrowing themselves deep down inside
     a person’s mind, waiting for an unguarded moment to push their way
     back to the surface. At the time, Steve couldn't help but think it
     was unfair, that the worst moments of your life are the ones that
     never leave you. But memories are apparently complicated, especially
     when they get tangled together with emotion. Sometimes the memories
     that cause the most pain come hand-in-hand with the key to putting
     yourself back together.
     (A.K.A. AU where Steve and Bucky meet in a reform school, bad things
     happen, things get better, then worse, time passes, angst again, and
     finally violence of the intensely satisfying variety.)
Notes
     READ THIS FIRST!!!
      
      
      
      
     I'm sorry. First of all, this story starts out SO MUCH darker than
     what I was intending, or at least, it's darker in a way I wasn't
     anticipating. (If you haven't done so, READ THE WARNINGS IN THOSE
     TAGS, PLEASE.) The first two chapters especially are pretty rough,
     and there's not much in the way of happy moments to offset the bad
     stuff. The second half (which is still a few chapters away) should be
     an improvement in that regard. It will definitely be following the
     plot of the CA:TWS, so fingers crossed Sam and Nat can make things a
     lot less bleak once they arrive. (SPOILER: There will still be angst.
     Seriously. Just look at these boys.)
     Also concerning the first half of this fic: I really wish I wasn't
     posting another story that features sexual abuse in any capacity. I
     mean, if you find you frequently write stories with rape in them,
     that's fine, but for myself, after a while I kind of feel like the
     V.C. Andrews of fanfiction, but with rape instead of incest. However,
     I also based the first part of this story on reform schools, and I
     decided to go for historical accuracy wherever possible. As it turns
     out, historically reform schools have reputations similar to
     indigenous boarding schools, private orphanages, and many of the
     shadier boarding schools. That pretty much means that sexual abuse
     and rape was a part of life for a lot of these kids. I tried taking
     that aspect of the story out, but it felt like lying to not include
     it, and I didn't want to write off the experiences of real children.
     I will admit, I toned down a lot of the abuse considerably from the
     various accounts I found. (Yeah. I know.) So you're welcome. I guess.
     Another thing I found unexpectedly upsetting to write is the period-
     typical homophobia and racism. It's probably good to know heading
     into this story that even Steve and Bucky can get a little racist and
     homophobic at times. I tried to do justice to them but sometimes they
     literally did not have the proper language available to not be a
     little offensive. Bucky's perspective is quite problematic in the
     first few chapters, due to some detrimental coping mechanisms and
     survivor's guilt, so be aware of that. So far as the less-than-
     admirable characters are concerned: they are horrible, horrible
     people. I do not condone any of their words or actions. Feel free to
     imagine kicking them every time they make an appearance. I know I
     did.
     (Many thank yous forever to everyone who has been encouraging me to
     keep writing this when I post panicked "WHY AM I DOING THIS TO
     THEM??" posts, and to my super-helpful beta MomentsOfWeakness.)
***** Century of Sleep, Part One *****
 
 
 
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-          “The Second Coming,” William Butler Yeats
 
***
 
James Buchanan Barnes meets his best friend one cold February morning in 1929.
He is ten years old, and he is in trouble. Now that the shouting and the strap
are over with, the easy part of the punishment has arrived, if you consider
pushing an ancient, back-breakingly heavy mop around a mud room easy. James
does not, but his backside still stings, and he really doesn’t want to get hit
again, so he keeps his head down and throws all of his weight into pushing the
mop, feeling equal parts triumphant and frustrated when it scoots across the
floor a few inches.
 
He looks up for a moment when the door opens and a nun, of all things, walks in
pulling off her coat and turning impatiently behind her, saying,
 
“Come on, come on. Don’t take all day.”
 
A very small boy trails in behind her, who looks like he’s about seven years
old. His eyes are watery and his blond hair lies lank and flat against his
head. There’s a flush of red on two high points in his cheeks and James can
hear his chest rattle with every breath he takes. He’s scrawnier than anyone
James has ever seen before, and he doesn’t look very happy. James would say
he’s the saddest looking kid he’s ever seen, but he doesn’t see many happy ones
to compare him to. No, this kid looks about on par with all the other boys at
this school. No one is ever happy to be sent to the Barry School for Boys; as a
rule, people aren’t happy to find out they’re a lost cause. It’s been a while
since James has seen a nun bring a boy in though.
 
His curiosity is effectively quelled when he sees the mud they’ve left on his
once clean floor, but it’s ignited again when Mr. Snyder, the principal,
notices him half an hour later.
 
“Barnes,” He calls, interrupting James’s trek to the back stoop to empty the
now dirty bucket of mop water. “In here, now.”
 
James is worried that he’s in trouble for something yet again, and he wasn’t
even trying this time, but he squares his shoulders and marches into the
office. He doesn’t ever let anyone see him scared. Besides, Mr. Snyder only
ever pays attention to you if you act guilty. If you act like you’ve been
behaving yourself, you’re probably going to be fine.
 
“ – ought to be a lovely child,” the nun is saying as he slips inside and
closes the door behind him. “He’s so respectful and polite to the sisters. But
the fightshe gets into.”
 
She’s gesturing emphatically with a hand full of paperwork at the little boy,
who is staring hard at the floor, acting like he wishes it would open up and
swallow him.
 
“He causes enough of a drain on our resources as it is, he’s such a sickly
little thing. We can’t afford to be patching him up all the time, too.”
 
“Not to worry, Sister,” Mr. Snyder says confidently. “We’ll get the boy
straightened out. We may make a model citizen out of him yet.”
 
He looks up and sees James.
 
“Barnes,” He says. “This is Steven Rogers, from the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage
in Brownsville. He’s going to be going to school here, and he’s in your grade,
so I want you to take him and show him around. Does that dorm room of yours
still have the empty cot?”
 
“Yessir,” James says, dutifully, although he has no idea. Steven will be
staying there if there’s room to spare or not, so it doesn’t really matter.
 
“Good,” says Mr. Snyder. “Get moving, then.”
 
James rushes back to the door, because the nun is making him a little nervous,
like she’s hiding damnation under her habit or something. He glances over his
shoulder, once, to make sure Steven is trudging obediently behind him, but he
doesn’t say anything until they’re hauling Steven’s bag up the stairs.
 
“You don’t look like you’re ten,” is the first thing James says to him. “You
have to be ten to come here.”
 
“I’m eleven,” comes the quiet answer.
 
“Are not,” James scoffs, and he backs up a little when Steven’s flushed and
angry face whips up and is suddenly glaring at him full on.
 
“Am too,” he snaps. “Are you gonna make fun of me? Get on with it, then. I know
I look like a baby.”
 
“No, not a baby,” James says, trying to sound at least a little soothing. “Just
like a kid. But I guess it’s not your fault if you’re a shrimp.”
 
“You’re a jerk,” Steven mutters.
 
“I’m trying to be nice,” James protests. “It’s not my fault they stuck you in a
reform school. You don’t have to take it out on me if the nuns didn’t want
you.”
 
Steven is quiet for a long moment but finally he says, “Sorry,” in a really
small voice and he’s looking at his feet again and his eyes are too bright, so
James reaches out to pat him awkwardly on the arm. He’s not exactly what you
could call a kind person. He never goes out of his way to make people like him,
but something about Steven makes him want to help. When Steven looks sad, it
makes James feel sad, and James has never been much for asking why, he’s just
interested in doing what feels good. Right now, that means making Steven feel
good about being here.
 
“It’s not so bad, I promise,” James says, and he means it. “Mr. Snyder doesn’t
really care much about what we do, so long as we don’t do anything bad enough
to make the papers. No one here is really that bad anyhow. We’re just a little
different.”
 
“Really?” Steven asks, looking up at him with his swimming eyes, and now that
James is holding his gaze, he can see the fear and hope there alongside the
anger and hurt.
 
“Really,” he promises, conveniently forgetting the rumours about how Jack
Preston was sent here for trying to kill his baby brother with a pillow. “Even
the teachers aren’t that tough. I mean, they’ll lay into you with a ruler if
you give them any lip, and they’ll give you extra chores if you get in a fight
or break a rule, but that’s about it. Just stick with me. I’ll take care of
you.”
 
***
 
Steven, James learns early, is veryhard to take care of.
 
***
 
“Steve, you gotta let people start standing up for themselves,” James
chastises, as he delicately dabs at the cut on Steven’s face with a wet
washcloth. “You can’t fight people’s battles for them.”
 
Steve squirms uncomfortably on the hard hamper lid, trying to land on a spot
that isn’t stinging and sore. James understands and smiles sympathetically at
him. Steven doesn’t notice.
 
“Arnie’s never gonna stand up for anything though,” he says, stubbornly. “He’s
too worried that stupid board of trustees’ll keep him here forever if he steps
out of line. Someone’s gotta look after him.”
 
Steve has only been here for about six months, but already this has become a
familiar argument. James never would have believed that someone as weak as
Steve could be so scrappy, but he probably gets into more fights than any other
kid there. It’s not because he’s a bully, or even that the other boys pick on
him, it’s because Steve will fight on other people’s behalf at the drop of a
hat, without anyone ever asking him to. He never gets into a fight on his own
behalf, but the second anyone starts to make fun of someone for being
different, the gloves come off. Jack Preston usually sees the worst of it,
either because he just won’t learn, or because he thinks making Steve angry is
hilarious.
 
To be honest, James can imagine that the first few times you get attacked by
the tiny unrelenting ball of rage that is Steve Rogers, it would be pretty
hilarious. But Angry Steve can inflict an impressive amount of damage (even
though he always gets the worst of it), and after getting caught by his right
hook a few times, James thinks the joke would have to wear a little thin.
Preston just doesn’t let up though, and even starts taunting Steve directly
once he notices how much his haphazard bullying gets Steve worked up. The more
James is left to patch him up afterwards the more he understands why the nuns
all despaired of him.
 
“Someone’s gotta look after you,” James insists. Steve only grins at him.
 
“You look after me,” he says. “See? It all works out.”
 
James slumps over in dramatic defeat. Steve punches him good-naturedly on the
shoulder.
 
“Buck up, Barnes,” he jokes. “No matter what Arnold thinks, we’re gonna be here
for a long time. Can’t have you giving up on me already.”
 
“Buck up, huh?” James repeats, laughing. “You know my middle name’s Buchanan?”
 
Steve laughs, because they’ve just been memorizing the presidents in History,
and threatens to start calling him Old Buck or Ten-Cent Jimmy. In the end
though, the nickname that sticks is Bucky.
 
***
 
Mr. Snyder has a heart attack when Steve and Bucky are in the 7th grade. Mrs.
Wagner, the nice secretary who acts like everyone’s mother and always give the
boys hugs when she runs into them on her way into the school, finds him lying
on the floor of his office. Bucky doesn’t really care much one way or the
other. Mr. Snyder has never cared about Bucky, he knows, and in the end the man
was just one more adult to lecture him about the dangerous path he was walking
on, and to extoll the virtues of a “good life.” Bucky knows a line when he
hears one, and in the end that’s all Mr. Snyder had to offer him: meaningless
talk. But Steve seems pretty upset by the whole thing.
 
“He was only ever trying to help us,” he says. “Now he’s gone.”
 
“He was only ever trying to make a living,” Bucky corrects, quietly so none of
the teachers will overhear him. “I promise you, that guy could barely remember
our names. I’m not gonna miss him now that he’s gone.”
 
Steve gives him a pained look, like he always does when Bucky says something he
disagrees with. Bucky just grins at him and reaches out to ruffle his hair,
which causes Steve to begin frowning in earnest and slap Bucky away with both
hands. When Mr. Stoller catches them they’re each given a week’s worth of KP
duty and a hiding that makes Bucky’s rear end throb, for “roughhousing.” Bucky
complains until Steve loses his patience and slaps him in the face with a dirty
rag. When Mr. Stoller breaks them up a second time they end up with a month’s
worth of KP and sitting through classes the next day is a new kind of agony,
but Bucky can’t stop thinking about how loudly Steve was laughing, and
privately thinks it was worth it.
 
***
 
Mr. Douglas seems a lot like Mr. Snyder when he first arrives. He doesn’t pay
much attention to any of the boys, and only is really half-interested in
disciplining them when they’re marched into his office. Steve doesn’t like him
at all, and keeps saying he wishes Mr. Snyder was still there.
 
“They’re practically identical,” Bucky protests. “Mr. Douglas is thin and Mr.
Snyder was fat but that’s the only way they’re different. I think you’re a
little off in the head, Steve.”
 
Steve, however, is adamant.
 
“The teachers don’t like him,” he insists. “They don’t like him, and they don’t
trust him. Watch how they stare at him sometimes. There’s something wrong.”
 
As much as Bucky would like to laugh off Steve’s paranoia, when he pays any
sort of attention at all, he has to admit something’s strange.
 
It’s not that the other teachers ever say anything bad about Mr. Douglas. To
his face they are the pictures of polite professionalism. But there’s something
in the tense way Mr. Sullivan holds himself when the new principal is in the
room, and in the way Mr. Bradley is forever frowning when Mr. Douglas
interrupts classes to ask for a favour. It’s nothing Mr. Snyder wasn’t guilty
of, but it’s almost as though the teachers know something about the new
principal that the boys don’t.
 
It’s when Mr. Douglas hires a vice principal that the teachers finally start to
disappear. Not in a creepy, Al Capone way, but leaving all the same. Bucky
often wonders why Mr. Douglas hired Mr. Atherton, who is a lot like Jack
Preston on a bad day. He seems to make a game out of targeting the weak
students and hurting them; scaring the youngest boys until they cry, and
whipping the older ones at the slightest provocation – sometimes when they
haven’t even done anything at all. But what is irritating in someone your own
age is downright intimidating in an adult who’s been given the authority to
punish you. He throws the students and teachers both off-balance, but the
teachers at least aren’t locked up in the building every night.
 
Mr. Bradley actually quits in the middle of a lesson, when Mr. Atherton
interrupts, insisting that Alexander Kenny go to the principal’s office
immediately, on Mr. Douglas’s orders. According to the boys in class, Mr.
Bradley just handed Mr. Atherton a piece of paper, said goodbye to his class,
and walked out the door. Steve tells Bucky later that he caught a glimpse of
the paper and that it was a resignation letter. Mr. Sullivan is actually fired,
but no one knows why.
 
It’s a little frightening, because jobs aren’t easy to find right now, and even
Bucky had liked Mr. Sullivan, who hardly ever whipped students at all, even
when they deserved it. He wonders what all his old teachers will do now that
they’re out of work. Meanwhile the retreating teachers are replaced with men
who are just as hard and unforgiving as Mr. Atherton. Before long, grumpy,
fussy Mr. Stoller is the only member of the old faculty left.
 
***
 
Some days Steve is too sick to go outside for the scheduled yard work and
chores, so Mrs. Wagner arranges for him to come inside and help her with the
filing and paperwork. Since Steve is such a smart kid, he takes to it like a
duck to water and before too long, Mrs. Wagner is arranging for him to do
office work more than he does regular chores. At first the other boys grumble
about it, and Bucky is worried that they’ll get Steve into trouble. It wouldn’t
be Steve’s fault, but the new teachers almost seem like they look for reasons
to punish people. Whippings happen a lot more now, and for a lot of new
reasons. Steve insists some of the teachers make the rules up as they go.
 
Ultimately it’s Steve’s quiet complaints about the new teachers that get the
other boys to stop fussing about his new job, because the longer Steve stays in
the office the more convincing his accusations get. Apparently, Steve’s new
responsibilities come with healthy doses of information, and Steve is not the
kind of kid to withhold information to gain the upper hand. The closest he ever
gets to holding what he knows over someone’s head is when he sees someone
(Preston) being a bully and point blank refuses to keep talking until that
person (Preston) knocks it off. 
 
It doesn’t take long for Steve to sort out that all of the new teachers have
been hand-picked by Mr. Douglas, and that their paperwork shows they’ve all
worked at the same places as Mr. Douglas in the past, like they follow him from
place to place. They also show that most of the new teachers have been fired
more than a few times for inappropriate behavior.
 
“He’s just hiring all of his friends!” Steve hisses to a small group. “And none
of them can get work anywhere else because they’re too mean to keep jobs where
they get to be in charge of normal kids.”
 
Steve’s vocal and insistent hatred of the new faculty is worrying to Bucky, who
has enough trouble keeping the damned kid in line and out of trouble on a good
day. Still, he doesn’t really see the writing on the wall until the day Mr.
Eckert actually hauls Peter Carlson out to the shed behind the school in the
middle of class and whips him until he bleeds. The other boys gather at the
window and watch with horrified expressions as Mr. Stoller tentatively
approaches the shed at the commotion and calls out to Mr. Eckert uncertainly.
As soon as Mr. Eckert has stormed out and starts to head back to the main
building, shouting incoherently over his shoulder about cotton and “stupid
little jigaboos who don’t know their place” the boys scramble back into their
seats so they won’t be caught staring. Steve stays at the window the longest,
something dark and angry raging behind his eyes, watching Mr. Stoller
reluctantly help a crying Peter hobble towards the dorms. Mr. Atherton gets mad
at Mr. Eckert and tells him off in the hallway, but not for hurting Peter.
 
“We’re inner city here, Martin, and the fence only keeps the kids on the
inside, not the noises they make. You don’t go airing the dirty laundry out
where anyone can overhear you, you understand? There’s a perfectly good
basement in this building, use that.”
 
“They’re all just a bunch of bullies,” Bucky hears Steve mutter as they watch
Mr. Atherton walk away, and his stomach drops down into his boots, because he
knowshow Steve deals with bullies, and now he also knows how this school will
be dealing with difficult students. Somehow Bucky doesn’t think considerations
will be made for Steve’s fragile health. It’s not the first time Bucky’s been
afraid that Steve will die and leave him before they’ve had a chance to grow up
together, but it’s the first time he’s realized that it might be something
other than sickness that makes it happen.
 
***
 
One morning, a few months after Mr. Douglas arrives, Bucky can’t get the
normally punctual Steve out of bed with the wake-up call. Steve has been
getting sicker and sicker with the latest bout of illness going through the
school, so Bucky has a second of heart stopping terror before he reassures
himself that Steve is still breathing, wheezing painfully like he can’t get
enough air.
 
“You okay, Steve?” He asks gently, shaking Steve’s shoulder. “Do you need help
getting to breakfast?”
 
Steve only moans pitifully in his sleep. His face is flushed bright red, and
there’s a grimace on his face as though the threadbare sheet covering him is
somehow causing him pain. Bucky makes a face of resignation and carefully slips
his arm around Steve’s shoulders as he tries to haul his friend up into a
sitting position. The old faculty might have put up with Steve being too sick
to move, but ever since Mr. Atherton told Steve he could breathe if he really
wanted to and tried to beat Steve out of an asthma attack, Bucky tries not to
risk drawing any undue attention towards them. And now there’s the added
problem of the boiler room, where more and more kids have been getting dragged
to since the incident with Peter Carlson, instead of getting their backsides
tanned in front of the class.
 
At one time, Bucky may have thought it was better to face punishment in private
than be humiliated in front of an entire room full of his classmates, but that
was before he got sent to the boiler room himself, for finishing a fight that
Steve started. Rulers don’t just whip the backs of your thighs down there but
land up and down your whole body, front and back; hands close into fists on
more than one occasion. When you’re really bad, they unscrew the lone light
bulb in the room and take it with them before sending for Mr. Hodgson, the only
person besides Mr. Douglas and Mr. Atherton to carry his own complete set of
keys. After you’ve been locked in alone and in the dark, to “think about what
you’ve done,” the rats start to come out of the corners and there’s nothing you
can do to get away until the door opens again. Bucky works very hard to keep
both himself and Steve as far away from the basement as possible.
 
This morning, though, as soon as Steve is in a sitting position, his eyes fly
open and he lets out a wail of distress, arms jerkily going to wrap around his
stomach as he hunches over. He’s very, very hot, and Bucky notices a strange
rash just starting on his arms. Steve sits there shuddering for a moment before
Bucky reluctantly lowers him back to the bed. He sits next to him quietly,
knowing he’ll be punished, but unwilling to let them hurt Steve without trying
to stop it, either.
 
***
 
They do admit that Steve is sick in the end, but only after they’ve given Bucky
a black eye and shoved him across the room to yank the sheets off of Steve and
force him to stand. Steve yelps loudly and falls over in a heap, looking like
he’s trying hard not to cry.
 
“Now what the hell do you think he’s gotten into to cause that?” Mr. Hodgson
wonders aloud as he stares at Steve’s abnormally oversized and deformed ankles.
 
“It’s just a cold,” Mr. Douglas says, dismissively. “Let him sleep through the
worst of it. It won’t kill him to miss a few meals.”
 
***
 
Steve doesn’t get any better. Bucky tries to sneak food up to him and sit with
him whenever he can, but nothing much changes, and the fever and rash both keep
getting worse. On the second day, Steve won’t respond to any prodding at all
and Bucky is so, so scared that he’ll die, but that’s about when Mrs. Wagner
walks into the dorm with a determined step and false cheerfulness in her voice.
 
“They just told me Steven won’t be helping me for a second day in a row. It’s
not like him to be truant, so I wanted to make sure he was alright.”
 
“I’m taking care of him,” Bucky says, stubbornly. Mrs. Wagner smiles absently
at him, but the usually indulgent expression is stretched thin as she gingerly
picks up Steve’s arm and examines it. The rash has gotten worse by now, and the
swelling in his joints seems to be spreading to his elbows and wrists.
 
Mrs. Wagner disappears into Mr. Douglas’s office and from what Bucky can tell,
she doesn’t leave all morning. Once Bucky walks past and hears her say
something about “rheumatic fever” and “aspirin” in a loud voice, but she
doesn’t seem to be able to get through to the principal, because right about
when the bell rings, Bucky sees her storm out and grab her coat and hat. She
calls out over her shoulder that she’s taking a long lunch when she goes, and
comes back a little over an hour and a half later with a doctor in tow. Mr.
Douglas is almost purple with rage, but he doesn’t stop the doctor from looking
over Steve. Bucky hears him mutter something about roughhousing when the doctor
asks about some of Steve’s bruises. When the doctor looks uncertain, Mr.
Douglas sighs slightly and says,
 
“These aren’t normal boys, Doctor. They live hard; injuries are hardly
uncommon.”
 
“If you ever need me to come in and look after any of those injuries, I would
be happy to offer my services,” The doctor says. “In the meantime, I’m going to
leave you with some aspirin, and some instructions on how to keep him hydrated.
It’s good that you sent Mrs. Wagner for me. Rheumatic fever can have deadly
consequences if it’s not properly monitored.”
 
Mr. Douglas thanks the Doctor politely for his time and carefully listens to
the rules that are laid out. Bucky listens too, from the doorway, because he
knows that no one here has any intention of helping Steve except for him and
Mrs. Wagner, and anyhow, Steve is hisresponsibility. If he can’t charm the
cooks into making up a little broth for Steve at meal time, he doesn’t deserve
the title of best friend.
 
Mrs. Wagner brushes the hair out of Steve’s face fondly before she leaves the
room, after the doctor and Mr. Douglas have gone. She spots Bucky skulking as
she walks past, too, and stops to give him an unexpected but warm hug.
 
“You keep looking after him,” she whispers.
 
Bucky nods solemnly, and Mrs. Wagner calmly walks back the front office and her
desk. Later Elmer Schulz will swear that he saw her start packing her things
the second she walked in, and that Mr. Douglas barely got a chance to properly
fire her for insubordination before she’s walking out the front door.
 
***
 
Mr. Douglas calls Bucky into his office one day in the summer while the other
boys are out doing chores. All of the good teachers are gone by now, and even
most of the ‘just okay’ ones. Mrs. Wagner has been gone for months, and when
Preston unsuccessfully made a run for it a few weeks ago, he was whipped so
hard he couldn’t get out of bed for a week and a half. Things seem about as bad
as they can possibly get, but Bucky knows deep down that they can always get
worse.
 
Mr. Douglas still doesn’t pay much attention to the students, isn’t interested
in hitting them or shoving them around like most of the other teachers are, but
that doesn’t mean Bucky trusts him. Mr. Douglas likes people based on what they
can do for him, which is why he doesn’t have much use for a bunch of delinquent
boys, and why he prefers to let the school run itself. Bucky has no idea what
he’s doing in the man’s office.
 
When Mr. Douglas raises an arm and gestures for him to come around to his side
of the desk with a carefully manufactured smile, Bucky starts to get the
picture. He feels like he’s walking into a tiger cage at the zoo, but he does
as he’s told anyhow. Steve is just on the other side of the door, diligently
filing like he always does, helping the school justify not hiring a full-time
replacement secretary. Bucky wants to walk the other direction, back to where
he knows he’s safe, just in case, but Bucky isn’t brave like Steve is. Bucky’s
never been good dealing with rights and wrongs, because he gets scared, and
then noble ideas like justice get clouded over with the need to survive and get
by. Sometimes it’s so much safer to do what you’re told and play the game, even
when the game isn’t safe either.
 
“Good boy,” Mr. Douglas says, when Bucky slowly comes to a halt next to his
chair.  He slides back a little and turns so he’s facing Bucky, his hand
reaching out and patting Bucky amicably just above his hip bone. “Tell me
James, how long have you been at this school now?”
 
“Long time,” Bucky mutters, then adds “A few years” when Mr. Douglas raises an
unimpressed eyebrow at the first answer.
 
“Would you like to leave one day?” Mr. Douglas asks, seriously.
 
Bucky nods.
 
“That’s a good answer,” says Mr. Douglas, taking hold of the top of Bucky’s
pants like they’re a harness and guiding him closer to him. He lets the hand
slide round to the back of Bucky’s waist as he indicates to Bucky’s file
sitting on top of the desk. “But I’m a little worried that you don’t mean it.
You get into a lot of fights, James.”
 
“I finish a lot of fights,” Bucky corrects, automatically. He can feel Mr.
Douglas’s hand still resting on the top of his pants. “I don’t start them.”
 
“You spend your time fraternizing with students who are known to be excessively
violent and a danger to others,” Mr. Douglas says as Bucky forces down a
hysterical laugh, like Steve could ever be considered dangerous. “I want to see
you succeed in life, James. I really do want to see you get out of this place
and maybe see you make your own way in the world. But how can I give the board
of trustees the go-ahead to let you back out into society when you aren’t
taking your future seriously?”
 
The hand is starting to dip down into the back of his pants now. Bucky has to
lock his knees to keep from squirming away.
 
“I’m sorry,” he says, saying the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt
to distract himself from what Mr. Douglas is pretending isn’t happening. “I’ll
try harder. I’ll be better.”
 
“Good boy,” Mr. Douglas repeats, softly. “If you’re serious, this is a very big
step for you. This school only has your best interests at heart.”
 
Mr. Douglas’s free hand reaches forward to undo the front of Bucky’s trousers
while the second hand works itself into the back of Bucky’s pants entirely,
even past his underwear. Bucky can’t stop himself from trying to pull away this
time, but there’s nowhere he can move that won’t push himself further into Mr.
Douglas’s hands and no one else has ever, ever touched him in these places and
he’s so uncomfortable and suddenly it feels like he’s having trouble breathing.
 
“Please stop,” he whispers, and just saying those words is so hard that his
eyes are brimming over with tears. Mr. Douglas shushes him, but he doesn’t stop
touching and this is it, Bucky realizes. This is really going to happen.
 
Which is about when the door to the office swings open wide. Mr. Douglas
snatches his hands back, nowhere near quickly enough, and Bucky suddenly wants
to start crying for real, because Steve is standing on the other side of the
door with a stony expression on his face.
 
“What’s going on?” He asks, quietly.
 
“Nothing that concerns you,” Mr. Douglas says calmly, hands folded on the desk
like they just weren’t caught all over Bucky. Like Steve can’t see Bucky’s
pants hanging open and barely seated on his hips.
 
Steve crosses his arms, and Bucky has no idea how a kid that tiny can look so
menacing.
 
“I feel a little concerned,” he says.
 
“Rogers,” Mr. Douglas says, using his Teacher Voice. “Out. Now.”
 
“I’ll leave when Bucky leaves with me,” Steve says, not wavering for a second.
“Elmer Schulz somehow broke his hand yesterday afternoon, so I told Miss Matson
we’d help take over his KP duty today.”
 
When no one moves or speaks for a few moments, Steve walks behind the desk and
over to Bucky like it’s nothing. He goes to take Bucky’s hand, but since
they’re both still clenching the desk so tightly his fingers feel like they’re
about to break, Steve settles on grabbing a wrist and tugging on it gently but
firmly until Bucky releases his hold.
 
“Miss Matson is our favourite cook,” he explains to Mr. Douglas, like he’s
talking to a friend about the damn weather. “She’s always friendly, and she
loves to tell stories about how her wedding planning is going when we ask her.
You knew she was getting married, didn’t you? You should ask her about how she
met her fiancé sometime. It’s a great story. Someone stole her father’s watch
from her boarding house and he was the officer who came to take her statement.
He worked all this extra time to find the watch and then asked for permission
to call on her after he got it back. He’s very dedicated to his job, she says.”
 
At some point Steve has managed to herd Bucky away from the desk and to the
office door. Now that he has some breathing space Bucky shakily remembers his
pants and clumsily moves to straighten them out. Steve is levelling the coldest
glare he’s ever seen given to anyone at Mr. Douglas.
 
“If you touch him again, I’ll find out. If you get rid of Miss Matson and her
policeman fiancé, I’ll find someone else to tell. You don’ttouch James. You
don’t touch anyone. You’ll regret it if you do. Just – just don’t – “
 
Steve breaks off, and shakes his finger vaguely in Mr. Douglas’s direction.
Bucky can see a tremor run through it just a little before Steve grits out,
 
“Don’t. Touch. Bucky.”
 
He shoves Bucky out the door and pushes him blindly towards the kitchen.
 
“It’ll be okay,” he mutters. “It’ll be fine now.”
 
“You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?” Bucky asks, feeling queasy. He doesn’t
want to try to imagine how someone like Miss Matson would look at him if she
knew.
 
“Miss Matson probably wouldn’t say anything to anyone even if we did tell her,”
Steve admits. “She blushes when she says the word ‘marriage.’ But Mr. Douglas
doesn’t know anything about her. I bet he hasn’t said two words to her. And
besides, she’s going to give notice in a couple weeks anyhow, because her new
husband doesn’t want her working while she keeps house. She seemed like the
safest option all-around.”
 
“Steve…” Bucky tries, before trailing off because what can he possibly say
about any of this? He feels shaky and exhausted and sick and he always knew he
hated this place, hated it even more since Douglas took over, but now he feels
a whole new level of powerlessness that he hadn’t been prepared for.
 
Steve looks at him sympathetically, but then they reach the kitchens and there
isn’t time to say anything else.
 
***
 
That night Bucky is scared to close his eyes for more than a second, even
though he knows Mr. Douglas goes home to his fancy house in his clean safe
neighbourhood every night, and wouldn’t stoop to setting foot in the
overcrowded dorms, even if he didn’t. The only problem is that suddenly Mr.
Douglas isn’t the only threat. Suddenly he notices that a lot of the kids are
told to stay behind after class, alone with one of the teachers. Everything has
started to look suspicious and alarming.
 
Still, despite his jittery nerves, when he feels the cot dip down next to him,
he only sighs in relief and feels his body start to relax for the first time in
hours.
 
“I could hear your heart racing from all the way in my bed,” Steve whispers,
raising himself up on one elbow to look into Bucky’s eyes. “You okay?”
 
Bucky shrugs noncommittally and says,
 
“I’ll be fine. I’m not a baby.”
 
“No,” Steve says, chuckling a little. “You’re a kid.”
 
Bucky smiles a little, too. He flinches the next second, and the room lurches
slightly when he feels Steve’s hand cautiously slide under his shirt and start
slowly rubbing his chest. The unsteady feeling fades almost instantly when he
recognizes the familiar motion, one that usually comes from his own hands, when
he’s trying to help Steve breathe through a bad asthma attack.
 
“That feels good,” Bucky manages after a minute, because it does. He can almost
feel his eyes starting to drift shut despite himself.
 
“I know it does,” Steve says, the smile still evident in his voice. “I know
this isn’t quite the same as your lungs jumping around inside your chest, but I
thought it might help for shaking, too.”
 
“I’m such an idiot,” Bucky whispers, feeling his cheeks get wet before he can
stop himself. “I don’t know why I just stood there.”
 
“Because you knew I was right outside,” Steve says, gently. “And you knew that
this is exactly the kind of fight that I’m good at finishing. You can’t start
punching teachers now, can you?”
 
“You looked like you were going to start when you opened that door,” Bucky
admits, trying to sound jovial, but pretty sure he’s failing. He always just
stands by and lets the bad things happen. He doesn’t know what Steve sees in
him at all.
 
Steve scoots a little closer, still rubbing the same soothing patterns. It
makes Bucky think vaguely about his mom, before things got really bad and he
started getting in trouble with the police for stealing.
 
“You tell me if anyone tries anything again, okay?” Steve says, even quieter
than before. “Ever since Mrs. Wagner left I’ve been paying more attention to
the kinds of records they keep in this place. I haven’t found everything I need
yet, but I’m sure there are secrets about the people in charge here that can
get them into a lot of trouble.”
 
“Oh yeah?” says Bucky. “What terrible things have you found so far?”
 
“Mr. Stoller’s first name is Burgess, for a start, so his parents didn’t like
him, either,” Steve says, with such derision in his voice that Bucky lets out a
snort of laughter that forces a few more tears down his face before he covers
his mouth with his hand.
 
“You’re right,” he chokes out. “You keep digging up stuff like that, you’ll
have Dodge cleaned up before the week’s out, Wyatt.”
 
Steve looks at him in delight for a few seconds before he sobers a little and
reaches out to wipe some of the tears off Bucky’s face.
 
“I’m looking for secrets that won’t hinge on police taking the word of a couple
of punk kids,” he says. “And when I find them, I’ll use them to get us out of
here and bring the whole school down around their ears.”
 
Something inside of Bucky’s heart unclenches and even though he doesn’t think
anything will be as straightforward as Steve makes it sound, he laughs again,
and there’s more control in it this time.
 
“No wonder he’s never called you into that office,” he says.
 
“Why?” Steve asks, and Bucky looks up to see him smirking slightly. “Because
I’m an ugly, loudmouthed, scrawny little titch of a guy? I wouldn’t want to
call me into that office, either.”
 
“No,” Bucky says, impulsively pulling Steve into a hug, trapping Steve’s hand
between them. “Because you’re the scariest student in the entire school.”
***** Century of Sleep, Part Two *****
Chapter Notes
     Frick. I am very, very sorry, everyone. This chapter is brutal.
     Remember what I said last time about how I was toning down the abuse
     from the various sources I found researching this? That still stands.
     I suppose it goes with out saying that even at reform schools with
     documented abuse, not all of it was quite this bad. I'd probably
     place it at the extreme upper end of the middle of the scale. Like,
     just dancing over the line into straight up awful.
     In case you weren't already getting the impression, I wanted to put
     another warning here about the racism, homophobia, and abuse
     specifically in this chapter, since this is about as bad as it gets.
     To the extent that I wonder if maybe it should be classified as
     torture? At any rate, it is extremely abusive. Oh, and Bucky's PoV
     has a lot of victim blaming in it, so please be aware.
     I also feel pretty bad about the fact that any resolution dealing
     with this part of the story is still a long way off. I promise, it
     will be coming, but yeah - it's still a ways away. Fuck, folks. I
     hate this chapter, I hate it so much, so I'm just going to post it
     and then try to never think about it again. Yep.
     Finally, there is a Native American character in this chapter, but
     since I don't live on the right side of North America, I don't know a
     whole lot about the tribes (and especially what they were like in the
     1930s). I tried, I really did, but there's a good chance I'm relaying
     the few facts I included inaccurately.
     Thanks again to my beta MomentsOfWeakness, who is wonderful and
     perfect and reigns me in when I go off on tangents.
 
 
 
Steve and Bucky are 14 and 13, respectively, when an Indian boarding school in
Maine gradually begins to phase out its younger grades. Normally that wouldn’t
matter a bit to anyone at Barry’s, but a few of the Indian boys are considered
good-for-nothings, or their parents are good-for-nothings, and suddenly there’s
an influx of displaced Indian kids being fed into the reform school system.
Only one is unfortunate enough to get thrown into Barry’s, though: a ten-year-
old kid named Lloyd who gets a reputation right away for being a little off.
 
Even at that, Lloyd’s appearance shouldn’t make much of an impression on Steve
or Bucky, because the coloured kids and the white kids at Barry’s School for
Boys get into trouble if they spend too much time talking together. Bucky can
see Steve get riled up every time the unwritten rule gets enforced, but he’s
almost always able to distract Steve with some other shiny, decidedly less
dangerous injustice to rail against. Steve certainly doesn’t make it easy, but
Bucky is more convinced than ever that his purpose in life is to keep Steve
alive. He absolutely believes one day Steve is going to be Important. He
doesn’t know how exactly, but he knows that if he can save Steve Rogers from
Steve Rogers, one day the world is gonna thank him for it.
 
Not that Bucky is in it for the glory, or respect. Frankly if he cared about
those things he wouldn’t spend so much time defending Steve, because the older
they get, the stranger people get about their friendship. Preston has taken to
calling them “the two queers” and instead of punishing him for it, most of the
teachers laugh before telling Steve and Bucky not to sit next to each other in
class. The trips to the boiler room are increasing in frequency, even when all
they are doing is talking to each other. Mr. Rice calls Bucky a nance when he
punishes him, and Steve hears even worse, Bucky’s certain. All things told, it
would be much easier to stop letting them see how much he cares about Steve,
but Bucky could no easier do than he could stop breathing. Sometimes it scares
him, how much he needs Steve.
 
For now though, until the world realizes they need Steve as badly as he does,
Bucky has his work cut out for him. He tries to keep Steve from standing up to
the big kids, unless standing up to a big kid will keep him from standing up to
a teacher. He almost never lets Steve talk back to the teachers, although
sometimes there’s literally no stopping him. Each time he sees them drag Steve
off to that awful basement, Bucky feels his chest go tight, he’s so certain
it’s going to be the end. He lives in terror that one day Steve will be too
weak to make it back out, even with that useless Stoller – too cowardly to
decide if he’s going to help other teachers or stop them – helping him stagger
out after the dirty work is done.
 
So Bucky does whatever it takes. He takes the blame when Steve starts
something; he diverts attention to another boy’s worse behaviour when Steve
gets a chip on his shoulder; once or twice he physically pins Steve to the
floor when the kid gets it in his head to go give someone a piece of his mind.
It’s exhausting work, but it doeswork. Until Lloyd.
 
The problem with Lloyd is that he’s an outcast. No one really likes him,
because even though he’s only ten, he’s obviously trouble. Right off the bat he
refuses to answer to his last name, keeps insisting that it’s wrong. That
someone just chose Smith off a random list and told him that was his name, but
Lloyd doesn’t think you can rename a person anything without their permission.
He gets thrashed by the teachers almost every day, but he never backs down.
Steve says something about assimilation, but Steve is the only one at school
who ever reads the boring old books and magazines that occasionally are
donated, so no one really knows what either boy is talking about.
 
Right away that standoff between Lloyd and the teachers puts the coloured kids
on edge, because no one wants to draw focus from an adult if they can help it,
so Lloyd spends most of his time alone. Which is a problem for Lloyd, because
even when the people picking on you are grownups, there’s still something to be
said for safety in numbers. It’s harder for a bully to pick you out in the
middle of a crowd, after all. Aside from the unavoidable in-fighting, the white
kids tend to stick together. Similarly, the black kids stay with the black
kids, and the Puerto Ricans stay with the Puerto Ricans. But Lloyd has no one.
 
The teachers hone in on that isolation right away, can tell that he has nowhere
to hide, and start taking advantage of it. Mr. Hodgson gets them started by
calling Lloyd a red skin, and talking to him in gibberish, pretending to speak
his language. After that it doesn’t take long for things to start getting
vicious. Bucky learns that in the lower-level class, Mr. Curtis forces Lloyd to
stand at the front of the room as he repeatedly knocks him to the ground,
saying he’s re-enacting the Battle at Wounded Knee.
 
Steve gets angrier and angrier the longer it happens, not that Bucky can blame
him. It makes everyone uncomfortable, even the kids who like how the faculty
won’t let the coloured kids have much to do with the white ones. But the
problem is that the only person who can make things easier on Lloyd is Lloyd.
Lloyd needs to start acting less proud of the Indian stuff and more ashamed of
it, or else he’s just not gonna make it. Bucky doesn’t like it either, but one
thing Bucky knows is survival, and that’s the way it has to be. And Lloyd is
the kind of person who will take a stand whether he can come out on top or not,
because it’s the right thing to do. Bucky can recognize that determined look on
his face easy enough; he’s grown up watching it on Steve’s.
 
Most of Bucky’s time now is spent trying to keep Steve as far away from Lloyd
as possible, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before Steve shakes him
off and gets it into his head to befriend the sad, picked on kid that no one
ever talks to. Sure enough, one afternoon he comes in to wash up for dinner and
tries not to slump in defeat when he sees Steve talking animatedly to Lloyd,
who looks happier than Bucky has ever seen him.
 
“Buck!” Steve says when he notices him, waving him over. Bucky reluctantly
joins them, a weak and unconvincing smile on his face.
 
“Lloyd was telling me about his family and the tribe he came from. They’re
called the Penobscot and his parents taught him to speak a whole different
language before he was sent to school. Isn’t that neat? What’s it called again,
Lloyd?”
 
Steve is so genuinely interested and excited, and Lloyd looks so pleased when
he cautiously tells him “Abnaki,” that Bucky feels like a heel when he says,
 
“That’s swell, but don’t talk about it too loud. You never know who might
hear.”
 
The tiny glimmer of happiness in Lloyd’s eyes goes out almost immediately and
Bucky winces.
 
“Sorry,” he mutters, because he issorry. Lloyd shrugs like he understands, and
Steve just stands there silently, fuming.
 
“It’s not right,” he grits out to Bucky later. Bucky doesn’t need to ask for
clarification.
 
“I know,” he says. “But it’s how it is.”
 
Steve sneers.
 
“‘It’s how it is,’’ he mimics. “Famous words that changed the course of
history.”
 
Bucky shoves Steve against the nearest wall and sticks his finger in his face.
 
“No,” he says. “Steve, no. You’re a kid, Steve. One that can’t even throw a
punch without getting winded. You can’t change anything, not right now, okay?
Things have been so good lately. Please don’t try. Just try not to get hurt and
try not to get sick and then when you’re grown up and smart and important,
thenyou come back here and change history.”
 
“That doesn’t help anyone now,” Steve says, calmly like he’s being reasonable
and logical. He absolutely thinks he is, too. Bucky’s had this conversation
with him enough times to know.
 
“You know what else won’t help anything right now?” Bucky says. “A little runt
of a kid taking a stand and trying to change the way things are when no one
thinks he’s worth listening to.”
 
“If I’m so insignificant, who cares if I get hurt?” Steve asks, lightly, even
though his smile is a little sad.
 
“Ido,” Bucky says, not quite keeping his voice from cracking on the words.
“Icare. I can’t let you get hurt, buddy. I can’t make it without you. Please
promise me you won’t let yourself get hurt?”
 
Steve reaches up and pats Bucky’s face fondly.
 
“Okay,” he says, softly. “It’s okay. I’ll look after you.”
 
“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “End of the line, right?”
 
“End of the line,” Steve echoes. “Promise.”
 
***
 
Steve keeps his promise for another few months before things go pear-shaped,
just in time for spring. He still talks to Lloyd when no one is looking, and
sometimes Bucky does, too, because he really isa nice little kid. He’s almost
too nice to even be friends with Steve, and he’s definitely too nice to be in a
reform school, even a reform school like theirs, which boasts just as many
“Children’s Bureau can’t be bothered” cases (Steve) as it does “future felons
of America” cases (Preston). Lloyd’s not even at the school due to his own
actions, for pity’s sake. Bucky’s heard Mr. Douglas say as much.
 
“My parents talk a lot,” Lloyd tries to explain at one point. “About how white
people shouldn’t be involved in tribe business. I haven’t seen them for a long
time, so I don’t really remember what they said, but it seemed to make a lot of
people mad. I guess they’re dangerous.”
 
Whatever it was Lloyd’s parents said, Bucky sincerely hopes it was worth it.
Even if Lloyd had ended up getting sent back to the boarding school once he was
old enough (and Steve says he probably would have), he is floundering right now
without them. Bucky and Steve do all that they can without making it too
obvious, but there’s only so much help they can give without a teacher coming
along to put a stop to it.
 
Still, it manages to be enough to keep Lloyd functioning until someone from the
Dairy Farmers Union decides that the disenfranchised youths of Brooklyn are not
getting enough milk in their diets. Bucky has never felt that his life is
particularly lacking because he doesn’t get a fresh glass of milk to go
alongside his disgusting watered-down porridge every morning. Frankly, he would
rather have better porridge, or maybe a bigger bowl of the awful stuff, so his
stomach isn’t cramping by mid-morning, but Bucky is not the one in charge of
the Union’s goodwill gestures.
 
At any rate, for the last week and a half, the students at Barry’s School for
Boys have been treated to a tall, cold glass of milk every morning alongside
what Steve has taken to calling their “gruel.” It’s a mixed blessing, to say
the least, because it seems that a lot of the kids who aren’t lily white have
trouble drinking large amounts of milk. Where once students may have gotten
hungry waiting for lunch time, now they are often feeling too miserable to eat
it at all. No one, however, has it as bad as poor Lloyd, whose stomach rebels
spectacularly to even the smallest amount of milk. Bucky has seen the kid
projectile vomit after Mr. Curtis loses his patience and forces him to drink an
entire glass in one go. Mr. Curtis is convinced Lloyd somehow threw up on
purpose to be “contrary” and sends him down to the basement. When the scene
replays itself the next morning Lloyd is punished again, and the morning after
that when he refuses to drink the milk at all he’s hit so hard it knocks a
tooth loose. From that point on, Lloyd is trapped in a constant cycle where
he’s punished for his behaviour no matter what he does while the rest of the
boys look awkwardly on and try to hide their own unsettled stomachs.
 
It all comes to a head when the president of the Union comes to Barry’s School
with a representative from the Children’s Bureau in the final days of this very
public act of kindness, just after breakfast has been served in the massive
cafeteria. Today of all days Bucky and Steve aren’t going to be able to sit
anywhere near Lloyd, but Steve tries to get as close as possible, determined to
keep an eye on him as always. Mr. Hodgson is leaning over Lloyd menacingly as
they sit, and they watch him whisper something quietly in Lloyd’s ear as Lloyd
looks despondently at the healthy-sized glass of milk set in front of him.
 
Everyone is on their best behaviour as the visitors wander up and down between
the tables, slowly so the photographer can keep up. Occasionally they lean down
to shake a boy’s hand as the boy politely and robotically express his thanks,
just like he’s been coached. They’re taking their time, chatting amicably with
Mr. Douglas and it takes almost twenty minutes for them to get from one side of
the room to the other.
 
The boys are mostly waiting to be dismissed, their very limited capacity to
behave like well-mannered children almost spent, when the president leans down
to ask a boy sitting in the aisle across from Lloyd,
 
“Well now! Wasn’t this a nice treat?”
 
Which is right about when Lloyd, who has been getting progressively paler,
spins around in his seat with wide eyes casting about desperately for an exit
before throwing up all over the president’s shoes. For a moment, everything is
deadly silent, then, a tittering noise starts up from the far corner of the
room and before long, all the kids are laughing uproariously, confident that
they can’t allbe punished for disrespecting their guest, currently gaping at
his shoes like a baffled trout. Lloyd tries to mutter out an apology but only
succeeds in throwing up again before Mr. Stoller arrives on the scene and
roughly hauls him out of the room by the arm, looking grim. Mr. Atherton is
watching from the doorway, looking positively murderous.
 
 “Well what did they expect would happen?” Steve demands, not bothering to hide
his contempt as he stares at the adults stumbling over themselves to help save
the president’s shoes. “I bet there are 20 other kids in here who are this
close to joining him. It’s not their fault.”
 
“I don’t think that’s going to matter,” says Bucky.
 
***
 
They slip away from the cafeteria as soon as they can and try to find out where
Lloyd has been taken. While their visitors don’t seem overly upset by what
happened, they’re still understandably making a speedy exit, maybe before any
of the other kids with milk allergies can follow Lloyd’s lead.  The only
trouble with that is, Lloyd is only really safe from retribution while there
are strangers in the building. Without anyone to keep up an act around, things
are going to get ugly, and quickly.
 
They find him being held up by his hair by Mr. Stoller, for once getting hands
on in his frustration.
 
“Stop squirming, you little shit. This is your own fault, you know that.”
 
“I didn’t mean to,” Lloyd is begging. He sounds frantic and given his current
state he has every right to be. Already he has a swollen lip, blood dribbling
out the side of his mouth. Far more alarming is the fact that Mr. Atherton is
in the middle of ripping off Lloyd’s underpants. He tosses it with the rest of
Lloyd’s soiled clothes, which smell faintly of sour milk even from across the
room.
 
“I know you didn’t,” Mr. Atherton says, in deceptively soothing tones. “I
really do understand, Smith. You can’t help yourself, right? All you coloured
kids – you’re just slaves to your baser instincts. The little red ones are
especially savage, too. At least the other kids are a couple generations
removed from Africa, but your folks probably still scalp white people to wear
their skins in the winter. Luckily for you, all we want to do is help you.” 
 
Mr. Atherton kicks out suddenly and his boot makes contact with Lloyd’s torso,
who loses a handful of hair as he’s ripped from Mr. Stoller’s grip and lands
hard on the ground.
 
“Speaking of scalping,” Mr. Atherton chuckles.
 
Steve is charging towards them in an instant, shouting,
 
“Hey, leave him alone!”
 
Bucky stays rooted where he is in the entryway, watching like he always does.
His mind is desperately trying to land on a solution that will help Lloyd and
keep Steve from getting hurt himself, but there’s nothing. It’s like watching a
car wreck happening in slow motion. There’s nothing he can do.
 
“Go away, Rogers,” Mr. Stoller says, barely glancing at him. “This is not your
business.”
 
“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Steve insists, crouching to go help Lloyd stand
up.
 
“Mr. Stoller just said that Smith’s business isn’t yours, Rogers,” Mr. Atherton
says, his voice still carrying that deceptive calm quality that always promises
violence.
 
Sure enough, his next words (“Maybe you should spend more time worrying about
the consequences of your own actions instead of meddling in other people’s
affairs.”) are followed up by a vicious swat to the side that slams Steve’s
head right into the wall. Steve goes down like a ton of bricks.
 
“I thought you didn’t like picking off the weak ones,” Mr. Stoller remarks,
still not looking terribly uncomfortable (he’s never really liked Steve).
“Something about having to stop too soon.”
 
Mr. Atherton snaps out something no teacher should ever be heard saying, and
Mr. Stoller rolls his eyes before looking at Bucky, who has been trying to edge
closer to Steve without anyone noticing.
 
“Get your friend out of here, Barnes,” he says.
 
“Yes sir,” Bucky says, making sure he doesn’t maintain any kind of eye contact.
“And Lloyd?”
 
“Don’t worry about him,” Mr. Atherton says. “We’ll teach him some proper
manners, make sure he never forgets his place again, and that’ll be the end of
it. You know how this works.”
 
Bucky absolutely knows, which is why he gets close enough to murmur to the
still-on-the-ground Lloyd as he goes to shake Steve back to lucidity,
 
“Don’t talk back to them, okay? Try to act the way they want and keep saying
you’re sorry. We’ll find a reason to make them stop, I promise. Hold on.”
 
Lloyd doesn’t really give much of a response, but it’s the best Bucky can do as
he pulls a dazed Steve to his feet and tries to be thankful it didn’t get any
worse.
 
***
 
Mr. Atherton makes Lloyd stay outside on the back porch without any clothes on
for the entire day, chaining his leg to the railing just to be certain he won’t
sneak back in. Steve is fit to be tied himself and tallies up some impressive
bruises thanks to his constant attempts to sneak out with clothes or blankets.
He’s not even the only boy who tries. Classes are full of silent, tense
students, who are afraid of looking their teachers in the eye, like they
suddenly could be capable of anything. Outside, Lloyd won’t stop crying.
 
“It’s too cold,” Steve keeps insisting whenever he’s caught, getting more and
more frantic each time. “And he’s already hurt. You’re going to kill him.”
 
Mr. Douglas can’t be bothered to care though, as usual. He just says,
 
“Mr. Atherton can punish a student however he sees fit. He doesn’t need your
permission first.”
 
He goes into his office and shuts the door behind him. Steve is caught with an
armful of blankets half an hour later, and Bucky is with him, mostly because he
can’t talk Steve out of it. Mr. Stoller, who has been hovering around the edges
this entire time, like he’s vaguely thinking about intervening but is too
worried about his job to actually do it, watches Mr. Hodgson yell at the boys
for a minute before he perks up and leaves to go to the shed. He comes back
with a disgusting, filth-encrusted blanket that makes Bucky recoil when he see
it.
 
“Kept it to use as scraps after the rats got to it but I never got around to
tearing it up,” Stoller explains, looking proud of himself.
 
“And what do you want me to do with that?” Mr. Hodgson asks, distinctly
unimpressed.
 
“Give it to Smith,” Mr. Stoller says, grinning. “Rogers is right. It’s too cold
for him to be out there in his birthday suit. I normally wouldn’t give this
blanket to a dog, but hey, it’ll be like Eckert’s re-enactment of the Battle at
Wounded Knee all over again.”
 
Mr. Hodgson stares at him for another moment before he starts laughing. Mr.
Stoller looks so pleased Bucky expects he’ll start floating if he puffs out
anymore, but there’s a tightness at the corners of his eyes that betrays his
uneasiness. Bucky wonders for a moment if Stoller thinks he’s actually being a
mediator, if he thinks he’s actually helping by crawling up to the bigger
bullies on his belly, trying to let them have their fun as he keeps his
conscience in the clear. There’s something disgusting about a person who only
helps so far as it’s safe, and also something unpleasantly familiar. Something
squirms in the pit of Bucky’s stomach and then flares white hot into hatred
directed towards Mr. Stoller, so intense it’s almost overwhelming. It almost
matches the hatred he feels towards himself.
 
***
 
Steve is waiting in the main office when Bucky steps inside, like he’s been
expecting him.
 
“What are you doing?” He asks quietly.
 
Bucky shrugs and tries not to look too guilty or too scared. Steve, of course,
sees right through him.
 
“Mr. Douglas is on the phone,” he says, shortly. “He doesn’t want to be
disturbed.”
 
Despite the terse way it’s offered, Bucky can recognize an escape route when he
sees it. Steve knows better than anyone how desperately Bucky has avoided Mr.
Douglas’s office since the last time he was trapped in there, even though it
was so long ago. Bucky has confessed to him about how he gets scared when he’s
left alone in a room, because he can’t stop thinking about Mr. Douglas
appearing from one of the darkened shadows like a bogeyman, waiting to trap
him. Sometimes at night he wakes up thinking he feels hands on his body, trying
to take off his pants. He always wakes up before anything else happens, and
instead of feeling comforted by that, it only ever feels like he’s being toyed
with, like a mouse after the cat pretends to let it go. And Steve has been
there to watch him wake up from every dream. Steve knows that even getting this
close to that office is intolerable to Bucky.
 
“He doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Steve repeats, a little louder, when Bucky
just stares at him and says nothing.
 
“…I can wait,” Bucky finally manages, wishing his voice wasn’t so small. Steve
explodes. Quietly.
 
“What the hell, Bucky?” He demands, hissing the words as he advances on Bucky,
jabbing him sharply in the chest. “Are you just going to go in there and
convince him to do whatever he wants and hope that that’s going to change
anything? Don’t be an idiot.”
 
“So I should do what you’re doing?” Bucky snaps back. “Goad them into getting
madder and madder at you until you end up out there with Lloyd? You’re not
thinking this through, Steve. Going head to head with Atherton and his cronies
doesn’t work and it never has. You’re just going to get hurt and it’s all going
to be for nothing.”
 
“I have bigger plans than just shouting until someone listens,” Steve says none
too cryptically. “And I promise you they’re better than you thinking you can
walk into that office and bend Mr. Douglas’s ear like you’re – you’re Mata Hari
or something.”
 
“They took his clothes, Steve,” Bucky says, almost pleading. “He’s out there,
naked, and everyone can see him – can see how scared he is, and I heard Mr.
Curtis and Mr. Rice laughingabout it. He’s scared and he can’t hide and they’re
just laughing. I can’t let them do that, I can’t just leave him out there.”
 
“There are a lot of other ways to help him that’ll work better than this,”
Steve says, even though Bucky imagines he’d be hard-pressed to name one.
 
“I’m not brave like you,” Bucky mutters, suddenly unable to meet Steve’s eyes.
“I can’t keep standing up to them just because it’s the right thing when I know
nothing’s gonna change.”
 
“Nothing’s gonna change if you go into that office,” Steve says, softly. “It
won’t end up with Mr. Douglas magically caring about what happens to Lloyd.
We’ll solve this another way, alright? Just trust me?”
 
“You promise your plan involves something better than yelling at them?” Bucky
asks, because he’s a coward and because he can’t ever say no to Steve.
 
“I promise,” Steve reassures, and he looks so determined Bucky actually
believes him, even though Steve doesn’t elaborate. Bucky walks away the
direction he came with his skin still crawling, still feeling like he’s useless
and a bad person. When he sees Mr. Stoller walking down the hallway in the
opposite direction, he wishes he was strong enough to punch him so hard the
man’s skull would cave in.
 
***
 
Mr. Douglas does actually pay enough attention to the mood in the school to
half-heartedly tell Mr. Atherton to at least relocate Lloyd down to the boiler
room before he leaves for the night.
 
“I’m not going to clean up another one of your messes for you,” he says
vaguely. “Don’t let this get out of hand.”
 
As if it’s not out of hand already. Still, Mr. Douglas’s word is law on the
rare occasions when it’s given, so Mr. Atherton orders Mr. Hodgson to collect
Lloyd. He gives Steve an appraising look, who has been lurking in Mr.
Atherton’s vicinity all day, casting him baleful looks.
 
“Remember to lock the door from the outside,” he instructs Mr. Hodgson. “And
keep the key with you. Just to be sure no one’s dumb enough to try anything.”
 
He grins at Steve, who lets out a sound almost like a snarl and starts to move
towards Mr. Atherton blindly until Bucky yanks him back.
 
“Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll fix it tomorrow. At least he’s not outside,
right?”
 
“Sure,” Steve says, flatly, but he goes to the dorm room when Bucky leads him
away. He doesn’t say anything else the entire evening, which is a switch for
Steve, and an alarming one at that. It feels like he’s drifting further and
further out of Bucky’s grasp somehow, and all Bucky wants is to wrap his arms
around Steve, to hold on and never let go.
 
But Steve remains stubbornly distant all evening. He keeps looking at Bucky
whenever Bucky’s attention is elsewhere, and from the corner of his eyes, Bucky
registers a hungry distraught look on Steve’s features every time it happens.
The face is always carefully impassive when Bucky looks at him full on, though,
and nothing Bucky says can convince him to reveal what’s going on inside his
head.
 
It takes hours to fall asleep that night. Bucky wishes it was because he’s so
concerned about how they’re going to help Lloyd, but that’s not what keeps his
heart hammering against his ribcage until exhaustion finally wins out. It’s the
clawing realization that the next morning when he opens his eyes, he knowsSteve
won’t be there anymore. He doesn’t know why Steve is planning to take off
without him, but he knows Steve, and he knows he’s about to be abandoned by
him. Not for the first time, Bucky thinks he may die without Steve, and in
those moments before sleep finally overtakes him, nothing is more terrifying
than the thought of dying alone.
 
***
 
He feels the tears building up behind his eyes even before he opens them the
next morning, to something that sounds like screaming or yelling coming from a
long ways away. He strains so hard to listen he almost misses the crinkling
noises coming from right next to his ear, where his hand is clenching into a
fist underneath his pillow. Reluctantly he sits up in the dim morning light,
rubbing angrily at his eyes. His eyes skirt quickly over the empty bed where
Steve Rogers should be, and he tries hard not to feel betrayed. It’s still dark
enough that making out Steve’s ever impeccable script is just about impossible,
until Bucky cautiously takes the pieces of paper over to the east window and
better light.
 
“Buck,
Please don’t be mad, but I had to go. I had to help Lloyd, and I couldn’t let
you get hurt either, even if it was to help him. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,
but I know I’m probably going to get caught because this is all happening too
fast to be careful and I couldn’t risk it.
I found some records while I was filing all the correspondence for that stupid
dairy program a few days ago. Mr. Douglas, Mr. Atherton, and a few of the other
teachers have been taking money from the food budget and doctoring the records
to cover it up. I pulled a few pages out of the ledger where you can see where
the money is supposed to go and matched it up with delivery receipts that show
the personal expenses it’s really being spent on. It’s clear as day what’s
going on once you know what to look for, and there’s no way they’d be able to
explain it away if someone caught them.
I left you a couple of pages in case they think you had something to do with
this and you need some leverage, but the rest I took with me and I’m going to
take it to a reporter or something. I’m going to run all of them out of here,
and then once I know you’re safe I’ll start looking for ways to get you out.
Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of this.
Steve.”
 
Bucky’s senses are simultaneously deadened and on overload when he stops
reading. He can hear the far off noises, dimly registering that they’re almost
certainly distressed now, and he can feel the rough course paper held in a hand
that no longer feels connected to his body. He starts sweating and can hear his
breathing grow jagged as stares at the extra papers, too alarmed to take in the
information on them. Bucky has no idea what Steve was thinking because these
papers are notleverage. Any student unlucky enough to be caught with them will
be as good as dead. He imagines the screaming getting louder as he thinks about
how blindly furious Mr. Atherton would be if he caught loud argumentative Steve
Rogers holding papers that could potentially result in jail time. He thinks
he’s going to be sick, and he has to fight the urge to sink to his knees and
start crying in a huddle on the floor because people are going to be killed
over this. Steve might actually die and everything inside him is paralyzed.
 
He spins around the room blindly, trying to light on a good hiding place. The
first place they’ll check is under his and Steve’s mattresses, and if he leaves
it too close to any of the other boys, he’ll only end up hurting more innocent
people. He tugs at his hair a little and is wandering into the centre of the
room when the radiator under the window suddenly hisses and starts to leak.
It’s been too long since they’ve been bled, his brain unhelpfully tells him.
Someone needs to take care of them before they all start leaking. He remembers
Mr. Snyder bragging to someone that they were state-of-the-art when they were
installed – the first boarding school with central heating.
 
It feels like it was a life time ago, and Bucky’s certain no one has looked at
them properly since. His feet stumble back to the radiator almost against his
will, his body in full fight-or-flight readiness and protesting the way his
back is now to the door every step of the way. He sinks to his knees to look at
the water trickling from the side valve, dripping into the gap in the floor
below, where the floorboards don’t quite match to make room for the pipes.
Cautiously, he reaches down and slides his hand alongside the radiator. Bucky
can move his arm around awkwardly until he hits the closest joist. It’s awkward
to maneuver and Bucky is worried that he might not be able to get pull his hand
back if he lets go at the wrong time, but he manages to wedge the papers into
the space and out of sight, between the floorboards and the beam.
 
The sounds from the boiler room feel like they’re travelling up through the
pipes at this point, and an especially jarring shriek spurs Bucky to his feet.
He’s already at the door when Mr. Eckert rips it open, zeroing in on Bucky
instantly and snarling,
 
“Where the fuck is it, Barnes?”
 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says, not bothering to mask the
alarm in his voice. “Where did Steve go? Is he hurt?”
 
Mr. Eckert narrows his eyes, ignoring the slowly waking students all around
him.
 
“Don’t give me that, Barnes,” he spits. “You two do everything together. You
were in on this.”
 
“In on what? Bucky begs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where is he?”
 
Mr. Eckert slaps Bucky so hard he falls over and his head hits the trunk at the
end of Elmer’s bed.
 
“Don’t waste your time, Martin,” He hears through the ringing in his ears as he
clutches at the back of his head.
 
Mr. Hodgson is there looking every bit as angry as Mr. Eckert.
 
“Kid was out like a light when they took off, slept through the whole thing. I
guess Rogers didn’t think he’d need to buy any more protection from him once he
escaped.”
 
“Steve ran away?” Bucky asks. “He’s gone?”
 
“Oh, I never said he was gone,” Hodgson says as he crosses the room to pull
apart Steve’s bed. “Next time your little shit of a boyfriend gets it into his
head to become a snitch, he might not want to try and rob me first. I’m a
notoriously light sleeper, something he’s learned the hard way.”
 
“Where is he?” Bucky demands again.
 
Mr. Hodgson laughs, but his face remains thunderous.
 
“Makes no difference to you, Barnes,” he says. “You’re not going to be seeing
him again, anyhow.”
 
 
***
 
There was never really a question about where Steve was. There’s only one place
the bad students go to be punished, and if one thing is absolutely certain,
it’s that Steve has been officially labelled “bad.” Things might not be quite
so bleak right now if Mr. Hodgson had gotten up the second he heard Steve creep
into his room and steal the keys to the boiler room. Even Steve wasn’t so
reckless that he was about to wander into that room with a record of Mr.
Hodgson’s criminal offences. But instead of confronting Steve, Mr. Hodgson had
feigned sleep until Steve got a head start and followed him to see what he
would do. After picking up an armful of papers and spare clothes, Steve had of
course gone for Lloyd. Mr. Hodgson had been laughing again when he told an
increasingly distraught Bucky how hopeful Steve had started to look before he
stopped them, like he thought he might be getting away with it.
 
It stopped being quite so entertaining when Mr. Eckert had been called in to
lend a hand and figured out just what was in the papers Steve was holding. As
Mr. Hodgson seems all too willing to tell him, by the time Mr. Douglas arrived
and determined that there were still more records unaccounted for, “the little
faggot was bleeding from places he’s probably only dreamed about bleeding from
before.”
 
Mr. Eckert rolls his eyes and only says,
 
“You really want to help your friend? You tell us where he hid those papers.”
 
Bucky lets out a sound of distress and goes to see if, just maybe, the door to
the boiler room is unlocked. Mr. Douglas catches him on the stairs on his way
up and hauls him back with him, by the collar.
 
“Watch yourself, Barnes,” he says, angrily. “You do not want to test my
patience today.”
 
Mr. Douglas’s hand leaves smears of blood on Bucky’s shirt when he takes it
away, and Bucky is certain none of it belongs to Mr. Douglas.
 
School is a waste of everyone’s time that day, and not just for Bucky. His and
Steve’s classroom happens to be above the boiler room, not too far down the
hall, and Bucky had been right that morning. The sound carries through the
pipes. Even the boys who hate Lloyd or who just want Steve to shut up look sick
every time they hear a scream. The threats from the teacher go unheard. Preston
stands at the board for 10 minutes trying to solve a problem before finally
breaking chalk by gripping it too tightly, when a sound comes out of the
basement that doesn’t even sound human.
 
Bucky sits at his desk with his hands shaking so hard that Mr. Rice whips them
with the ruler as he walks past, telling him not to be such a distraction.
Bucky sits on them after that, trying to be still, giving up and letting the
tears fall down his face as he constantly cranes his neck towards the radiator,
trying to make sense of the muted words being spoken an entire floor away. He
catches himself waiting for each scream, praying for it, because if Steve is
screaming it means he’s still alive. He’s forced himself to stop listening for
Lloyd; Lloyd hasn’t made a noise in over an hour. Bucky doesn’t know what he’ll
do if Steve goes quiet, too.
 
In the moments after each scream, Bucky forces himself to abandon his mindless
vigil and think. He thinks about Steve’s plan and why it failed, and can only
come up with two reasons: Steve is a kind person, and; Steve didn’t let Bucky
help. That he was left out of Steve’s plan still stings, even if Bucky can
understand why Steve would leave him out of a suicide mission at all costs.
Bucky likes to think he’d do the same for Steve, after all. But what’s so
infuriating is that it didn’t have to be a plan doomed to failure. If Steve had
just opened his damned stubborn mouth and asked Bucky’s advice, none of this
would have happened, because Steve and Bucky are at their best when they’re
able to compensate for each other’s weaknesses. All Steve’s plan was really
missing was a coward to bring a little common sense to the table, and Bucky is
happy to be that coward. He just hopes that he gets the chance to do what needs
to be done before it’s too late.
 
***
 
It seems unlikely that any of the teachers will be dumb enough to believe that
Bucky can be trusted on his own tonight, and he’s right. Instead of their usual
once-a-night headcount, they seem to be stopping by the room at random
intervals at least every other hour. Bucky is starting to get frantic, because
he knows there’s only going to be a small window of opportunity to get to Steve
and Lloyd. He’s started to get up three different times only to be forced to
dive back into bed, clothes and even shoes on underneath the sheets, feigning
sleep as various teachers pull open the dormitory door and look in.
 
After the door closes shut the fourth time, Bucky can’t stop the desperate
little sob from escaping. He thinks he might go crazy. He almost jumps out of
his skin when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. Jack Preston, of all
people, is standing there with a finger to his lips. Bucky stares at him
blankly for a moment until Preston indicates his own bed. Bucky glances over,
rubs his eyes, and stares again, because it looks like there’s still someone
sleeping there. After a moment he notices Preston’s pillow is nowhere in sight,
and glancing down the row of beds, a few of the other boys are missing pillows
as well.
 
Preston pushes at Bucky until Bucky clambers out of the bed none too
gracefully; he crawls into the vacated space and grins.
 
“We have the same hair colour, and yours is the only bed they’re really looking
at anyhow,” he whispers.
 
“You’ll get in trouble,” Bucky says weakly. He can’t begin to understand why
Preston is doing this for Steve at all, but he still doesn’t want anyone else
to get hurt. Not even Jack Preston.
 
Preston only scoffs at that.
 
“I won’t still be in here by the time they’ve figured out you’re gone – not
unless you screw up. I’ll kill you myself if you do that.”
 
Preston pulls up the covers and rolls over, and he’s right. There’s no way to
tell that Bucky isn’t the one sleeping there.
 
Bucky doesn’t bother with a coat or extra clothes, he’s only focused on getting
out and giving everyone as little incentive as possible to go chasing after
him. It takes him far longer than he’d like to work the papers free from the
space under the floor, they’re at such an awkward angle and wedged in far
better than he’d thought. In the end, he never does succeed in pulling out the
last paper, but closer inspection shows that it’s Steve’s letter, and it’s
probably better if he doesn’t have that on him, anyhow.
 
Before he goes to the staff wing and Mr. Hodgson’s room, he slips into the
front office, shoes in hand to be extra careful. Sliding open the bottom filing
drawer is agonizing, and Bucky actually feels tears slide down his face when
the weight of the paper inside causes everything to groan. He forces himself to
keep going though, and cautiously slides the papers into one of the files at
random, making sure to keep one of the corners significantly raised. He’s been
listening to Steve complain about these drawers for years now; he knows exactly
how to cause paperwork to get snagged and dragged to the back of the drawer,
leaving it unable to shut properly. He only hopes Mr. Douglas won’t be too
stupid to miss it in the morning. Everyone will know how the evidence really
ended up there, of course, but leaving it here feels safer than in the dorm
rooms, were the blame could be placed on anyone.
 
Hoping to pacify them by giving them what they want is the coward’s way out and
Bucky knows it. He knows it’s not what Steve wanted, that Steve wanted to save
everyone at the school, and give them all a chance to come out of this place
with a real shot at living, but Bucky isn’t Steve. He feels awful, like he’s
betraying everyone here, but sometimes you have to look out for yourself and
ignore the other people around you. Sometimes if you try to change the entire
world all at once, you can’t even change your own piece of it, and Steve is so
incredibly selfless, it falls to Bucky to be selfish for both of them. If
Barry’s is going to topple one day, they won’t be the ones doing the pushing.
 
There’s a close call on the way to Hodgson when he almost walks straight into
Mr. Rice, evidently just getting back from doing a perimeter check, probably
looking for Bucky. Bucky flattens himself into the darkest corner at the end of
the hallway and luckily, Mr. Rice’s sleepy tunnel vision means he doesn’t
notice anyone else nearby before he shuffles back into his room. Even quieter
than before, Bucky slides into Mr. Hodgson’s room. Before Bucky was sent here
he was in the habit of slipping into other people’s homes to steal food when
there was nothing for him at his own place. While it’s true that he was caught
eventually, he’s still confident that he’s damn well better than Steve at
burglary.
 
After quietly looking around the room until he finds what he needs, he slides
his sock feet lightly along the floor boards feeling for any kind of give
beneath him that will make noise. He glides right past the key ring without
looking twice at it, straight to the bookshelf beside Mr. Hodgson’s bed.
Really, you can hardly call it a bookshelf, just a single board hammered into
the wall and held in place by a pair of rickety old brackets. It’s fairly high
and just to the right of Hodgson’s head and Bucky lets himself smile when he
reaches it. He’d been prepared to make do with whatever he could find no matter
how bad it looked, but here is all opportunity he needs to mask his actions.
 
Bucky looks at the books over Mr. Hodgson’s head closely, then carefully picks
the thickest one – some encyclopedia volume with heavy, top-notch paper and a
well-bound spine. He hefts it in his hand a few times, letting himself get a
feel for it, then he turns it slightly so the spine faces away from him, and
towards Mr. Hodgson. There’s a sickening crack when the spine makes contact
with his teacher’s skull, and Mr. Hodgson lets out a brief, cut off moan in his
sleep, his body tensing before going limp. Bucky wishes he could hit him again,
maybe see if another hit would make the man stop breathing before he shakes
himself, and gets back to the task at hand.
 
It doesn’t take much to knock out the bracket closest to the bed; the weight of
the books on the improperly mounted board have done a lot of the work for him
already. Bucky carefully eases the shelf down so only the one side sags and it
doesn’t fall down completely. The books shower onto Mr. Hodgson’s head and the
bed around his pillow, making very little noise. Come next morning it will look
like an accident, and hopefully one that will distract everyone quite some time
before anyone sees that three students are missing. For tonight, it will
provide a little more reassurance that Bucky won’t be caught making off with
Hodgson’s keys.
 
He’s shaking again by the time he reaches the bottom of the basement stairs and
approaches the boiler room doors. Getting this far is no guarantee of actually
getting away with it. The fact that Steve is locked up down here at all attests
to that, but at the moment Bucky is thinking more about his past failures than
any future ones. He almost wants to turn around and go back to bed, to pretend
that tonight never happened, because keeping Steve safe is his job, and now he
has to go into that room and face what a terrible friend he really is. A better
person would have never let this happen.
 
The door is heavy and creaks when it opens, but Bucky manages to quiet most of
the noise by lifting it up on its hinges as he swings it shut. It takes a
moment for his eyes to adjust to the poor lighting, but after a moment he hears
a moan and sees something shift in a far corner. Steve is lying on the awful
rat-eaten mattress, trying to curl into a ball and whimpering at the movement.
 
“Jesus, you stupid ass,” Bucky mutters, weak with relief, because he’d been
half expecting to find a body down here once things went quiet last night, even
though he knew the crying had only stopped when the teachers gave up for the
evening.
 
He goes over to the mattress and cautiously rolls Steve over onto his back.
Steve makes a louder noise of distress at the motion, and Bucky exhales sharply
through his nose, suddenly very focused on not throwing up.
 
In the dim light coming in from the single high window, Steve’s face is twisted
and distorted. His nose is definitely broken, and the left side of his face is
so swollen and dark Bucky is worried some bones in his skull might be broken,
too. His lips are bloody and wet and gaping horribly; there’s so much blood
running down his chin, Bucky thinks Steve may have bitten a hole clean through
them, but it’s impossible to tell in the dark. Both of his eyes are swollen
shut, and blood is pooling in his right ear. Bucky realizes with a start that
his friend is crying and shaking his head. Steve doesn’t even know who’s in the
room with him.
 
“It’s okay, bud,” Bucky says, leaning down and softly speaking into Steve’s
good ear. “It’s me. I fixed your stupid plan and now I’m getting you out of
here for real, okay? It’ll be okay.”
 
“J’mes?” Steve gasps out, slurring, and Bucky can feel the bony chest
fluttering, like Steve’s forgotten how to breathe. Almost instinctively he goes
to lift up Steve’s bloody shirt and starts to rest his hand there, but stops
when he looks down and sees the welts and bruises, even visible in the dark. Of
course this isn’t just an asthma attack; it’s a wonder Steve’s ribcage hasn’t
collapsed.
 
“It’s me, Steve,” Bucky promises. “We’ve got to get out of here now. Where’s
Lloyd? Did they take him somewhere else?”
 
Steve stills at that and for a moment Bucky thinks he may have passed out, but
after a few heartbeats, Steve mutters.
 
“Lloyd’s gone.”
 
“Do you know where they put him?” Bucky tries again. “I have all of Hodgson’s
keys right here, and he won’t be getting up any time soon. We can go find him.”
 
Bucky doesn’t particularly want to risk it, but he knows Steve won’t leave
without Lloyd there, too, and deep down Bucky knows it wouldn’t sit well with
him either. Apart from Steve, Lloyd’s the only other kid here who really needs
him.
 
“ ‘s gone,” Steve repeats, hollowly. “He wouldn’t stop crying and crawling
away, Ath’tn kicked’m into th’ wall.”
 
Steve swallows hard and Bucky tries to shush him, knowing where this is going
and not wanting to hear it. Steve keeps talking anyhow.
 
“ ‘s head just… twisted ‘n stayed that way. Didn’ move after.”
 
“Okay,” Bucky soothes past the lump in his own throat as he strokes Steve’s
hair, because this is on him, too. “Okay. We’re going to come back and we’re
going to make them pay for this, okay? I promise. But right now we have to
leave. I think I have to carry you, okay? Fuck, I’m sorry, pal, but I think
it’s really going to hurt. Do you think you can stay quiet, no matter what?”
 
Steve makes a noise that Bucky chooses to believe is an affirmative, so he
carefully pulls Steve into a fireman’s carry, wincing and whispering apologies
whenever Steve can’t keep the distressed noises in. There are noises on the
floor above them when Bucky edges out into the hall, but Steve hardly weighs
anything, so it’s not hard to wait until they’ve stopped. The stairs creak once
or twice on the way up, thanks to Bucky’s now shoed feet and the extra weight
he’s carrying, but no one jumps out and stops them. It’s hard to find the right
key and keep hold of Steve, who very obviously passed out somewhere between the
steps and the back door, but after about five minutes Bucky finds the right one
and is stepping outside. He resolutely doesn’t think about Lloyd as they walk
past the chain on the porch, still sitting where Mr. Eckert dropped it a few
days ago.
 
He sticks to the shadows, choosing his direction by walking along the high
fence on the side of the school away from the faculty dorms. He actually has to
prop Steve up against the side of the fence and shake him awake, leaving him on
unsteady feet as he finds the final key and pushes hard at the heavy, groaning
gate, feeling utterly exposed and like the entire school is watching. He hauls
Steve outside as soon as it’s opened enough for them to squeeze through before
yanking it shut behind them, careful to lock it again when he’s done. Finally
he throws the keys back over the gate as hard as he can, listening for the soft
thud that indicates they’ve landed in the grass on the other side. One day
he’ll come back here, he tells himself again. One day he and Steve will be
back, and these people are going to pay.
***** Century of Sleep, Part Three *****
Chapter Notes
     Still a bit of a rough haul with this chapter, I'm afraid. The boys
     are still pretty (understandably) messed up about what happened BUT!
     This is also the chapter where things slowly start turning around.
     Like, I'm really hoping this chapter will end on a positive note for
     most of you, and with the promise of more positivity to come. So
     that's something, right? But yes. Blanket apologies once again for
     the horrible things I am doing to these characters.
     Oh, and unrelated fun fact: I swear to god the research for this
     chapter almost outed me as a Captain America fic writer to my co-
     workers, because apparently I know a little too much about the
     history of the gentrification of Brooklyn for someone who's never
     even been to NYC. Oops. (Also, in case you are not aware, this
     delightful_piece_of_meta from thingswithwings is pretty damn nifty if
     you want to know a little more about Steve's and Bucky's
     neighbourhood.)
     I should also mention that this fic is (as many of you have sorted
     out) all about the delayed gratification. But almost more than that,
     it is about delayed knowledge of gratification, so don't worry if it
     doesn't feel like people are getting what is coming to them.
     Groundwork is already being laid for what I hope will be some very
     satisfying justice. Many people can tell you how unpleasant writing
     these first few chapters has been for me, simply because this high
     level of suffering really isn't my endgame, here. I don't like
     unhappy endings, I like when the good guys kick ass and take names.
     Victory vengeance. That is my endgame. Try to remember that for just
     a little while longer. And again: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,
     etc.
     Thanks as always to my beta MomentsOfWeakness, and to everyone for
     all of your support and encouraging comments!
 
 
 
Steve won’t stop coughing, and Bucky breaks a little at the keening, pained
noises that escape from him every time it happens. The night is bitterly cold,
especially for Steve, who’s still just in a thin undershirt and pants. He’s
started shaking now, too, and he can’t support his own weight; he can barely
stand. Bucky won’t pick him up though, terrified of carrying him through the
busy Brooklyn streets. Most New Yorkers tend to mind their own business, more
so the later it gets, but Steve already looks like he picked a fistfight with a
street car as it is. If he has to be carried besides, someone will notice, and
once they get noticed the police will come. They’ll be marched straight back to
reform school, maybe different ones this time, and Bucky can’t let that happen.
Steve might die a little sooner out here, but at least he won’t have to die
like that.
 
He tries to aim for places that seem to have less money, not going in any
specific direction. None of the homes around the reform school are what anyone
could call classy, but Bucky doesn’t want to stay so close to the school,
especially in a part of town where two white boys are more likely to attract
attention. They aren’t walking in the direction of Brownsville, unfortunately –
Brownsville is about as rundown as it gets, and Bucky would feel safer walking
in a direction that he knows, but there’s no questioning that the closer they
get to the Brooklyn bridge, the easier Bucky breathes.
 
They walk for hours, stopping when they can find a quiet place for Steve to try
to get his breath back. But in the end, Bucky can’t ignore the fact that Steve
can’t be pushed any further, so Bucky faces the inevitable not long after
they’ve put Fort Greene behind them, just when the first hints of daylight are
touching the sky. He pulls Steve into an alley as gently as he can, away from
the nonplussed faces of the especially committed prostitutes. One in particular
(Bucky can’t honestly tell if it’s a man or woman) is staring hard at them and
trying to hide it, casually taking a few steps their direction to get a better
look.
 
Bucky tries to fashion a little bit of a shelter up against a dumpster with
garbage bags and empty boxes. It’s not much, but at least the wind isn’t eating
away at Steve’s too thin shirt anymore. He’s worried that he pushed Steve too
hard tonight. The kid looks more like a Lon Chaney character than ever; Bucky
has no idea how Steve can see anything beyond the swelling right now. His body
is shaking so badly he literally cannot hold any of his own weight as he’s
lowered to the ground. When Bucky carefully crouches down and eases his way in
next to him, Steve shudders and lets out a little choked sob of pain and
exhaustion. Bucky murmurs an apology into Steve’s ear, but he puts his arms
around him instead of pulling away. Steve is still shivering and Bucky has to
do somethingto keep him warm. Just like he has to pretend that the shaking
isn’t a sign of something worse than a bad chill.
 
He’s not sure how long they stay there like that. He doesn’t exactly fall
asleep. Steve’s too bad off for him to do that, but he does tune out a little,
trying to keep Steve’s whimpers to a minimum as he whispers soothing nonsense
into Steve’s hair. He has to fight the urge to jerk Steve closer to him when
the trash around them is unexpectedly shoved out of the way. Steve’s breathing
has started to sound so laboured, Bucky’s not about to start dragging him
around on top of everything else.
 
“Jesus,” comes a man’s shocked voice. “What happened to you two?”
 
“He fell,” Bucky grits out. “We were waiting for my dad to come give us a ride,
but there were some punks wandering around and he got scared. So we were
waiting where no one could see us.”
 
The man looks far too nice to be in this part of Brooklyn at this time of day.
He is also clearly not believing a word that comes out of Bucky’s mouth,
although he raises a curious eyebrow when Bucky says “punks” that Bucky can’t
quite interpret. Steve isn’t helping things much. He’s come to just enough to
realize that Bucky is talking to someone that isn’t him.
 
“Gotta go, gotta go,” he keeps muttering. “Can’t go back.”
 
“Your dad, huh?” The man says, looking more unimpressed by the second. “Look,
kid… maybe I should call someone. I’m a doctor, and your friend looks like he’s
in a lot of trouble. It’s alright if you’ve got nowhere to go. There are places
where you can get help. There’re some orphanages a few neighbourhoods over, or
a boy’s school –“
 
“No.” Bucky cuts him off sharply. “Just leave. Please. I’m waiting for my dad,
I promise.  He’s at the docks.”
 
“You’re lying,” The man says, not unkindly as he kneels down in the dirty alley
to get a closer look at Steve, setting down a black bag beside them. Steve has
opened his eyes now (as much as they can open and Christ, Steve looks bad) and
he starts honest to god crying when the man reaches out to put a hand on his
forehead.
 
Bucky has never seen Steve show his fear to anyone and it alarms Bucky so much
that he blurts out “I’m sorry. Just don’t let anyone know where we are.
Please.”
 
“He needs help,” the man insists, looking more than a little worried himself as
Steve, disoriented as he is, struggles to push back into Bucky’s arms, and
further away from the stranger.
 
“So?” Bucky says. “You said you’re a doctor. Help him.”
 
The man looks at him intently before asking,
 
“You boys runaways? Is that what’s going on here? Who exactly are you running
away from?”
 
“An orphanage,” Bucky says, thinking fast. “We ran from an orphanage. A few
miles off. The one with all the nuns. Please don’t make us go back?”
 
The man doesn’t look remotely convinced as his gaze slides back to Steve and
the blood seeping into his shirt.
 
“You’re saying nuns did this,” he says.
 
“The other kids,” Bucky says, desperately. “They had it in for him.”
 
The man sighs in frustration, leaning back onto his heels as he stares off
vacantly into the distance. Finally his shoulders slump a little in defeat and
Bucky thinks he hears “son of a bitch” before the man gestures to Steve and
says,
 
“You win. Help me get him up.”
 
“Why?” Bucky asks suspiciously. “Where do you want to take him?”
 
“I wouldn’t say I want to take him anywhere, but I dowant to be able to sleep
at night without the death of a child on my conscience. I’m taking both of you
home where I can look after him. I certainly can’t make do with what I brought,
and he should be in from the cold, anyhow.”
 
Bucky stays where he is and grips Steve’s shirt tighter.
 
“We can’t pay you anything,” he says, carefully.
 
“I already caught onto that, thanks,” says the man, impatient now.  “Look, son,
I understand that you don’t trust me, but your friend looks like he’s going to
die if he stays out here. All I care about is keeping that from happening. Can
you manage carrying the bag?”
 
Bucky is motionless for a moment more before he finally relaxes his grip on
Steve and allows the man to pull Steve up into his arms. He scrambles quickly
to his feet (grabbing the bag as he goes) when Steve starts trying to struggle
weakly to get away. He pushes Steve’s hair out of his eyes and whispers,
 
“It’s okay, Steve. I’m right here.”
 
He risks a glance back at the man’s – the doctor’s – face before they leave.
 
“Please don’t send us back,” he says again.
 
“To the orphanage,” the man clarifies. “That place you definitely came from,
because you wouldn’t be foolish enough to lie about that in such a serious
situation?”
 
“Right.” Bucky nods. “Thank you.”
 
“Come on,” the man says, heaving another sigh. “Just try and keep up with me,
alright?”
 
He doesn’t need to tell Bucky. Bucky is never letting Steve out of his sight
again.
 
***
 
The doctor's name is Bowers, but he wants Bucky to call him Joseph. Bucky's
mind rebels at calling someone so important to Steve's wellbeing by something
so casual, but he stays quiet about it. He's not about to be openly defiant
towards the person currently holding Steve’s life in his hands.
 
Meeting Dr. Bowers’ wife only further convinces Bucky that this is not a first
name situation. Mrs. Bowers is the perfect picture of a newlywed housewife. She
is slight and delicate, and when she hears the door to the small apartment
open, she comes into the entryway from the kitchen wearing an apron and a happy
smile on her face. Bucky can hear bacon sizzling on a frying pan behind her.
She looks like a Campbell’s Soup advertisement, not an actual person. The smile
freezes and then falters when she sees Dr. Bowers only slightly stumbling under
Steve's weight. (Steve’s hardly heavy, but they’ve been walking for a long
time, and he’s been deadweight for a lot of it, except for when he wakes up
long enough to get confused and ask about Lloyd.) The smile abandons her
completely and she covers her mouth, eyes wide, when she looks down at the
floor by Dr. Bowers' feet.
 
Bucky follows her gaze and sees a small drop of blood on the ground, soon
followed by another. Bucky glances at Steve, but he can’t sort out where it’s
coming from. He absently wonders what the etiquette is for this situation – for
him or Mrs. Bowers. Before he can get too caught up in his thoughts, she makes
a little displeased sound and turns back into the kitchen for a moment before
she darts off into another room, calling over her shoulder,
 
“It would be nice if you told me what kindof a house call you’re going on,
Joseph, so you could at least give me a chance to get the spare room in order.”
 
“Well, Ididn’t know, did I?” Dr. Bowers says, exasperated. “All he said was,
‘there’s a sick boy in the neighbourhood;’ there wasn’t a single mention of
beatings or homelessness or head injuries.”
 
“I don’t see why you couldn’t ask for more details every now and then,” she
calls from the room. “Alright, I’ve stripped the bed down to the sheets and
that will have to do for now. Come on – we need to get those clothes off of
him.”
 
Dr. Bowers pauses to take another look at Steve before he purses his lips and
follows his wife. Bucky feels invisible, forgotten, and very alarmed. He
doesn’t want to walk into a stranger’s house without permission, but he wants
to follow Steve. Of course, he’s not sure if it’s justifiable at this point,
when it’s obvious no one is planning on hurting him. Does he take off his shoes
first? Sit on the couch until they call him? They’ve been sleeping next to a
dumpster, and when Bucky looks down, he’s wearing a lot of Steve’s blood. Maybe
it’s best if he stands very still in the doorway and tries not to touch
anything. His resolve breaks the second he hears Steve waking up again and
crying out in distress.
 
He barges through the apartment and is in the bedroom before Steve is even
finished speaking, setting the medical bag next to Dr. Bowers. Steve is
struggling to sit up and slide off the far side of the bed, pulling away from
the unfamiliar hands of Dr. and Mrs. Bowers.
 
“It’s okay, Stevie,” he says, walking to the far side of the bed and touching
Steve’s now naked shoulder. “Let them help you okay?”
 
But Steve keeps pushing Dr. Bowers away when they try to take off his trousers,
mumbling, “I’m fine, ‘m fine,” over and over.
 
“I really don’t think you are,” Dr. Bowers finally says, quieter and more
gently than he’s been talking to Bucky or Mrs. Bowers. “If you’re uncomfortable
with me doing this, I can leave while Mrs. Bowers or your friend help you. Mrs.
Bowers has helped me with hurt patients before, and sometimes it’s easier, but
I’m afraid I’ll have to look you over eventually. No matter what.”
 
Steve lets out a horrible, broken little noise that reminds Bucky of the
animalistic screaming he heard coming from the boiler room and huddles in on
himself. Bucky’s instinctively hauling himself up onto the bed before his brain
even has a chance to form a proper thought.
 
“Don’t be upset, Steve,” he says, making sure he’s speaking towards the ear
that isn’t bleeding, because he’s noticed Steve craning his neck a lot more to
keep it facing whoever’s talking. “I’ll stay right here.”
 
“No,” Steve is saying, shaking his head adamantly. He’s starting to look
miffed, maybe at himself more than anything, that he can’t muster up the words
to explain himself. “It’s not – that’s not –“
 
“No one wants to judge you,” Dr. Bowers says, cautiously, like he’s trying a
different approach. “I have many patients from your part of town. There’s not a
lot I haven’t seen, and I’m not interested in asking lots of questions if you
don’t want to answer them.”
 
“I can’t,” Steve says, voice cracking, and he looks so frustrated Bucky almost
expects him to climb to his feet and storm out, despite the shape he’s in. It’s
all he can do to coax him to lean back and lie still.
 
“Joseph?”
 
Bucky starts a little at Mrs. Bowers’ voice, who has been so quiet, he almost
forgot she was there. He looks around to see her holding Steve’s shirt, her
hands in the sleeves like she’s just turned it inside-out. Bucky can’t quite
tell if she looks upset or angry. Maybe both.
 
“I think I might know what the problem is. May I?”
 
Dr. Bowers moves back and to the side as Mrs. Bowers slowly approaches the bed,
like she’s giving Steve and Bucky plenty of time to process what she’s doing.
 
“I’m very sorry, Steven – may I call you Steven?”
 
Steve is quiet for a minute before he cautiously corrects,
 
“Steve.”
 
“Steve,” Mrs. Bowers nods, right next to him now. “I’ve very sorry, Steve. I
don’t think you’re going to be happy with me, but I promise this will only take
a second.”
 
Setting down the shirt on the night table, she warily reaches forward and takes
a hold of Steve pants. Steve is stiff as a board as she undoes them; it doesn’t
even look like he’s breathing. But the second she gently tries to start tugging
them down his legs, Steve shudders so violently it almost looks like he’s
having some kind of fit, his hand flailing out to grip Bucky’s shirt.
 
Mrs. Bowers apologises again and lets her hands hover awkwardly until she’s
sure Steve isn’t going to try to sit up again before she looks over her
shoulder and says,
 
“I think there’s too much blood, Joseph. I think that’s why he woke up in the
first place.”
 
She picks up Steve’s shirt again and holds it out. Bucky looks, too, and feels
sick. Despite how caked on the blood had been, Steve’s shirt was relatively dry
by the time Dr. Bowers found them. Now the inside almost looks like it glistens
in the early light. Bucky cautiously rolls Steve towards him slightly, wincing
when Steve flinches at the movement. Fresh trails of blood are coursing
sluggishly down his back, staining the sheets and causing them to stick
slightly to Steve’s skin. Staring at it, Bucky thinks about how badly Steve’s
clothes must be pulling where it’s started to dry and scab over, and feels even
worse about making Steve walk so far. He swallows hard as the lets Steve lie
back again, rubbing at his arm and shoulder in a way that he hopes is
reassuring. It’s about the only part of Steve he’s not scared to touch.
 
Dr. Bowers leans forward to lightly touch at the stiff material covering
Steve’s thighs before admitting,
 
“I may have to cut him out.”
 
That seems like an awful idea to Bucky, since it doesn’t sound like it will
hurt any less, but in the end, Mrs. Bowers leaves the room saying she has a
better idea. She draws a lukewarm bath and helps Steve sit in it until the
material loosens enough to slip off without reopening too many cuts. It’s not
ideal – the water obviously stings at the open wounds dreadfully, but it’s
still better than forcing off the rest of his clothes. It also gives Bucky a
chance to clean a lot of the grime and dried blood off of Steve.
 
They sit in the small bathroom quietly, Bucky cautiously cleaning Steve’s skin
around the cuts and welts. In the other room he can hear the Bowers talking,
their voices low and urgent. Once he hears, “about Lloyd” and “dead” coming
from Dr. Bowers, and an distressed reply from Mrs. Bowers. Bucky tenses,
because as much as he wants to make people pay for what happened, he wants to
stay far away from the school when it happens. For the time being he tries not
to worry too much and focuses on cleaning Steve up. He wants to get the blood
out of Steve’s hair, too, but Steve, who appears to be steadily regaining his
lucidity, quietly asks for help getting out instead.
 
“I can’t sit anymore,” he admits. “Hurts.”
 
“Okay,” Bucky says, very carefully letting him clamber out on his own instead
of just lifting him, because Steve’s coming around enough to get prickly when
people manhandle him again. Even with all the practise he’s gotten, Steve has
always been a surprisingly awful patient.
 
He’s a mess – oozing whip marks from the belts and rulers run all the way from
his neck to his thighs and rear end, but there’s not much Dr. Bowers can do
beyond applying liberal amounts of antiseptic and wrapping Steve’s lower torso
like a mummy. He also applies an extra set of bandages to Steve’s ribcage, much
tighter than the gauze.
 
“Your ribs are almost certainly bruised,” he explains. “Maybe even cracked, but
wrapping them like this should give you some relief. Are you having trouble
breathing?”
“Always have trouble breathing,” Steve mutters, looking tired enough to fall
over.
 
“He’s asthmatic,” Bucky explains distractedly, as he tries to encourage Steve
to lean against him and take the weight off his upper body.
 
Dr. Bowers looks at them curiously, not for the first time since he’s brought
them into his home. Still, he doesn’t comment like Bucky thinks he wants to,
just asks Bucky for help turning Steve onto his stomach.
 
“Do you want your friend to stay?” Dr. Bowers asks.
 
Steve doesn’t answer but his hand reaches out, blindly searching until Bucky
takes it.
 
“Okay,” Dr. Bowers says, acting like Steve hasn’t gone quiet at all. He goes to
examine the backs of Steve’s legs. He keeps glancing from his work to look over
at Bucky, eyes skirting away when he’s caught. There’s obviously a question he
wants to ask and for the life of him, Bucky doesn’t know why he won’t just do
it.
 
Finally Dr. Bowers decides to start things off with a cryptic,
 
“How many men?”
 
Even with his face pushed down into the covers, Bucky can see Steve’s ears
start to turn red, like this is something he needs to be embarrassed about,
like it’s his fault.
 
“I don’t know,” he says, in a voice that sounds strangely devoid of any
emotion. “Two?”
 
Bucky starts so hard the bed moves.
 
“What?” He says, too alarmed to even consider their audience. “I thought it was
just…”
 
He trails off when Steve starts shaking his head.
 
“No,” he says. “I’m missing pieces, and sometimes I couldn’t see, but I don’t
think it was him at all. I don’t even think it was about that – you know,
anything perverted? I think they were just trying to scare me or punish me or
something.”
 
“No, it was plenty perverted,” Dr. Bowers reassures, sounding beyond disgusted,
but Bucky doesn’t think it sounds directed at Steve, which is a relief.
 
“Was it just you?” Bucky asks, hating himself for even opening his mouth. “I
mean, did they do it to Lloyd before he –“
 
“No,” Steve says firmly. It’s all he says, and Bucky isn’t brave enough to keep
asking.
 
“Who’s Lloyd?” Dr. Bowers asks. “You’ve said that name before. Is he in
trouble?”
 
“No,” Steve’s voice is even more clipped than before.
 
“I can have someone sent to where you last saw him,” Dr. Bowers offers. “Just
to make sure everything’s all right.”
 
“He doesn’t need any help,” Bucky says. “Do we have to talk about this?”
 
There’s silence for a while as Dr. Bowers acquiesces and focuses on cleaning up
Steve’s legs, but before long he’s back at it.
 
“Did they give you their names? The men?”
 
Neither Bucky nor Steve say anything, so Dr. Bowers tries again,
 
“Do you know any names?” Dr. Bowers asks. “Were they regular customers?”
 
“Customers?” Steve finally says, bewildered.
 
“Acquaintances?” Dr. Bowers tries again, but suddenly the uneasy looks he’s
been giving them start to make a lot more sense.
 
“We don’t do that,” Bucky says, staring him right in the eye, wishing everyone
would stop treating them like they’re queer by default.
 
Dr. Bowers doesn’t seem convinced.
 
“I’m not going to be mad,” he promises, pausing to apologise when Steve jerks
away as he deals with one of the infected welts.
 
“You’re both awfully young,” he continues after another moment. “But I
understand how hard it can be to get by these days, what with the Depression
and all. I just… it would help if you’re honest with me.”
 
“We’re not whores,” Bucky says, just a little louder. He knows if Dr. Bowers
was thinking it, Mrs. Bowers likely was, too, but he’d still like to pretend
she can’t hear any of this.
 
“Okay,” Dr. Bowers soothes. “Is there anything you cantell me about the men? If
people are out there attacking young boys, the police should be told.”
 
“You trying to get us arrested on top of everything else?” Bucky asks,
incredulous. He knows what they say about gift horses, but it’s getting harder
and harder to feel grateful.
 
Dr. Bowers looks slightly apologetic when he says,
 
“I really don’t think they’d treat anyone as young as you as criminals; just as
a couple of kids who need some help. There’s a reason they created the
Children’s Bureau, you know.”
 
Steve starts chuckling, making both Bucky and the doctor jump a little. There’s
no energy behind it, but it still manages to border on hysterical. Bucky makes
a few unconvincing hushing noises until Steve squeezes his hand a little
tighter and says,
 
“What do you think they’d do if they decided we’d been selling ourselves on the
street, Buck? Toss us into the nearest reform school until we got our acts
together?”
 
“Your sense of humour’s certifiable, pal,” Bucky says, touching Steve’s hair
and smiling despite himself. He glances back at Dr. Bowers, who’s giving them a
different sort of calculating look now, like someone in the final moments of
solving a math problem. Instead of saying anything more, however, he just turns
his attention back to Steve.
 
He talks Steve through it – never lays a hand on him there without giving him
warning first, and he always waits to make sure Steve heard him (Bucky’s sure
he’s not imagining it now – something’s off with Steve’s hearing). Steve isn’t
very happy, but he’s not too alarmed by anything Dr. Bowers is doing either. It
seems that when Dr. Bowers is doctoring and not questioning, he’s not bad at
what he does.
 
When he notices Bucky staring at him in surprise after he’s finished “checking
for tears” and Steve hasn’t made a peep (even though his face is bright red
again), Dr. Bowers explains,
 
“I keep telling you this is nothing I haven’t seen before. I help out a lot of
people in your part of town – or at least, the part of town where I found you.
You learn to be very candid about what’s coming next or else you startle people
and get kicked in the face.”
 
After a more awkward minutes while Dr. Bowers double checks a few things, he
pulls away and says,
 
“Well, that at least could have been worse. I think you’re going to be okay,
Steve; just sore. I’ll make sure Helen gives you soup for the next few days,
but the bleeding’s mostly stopped now.”
 
“The next few days?” Bucky repeats, dumbly.
 
“Did you think I was planning to send you back to the dumpster?” Dr. Bowers
asks.
 
Bucky isn’t sure how to respond, because, yes actually, that’s exactly what he
thought. Just then Mrs. Bowers comes into the room with a steaming basin of
water and some clean linens on her arm.
 
“We really don’t want to be any more trouble,” Bucky tries, awkwardly, because
most of his experience with prolonged kindness comes from Steve – certainly not
from strangers. Mrs. Bowers waves him off.
 
“Joseph and I have been lending out this room for years now,” she says as she
arranges the basin on the end table. “In the first year we were married, he
came home four different times with sick strangers, and I brought home the
fifth. It just seems to be something we do, and if it was more trouble than it
was worth, we wouldn’t do it.”
 
She sets Bucky to work and has him changing the bed as she moves Steve to a
soft chair where she finishes cleaning his hair and the parts of his body not
swathed in bandages. The pyjamas she’s found for them are too big for Bucky and
they dwarf Steve, but the clothes they were wearing look fit for an
incinerator, so Bucky puts them on without too much protest. He’s not sure what
to do after he’s got Steve settled in, but Mrs. Bowers impatiently scoots him
towards the bed, too.
 
“Go on,” she says. “You look like you’re going to stop breathing every time
he’s out of your sight and even when he was barely conscious he wouldn’t stop
reaching for you. I obviously wouldn’t make you sleep in separate rooms, even
if we had that kind of space. Now, you come find Dr. Bowers if he’s having any
trouble, alright?”
 
She pauses, awkwardly, before adding,
 
“If there’s anything else you’d like to tell us – about… a friend you had that
might be in trouble – or beyond helping – you can tell us that, too. I know
that it can be hard to see the use in telling if there’s nothing anyone can do,
but maybe it’d help you rest a little easier just to let someone know.”
 
Bucky doesn’t answer and won’t meet her eyes as he shakes his head. They must
think he and Steve are terrible people. But Mrs. Bowers only sighs and says,
 
“Try to get some sleep, boys.”
 
As Bucky cautiously curls up next to Steve, he wonders how anyone could
possibly expect them to sleep after everything that’s happened. He’s not even
sure what part of Brooklyn they’re in right now. For years Bucky’s life has
been in one building on one tiny corner of New York City, and in the space of a
day the entire world looks different. He’s not certain his head will ever stop
spinning, but despite everything, he’s unconscious almost before his head hits
the pillow.
 
***
 
It takes over a day for the swelling to start to go down in Steve’s face,
before his eyes are able to open more than halfway again. He lies in the bed
and stares up at the ceiling, never saying a word, not even when Bucky talks to
him directly. But talking to Steve is something Bucky does less and less as the
day crawls by, because it’s uncomfortable now. Bucky imagines a wall between
them – one that he can’t climb over and isn’t even sure if he wants to. No
matter how mangled Steve’s face is, Bucky knows his friend, and he knows how to
read his silences. Steve is angry; maddeningly, inconsolably angry, and Bucky
has a sinking fear that if he pushes too hard, he’ll find out that all the
anger is directed at him.Because of course Steve is mad at Bucky for throwing
away the evidence, and of course he’s angry at him for taking an entire day to
reach him and Lloyd. It’s painfully obvious Bucky is the reason Lloyd is dead,
and the reason Steve was hurt, and Bucky doesn’t know what makes him a worse
human being: being responsible for someone else’s death, or being more upset
that he might lose Steve over it than he is about the death itself.
 
So mostly, Bucky spends the first day away from the school sitting quietly on
the corner of the bed, holding Steve’s hand in his with his back carefully
turned to Steve and the black mood radiating out of him. After Mrs. Bowers (he
still can’t think of her as Helen) pops her head in for the third time to see
him in the exact same position, she lets out a sigh and gestures for him to
follow her into the kitchen. Steve doesn’t even blink when Bucky gets up and
leaves.
 
“You need to give him some time,” Mrs. Bowers says to him quietly, as she sets
to work putting the kettle on the stove. “Something very bad happened to him,
and to you – at least indirectly – and it takes some time to sort out the mess
that makes of your head.”
 
Bucky shakes his head.
 
“I think he hates me,” he says. “I let them down.”
 
Mrs. Bowers glances up at him when he says “them,” but doesn’t push it further.
 
“You didn’t let anyone down,” she says. “You did what you could when you could.
Sometimes you can’t stop bad things from happening, James. Learning to move on
after that happens is just a part of life.”
 
“I loused up,” Bucky insists. “I could have done better, I know it.”
 
“We all make mistakes,” Mrs. Bowers says, calmly, sounding like she’s had this
talk many, many times before. Bucky wonders if she’s ever said it to Dr.
Bowers. “I’vemade mistakes, but you can’t blame yourself for the actions of
others. That’s no way to live.”
 
“Did your mistake ever get a person killed?” Bucky asks, bluntly. “Because mine
did.”
 
Mrs. Bowers stops in her steps at that and glances at him sharply; the kettle
starts to shriek and spit.
 
“James,” she says, carefully. “I know you don’t want the police involved in
whatever happened, but shouldthey be?”
 
“They won’t care,” Bucky mutters. “It was just an Indian kid.”
 
“Why would that make any difference?” Mrs. Bowers asks, a hard edge creeping
into her voice. “I won’t have talk like that in this home, James. No one is
ever ‘just’ anything here.”
 
Bucky smiles a little at the admonishment. Like so many things, she makes him
absently wonder what happened to his mother. Bucky doesn’t remember much about
her before she stopped getting up in the mornings, but he likes to pretend that
when she wasn’t sick, she was a good person who didn’t care about things that
couldn’t be helped. Someone like Steve.
 
“I know that,” he says. “But me and Steve’re basically trash. No one wants us
or really cares about us, and we weren’t even supposed to talk to Lloyd – or
the black kids, either. I knowthey didn’t care about us, but they cared about
Lloyd even less. The cops won’t be any different.”
 
“The police might care a little more if they knew that this was happening in a
place specifically built to help children,” she comments dryly as she takes the
water off the heat and pours it into cups. So they’ve figured out where Steve
and Bucky ran from, anyhow. Bucky isn’t as surprised by that as he is by how at
least the Bowers have no idea how the reform school is run. The milk campaign
was literally the only time he saw anyone from the Children’s Bureau inside the
school. No one monitors the administration; for some reason everyone accepts
that the administration can monitor itself. It seems pointless to explain any
of this, though. Mrs. Bowers is radiating enough earnest sincerity to give
Steve a run for his money on a good day, so chances are she wouldn’t believe
him.
 
“I’m not going to say anything to anyone if it means they might send Steve back
there,” Bucky says firmly.
 
“I wouldn’t want you to,” Mrs. Bowers admits as she sets the cup in front of
Bucky. “But someone should do something. There must be something that can be
done to make sure you boys have someone to stand up for you.”
 
Bucky looks at the water suspiciously, but Mrs. Bowers smiles and calls it
silver tea and it doesn’t look like she’s joking, so he sips at it to be
polite. They drink quietly for a few minutes, and Bucky absently wonders how
hot water can be so comforting. They’re interrupted by sounds coming from the
bedroom and Bucky twitches violently in his chair, ready to spring up and run
back to see what’s wrong when Steve emerges in the doorway on unsteady feet.
His eyes flit rapidly around the room and his body sags in relief when he sees
Bucky. Bucky can see the tremors running through Steve’s slight frame even from
across a room.
 
“I thought you left,” Steve says, weakly, and the fear in his voice is open and
raw.
 
A mean part of Bucky wants to say that he’s not the one who leaves without
warning, but then Mrs. Bowers whispers in Bucky’s ear as she leans down to pick
up his now empty cup,
 
“He just needs time. Let him feel how he needs to feel and don’t take it
personally. He needs you, too.”
 
Bucky doesn’t acknowledge her, but he thinks about what she said, when he gets
up and Steve grabs onto his arm like a lifeline, and long afterwards, too.
 
***
 
Steve doesn’t get better as quickly as Bucky would like, but Steve’s never
exactly been the picture of health either, so it’s hardly surprising. In all
honesty, Bucky’s desire to see Steve back on his feet again isn’t wholly about
Steve’s physical wellbeing; it’s because he can’t wait to leave the Bowers’
apartment. 
 
It’s not that he doesn’t like the Bowers, because he really does – likes them
in an easy and unquestioning way that he hasn’t felt towards an adult since he
can’t remember when. They’re well-meaning and kind, and so happy to give away
what they have Bucky would think they’re Bohemians, except he’s pretty sure
Steve has said you have to live in a commune to be a Bohemian. All in all,
they’re refreshingly safe, but safe doesn’t necessarily mean simple and staying
with the Bowers is nerve-wracking.
 
Bucky can tell that they are itching to find out more about Barry’s School for
Boys, with a whole squad of police behind them. (On that subject, Bucky’s also
fairly confident that real Bohemians aren’t so eager to talk to police
officers, either.) So far the only thing that’s deterred Dr. Bowers is when
Bucky corners him and flat out pleads with him for over an hour not to tell the
authorities about them. Dr. Bowers finally looks at Bucky tiredly and says,
 
“I just want to make sure this doesn’t happen again, James. Don’t you want
that? What about the boy you knew who died? Don’t you want to make sure that
can’t happen again?”
 
“If you stop them without bringing us into it, I might kiss you,” Bucky
deadpans.
 
After Dr. Bowers lets out a frustrated noise, he quietly adds,
 
“I know more kids might die if no one ever finds out about what happened – I’m
not stupid. But I know where kids go when they’re a nuisance, too. If Steve and
I say anything, it’s going to make us big nuisances. We’ll be causing problems
and extra work for a whole lot of people. I’ve already spent years scared that
Steve is going to die on me – you’ve seen how small and sickly he is. He’s
always been like that. It would be hard enough for him if he had a mom and dad
– how good do you think his odds would be if they put him in a place like
Barry’s reform school? Even for a week?”
 
Dr. Bowers stops talking about bringing the boys to the police after that, but
he never stops talking to Mrs. Bowers about different ideas to stop the school.
Bucky just wants him to knock it off, because Steve isn’t doing too great, and
the last thing he needs when he’s feeling so down is to be reminded of the
place that did this to him in the first place. Even worse, Bucky’s afraid that
sooner or later Steve will be back to his old self again and start agreeing
with Dr. Bowers.
 
When Bucky’s not worried about Steve and his ideals waking up in the company of
the Bowers, he has to admit that he’s also worried about what will happen to
the Bowers themselves if they stay. They never say a word about it, but it
doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to figure out that these are two people who don’t
have much to spare. Bucky can remember a time when he was convinced owning a
phone was the ultimate sign of wealth and prosperity, but after a week of
staying with the Bowers, Bucky cringes each time he hears it ring.
 
Dr. Bowers is forever being called upon to make house calls by desperate people
who can’t afford to pay him. He never says no, but Bucky can see the pinched
look on his face every time he sees the inside of the ice box or a pantry
cupboard. They have so little, and then Steve and Bucky come along, leeching
out of the back pocket of two people with nothing to spare. Mrs. Bowers waves
him off whenever he hesitatingly brings up the idea of payment or working off
what he owes.
 
“Joseph and I make do with our little system,” she says. “You pay what you can,
and then help us help someone else once you have your feet back under you.”
 
Steve is just as skeptical when Bucky relays the conversation to him and says,
 
“That sounds nice and all, but you can’t pay the rent with good intentions.” He
leans back against his pillow. “We can’t keep staying here, Buck. It’s not
right.”
 
“Where do we go?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound as lost as he feels.
 
“I don’t know,” Steve says, bleakly, before laughing a little and Christ, Bucky
is starting to hate the sound of Steve’s laugh. He never thought that would
happen before all of this. “I never planned this part. I never thought we’d
make it this far. It all seemed unimportant.”
 
“Right,” Bucky says, a little timidly but still unable to resist. “Just
unimportant things like food and money and a roof over our heads?”
 
Steve gives him a tired little smile.
 
“Yeah,” he says. “Stupid things like that.”
 
It’s the first time Bucky’s seen him smile and mean it since he first tried to
run. It doesn’t change a single thing, but somehow nothing seems quite as
hopeless once Bucky’s seen it.
 
***
 
They don’t see a practical demonstration of the Bowers’ “little system” in full
force until about two and a half weeks after Dr. Bowers brings them home. Steve
still isn’t saying much, although now that he’s awake most of the time and
moving around more, he gets antsy if Bucky is out of sight. He’s also latched
onto Mrs. Bowers, who is likely the only adult Steve’s ever met to encourage
his artistic side.
 
Steve has gotten into trouble for daydreaming and drawing instead of paying
attention in class for as long as Bucky has known him, but he’s never met
anyone other than Bucky who treats it like it’s a good thing, or tried to teach
him any basic rules. He’s only barely been convinced to set down a pencil to
eat since the first time he ventured out of the bedroom. Bucky likes how it
seems to relax him most of the time, but sometimes when Bucky looks over at his
work, the page will almost be black, covered in angry jagged lines and a lonely
figure huddled deep in the shadows. It’s all the more alarming since Bucky is
never sure who the lonely figures are supposed to be, and he knows they’re
supposed to represent someone, even if Steve will only ever shrug and say,
 
“It’s just to practice shading.”
 
He rarely looks Bucky in the eye when he answers – he rarely looks anyone in
the eye these days. Bucky never thought it would be possible to miss someone
when they’re sitting right next to you, but it feels like Steve’s been gone
ever since he caught Bucky heading to Mr. Douglas’s office. The quiet would be
so much easier to take if Steve would just look at him every now and then.
Steve’s always been the thing that keeps him grounded, now when he looks at him
it only feels like falling.
 
Steve is drawing at the kitchen table the night Dr. Bowers comes triumphantly
into the apartment, Bucky sitting beside him, trying not to complain about
being bored off his rocker. The grin on Dr. Bowers’ face grows when he sees
them sitting together.
 
“Perfect!” He says, brightly. “I need to talk to you boys.”
 
“It wasn’t me,” Bucky says immediately. It gets him a puzzled look from Dr.
Bowers, and an exasperated sigh and light smack on the elbow from Steve, which
is what he’d been hoping for.
 
“I was speaking to an old patient today,” Dr. Bowers says, wisely opting to
ignore Bucky. “I gave him some help free of charge a few years ago, so he likes
to stop by every now and then to return the favour – extra food, clothes for
people who might need them, that sort of thing. Anyhow, Frank’s been doing
wonderfully for himself lately and actually works as landlord for a few
tenement buildings. One owner recently agreed to let him sublet a few of the
apartments himself as some sort of raise, and one of them is a small apartment
whose current occupant is leaving at the end of the week. When he heard you
boys had no place to go, he offered to let you stay there – with a reduced rate
and weekly payments, besides.”
 
“An apartment?” Steve repeats, looking dazed.
 
“Just a small one,” Dr. Bowers assures. “A combined kitchen and living room,
and a small bedroom. With jobs you should just be able to get by.”
 
“We don’t have jobs,” Bucky reminds him. Dr. Bowers slaps his forehead.
 
“I almost forgot,” he says. “Frank also thinks he knows someone who can get
James a job.”
 
Bucky may be paranoid, but he can’t help but think that Dr. Bowers is trying to
sound more and more like he’s selling something. He narrows his eyes
suspiciously.
 
“A job doing what?” He asks, and bingo. Dr. Bowers instantly begins to shift
from foot to foot, guiltily.
 
“He has a friend who owns a bar. You’re awfully young, but we’re both certain
that this old friend can be convinced to hire you to run odd jobs – mostly for
the kitchen, and on the condition that you’re not to go inside when the bar’s
open. Frank is quite trustworthy, and he says this friend is a good man. He
wouldn’t want to see you getting into any trouble – with the clientele or the
law.”
 
Bucky is still trying to puzzle this out when Steve, always two steps ahead,
asks,
 
“Where’s the bar?”
 
“Quite close to where I found the two of you – in Fulton’s Landing,” Dr. Bowers
says, like he’s admitting to something. “So is the apartment, to be honest. I’m
not saying this will be easy, especially at the start before Steve is able to
help much with the rent, but it’s better than nothing.”
 
Something clicks in Bucky’s mind, finally.
 
“There were a lot of… odd-looking people on the streets the night we ran,” he
says. “And you thought we were sleeping with men for money. Are you sending me
to work at a queer bar?”
 
Dr. Bowers looks a mixture of apologetic and sheepish.
 
“I know it’s not ideal,” he says. “But money is money, and there are a lot of
good people who live in that area. I even know a few of the people in Frank’s
apartment.”
 
“Why do you know anyone there at all?” Steve asks. “You have a wife.”
 
“They’re just people, Steve,” Mrs. Bowers says, coming into the room behind Dr.
Bowers and making Steve jump. “They need doctors sometimes, just like everyone
else.”
 
She smiles at him.
 
“I also have a brother who lives in Fulton’s Landing – the one who taught me
how to draw. He says there are some amazing artists in that corner of
Brooklyn.”
 
One look at the hungry expression that suddenly comes over Steve’s face, and
any reservations Bucky is trying to summon up at the offer are instantly
quelled. Steve wants it, and that’s all Bucky needs to see before he decides
that maybe it won’t be so bad in Fulton’s Landing after all.
***** Century of Sleep, Part Four *****
Chapter Notes
     General warnings about period-typical racist/sexist/homophobic
     language. Also, one teeny fix/apology: I went back and tweaked a date
     in part one, because somehow I'd managed to get Steve's birthdate
     wrong. It shouldn't make a huge difference overall, so let's just
     pretend it never happened.
     A couple new things come into play in this chapter. One is violence
     of a more domestic variety. It's not full-out partner abuse or
     anything like that, and technically it is more a hot-headed,
     traumatized kid losing his temper on his best friend, so I didn't put
     it in the tags. But at the risk of stating the obvious, I didn't want
     to skip the following PSA: Domestic violence is not cool, guys. Hell,
     violence towards friends isn't cool, either. I don't care if you are
     dating/BFFs with Captain America, I don't care if there are other
     issues at play, I don't care if the person is really sorry after, or
     even if it was genuinely a one-time thing (as is the case here). If
     that happens, you don't need to justify kicking that partner's/
     friend's ass to the curb, and you know who would be the first to
     support that decision? Captain America, that's who. Ultimately, you
     do what you need to do to feel safe. You're also not a weak person if
     you don't give up on that partner/friend. Just... be safe about how
     you make that decision. And know that you have the right to change
     your mind later if you decide that's what needs to happen.
     Whew! That was a downer! Despite that rather ominous warning/lecture
     (sorry!), this chapter really IS a little oasis of happy in the
     story. It also has sex! Sorry, it's not really smutty at all. (I used
     to think I could make a career writing romance novels until I tried
     to write my first sex scene and I just can't take that shit
     seriously. Sex is ridiculous when you stop and let yourself think
     about it.) But related to all this, Steve sort ended up being demi/
     graysexual in this story, although that is not a term or concept that
     existed in the 1930s. (There were similar concepts, most definitely,
     but none that were lumped together with the idea of sexual
     orientation.) This isn't something that can be fully addressed in a
     period piece, so just keep in mind that emotionally healthy,
     consenting sex doesn't only happen when people are overcome by lust.
     Sometimes you just sleep with someone because you are curious, or
     gosh shucks, you think that person is the bees knees. (Don't worry.
     No one is going to talk like that here. Although I won't lie, it was
     tempting.)
     Thanks again for your comments, and as usual, thanks to my beta
     MomentsOfWeakness for telling me when I lost track and let anatomy
     start re-arranging itself during that sex scene.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
 
The apartment is small, dark, and stuffy. In addition to the bedroom, there’s a
closet of a space for the toilet, and a communal shower at the end of the hall.
The bedroom is so tiny there may not be room for two beds, Frank says. (He
insists on being called Frank, and won’t even tell them his last name, once he
looks at their scandalized faces and realizes it’s the only way he’ll win.)
 
“One of you can sleep out in the living area if you need to.”
 
He goes on to add that the one bed they currently have, donated by yet another
one of Dr. Bowers’ patients, should hold two bodies without too much trouble.
(He doesn’t say this will only work if you’re pushed up against each other, but
it’s fairly obvious.) Bucky is starting to get the idea that in this end of
town, people assume everyone swishes at least a little, and that not many care,
provided you don’t acknowledge it out loud. The constant hints to stay silent
are getting frustrating, because there’s no way to correct anyone when they
won’t say what they’re thinking. But eventually Bucky stops worrying about it
to focus on how excited Steve is getting over the thought of their own place.
 
“Maybe once we’re both working we can build up a bit of a nest egg,” he tells
Bucky happily, opening the empty cupboards for the fifth time. “Move into a
bigger place?”
 
“Maybe we should work on getting a table and some chairs first, pal,” Bucky
says, dryly. “Bed’s the only stick of furniture in the place.”
 
Steve only rolls his eyes and goes back to putting their things away. It
doesn’t take long, even with his injuries: the spare linen and two towels Mrs.
Bowers gave them are put into the linen cupboard next to the tiny bathroom; the
sparse, mismatched cutlery and dinnerware goes onto the kitchen shelves; the
few tins of food Frank scrounged for them go next to that. They don’t even have
much in the way of clothes, aside from the few Dr. Bowers managed to get from
Goodwill, and yet another old patient. Bucky tries to focus on how nice people
are being, instead of how it’ll take a miracle for them to last the week.
 
It’s still early yet, but Bucky can’t justify watching Steve putter around the
place any longer, not when it’s the first day of his new job. He doesn’t want
to give anyone a reason to get mad at him so early on. Walking down the street
by himself is a new kind of terrifying for Bucky. He’s tense all over each time
someone walks past him, and can’t find the courage do more than glance up from
Frank’s directions, just in case someone catches his eye and recognizes him.
He’s convinced Mr. Atherton is lying in wait behind every corner.
 
But apparently Mr. Atherton isn’t looking for them in this part of Brooklyn, or
he’s satisfied knowing Steve and Bucky didn’t take any paperwork with them, or
he just has better things to worry about. Bucky gets to the bar unscathed and
when he knocks loudly on the back door, a gruff looking man with an apron
appears. He narrows his eyes at Bucky and stares silently for a moment before
he says, “you the new grunt?”
 
“Yes?” Bucky says hesitantly.
 
“You’re late,” says the man. “Do you not know your way around Brooklyn, or
something?”
“I’m a fast learner,” Bucky says. The man just sighs loudly and mutters
something about “bleeding hearts” before he stands off to the side and waves at
Bucky to come in. When Bucky hesitates he looks even more unimpressed and asks,
 
“Frank give you the speech about never coming in the place? I got news for you
kid – they don’t arrest the cooks unless the food is terrible. Don’t wander out
of the kitchens and you’ll be fine.”
 
Bucky spends surprisingly little time in the bar itself anyhow. He spends most
of his time running from place to place, looking for good deals on produce and
meat, running tablecloths to and from the cleaners, and getting lost
repeatedly. He buys everything on credit, since obviously no one is stupid
enough to trust him with money yet, but even just trying to track down enough
tomatoes from a pre-approved list of grocers is more responsibility than Bucky
is expecting to be given. It takes more time than he ever would have imagined,
finding all that food, and Bucky is starting to understand why none of the
cooks at Barry’s School stuck around for too long, especially if the
administration kept taking their food money to buy new suits and watches.
 
Oscar, the angry cook, keeps yelling at him for stopping to kiss babies instead
of getting his job done. Bucky’s pretty sure that means he needs to be faster,
and he’s worried that if he takes any longer he’ll be out of his brand new job
before the day is out. But once Bucky stops panicking long enough to pay
attention, he realizes that Oscar seems to yell at everyone like that. He even
yells at the owner at the end of the day, when he comes in to meet Bucky and
get him his pay from the back.
 
“Hey boss, if I bat my eyes real pretty, will you pay me today, too?”
 
“Afternoon, Oscar,” Mr. Lucas says, rolling his eyes, like this is a standard
greeting.
 
Glancing at Bucky he just says,
 
“Well, you didn’t steal anything today. Between that and the word of Frank and
that doctor, I guess it won’t hurt to pay you the first couple days. Don’t
expect me to make a habit of it – you’ll get paid on pay day, same as everyone
else. But we all start out on our own sometime, and you’re certainly younger
than most. I don’t mind helping a little to keep a kid your age off the
street.”
 
“He says that because too many street walkers out front leads to raids,” Oscar
says, helpfully from where he’s watching.
 
Bucky is clutching his pay in his hand a few minutes later, at a bit of a loss
as to what he should do with it. There’s a hole in his pocket and he can’t
afford to lose anything. He’s still clutching it awkwardly as he heads to the
kitchen door when he hears another put-upon sigh and a hand reaches out to grab
his shoulder.
 
“It’s like you want someone to rob you,” Oscar says, waving a handkerchief in
Bucky’s face. “Wrap it up in that and put it in your shoe.”
 
“Thank you,” Bucky manages.
 
“Don’t you make me regret it,” Oscar says, menacingly.
 
***
 
The apartment is dark when Bucky gets home, and for a second he thinks Steve
must be sleeping, but when he carefully turns on the single lamp in the
bedroom, it doesn’t take long to sort out that the place is empty.
 
The worst of it is, there isn’t really anywhere he can check. There’s no
furniture to hide behind, there are only two rooms, and there isn’t even room
to close the bathroom door if there’s someone standing at the sink. Bucky has
checked the showers at the end of the hall twice and when Steve still hasn’t
magically appeared, he thinks he might scream. It’s seems so irrational to
panic so quickly, but all Bucky can think is that the school isn’t looking hard
for him because the only one they want to hurt is Steve. He’s headed for the
showers one final time before he starts pounding on all the doors, when the
door to his left opens and a man pokes his head out. He’s slight and beginning
to go bald, and he seems to hold his weight strangely, like he balances on the
wrong parts of his feet.
 
“Hello!” He says cheerfully. “You wouldn’t be James would you?”
 
Bucky stares at him and doesn’t say anything.
 
“Ah,” the man says, faltering and somewhat awkward. “It’s only that Steven
asked me to keep an eye out for you.”
 
The man gestures behind him.
 
“He insisted on giving a hand, but he thought you might be worried.”
 
“Steve’s in there?” Bucky says, not caring about how rude he sounds, just
desperate for the confirmation.
 
“He is!” The man grins. “I popped my head in to say hello to the new neighbours
about an hour ago and we got to chatting. One thing led to another and before I
knew it, I was inviting the two of you over for dinner.”
 
“Oh,” Bucky says. “Well.”
 
Everyone outside of reform school has been the strangest mixture of abnormal
and kind, and for the life of him, Bucky can’t sort out why. Whatever happened
to all those disinterested New Yorkers? A sneaking suspicion at the back of his
head tells him Dr. Bowers has some sort of network running through the poorer
districts of Brooklyn. It shouldn’t be a surprise; the man seems to know
everybody.
 
Bucky stands there stupidly, not saying anything else. Each person he meets
seems to get stranger than the last, and it’s been such an odd day, he doesn’t
have the energy to even try to deal with people graciously anymore.
 
The man is faltering again, but after a few beats of silence gives up on
waiting for Bucky to get his act together before he introduces himself as Rich
and ushers him inside. This place is still small, but significantly bigger than
the hole Steve and Bucky are staying in, with a separated kitchen and living
room, and a bigger bathroom. There’s still only one bedroom, and Bucky quirks
an eyebrow when he’s led into the kitchen where Steve is chopping up vegetables
and chatting with another man.
 
“This is my roommate, Cal,” Rich says.
 
Roommate. Of course. Bucky is starting to understand why Frank keeps hinting
that he and Steve are breaking the law behind closed doors, since it really
does seem to be normal here. Rich and Cal, however, are not normal. At least
not to Bucky. They’re unlike anyone he’s ever met before, exuberant and
friendly with an almost reckless determination to get the most out of life.
 
“We try to live like the Romans,” Rich explains. “Not that we go out and feed
Christians to the cat or have orgies on the weekend or anything.”
 
He pauses, briefly, momentarily derailed, like it’s only now occurred to him
that they should be scheduling in some orgies.
 
“How are you Roman?” Steve prompts, smiling a little. Bucky has to admit he’s a
little impressed at how Steve is handling their antics. He’s still closed off
and reserved, especially for Steve, but he genuinely seems to enjoy their new
neighbours. If he was at all uncomfortable by what they clearly are to each
other, he’s long since gotten over it. Bucky’s saving grace for most of the day
around his new co-workers (some of whom are obviously and enthusiastically
queer) is that whenever anyone started to make him nervous, he was able to run
away under the guise of another errand. He’s pretty sure he likes most of the
people he’s met, it’s just such a strange way to live. But then, Steve has
always been pretty vocal about leaving people be unless they’re hurting someone
else, so it shouldn’t be surprising how he doesn’t so much as blink at anything
Cal and Rich are telling them.
 
“Well, you know what they say about Romans,” Cal says, which makes Rich stifle
a laugh for some reason. (Bucky bets he can guess.) “We could hide who we are
and the things that we want, but what would be the point of that? Those moments
when you’re not honest with yourself are the moments you’ll regret when your
number’s up: ‘Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow we die.’ Sounds like a plan to
me.”
 
Bucky enjoys visiting with Cal and Rich over supper, but he doesn’t necessarily
want to spend much time around them after. In all honesty, he’s getting tired
of people helping him when he has nothing to offer in return. But before long
it becomes apparent that Cal and Rich aren’t prepared to invest anything into
the friendship that isn’t met with equal effort. At the end of their first meal
together, Cal happily tells them that it will be Steve and Bucky’s turn to
bring the ingredients next time. Rich, another artist, who actually taught in a
real-life art school in Poland, tells Steve he’ll give him some lessons, if
Steve helps him modify a few dresses for him.
 
Bucky stares at Steve incredulously when he hears about that.
 
“Is he a tailor?” He tries, casting about for an explanation that makes sense.
 
“No,” Steve says, shaking his head, eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe it
either. “They’re for him. He wears them.”
 
“Why?” Bucky finally manages. “He’s… he’s not a whore, is he?”
 
Steve shrugs.
 
“No. He just likes it, I guess,” he says. “He says a lot of ‘three-letter men’
used to do it, before the stock market crashed and the Europeans started
fighting with each other.”
 
“What’s a three-letter man?” Bucky asks. Even when he’s not talking to them
directly, Cal and Rich somehow manage to make him feel like he’s been living in
a monastery with no contact to the outside world.
 
“I think it means fag,” Steve admits, frowning a little, because he hates that
word. “Three-letter man makes it sound pretty classy though, doesn’t it?”
 
***
 
Even once he’s sorted out that he doesn’t care about what they are, Bucky is
never exactly pleased by how much time Steve spends with Cal and Rich. It’s
just that Steve still doesn’t really talk to Bucky, not about important things.
He’ll talk Bucky’s ear off about how much they need to save up to buy a radio,
but whenever his mood turns surly and despondent, he just looks at Bucky
tiredly before eventually giving in and trudging down the hall, alone.
 
If Bucky’s being honest, he’s too scared to ask what Steve’s thinking, anyhow.
Maybe he feels safer when their conversations don’t get more intense than how
hard they laugh when Bucky apologises for accidentally calling Steve a sodomite
the day Oscar finally tells him what “punk” means. Bucky hates the distance,
but the things that might come up if they get closer is absolutely terrifying.
So they keep things the way they are, and Steve’ll sit and stew and stare
angrily at nothing for long moments, like he’s still so mad about everything it
shuts down all the other parts of his brain. Then he leaves (he’s always
leaving Bucky behind – always walking away), only to come back hours later with
red eyes, like he’s been crying.
 
But by the time Steve’s birthday rolls around, Steve has started finding odd
jobs here and there and is out a lot more then he used to be. Bucky thinks it
will help with the mood in the apartment, but instead it’s just when the
fighting starts. It’s not long before Bucky finds his jealousy forgotten, and
he begins encouraging Steve to go talk to anyone, even if it’s not him.
 
It’s not surprising that Steve starts throwing himself into fights he can’t
win. After all, that’s been Steve’s style for as long as Bucky has known him,
but it’s different since what happened to Lloyd. Now Steve doesn’t stop
injustices as he finds them so much as he tries to seek them out, like he’s
trying to make up for something. Bucky has seen him goad men three times his
size into making disparaging comments about the hookers on the street corner
just so he can take a swing at them. It gets bad enough that the nicer gay boys
start gently shooing him away when he’s in the area, because watching Steve get
his teeth kicked in by hypocritical buyers isn’t their idea of a fun time. It
figures even the prostitutes have a soft spot for Steve, who smiles and looks
them in the eye, and asks after their families. Once one of them even stops
Bucky in the street and tells him to “take better care of that kid.”
 
It’s an odd sensation, realizing that you’re a disappointment not only to
yourself but to the gunsels that lurk in the shadows of your neighbourhood as
well. But no matter how hard Bucky tries, he can’t make Steve see reason, and
he can’t make Steve stop fighting. It gets worse the closer they get to the one
year marker from when they ran. Beyond a few days ago, when he dragged Bucky
down to the local pawn shop to point out a kitchen table and chairs that are
miraculously almost affordable and will fit into their home, Steve hasn’t said
two words to him. He just marches down the stairs and out the door, looking for
people to hit. It eats and eats away at him until finally Bucky can’t take
seeing Steve gearing up to go look for a fight one more time, and he finally
takes his courage in both hands to snap,
 
“Lloyd’s not coming back, Steve. You can’t change the past, no matter how many
noses you break.”
 
Steve’s only response to that is to almost break Bucky’s nose before storming
out of the apartment to god knows where. Bucky sits heavily on the floor of
their empty apartment, trying not to feel sorry for himself. He’s still sitting
there when there’s a knock on the door and Cal walks in. Bucky doesn’t have the
heart to stand up and be polite, even though his body tenses up, because he
doesn’t want anyone to see him this way.
 
Cal isn’t put off by Bucky’s unenthusiastic reception and slowly lowers himself
to the floor so he’s sitting beside him.
 
“You know some of that fight got pretty loud,” he comments, conversationally.
“Put us right off our dinner.”
 
“Do you have Steve?” Bucky finally asks, because even after something like
this, his first instinct is to make sure his friend is safe.
 
“Rich is with him,” Cal assures, “but I’m not interested in Steve right now.
Are you okay?”
 
Bucky doesn’t say anything. Cal sighs.
 
“I’m worried about you, James,” he says. “You and Steve are still so young yet,
and it’s like neither of you ever got the chance to be kids, like you just came
into the world as adults. But I also know enough about life to know that adults
who walk around with the world on their shoulders like you do aren’t born;
they’re made. Steve isn’t willing to get into much detail about where you boys
came from, but he’s told me enough that I worry a little about you being alone
in this apartment in all your spare time. If you don’t want to spend time with
Rich and me, that’s okay, but I think you need to talk to someone so you don’t
get too lost in your head.”
 
“I have Steve,” Bucky murmurs. “I talk to Steve.” He determinedly ignores the
irony that he is saying he doesn’t need to talk to anyone, when it’s all he
ever wants Steve to do.
 
“Look, kid,” Cal says, a little exasperated, like he’s not used to talking to a
brick wall. “These kinds of fights between the two of you are only going to get
worse if you don’t work through the things that are bothering you. And take it
from me, it’s hard to work through problems when you’re two people running from
the same thing.”
 
“I don’t know why he doesn’t talk about what happened,” Bucky finally admits,
his eyes burning a little. “I know it’s just about all he thinks about. It’s
almost all I think about, and Steve knew him better than I did.”
 
“Sometimes the things that want to be said the most are the hardest things to
say,” Cal says.
 
“What do you do if the person you love hates you?” Bucky suddenly asks, eyes
widening at the words that are coming unbidden from his mouth. He hadn’t meant
to say it like that.God only knows what Cal thinks about him and Steve now.
 
“I promise Steve does not hate you,” Cal says, firmly.
 
“He needed my help,” Bucky insists. “The one time he needed me to come through
for him and I screwed it up. I’d hate me.”
 
“You didn’t let anyone down,” Cal says. “And Steve does not blame you for
anything. From what I’ve heard both you boys say, you’re both too busy blaming
yourselves to get angry at anyone else. So far as I’m concerned, it seems like
a waste of some perfectly good hate. There are people you could be pointing it
at who deserve it much more.”
 
“Hating ourselves gets results,” Bucky smirks. “Won’t see any change if we hate
the people who did it. They’re going to get away with it.”
 
“Maybe,” Cal says. “Or maybe not. You can’t predict the future, James. You can
change it though, if you work hard enough.”
 
Bucky is finally starting to understand why his nosey neighbours are so great
to talk to when the front door opens and Steve sneaks in. He takes one look at
the bruising around Bucky’s eyes and his face crumples a little.
 
“I’m so sorry, Buck,” he says quietly, dropping to his knees in front of Bucky
to lightly touch at the swelling. “I never, ever thought I would do something
like that to you.”
 
“I shouldn’t have brought him up,” Bucky says, but Steve only shakes his head.
Behind them the door closes softly as Cal makes an escape.
 
“No,” Steve says. “You don’t get to make this your fault, okay? This is all on
me. I just… I can’t think about him without seeing it happening all over again.
Sometimes it gets so bad I can’t remember what he looked like beyond those last
few minutes. It scares me and I just… but that’s really not an excuse, is it?”
 
“You were all caught up in your head,” Bucky tries again, because he doesn’t
like Steve getting this down on himself for any reason. “It wasn’t me you were
hitting.”
 
“I don’t think you believe that,” Steve says, blunt as always. “I know you,
James Barnes. You always think everything is your fault.”
 
Bucky mutters about pots and kettles, but Steve just makes a judgemental,
mother hen noise and continues.
 
“If I start making a habit of hitting people who don’t deserve it, I’m no
better than them,” he insists. “And I will be a better man, if I’m not, they’ve
won. I punch the bad guys from here on out, no one else.”
 
“You know, sometimes you talk and all I can hear is ‘The Star Spangled
Banner,’” Bucky says, shaking his head and smiling. “They should take out the
eagle and stick your ugly mug on the Great Seal instead.”
 
“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” Steve chuckles, and Bucky wants to cry a
little, because he misses this side of them so much.
 
“Punk,” he whispers before pulling Steve into a hug.
 
When they go to pick up the table and chairs from the pawn shop the next
morning, Bucky has to fight the urge to hold Steve’s hand as they walk down the
street. He thinks about what he said to Cal about being in love and realizes
maybe he’s an idiot. Maybe that wasn’t a slip of the tongue, after all.
               
***
 
Bucky’s really starting to get the hang of unexpected subject changes, he
realizes. He’s not too concerned though, because it seems to be an easier way
of convincing the words to leave his mouth, like he’s catching himself off
guard, too.
 
“How do you stop having inappropriate thoughts about someone you shouldn’t be
having inappropriate thoughts about?”
 
Dr. Bowers drops the jar of cotton swabs he was trying to put away and turns to
stare at Bucky a little incredulously.
 
“I’m asking for a friend?” Bucky tries.
 
“For a friend or about a friend?” Dr. Bowers asks before wincing a little, like
he hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt.
 
“Umm…”
 
Dr. Bowers just sits down and stares at Bucky like he has all the time in the
world, which Bucky knows isn’t true. Dr. Bowers is almost never in the office
when Steve and Bucky stop by to visit these days, and based on how he refuses
to tell them where he’s been going, and occasionally ends up with random kids
with hunted expressions in his house, it’s pretty obvious he’s spending most of
his free time poking around Barry’s School for Boys.
 
Part of Bucky is grateful that Dr. Bowers is so committed to putting a stop to
his old teachers, and part of Bucky doesn’t want to know anything about it.
It’s been well over a year now since Steve and Bucky got away, and the good
days are the ones when he successfully avoids thinking about it. He doesn’t
want any progress reports from Dr. Bowers, who, to be fair, doesn’t seem
inclined to give any. Bucky almost wants to ask now, though, because the look
Dr. Bowers is giving him makes him want to die of embarrassment. Frankly he
would welcome the distraction.
 
“What does ‘inappropriate’ mean, exactly?” Dr. Bowers asks.
 
Bucky shrugs and stares at his hands as he feels his face heat up.
 
“Dunno,” he says. “Just inappropriate. Like kissing them and taking them nice
places for dinner and teaching them to dance so you have an excuse to hold them
and stuff. I’m assuming.”
 
Dr. Bowers makes a strangled noise in the back of this throat.
 
“Sorry,” Bucky says just a hair too loudly, standing abruptly. “I need to
leave. I have a thing I forgot about. With a girl. It was nice seeing you
again.”
 
“James,” Dr. Bowers says, voice strained, and Bucky is distinctly aware that
he’s being laughed at. He reluctantly turns around. Dr. Bowers’ eyes are bright
but he still looks concerned.
 
“Just be careful, alright?” He says. “It sounds like this person you’re asking
for needs to talk to somebody, but they need to remember to do that in a safe
place, okay?”
 
“Yes sir,” Bucky says, dutifully. Really, he’d say anything at this point if it
would help him leave faster. For all people keep going on about how it’s
important that he ask for help when he has a problem, it’s really not all it’s
chalked up to be.
 
***
 
A few weeks later when Bucky gets home from work (late – he’s been doing some
extra work hauling crates at the navy yard) Steve is sitting at the table
waiting for him, a sombre expression on his face. It takes a second for Steve’s
mood to register, because Bucky is always distracted when he comes home these
days by how much the place has started to look like it’s theirs.
 
In addition to the table and chairs, Steve’s sketchbooks and pencils litter the
room, cluttering the old couch that was donated to them by one of Mrs. Bowers’
friends. There’s a small radio on the table now, its tinny sound filling the
apartment with music and news of what’s happening in Britain and Africa. There
are pulp novels everywhere, some more dog-eared than others. (Steve likes to
tell Bucky that if he reads Red Harvestone more time the pages will fall out.)
Almost a week ago they got a second bed, which is visible from the entryway
now, if you look over into the bedroom. For once, “home” is a word that means
more to Bucky than just “Steve.” It’s a shockingly wonderful feeling.
 
He shakes himself out of it quickly and sets aside the warm glow to go sit down
next to Steve, who is looking grimmer than ever.
 
“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Did Cal’s number come up?”
 
“No,” Steve says, softly. “We need to talk.”
 
Bucky waits patiently as Steve obviously tries to gather his thoughts. He seems
to give up after a few minutes though, and instead blurts out,
 
“Bucky are we queer?”
 
Bucky literally chokes on the air.
 
“What?” He manages. “Why is that even a question you’re asking?”
 
“Because I don’t think I know the answer,” Steve says, helplessly. “I mean, I
know everyone thinks we are, but most of the time I just guess it’s only
because of where we live.”
 
“I call you punk a lot,” Bucky adds, unable to keep the grin off his face, even
though he feels like the world just shifted underneath him. “That probably
doesn’t help, either.”
 
“At least you don’t laugh every time you say it anymore,” Steve says, dryly.
Bucky snickers. It really is funny.
 
“But I’m serious, Bucky,” Steve says, once Bucky’s stopped. “What are we?”
 
“I still don’t understand why you’re asking,” Bucky says, helplessly. “We’re
us, Steve. That’s all. Same as always.”
 
“Yes,” Steve says, emphatically, like Bucky’s just made a compelling point.
“Exactly.”
 
“Exactly what?” Bucky asks.
 
“The way I feel about you is the way I’ve always felt about you – nothing’s
changed. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel exactly this way about you
but…”
 
“But…” Bucky prompts.
 
Steve sits quietly, like he’s wrestling some dark personal demon for a moment
before he finally says,
 
“Muriel Baker.”
 
“What about her?” Bucky asks.
 
“You’ve taken her dancing twice in the last week and a half and I just, I
thought I wouldn’t mind? But I think I do. Why do I mind, Bucky?”
 
“Steve,” Bucky says, cautiously balancing between complete mortification and
pinching himself to see if he’s imagining this entire conversation (again).
“Are you jealous?”
 
“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Maybe? I saw you kissing her outside her apartment
the other day and…”
 
Steve trails off, looking almost wistful.
 
“I have to be honest, Steve,” Bucky finally says. “I didn’t think you cared
about any of it.”
 
“Of course I care,” Steve says, quietly, looking at his hands. “I don’t… I
don’t think I know what I want, but, I don’t want to share you, either.”
 
“There’s not a lot about this that doesn’t sound queer, Steve,” Bucky says,
after another long pause.
 
“But I don’t think I want…” Steve stops then starts again. “I don’t think about
you and get excited that way or anything. I don’t really think about having sex
with you, beyond wondering in passing what it would be like.”
 
Oh God. Bucky’s face feels like it is on fire, and he wonders if Steve would
notice if he made a break for the door and hid until the conversation is over.
 
“You sort of have to want to have sex with a guy to be queer, don’t you?” Steve
asks.
 
“I don’t know,” Bucky manages. “Do you have to want sex with a pretty girl to
be normal?”
 
“I never said you were pretty, Bucky,” Steve smirks. Bucky hides his face in
his hands before a thought hits him.
 
“Wait a minute,” he says. “This isn’t about something stupid, is it? It’s not
like you’ve just decided you miss sleeping in the same bed as me and think that
might make you queer, is it?”
 
“No,” Steve says defensively. “But since we’re talking about the bed, don’t you
think it’s odd that we got a table, chairs, a couch, and a radio before we
thought to get a second bed? Is that normal?”
 
“That’s… a good point,” Bucky says.
 
“Mrs. Bowers accidently told me what you asked Dr. Bowers a couple months ago,”
Steve says, and suddenly this conversation is making a lot more sense. Bucky
feels his face get even redder. “Are you not happy with the way we are?”
 
Bucky shrugs.
 
“I’m not unhappy,” he says. “Are you?”
 
“No,” Steve says, his face a portrait of sincerity. “But it feels like it’s
getting harder and harder to just keep going the way we are, without deciding
what we are. I think there are going to be a lot of Muriel Bakers if we just
pretend we’re only friends.”
 
“So what do you want from me, if you don’t want sex?” Bucky asks.
 
“I never said I didn’t want it,” Steve corrects. “I said I didn’t know.”
 
Bucky is pretty sure Steve is just being contrary at this point, so he rolls
his eyes and says,
 
“Well Steve, what do you know you want?”
 
Steve cautiously reaches out and grabs Bucky’s hand in his. It’s not an
unfamiliar gesture – he and Steve never really outgrew how tactile they are
around each other, but it feels like it means more right now, in the context of
this conversation.
 
“Can I kiss you?” Steve is so quiet Bucky has to strain to hear him over the
radio, but he’s still radiating hope and the unquenchable determination that
Bucky associates so strongly with everything Steve.
 
“Steve Rogers, you are out of your mind,” Bucky says, but he uses the grip he
has on Steve’s hand to pull him closer.
 
It’s awkward. Neither one of them knows what to do with their hands, and it’s
pretty apparent that Steve has never done this with anyone before. He holds his
body tense like he’s leaning into a gale wind; Bucky grins into the kiss.
 
There’s a beat of silence when they pull away slightly, like neither one of
them knows what to do next, then Steve darts forward for another quick kiss and
says,
 
“But since you mentioned it, do you think we could push the beds together? I
forgot how cold it gets, sleeping without someone beside you.”
 
Bucky just throws back his head and laughs.
 
***
 
There must be something to what Steve said about the two of them having always
loved each other this way, because nothing really changes between them for a
long time, besides the kissing when no one’s watching. Part of it is nerves,
and Bucky can admit that, but he’s always been a little bit off when it comes
to Steve and how he thinks Steve needs to be looked after. It’s only gotten
worse over the months since they admitted what they were.
 
He loves sleeping next to Steve every night, being able to kiss him, and hug
him, and read with Steve curled up against him on the couch. He wouldn’t trade
any of that for anything, but when he thinks about anything in terms of sex or
making love, it gets different. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to do – he’s
walked past so many embarrassing moments on the way home from work he knows
what needs to happen just fine – but the thought of touching Steve in that way
makes his stomach hurt. It makes him think of Mr. Douglas and the way he
reached into Bucky’s pants and how fucking scared he’d been and how small he’d
felt. It’s not something that he relives that often, to be honest, but when he
thinks about Steve he can’t help it, because no one came to Steve’s rescue like
Steve came to his. No one stopped it from happening to Steve and how can
something like sex ever feel good again after something like that?
 
At the back of his head the rational side of him comments that what Steve does
is going to be Steve’s decision, not his. And Steve certainly acts like he’s
agreeable to moving further whenever he notices Bucky squirming after he comes
back from the shower in nothing but a robe and towel, or when he catches Bucky
thinking improper thoughts (Steve can always tell). He’ll gamely hop up on the
bed and try to convince Bucky to take things further, but he’s always so
matter-of-fact about it, that it makes Bucky flustered, like this must be a
sign of something bad that he can’t see. He has yet to take Steve up on the
offer, opting for stubbornly silent panic instead.
 
“Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve says, each time Bucky slips out of bed in the
morning, stammering apologies and just wishing his erection would go away for
good. “It’s normal.”
 
“You don’t do it,” Bucky finally accuses, tired of Steve’s patience, which only
makes him feel more irrational.
 
“Yes, I do,” Steve shrugs. “It just goes away faster. What are you so afraid
of?”
 
“Not afraid,” Bucky insists, refusing to look Steve in the eye as he puts on
his pants. He’s been working at the docks almost exclusively lately, only
helping at the bar on the weekends. Suddenly there’s so much work waiting for
him there. He can’t afford to be late, for their rent money to go to some other
sap because he stayed at the apartment to talk about his feelings with Steve.
 
He’s so desperate to leave he almost misses the quiet,
 
“Do you not want to do this anymore?”
 
He should stay – he knows he should. But he panics and leaves anyhow, acting
like nothing just happened.
 
***
 
He spends the day replaying Steve’s “Do you not want to do this anymore?” in
his head as he works, analysing the uncertainty and insecurity there, and
cussing himself out for being such a jerk. He’s in such a state by the time he
gets back to the apartment that he doesn’t even stop to say hello.
 
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
 
“What?” Steve says, staring at him blankly from where he’s pulling out the few
bits and pieces they have around the kitchen to make soup.
 
“It’ll hurt, right?” Bucky says, uncertainly. “The guys at the bar always joke
that it hurts. I don’t want to do that to you, not after what happened before.
I just… I don’t think I can hurt you, Steve.”
 
“I don’t wantyou to hurt me,” Steve says. “But I dowant to find out what it’s
like. Honestly, Bucky, why are you so worked up about this?”
 
“Because I feel like you aren’t worked up enough,” Bucky says. He feels better
once he’s said it out loud, but Steve still looks confused.
 
“Buck,” he says, uncertainly. “You waiting for me to swoon and fall into your
arms or something?”
 
“No,” Bucky snorts, dismissively. Then, “Maybe? You’re very… agreeable, but it
never feels like it’s your idea.”
 
“I swear to god,” Steve starts, looking downright testy now. “If this is
because I’m not thanking you for the opportunity or giggling like a schoolgirl
every time I look at your muscles – ”
 
“What? No!” Bucky says. “It’s not about my ego, Steve. I just feel – okay
please don’t yell or make me sleep down the hall – but it feels like you’re
acting like a dutiful housewife when you only ever get interested after you’ve
noticed that I am. I mean, we’re queer. We can’t get married, and we can’t make
babies; there’s literally no reason why we should have to have sex if you’re
not interested.”
 
Steve is looking at Bucky like he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh at Bucky or
strangle him. Finally he turns away and starts to open tins and cut up
vegetables. After a moment Bucky starts helping, because why not? They’re over
halfway through before Steve finally speaks again.
 
“Don’t call me a housewife, you shit.”
 
Bucky laughs a little in relief before he says,
 
“Sorry. I didn’t quite mean it like that, but I don’t know how else to put it.
It’s just – it’s only for fun, so if you don’t want to, don’t worry.”
 
“I dowant to,” Steve insists. “But maybe not for fun. Maybe because I don’t
know why other people think it is fun.”
 
“It’s not a big deal though – “ Bucky starts before Steve sets down his knife
and turns to look straight at him.
 
“Isn’t it?” He says, and for the first time Bucky is able to see how uncertain
he looks. “Most of the time, I just don’t think I’m built to care about that
sort of thing, which is fine, because my body isn’t cut out for a lot of
exertion anyhow, and I’m happy enough just being near you. I’ve never wanted
more than that. I’ve never neededmore than that. But sometimes I get scared
that it’s something else, too. I’m not a virgin, Bucky, and what they did to me
wasn’t fun.”
 
“I knewthis was about the school,” Bucky says, trying not to sound too
triumphant about being right, because now is really not the time.
 
“I’m not sure,” Steve says, sighing a little as he turns fully to lean against
the counter. “I mean, if none of that stuff had ever happened and I felt this
way, I’m pretty sure I’d still want to try, just to see.”
 
Bucky stares at him in disbelief.
 
“I always think I understand you until I don’t understand you,” he finally
manages. “You really only want to have sex to test if you can like it?”
 
Steve shrugs.
 
“I want to test to see if I like it with you,” he says. “I don’t care if I ever
want to have it with someone else, but I’m kind of in love with you, Buck. If
they’re the reason I don’t care... they don’t deserve having that power. I’m
not going to let them take anything else.”
 
“And if you don’t like it?” Bucky asks. “Say we try, and you don’t like it.
Would you let me know instead staying quiet about it and pretending? I don’t
deserve that power, either.”
 
Steve doesn’t respond, but he gives him that blinding, heart-stopping smile
that means Bucky has absolutely said the right thing before he turns back to
the counter to finish chopping potatoes.
 
***
 
Before anything else has a chance to get started, Bucky checks his pride and
forces himself to visit Rich after work one evening. They chat amicably for
several minutes about innocuous things as Bucky helps Rich get the coffee
ready, even though they both know this isn’t a social call (Steve is the one
who likes making social calls). Bucky is happy to carry on the ruse for as long
as he can though, because he still has no idea how to politely explain what he
needs.
 
Once they’ve taken a seat, Rich says, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this
visit, James?”
 
Bucky knows it’s now  or never, that if he doesn’t speak up, he will never find
his nerve, so he takes a deep breath, focuses on how much Steve wants this, and
says,
 
“I need to know how to have sex with another man.”
 
Rich blinks, and sips his coffee, a contemplative look on his face, like Bucky
just asked his opinion on entering into non-aggression pacts with Germany,
instead of asking for an explanation of sodomy.
 
After an extremely long pause, Rich says,
 
“You really do just jump in with both feet, don’t you?”
 
“You asked!” Bucky says, immediately defensive, because he feels like an idiot.
 
“You and Steve really haven’t figured this out?” Rich asks. “In this
neighbourhood?”
 
“No, that’s not –“ Bucky breaks off for a moment to collect his thoughts before
trying again. “Obviously, we know how it works. But we’ve never done anything
before because Steve hasn’t been very interested, and I’m okay what that.
Whatever Steve wants, I want. Only now he wants to try, and I know how
everything is supposed to go, but I also know sometimes it can be really
terrible for the person, um, underneath.”
 
Bucky hesitates again. He told Steve he was going to do this, and Steve had
reluctantly said he could elaborate, if he needed to explain why he was so
worried, but it still feels like he’s crossing a line that’s not his to cross.
When he looks up from his coffee, Rich is looking right at him, patient and a
little concerned now.
 
“It’s not Steve’s first time,” Bucky says. “And the first time wasn’t good. I
don’t want to hurt him like that.”
 
Understanding dawns on Rich’s face, and he looks sad when he says,
 
“Well most importantly, when you’re both willing and paying attention to each
other’s needs, it’s never going to be that terrible. Steve will be fine, James,
I promise. But you’re right to think that there are certain things you can do
to make both of your experiences better.”
 
He grins at Bucky.
 
“I know how much Steve likes starting fights with people who need to be taken
down a peg, so the first thing you need to do is raid your first-aid kit.”
 
***
 
Steve jokes that Bucky can call for a break if he gets too flustered, that
Steve can run him through the deep breathing exercises that he uses to stave
off asthma attacks. Bucky calls him a punk and tells him to shut up. It’s all
very romantic.
 
“Just… please tell me if I’m hurting you?” Bucky finally asks, not quite
keeping the tremor out of his voice.
 
Steve leans over from where he’s lying next to Bucky, naked on their pushed
together beds and puts a hand on his arm, concerned.
 
“Bucky, we don’t have to do this,” he says. “I want to sort this out, sure, but
not if you don’t want it.”
 
“I want it,” Bucky says, leaning into the touch a little. “I sort of wish your
body was a little stronger so we could change positions, but I want it.
Besides, I was thinking about what you said about not knowing why you’re the
way you are. I know they’re the reason I’m scared right now. Rich kept looking
at me the way you look at those stray dogs with tin cans tied to their tails
when we were talking. It’s been years, Steve. I don’t want the fucked up things
that happened to us when we were little control my actions forever.”
 
Steve just sighs at him in slight exasperation before leaning in for a kiss.
When they pull apart he asks, business-like,
 
“What do we do first?”
 
Awkwardly Bucky reaches over and grabs the Vaseline.
 
“I’m supposed to stretch you? Rich says that if you spend enough time on this,
it doesn’t hurt at all, so long as you can stay relaxed.”
 
“Okay,” Steve says, agreeably, and yet again Bucky thinks it’s weird that Steve
is so methodical about this entire endeavour. He certainly seems willing
enough, eager even, but his breathing isn’t even picking up yet. Bucky feels a
little bit like he’s been running across the Brooklyn Bridge, dodging traffic
the whole way. Admittedly, he’s not sure if that’s lust or panic. He stares
blankly at the tub in his hand for a minute before he starts at the sound of
Steve’s chuckle.
 
“Okay, buddy,” Steve says, leaning forward and taking the Vaseline. “Let’s try
something else to start. Watch, okay?”
 
Bucky nods mutely, and Steve carefully coats his index finger in a copious
amount of the jelly before shifting onto his side so he can lean forward as he
reaches behind himself. He starts squirming a little as he tries to find a good
angle. He winces and starts a little a second later, giving a slightly
exasperated look when Bucky pulls back a little.
 
“You know, you need to relax for this to work, too,” he comments, but his face
still looks uncomfortable.
 
“Is it that bad?” Bucky demands, worriedly.
 
Steve huffs out another laugh.
 
“No,” he says. “But it doesn’t feel all that wonderful? I mean, well… it feels
like there’s a finger in my ass.”
 
His face turns contemplative as he muses,
 
“Maybe we should have started with hand jobs, to set the mood or something.”
 
When Bucky doesn’t respond, Steve looks at him in exasperation, and adds,
 
“Or maybe it would help if you just weren’t staring at me like you’re trapped
in an episode of Lights Out and the chicken heart just got me. Bucky, this is
ridiculous.”
 
It’s hard to be too alarmed with Steve’s gentle mockery turned on him full-
force so after a second, he starts to laugh, too. Now that the tension has
eased a little, Steve gets a calculating look on his face and pulls his hand
back.
 
“Here,” he says, handing the tub back to Bucky. “You try.”
 
“I don’t know, Steve,” Bucky balks. “My fingers are bigger than yours, maybe
you should spend a little more time –“
 
“No,” Steve interrupts. “Try on yourself. I bet you stop worrying if you know
exactly what it feels like.”
 
Bucky looks at him skeptically for a moment, but when Steve nudges the tub in
his direction he rolls his eyes and takes it, coating some of it on his index
finger. Once he’s managed to push his finger in, he understands Steve’s wince.
It doesn’t hurt, but it feels very, very wrong, not to mention it almost feels
like he needs to go to the bathroom, and he looks at Steve in absolute
bewilderment.
 
Steve gives him a look that seems to say, “Yeah, I know.”
 
“This doesn’t feel like much of anything at all,” he says. Honestly, he’s a
little disappointed.
 
“Maybe it feels better if you’re stretched wider?” Steve suggests.
 
“Why?” Bucky asks, wiggling the finger around a little. “So you can feel more
constipated?”
 
“This is why I think we skipped a step,” Steve says. “There’s got to be some
piece we’re missing.”
 
“Maybe we’re not, you know, Greek or whatever,” Bucky suggests. “Maybe we’re
just confused.”
 
Steve gives him a withering glare.
 
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure that’s the answer.”
 
“Look,” Bucky says, leaning forward slightly. “I’m just trying to sort out why
this is – fuck.”
 
He breaks off suddenly as his eyes screw shut. There are stars jumping around
underneath his eyelids and suddenly it’s like he’s forgotten how to use words.
 
“Bucky?” Steve questions, uncertainly. “What is it?”
 
“Aim,” Bucky manages, right as he hits the spot again, and he tries his hardest
not to whimper. “I think a lot of it has to do with your aim.”
 
“Still Greek then?” Steve asks, smirking.
 
“Fuck you, punk,” Bucky grits out, pulling his hand back, because if he lets
himself, he has a feeling he could just keep touching that one spot until he
completely forgets Steve is in the bed with him.
 
“Exactly,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand and guiding it behind him. “And now
that you know what I’m getting into, how about we get on with it?”
 
***
 
Steve’s not a good enough actor to hide the fact that he’s scared when they
actually get to the part where Bucky’s cock is lined up and ready to push
inside, no matter what he says. Rich said it might be easier if Steve was on
his hands and knees, but for all the playing around they’ve been doing in the
last half hour, Steve is as tense as anything when Bucky goes to push against
his prostate with his fingers one last time.
 
“Steve?” He questions.
 
Steve just shakes his head and makes a noise that indicates Bucky needs to get
on with it this exact second. But when Bucky leans forward to look at Steve’s
face, there’s no getting around the fact that Steve’s nerves are finally
catching up with him. Bucky pulls his hands away and pokes Steve in the side
until Steve swats his fingers away angrily and looks up to make eye contact.
 
“I know I’ve been the one panicking about this,” Bucky says. “But it’s okay if
you want to change your mind, too, remember?”
 
Steve sighs and sits up on his heels, nudging Bucky back a little to give him
some space.
 
“I didn’t think it would matter if it was you,” he admits.
 
“But it does?” Bucky says. “It’s okay, Steve.”
 
“Stop saying that,” Steve says, frustrated. “I think it’s just… staring at the
wall, you know?”
 
Bucky nods, even though he doesn’t know, but then Steve says, “Do you think we
can move around, so I can see you? I don’t think… I think my mind is going to
go a little screwy unless I can see you.” And Bucky starts to sort out what the
problem is.
 
“It won’t feel as good,” Bucky cautions. “Or so I’m told.”
 
“I don’t mind,” Steve says. “Promise.”
 
Between the more brazen hookers they’ve literally stumbled across, and Rich’s
frankly embarrassing coaching session, Bucky knows at least a couple other ways
this can work facing one another. Pushing Steve’s legs to his chest frankly
sounds terrifying, since Steve looks so frail it’s hard not to imagine his
bones are bird-delicate, hollow and just waiting for an excuse to snap. Bucky
rolls over onto his back instead, and reaches out to pull Steve on top of him,
so he’s straddling Bucky’s waist.
 
“Better?” He asks.
 
Steve considers for a moment before he nods and leans forward to kiss Bucky,
hard.
 
“Good,” Bucky says, when Steve finally pulls away. “Don’t you dare go too fast.
I’m not kidding, Steve. If you go to the hospital with an asthma attack in this
state, we’re going to get arrested.”
 
Steve rolls his eyes, but pats Bucky’s chest fondly all the same.
 
“Nag,” he smiles.
 
They go very, very slowly. Steve’s eyes get comically large once he’s coaxed
Bucky’s penis past the tight ring of muscle, and his hands clench around
Bucky’s forearms.
 
“Does it hurt?” Bucky demands, refusing to be derailed by how Steve feels
clenched around him. His protective response actually doesn’t come to him as
naturally as it normally does because, oh God, Steve feels amazing. It’s hot
and tight and all of Bucky’s instincts scream for more.
 
Steve makes an uncertain face, almost like he’s trying to go for nonchalance
but can’t quite make it, and Bucky instantly starts moving to lift Steve away
from him.
 
“Don’t you dare,” Steve snaps, reading the situation perfectly. “Bucky, I swear
to God.”
 
He’s wearing his infuriatingly determined face again as he visibly forces
himself to relax again and sinks down a little further. Bucky groans despite
himself.
 
“See?” Steve says, panting a little. “You worry too fast, Buck. You just need a
little patience that’s all.”
 
“Sorry, I didn’t realize concern for your well-being was a character flaw,”
Bucky manages, before he decides to hell with the sarcastic banter. He’s just
going to lie here and force himself to be still as he watches Steve and thinks
about how gorgeous he is with his flushed cheeks and his red lips, soft and
swollen as he bites them in concentration. If there ever was a time such sappy
behaviour was warranted, it’s when he has his cock in Steve’s ass and oh God,
this is happening right now.
 
Steve has worked about half of Bucky’s length inside of him now, and has paused
a little to look at Bucky quizzically. His legs are shaking with exertion and
Bucky’s hands automatically slide under his ass to take some of his weight.
 
“You look like you’re having a transcendental experience,” Steve comments.
 
“I knew getting you that library card was a mistake,” Bucky manages, and so
much for no more banter (even though it’s all Steve’s fault). “Stop showing off
when we’re trying to have sex, Steve.”
 
Steve’s ass hits the back of his thighs a moment later, and there’s a sort of a
natural pause in the proceedings as they both get used to the feeling. After a
few moments Steve, who is already plenty tight, clenches his muscles around
Bucky, slightly, but entirely intentionally. He’s looking closely at Bucky’s
face, like he’s preparing for a test drive or something. Bucky is horrified at
how attractive it is in their current situation.
 
Steve raises and lowers himself one, two times, his pupils dilating each time
until his eyes look black. His cock starts twitching against Bucky’s belly and
it’s the most erotic thing Bucky’s ever felt. He’s getting the idea that when
they do this, Steve could point out mold on the ceiling and Bucky’s brain would
instantly tell him it is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
 
Bucky’s making a move to wrap his hand around Steve’s penis, because apparently
they feel spectacular when they’re all wrapped up in something, and Bucky
believes in sharing, but then Steve makes a different sound. Not a happy one; a
distressed one, frustrated even. Bucky looks up at him, his good mood going up
in smoke. He’s about to start panicking when he sees the problem in their
brilliant “Steve on Top” plan.
 
He pulls out, ignoring Steve’s indignant noise of protest and carefully rolls
them over so Steve is lying down on the bed, on his back with Bucky cradled
between his thighs.
 
“You know if we ever do this again, we should plan it better,” Bucky comments.
He can still feel Steve’s legs shaking from overexertion. “Is this okay?”
 
Steve nods impatiently before he chuckles and says,
 
“Believe me, there’s no way to be better prepared for this than you were. You
could get a merit badge for this, Buck.”
 
There’s not much talking after that, since Bucky is too busy dying in the best
way possible to keep up his end of the smartass comments. Judging by the
pleasantly surprised noises Steve is making, Bucky thinks he doesn’t mind too
much.
 
He doesn’t last very long before the sparks jumping behind his eyelids start
coming in faster and faster and suddenly everything explodes into heat and
light and stillness and a steady rush and maybe some sort of classical music
for a very quick second? Or it could be that they’re not quiet, and Rich and
Cal are turning up the radio to drown them out. It’s frankly all pretty
confusing and overwhelming.
 
Once Bucky becomes aware of his surroundings again, he’s on his back next to
Steve, who also appears to have finished at some point, although for the life
of Bucky he doesn’t know when. The first thing he registers is relief at how
calm and happy Steve looks. The second thing is suspicion when he figures out
that Steve is laughing. At him.
 
“What?” Bucky demands, defensively, and fighting the urge to cover himself with
a sheet, like Steve has somehow sullied his honour.
 
“Nothing, just…” Steve trails off and grins even wider. “You really enjoyed
that, didn’t you?”
 
“Didn’t you?” Bucky says, incredulously.
 
“Yeah,” Steve says, but pleasantly agreeable. Bucky stares at him, hard.
 
“Okay, okay,” Steve says. “I didn’t want to spoil your moment, but… I have a
feeling you got more out of it than I did.”
 
“Did I do something wrong?” Bucky demands, rising up onto his elbows. “Maybe I
just need more practise.”
 
“Nice try, pervert,” Steve says. “But, I don’t think it was about anything you
did or didn’t do. It felt really good, I swear. But to be honest? The best part
was watching you.”
 
Bucky isn’t entirely sure what to do with this information, but Steve looks
happier, freer almost, than Bucky can remember in a long time. Whatever his
reasons for insisting they go further were, he certainly doesn’t seem
distraught.
 
“So you’re still not interested?” Bucky asks.
 
“I’m interested in you,” Steve reiterates, patting Bucky’s chest. “We could do
this again. The world is not wrong, it was fun.”
 
“Fun,” Bucky says, epiphany slowly dawning in the post-orgasm haze. “But not
inspiring. You don’t want to sit down and write sonnets about it, is that it?”
 
Steve wrinkles his nose.
 
“Do you?” He asks.
 
“Well, I actually think I could have a nap,” Bucky says, getting up to grab a
towel and wet down a corner so they can clean up. “But you know what I mean. No
hidden urges waking inside of you?”
 
“Hardly,” Steve says.
 
“And nothing bad waking up either, right?” Bucky says as he comes back to the
bed.
 
“No,” Steve says, and he looks so damn victorious Bucky just stares for a
minute before he shakes his head a little and gets back to the task at hand.
 
Steve winning his battles, even when they’re only in his own mind, is sort of
incredible to watch. And maybe they never left Barry’s School for Boys the way
Steve wanted, guns blazing, bad people begging for mercy and not finding any,
but they’re young yet. Some day in the future, Bucky is going to make it happen
for Steve, and for him too, if he’s being absolutely honest. He smiles to
himself as he settles back down next to Steve. It’s not quite the poetry he was
talking about, but it’ll do.
 
***
 
They don’t have sex very often; it’s just not something they do. When it
happens, it’s usually Steve’s idea, and mostly when Bucky’s said or done
something that makes Steve smile at him fondly and dopily. Bucky finds he
doesn’t feel its lack that badly, no matter how much he likes it – he likes
Steve much more than he likes sex, after all. When you come right down to it,
there’s not much that can compare to Steve Rogers.
 
When they stick to their own area of the city, they don’t need to worry too
much about what people think of them. Not everyone is queer here, far from it,
but the nightlife is only really tolerable for the normal tenant if they learn
to look the other way. Still, sometimes Bucky arranges double dates with the
girls he meets when they show up to flirt with the men working in the navy
yard. Steve always rolls his eyes when Bucky tells him they’re going dancing,
but he’ll be damned if Mrs. Hansen, that narrow-minded old biddy on the third
floor, decides she’s suffered their antics long enough and tries to get them
into trouble.
 
The war slowly but insistently encroaches into their world. Steve is pleased by
this, because he has any number of choice things to say about Hitler and the
way he’s “ruining Europe,” while Bucky mostly wishes that it would stay on the
other side of the water. But then Pearl Harbor happens, and the whole world has
gone to hell and officially dragged the United States with it. Dr. Bowers is
enlisted and sent away to front lines, where they are desperate for doctors,
and Brooklyn is a poorer place without him. Either Steve or Bucky make sure to
visit Mrs. Bowers at least once a week after, to find out if she’s heard from
him, and to offer any moral support she might need.
 
Steve, of course, had already marched straight up to city hall to request a new
copy of his birth certificate, and volunteered for the Armed Forces the day he
turned 18, just to be ready. Bucky felt guilty over how relieved he was when
Steve’s poor health earned him his first 4F. He feels even worse after Pearl
Harbor, when he doesn’t try to stop Steve from volunteering multiple times
under different names, but only because he knows no one in their right mind
would take him.
 
For his part, Bucky does not volunteer, because where the war has driven Steve
to new heights of delusion, it seems to have Bucky made especially practical.
There is no way Steve will be able to make it a year if Bucky leaves him behind
to go fight Nazis. He won’t be able to make rent, he won’t stay healthy enough
to work as much as he needs, and he absolutely won’t be able to stay out of
trouble. He doesn’t say any of this to Steve, who would never forgive him for
any of it, which means he had no room to argue registering for the lottery when
the call went out. Most days, he tries to forget it happened, hoping his luck
will hold out until the end of the war.
 
It holds for two years after the bombing. Bucky finds the letter waiting for
him on the table one day when he gets back from work: “Order to report for
induction.” Every second of hard-fought happiness he’s found with Steve starts
to shatter and fall to pieces on the floor around him as he reads. “Having
submitted yourself to a local board composed of your neighbors for the purpose
of determining your availability for training and service in the armed forces
of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for
training and service in the Army.”
 
Steve comes in from the other room, grinning at him, but a little teary, like
this is the best thing that could have happened, and he’s still heartsick that
it couldn’t be him. Bucky smiles back at him a little weakly. All these years
his nightmares have been about Steve leaving again, and now the only person
going anywhere is him.
Chapter End Notes
     Okay! So that was the first half of the story everyone. Thanks for
     sticking it out with me! The next half of the story may be slightly
     confusing so just a heads up: It will jump from Bucky's PoV to
     Steve's PoV, and it will be set during the events of Captain America:
     The Winter Soldier. This needs to happen so I don't have chapters of,
     like, G.R.R. Martin-esque descriptions of how cold it is as we wait
     for Steve and Bucky to emerge from their respective hibernations.
     This way we can skip straight to the good stuff. (Good stuff = hugs
     and retribution, not necessarily in that order.)
     I'm going to try to keep up with posting a chapter a week if I can,
     but I honestly don't know if that will work, since I don't know how
     much editing will be required to force the second half into
     submission.
***** Vexed to Nightmare, Part One *****
Chapter Notes
     Okay, second half! Let's do this!
     I mentioned it at the end of the last part, but to remind you: No
     more 1940s Bucky PoV. This jumps into CA: TWS territory pretty
     quickly and we are officially hearing Steve's side of the story now.
     And building off of that...
     FULL DISCLAIMER: The rest of the story follows the events of CA:TWS
     fairly closely and includes events from CA:TFA via a few flashbacks.
     As a result, when reading a scene that is sticking quite close to the
     original plots, expect call-backs to scenes, dialogue from both
     movies, and even some direct quotes and paraphrasing. I don't want
     that to be the main focus of the story, so I haven't drawn attention
     to it when it happens, but like, just in case you've forgotten how
     the movies go, I didn't write all of Natasha's masterful Captain
     America jokes, or all of Sam Wilson's perfect Sam Wilson-ness (I
     really like Sam Wilson, everyone).
     Chapter specific warnings include something that might potentially
     look like partner infidelity but I didn't add a tag for it because
     it's really not, it's just... complicated and limited PoV so you
     don't get to see the whole story. Maybe one day if interest is there
     I'll add include a one-shot with Peggy's PoV.
     NON-FANDOM SPOILER: If you've never seen Inglorious Basterds, one of
     the bigger plot twists is mentioned in this chapter. Sorry!
     Thanks as always to my beta MomentsOfWeakness, for telling me when
     Steve starts sounding too much like Henry Aldrich. (It's okay if you
     don't understand that reference, just know that it's something none
     of us want to happen.)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
 
Steve Rogers learns to adapt to the 21st Century by keeping lists. The first
list keeps track of “the only things” and it is added to every time someone
tells him “the only thing he needs” to understand the world today. Tony is the
one who gives him the idea, sort of, when he tries to teach Steve about the
rules of the internet. Steve’s already been given the basic technology rundown
by the star-struck SHIELD techs, and he’s never been afraid to try new things,
so he personally thinks he’s doing alright on his own when it comes to the
world wide web. He’s even figured what memes are, and that cats are usually
involved. Then the battle of New York happens and in the midst of the chaos is
a lull of about 24 hours before everyone goes their separate ways. They’re all
sprawled in the living room of one of Tony’s undamaged floors when Steve makes
a comment about how the current generation has no common sense.
 
“I know, I know,” Steve says, when Tony starts to snicker. “I sound like an old
man. But have you ever read what people say online, Tony? I’ve actually read
someone compare Harvey Milk to Hitler. I mean… Hitler.”
 
“Oh that,” Tony says, waving a hand dismissively. “The Internet has different
rules, that’s all. It’s designed to make you look foolish, and to allow the
especially foolish to identify themselves so you know who to never, ever talk
to in real life.”
 
“Right,” Steve says, disbelieving. “What magical internet rule exists that
could possibly justify comparing a gay Jew to Hitler?”
 
The responding chorus of “Godwin’s Law,” comes from every other person in the
room except Thor. Before Steve quite understands what’s happening, Tony has
spent over an hour explaining Rules 34, 35, and 63, the Streisand Effect,
Munchausen by Internet, and Lewis’s Law, with input from the others. It’s a
wonderful, happy little window of time where everyone feels like friends before
they go back to being strangers.
 
“Write these down, Steve. Know them; embrace them; love them. They are your key
to understanding life in the 21st century.”
 
It’s a long time before Steve feels qualified enough to use the Internet again,
even though Bruce tells him the rules aren’t thatimportant. Bruce is also the
one who gives Steve the small notebook, and kindly tells him to add “Steve
Jobs” to the list so he knows why Tony hisses every time someone mentions
Macintosh apples. Other people help him with other additions. Nick Fury is the
one to tell him to look into the Berlin Wall, at Steve’s absolute bewilderment
at how something like the Cold War could even happen.
 
“Will that help everything make sense?” he asks.
 
“No,” Fury shrugs. “But it’s a story with a nice ending, at least. What else do
you need?”
 
On a note that is somehow related, Clint is the one who kindly takes him to the
side on one of his rare days between missions and tells him to look into the
difference between Star Trekand Star Wars.
 
“Star Wars is one of the spin offs, right?” Steve asks. “The one with the
android?”
 
“Oh Steve,” Clint just says. “Don’t let Natasha hear you say things like that.”
 
“She doesn’t really seem like the sci-fi type,” Steve points out.
 
“She’s the Cold War pop propaganda movie type,” Clint just says, like that even
means something.
 
It may start to make a little more sense after he watches her and Hill turn a
debriefing into an honest-to-god shouting match over which Rockymovie was
better, after Rocky IVwhich was, according to Natasha “obviously the standout
in the series” and maybe even helped save the world. Hill just gets a tired,
resigned look, like they’ve had that particular conversation many times in the
past and she knows there’s no winning.
 
Steve dutifully adds all of it to his list. He even adds Nirvana after
patiently listening to an old man on the bus rant about “the problem with kids
today” with their “flannel, and their garage bands, and their bad attitudes.”
The teenager next to them had almost hurt himself trying not to laugh when the
man finally got to “naked baby Nirvana” and the way he had tried so stay quiet
seemed sort of… nice. Hilariously, Steve thinks of it as respectful, and every
time he remembers it, it makes him feel like smiling, even though he’s stuck
here in a future he never wanted to see without his friends beside him. Without
Bucky.
 
Every item in Steve’s “only thing” list is like that: nothing that ever helps
him sort out the future, but still, little reminders of moments in time when he
doesn’t feel so miserable or alone. Steve goes over that list a lot, even when
he isn’t interested in crossing anything off of it. Some days, that one list in
a borrowed notebook is the only thing that convinces him he’s going to make it.
 
Steve’s second list is never written down, but he keeps it all the same, and
mentally calls it his “Tempest in a Teapot” list. He doesn’t call it a “Do Not
Do” list because while there are some things on it he’s not going to repeat,
like, “Accuse reporter of being rude for calling homosexuals gay, because just
because someone likes older men, it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve respect,”
there are other items that he remains stubbornly unrepentant about. No matter
how harried the SHIELD PR department has started to look each time he sees
them.
 
He refuses to feel sorry for the headaches he gives them the day he finally
takes up a famous pastor’s very vocal invitations to go sit in on a service.
Steve is Catholic, but that always constant pang of homesickness leads to Steve
walking into the foyer on Sunday morning. He supposes he just wants to spend an
hour finding any emotional support or quiet reflection he can, from a place
that looks at least a little familiar. What he gets is a loud, chaotic “super-
church” where the preacher paces and sweats on a big flashy stage, yelling to
the congregation about how they are God’s chosen people, and how they can learn
to rise above persecution. Even that would be bearable, if anyone there seemed
to know what persecution meant, but all the preacher talks about is being
oppressed by “the homosexual minority trying to take our religious freedoms”
and how today’s woman wants “an abortion clinic on every corner.” It is not
what Steve was hoping for, to put it mildly.
 
The problem, Steve learns, with angrily storming out in the middle of a super-
church service, is that there are a lotof people to watch you do it. And to
tweet videos and vines of you marching to the exit from your seat of honour at
the very front of the congregation. It doesn’t take long to go viral, and by
mid-afternoon, flocks of reporters are trotting after him while he grocery
shops, demanding an explanation.
 
Steve personally thinks he handles it very well: he doesn’t snap; he doesn’t
get angry; he says what he has to say exactly once, and then doesn’t engage
with anyone about the subject again. SHIELD PR asks if he might think he was
just a little harsh. He really doesn’t. Tony sends him flowers wrapped in every
newspaper and ridiculous tabloid he headlines in: “Cap. America tells
Christians they don’t know persecution until they’ve been victimized by Nazi
Germany;” “Feminist Ally Captain America;” “Captain America talks about his gay
experience under Nazi regime;” “Persecution 101 with Steven Rogers;” “Captain
America paid for girl’s back alley abortion – See inside for details!” and so
on. Accompanying the flowers is a note that just says:
 
“Godwin’s Law.”
 
Even that pales in comparison to the thing with the hooker. Tony lovesthe thing
with the hooker; calls him up and tells him to keep creating scandals with
hookers, that he can’t believe his father never told him Steve’s superpower was
getting into trouble. Steve just pinches the bridge of his nose and asks how
Tony got his number. He doesn’t feel bad about this one either, although he
doesapologise to Candyce, because she was just trying to make a living and now
she has to move because every person in North America knows what she looks
like, where she lives, and that she’s the hooker who got Captain America to
come home with her.
 
She just tells him not to worry about it, that she’s been getting job offers
from classy escort agencies where she can make better connections anyhow.
SHIELD PR asks him to stop speaking when reporters talk to him, but Steve
doesn’t think heis the one with a problem, not for talking to a prostitute like
she’s a real person. And he visits sick children all the time to let them touch
the shield, anyhow. He doesn’t understand why it becomes more newsworthy when
that child happens to have a parent in the sex industry. He eventually is
forced to concede that saying “touch the shield” to a reporter who just asked a
question about hookers was poor judgment on his part. Still, it could’ve been
worse. At least he found out about the new definition of “boner” before anyone
recorded him saying it in casual conversation.
 
But no matter how much joy Tony gets from his screw ups, and no matter how much
he tries to smile and play it off like he doesn’t mind, the constant judgements
on his character get to Steve. He doesn’t like being famous, he never has, but
he had hoped once he woke up that the future would be easier. He always fought
for a better future – for the idea of a brighter tomorrow. In some ways the
world has gotten a lot closer. The things he sees that concern him come hand-
in-hand with equality, affordable food, and advances in medicine. It should
make him happy to see a world that is more open and accepting of everyone, but
it’s hard to be happy about something you can’t experience personally.
 
More than anything else, Steve feels trapped. He is everyone’s role model; he
is every American, and he doesn’t want to be. He does notwant to be on some of
these peoples’ side. He doesn’t wantto protect the status quo; he doesn’t want
to stand back and watch the rich get richer while the poor get poorer; Steve
doesn’t want to stay quiet about human rights and constitutional violations.
He’s his own damn person, his opinions shouldn’t have to be sanitized before
they’re presented to the public. He never signed up to be a political pawn or a
national icon; he enlisted to help people, because he agreed with what he was
fighting for.
 
Now he watches shows on TV and reads opinion pieces in the papers, and sees the
idea of Steve Rogers used interchangeably with the bald eagle. He is Freedom.
Freedom to shoot the unarmed kid who looks twice at you; freedom to tell
another joke about prison rape; freedom to tell people who has the right to get
married; freedom to look the other way when a war vet ends up on the streets.
“Captain America didn’t fight Nazis for me to be threatened in my own home;”
“What a tragedy that Steve Rogers crashed in a world where traditional values
meant something only to wake up in the moral degradation that is society
today.”
 
No one bothers to ask him what he thinks, they just tell the world on his
behalf, and he lets them. He doesn’t want to, but he lets them, because he
doesn’t know how to let the world see the truth if he’s the only one talking.
He misses Bucky so much his chest aches every morning and the last thing he
sees at night is Bucky falling. Steve has fought a lot of battles, and he knows
he’ll fight a lot more, but he doesn’t think he can fight this one. He’s never
been very good at fighting for himself, not without Bucky standing next to him,
telling him he’s worth it.
 
He all but leaps at the opportunity to be re-assigned to D.C. full-time and is
relieved to have an excuse to give up his New York apartment. It’s a sickening
feeling – to be so displaced in a city he’s called home his whole life. He
still loves the people and the energy, most of the time, but now it feels like
the future has tainted most of his happy memories of the place. So much of
Brooklyn is gentrified now – there’s precious little chance a reform school
would ever be built on a residential street in Bedford-Stuyvesant today.
 
It shouldn’t be a bad thing, but when Steve tries wandering through the old
neighbourhoods, all he sees are the ghosts of lost friends and old failures. He
sees them clear as anything – Bucky laughing alongside him; Lloyd staring at
him accusingly from the shadows – sometimes even the Commandos, waiting
expectantly for the next order that will never come. Steve can feel their
stares and feel their lack like an open wound and there’s no one to share the
burden; no one who knows Steve’s old secrets; no one who understands what he’s
lost. It makes New York more of a stranger than a friend, and Steve can’t leave
fast enough.
 
***
 
Steve wants to feel guiltier for abandoning New York City, he really does, but
his head is so much clearer in D.C. he just can’t help it. There’s also the
very real added bonus of the Black Widow, who is currently based out of
Washington, and God help Steve, but he is completely falling for the charms of
Natasha Romanov.
 
He tries to hold her at arm’s length, because he’s watched her just long enough
to get an idea of how she operates: by finding a person’s weaknesses and
insecurities and exploiting them. It doesn’t take a genius to realize how
isolated Steve feels right now, and from the first time Natasha invites herself
over to his apartment with a housewarming gift of wine and a DVD of The
Terminator, Steve has been certain that he’s become one of her assignments.
Still, he genuinely likes her, even if she is only his friend because she’s
working overtime to stop him from embarrassing SHIELD in this city, too. He
especially likes that after their first few run-ins, he’s able to talk to her
without feeling like an idiot.
 
It’s a rare thing for Steve to feel comfortable with a woman more or less his
age who isn’t all hard and angry edges. And shockingly, Natasha isn’t all no-
nonsense professionalism, or at least, she doesn’t act like she is when they’re
together. She’s calm and composed and entirely confident in her work – a person
who knows how good she is and thoroughly enjoys her own competence. But as soon
as the job is done, sometimes even when the job is running smoothly and doesn’t
require constant attention, she’s friendly and has a sense of humour that could
keep pace with the Commandos.
 
She reminds him a lot of Peggy – too much, in all honesty. She’s just a shade
too similar to the girl he left back in the 1940s for Steve to be able to
believe she’s on the level, especially after he hears agents talk about what
she allegedly did to Tony. Something about her is too good to be true.
Something about her is trying too hard.
 
So Steve is friendly with Natasha. He enjoys her company, and looks forward to
the mischievous glint she gets in her eyes when she’s missing Clint and decides
to focus her boredom on him instead. But he doesn’t trust her – not with his
feelings, and not with his secrets, either. He won’t let himself be someone’s
mark. His past is too important to him – too sacred – to let that happen.
 
He forces Natasha into the box labelled “work friend” and keeps her at arm’s
length. Even when she surprises him by doing something unexpected that doesn’t
seem spy-like at all, like doing a silly little dance when a mission is a
success and she doesn’t think anyone is watching, or getting him to help her
spend four months staging an elaborate prank on Hawkeye. Steve is fairly
certain Peggy was never the sort of person to have a victory dance. Or to laugh
indulgently at him as he makes her back up the Hitler murder scene ten times
when she invites herself over with her copy of Inglorious Basterds.
 
“Why, Captain America,” she faux-demurs, in that playful, toothless way she has
that Steve can’t even remember to be flustered by. “I had no idea psychotic
berserker violence was your style.”
 
“I guess it’s really not,” Steve admits, smiling as Hitler’s face starts to
pull away from his skull again on the screen in front of them. “But it sure is
nice to watch sometimes, especially when you know the usual punch to the jaw
and finger wagging won’t change anything. It’s nice when the bad guys get what
they deserve.”
 
He can feel Natasha give him a calculating look after that and can’t help but
wonder if she’s mentally compiling a report to send back to her handler. He
doesn’t ask her to go back to the start of the scene again.
 
***
 
The walk back to base camp isn’t an easy one. The men hike miles and miles
across rough terrain, in oppressive heat and fully aware of their vulnerability
behind enemy lines. Everyone is nervous and jumpy; they all know that just
because they’ve escaped, it’s not a guarantee that they’re going to make it
back to safety unscathed.
 
Steve feels awful for them. He at least is operating at a significant advantage
– even without the serum. He’s gotten proper sleep, and proper food, and hasn’t
been tortured for god knows how long by a group of Nazis’ psychotic even by
Nazi standards. Sometimes he falls back to let someone else take the lead, so
he can take stock of the men suddenly under his care. He keeps an eye out for
potential broken bones or infections or compromised lungs. He keeps an eye on
the people who need the extra help because he feels responsible for each and
every one of them. He makes the checks frequently, so it doesn’t take long
before he starts to notice the others.
 
It’s not everyone of course. Some of the men are justifiably focusing all their
energy in putting one foot in front of the other, and frankly it’s all they
should be expected to do. Absolutely none of them are in good enough shape to
be rallying troops or running back and forth from one soldier to the next,
making sure no one is in danger of collapsing. But a small handful of the men
seem to be doing exactly that.
 
Bucky is one of them, of course, even though the stupid jerk should be one of
the ones who needs help – Steve found him strapped to a medical table all but
losing his damn mind, for God’s sake. But no, Bucky stubbornly falls back with
Steve each time he leaves the front and keeps pace with him, getting water to
the folks who need it, helping to fashion makeshift slings, crutches, and
stretchers for the ones who are flagging.
 
The Asian from Fresno – whose name is actually Morita – is another, trotting
from one man to the next, carefully assessing the men who stagger out of
formation, and positioning them to the centre of the herd so it’s easier for
the stronger soldiers to carry their weight. He calmly ignores the still semi-
insulting chatter directed at him by Dugan, the man in the ridiculous
regulation-breaking hat, who amiably helps Morita every single time and has
obviously decided insults are going to be how he demonstrates his newfound
friendship with the other man.
 
Jones seems to be getting along with Dernier, the French soldier, like a house
on fire. They talk to each other enthusiastically in French as they stroll up
to a collapsed soldier, before Steve has a chance to reach him. They haul him
up without a moment’s pause in whatever it is they’re talking about, and are
howling with laughter as they drag the man between them, like they’re on way
back to base after a night on the town instead of making a break for freedom
from behind enemy lines.
 
“I only caught about five words of that,” Bucky says in his ear as they both
watch. “But I’m pretty sure it wasfilthy, whatever it was.”
 
The Brit seems to have a similar sense of humour throughout the entire affair,
treating everything around him like a great joke, jostling other soldiers in
the ribs and getting snapped at more times than Steve can even count. It
doesn’t take long to notice that Falsworth is only approaching the men with
vacant or panicked expressions on their faces, and that he never lets up until
they’re so irritated with him they’ve snapped back from whatever hell their
heads have locked them into.
 
The idea that there is anyone walking out of that prison camp with enough
energy and humour to keep an entire battalion of men on their feet and moving
steadily to safety boggles Steve’s mind. He’s convinced it would be impossible
for any sane person, and he’s absolutely convinced that each and every one of
these laughing men left their marbles back with the Nazis, but their reckless
determination and cheerfulness become his touchstone. He looks for those loose
cannons every time he checks on the others, and feels safer and more relaxed
for knowing they’re there. War is madness, after all, so if he’s going to be in
the thick of it, he can’t think of anyone better to be surrounded by than guys
who have learned to embrace that lunacy with open arms.
 
***
 
He recognizes the military training in the man’s run before he’s finished
stretching: paced; precise; and punishing. Steve feels himself smile when he
senses the wave of resentment the second time he laps him, at the way the man’s
feet hit the ground just a little faster – a competitive instinct stirring to
wakefulness, even when he knows he can’t win.
 
It’s silly, but it calls to mind familiar feelings of good-natured resentment
and camaraderie from his own days in the army, when the petty digs and insults
served as their own strange system of support. Steve often catches himself
looking back longingly to the days when he was trusted and appreciated as a
friend and leader, not as figurehead. And right now, as he watches the unknown
man lose patience, the memories don’t feel as distant as they usually do.
 
When the man actually starts to hurl good-natured abuse at his back, about the
fifth time he has to hear “on your left,” Steve finds the breath to laugh, and
it feels like the first time he’s drawn in air since coming out of the ice.
 
***
 
The man’s name is Sam Wilson, and if he notices the way Steve latches onto
their conversation about displaced veterans with the desperation of a drowning
man, he’s kind enough not to draw attention to it. Steve knows it isn’t smart
to immediately let himself trust someone so soon after he’s met them. Hell, his
whole life has been one long lesson in why people don’t deserve his trust, and
he’s the first to admit his gut instinct isn’t always right. But he also knows
that when he gets something wrong, it tends to move in the other direction,
like how he was wrong about the kind of people the Starks were, or when he
looked at the footage of the Hulk for the first time and only saw a monster.
When Steve’s instinct tell him this strongly to trust someone, it says it about
people like Erskine and the Bowers. They said it about Bucky. Simply put, when
Steve’s gut starts telling him this loudly to pay attention, Steve pays
attention.
 
When he looks at Sam, he sees a man with no connections to Steve’s new life,
and no shortage of connections to his old one. There are no ulterior motives,
just a fellow soldier who understands what it’s like to feel too comfortable at
night. He sees someone who knows what it is to be lost, but can still smile
like everything is going to turn out alright. And God help Steve, but he needs
that right now. He needs someone who knows what it feels like.
 
Still, none of that is to say that Sam isn’t slightly unnerving. It’s alarming
how easily he starts asking about how Steve’s adjusting to life after the ice.
It’s not that Steve feels he’s under a microscope, not exactly, but Sam has a
way of getting straight to the point that makes Steve want to talk to him. He
wonders what exactly it is Sam does at the V.A., that he seems able to pick up
on what Steve feels instinctively.
 
But no matter how inviting and open-ended Sam makes his statements, Steve is
pretty sure telling his life story to a stranger next to the Washington
Monument isn’t a good thing for Captain America to be doing. It isn’t something
Steve Rogers particularly wants to do, either. Whether he considers himself in
his 20s or his 90s, Steve’s still spent most of his life holding the important
cards close to his chest. He’s not about to change that now, so when Sam asks
him about the “good old days,” Steve only smiles before gamely launching into
all the great things he’s been learning about in the 21st Century.
 
He’s debating just how much he’s prepared to be mocked for admitting his
apparently embarrassing response to grocery stores – Rumlow took him once right
after he got to D.C. Steve was hardly wet behind the ears at that point, but
Rumlow took one look at his face and spent the entire trip avoiding him in the
card aisle – when Sam mentions something called the Trouble Man soundtrack.
 
“Everything you’ve missed jammed into one album.”
 
Steve’s heard that one before, but he’s happy to write it down in his notebook
all the same – to let this become one more new memory to replace some of the
old ones. He’s just closing the book when his phone buzzes with a text from
Natasha:
 
“Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at curb. :)”
 
Ever since Steve cut off her explanation of emoticons with “Oh! They’ve turned
them onto their sides now? That makes more sense, doesn’t it?” Natasha has
insisted on including one in every text she sends, no matter what it’s about.
Steve tries to imagine her giggling to herself every time she hits the “send”
button, and that just makes it better. He sort of likes that she’s decided he’s
worthy of inside jokes.
 
At any rate, he likes smiley faces more than old man jokes, which are sort of
low-hanging fruit at this point.
 
“Can anyone direct me to the Smithsonian? I’m looking for an old fossil.”
 
Case in point.
 
“You’re hilarious,” Steve comments mildly, once Sam and Natasha have finished
flirting with each other shamelessly, and they’re pulling out into traffic.
 
“Thank you,” Natasha says, primly, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I promise
it’s all in good fun, though. I don’t mean anything by it.”
 
“Hmmm,” Steve says, giving her just enough of the leading response she’s
obviously looking for to keep going. She just looks like she’s having such a
good time.
 
“I would never go looking for you in the Smithsonian,” She says gravely.
 
“I am on display there right now,” Steve points out.
 
“And I am sadly banned for life from all Smithsonian facilities,” she sighs.
 
“How do you get banned from the Smithsonian for life?” Steve wonders.
 
“They’re real sticklers about etiquette,” Natasha shrugs as she changes lanes.
“Apparently gun fights next to the Declaration of Independence are frowned
upon. Even if you didn’t miss.”
 
***
 
Steve thinks Natasha must have been instructed to keep closer tabs on him not
long after Hawkeye was sent on a long-term recon mission halfway around the
world. Maybe she has more time to work in-house ops now that she’s not
constantly teaming up with Barton to fight crime, Steve’s not sure, but for
almost a month now, she’s been in his back pocket during their down time, or
even during lulls on mission. It’s almost feels like she enjoys gracelessly
pestering him about his personal life, which Steve finds surprising, because
the woman is supposedly a living legend in espionage.
 
Steve thinks she’s more like a bull in a china shop, albeit an unexpectedly
charming one. He’s started to hate how much he enjoys her pestering, although
he wishes with every fibre of his being that she’d quit asking about girls.
It’s not that Steve wants to lead her on – he just has no idea what she’s
reporting back to Fury about, and this is one of those things that is nobody’s
business but his own.
 
Sure, men liking men isn’t against the law anymore and they’re even allowed to
get married some places, but Steve still remembers that prickling fear so
vividly. He remembers how scared Bucky used to get about the “regular”
neighbours looking twice at them, and thinks about how skittish and miserable
Bucky would be if be if he knew Steve was freely telling people. He just can’t
make himself say the words. Can’t say,
 
“I’m actually pretty sure there’s only ever going to be one person for me, and
he’s gone now, so can we go back to the old person jokes for a while?”
 
It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to sort out who Steve meant. There’s more
than enough footage out there of him, face lighting up every time Bucky so much
as smiles his direction. So Steve strengthens his resolve, keeps deflecting her
suggestions, and on the occasions where the urge to come clean gets too strong,
he distracts himself by doing something else stupid and reckless instead. Like
jumping out of airplanes.
 
***
 
“You know,” Rumlow tells him conversationally after the mission. “If you want
Romanov to knock it off with the matchmaking, you could always just tell her.
You know, use your words?”
 
“She seems to enjoy it,” Steve says.
 
“You mean making other people uncomfortable?” Rumlow asks, dryly. “I hadn’t
noticed.”
 
Steve laughs a little, even though he feels bad about it. For some reason,
Rumlow doesn’t like the Black Widow. Maybe it’s her past, or maybe it’s the way
she can stare down every single member of the strike team. Still, it always
gets his back up to hear Brock say snide things about her. He knows he’s a
hypocrite, because he holds her at arm’s length just like the rest of them, but
the more he’s around her, the more he thinks she doesn’t deserve people talking
about her behind her back.
 
Even if it turns out she hasbeen playing him, something that looks like more of
a possibility than ever, what with how she abandoned them mid-mission to carry
out someone else’s orders. He shrugs Rumlow off as politely as he can, because
as much as Steve doesn’t care for Brock’s gossipy schoolgirl form of bonding,
the man has only ever tried to make Steve feel welcome. There’s no point in
burning all his bridges, Steve reasons to himself, as he heads to the elevator
to go light a fire or two under Director Fury.
 
***
 
Private Lorraine is, well, she’s a little terrifying, to be honest. Steve has
never been much good around women – he’s just never really had much to do with
them. Growing up, the only women he interacted with were nuns, and then the odd
cook or secretary. He didn’t really have much to do with women his own age
until Bucky started setting up “dates,” and those were always an unmitigated
disaster. He seems to get on quite well with Peggy, even though sometimes he
gets so worried about saying the wrong thing he ends up saying the worst thing.
Whenever that happens, she just turns to him and gives him a Look for a little
while until he seems suitably embarrassed, and they carry on as they were
before. Steve vaguely wonders if he’s getting better at this whole woman thing,
because she really seems to genuinely enjoy his company. And then Lorraine
happens.
 
It’s not the first time he’s met her – she’s always around headquarters, coming
up to Peggy with updates or things to sign, or to drag her or Howard off to
another meeting – but usually she just smiles his direction and they exchange
hellos. He’s never really spoken with her before. Everything’s happened so fast
since he went after the 107th, he’s just assumed she has better things to do.
Needless to say, it’s a surprise when she starts waving a newspaper in his
face, calling him a hero.
 
“The women of America owe you their thanks,” she, well, purrs. “All those
relieved wives who will get their husbands back at the end of all this.”
 
“Oh,” Steve stammers, casting about for the exit. “You know, I don’t think they
were all married.”
 
She looks at him curiously before shaking her head a little and advancing
closer, reaching out to grab him by the tie. Steve feels like he’s about to
have an asthma attack again.
 
“I have a message for you from the women of America, Captain,” she says,
leaning over to whisper into his ear, before pulling him back behind the filing
cabinets. She’s alarmingly stronger than she looks. They’re only kissing for a
few short seconds, and it’s probably more to the point to say thatsheis
kissinghimwhen there’s the sound of someone pointedly clearing their throat
behind them. Steve pulls back as quickly as he can, gently trying to extricate
his uniform from Private Lorraine’s determined fingers as he does.
 
“Oh, Peggy,” he says, a little lamely as he sees her there, hands on her hips,
a decidedly unimpressed expression on her face. “This isn’t – it’s not what it
looks like.”
 
“It looks like you’re on the prowl for that dance partner to me,” she says,
sharply. She’s doesn’t take her eyes off Lorraine the entire time she speaks.
 
“It was a hero’s welcome,” Lorraine says decorously. Peggy snorts and hisses,
 
“I will be discussing this with you later. Captain, we’re ready to test those
weapons now.”
 
Steve trails after her, a little lost. She won’t slow down and she’s not
looking at him.
 
“Are you mad?” He asks.
 
“Very,” she says. “I just haven’t decided who I’m mat at yet.”
 
“I’m confused,” Steve offers.
 
Peggy abruptly comes to a halt before spinning on her heel to glare hard at
him. Finally she just snorts, “Men,” before spinning around again and walking
away just as briskly as before.
 
He’s still confused as anything a few hours later when Private Lorraine corners
him again, this time herding him into an empty room off the hall. But instead
of putting her hands all over him, she only says,
 
“You should ask Peggy Carter out on a date.”
 
“Excuse me?” Steve says, wishing she just wouldn’t talk to him at all. She’s so
fierce that he’s more worried to be left alone with her than he is with Red
Skull at this point.
 
“You and Agent Carter,” Lorraine repeats, slower. “I’m sure you would find that
it’s worth your while.”
 
Steve narrows his eyes and is about to ask what she means by that when there’s
a sharp “Private!” and Peggy is scurrying up to them looking positively
murderous. She still sounds perfectly composed however, when she reaches up and
hauls Steve back by his shoulders, saying,
 
“That will be all, Private. Please refrain from harassing the war heroes.”
 
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep losing your nerve,” Lorraine says,
unrepentant in the extreme. “You said you could trust him, and we don’t have
much time before he’s off again. What’s the problem?”
 
“Private,” Peggy starts, but Steve interrupts her.
 
“Would someonepleasejust tell me what is going on?” He begs.
 
Peggy looks around nervously and a little guiltily as Private Lorraine smiles
sweetly at him and says,
 
“We wanted to offer you the opportunity to do a little undercover work,
Captain. A side mission, if you will.”
 
“I don’t really have any experience in spy work,” Steve says, guardedly.
 
“Oh don’t worry,” Lorraine says, ignoring the scathing look Peggy is giving
her. “We’re almost certain you’re qualified.”
 
***
 
“We can’t bethatobvious,” Bucky says later on, when Steve relates the
conversation. “Can we?”
 
“Private Lorraine seems to think so,” Steve says. “And since she hasn’t
evenseenus together, and Peggy wouldn’t meet my eye, I’ve got a pretty good
idea of who she was talking to when she formedthatopinion.”
 
Bucky doesn’t answer, just stares off into space shaking his head in disbelief.
 
“I can’t believe you’re forcing me into an arranged marriage.”
 
“I am not,” Steve protests, even though he’s pretty certain he can see Bucky’s
shoulders shaking with laughter in the dim lighting. “I only agreed to court
Peggy, and to tell you about Lorraine. I didn’t say anything about marriage.”
 
“Steve,” Bucky says, not a little condescendingly. “Can you honestly tell me
that there isn’t some dame out there I’ve never met planning a huge post-war
double wedding with my name on the invitations?”
 
Steve’s silence is all the answer Bucky seems to need and he sets off laughing
again, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder now as he gasps for air. Steve
smiles and rubs Bucky’s back despite the fact that he’s the one being laughed
at. Bucky doesn’t really laugh much anymore. Not since Zola. He doesn’t sleep
well, either. It’s the only reason Steve risks having their cots pushed up
together like this at all when they’re on base, even in the privacy of his own
quarters.
 
“You don’t have to agree to anything,” Steve says again. “I just thought…
hasn’t it worried you? Now that everyone knows who I am, we aren’t going to be
able to sneak back to that hole in the wall in Brooklyn and expect to be left
alone while we grow old together. This might be the best way to go unnoticed,
and it would help out two really great dames who are trying to work around the
same problem.”
 
“I’ll think about it, Stevie,” Bucky says, reaching out to stroke Steve’s cheek
lightly. “But first, how about we try to win this war, okay?”
 
***
 
The conversation with Fury leaves Steve shaken to his core. The idea of
stopping a threat before it’s a threat makes Steve feel sick, mostly because he
thinks he understands it. If someone gave him the chance to go back in time and
kill Hitler in infancy, or to go to Barry’s School for Boys and stamp out the
corruption before it could spread through the faculty, Steve doesn’t think he
would be able to resist the urge either. He hates that about himself, because
he knows that realistically, so many other people would have to be sacrificed
for those few threats to be taken out early, in a mass slaughter of innocence
that would make him more of a Cronus than a Prometheus. It would be the only
way to be certain, since no one has actually mastered time travel, and no
matter how pretty Fury dresses up the sales pitch, all he’s proposing is
killing a monster by becoming a bigger monster.
 
He finds himself in the Smithsonian Museum of American History, looking
despondently at the Captain America and Howling Commandos exhibit. He misses
his friends. He misses the trust he knew he could place in them.
 
“He saved over a thousand men,” the old footage of Peggy narrates, looking sad.
“Including the man who would – who would become my husband, as it turns out.
Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life.”
 
Steve wonders who it was that Peggy ended up marrying. He hopes it was someone
she was honest with at least. It hurts to think of her living day in and day
out with someone, hiding such an important part of her life. He wonders about
what happened to Private Lorraine, if she and Peggy were able to stick it out
over the years. He’s guiltily searched Peggy’s name on the internet since he’s
woken up, trying to figure out if she told the world about her orientation.
Aside from some truly alarming artwork, there isn’t much of anything. She’s
just the girl who Steve Rogers left behind. He truly hopes there was another
reason she kept it hidden: privacy, maybe. Lies of omission to protect someone
else are hard things to carry, Steve is learning. He doesn’t want to find out
that Peggy has wasted her life keeping his memory safe.
 
It seems to be a thing that a lot of people are willing to do: lie to keep the
image of Captain America untarnished. There are so many facts about him before
the serum in the exhibit, including an exhaustive breakdown of his medical
history. And yet it’s still so light on truth. There’s no explanation for how
he lost the hearing in that ear, or for why a young man with professional
secondary art training doesn’t have records of making it to high school. His
entire childhood is glossed over with a simple “best friends since childhood,
Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and
battlefield.” There’s nothing else.
 
Steve wonders if they looked for anything else, if they didn’t want to take
Steve’s past at face value, if they ever looked into the vague backgrounds
Steve and Bucky reluctantly offered. He wonders if anyone ever spoke to Cal and
Rich, or to the Bowers, or even someone like Jack Preston. So many people he’s
known, who knew him, who would have recognized him in the movie reels, even if
they couldn’t understand the transformation. But none of them seem to have said
a word about where he came from or where he disappeared to after the orphanage.
No one has mentioned his relationship with Bucky, or where they used to live
and who their friends used to be. Steve wishes he knew why.
 
There had to be some impressive amounts of money to be made off a tell-all book
about the Captain and his secret double life. And even without greed as a
motivating factor, what about the gay rights movement? What about the Bowers
and their determination to shut down an abusive and dangerous reform school?
Being able to trot out Captain America as the mascot for either cause could
have been such a boon. Steve feels guilty about how grateful he is that it
never happened. It probably should have happened.
 
He lets himself wonder, suddenly, what he’s only let himself think about late
at night when he can’t sleep. He wonders if that school was ever closed. He
never returned to that street in Bedford-Stuyvesant after waking up – too
afraid that he would still see it standing there – as a halfway house or a
detention centre for dangerous juvenile offenders – whatever it is they would
call it now. He’s not sure if he’s brave enough to handle knowing nothing
changed, to find out that he and Bucky had a chance to stop it, but they waited
too long and no help ever came.
 
***
 
He goes to see Peggy at the V.A., finally. He’s been to see her before, once,
but it was upsetting enough that he’s ashamed to say he hasn’t been back since.
She hadn’t even recognized him, just spoke to him like he was one of the
volunteer visitors who occasionally stop by, chattering non-stop about her
sister and niece. Steve wasn’t even aware Peggy had a sister, but he got the
impression that Peggy’s niece isn’t much older than he is, so he supposes she
must have been a fairly late addition to the family.
 
Today when he walks into the room, Peggy is just getting off the phone with
someone, and her eyes are so bright and sharp, Steve’s heart catches a little
in his chest.
 
“Peggy?” He says, cautiously.
 
She looks at him, and her face lights up into the most beautiful smile Steve
has ever seen, so welcoming it makes him feel like crying.
 
“Steve!” She beams. “I was just talking about you. I was complaining to Sharon
that you hadn’t come to see me yet, even though they kept trying to tell me you
were real. I told her, ‘I don’t care how many news stories you show me, I won’t
believe it until you march him into this room.’”
 
He doesn’t tell her about the other visit – he doesn’t want to ruin the happy
relief flooding through him right now, better than any drug. Instead he just
tries to hold back tears as he crosses over to her bed and grasps onto her
frail hand as tightly as he dares.
 
“I’m sorry,” he manages.
 
“Oh Steve,” she says, fondly and with total understanding in her voice. “I
know. This is hard.”
 
God, he has missed her so much. No one has ever seen right to the centre of him
as easily as Peggy, not even Bucky. No one has understood his need to do
something and fight, even when the world says no, quite like Peggy. They’re
both cut from the same cloth.
 
“Sorry I took so long,” he says, after a long quiet moment when he just sits
and holds her hand and remembers.
 
“It’s alright,” Peggy says, wiping away a few tears impatiently. “You still
came. Sharon said you would. She grew up hearing all about you and she said,
‘He’ll be there, Mom. He’ll be there.’”
 
Steve looks up at her, confused.
 
“I thought she was your niece?”
 
Peggy quirks an amused eyebrow at him.
 
“You’ve been doing homework,” she says, playfully. Steve doesn’t correct her.
“I never got to play house with you Steve, like we planned so long ago, but I
still played house, pretended to be happily married, before I very publicly
determined to never love again when my husband died years later. It seemed so
much safer to move in with my divorcee sister – who as it happens can dredge up
a rather convincing English accent when necessary – and her newly adopted
daughter than publicly admit my love for another person.”
 
She looks down, obviously still distraught after all this time when she admits,
 
“My husband died under… suspicious circumstances, I’m afraid. I always
suspected it had something to do with my job, although nothing was ever proven.
I didn’t want to endanger anyone else that way again.”
 
“Peggy, I’m so sorry,” Steve tells her, even though part of him feels better
knowing that she didn’t spend her whole life without the family he always knew
she wanted. If he had stayed, there would have been no way for her to get even
that.
 
She smiles at him again.
 
“That’s all water under the bridge now, Steve. In the past and best left there.
Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to since you’ve been back. Tell
me about some of the scandals you’ve caused, and don’t try to lie about it, I
can still watch the news. I know you can’t help yourself.”
 
***
 
The visit goes amazingly until, suddenly, it isn’t. In one split second an
admittedly tiring Peggy goes from fully conversant to sobbing, looking at Steve
like he’s a ghost come back to haunt her, or worse yet, take her someplace
better. He didn’t think there would be a worse feeling than knowing she didn’t
recognize him, but causing her this level of distress and pain is so much
worse. He holds her and lets her cry until she falls asleep before he leaves,
feeling no less guilty than when he walked in, despite all the fears she
managed to put to rest.
 
He walks for some time in a sort of fog, not really thinking about it when he
wanders into the V.A. He doesn’t question his footsteps until he hears a
familiar voice coming from one of the meeting halls.
 
“Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure
out how to carry it.”
 
Steve doesn’t know why he decided to go to a stranger when he feels like this.
There’s still that uncertainty when he talks to Natasha, sure, but objectively
he supposes he trusts her more than Sam. Or at least, he should.
 
But Steve honestly doesn’t know if he’s said a single serious thing to Natasha,
not counting the times he’s giving inspiring speeches or talking strategy. She
is a good, reliable person, no matter what games she’s playing on the side.
Steve wantsto be able to talk to her, but he wants to talk to her, not the
person she thinks he’d most like hearing. He just wants solid ground beneath
him for once, and right now, watching from the back of the hall, Sam looks like
a rock in the middle of a desert.
 
Steve watches as the veterans file out of the meeting and say their goodbyes.
Sam comes up to him when the last stragglers are making their way out the door.
 
“Look who it is,” Sam says, smiling. “The Running Man.”
 
Steve smiles back.
 
“Thinking about sitting in on a few sessions, Cap?” Sam asks.
 
“Thought about it,” Steve says, focusing on keeping his tone light and pleasant
instead of thinking about the person he left in that hospital room, or the
memories that are threatening to disturb his easy-going exterior. “It looks
like they can get pretty intense.”
 
“Well combat is pretty intense,” Sam says, tone equally agreeable. “You know
how it is, I’m sure. There’s a lot of shit you have to wade through, even when
you’re not in the thick of it anymore. Lot of guilt.”
 
“You know something about guilt?” Steve asks, zeroing in on the subtle note of
sadness in Sam’s voice. He can’t help it. He likes helping people, too.
 
“Afraid so,” Sam says, before briefly explaining about his wingman who didn’t
come back one mission. “Didn’t seem to be much point in staying on for another
tour after that. Before, I did what I did because it made me happy, knowing I
was making a difference. But I couldn’t make much difference for Riley, when it
came down to it. The thought of going back out there just made me miserable, so
I walked away.”
 
“Sounds nice,” Steve murmurs, staring out the window at across the hall. “The
walking away bit.”
 
“You wanna walk, Captain?” Sam asks, leaning against the wall. The hall is
completely silent around them.
 
“Wouldn’t mind feeling happy about something again,” Steve admits. His heart is
beating like he’s on a mission. It’s strange, saying things out loud that he’s
never said to another living person. “You know, feeling like I could hold my
head high and say I was standing on the right side, with the folks I knew had
my back. You were wrong about me missing the good old days. I just wish I still
had the people who used to live there.”
 
“Well, missing people,” Sam says. “That at least I can relate to. Not so much
the sleeping beauty routine.”
 
Steve chuckles.
 
“You have a girl back then?” Sam asks. “I’ve been to that exhibit, saw the lady
in the footage. She sure was choked up about you.”
 
“Well she was one of my best friends,” Steve concedes. “We wanted to get
married, but she wasn’t really my girl.”
 
“If you’re going to lecture me about how you can’t own a woman, I’m going to be
forced to believe you didn’t sleep as heavily through the second wave of
feminism as you thought,” Sam cautions, making Steve laugh again. He doesn’t
take the out provided to him either, though. Talking to Sam sort of feels like
going to see the priest. It feels reckless and exhilarating and freeing. Steve
couldn’t stop now if he tried.
 
“You aren’t the only one who worked with a partner on the front lines,” He
says. “I definitely had a different sort of relationship with mine though.”
 
There’s a brief pause, and then Sam says in a level, controlled voice.
 
“You and Sergeant Barnes?”
 
Steve nods.
 
“You were together.”
 
Another nod.
 
“In the Brokeback sense of the word ‘together.’”
 
“I’m really struggling to sort out all the contemporary terminology, but we
were in love if that’s what you’re trying to get at,” Steve says.
 
The silence coming from Sam is more stunned than it is judgmental so Steve
takes a chance and keeps going.
 
“It was awful then because, you know, that was the sort of thing that got
people arrested, or put into a concentration camp if you lived in the wrong
country, even though I didn’t know about that until I woke up. And it was
really hard for someone like me to keep it quiet, because I was in the
spotlight so much during the war. I hated all that fame because it felt like
lying, like all those people were cheering on a man who didn’t even exist.
Underneath all that muscle I was just a skinny little queer from Brooklyn
starting fights I couldn’t win, just like I always used to. No one would put
their trust in that though, so I just kept pretending. I’m still pretending.”
 
“Why not just tell the truth?” Sam asks, finally. “Can’t get in trouble for it
now.”
 
“But I can,” Steve says, tightly. He can’t stop talking now that he’s started.
“Seventy years, Sam. That’s seven decades building up shrines and writing songs
and honouring the memory of a lie. There’s no Captain America – there’s just
me, and so long as I keep going out and fighting with that stupid shield, I’m
not really at liberty to show the world the real Steve Rogers. No one would
believe in Captain America if they knew it was an act.”
 
“Because you’re gay?” Sam asks, curiously.
 
“Because I’m a person,” Steve says. “People believe in ideas, Sam, and their
idea of Captain America is the inspiring story of a little kid who got to work
up from nothing and overcome indeterminate hardships to become something great
and superhuman. They don’t want to hear about a reform school runaway who took
off and left other helpless kids to be molested and murdered just to save his
own worthless skin. They don’t want to hear about how he loved someone who
didn’t look like Peggy Carter. They don’t want to know about me, about what it
felt like watching Bucky fall, knowing I was losing everything, and that I
wasn’t able to stop and let myself come to terms with what I lost. Fuck, I
still haven’t wrapped my head around it. Can’t make myself realize that he’s
not here.”
 
Steve angrily swipes at his eyes, avoiding making eye contact with Sam. He’s
not ready for the vaguely traumatized expression of a man who’s just had every
illusion of their childhood hero blown to pieces. It’s a surprise, to say the
least, when Sam finally does speak.
 
“Captain America just said ‘fuck.’ I don’t even know where my head is at right
now.”
 
Steve starts laughing and wipes at his eyes again, finally looking over at Sam.
Sam is smiling a little, but he looks all kinds of concerned and he says,
 
“Seriously man, do you, like, need a hug or something? That’s some rough shit.”
 
Steve doesn’t get a chance to answer before Sam is reaching over to pull Steve
into his arms, saying,
 
“You know what? Screw it. Iwant a hug after all that. You can’t keep that kind
of shit locked up inside you, dude. How many decades have you been waiting to
offload all that?”
 
“Too many,” Steve sighs, hugging back. It actually does feel pretty good. He
misses closeness. He hasn’t felt a lot of it since losing Bucky.
 
“You know,” Sam says, slowly, after he’s let go of Steve. “I get that the whole
thing where you dated a Howling Commando would be hard to explain to people,
and I fully respect that airing dirty laundry is not a thing that people do for
kicks. You don’t owe anyone your life story, but seriously man, I think if you
wanted to talk about how hard things were during the Depression and the war, it
wouldn’t shatter too many people’s faith in the American Dream or whatever. The
only people who think your life was easy are the same idiots who think Jesus
was white. Plus, there’s already a lotof people who think you and Barnes were
secretly going at it when the cameras were off. I swear to God, I have an ex
who practically got a doctorate writing about nothing else except how the two
of you were soulmates.”
 
Steve grins at him for half a second before looking down at his hands as they
worry at the sleeve on his jacket.
 
“Maybe don’t mention this conversation to her,” he says.
 
Sam snorts.
 
“No chance of that. That woman was so crazy when we split up I had to delete my
Facebook account so she’d leave me be. I had to give up Farmville for that she-
devil; I’m not telling her anything.”
 
Steve laughs, even though he has no idea what Farmville is. There’s a long
pause before Sam finally says,
 
“Hey. Why don’t we head out before the next event comes in here to set up? We
can go somewhere private. Then, if you still really feel the need to get any
more of this off your chest, it doesn’t have to be in the middle of the V.A.”
 
Steve looks at him curiously. Sam shrugs.
 
“It’s not a fun way to spend an afternoon,” Steve says uncertainly.
 
“I’m getting that impression,” Sam says, grabbing his coat. “Tell you what. You
tell me about some of your life trauma, and I’ll tell you about some of mine.
The stuff with Riley alone could fill a damn book, and that can’t even hold a
candle to the stuff I could say about my dad.”
 
Steve opens his mouth to say no, but he’s already started to follow Sam out to
his car, so he climbs in next to him. He’s absolutely right when he said it
wouldn’t be a fun way to spend an afternoon, but that night as he’s slowly
climbing the stairs to his apartment, he feels lighter than he has in a long
time. Kate is leaving her apartment with a basket of laundry, somewhere in the
distance someone is playing “It’s Been a Long, Long Time,” and Steve is finally
starting to feel like he’s going to be able to get a handle on the 21st
Century.
Chapter End Notes
     I had to work very hard to come up with a way to use that "killing a
     baby to kill a threat makes you become the bigger asshole by default"
     trope because some of the most famous examples from Steve's time were
     biblical and I did NOT want to compare any iconic Jews to Hitler no
     thank you. (Based on earlier events in this chapter, I'm pretty sure
     Steve appreciates this.) I ended up using Cronus and Prometheus as my
     examples there, and I don't know what all y'all learned about Greek
     mythology in school so quickly: Cronus was the Titan in Charge until
     he found out that one of his children was destined to kill and
     overthrow him. Solution: eat all the children. It would have worked
     but he managed to miss the last one, a little tyke by the name of
     Zeus, who grew up to become King God, and make really questionable
     love life choices. Prometheus was the super nice fellow who snuck
     onto Mount Olympus and stole fire for humanity, which made him hero
     of the common man, and punching bag of the gods.
***** Vexed to Nightmare, Part Two *****
Chapter Notes
     A note about Natasha in this fic: I started to plot this fic way
     before the movie came out. I had even started to write a few scenes
     focused on Steve and Co. looking for Bucky, always with the vague
     idea that I would adjust what needed to be adjusted when the movie
     was released so it would fit into the MCU canon. Aaaaand then the
     movie came out, and I don't know what you all know about the Black
     Widow but yeeeeaaaah. Her MCU story doesn't line up with her comic
     story at all at least not until they release a Black Widow movie
     focusing on how everything we know about her is a carefully
     constructed red herring oh please oh please oh please. Anyhow, until
     such time as my wild conspiracy theories are proven right, Natasha's
     current movie back story does NOT fit into my story at all. I have
     improvised and sort of made a modified background for her based on
     both. Sorry if it's a little confusing I'm lying I'm lying I'm not
     sorry at all goddamn everyone her comic back story is SO COOL. MCU,
     you use her comic back story. Use it now!
     WARNINGS: Some discussion of some of the nastier WWII war crimes, and
     this chapter is the first one to really start bringing the violence.
     And gore (I know a lot about how bodies decompose now - government
     agencies are probably very concerned about my search history). It's
     going to escalate from here on out, folks. That's going to bring a
     host of warnings that I hadn't considered (because somehow I always
     end up figuring these things out as I go and not before). The big one
     is only hinted at in this chapter but it will get worse. I hadn't
     exactly accounted for how traumatizing all of this vengeance is going
     to be for the Winter Soldier, but apparently it is. There are a lot
     of issues that are starting up now involving identity crises, further
     loss of autonomy, and escalating levels of self-awareness in a
     situation where self-awareness is by default extremely upsetting. Aw
     man. Why do I hurt the ones I love?
     Thanks as always to my beta, MomentsOfWeakness who neutralizes my
     superpower. (That sounds bad unless you know that my superpower is
     the ability to drop entire words from the middle of sentences,
     rendering them meaningless.)
 
 
 
He wants to ask Natasha how she knew the slugs were Soviet made. He wants to
know why she went stiff as a board when she hears the assassin had a metal arm.
He wants to know what she isn’t telling him. He wants to bang on the glass and
force the doctors to keep trying as they pull away and turn off the machines,
wants to yell at Hill until she orders them to get back to work. He doesn’t
want to watch another good man die, because Nick Fury isa good man, no matter
how rarely they agree with each other. Instead he stands stock-still and
watches Fury code in front of them. He listens to Natasha’s choked, agonized
breathing beside him and closes his eyes for one long moment. He is so tired of
all of this.
 
That feeling of bone-deep exhaustion follows him as they look at Fury’s
lifeless body, and it’s still there when Natasha corners him, demanding to know
what Fury told him before he was shot. Steve does not trust Natasha to have his
back on a good day, but he doesn’t for a second believe that Fury expected him
to include her on his SHIELD-wide list of people not to trust. The fact of the
matter is that there’s some security in knowing that no one ever trusts
Natasha. It’s no secret that her unswerving loyalty is only directed towards
Hawkeye and Nick Fury, and that she’s inherently distrustful of any and all
government run organizations, even the ones that she’s in. If there’s
corruption in SHIELD, Natasha Romanov doesn’t have a part in it.
 
However, Steve still balks at the idea of telling her anything. Something about
Natasha seems close to out of control right now, and he doesn’t like it. He’s
never fully understood her relationship with Fury, but it’s obvious she’s
taking his death hard, and despite her measured, calculating actions that even
now inform everything she does, there’s something desperate in her with Fury
gone that Steve doesn’t like. Usually she works so hard to hide any ulterior
motives, to present herself as the person you want her to be, but now
everything is laid completely bare. Steve can tell she is planning to go after
who did this, and that is not something that he has time to deal with. Not when
he’s trying to sort through the same catastrophe on his own end.
 
He doesn’t recognize his decision as the mistake it was for an embarrassingly
long time, not until hours have passed and he’s watching Rumlow and the rest of
the strike team file onto the elevator in groups of twos and threes. Steve
isn’t an idiot. He knows that with Fury gone the playing field has changed and
Captain America has become an unacceptable risk. As he watches Rumlow’s hand
twitch minutely towards his holstered electric baton, he thinks about Natasha
and how, with Fury out of the picture, she’s become as big a problem to SHIELD
as he is. At least if she was here, they could be problematic together. But
what’s done is done, and it won’t do him any good to keep beating around the
bush just so he can relive his screw ups. Steve has never liked letting the
other guy begin the fight.
 
“Before we get started, does anyone want to get out?”
 
It has the desired effect. Rumlow leaps into action, slamming the emergency
stop button, and as the elevator shudders to a halt all ten men are on him at
once. Steve lets the old anger he always keeps locked down inside him come up
to the surface, joining in with the fresh outrage that’s been simmering ever
since he saw a beaten Nick Fury hiding in his house. He punches and kicks and
lashes out like a wounded animal and it feels good. Steve has never been one to
talk about the things that are bothering him. He’s spent a lifetime training
himself to put his feelings to one side until the job is done, but when it
comes to this? When it comes to fighting and hurting and breaking someone with
his bare hands, that’s when he lets the anger and the rage and the hurt guide
him and it always makes him feel so alive.
 
Bucky hated how Steve would run headlong into a fight; always said one day
Steve would get himself killed, and then where would Bucky be? But Bucky had
liked the fighting just much as Steve; he had just liked finishing someone off
more than the hitting itself. Steve can’t help think about the way they fought
together, especially after the serum, as he dodges batons and tasers. They were
a seamless unit; Steve starting the violence and Bucky ending it. The closest
he’s come to someone who can anticipate his moves as well as Bucky did is with
Natasha. He reallyshould have involved her in this meeting with Pierce.
 
He lets his guard down for half a second and one of the super powered magnetic
cuffs slides onto his wrist. It takes no less than four men to wrestle his arm
to the wall. Steve manages to land a vicious kick to one of their heads,
slamming it against the side of the glass. The man doesn’t get up again, and
Steve tries to keep his focus. Bucky always said he loses sight of the big
picture when he fights in close quarters like this. Natasha has said the same
thing. A taser hits him square in the back and white hot pain screams through
his nervous system, even with the suit’s protection.
 
Steve has gone drinking with these men. He went with Jackson to his daughter’s
elementary school so she could brag to her classmates that her dad got to work
with Captain America, for God’s sake. Steve has let himself be show-and-tell
for these assholes, and now they have him cornered like a rat in a cage. He
lashes out and knocks the second cuff away before using his free hand to pull
on the trapped one. He has to pull with all the strength he has, actually brace
his entire body against the elevator door, but finally it gives in time for him
to spin and meet Rumlow full on as the man pulls himself back up to his feet,
breathing hard. He holds his hands up in truce.
 
“Whoa, big guy, hold up,” he says.
 
Steve pauses, slightly, tries to get more space between them but there’s really
nowhere else to go.
 
“I just want you to know, this isn’t personal,” says Rumlow before the rod is
suddenly jammed into Steve’s torso and turned on to full power.
 
The world is on fire again, and all Steve can think of is how many times he’s
trusted this man with his life; how many times Rumlow’s been his back up. He
thinks about grocery shopping and greeting cards, and he feels sick. He knocks
the baton out of Rumlow’s hands and swings out hard, punching Rumlow right on
the jaw before sweeping his feet out from under him and bringing an elbow down
to the back of his head as Rumlow flails for balance. He goes down hard and
this time he doesn’t get back up again.
 
“It kinda feels personal,” Steve mutters, picking up his shield and using its
solid edge to break off the cuff.
 
He needs to get the hell away from this building and back to that flash drive.
And then he thinks he needs to find Natasha.
 
***
 
The flash drive is gone from the vending machine when he gets back to the
hospital because of course it is. Of coursesomeone found where he squirrelled
it away for safe-keeping. Now the damned thing is probably in the hands of some
civilian, or one or Pierce’s lackeys, or –
 
Someone snaps their gum behind him. He’s sees Natasha’s reflection in the glass
and before he even thinks about what he’s doing, he spins and shoves her into
the nearest room. He gets the strong impression that Natasha lets it happen as
a professional courtesy, so they don’t have this conversation in a crowded
hospital hallway.
 
“Where is it?” He demands.
 
“Safe,” she hisses, staring at him like she can’t believe he’s mad at her right
now. He’s not sure what she thought would happen.
 
“What’s on it?” Steve asks.
 
“I don’t know,” Natasha says.
 
Steve scoffs.
 
“I don’t,” she insists. “I only act like I know everything, Rogers.”
 
“Why are you still here then?” Steve asks. “Why haven’t you tried to find out?”
 
“I was waiting for you,” she says.
 
“Okay,” Steve says, “but why?”
 
Natasha shrugs a little.
 
“I don’t know who I can trust at SHIELD right now, but I trust you. I thought
it would be better to work together on this. We make a great team, Rogers.”
 
And if that’s not a line, Steve was born yesterday. It’s much too close to what
he wants her to say to possibly be the truth. He stares hard at her,
concentrating on conveying all the “pull the other one” he can muster into his
expression. She sags a little and rolls her eyes.
 
“Fine,” she says. “I need your help. I need to track down the man who did this,
and when I find him, it’ll take more than just me to keep him from running.”
 
“Why do you need to find him?” Steve asks.
 
“I’m not sure yet,” Natasha sighs and leans her head against the wall. For once
she looks as lost as Steve always feels. “Maybe to make him pay. Mostly to find
out why.”
 
Steve narrows his eyes at her.
 
“You know who did this. That’s how you knew the make of the bullets.”
 
“I know his code name,” Natasha concedes. “But I don’t think anyone really
knows the Winter Soldier.”
 
“The Winter Soldier?” Steve repeats.
 
“He’s a legend. Stories about him go back at least as far as to the Bay of
Pigs. Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists, but he’s
been credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years.”
 
“That’s impossible,” Steve says. “Is the title passed down from one agent to
the next, or are you honestly trying to tell me he brings a walker with him on
all his missions?”
 
“Do you?” Natasha shoots back before visibly reigning herself in and adding,
“The title isn’t passed on, not unless the metal prosthetic arm is being passed
along with it.”
 
“The man I chased wasn’t old, Natasha,” Steve says.
 
She looks uncomfortable before she says,
 
“I don’t understand a lot of details about him. It was a long time ago, and he
mostly kept to himself. But he’s real. I’ve worked with him before.”
 
“When you were freelance?” Steve asks.
 
She shakes her head.
 
“When I worked for the Soviets. I thought he was part of the same program that
trained me, but it looks like he was outside the organization.”
 
“If you want to find him so you can have a touching reunion there’s a good
chance you’ll be disappointed,” Steve warns. “This guy wasn’t interesting in
explaining himself, Natasha. Even if he could be convinced to change sides, I’m
hardly in a position to make an offer. I just downed a SHIELD aircraft, they
aren’t going to be happy if I negotiate with terrorists on their behalf.”
 
Natasha raises an eyebrow at that, but only says,
 
“I don’t want to negotiate. I don’t want to bring him in. I want to
understand.”
 
“Understand what?” Steve asks.
 
“I thought I could trust him, once,” she says, simply. “Even if we weren’t
playing for the same team, I guess I thought there would be some sort of… line.
Then the last time I saw him, he shot straight through me to take out the
ambassador I was meant to protect.”
 
She lifts her shirt a little to show him a scar along her stomach.
 
“I almost bled out, and I watched him walk away without a second glance. I want
to know why. I want to know why he came back today. I don’t have a lot of
people who I trust, Steve, and I lost one of those people today. The Winter
Soldier was the first person I ever believed in, and he’s betrayed me before.
Now that it’s becoming a pattern, I think I deserve answers. Maybe a little
payback, if it turns out to be necessary, that’s all.”
 
Steve stares at her for another long moment.
 
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go find out what’s on that flash drive. Maybe it’ll get
us a little closer to finding your old friend.”
 
***
 
“Kiss me.”
 
“What?”
 
“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.”
 
“Yes. Yes, they do.”
 
Natasha rolls her eyes and grabs the back of his head, yanking him down to
force their mouths together. Steve wonders what it is about himself that
encourages strange women to kiss him. He’s moving to pull away when he catches
sight of someone who could be Rumlow on the opposite escalator, and his head
finally catches up with what’s happening. He stops struggling and leans in
closer, carefully placing a hand on Natasha’s waist. He feels her let out a
slight huff of laughter as her hand chases his and tries to slide it further
down on her hip. He lets her, albeit reluctantly. Her other hand slides away
from his hair now that she knows he won’t pull away and runs down the length of
his back. And then keeps going. He pulls away when they get to the bottom of
the escalator and gives her his best chastising scowl.
 
“Can’t blame a girl for being curious,” she says, unrepentantly. “Still feel
uncomfortable?”
 
“I feel violated,” Steve mutters, and Natasha huffs out another laugh before
grabbing his hand and pulling him after her.
 
***
 
There’s a brief fight in the parkade which could have been avoided if Natasha
would have just agreed to let Steve leave a note behind for the poor person
who’s truck is going to be missing when they’re done at JC Penny’s, but she
won’t budge.
 
“You’re really an idiot sometimes, Steve,” she snaps, as she herds him into the
car. “And you’re eating into our lead. I’ll help you hack the DMV when this is
done so you can return it to them personally, okay? Happy now?”
 
Steve is, actually, but he keeps scowling anyhow, keeping up the act so he
doesn’t have to admit anything. From Natasha’s smirk, he’s not fooling anyone.
 
***
 
“So,” Natasha says conversationally, like she hasn’t just been scolded about
dirty sneakers like she’s a small child. “I have a question for you, which you
do not have to answer. I should point out though, that if you don’t answer,
it’s sort of like you’re answering anyhow, you know?”
 
“What?” Steve asks, exasperated. Natasha has mastered the art of irritation so
well, sometimes being around her feels like being back in the orphanage around
the six-year-olds.
 
She smirks, so satisfied that he knows he’s given her exactly the response she
wanted. The smile twists into something even more evil when she asks,
 
“Was that your first kiss since 1945?”
 
“Was it that bad?” Steve asks, dismayed despite himself.
 
“I didn’t say that,” Natasha says, soothingly. She sounds like Christmas has
come early.
 
“It sounds like you’re saying that,” Steve says.
 
She actually chuckles this time.
 
“I’m just saying, if you’re nervous about taking me up on my dating suggestions
because of the whole kissing thing, I just think you should know that it’s
okay, Steve. No one expects you to have mastered the technique after such a
long time out of commission. We allneed practise.”
 
“You’re a terrible person,” Steve says, and Natasha chuckles again.
 
He likes the way it sounds. He also likes how relaxed he feels, talking to her
right now. It’s like what happened to Fury has changed the dimensions of their
friendship. Trusting Natasha now doesn’t seem as hard as it did 24 hours ago,
and who knows, maybe now is as good a time as any to test out that growing
trust. Between this and his conversation with Sam, Steve is actually starting
to feel comfortable in his own skin again.
 
“You know,” he says. “I’m 95, not dead. I’ve had plenty of practise.”
 
“Right,” Natasha says, placatingly. “Steve Rogers: lady’s man. Think that’s the
title of your official biography.”
 
“Is it?” Steve says, nodding slowly, like he’s mulling it over. “I don’t think
I’d go thatfar. Never did much practising with the dames.”
 
There’s a very long, very startled pause from the passenger seat before Natasha
cautiously asks,
 
“Did Captain America just out himself to me?”
 
Steve sighs in frustration,
 
“Look,” he says. “I know that my inability to cope with this century is the big
joke, ha ha, but I really have trouble with all the gay idioms, they’ve just
changed so much. We didn’t even use the word gaylike this and – “
 
“I know,” Natasha interrupts. “I watched that interview where you took the
reporter to task for his manners. It was adorable, but not really what I want
to talk about right now. Steve, did you sleep with men?”
 
“Well,” Steve hedges. “Mostly just with one. And that wasn’t really why we
were… I don’t understand why everyone today thinks about sex first when they’re
talking about sexual orientation, either.”
 
“So you mean that it wasn’t just sex,” Natasha guesses. “You were in love.”
 
She doesn’t say Bucky’s name out loud like Sam did. Steve isn’t sure if she’s
just saving him from having to say it, or if she doesn’t know to ask. He
guesses it must be the former, because it doesn’t strike him as likely that
Natasha wouldn’t have inspected every aspect of his file with a fine-tooth
comb.
 
“I was in love,” he confirms.
 
“And now he’s dead,” Natasha says, almost cruelly, except for the subtle note
of sadness in her voice when she says it.
 
“Now he’s dead,” Steve confirms again.
 
There’s another long pause before Natasha speaks, in a much smaller voice.
 
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For the stuff with the girls, too. You just seemed
lonely. I thought…”
 
She trails off, and Steve glances over to see her staring at her feet, fiddling
with her necklace.
 
“It’s okay,” Steve says, because it is. “I’m not used to really talking to
people about it, so it’s not like you knew.”
 
“I suspected,” she admits. “I couldn’t get a read on you. You don’t seem
interested in anything.”
 
“I guess I’m not,” Steve shrugs. “I never have been. I only ever cared about
him.”
 
“Ever think you might want to try to find that again?” Natasha asks.
 
Steve makes a face.
 
“It’s sort of hard to find someone who has shared life experience, you know?”
 
“You could invent shared life experience,” Natasha offers. “It’s what I do.”
 
“That doesn’t sound like a good way to take care of the whole lonely thing,”
Steve says. “Seems like a hard way to live.”
 
It’s Natasha’s turn to shrug now.
 
“And a good way not to die,” she says. “Besides, sometimes it works. Sometimes
you come up with something that suits you so well, it feels more real than who
you really are. It’s nice. Rare, but nice.”
 
“It’s kind of hard to trust someone when you don’t know who that someone really
is,” Steve points out.
 
“I’m aware,” Natasha says, dryly. “Even Idon’t trust myself.”
 
“Does anyone?” Steve asks. He’s worried that it sounds spiteful, but he doesn’t
mean it to be. He’s never seen this side of Natasha before. She’s never given
him this much to work with.
 
“Maybe Fury did, before,” Natasha says, musing. “I think Clint does. A very
long time ago, the Winter Soldier did, too.”
 
Steve raises an eyebrow at that.
 
“Really?” He says. “I was under the impression that he didn’t even tell you his
name.”
 
“He doesn’t have a name,” Natasha says. “If he ever did, it died a long time
ago. The Soldier is a husk of a man, Steve. But he was a good man, whoever he
was. For a brief, happy window of time, he took care of me. I never had a
childhood. The way I was treated, and the things they had me do… I was trained
out of my childhood at a very young age. But when he was there, training with
me, and working with me? It felt like having a family.”
 
“And then he tried to kill you,” Steve says, and he can feelthe distress
radiating off of Natasha.
 
“It had been years since I’d last seen him,” She says, sounding like she hates
herself for hoping, but she can’t help it. “Once I thought he would have turned
against whoever held his leash before he would ever hurt me, but… maybe he just
didn’t recognize me. It had been years.”
 
“Okay,” Steve says, gently. “Okay. We’ll find out. We’ll get answers for you.”
 
There’s another long pause before she says,
 
“Thank you.”
 
And then,
 
“Who do youwant me to be, Steve?”
 
“How about a friend?” Steve asks.
 
Her laugh is sad again, but happy at the same time, somehow.
 
“I think there’s a chance you’re in the wrong business, Rogers.”
 
***
 
About halfway to Wheaton, Natasha reaches into her shirt and pulls an analog
police scanner out of her bra with an,
 
“Oh! I was wondering what had happened to that.”
 
This leads to a conversation-slash-argument that lasts almost 40 minutes about
how someone could possibly lose a police scanner in their cleavage and no, I
could notlose spy equipment in the folds of my man breasts, dammit Natasha stop
calling them that. When they finally lose steam and Natasha turns the thing on,
she goes from station to station, listening for any suspicious activity, and
occasionally snickering at the odder dispatches.
 
She picks up the signals from Kearney just in time to hear dispatch send out a
10-27 for a 2400 in progress at the local cemetery.
 
“Ew,” Natasha says, making a face. At Steve’s questioning glance, she
clarifies. “If they’re talking in code about something at a cemetery, it
probably means they’re trying to avoid anyone local overhearing and freaking
out. I bet you anything something nasty is happening right now.”
 
“Proceed with caution. Suspect is likely on some kind of drug and is agitated
and dangerous. We’re getting some odd eye-witness reports for this one, and we
aren’t sure what you’ll find. Don’t go in without back-up. Over.”
 
When the deputy asks for more information, the dispatcher hesitates, like
they’re worried about going into too much detail before finally sighing and
saying,
 
“The groundskeeper reported seeing a man use a metal gauntlet to punch a hole
through one of the gravestones.”
 
Natasha switches the radio off and they both drive in silence for a long period
of time. Finally, Natasha says,
 
“Kearney’s an hour out of our way. Detour?”
 
***
 
At first, Steve had been worried that local law enforcement and the
groundskeeper would be uncooperative, since legally neither Steve nor Natasha
have a right to be there. He asks her if she has any fake IDs that they can use
to pose as non-SHIELD government agents and she gives him the most
condescending, pitying look he’s ever seen before asking if this means he’s
stumbled across the James Bond franchise.
 
“Honestly Steve,” she says. “Just grab the shield and come on. This isn’t New
York, people won’t demand to see your driver’s licence before they’ll believe
you’re Captain America.”
 
She’s right of course, and the awed deputies are more than happy to let the two
of them poke around after they’ve explained that they think this could be “tied
to a matter of national importance.” There is a lot to look at, and none of it
is pleasant. It’s been some time since Steve has seen so many scattered body
parts strewn around like, well, a war zone. At least here they are fortunate
enough to have only come from one person, and none of the parts are remotely
fresh, although Steve is a little sickened at what a mostly decomposed person
looks like, even with the embalming process. The groundskeeper’s casual comment
of, “Could have been worse, I suppose. Least this one’s only mushy and not
soupy” does nothelp.
 
“Do you think there was something in the coffin?” He hazards, looking into the
hole in the ground curiously.
 
“If that’s the case, I don’t think he found it,” Natasha says, glancing around
them.
 
Steve follows her gaze, and she has a point. The coffin has been destroyed and
the corpse’s funeral best torn to shreds. Hell, the corpsehas been torn to
shreds with a thoroughness that strikes Steve as suspicious. Surely tearing off
limbs and pulling apart the remains of the torso was excessive. The officers
still haven’t found all the ribs.
 
“It’s almost as if he was looking for something inside the body,” Steve says.
 
“No, I don’t think so,” Natasha says. “This feels angry to me.”
 
“Could be,” Steve says. “It would fit with the witness statements and the
destroyed tombstone. Not to mention that.”
 
He point to a small cluster of officers a few rows down as they gingerly try to
remove a very decomposed head from where it has literally been mounted to a
pike.
 
“Who do you think he was leaving a message to?”
 
“The Winter Soldier doesn’t leave messages,” Natasha says, helplessly. “He does
what he’s told. Something’s not right here. I don’t know, I think…”
 
She trails off and her face is conflicted before she finally says,
 
“I think he’s in trouble. Like he’s gone off the rails. I told you he was a
husk, right? That’s because they made him that.”
 
“They?” Steve questions. Natasha shrugs.
 
“I always thought it was the Red Room – the KGB offshoot that recruited me, but
they’ve been out of commission for years. No one knows who he’s working for
anymore.”
 
“I don’t think I know where you’re going with this,” Steve says cautiously.
 
“They made him a machine,” Natasha says. “But they couldn’t make him stay a
machine. There was a rumour that he never got older because they couldn’t let
him stay awake long enough. If they left him up too long, he would disappear
and start to act like he was a real person. You’d think that would be a good
thing, but it was disturbing, to say the least. He didn’t like it.”
 
“You saw it happen?” Steve asks.
 
Natasha nods.
 
“One time he took me along with him. I couldn’t have been ten years old yet. He
told me it was like going on vacation.”
 
“What did you do?” Steve asks.
 
Natasha smiles when she answers, which is the worst part. Like there’s a part
of her that thinks it’s a fond memory.
 
“We snuck into a nursing home, and we killed one of the patients.”
 
“Excuse me?” Steve says.
 
“It was a nasty way to go,” Natasha says. “I’d never seen him that upset
before. He didn’t show much in the way of emotions. For a long time I didn’t
think he had any, that they had all been trained out of him. But when we found
that old man, and he was angry. It was about revenge, I’m sure of that, but I
don’t think he knew why he was doing it. I don’t think he actually remembered
why he wanted to do it, he just did it.”
 
“How did you kill him? The old man, I mean,” Steve asks
 
Natasha shakes her head, still smiling.
 
“I know you, Steve,” she says. “I would like you to be able to look me in the
eye after today, so I’m afraid that’s all you’ll be getting out of me.”
 
“Why do you want to try to reason with this man again?” Steve asks.
 
“Because Clint once tried to reason with me,” Natasha says, calmly.
 
“You were a small child when someone forced you to start working for them,”
Steve says. “This guy sounds like he was already well on his way to becoming a
thug before anyone laid a hand on him.”
 
Natasha shrugs.
 
“He tried to save me from the Red Room. That was why he took me with him in the
first place.”
 
“I thought he didn’t have emotions,” Steve says. “Why would he try to save you,
or make you feel like he was family for that matter, if he didn’t feel anything
for you?”
 
“He told me he had to, like someone had given him the order,” Natasha says.
“And he was always kind to me, Steve. He was always protective. He just didn’t
seem to realize it, like there was someone stuck in there with him, telling him
what to do. I’ve always thought that was what was left of the man he used to
be. It was why I was happy to help; the man who kept trying to steal back the
Soldier wanted the old man dead, so there must have been a good reason.”
 
She sighs, and Steve gets the distinct impression that she’s annoyed by how
much she has to assume about the Soldier, and how little she actually knows.
 
“Until Barton showed up, the Winter Soldier was the only friend I had ever had,
no matter how unconventional the relationship was. That means something to me,
Rogers. Hemeans something to me.”
 
Steve thinks it’s a damned flimsy excuse, but he doesn’t push it, either.
There’s something vulnerable in Natasha’s expression, and the way she’s holding
herself. He knows sharing time is over – can see her mentally pull herself out
of the memories she’s at risk of becoming lost in, but he can also see how hard
it’s been for her to say this much, so he lets it lie for the time being.
Instead, he goes to take a closer look at what’s left of the tombstone. It’s
mostly a pile of small rocks now, but a few smooth surfaces are left. There’s
only one with any legible letters on it:
 
“URGES
EST
19--”
 
Steve cocks his head a little to the side as he stares, trying to think of
first names that have the word “urges” hidden in it. Only one – uncommon –
possibility comes to mind, and he feels a little sick before he sternly tells
to stop being melodramatic. The stone isn’t all that old, for one thing. For
another, Kearney isn’t exactly Brooklyn adjacent. He tries not to think about
how the date looks like it has what could be a “0” for the decade.
 
“Do we have any idea whose grave this was?” He asks. “Some of the stones
surrounding the grave are a little newer. I’m sorry Natasha, I still think this
is a message. Maybe this is someone who the Soldier dealt with before. An old
handler maybe, or the relative of a former victim?”
 
“The Soldier didn’t think in terms of handlers and victims, Steve,” Natasha
says, patiently. “He thought about jobs, not people.”
 
“And yet you sounded upset when you told me that he didn’t remember who you
were the last time you saw him,” Steve says.
 
“That’s different,” Natasha says, quietly.
 
“Because you were family?” Steve asks, and Natasha doesn’t say anything at all.
Finally he just repeats, “Do we know who the grave belonged to?”
 
“Yeah,” says Natasha, finally snapping out of it long enough to look at the
records the groundskeeper gave her earlier, even though Steve knows she must
have them memorized by now. “A dead end from the looks of things. Cemetery
records show the body has been interred here for over fifteen years. If the
Winter Soldier had been looking for an old comrade he would have found him long
before now.”
 
“Yeah,” Steve says. “But you yourself said he doesn’t get out much, and he
killed a geriatric, for god’s sake. Maybe it takes him a while to track down
each target. Do you have a name in that file?”
 
Natasha gives him an unimpressed look and sighs heavily before she reads,
 
“Stoller. The guy’s name was Burgess Stoller, and because I’m not an infant, I
already asked about his background when you were poking around in the coffin
remains. The local paper keeps all the obits in an archive, and it turns out
this guy was an ordinary small town government paper pusher who died peacefully
in his sleep, surrounded by friends and family.”
 
Steve sits down hard on the grass and works to keep his breathing level. He
doesn’t take his eyes off the pieces of rubble in front of him.
 
“Cap?” Natasha asks, and he hears her take a step closer. “You okay?”
 
“Just thinking,” he says, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Trying to see a
connection.”
 
Because this can’t be a message for him. It can’t. It can’t serve as a warning
or a threat or even a sick fucked-up greeting of some sort because he’s the
only one who knows. He’s the only one left who knows. Unless Dr. Bowers didtell
someone about the secret past of Captain America? Or maybe it’s not about him
at all. Maybe Stoller did more than just look the other way after Steve and
Bucky left. Natasha said before that the Soldier didn’t show up until the 60s –
if Stoller had still worked at the school in the 50s, maybe the man was a
victim of Barry’s School for Boys before he became a machine. Maybe Steve has
more in common with the Winter Soldier than he thought. He stands abruptly,
brushing off his pants as he walks back to the truck.
 
“We should get going,” he says. “We won’t find anything else here.”
 
“Anything you’d like to share with the class, Rogers?” Natasha calls out after
him sarcastically, and Steve wants to shake his head in defeat as he hears the
edge in her voice, feels her walls going back up and locking into place to keep
pace with his own.
 
“Just that we won’t be able to find out anything else about this until we’re in
a safe place where we can do some real research,” Steve says, equal parts proud
and horrified at how easily the lie comes to him. “If Stoller’s not the key to
what happened here, maybe there’s someone else buried here that the Soldier was
looking for, but we need to get SHIELD off our backs before we can deal with
any of it. We need to sort out Wheaton before we sort out the Winter Soldier.”
 
***
 
They’re too far behind enemy lines to risk a fire, and everyone is huddled
close together for warmth. Soon they’ll turn in and try to get some sleep
before they need to be up again at dawn. Steve is on first watch so he’s not in
his sleeping bag like the others, he’ll leave and patrol the area soon, but for
now he’s silent. They all are, staring up at the night sky, listening for
gunfire that’s too far away to hear anyhow, trying not to think about how
they’ll spend yet another tempting death come morning. In the silence of the
forest, Jones’ quiet voice seems loud when he asks,
 
“Any of you guys ever think about the first thing you’ll do? After the war, I
mean?”
 
Everyone is quiet for a moment, thinking, and then Falsworth pipes up,
 
“I’m just trying to make it to the end of the war, to be completely honest.”
 
“Yeah,” Morita says. “I don’t like thinking about after. Feels like tempting
fate, you know?”
 
He pauses, and the air is tense with whatever it is he wants to add before he
finally admits,
 
“Iwouldlike to go back to Poston. Make sure those idiots have let my folks out
of that stupid camp.”
 
There’s a murmur of commiseration from the other Commandos. Morita doesn’t talk
about it a lot, but they all know about it. Technically, his parents are
allowed to go home any time they want, but Morita’s mom doesn’t get around too
easily, and his family is effectively stranded until someone bothers to help
them relocate. Steve has actually asked around to see if there’s any way to get
some help, what with their son being such an exemplary citizen and a national
hero and all. So far, no one has budged, too busy pretending they’ve got their
hands full holding down the homefront and it really gets under Steve’s skin,
that no one cares about what Morita is doing for them.
 
It’s gotten worse now that they’re finding and liberating the odd PoW camp.
They deal exclusively with HYDRA bases, but there have been reports about other
camps, places like Majdanek. No one is really sure what is happening in German-
occupied Europe right now, but everyone is quickly coming to the conclusion
that it’s worse than anything they were expecting. You can’t fault Morita for
wanting his family far away from any place where folks have been kept based on
what race they are.
 
There’s a natural lull in the conversation and then,
 
“Dad died before the fighting started,” Jones says. “Ma works hard to keep the
house, but it’s hard for her. She’s got three little kids to feed, and there
aren’t a lot of places that will hire ladies in that town, not even with the
war on. She won’t accept any pay from me, but I’ve been saving it up. Wanna pay
off the rest of the mortgage on her house. Wanna be alive so I can tell her
about it in person, too.”
 
“Always wanted to start up a hot dog stand back in Boston,” Dum Dum muses. “I
don’t know, just always thought that would be such a great life: meeting
people, feeding them, giving out free meals to hungry kids.”
 
Falsworth makes an “Awww” sound and Dugan cusses at him loudly while everyone
else laughs a little before the heavy mood resettles over them.
 
They all know what Dernier will say – it’s been a recurring topic of
conversation for over half a year now, ever since they heard the first reports
– but they all let him speak anyway.
 
“Mognéville,” he grits out. “I’m going to go there and look at what is left.
Find my sister’s home. Then I will find each and every man who had a hand in
her death, and kill them with my bare hands.”
 
Dernier hadn’t said a word for weeks after the reports of retaliatory mass
murders throughout the French countryside reached them. He doesn’t claim to
have been close to his older sister – from what Steve can sort out Dernier was
adamantly opposed to her marrying someone so actively involved in the French
Resistance. She had laughed at him and called him a hypocrite. They hadn’t
spoken since the wedding, and Dernier had taken the news of what had happened
to the townhard. Women hadn’t been targeted, but they hadn’t been spared
either, and no one has heard from his sister since it happened. There’s still
hope, but it’s not hope that anyone is willing to offer Dernier. There’s too
great a chance that she’s gone.
 
“The hot dog stand can wait,” Dum Dum says into the darkness. “You want anyone
to help when you kill those sons of bitches, Dernier, you just say the word.”
 
Other voices ring out in agreement, even if deep down they all know that they
are too recognisable to be able to get away with going on a murder spree after
the war is over. Still, it’s nice to think that they can, and since theyare so
noticeable, there’s nothing to stop them from rounding up a few war criminals
and leaning on the necessary international powers to bring them
tolawfuljustice, when all is said and done.
 
Everyone is quiet again, and then just as Steve is standing up, Dernier
manages,
 
“Capitaine? Leaving before you tell us your plans?”
 
It’s a desperate bid to change the subject to something with less of a sting,
and Jones has leapt on it before Steve even has a chance.
 
“Come off it, Dernier,” he says. “It’s pretty obvious what the Cap’s post-war
dreams are.”
 
“I suppose so,” Dernier chuckles, weakly.
 
“Would someone care to letme in on them?” Steve asks, uncertainly. Bucky just
groans. Whatever this is about, it’s obviously been a frequent topic of
conversation. A topic in conversations that hehasn’t been a part of.
 
“It involves marching laying a kiss right on your sweetheart’s mouth,” Dum Dum
explains, patiently. “Probably before you’ve even had a chance to clean the
Nazi blood and guts off your uniform, you big sap.”
 
“It does?” Steve asks, curiously, sitting back down on the ground. “Won’t I at
least take a shower or put on a change of clothes before I head back to London?
I mean, I’m sure my girl’s seen her share of Nazi gore, but we aren’t usually
standing next to each other when it happens.”
 
“Steve,” Bucky groans again, and Steve feels his head slump against the side of
Steve’s leg in frustration. “They aren’t talking about Peggy.”
 
“Do you think we’re idiots, Captain?” Falsworth asks, cheerfully. “None of us
believe for a minute that you cuddle up that close to Sergeant Barnes each
night forwarmth.”
 
Steve is absolutely dumbstruck, briefly noting the way Bucky’s laughter makes
his own body shake, before he manages to say,
 
“I thought… I thought there was a code or something. That we didn’t talk about,
you know… any port in a storm.”
 
“Oh Rogers,” Jones says, pityingly. “You’re not going to try to use ‘just a
couple of lonely soldiers’ as an excuse, are you?”
 
“We… shouldn’t be talking about this?” Steve says, determined to keep trying.
 
“People are dying out there,” Morita says, softly. “I get that someone safe at
home might say the two of you ought to be arrested, but damn, Sarge shot a man
in the back of the head for me today, two seconds before the German bastard
tried to open fire on me. I really amnot concerned about how he’s making time
with our captain on the sly.”
 
Steve is thankful for the darkness so no one can see him blushing, but he can’t
keep the grin out of his voice when he says,
 
“Understood. I really appreciate it, all of you. In fact, what would you think
if I came over and laid one on each and every one of you, right now? You know,
to show my gratitude.”
 
“Then I don’t care how fast you heal,” Morita says calmly, “you’re gonna be
sporting a shiner that lasts you a week.”
 
There’s more chuckling from everyone around him, and Steve feels incredible,
despite his nerves over tomorrow.
 
“WhenIget back home,” Bucky says, once the laughing has died down a little. “I
plan on dragging my superior officer back to our old haunts in Brooklyn. Now
that we’re big important war heroes, I can think of a few social calls I’d like
to make. What do you think, Stevie? Maybe after we’ve kicked a few heads in
with Dernier, it’s time to kick a few more in back in New York?”
 
“I think I’d be fine with that,” Steve says, hearing the promise in Bucky’s
words; offering a promise of his own. “Thinking of tearing a certain reform
school apart, brick-by-brick, too.”
 
“Well, let’s make a date of it,” Bucky says, pleasantly.
 
“You know,” Falsworth says, a few moments later. “Wecan still hear the two of
you. Captain, maybe you could stop desecrating the uniform and start watching
our backs?”
 
Steve is still chuckling when he finally stops kissing Bucky and gets up to
start the first of his patrols around the camp.
 
***
 
He stands a little straighter when he walks back into the base camp, even
though they’re breaking in in the middle of the night and the place is in
ruins. Some things just stay with you over the years, and as soon as he walks
through that gate Steve can’t shake the feeling that he is still 95 pounds and
desperate to prove himself. Still, it feels a little bit like coming home
again, despite all that. He hasn’t been to many places since waking up where
time has stood so still. It’s nice being somewhere that’s at least a little
closer to being on the same page as him.
 
When they find the hidden offices, it feels like walking onto an abandoned
movie set, and when he sees the old photographs of familiar faces hanging on
the wall, it feels like the movie is about him.
 
“That’s Stark’s father,” Natasha says, coming to stand next to him. “I can see
the resemblance.”
 
“Yeah,” Steve says, softly.
 
“Who’s the girl?” She asks, hunching in on herself a little when Steve turns to
look at her incredulously. “What?”
 
“Don’t you recognize her?” Steve asks.
 
“Why on earth would I recognize her?” Natasha asks, defensively.
 
“I don’t know,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “From my file, from a history
class, a documentary, from a Welcome to SHIELD pamphlet detailing the history
of the agency?”
 
“Okay first of all,” Natasha says, waving a finger testily in his face. “They
never gave me a pamphlet they just pulled me out of my holding cell and started
sending me on missions. Second, they never put pictures in your file, I assumed
because all of your friends were dead, and third, why the hell would I learn
about the important people in yourlife in a history class when I was a Russian.
Child. Spy?”
 
She jabs him in the chest with every word at the end and Steve raises his hands
in surrender.
 
“Fine,” he says. “I get it.”
 
It’s only partially true, because it only partially makes sense, and something
in Natasha’s nervous frustration makes him think that she is starting to feel
the same way. Every file he got about his fellow Avengers came stuffed to the
brim with archived footage and pictures and documents. He’s seen so many
documentaries about him since he’s come back, he knowsfinding pictures for that
file would have been as simple as typing a search into Google. The unsettled
look on her face hints that she’s thinking the same thing, and maybe wondering
why she never thought about looking into his past any further.
 
He wants to only focus on the fact that if she doesn’t know who Peggy is, and
that it means she couldn’t possibly be acting like Peggy to ingratiate herself
into his good graces. He wants to let himself smile and bask in the fact that
when Natasha gives off an air of trying too hard to make him like her, she’s
doing it without any ulterior professional motives. He wants to pretend that
the only thing that has just happened, is he’s found someone else at SHIELD as
lonely as he is, but he can’t. The longer they stare at each other, the
twitchier Natasha is getting.
 
She’s starting to look hunted, like her casual acceptance of his blank file and
her lack of curiosity over it isn’t natural, like she’s been doing things
against her will, even if she didn’t realize it until a minute ago. She looks
like Steve feels when he wakes up after dreaming about Barry’s School, or the
way Bucky used to look when he had nightmares about being experimented on in a
HYDRA lab. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but he knows that whatever
it is, it is very wrong.
 
Watching her quietly break to pieces in front of him is so unsettling that it
takes far longer than it should for him to notice the faint breeze blowing
across his face. He looks around until he catches sight of the cobwebs on one
of the bookshelves across from them swaying faintly in the air. He gently moves
Natasha to one side and she shakes out of her panic surprisingly quickly once
she sees what he’s looking at, like she’s desperate to think about something
else. The bookshelf swings open and they find themselves staring at an old
hidden elevator. Whatever is in the basement of this place, someone really
wanted to keep it hidden. So far as Steve is concerned, that’s all the
invitation they need.
***** Vexed to Nightmare, Part Three *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the delay in this chapter, everyone! It probably won't be
     the last one - I have a lot of travelling scheduled this month, and
     recently I've been in thrown unexpectedly into big family... well,
     let's call it inevitable family drama. Anyhow, the point is, my
     writing time is a little iffy these days, and it's taking longer than
     I'd like to finish each chapter. Don't worry if you see longer than
     usual delays in this story, though. I promise it is not going to be
     abandoned!
     CHAPTER WARNINGS: Remember all that revenge I keep talking about? Are
     you getting impatient to see it? I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR YOU, FRIENDS. :
     D
     The next couple chapters are bouncing back and forth between movie
     events, and brief moments in the Winter Soldier's career, so the PoV
     jumps back and forth, as does the timeline. Pay attention to the
     section headings when they show up! The violence amps up in this
     chapter, and kind of in the Winter Soldier's head as well. That poor
     guy is really fucked up, everyone, and it comes across more than I
     thought it would back when I first started writing this. There are
     also very, very brief references to Natasha's abusive, messed up
     childhood (still a quasi hybrid version of her known comic and movie
     backstories), which will be expanded upon a little more in the next
     chapter. It's by no means graphic in either chapter, but yeah. It's
     in there.
     Thank you all for your comments about this story, and of course
     thanks to my beta, MomentsOfWeakness.
 
 
 
New_York_City,_1968
 
The asset’s missions rarely take him to New York. He goes everywhere – all over
the world, but somehow New York City never requires the Soldier’s special care.
The missions never start here, at any rate, and when they lead him here, he is
never allowed to stay for long, especially if he starts to pursue targets in
certain boroughs. He does not question why this is, it simply is.
 
(He questioned it once, quietly and to himself. “It scares them when you get
close to who you were supposed to be,” is the ominous answer he gets back from
the darker corners of his mind. “It makes a liability out of their perfect
weapon. HYDRA has no use for broken things.”)
 
The target knows her time is running out – knows HYDRA, and knows that she has
been caught trying to sell its secrets to the FBI. She also seems to know the
Winter Soldier. He listens to her crying in a phone booth on the edge of Queens
as she tries to explain to her contact that she never meant to hurt anyone,
that she only wanted to help and that what was happening was wrong. She claims
she didn’t understand what she was helping to create until it was too late. She
says she doesn’t want to die.
 
The asset keeps his eyes on her as he strides up to her and watches her entire
body twitch violently as her face crumples and she starts to sob harder,
pleading, talking to him like she knows him. Like they have a history. He
doesn’t recognize her face as he shoves the gun up under her chin and pulls the
trigger. 
 
The phone swings wildly as her body crumples to the ground, the enclosed booth
containing the spray of blood. He turns and walks away, the tunnel vision he
has had ever since he caught her trail in Manhattan eases. Around him people
are screaming and running. They notice the dead woman but the Soldier is good
at what he does, and walking away unnoticed is often a part of that. His small
pistol (she was only a scientist; didn’t require a large weapon), is hidden in
the inner pocket of his coat. His metal hand is covered in leather gloves that
don’t stand out from anyone else’s in the brisk fall weather.
 
Then the Soldier seeshim. For a moment, everything stops.
 
The world around him fades away again, like he’s just been presented with
another mission. He looks at the man who points and panics with the others and
he knows him. The asset has never knownanyonebefore this moment. He is a blank
slate, he issupposed to be a blank slate. But he knows this man, although he
doesn’t know why. Something locked up deep inside of him forces its way to the
surface, weak but insistent: anger.
 
It’s so detached from the Soldier and his mission he barely notices it at
first. It’s not a feeling he’s ever experienced, not that he’s aware of, but
somehow he recognizes it for what it is. The man is running now, face white,
mouth open in fear as he looks around wildly, like a crazed shooter might
randomly come after him next. Like he could be the next target, and suddenly,
that tiny broken off piece of him that produced the anger is latching onto that
thought, like it is a very good idea.
 
He’s unfamiliar with this as well – this act of experiencing an unpleasant
feeling and taking action to deal with it. It makes his body hum, but not with
pleasure. He feels purpose. His handlers always tell him he has a purpose, that
he will shape the future and that his sacrifices will make him a hero. The
Soldier never feels like a hero, and he never feels the purpose and urgency
that his handlers try to impress on him. He feels nothing. Their tasks are
meaningless andhe is meaningless and somehow he knows that if he ever listened
to what they told him, if he ever thought about the words said to him, it
wouldn’t make what he does any easier. It would make it harder. It would make
it a job, not a task, and the Soldier doesn’t want anything that will give him
purpose. Not if it comes from the people who give him his orders.
 
This purpose seems different; it feels older than anything that has been said
to him by the men who put him into the chair. It’s like it comes from someplace
inside of him, although he doesn’t recognize the source as himself. All he
knows, as he silently glides after the frightened man, is that someone,
somewhere made a promise, and this is something he needs to do.
 
Maybe he’s not doing the right thing, exactly, maybe he was only meant to talk,
or accuse, or give the frightened man to someone else to hurt. The Soldier
doesn’t know, and the Soldier doesn’t care. He knows what he is good at; he
knows what he has been programmed to do, and that is what he does now.
 
The man has slowed down ahead of him now; he is breathing freer, and he runs a
hand over his face, like he has dodged some sort of bullet. The tension has all
bled from his shoulders when the asset reaches him and pulls him into the
nearest alley with a firm hand on the back of his neck. The man is too
surprised to struggle.
 
It’s over quickly, but it’s not a clean kill, not what the Soldier prefers. He
doesn’t know why he doesn’t just put a bullet into the man right away, why he
doesn’t minimize the chance he’ll be seen. Instead he slams the man’s face into
the brick wall repeatedly, listening to the crunch of cartilage and bone and
the wet pained gasps of the man as his airways fill with blood. The man flails
in desperation, and his tortured cries finally cause the Soldier to stop
dragging it out. He snaps the man’s neck with his metal hand and for a second
time that day, he watches a lifeless body hit the ground at his feet. He tries
to pretend he isn’t uneasy about what he’s just done.
 
He reaches into the man’s back pocket and pulls out the wallet he finds there.
He takes the money, glancing briefly at the name written on the licence he
finds (Curtis), and then he throws the wallet into a nearby dumpster. Later on,
just before his handler meets him at their planned rendezvous, he drops the
money into the nearly empty tin of a frail old woman begging for change. She
doesn’t see who leaves it, but he hears the cry of surprise when she notices
how much money is now in her possession.
 
The broken off, detached piece of him flares up warmly for a second in alien
satisfaction, and then it goes back to sleep. By the time the asset is
collected and on his way back to cryo, he barely remembers the sensation at
all.
 
***
 
Natasha’s pulse is weak but steady, and Steve can feel her hand clutching at
his back as he carries her out of the smoking debris that once was a building.
He never realized how small it was before now. He’s worried that she’s going to
stop breathing, and the thought terrifies him because there are helicopters
overhead and he can hear SHIELD agents off in the distance shouting at each
other and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop to give any first aid. But
after several tense minutes, she starts to support her own head and she’s
looking around her, occasionally tugging at him to direct him away from
patrolling agents if she notices them before he does. By the time he’s found
another car with an unlocked door that he can hotwire, she’s walking, although
she does still need to use him as a crutch.
 
“We need to go back to D.C.,” she tells him, grimly. “We need to find the heart
of this and we need to cut it out.”
 
Steve couldn’t agree more, but he can’t help but notice that Natasha is a bit
distracted. He’s not sure if it’s because of her injuries or what they’ve found
out about her mentor.
 
“How are you dealing with what Zola said about the Winter Soldier?” He asks
her. “Is it going to be a problem?”
 
“It’s already a very big problem,” Natasha says. She won’t look his direction.
 
“I’m sorry,” he says, wincing at how inadequate it sounds.
 
“Well, one more name I get to cross off the Christmas card list, I suppose,”
she says. Her words are still slurring slightly, but she pushes through it
until her voice sounds almost light-hearted. “That’s what I get for going and
getting attached to a deranged killer.”
 
“Will you be able to focus on taking down Project Insight?” Steve asks. “Is
this going to get in the way?”
 
“Seriously, Rogers?” Natasha looks incredulous when she finally turns to look
at him. “You’re acting like I’ve never been on an emotionally compromising op
before. I’ll be fine.”
 
The slur is gone completely now.
 
“You sound like you’re rallying,” he tells her. “I was worried about you back
there. Your head must be harder than I thought.”
 
Natasha laughs.
 
“Hardest in the business, Rogers,” she says. “Clint says concussions roll off
me like water off a duck.”
 
She rummages around in the glove compartment briefly before adding,
 
“It would be nice if this person kept Aspirin on hand, though.”
 
After another minute, she says,
 
“Where to now? We’ll need a safe place to hole up in, where we can set up a
base of operations. It needs to be someplace SHIELD isn’t.”
 
“I think I have an idea,” Steve says.
 
***
 
Detroit,_1972
 
He turns the television on loudly, seconds before he slits the sleeping man’s
throat. It’s a nice hotel, but it takes an awful lot to cover the sound of a
person fighting for his life. He lets it play loudly even after he’s sure the
man is dead, only for a few seconds longer, before he turns it down to a
reasonable volume. It makes it sound like there’s an insomniac in the room
who’s sleepily turned on the television and has to fumble for the volume before
finding the knob.
 
He lets the box play while he cleans the room of all traces of himself, but
only to maintain the illusion that the person who paid for this room is still
alive. He isn’t entirely certain he’s ever watched a television before. At any
rate, he isn’t interested in what is on it. Or he isn’t until he hears the
anchorman say something about Barry’s School for Boys. The asset looks up,
staring hard at the monitor.
 
The name doesn’t exactly sound familiar, but his body responds to it like it’s
spent a lifetime paying attention when those words are said. Unconsciously he
feels his body tense, like there’s trouble coming.
 
The report is about a rundown reform school in New York City, one of the most
ubiquitous inner-city detention centres in history, says the reporter. Until
now.
 
“After years of complaints and rumours dating back to before World War II,
Barry’s School for Boys closed its doors for good today. Barry’s School gained
a rather infamous reputation over the years, for routinely failing inspections
and being written up multiple times for human rights violations. It was only
this year that the letter writing campaign of families of missing or dead
students led to results.
 
“So why exactly has it taken so long to shut it down? Authorities say any
complaints levied against the school have been properly addressed and all
offenses appropriately corrected. In other words, for all the school’s flaws,
it has been equally good at fixing them. Only with the recent discovery of
falsified records regarding the disappearance of some of these missing children
has there been evidence that these violations are endangering youths. Some
former students, however, disagree.”
 
The image cuts away to an annoyed middle-aged man shaking his head at an
unheard question from a reporter.
 
“I went to that place in the middle of the Depression,” the man (name on the
screen says Jack Preston) says. “And I paid attention to it after I got out,
too. What got them shut down today is the same as what was happening back then.
No boy got sent to Barry’s who was better for his time there. Only reason it
wasn’t shut down years ago is no one in charge wanted to admit they’d made a
mistake building it in the first place.”
 
“Did you ever consider asking for help or alerting authorities of the problem
when you attended?” The reporter asks.
 
Preston gives the reporter an unimpressed snort.
 
“Not many reform school kids out there who’d be able to make someone believe
their word over a government-sanctioned social worker. The ones who were
capable of it were smart enough to run, if they didn’t disappear first, too.”
 
“What about when you were an adult?” The reporter asks. “Did you ever try to do
anything then?”
 
“Cops don’t listen to you when you have an arrest record, either,” Preston
says. “Those questions right there are sort of the problem, you know. You want
a place like Barry’s to close when it starts causing problems, you have to be
willing to put a little trust in folks most of you have already written off.”
 
The camera cuts back to the reporter who launches into some explanation of what
will happen to students currently attending the school, but the asset is no
longer listening. As he carefully resheaths his knife, a face comes to mind,
unbidden. It’s a man with dull brown hair and green eyes, and a sneering
expression on his face. The Soldier thinks about chains, but he doesn’t know
why.
 
“Eckert,” he says out loud to the corpse still on the bed. “Eckert.”
 
He doesn’t think he’s the one who said it, even though it came out of his
mouth. He wants to pursue the name (he assumes it must be a name), to see if it
matches the face in his head. He wants to see if he can make the stranger
inside him speak again. He feels it’s important to hear what that voice might
have to say.
 
But then the window opens, and the asset’s team has come to help him dismember
and dispose of the target. The next time the Soldier is left alone to think
about the name and the man, he is back in the cryo chamber, and the cold is
already eating through his body.
 
***
 
“I don’t know if this is a good plan,” Natasha says for about the tenth time,
as they steal up to Sam’s front door. They’ve changed cars three times and
dumped the last one about ten blocks away. Steve is going to have to send a
lotof apology cards when this is all over. Natasha says people don’t do things
like that anymore. He carefully doesn’t admit that no one really did it in the
40s, either.
 
“This is a great plan,” he insists.
 
“When did you meet him again?” Natasha asks.
 
“Same time you did,” Steve shrugs. “About one conversation earlier.”
 
“And how does that make him an ideal ally in all of this?” Natasha asks.
 
“He’s a good listener,” Steve says. “And he didsay that if I ever needed
anything, I should ask.”
 
“God,” Natasha says under her breath. “I really wish someone had told me
Brooklyn was on another planet before I met you.”
 
Steve just rolls his eyes and knocks sharply on the door. Sam opens the door
and stares at them, stunned, which, fair enough. They aren’t really looking
their best right now.
 
“I’m really sorry about this,” Steve says. “But we need a place where we can
lay low.”
 
“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Natasha adds, flatly.
 
It takes Sam another moment before he shakes himself out of it.
 
“Not everyone. Get in here.”
 
Natasha still doesn’t look remotely convinced, but she sighs and allows herself
to be ushered inside.
 
***
 
Phoenix,_1975
 
Sometimes the asset is given insufficient intel before an operation and he is
forced to improvise. He is never pleased when this happens, prefers to be
pointed at a target and let loose. To improvise beyond the anticipated
parameters requires expended mental effort and thought; too much creative
thinking unsettles the Soldier. The missions when the plans change are the
missions when he sits shaking in the chair afterwards, agitated and asking
questions about people and events he does not remember.
 
The intel given for this particular mission is out of date, and he is forced to
break into the records room of the Phoenix Police Department. As he rifles
through the “ATH-ATO” processing records, the name “ATHERTON, Joseph” catches
his eye. It’s not the name he’s looking for, but he stops to open the file all
the same. He frowns at the picture of the boy, who can’t be much older than 14,
and finds himself thinking that although the face is right, the age is wrong.
 
The report is years old, from a night when he was brought in for assaulting his
elderly father in a domestic dispute. He was kept in holding for about 8 hours
at his parents’ request, before they declined to file charges. There is an
addendum to the file from this February, indicating that the now 16-year-old
has been listed as a runaway.
 
The Soldier takes the file with him when he steals the information about the
target that he came for in the first place. Before he goes looking for the
target, he takes the time to find the boy. (It’s not hard; the Soldier has
never run away, but he still knows the best places for a runaway to go to avoid
being found.) He tracks the boy’s movements until he ends up at an apartment
full of other teenagers who greet the boy like a friend when he steps inside.
Only then does the asset go to the boy’s last listed address, and it feels
strange to make sure someone has an alibi instead of trying to take one away
from them. But it still feels like something he needs to do, and the Soldier
has learned to trust his instincts.
 
He incapacitates the woman who answers the door before she has a chance to see
his face and walks with purpose through the spacious home until he finds the
father. He is cowering in the closet of a now unused bedroom that once belonged
to a teenage boy. In his hands he holds a gun in a manner that indicates he has
never used it before.
 
“You’ll shoot your own foot before you manage to shoot me,” he comments. “All
that time you spent killing people slowly – did you really never once let them
go quickly?”
 
The words have no context for him (he thinks this is the tiny piece of the man
he once was speaking again, much stronger now than he has been in the past),
but they mean something to the man who’s going to die. Tears start to fall down
his face as he shakes his head over and over, like he’s trying to wake up.
 
The asset surveys the shaking man for a moment longer before he starts to move
again. He leans over the man and gracefully picks up the bat resting beside
him. The man lets out a distraught sound which only gets louder when he drops
the gun as he fumbles for the safety.
 
***
 
When the Soldier eliminates the assigned target the next day it goes largely
unnoticed by the papers. Something as mundane as a botched carjacking is a non-
event when a man was just bludgeoned to death in his own home by a maniac the
day before.
 
“What took you so long?” Asks his handler when the asset walks into the
arranged safe house, not looking up from the paper as he reads about the
“unprecedented amount of brain matter” found on the closet walls and ceiling.
 
“Misinformation,” is all the Soldier says as he sits on the bed and stares
blankly at the wall in a desperate attempt to slow his thoughts.
 
***
 
“So let me see if I get this straight,” Sam says. “There is a massive
government organization that was started by your old friends after the war. Its
job is to defend civilians from shady top secret organizations and babysit
superheroes, and it spent millions and millions of dollars trying to find you
in the arctic. Now that it’s got you, it turns out it has been infiltrated by
one of the shady top secret organizations it’s supposed to stop, and has
started to try to kill off the Avengers with missiles. Starting with you two.”
 
“That is more or less correct,” says Natasha.
 
“Steve, you really know how to piss people off,” Sam sighs.
 
“It’s hardly my fault if I keep finding myself thrown in with corrupt
institutions that need to be shut down,” Steve protests. “And anyhow, I can see
what you’re thinking and this is nothing like when I was a kid.”
 
“No?” Sam asks.
 
“No,” Steve insists. “First of all, I have muscles now; second, this is not a
reform school with a body count, it is a corrupt government-powered spy
organization; third, I’m not going to fail this time; and fourth, I asked for
help first, and I really think that’s going to give me an edge.”
 
“Steve,” Natasha says, exasperated. “You have not asked for help. I didn’t give
you any choice, and all you’ve asked Sam for is the use of his living room.”
 
“Baby steps, Natasha,” Sam says. “I’m hoping that with a little coaching we can
convince him to ask for a shower next.”
 
“Only if he asks after me,” Natasha mutters. “And by the way, may I?”
 
Sam directs her to the bathroom and she rolls her eyes at Steve before she
walks out, even though Steve didn’t say anything. It doesn’t occur to him that
he’s been talking to her like she knows much more than she actually does until
he hears the water running.
 
***
 
Rostov,_1977
 
Martin Eckert. The name comes to the Soldier unbidden as he trudges through the
streets, ignoring the slow transformation from winter to spring all around him
that keeps everyone else happy and inattentive. He doesn’t know why the name
means something, but he has the dim impression that he had been trying to think
of it a long time ago. He doesn’t understand, but he knows it is important.
 
When he begins to remember more clearly, he stops searching for his target.
It’s wrong to abandon his current mission, but he’s certain he was tasked with
finding a Martin Eckert. The only reason he would ever remember any of his old
targets is if he failed to take care of them. An incomplete mission is
unacceptable. His job is to hold the line between order and chaos, and failure
is unacceptable.
 
It’s not hard to lose his handler. He’s given a lot of free reign during his
missions, because they believe he never thinks of anything beyond what he is
told to think about each time they wake him up and assign him a task. In the
end, escaping the watchful eye of HYDRA is easier than stealing a ticket and
boarding a plane.
 
***
 
He doesn’t remember anything about his old mission, but he goes to America all
the same, as though he has an internal compass with a needle pointing towards
New York City. When he gets there he starts looking through phonebooks. The man
he finally finds lives in a slum. His vacant, glassy eyes barely open when the
Soldier breaks inside. Garbage and filth litter the small room.
 
The asset is not programmed to ask questions, and yet despite this, as he looks
at the man floundering and failing to rise to his feet, he wonders why he was
ever tasked with this particular job. The man doesn’t seem important at all. He
looks like the last person HYDRA would ever want to eliminate. He picks up a
tarnished old knife he sees on the counter beside him anyhow. His orders don’t
have to make sense to him.
 
He dimly calls to mind memories of other missions where he’s started to follow
the instruction of something inside of him; something that isn’t controlled by
HYDRA. He wonders if that is what’s actually happening now, because when he
looks at the disgusting mess in front of him, it feels like hewantsto hurt him.
The violent urge sits inside him disagreeably.
 
He’s not accustomed to wishing violence on anyone (he’s not accustomed to
wanting anything) but his hands twitch with the impulse all the same and it
feels uncontrolled and poisonous. He wants it to stop, so he swings the blade
down again and again, ignoring its dullness and the screams of the man. He
doesn’t stop when the man stops fighting, or when the life goes out of his
eyes. He keeps going, waiting for the intolerable urge to go away. It doesn’t.
 
Panic starts to take hold and crowds out the rage; the asset throws the knife
to the other side of the room. His hands have started to shake and it feels
like he’s lost someone, or maybe likehe’s the one who is missing. Something is
very, very wrong, but he doesn’t know what it is. He wants to lash out and
fight somebody, but there’s no one to tell him who he should be fighting. He
screams wordlessly in his frustration and then, when nothing happens, he opens
the door and runs instead.
 
***
 
When HYDRA finally finds him days later, he is wandering through Brooklyn,
shaking, crying, and beyond control. It’s as though he’s searching for someone,
according to the men who survived to report back. It takes ten to bring him to
the ground in an old abandoned building (it was an orphanage once), and the
asset won’t report on what happened. No one can tell what went wrong. They find
blood under his fingernails, and in his hair, but his target is still alive and
well in Rostov.
 
He doesn’t want to go into the chair. For the first time ever he fights it;
wants to know what is going to happen to him; wants to know his name. A newer
HYDRA recruit who happens to be touring the facility is the one who finally
gets him to obey the order.
 
“We want to help you,” the man, Pierce, says gently. “Just like you’ve helped
us. Let us help you forget. Everything will be better once you’ve let yourself
forget.”
 
***
 
Steve is still unsuccessfully trying to salvage his socks in the bathroom sink
when Natasha looks in and reminds him that it’s not the 1930s anymore.
 
“Seriously Steve, let them go,” she says.
 
He’s getting ready to start up with another jibe when he turns around and sees
her sitting on the guest bed fiddling with her hair. She looks upset and a
little skittish, like there’s something crawling under her skin and she’s going
to run if she can’t make it stop.
 
“You okay?” He asks, because he’s not sure how to vocalize “please don’t leave
me” without sounding pathetic.
 
She shrugs and is quiet for a minute as he comes to sit beside her. Finally she
says,
 
“I joined SHIELD because I wanted to go straight. I didn’t want to get out of
the business – honestly it’s the only thing I know, but I wanted to be a part
of something I could be proud of. I wanted to use my talent to right some of
the wrongs that I’d done. Now I don’t know what I was doing. I don’t know if I
made anything better or if there’s even more blood on my hands now. I can’t
tell the difference anymore.”
 
“There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business,” Steve says, smiling when
she rolls her eyes at him and the tension eases.
 
“I owe you, you know,” she says. “I would have died in New Jersey if you hadn’t
been there.”
 
“Well I couldn’t let you die on your honeymoon,” Steve says, seriously. “That
would have been tragic.”
 
She laughs before sobering a little and looking at Steve cautiously.
 
“If it had been down to me, if Ihad been the one who had to save yourlife,
would you have trusted me to do it? Be honest.”
 
“These days?” Steve says. “Absolutely. It took me a while to come around
though. And you don’t need to tell me to be honest, Romanoff. I’m always
honest.”
 
“Oh, always?” Natasha says, smiling again but there’s something hard in her
voice. “That’s cute.”
 
“I am,” Steve insists.
 
“Steve,” Natasha shakes her head. “Just because you can’t tell a lie doesn’t
mean you can’t be a liar. And you are, just like me. I’m not good at tricking
people because I make things up – you get that, right? I let people lie to
themselves, and then I don’t bother to correct them.”
 
“I don’t do that,” Steve says, but guiltily because she really does have a
point, and now he feels really badthat it’s taken him so long to warm up to
her, especially when she says it that way.
 
“Tell that to the laundry list of disappointed women I’ve tried to set you up
with because you forgot to mention you liked men,” Natasha says. “And just
because I haven’t memorized your file by heart doesn’t mean I missed the bit
about how you grew up in an orphanage.”
 
“Which I did,” Steve says, but his shoulders sag because, yeah. He was
wondering if she was going to bring this up.
 
“And how old were you when you were sent to the reform school?” Natasha asks.
“Because I’m pretty sure most documentaries miss that. Your file certainly
did.”
 
“Eleven,” Steve sighs. “I was eleven. It’s where I met Bucky.”
 
“They sent you there because you kept hitting kids for being mean to other
orphans, didn’t you?” Natasha asks, but it’s not really a question. She leans
into him and leans her head on his shoulder when he smiles and looks at his
bare feet.
 
“You’re heartbreakingly predictable,” she says, sadly.
 
Really sadly, actually. Steve pulls away a little to look at her, and is
slightly horrified to see her eyes are clouding over, just slightly.
 
“Are you okay?” He asks again, not quite masking the alarm in his voice.
 
She fiddles with her necklace again and doesn’t look at him.
 
“I wish you would have just told me,” she says. “I’m not mad that you didn’t,
and I’m glad you felt you could tell me anything at all, but…”
 
“Natasha?” Steve prompts.
 
“You felt safer talking to a stranger than you did talking to me,” she says. “I
mean, Sam’s great, and all that stuff you said he does with veterans means he
must be a great person to talk to, but I just thought we were closer than
that.”
 
“I’m sorry – “ Steve starts, but Natasha cuts him off.
 
“Don’t apologise,” she says. “Don’t make me feel worse, Rogers. Your past is
yours, you’re not obligated to tell me anything about it. It’s not your fault
if I’m feeling sorry for myself.”
 
“Well, since you brought it up,” Steve says, cautiously. “I’m not entirely sure
why you would wantto know about my shitty childhood.”
 
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I don’t think I minded that much until I sorted out
that you must have been talking about Barry’s School for Boys.”
 
“How did you know that?” Steve asks.
 
“A reform school with a body count in Brooklyn,” Natasha says. “There was only
ever one school that fit that bill. Every insomniac knows that. The documentary
about how it got closed down has been on Netflix for ages.”
 
“It was closed down?” Steve says, trying to keep his voice level and not
entirely succeeding.
 
“You didn’t know?” Natasha says, finally looking at him, genuinely upset as she
reaches up to brush her fingers through his hair. “Oh, Steve.”
 
“I guess I knew it wouldn’t be exactly the same,” Steve concedes, pointedly not
moving away from her hand. “But I mostly just thought the name would have
changed a few times.”
 
“I think it’s an office building now,” Natasha says. “It’s a historical
landmark so it’s not going to be taken down any time soon, but the school
hasn’t been around for decades. Humanitarians pretty much ran them out of town
with their tails between their legs. A lot of people went to jail, if they were
still able to face charges, or if they were still alive. It was an old school,
lots of people to prosecute.”
 
Steve mulls that over for a long time before he asks,
 
“Why does the school make a difference to you? Because you watched a
documentary one night?”
 
“Because I watched a documentary and ended up breaking into Clint’s house at
three in the morning to sleep on the floor next to his bed,” Natasha says,
pulling away finally to lean back and stare up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t like
it was a documentary about abused child spies with low life expectancies, but
seeing all those traumatized kids essentially held hostage by a government
institution struck a chord with me.”
 
“In my defense, you never really talked about your childhood, either,” Steve
says, lying down beside her. “Not before you had to.”
 
She sighs.
 
“I guess sharing doesn’t really come easy to either of us,” she says, finally.
“It’s just that there’s a part of me that wishes we could do it a little more
often.”
 
“There’s nothing to say we can’t work at it from here on out,” Steve says.
“I’ll try if you will.”
 
“Deal,” she says, throwing an arm over her eyes. “But don’t let’s start right
now. Talking about feelings is exhausting.”
 
Steve hums in agreement and closes his eyes, too. Beside him Natasha’s
breathing evens out and gets deeper, and the rhythm drags him along after. They
don’t wake up until Sam loses patience and comes back into the room to wave
bacon under their noses.
 
***
 
Havana,_1983
 
He’s in Cuba monitoring the movements of some of the American expats when one
of them mentions the recent arrest of one of their number, for public
intoxication. It’s useful information, since the Soldier is there to
assassinate one of the more prominent expats, who is currently also in jail for
assaulting an officer. At least now he knows he shouldn’t shoot the first
person who speaks with an American accent, at any rate.
 
The drunk – Simon – is a feckless sort of person, to hear the other expats
talk: weak-willed and spineless until he gets too many drinks in him, which is
when he likes to hit children and kick dogs. If he can catch them. (“Old Rice
isn’t as mobile as he used to be.”) It seems like he caught up with one of
these two options after a trip to the bar last night and caused quite the
disturbance. Today he is paying the price.
 
Echoes of laughter ring in the Soldier’s ears, but they don’t come from the bug
he’s planted in the cafe. It’s a faint memory, older than any mission the asset
can recall, and it sounds cruel. He feels the old stirrings of anger again,
still uncharacteristic but no longer disorienting after all this time, and
accepts that he is going to end up breaking the rules one more time.
 
Before he checks the more secure holding facilities, he goes to the drunk tank
to get a better look at Simon Rice. He is still inebriated and when he opens
his eyes to see the soldier, he pales and seems to recognize him. This makes
the Soldier angrier, and it’s an abrupt spike of rage that doesn’t feel
detached this time. For once, he thinks he might be experiencing his own anger
and not someone else’s.
 
That this man, with the decades old spiteful laugh might know him better than
he knows himself is unthinkable. He shoots Rice rather than giving him a chance
to speak – execution style, right between the eyes. He punches the wall, twice,
with the metal hand and then forces himself to take a slow, deep breath. Only
then does he go to complete the task he’s been assigned to do.
 
***
 
At first HYDRA is upset, especially when he won’t give an explanation for his
actions. However, once the news reaches the US it doesn’t take long for them to
change their tune. The media twists the facts into a story of cold-blooded
murder at the hands of Cuban authorities. They say the men were targeted
because they were former Americans, because they were openly critical of the
Cuban government. There are rumours that one never spoke out against the
government at all, that his only crime was associating with someone who did.
 
It is a dangerous time to be an American on foreign soil, experts warn in
countless interviews. People on the streets are talking about the possibility
of nuclear war again, and glancing nervously at anyone who speaks with a
foreign accent. A resolution to the Cold War has never felt further off.
 
The asset, it would seem, took an unnecessary risk, and for that he will be
punished. But still, it was an unnecessary risk that paid off. The additional
assassination is included in the reports as little more than a footnote to the
main action. No further action is taken.
 
***
 
“It’s contaminated SHIELD on all levels,” Steve says. “When Fury said not to
trust anyone that’s what he meant. It wasn’t Pierce who got Zola’s algorithm
onto a boat full of pirates, and it wasn’t the Strike team either.”
 
“Sitwell,” Natasha says grimly, even as she shamelessly steals bacon from Sam’s
plate. “He must be pretty high up the food chain to have been working directly
with Zola. Well, as directly as one can work with Zola.”
 
Steve frowns. He’d always liked Jasper Sitwell, but when it comes down to
choosing between being Sitwell’s friend and stopping HYDRA, well…
 
“We haveto find out what that algorithm is being used for. We’re going to have
to go after Sitwell,” Steve says. “In broad daylight. While we’re the two most
wanted people in Washington.”
 
“Another boring day at the office,” Natasha says, pleasantly.
 
“You two really like complicating things, don’t you?” Sam says, shooing Natasha
away when she goes for more bacon.
 
“You have a better idea?” Steve asks.
 
“You could say that,” Sam says, reaching across the counter to pull a thick
file folder from a laptop bag so he can toss it in front of Steve.
 
“What’s this?” Steve asks.
 
“Right now it’s a resume,” Sam says. “I’ll get this Sitwell guy for you.”
 
Natasha, who is already leafing through the file, makes an impressed noise,
 
“You didn’t say he was a para-rescue.”
 
She picks up a picture of Sam next to someone who must be Riley and frowns a
little.
 
“So what’s your plan? You think jumping out of an airplane over D.C. is going
to help us corner Jasper?”
 
“Not exactly,” Sam says, taking the files from her and pulling out another
picture for them to look at.
 
“I thought you said you were a pilot,” Steve says, a little accusingly.
 
“You might have thought it, but I didn’t say it,” Sam says, smirking a little.
 
“You said this didn’t make you happy anymore,” Steve says, gently. “You said
you couldn’t see the point now. Sam, I can’t ask you to do this. I can’t put
you back in that position.”
 
“You’re not holding a gun to my head, Steve,” Sam says, and it’s been a long
time since Steve has spoken to someone who can read his insecurities so well.
“I’m doing this because Captain America needs my help. That’s the kind of sign
I kept waiting for after Riley was gone. In fact, back then I’d say Captain
America telling me the world needed me would have been about the only thing
that would have made me change my mind. There’s no way I’m going to let the two
of you do any of this alone.”
 
“Fair enough,” Steve says before looking down at the spec sheet he’s holding in
his hand. “You don’t happen to keep a spare set of these in your gym locker, do
you?”
 
“Yes,” Sam says. “If by gym locker you mean Fort Meade behind three heavily
guarded gates and a 12-inch steel wall.”
 
Steve glances at Natasha, who is already hard at work sliding an alarming
amount of guns and knives gotten from god-knows-where into hidden holsters and
pockets all over her person.
 
“I’m getting the impression that won’t be a problem,” he says.
 
***** Vexed to Nightmare, Part Four *****
Chapter Notes
     I feel more and more like the entire second half of this story could
     be called Sam Puts Up With A Lot Thanks To His Weird New Friends, but
     no matter. New chapter!
     Slight warnings for Natasha's childhood, because she was raised by
     evil people. There is no actual sexual abuse, but the possibility
     that it might happen is clearly an acceptable risk for her handlers.
     And speaking of Natasha, in an effort to make her comic back story
     and her MCU back story match, her romance with Bucky obviously had to
     be tossed and replaced with something else. I have to say I enjoyed
     writing this current dynamic between them far more than I ever
     anticipated.
     The briefly mentioned Canadian orphanage sex abuse scandal was a real
     thing that happened, and was a clusterfuck of buck-passing that
     spanned decades. You can read all about it if you're interested and
     looking to get pissed off.
     Thanks as always to all of you for your comments, and to my beta
     Moments_of_Weakness.
 
 
 
Tomsk,_1989
 
It’s strange to be woken up not to kill anyone. The Soldier isn’t sure if it’s
ever happened before now, but all of HYDRA is restless to implement the next
phase of what they call their super soldier program. Apparently, he was only
meant to be the beginning.
 
The scientists have determined that females respond better to the
experimentation process and yield more positive results. They bring in the
orphaned girls very young, for reasons the Soldier doesn’t fully understand.
Perhaps to eliminate that tendency he has to create his own orders when echoes
of his old self break through the fog. Maybe it’s easier to train someone who
never has a chance to fully develop a mind of their own in the first place.
 
If HYDRA wants to create the perfect mindless vessel, the Soldier thinks the
new recruits are off to a fairly good start. The girls are not really little
girls at all. They are well-behaved and silent, strongly discouraged from
interacting with one another unless they are being directly supervised and
monitored. They are not meant to form friendships with one another, they are
not meant to socialize unless they are also learning how to exploit the good
nature of another person for information. Once the Soldier’s mind is wandering
and he wonders what would happen if the girls were to turn what they learn
inside the Red Room against all of HYDRA. The thought makes him smile, then he
stops and looks around when he realizes what he’s done, hoping no one saw.
 
One of the girls is staring at him, though, almost curiously. She looks to be
about five years old, with fiery red hair and a calculating gleam in her eye.
He matches her gaze with an even blanker expression before he walks away.
 
***
 
She is good, the little girl with red hair. She’s the best out all the girls
they send to him to train, and he only trains the best they have. The other
girls resent this one, he thinks. There are strict instructions to only offer
positive words when they are earned and she earns them more than most. They
aren’t kind words, but they are the closest these little girls will ever get,
and they are starving for it.
 
The girls don’t play together, they don’t talk, they don’t laugh, but they are
able to function together as a unit. They gravitate towards each other for
comfort and for protection. The Red Room is on the lookout for girls who stray
from the herd, who sit by themselves, and who don’t have anyone looking out for
them. These girls are liabilities, no matter how talented they may be. If they
can’t bond they will never survive life as a spy once their chubby cheeks are
gone and they need to depend on their social skills to help them survive and
avoid suspicion.
 
These lonely girls are always the first ones to be selected for a mission on
the rare occasion that it requires a spy literally no one would look at in
suspicion. The body count for these jobs is remarkably high – the Soldier isn’t
sure if it’s because the lonely girls get caught, or if they are just
collateral damage. It’s not long before the redhead is always being chosen for
these missions – to cartels, to brothels, to the homes of foreign diplomats.
Yet somehow, she always makes it back, a little less life in her eyes each
time, wearing an expression that no one should have to wear, much less a child.
 
The asset is drawn to her, drawn to her loneliness and resignation. It feels
like she knows how to fight, but not how to fight for herself, and something
about that unsettles him. His mission now is a long one, with many pauses and
breaks; there is a lot of time for him to think, and time to calm himself when
he thinks too much, before anyone notices there is a problem. It’s allowed him
to reach some conclusions. He doesn’t know who he was before all this, but he
knows now he wassomeone– that he was his own person, and not the product of
some former master. He knows that when he feels the impulse to act, it must be
the ghosts of his old life guiding him.
 
Most often, the ghosts push him towards violence, maybe because he has always
been this way, or maybe because it is the only way to be heard by the Winter
Soldier. But when he is around the girl – Natalia, they call her – it’s
different. He sits beside her when they eat, he picks her up when she drops to
the ground exhausted as they train, he keeps her out of sight behind him when
HYDRA officials come through the facilities looking for a child for the next
deep cover operation. And every time it happens, the instinct grows a little
stronger; his skin starts to fit a little better.
 
No one even notices what’s happening, he doesn’t draw attention to it and
neither does she, but before long it becomes the most important thing he can
ever remember doing. The feeling he gets looking after someone, no matter how
quietly, feels like the only real thing he’s touched in years.
 
***
 
They’re barreling down the road, Sam behind the wheel in yet another dubiously
acquired car when Steve finally decides it’s well past time he embraces the
inevitable.
 
“I know we aren’t letting ourselves worry about the Winter Soldier right now,”
he says. “Not while there’s so much happening that we need to take care of in
SHIELD, but there’s probably something both of you should know. Just in case we
run into him, or if it looks like we’ll need to find him after everything’s
played out.”
 
Natasha raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him.
 
“I think there’s a chance that he’s from Brooklyn,” Steve says.
 
“I’ve wondered in the past if he might be American,” Natasha admits. “His
strongest language was always English, and the rumours were that he gravitated
towards the US when he was left to his own devices. It’s where he took me. But
why Brooklyn?”
 
“Because I recognized the name of the man whose grave got torn up,” Steve says,
flatly. “He used to be a teacher at Barry’s. I convinced myself at the time
that it couldn’t possibly mean anything, and I still don’t think it was
directed towards me, because everyone who ever knew I went there is dead, but…”
 
“But you think he may have been another student,” Sam finishes for him.
 
“Natasha, you said the Winter Soldier started to show up in the 60s. That would
have been past my time there, but what if he had gone after? Stoller could have
easily taught there for decades.”
 
“Was he an instigator?” Sam asks. “In the abuse?”
 
“Not when I went there,” Steve admits. “He barely even participated. But he was
always a bit of a pushover around the other teachers; always chose the path of
least resistance. Bucky hatedhim.”
 
There’s a long pause, and then Natasha cautiously says,
 
“Steve, doesn’t your file mention that some of the men you rescued from the
107th had been experimented on by Zola? Was one of them Bucky?”
 
“He was the only one who survived it,” Steve says, cautiously, because deep
down he knows where she’s going to go next, and he doesn’t want her to.
 
“The serum Erskine gave you allowed you to survive decades in a sort of stasis
without aging,” she says. “Do you think Zola could have given Bucky something
similar enough that could have drawn out his life in the same way?”
 
“Shit,” Sam mutters.
 
Steve feels sick but he starts shaking his head almost before Natasha’s
finished speaking and this is why he was so reluctant to say anything. He
doesn’t want to hear the words out loud like this. He doesn’t want anyone else
to make the connections he’s been pretending he can’t see.
 
“No,” he says. “No way. Not a chance. There were no visible side effects from
what Zola did to Bucky. Based on what Buck told us after, we decided they were
probably testing ways to lower his pain threshold as a future interrogation
technique.”
 
“But you guys were busy fighting a war,” Natasha says, gently. “Maybe the
effects of whatever they tried to do to Bucky weren’t obvious enough to be
noticed with everything else that was happening.”
 
“It’s not possible,” Steve insists. “Even if they managed to replicate the
serum somehow, Bucky would never change sides like that. Even if he somehow
miraculously survived the fall, he wouldn’t have just started fighting for the
bad guys. He wouldn’t have let himself become that.”
 
“Maybe not if he was their prisoner for a few months,” Natasha says. “But if
HYDRA found him when he was seriously hurt and vulnerable? Steve, whether the
Soldier is James Barnes or not, he’s been with them decades – longer than you
or anyone else could have possibly known him. This may be all he knows now.”
 
“You said you thought the Winter Soldier used to be a good man,” Steve says,
weakly. “But Buck was a greatman. He wouldn’t have let this happen.”
 
“I hate to say this,” Sam says. “But I’ve worked with a lot of POWs, Steve. The
one thing you take away from it is that everyonehas a breaking point. It
doesn’t make them bad people, though. It makes them desperate people.”
 
Steve blinks away tears and looks away, refusing to look at either of them.
 
“That man is not Bucky,” he says. “He can’t be.”
 
“I gotta be honest, Steve,” Sam says, gently. “It seems strange that thisis the
conversation we’re having with you right now. Shouldn’t we be telling you not
to get your hopes up? The man meant the world to you, and now you’re hearing
that there’s a chance you could get him back. There’s a chance you could help
him.”
 
“If it’s him it means that I left him when he needed me,” Steve says, shakily.
“Again. I didn’t make the men go back for the body, even though I wanted to. He
fell so far…”
 
“Steve,” Natasha tries, but he cuts her off.
 
“If that isBucky then it’s my fault this happened to him. It’s my fault they
broke him, and it’s my fault he’s on the wrong side.”
 
“It’s no one’s fault except for the people who did it,” Natasha says evenly.
“Don’t make this about you, Steve. This is about him. If we get a chance to
deal with it at all, it’s going to be about him, whoever he is. I told you
before that I didn’t want to believe he’d willingly started fighting for them
because despite his history with them he never seemed to be one of them. We
need to give him a chance to redeem himself, if he wants it. That can’t happen
when you’re sitting in the corner having a breakdown.”
 
“What if it really is him?” Steve whispers.
 
“For one thing, whoever they paid to correct the history books when your sorry
ass showed up is going to get some more work,” Sam says. “So far as the rest of
it goes? I guess we’ll just have to take it as it comes.”
 
***
 
Toronto,_1989
 
He wishes he was back in Tomsk, but sometimes he is called away from his long-
term assignment with the girls to carry out an assassination, when no one else
is able to get the job done. Killing is harder when he’s been anchored to one
place and awake for a long time. It’s harder to quiet his mind and do what
needs to be done. It all makes him feel so tired.
 
There had been discussion of sending Natalia with him, to see how the two would
work together as a pair, with Natalia serving as a diversion while the asset
takes the shot. Their odd little affiliation (it can’t really be called a
friendship) has finally started to be noticed, even though no one really knows
what to make of it. The Red Room and HYDRA both have watched in bewilderment
for months as the Soldier singles Natalia out over and over again: offering
subtle encouragement during training sessions; pointing out errors in her work
when she practices writing in English; sitting close to her when strange men
are on base. He never speaks to her, and she is never seen speaking to him, but
still the interest he’s taken in her is unprecedented. In the end though, there
never seems to be much point in having them team up. The Soldier simply doesn’t
need help to carry out his orders, and no one is willing to expend resources
where they aren’t needed.
 
His latest target is dead now (drowned in her ornate bathtub with her wrists
slit). She is wealthy, but not remarkably so, and she has a history of
depression. When they find her body, it won’t even make the local news. No one
will miss her, and it makes the Soldier feel a twinge of sadness. He’s been
awake for too long.
 
There’s a magazine on her doorstep when he leaves in the early morning light.
It was there when he arrived (he would never be so sloppy as to eliminate a
target when he might be spotted by a sleepy paperboy), but now it is light
enough to see the headline: “Renowned New York director weighs in on abuse
scandal at Canadian Orphanage.”
 
He doesn’t take the magazine from the step, but several blocks away he casually
breaks into a newsstand with his metal hand and pulls out another copy. He’s
heard nothing about this scandal, which is unsurprising since he never follows
current international events unless he’s worried about a riot breaking out in
the middle of one of his missions, but he’s interested all the same. Maybe
because of the protective urge he feels whenever he looks at Natalia, he’s not
sure. He just knows he wants to find out more.
 
When he reads the article though, it’s not the local story that catches his
attention. It’s the director, who is known for having once directed a
documentary about a school in Brooklyn that was also shut down for the same
reason, the married couple who spent decades making it happen, and how little
things have changed in the intervening decades.
 
“No one wants to protect the children who are unwanted,” the director says.
“The campaign at Barry’s School is generally seen as successful, since it got
the school closed so early compared to similar schools and orphanages. But even
so, none of those former students have received reparations, and only three of
the teachers were successfully charged. These places are allowed to go about
their business during pointless internal investigations until they’ve had a
chance to dispose of all useable evidence. I recently learned that one of the
first teachers to ever be implicated at Barry’s retired to Quinta Roo in
Mexico. How is that justice?”
 
The Soldier frowns a little, unimpressed by what he reads. He doesn’t remember
going to a place like Barry’s School for Boys exactly, but he remembers strong
emotions: fear, anger, helplessness. He thinks he must have known someone who
went to a place like that once, and maybe that is why he cares about tiny,
fierce little Natalia. Why he sometimes looks at her and is terrified that
she’ll die before she grows up. He thinks someone must have died at one of
these places once, and he thinks the part of him that pushes back against all
of HYDRA’s programming still can’t forget it.
 
When it’s time to go back to Tomsk, he puts a gun to his handler’s temple, and
tells him they will be taking their plane to Quinta Roo instead.
 
***
 
Natasha pulls out a nail file from her coat pocket as they wait for Sam to
collect Jasper. She hums unhappily as she looks at her hands.
 
“I need to stop hiding razors in my false nails,” she says almost to herself.
“The real ones look like hell when I let them grow out.”
 
“You can do that?” Steve asks, suspiciously, unsure if she’s messing with him
to kill time or if she’s actually serious. “Get extra thick nails that hide
weaponry?”
 
“You can get anything done if you go to the right day spas,” she answers, and
okay, Steve’s pretty sure she’s teasing him. Maybe.
 
“So,” Natasha says, conversationally and apropos of nothing. “This whole thing
with Bucky… you realize that even if we find him, you’re probably not going to
get your boyfriend back, right?”
 
“Yes,” Steve says, shortly. “I’m aware, Natasha, thank you.”
 
“Don’t be mad,” she says softly. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up,
especially with everything Sam was saying.”
 
“They’re not,” Steve mutters, before adding. “I think this is a first for us –
you trying to stop me from being interested in someone, I mean.”
 
“Well, I don’t have a good success record,” Natasha says. “If I can’t even set
you up with the correct gender, maybe it’s time to retire from matchmaking.”
 
She’s quiet for a moment, before adding uncertainly,
 
“I havebeen setting you up with the wrong gender, right? I mean, you don’t like
both or anything do you?”
 
Steve shrugs.
 
“I really never thought about it. I know I loved Bucky, that’s all. Once or
twice I wondered if I could ever learn to feel something for Peggy, if we ended
up married, but I don’t know. I had other things on my mind at the time.”
 
Natasha nods, thoughtfully, but then the signal comes from Sam, and Natasha
starts up the van as Steve hops out to go get Sitwell as he comes around the
side of the building.
 
***
 
“Tell me about Zola’s algorithm,” Steve says, almost pleasantly as he crowds
Sitwell backwards across the roof.
 
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Steve,” Jasper says, eyes wide. “Are
you okay? You haven’t been yourself lately, Captain. We’re all worried.”
 
“You were launching missiles at us less than 24 hours ago,” Steve snaps. “Cut
the innocent act. It’s just embarrassing at this point. What were you doing on
the Lemurian Star?”
 
Jasper snorts.
 
“Your interrogation tactics need work,” he says, only slightly stumbling as his
feet reach the edge of the building. “You’re the hero America needs, Rogers.
You bleed patriotism and fair play. Maybe if you challenged me to a fair fight
on a level playing field I’d be a scared, but shoving me off a roof? Hardly
your style.”
 
“You’re right,” Steve says, smiling good-naturedly. “It’s not.”
 
He reaches out to playfully nudge at Sitwell’s shoulder, and okay, he
understands the pride Natasha and Clint take in their work now, because playing
sociopathic good cop/sociopathic bad cop really isfun.
 
“It’s hers.”
 
He steps back quickly as Natasha lunges at Sitwell like a rabid attack dog,
just catching a glimpse of Jasper’s terrified face as she kicks him in the
chest and sends him careening off the roof.
 
“Oh wait,” Natasha says, turning her full attention back to Steve almost
instantly. “What about that guy from accounting? Leo?”
 
“You mean Luke?” Steve asks, gesturing to his face. “With the lip thing?”
 
“So you havenoticed!” Natasha says, triumphantly. “He’s cute, right?”
 
“I’m not ready for that yet.”
 
“Is this a Bucky thing, or a piercing thing?” Natasha asks. “Because I know lip
rings can be intimidating the first time, but – “
 
They’re interrupted by Sitwell landing back the on roof in a heap. He looks
like he may or may not have wet himself before Sam caught him. Steve’s pretty
sure he shouldn’t find that as entertaining as he does, but what the hell. He
trustedSitwell.
 
“Feeling any more communicative?” Natasha asks.
 
Apparently, Sitwell is.
 
***
 
Tomsk,_1991
 
He stays on his best behaviour for a long time after the incident in Mexico.
There had been a lot of talk about putting him back on ice, perhaps
permanently. The asset doesn’t know how long he has lived, or how many times
he’s been frozen, but he knows the terror that comes over him every time he
sees that metal box. He will not risk years inside of it for the sake of
learning more about the past – about a man who has not existed for decades.
 
He keeps to himself and trains the girls, but finds he can’t help looking after
Natalia, even now. She is reserved and closed off, but she’s not self-centered.
She notices when he does things for her, like leave an apple from his meal by
her tray when he leaves the table at lunchtime, or when he says she is too busy
training to go on another mission. She reciprocates the attention, too, in her
own little way. A quick twitch upward of the lips that goes unnoticed unless
you know to look for it. The way she fearlessly latches onto his arm to use it
as abarrewhen the other girls are scared to meet his eye. She is a remarkable
dancer, especially for her young age.
 
Most of the girls seem to have one thing they are passionate about in this
place. One reads fairy tales voraciously. Another loves The Rolling Stones. One
even rides horses.  It seemed odd to him at first, but after a while he noticed
that these loves grow stronger after the girls leave their mandatory weekly
counseling sessions. He imagines that the sessions have no more do to with
counselling than his own time in the chair has to do with debriefing. He
assumes it is an attempt to humanize them while still keeping a tight rein on
their personalities. Even creativity is controlled in this place. Still it is
nice that there is at least one aspect of these girls’ lives that isn’t
consumed by murder and death, so he doesn’t try to stop Natalia from going to
her counsellor. Instead he only holds his arm steady as Natalia practices
arabesques in the training room, happier and more childlike than should be
possible in a girl who has seen so much. A girl with so much blood on her hands
and not even ten.
 
He wants to keep her safe; he wants to take her away and give her a chance to
experience something that he himself can’t remember well enough to name. It’s
security maybe. Or happiness. Some days, the Soldier thinks he might love
Natalia in the way he has seen some parents with their children, or maybe like
a sister. Most days, he pushes such thoughts to the side, because the hazy
impressions the Soldier gets of his lost life tell him that love is a dangerous
thing. People get hurt when love is involved. People are lost and sometimes
they can’t be found again.
 
Still, it is his feelings for her that make him stop to listen when he
overhears a group of men discussing her as he waits patiently to report to
Lukin about the progress he has made teaching the girls Krav Maga. Natalia is
exceptional in more than just her fighting abilities. She is considered
something of a prodigy in subterfuge as well, and he often hears other teachers
say her lies are so believable she could convince the people she’s Anastasia.
The joke is a popular one; sometimes they even call her Little Romanova.
 
A girl is needed for a mission that will require a good deal of lying, it
seems. It has to be a child for the job. The target is not marked for death,
but may potentially be a crucial and unwitting supplier of information, thanks
to his long and suspiciously comfortable relationship with Moscow’s GUVD. He is
powerful enough to avoid detainment but still alarming enough that the officers
try to keep a wary eye on him. Even when they are instructed to look the other
way, the man’s proclivity towards keeping young orphaned children make many
people unhappy about the arrangement.
 
It has recently come to light that this man keeps carefully guarded information
indispensable to the Red Room in his home offices. The Red Room is unwilling to
sacrifice the delicate self-governing ecosystem that has been established in
Moscow’s power structure. Fortunately, the Red Room also has plenty of little
girls who can be offered up to the man as a diversion while his personal
belongings are searched.
 
“She likely wouldn’t have to do anything with him,” says the man who is
visiting their operation specifically to choose which girl is to be taken. “If
she keeps her head, and is clever enough to use his lechery against him, she
will undoubtedly be able to keep the upper hand without Yakov even knowing she
has it.”
 
“And if she can’t manage this?” Lukin asks calmly, not out of concern for the
child, but rather for the potential danger it poses to his own plans. “What
happens if she is injured?”
 
“He’s not a violent man,” their visitor assures. “He likes it when they cry,
but not when they are broken. A worst case scenario would likely involve a
short stay in your medical facilities, and perhaps some time in that famed
chair I’ve heard about, should the trauma appear to be long-lasting.”
 
Natalia’s acting teacher is the next one to speak,
 
“If it’s tears you’re looking for, Natalia cries like a dream. If she ever
bothered to use what she knows on anyone, even here, she would have control of
them in a second. As it is, she’s somehow managed to gain a tight hold on our
most intimidating asset.”
 
“The Winter Soldier? I find that hard to picture.”
 
“He’s far from infatuated,” the instructor clarifies. “But he endures her and
allows her some flexibility in their training regimen. At times it looks like
they are playing a game instead of working, which is far more than he allows
any of the other girls.”
 
The Soldier doesn’t tense, but something inside of him wants to, because this
is untrue. Yes, at times Natalia has asked if she can make adjustments to
certain moves by incorporating movements typically associated with ballet, but
the asset would welcome that kind of initiative from any of the other girls,
too. Doing the unexpected is what will keep most of them alive on a mission,
but no other girl has ever asked, perhaps because they are scared of him. Or
they don’t want to survive the next mission they are sent out to.
 
“They play games?” The visitor sounds dubious now. “I can’t use a little
seductress for this mission. Yakov won’t find them alluring unless they’re
innocent.”
 
“Games like a child would play,” the teacher assures. “There is nothing
seductive at all in Natalia, unless she wants there to be. Besides, I have
every confidence in her abilities. If necessary, she could make him see
innocence.”
 
The Soldier swallows down a sound of disgust, certain that what Lukin and the
others are so eager to present as instinctive deceitfulness is genuine
innocence. Underneath all the training, Natalia is only a little child with a
fierce fighting spirit that doesn’t deserve to be destroyed for the sake of a
few pieces of paper in a file folder.
 
He has tried so hard for so long to keep his mind hidden from these people that
it takes a surprising amount of effort to abandon his post and leave the
offices. He doesn’t want them to find out they’ve left behind pieces of his
humanity, that they leave behind a little more each time they don’t bother
wiping him back to square one and putting him on the ice.
 
But now his mind is crowded with snatches of memories of an office and a large
desk, a single folder on top of it. He remembers the hands of a predator and
feeling small and scared, even though he understood perfectly what was
happening and why. Natalia may be smart, and she may be gifted, but it will not
make this mission any less painful for her, even if nothing happens. (Nothing
happened to him, he’s almost positive. There are faint memories of a door
opening and blue eyes flashing in anger, of small hands dragging him away from
the unwanted touches. But there will be no one standing outside the door while
Natalia is on this mission; no one to keep her safe if she loses control.)
 
To the asset’s mind, none of the missions the girls are sent on are acceptable
risks, but this is one he can’t allow. He wants to find all the children and
take them away, turn them loose in different corners of the world with
instructions to go into deep hiding – to assimilate into normal lives. But most
of the girls don’t trust him, and they don’t have the spark of defiance that
encourages them to be creative, or to question orders. In fact, he’s certain
there’s only one who will allow herself to be saved at all.
 
***
 
As he had hoped, Natalia hadn’t questioned him when he appeared weighted down
by ordnance and asked if she would come with him. She only got up from her
schoolwork and followed him quietly as he led her towards the visitor’s car.
She stands by and watches as he snaps the neck of the driver and crosses her
arms, unimpressed, when he tells her to get into the car.
 
“Please?” he tries.
 
“Why?” She asks.
 
“I’m looking for someone,” he says, surprised that he’s telling the truth,
because the more he thinks about it, the more leaving her in New York feels
like a good idea. “I want you to help me find him, and I don’t want to leave
you here. They are talking about sending you on a mission. A dangerous one.”
 
“I’ve been sent on dangerous missions before,” she points out, even as she
clambers up into the car.
 
“Not like this one,” the Soldier says, and feels overwhelmed by how much he’s
saying. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a conversation with anyone.
He’s not certain he’s ever said this much to Natalia the entire time he’s known
her.
 
“But I could do it,” Natalia insists.
 
“You shouldn’t have to,” the Soldier says, before slamming his foot on the gas,
before the guards curiously making their way towards him can get close enough
to see what is happening.
 
***
 
The nurses at the long-term care facility think they are a father and daughter.
Natalia practises her English and tugs excitedly on the Soldier’s hand as they
walk, asking about “grandma” and if she’ll be excited to see them. She flits
back and forth so much as they walk, leaning in to ask him questions, pulling
his hand close to her body like she wants him to move faster, that no one
notices the hand she holds is metal instead of flesh and bone. There is a
reason the others wanted her to be a diversion, after all.
 
The room is meant to be a shared one, but something must have happened to the
other resident because the second bed is empty. The lone man – Douglas – is on
oxygen and sleeping fitfully, machines beeping rhythmically beside him.
 
“Are you going to kill him?” Natalia asks, curiously.
 
“Yes,” says the Soldier. “You should wait by the door.”
 
“You said we were on vacation,” she says. “Why are you killing someone if
you’re taking a break?”
 
“It needs to happen,” says the Soldier, thinking about desks and panic and a
time when a little boy was too scared to fight back. “He’s a bad man.”
 
Natalia only nods in acceptance, and the Soldier slowly makes his way to the
bed. Douglas wakes up as he approaches the bed. The Soldier smiles personably,
until he is close enough to reach out and take the call button from the frail
hand that clutches it.
 
“What is this?” The man gasps, like breathing doesn’t come easily anymore. He
glances to where Natalia watches in the doorway. “Who is…”
 
“Don’t look at her,” the Soldier says, and his voice is losing its Russian
accent only to be replaced with something more American. “Look at me.”
 
Douglas does so with reluctance.
 
“Good,” the Soldier says, nodding. “You keep your eyes on the grown man. I know
that’s not as exciting to you.”
 
The old man’s eyes grow wider.
 
“Who are you?” He demands. “Who let you in?”
 
“We let ourselves in,” the Soldier says, before asking impulsively. “Don’t you
recognize me?”
 
He hopes for a name, or a place, or an explanation of any kind. He doesn’t care
if this man is evil, he just wants there to be a person, somewhere, who knows
who he is. He wants to be found. He’s not surprised when he isn’t.
 
“You’re one of them,” Douglas spits, angry even in his helplessness. “You
people can never leave me alone. I’m sorry, alright? I’m an old man now, I’m
tired, and I’m sorry.”
 
“You’re lying,” comes a small voice from the doorway. They both turn to see
Natalia slowly stepping closer. She looks fascinated, like this is another game
to her. Maybe it is, maybe that’s why she’s always been so good at reading
people. To her it’s only a game.
 
“You say you’re sorry, but you’re only sorry that he got in.”
 
“Little girl,” Douglas says, smiling at her. “You look like a good girl. Go run
and find a doctor – tell them I need help. Tell them that a man – “
 
Natalia crosses to the bed and slams the edge of her hand against Douglas’s
larynx, her movements graceful and precise. He doesn’t die (she didn’t hit hard
enough to kill him, maybe because she’s not strong enough to finish him that
quickly). The Soldier looks at her in frustration.
 
“I told you to stay in the doorway,” he says. “You shouldn’t have come in.”
 
“He was lying,” Natalia says darkly. “You’re going to kill him anyway, aren’t
you? He makes you upset, and you never get upset. I don’t like him.”
 
“You don’t do that anymore,” the Soldier tells her. “We won’t be going back.”
 
“Where will we go?” Natalia asks, ignoring the twitching man beside her.
 
The Soldier takes out a knife, holds Douglas down as he tries to sit up.
 
“Wherever we want,” he says before bringing the knife down.
 
He knows he’s remembering things as he slits open the man’s throat and watches
as he drowns in his own blood. He supposes they must be things that happened to
him, but they don’t feel like it. Instead he thinks about how Natalia can never
be put in that position, that she should never have to feel those things.
 
It’s what he’s thinking about days later when the Red Room and HYDRA catch up
to them, when Natalia is pulled away from him screaming, already so much more
childlike for the short week she was away from them. It keeps him fighting like
a wounded wild animal long after she’s disappeared. He doesn’t stop fighting
until they force him into the chair and take all the memories away. All that is
left behind is emptiness, a sense of failure, and, as always, a faraway sense
of dread and anger, locked down and kept beyond his reach.
 
He knows when he’s led into to the cryo chamber that he won’t be waking up for
a very long time.
 
***
 
For some reason, Steve had thought the second time he met the Winter Soldier,
things would be different – that he would speak to the man face-to-face, ask
questions, and get a good look at his face. Steve thought he would get answers.
And then Jasper Sitwell is literally ripped out of the car on their way to
SHIELD headquarters, the wheel is torn right of the steering column of the car,
and Steve realizes he may be a bit of an idiot.
 
Before when they faced each other, he mainly ignored Steve and only fought with
him enough to get away. Fury had been the only target the man cared about.
Looking back on it, even though Steve is sure he would have ended up with a
hole in him if he had intentionally stood in front of Fury, just like what had
happened to Natasha, the Winter Soldier certainly seemed reluctant to hurt
anyone who wasn’t a target. Today, looking at how he barely gives Sam a second
glance but repeatedly tries to gun down Steve and Natasha, it’s obvious his
mission parameters have changed.
 
Any hopes Steve had of getting the man to talk to him, however faint they may
have been, are shot down in a blaze of gunfire. As Steve runs around trying to
avoid open spaces and civilians, he can’t help but think about how ridiculous
this is, because he hadn’t even wanted to find the Winter Soldier right now. He
wanted to stop SHIELD and to take care of HYDRA. He can’t deal with the Winter
Soldier now; he can’t risk finding anything out about him that might
emotionally compromise him any more than he already is.
 
But on the other hand, this may be the only chance he has. Steve does not plan
to be taken out of the running by HYDRA today, but glimpses of the Winter
Soldier are few and far between. This could be the last time anyone sees him
for a very long time, and as much as Steve needs to keep his head in the game,
he’s always been very confident in his ability to multitask.
 
He’s crouched inside the bus he’s been thrown into after being hurtled off the
side of the overpass when the shield catches the full force of a grenade. He
passes out for a few seconds and it’s quiet when he comes to. Through the
window he can see the Winter Soldier still on the overpass, obviously searching
for something, but Steve still sees how his head keeps turning back to the bus
routinely. Like he’s waiting for any sign of movement, and Steve knows there’s
no point in hiding. HYDRA knows exactly where he is.
 
“Hey!” Steve shouts as loudly as he can, rolling his eyes at himself even as he
speaks, because he feels a very special kind of stupid. “Barry’s School for
Boys in Brooklyn – does that happen to mean anything to you?”
 
The Winter Soldier cocks his head in confusion, and he almost looks like a
startled puppy. From somewhere up on the overpass Steve thinks he might hear an
incredulous “Are you fucking serious, Steve?” shouted from Sam, and then the
bus is caught in a hail of bullets from the Winter Soldier. It only eases when
something happens to distract him, just after Steve has managed to escape the
wreck of the bus. Steve can’t see what it is, but based on the Winter Soldier’s
single-mindedness, he’s willing to bet that Natasha has just used his idiocy as
a diversion to launch another attack.
 
He doesn’t know what’s happening to Sam, but he doesn’t get a chance to worry
about it before he’s fighting off more than a dozen men with guns, including
one using a minigun. Steve tries to move in the direction of the minigun,
intent on taking it down before it rips a hole in his torso that even the serum
will be useless against. It takes a few minutes to figure out that HYDRA agents
are falling without him getting near them, but it’s not until the minigun is
down that he manages to get a lock on Sam’s location up on the overpass.
 
There are screams from a few blocks away and Steve whirls around, alarmed that
Natasha is already so far away so quickly. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to
finish off the rest of the agents here and still reach her in time. He doesn’t
want her to fight the Winter Soldier alone; doesn’t want to see anyone else die
at his hand. Two more agents drop like stones at his right and then Sam is
yelling at him to go after Natasha.
 
“I got this!”
 
Steve doesn’t want to leave Sam any more than he wants to abandon Natasha, but
before he can argue back, two more explosions sound behind him. The agents here
all seem to be scattering, and it’s all too apparent that if the Winter Soldier
is going to be beaten, it won’t be a one-person job.
 
By the time he has them in his sights, Natasha is literally riding on top of
the Winter Soldier’s shoulders. Her face is hard and determined and Steve feels
sick when he realizes she’s trying to garrote the man. Steve may have felt like
a fool trying to make small talk with the assassin, but he also knows that
Natasha will have tried to do the same thing, and that wouldn’t be trying to
take him out if he showed signs of being able to be reasoned with. Whoever this
man was, he isn’t the same man who once tried to save her.
 
Once Steve’s gotten even closer he can see that Natasha is bleeding and worse
still, she’s showing obvious signs of tiring. The Winter Soldier finally
manages to shake her hold and even though Natasha dodges for cover behind a
nearby car so quickly she’s almost a blur, Steve still sees her stumble when
the assassin manages to hit her in the shoulder. The Soldier begins to stalk
towards her, intent on completing his mission, which is when Steve barrels into
him at full speed.
 
For a few moments it feels like Steve is caught up in a dream – he’s uncertain
if it’s a good one or a bad one. The Winter Solder fights like no one Steve has
ever encountered before. His fighting skill is formidable, and Steve thinks
that except for maybe when he spars with Natasha, he’s never come up against an
opponent who can match him in speed and dexterity like this. There’s more to it
than that though. When Steve spars with Natasha, his biggest obstacle is
undoubtedly her ingenuity – her tendency to hide aces up her sleeve and use
them when he’s not expecting it. What makes fighting the Winter Soldier so
surreal is that he seems to be playing cards that aren’t even in the same deck,
which frankly is Steve’sstyle.
 
Steve fights dirty when he goes hand-to-hand with someone – dirtier than anyone
would ever expect from the just and honorable Captain America. But Steve Rogers
has always been the man inside the Captain’s uniform, and Steve Rogers was
raised fighting on the streets and back alleys of Brooklyn. Steve doesn’t fight
nice and he doesn’t fight fair, and by the time most people realize this,
they’ve already lost.
 
But the Winter Soldier instantly has Steve’s number. He matches Steve blow for
blow, senses Steve getting ready to aim a kick at his crotch before Steve’s
decided to do it – knows Steve’s tells better than Steve knows himself. And
Steve is never caught off-guard by anything the Winter Soldier does, either.
Steve sees Brooklyn when the Winter Soldier fights. Not Brooklyn the way it is
today, gentrified and tame, but Brooklyn as he used to know it. Somehow, this
fight feels more like coming home than anything he’s felt since waking up.
 
For as much as Steve is capable of thinking about anything, he feels an
unshakeable sense of dread coming over him. This feels like more than just
someone who grew up in the same neighbourhood. The Soldier’s rough fighting
style might only add credibility to the theory that they have known similar
backgrounds, but the way he knows Steve’s every move speaks to the Soldier
knowing him. There’s only one person who could ever understand Steve so well –
only one person who could be able to sync up to Steve so instinctively.
 
He still refuses to say it out loud until it’s unavoidable, though – when he
throws the Soldier hard enough that his mask falls away from his face and lies
forgotten on the street.
 
“Bucky.”
 
Steve’s voice is thread and distraught as blue eyes that he thought he would
never see again snap up to meet his gaze.
 
Bucky staggers a little, even though he had been standing relatively still. He
looks as though he’s in pain, like his carefully constructed world is falling
to pieces around him and Steve is his worst nightmare. When he speaks his voice
is just as ragged.
 
“Who the hell is Bucky?”
 
And Steve feels his world start to crumble, too.
***** Vexed to Nightmare, Part Five *****
Chapter Notes
     Final chapter! I will be writing more one shots for this story and
     turning it into a small series at some point, because there are still
     quite a few loose ends that I totally tied up while I was plotting
     this thing out and dammit I am going to prove it. Plus there is NO
     WAY I am going to miss out on the chance to write recovery angst. So
     be on the lookout for that. I may or may not post updates for it on
     my_tumblr when they start to get posted, since I don't think you can
     subscribe to a series on AO3? At any rate, be on the lookout, if you
     are interested.
     Sort of warnings for character death in this chapter. Don't worry!
     It's not a main character or anything, and I don't think it's anyone
     people are attached to (at least not attached to in THIS story), but
     yeah. I didn't plan on it, it just sort of happened. Kept happening,
     actually. Fun fact: I managed to kill said character without planning
     on it three separate times before my final continuity edit. I figure
     at that point I should just accept that it was meant to be.
     Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments as I've been
     writing this, and to my beta MomentsOfWeakness, who makes me look
     like I know what I'm doing.
 
 
 
 
The Soldier remembers. He remembers pain and fear and anger, all bound up and
tied together with a small frail body he would sleep next to at night. (A body
that also brought relief and peace and happiness – the good emotions seem to
come hand-in-hand with the bad ones.) He doesn’t know if that’s normal or not.
He doesn’t know if he feels lonely because that body is no longer beside him,
or if he was lonely then, too. He doesn’t know, and he knows that the men
surrounding him right now are the reason he can’t remember.
 
And he now knows that if they touch him, that if they make him turn around and
sit back down in that fucking chair, people are going to die.
 
“Who was the man on the bridge?” He spits out.
 
He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and his metal arm flies out to
the side, almost involuntarily. There’s a sickening crack as the scientist who
had been edging closer to him with a sedative lands hard onto the arm of the
chair and doesn’t get up again, his back bent at an unnatural angle.
 
Outside the room he hears another guard telling someone to stay out – that the
Winter Soldier is highly unstable and they can’t risk whoever it is dying over
a nonessential weapon.
 
He looks frantically at the men surrounding him, fear momentarily taking over
the anger when a childish voice rises up from the echoing blankness of his
mind:
 
“Just stick with me. I’ll take care of you.”
 
“I knew him,” The Soldier says, almost to himself, and when he notices the man
in front of him twitch at the words, he rounds on him, stalking forward to yell
in his face. “I knew him.”
 
The man reaches for a weapon, but the asset grabs the baton before it’s even
had a chance to leave its holster, holds it high against the man’s thigh, feels
perverse pleasure when he turns the power on and the screaming starts.
 
“I needed him,” the Soldier hisses, so angry he is almost seeing red. “I needed
him and you told me to kill him.”
 
“We’re all just following orders,” the man hisses – scared but not cowed. “We
do what we’re told – I don’t have anything against you. It’s not about you.”
 
The Soldier pulls the baton back and the man sags in relief.
 
“This is just a job to you?” He asks, suddenly curious.
 
“Yes,” the man grits out. “I’m not in this because I want to hurt you. I don’t
want to hurt anyone.”
 
“No?” says the Soldier. “This job must be very hard on you then.”
 
“It is today,” the man agrees.
 
“What’s your name?” asks the Soldier.
 
“Rumlow,” the man says, warily. The Winter Soldier doesn’t ask questions.
 
“Rumlow,” the Soldier repeats, nodding. “Tell me, Rumlow, do I have a name,
too?”
 
“It’s nothing personal,” the man promises, desperately avoiding the question.
 
“Of course it’s not personal,” the Soldier says. “I’m not a person, am I? You
won’t even give me a name.”
 
The man on the bridge gave him a name. When they were dragging him down into
the vault, he heard comm chatter about the same man and his friends escaping
and making a break for it. Leaving the Winter Soldier behind. Just as he
instinctively knows that the man on the bridge is important to him, the
knowledge that that man has left him before is there, too. He doesn’t remember
when or how, or how often, but he knows it’s happened.
 
The Soldier knows he needed the man once, but he doesn’t know if he still does.
Or maybe he doesn’t wantto need him, because he doesn’t know if he can handle
being left behind again by someone who obviously means so much. All the Soldier
remembers is being used and forgotten, and when he looked into the eyes of the
man on the bridge, it was like feeling it happen all over again. Somehow,
knowing that the man may be no different from the others pushes his anger past
futile rage and into reckless violence. He reaches out and grabs Rumlow by the
neck, twisting hard. 15 minutes later he is the only one in the vault left
alive. No one on the stairs tries to stop him when he stalks past them out into
the sunlight.
 
***
 
Nick Fury, Steve decides, is sort of an asshole. He is of course glad the man
isn’t actually dead, but it’s hard to look at him and not remember the way
Natasha’s breath had hitched when the doctors announced a time of death and
covered his body with a sheet. He tries not to make much noise about it, since
it’s more important than ever that they don’t get distracted, but he’s only
human after all. Going by the concerned glances Sam keeps directing at both him
and Natasha, neither of them are doing too well at hiding their feelings.
 
“Why all the secrecy?” Steve finally asks, when he can’t contain himself any
longer – sometime after Hill has laid out their plans to take down
helicarriers. “Why not just tell us?”
 
“Well,” Fury said, obnoxiously sarcastic. Steve does not approve of his tone.
“The trouble with eliminating a secret evil organization that’s using your own
secret goodorganization as a cover it that after a while it gets hard to tell
the players without a program.”
 
At Steve’s unimpressed glare, he adds,
 
“I wasn’t sure who I could trust.”
 
They both pretend not to notice Natasha’s wince. Steve decides not to pretend
he won’t hold it against Fury later. He knows that it took him time to trust
Natasha, too, but now that he does, the thought of anyone hesitating to do so
makes him irate.
 
“It wasn’t just you, Natasha,” Agent Hill says, not softly or sympathetically –
Agent Hill is much too blunt and pragmatic to be tactful – but like she
understands all the same. “Don’t take it personally. We needed it to be
believable.”
 
“You don’t think I’m good enough at espionage to convincingly fake my
emotions?”
 
“Well enough to trick anyone who doesn’t know the Black Widow personally,” Hill
says. “But not well enough to trick anyone who actually knows you – and HYDRA
is apparently full of people we know. No one who saw how you raised hell when
Barton was taken by Loki would have believed a Black Widow quietly grieving and
not investigating what happened. Any attempt on the director’s life had to look
successful.”
 
“If my top agents weren’t taking this properly, no one would have believed it
was real,” Fury points out.
 
Natasha seems to be relaxing a little at their words and for her sake, Steve
hopes they’re true. Fury, meanwhile, is interested in the news about Bucky,
although it’s hard to tell if he’s more worked up about the thought of another
living Howling Commando, or the fact that SHIELD has played a major part in
keeping him captive for so long. It is not, however, the topic of conversation
he keeps circling back to.
 
“The man refused the Nobel Peace Prize! Not to mention he was one of my closest
friends.”
 
He looks at Steve.
 
“You can criticize me for it all you want, but nowdo you see why I have trust
issues?”
 
Steve works very, very hard to keep his face blank.
 
“You mean because your best friend has been working with your mortal enemies
for decades without you ever realizing it? That must have been hard for you. I
can’t begin to imagine.”
 
Fury levels a hard look at him for a few moments before deflating and running a
hand over his face.
 
“Fair point,” he says. “Maybe we should start a club.”
 
“Sure,” Steve says gamely. “Or incorporate it into the acronym of our next
secret government organization.”
 
“Run that one by me again?” Fury says.
 
“Sir, when we take those helicarriers down, all of SHIELD is going down with
them. SHIELD, HYDRA – it all needs to go.”
 
There’s a pause after Steve finishes speaking, but then Agent Hill is shifting
unhappily and saying,
 
“He’s right, sir. I love working in SHIELD, but rotten is rotten. It won’t do
us any good to pretend otherwise.”
 
Fury looks a little desperately at Natasha, who only stares back at him,
stoically, and then at Sam, who re-introduces himself as “Slow Captain America”
and is no help either. Steve feels for the man, honestly. He doesn’t like the
thought of anything being too broken to fix, and it must hurt when that thing
ends up being what you’ve poured your entire life into. Not that Steve would
know anything about that, either.
 
***
 
Krausberg,_1943
 
Steve feels his stomach drop like a stone as the prisoners make their way out
of the complex. He’s watching them as they leave, and he’s certain no one is
leaving without him noticing but he can’t see Bucky anywhere. He waits a while,
tries to convince himself that he just needs to be patient, that Bucky will be
there. Finally he can’t take it any longer and he reaches out to catch the
shoulder of one of the men trudging past, wincing in sympathy when the soldier
startles.
 
“I’m looking for Sergeant Barnes. Do you know if he was brought in with you?”
 
The man suddenly has trouble meeting Steve’s gaze.
 
“Do you know him?” Steve asks. “Is he hurt?”
 
He can’t bring himself to ask about a more likely possibility.
 
“I know him,” the man admits before looking at Steve regretfully.
 
“They would take a man every few days – no one knows where to. At first we
thought they were being interrogated, but they didn’t seem to consider rank.
Sergeant Barnes was the last man they selected.”
 
He hesitates before adding,
 
“I’m sorry. I’m guessing you knew him, too?”
 
“Knowhim,” Steve corrects. “Make sure all the men get out. I’m going after the
missing soldiers.”
 
***
 
He has had this nightmare since he was young: wandering directionless through
seemingly endless hallways; doors locked on all sides, never knowing which he
should take the time to force open. He was looking for Bucky then, too. The
dreams always end after he forces open one last door to find an empty, dark,
cell-like room. A room he has been in before and that he can’t forget no matter
how much time passes, no matter how hard he tries.
 
“You left,” comes a voice from behind him.
 
Steve turns and Bucky is standing in the doorway Steve just came through, only
now it leads to another locked room like this one. Bucky’s shirt is ripped and
his pants hang open, barely staying on his hips. He looks the same age he was
that time Steve pulled him from Mr. Douglas’s office, and now he is covered
with bruises and blood. Behind him is another body Steve also recognizes: eyes
still open; head still at that awful, unnatural angle.
 
“Why did you leave?” the young Bucky asks, and Steve always wakes up before he
can answer.
 
***
 
He thinks about the dream now as he runs frantically through the HYDRA
compound. He’s found a morgue full of bodies – Allied soldiers, and each one
looks like he died screaming. Bucky wasn’t with them.
 
There are explosions somewhere behind him and Steve knows he should go – take
charge of the men he has set free who are going to need all the help they can
get – but he can’t leave. Hecan’t.Not without Bucky.
 
He feels like he’s ready to sit down and cry when hears a soft whisper of noise
behind him, out of place in the midst of the harsh and violent sounds of war
coming from the rest of the base. Steve whirls around to see a small stout man
in glasses trying to sneak away with a briefcase. They stare at each other a
moment. Frozen.
 
Zola,Steve’s mind supplies as he remembers the pictures Colonel Phillips has
shown him. This man’s name is Armin Zola. The man runs and Steve is ready to
chase him, but a map in the room Zola has just left catches his eye first. He
walks inside, trying to get a closer look, intent on committing all the
information to memory. Determined to bring down every HYDRA base listed on it.
Which is when he hears it: incoherent rambling in a voice he’d know anywhere.
 
Bucky is strapped down to a table, blearily repeating his name, rank, and
serial number, like they’re the only things left for him in the world. His eyes
are dead, just like in Steve’s dream, and Steve has to fight back a shudder as
he approaches, reaches out to gently shake the other man’s shoulder.
 
“Buck,” he calls. “It’s me.”
 
Bucky goes still and it takes too long for his eyes to focus and find him, but
when he does, he leans into Steve’s touch, face lighting up strong enough to
brighten the whole damned base.
 
“Steve,” he breathes, and he looks hopeful and so childlike it hurts. “You
found me.”
 
“Well, that’s what we do,” Steve says, in an attempt to sound cheerful as he
reaches over and starts snapping off the leather straps, not even trying to
find the buckles. “When one of us screws up, the other one always finds him,
right?”
 
Bucky nods in a daze, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet, and the poor
guy looks higher than a kite as his neck cranes up until he’s able to look
Steve in the eye.
 
“I thought you were dead,” Steve chokes out, reaching out to gently touch
Bucky’s face.
 
“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky says, glancing back at the table
suspiciously, like he still thinks he might be laying on it.
 
Steve laughs and pulls the other man into a quick kiss, which is somewhat
awful, but Steve doesn’t care. Bucky doesn’t seem to either, because he leans
into it desperately before allowing himself to be dragged out of the room
without a word of protest.
 
“What happened?” is all he asks.
 
“Joined the army,” is all Steve answers, and Bucky stiffens in his arms,
radiating disapproval.
 
The way he growls out, “Dumb punk” feels so right that Steve lets out another
bark of laughter, letting the relief wash over him even though he knows they’re
not out of the woods yet. He has Bucky back, and somehow nothing else matters.
 
***
 
“He’s probably gonna be there, you know?”
 
Steve doesn’t bother to ask who Sam is talking about.
 
“I know,” he says. It’s all he’s been able to think about.
 
“Look,” Sam says, gently. “I know you care about him, Steve. I know for you not
much time has passed since you were together, but time haspassed. He’s not the
same man anymore. You need to be prepared if we get there and find out that
he’s become the sort of person who needs to be stopped, not saved.”
 
“I don’t think I can abandon him like that,” Steve says. “Not when it’s my
fault he fell in the first place.”
 
“Wasn’t your fault,” Sam says, simply, like he’s not tired of saying it yet.
“Don’t you go trying to take on the sins of war criminals, man. We don’t have
that kind of time.”
 
“Do you think he remembers anything?” Steve asks, finally. “Do you think
there’s a chance that he could? I thought for sure that the Winter Soldier knew
exactly who he was, the way he was targeting people when he went off mission,
but he looked so scared when he heard his name.”
 
“Could be he’s only remembered the bad things,” Sam says. “That happened a lot
with the folks I worked with at the V.A. The ones who could only remember what
happened to them in pieces. They’d just get so bogged down with how terrible it
was, the only fragments they could call to mind were the worst parts. Even if
they’d been laughing or joking or saving the world earlier the day it all
started for them, all they could remember was the look on a friend’s face right
before their leg blew off, or the way they’d screamed right after. Trauma
messes you up, Steve. It changes you.”
 
“We’re pretty used to trauma,” Steve says, contemplatively. “Maybe for once it
can be useful and help centre him long enough to start finding his way back.”
 
“Steve…” Sam starts, warily, but Steve waves him off.
 
“I know,” he says again. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”
 
Neither man comment on the obvious lie. Out of gratitude Steve jokingly adds,
 
“So how did Natasha manage to skip this lecture? You know, she apparently has a
strong emotional attachment to him, too.”
 
“Who said she missed it?” Sam says. “She just had to hear it back in the Super
Secret SHIELD Lair, that’s all, with Fury and Hill singing backup.”
 
“Well I’m sorry I didn’t get to see that,” Steve says, shaking himself slightly
and walking back towards the hideout. “Let’s get the others and get moving.
It’s time to gear up.”
 
“Are you going to wear that?” Sam calls after him, incredulously.
 
“No,” Steve says. “I have something else in mind. Can’t go into battle if you
don’t have a uniform, right?”
 
***
 
The first two helicarriers are taken over relatively easily, and without any
major hiccups – assuming, of course, that you consider “relatively easy” to
mean “not everyperson you see takes a shot at you.” Sadly, at this point in
Steve’s life he sort of does think that’s a pretty good success rate. Plus
there’s the fact that he and Sam are dealing largely with the helicarrier
crews, and the vast majority of their personnel are confirmed HYDRA agents
anyhow.
 
From what he’s been able to glean from Hill up in her fortified control room,
things look quite a bit better inside the Triskelion. He smiles when she
mentions that Sharon – his not-a-nurse, not-quite-a-neighbour – is organizing
counter-attacks on her own initiative and taking down large sections of the
Strike team. Whatever ends up filling the power vacuum left in the wake of
SHIELD’s destruction, Steve hopes she is a part of it. He might even tell her
himself if he gets a chance.
 
He’s just called in his success in decommissioning the second helicarrier, only
minutes after Sam has reported his own victory with the first, when Hill’s wary
voice comes over the comms.
 
“Cap? It looks like you and Sam may be getting some company.”
 
“Fun company?” Sam asks.
 
“Winter Soldier company,” Hill says dryly. “Something’s not right though.”
 
Before Steve can interject that nothingabout the Winter Soldier is right, she
elaborates.
 
“He’s as focused and single-minded as ever – only taking people out when they
get between him and the third helicarrier – but I don’t think the people trying
to stop him are SHIELD. Or not ‘good’ SHIELD, anyhow. I’ve watched him take out
a few men from the Strike team, and everyone seems desperate to halt his
progress.”
 
“Do you think he’s gone off-mission?” Sam asks.
 
“I have no idea,” Hill admits. “I wish Romanoff wasn’t so busy taking care of
Pierce. I think she understands how the Soldier works better than any of us. No
offense, Cap.”
 
“None taken,” Steve says, rolling his eyes as he runs to the edge of the second
helicarrier. “We haven’t really kept in touch. Sam? Can I get a lift?”
 
“Sure thing, Cap,” Sam says. “Just say the word.”
 
“I just did,” Steve says, as he leaps over the edge of the carrier to dodge a
rain of gunfire.
 
“Dammit, Steve,” Sam huffs and for half a second Steve is worried that he’s
miscalculated but then Sam is there, grabbing Steve by the arm and damn near
dislocating it in the process. Judging by Sam’s frankly excessive screaming
that will absolutely be funny when all of this is over, he’s not having the
greatest time either.
 
“Thanks,” Steve says, shaking his arm out once Sam’s deposited him on the final
helicarrier.
 
“Go on a diet,” Sam snaps.
 
“You’re the one who keeps giving me food,” Steve protests.
 
“If I’m not interrupting,” Hill says, and Steve has never been able to hear
someone gritting their teeth when they speak so clearly before. “You boys may
want to stop calling each other fat until you switch that last chip. We’re
running out of time, and the Soldier is going to be joining you any second, if
he’s not there already.”
 
“Next time you may want to lead with that,” Sam says, as both he and Steve
break into a run. They don’t make it inside the helicarrier before Hill is back
on the comms shouting for backup in the conference room. She only has a feed
from Fury, but Steve’s stomach clenches as he hears her say something about the
Black Widow.
 
“Is she hurt?” he demands.
 
“No,” Hill says. “But Pierce is detonating explosives he’s somehow planted on
the security council and that cover is how we got the Widow in in the first
place.”
 
“I’m on it,” Sam says, grimly reaching up to re-activate the wings.
 
“Be careful,” Hill says. “If you barge in through that door with guns blazing
he’ll be ready for you.”
 
Sam has already leapt off the side of the helicarrier, but Steve hears the
response over the comms anyhow.
 
“What if a beautiful black man flies past his 45th floor window and shoots him
in the back of the head? Will he be expecting that? Because in my experience,
most people aren’t.”
 
Steve’s hand is reaching for the chip as he races towards the servers. He stops
short when he sees Bucky standing in front of him, waiting. His face is
expressionless but he’s holding himself tenser than Steve remembers the Winter
Soldier being. He wishes he knew if that meant anything.
 
“People are gonna die, Buck,” he says, cautiously. “I can’t let that happen.”
 
“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Bucky spits, and it is Bucky – or at least, it’s not
the Soldier anymore. Truthfully, Steve isn’t sure if he knows the man standing
in front of him at all.
 
“I need to do this,” Steve tries again. “Are you going to let me?”
 
A muscle twitches in Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t back down.
 
Shit, Steve thinks, but it’s all the emotion he allows himself before he throws
the shield.
 
The fight is as intense as it was on the overpass, but now Steve is feeling the
weight of the Soldier’s almost unhinged rage and he has to fight back the urge
to panic. He doesn’t understand where Bucky’s head is at and he’s distracted
enough that he’s almost thrown from the catwalk several times. After a few
minutes that Steve doesn’t have to spare he finds enough of an opening to gain
the upper hand – just long enough to knock Bucky over the side.
 
He doesn’t fall the whole way, and his scramble to get back onto the catwalk
only takes about 30 seconds but it’s enough for Steve. Almost. He’s tucked the
old chip away with the one from the second helicarrier and is taking out the
replacement when it happens: a gunshot. Steve’s body is jerked around by the
impact and the new chip drops to the floor.
 
Bucky holsters the weapon before advancing. He drags Steve up by the collar and
demands,
 
“Why now?”
 
“Bucky,” Steve gasps, as the pain burns up his side and into his gut. “Please,
you’re better than they are – innocent people are going to die if we don’t stop
them.”
 
“I’m not doing this for them,” Bucky says, glancing to the chip for a fraction
of a second before slamming Steve’s head against the ground. “I’m doing it for
me.”
 
He drops Steve to the ground and picks up the chip. For a second, Steve is
convinced that Bucky is planning to crush it with his metal hand, but Bucky
just stares at it before quietly asking,
 
“They want to kill more people?”
 
“Millions,” Steve says.
 
Bucky’s face twitches again before he turns suddenly and slams the chip into
place.
 
“Okay great,” Steve hears Hill say in his ear. “Acquiring new targets. Cap, you
gotta get out of there. As soon as they see the new targets they’ll be looking
for you. We can’t wait.”
 
Steve ignores her. In front of him, Bucky is leaning over the control panel,
head bowed and tremors running through his whole frame.
 
“Bucky,” he says, softly, and that’s all it takes to set Bucky off again.
 
“I told you to stop calling me that!” He screams. “I don’t even know who you
are!”
 
“I’m your friend,” Steve says faltering as he staggers to his feet. He doesn’t
know what else to say. They never said the word “boyfriends” when they talked
about what they were. “I’m just… I’m yours.”
 
“Then where were you?”
 
Steve feels a foot hit the middle of his chest and he’s airborne before he even
realizes what’s happened. All the air is forced out of his lungs as he hits the
lower levels of the helicarrier, his shield digging painfully into his back.
 
“Cap,” comes the frantic voice in his ear, shouting at him now. “Get out now.”
 
“Just fire,” he gasps out. “Don’t worry about me.”
 
Bucky is dropping down towards him as he leaps down the scaffolding in
increments. Steve listlessly watches his progress as Hill – Maria – falters,
 
“But, Steve…”
 
“Do it now!” Steve barks.
 
He’s leaving with Bucky or he’s not leaving at all, but whatever way this pans
out, they can’t afford to wait. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out if
she’s done it. There’s a large explosion that reminds Steve of Dernier and the
Commandos.
 
The entire helicarrier starts shaking like it’s threatening to come apart and
Bucky loses his footing, falling the rest of the way to Steve. He’s favouring
his flesh and bone shoulder when he stands and Steve can’t help blurting out,
 
“Are you okay?”
 
Bucky looks sick and confused as he stares at him, like Steve is an
unfathomable and infinite source of pain.
 
“Why do you care?” he asks, tired.
 
Beneath them, the helicarrier groans as it starts to tilt in the sky.
 
“I’ve always cared,” Steve whispers.
 
“You never came,” Bucky says, eyes welling up. “I only ever wanted… I think I
wanted to be real but everyone forgot about me instead. Iforgot about me.”
 
“I could never forget you,” Steve says, honestly.
 
He gets a metal fist in his face for his troubles.
 
“Then why did you leave?”
 
Bucky is screaming again, punctuating each word with another punch. They
narrowly avoid being pinned by some falling scaffolding but Bucky doesn’t seem
to notice.
 
He pauses for a moment, and even though Steve’s face is starting to feel like
hamburger at this point, he takes the opportunity to say,
 
“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m so, sosorry. I never would have left if I thought you
were still alive.”
 
“You’ve done it before,” Bucky says, accusingly, but he stands and takes a step
back when he says it.
 
“Yeah,” Steve admits, wincing as he slowly gets to his feet, too – ready to
start chasing if he needs to, although he’s not sure how long he’ll be able to
keep up. “And until the day I didn’t go back to find your body, it was the
biggest mistake I ever made.”
 
The bottom is starting to fall out of the helicarrier all around them. They
need to move, but instead Steve just reaches out and drops his shield out one
of the openings, letting it fall into the Potomac.
 
“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, sharply.
 
“I’m not gonna fight you, Buck,” Steve says, softly. “I only hit the bad guys,
remember?”
 
The helicarrier lurches beneath them, causing them both to stumble. The ensuing
noise from the carrier isn’t quite loud enough to mask the broken noise that
comes out of Bucky. His eyes are wild when he finally looks at Steve again.
Terrified.
 
“I don’t know who you are,” he says, almost whimpering, and Steve can’t tell if
he is blaming Steve or asking for help. “I don’t know who I am.”
 
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve says. “And I love you. Please
James, I’ve lost you so many times. Let me help you now. I’m not gonna let you
get away from me again – I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. Remember that?”
 
He’s taking a tentative step forward when the floor beneath him finally gives
way completely. The last thing he remembers seeing is Bucky’s horrified face as
it rapidly disappears from view. The last thing he remembers thinking is that
it’s no easier being the one who is falling.
 
***
 
He wakes up shivering, and to the painful sensation of someone pressing on his
chest so hard it feels like his ribs may break, if they haven’t broken already.
One of the hands on him is freezing cold. His eyes flutter open of their own
accord and his hand reaches up to catch hold of one of Bucky’s, who promptly
tries to shake it off and keep going.
 
“It’s okay, Buck,” he rasps out. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”
 
Bucky lets out another terrified, childlike sob and chokes out,
 
“Please don’t leave me again.”
 
Steve reaches up and shakily catches Bucky by the back of the neck, pulling the
other man on top of him, stubbornly ignoring the pain, even though Bucky is
obviously avoiding resting any weight on him.
 
“It’s okay,” Steve says again. “Stay with me, it’s okay.”
 
“You’re hurt,” Bucky says, voice small and somehow still accusing, like he
doesn’t remember he’s the one responsible and who knows? Maybe right now he
doesn’t.
 
“Yeah well,” Steve keeps his voice conversational as he pets at the base of
Bucky’s skull. “Some fights you just can’t let yourself walk away from.”
 
“Steve?” Bucky asks, and he sounds disoriented, like he’s trying out the name
to see if it will fit.
 
“Yeah,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. “I’m right here.”
 
Nearby smoke is billowing into the sky from the razed Triskelion. Debris is
still falling from the sky, and the sounds of screaming and sirens fill the
air. Blood still oozes out of Steve’s stomach wound at a rate that will quickly
become a problem unless he’s able to get some help. He’s not even sure if Bucky
really remembers him or if he’s just turning to Steve out of his desperation to
be found. But Bucky isremembering, and he doesn’twant to be alone anymore and
that’s enough of a start for Steve.
 
Steve closes his eyes and against all logic finds himself trying to hold back a
smile. Right now there is literally no other place he’d rather be.
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