Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6942610.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of
      Violence
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes_&_Alexander
      Pierce, James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Brock_Rumlow, Clint_Barton/Natasha_Romanov,
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Erik_Lehnsherr, past_James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Pietro
      Maximoff, Jack_Rollins_&_Brock_Rumlow
  Character:
      Peggy_Carter, Sharon_Carter_(Marvel), Guardians_of_the_Galaxy_Team, Peter
      Quill, Erik_Lehnsherr, Wade_Wilson, Sarah_Rogers, Nick_Fury, Odin_
      (Marvel), Jack_Rollins, Vasily_Karpov
  Additional Tags:
      Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Physical_Abuse, Alternate_Universe_-
      High_School, Multiple_Relationships, Past_Relationship(s), Implied/
      Referenced_Child_Abuse, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Bucky
      Barnes-centric
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-23 Updated: 2016-09-04 Chapters: 8/? Words: 17977
****** Steady as the stars in the woods ******
by thegiggleatafuneral
Summary
     High school AU
     Steve and Bucky are reunited after 5 years but the chaotic life of
     high school and their contrasting personalities drives them further
     apart. Where Steve is a model student and the school's beloved icon,
     Bucky is unable to shake off how Russia has changed him and ends up
     in the underworld of the school
***** homecoming *****
It was a beautiful, start-of-fall day when Bucky Barnes swooped back into
Steve's life like a raging tornado, the same way he left exactly 5 years ago.
Steve'd overslept by 15 minutes for the first day of freshman year and was in
the midst of dumping his cereal into his mouth while simultaneously feeding the
dog and stuffing his bag when the door knocked, frantically - a Morse code, 5
short knocks and 3 long ones, a code he shared with only one person in the
world.
Steve felt his heart clench painfully and his stomach drop. Without missing a
beat, he ran to the door and opened it with trembling hands and a mix of
trepidation and anticipation. It could well be a coincidence, but Steve knew.
He just knew, without knowing how. So when he saw Bucky (a very different
version of the Bucky he last saw 5 years ago, crying from the back of the taxi
mouthing bye to Steve a hundred times) standing outside, bag slung over a
shoulder and grinning the wolfish grin he remembered from their childhood, he
wasn't surprised.
"Steve!" Bucky yelled, and his voice was deeper now. Rougher, but as warm as
Steve remembered. He had grown so much, yet Steve was now taller than him,
something neither of them had ever thought could happen. Steve barely had time
to say "hey" before Bucky launched himself and Steve and crushed him in a
Barnes Bear Hug, spilling the bowl of cereal still in Steve's hands.
The 5 years apart had done nothing to dilute Steve's memories of how glorious
it felt to be in Bucky's arms, only now, Steve was bigger and Bucky's hands
were gripping muscle instead of bones, and Steve felt his heart do a tiny
somersault when Bucky's chin came to rest on his shoulder. "Oh my god, Stevie,
look at you," Bucky said, words muffled against Steve's shirt. This time there
was no mistaking the slight tilt in his voice, a distinctly European edge to
his former Brooklyn accent.
Steve's heart ached for the 5 years they spent apart, 5 missing years where he
spent every day wondering where Bucky was and what crazy adventures he was up
to. Yet he couldn't find his voice to ask Bucky how it had all went, and what
he'd done in that span of time. Instead, all his stupid brain could come up
with was "Buck, I'm gonna be late for my first day." 
To which Bucky only laughed, shaking in Steve's arms. "Dumb ol' Steve. You're
still a nerd after all this time." He pulled back and grinned, and Steve swore
Bucky's was as bright as the sun in that moment. It was hard looking at this
new Bucky - sharp cheekbones, firm jaw, laugh lines the way Steve remembered,
skin paler than he had ever been. Steve's heart ignited in ways Peggy Carter or
her younger by 3 years cousin Sharon could never make him feel. "Brooklyn High
School of the Nerds and Wannabes. That's where you're headin', right? Well,
we're going the same way, pal." Bucky waved a letter with the school's stamp on
it, and Steve had never thanked God so fervently in his life. 
Bucky was back. In his school, in his life, in his house. It was as if the past
5 years had never happened, as if Bucky had just come over the day after he
left. Everything was so familiar and Steve felt himself float back into Bucky's
orbit once again. "You punk. You're gonna bring hell to that unfortunate
school." Steve slung his arm around Bucky's shoulders, grabbed his bag and
together they made their way out into the beautifully glowing morning. 
***** daybreak *****
Chapter Summary
     This one's from Bucky's POV
     In which not everything is as great as it seems but Bucky's always a
     champion at keeping it together.
     (Just a filler before the boys get to school and all the fun starts)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
20 minutes with Steve and Bucky's heart could finally beat in a somewhat
regular rhythm. He was still pretty amazed Steve hadn't felt the heartbreak and
fear hammering away in his chest while he had hugged Steve earlier, and that
was a blessing. 
No emotional baggage. Russia hadn't ruined him. Pierce hadn't ruined him. If he
kept telling himself these, he would eventually believe it. And so would Steve,
it seems.
Bucky's pressed up in the window seat on a rackety old bus that goes to the
high school they're both heading to now, and he should feel excited about
seeing all their old friends and newer ones but he can't quite seem to care
about anything except the bruise lurking somewhere on his chest and Steve's
knee pressed against his. Steve fills up so much space now, and Bucky welcomes
it gratefully. 
He listened as Steve filled in the gaps of the missing 5 years, tried not to
stare at the sunlight reflecting in Steve's eyes.
About 10 things Bucky learned from The Steve Rogers Radio Show Live on Route
B6:
1. Natasha, Clint, Bruce, Loki and Tony goddamn Stark back from elementary
school were all going to their high school. 
2. So were a bunch of people Bucky hadn't bothered to remember. He briefly
registered some of the names: Peter Parker, Scott Lang, Darcy Lewis. "Most of
our elementary school, really," Steve explained, "excluding the ones heading to
Queens or Manhattan, which is like, 30%?" 
3. Apparently there was a local teenage band called The Guardians of the
Galaxy, comprising a motley crew of 10th graders. (Steve had snorted while he
said this and Bucky nearly peed himself laughing)
4. Steve was going for football tryouts.
5. Steve had reached first base with Sharon Carter and second with Peggy
Carter. A terrible conflict ensued when both girls found out.
6. Boxing was an after-school activity and the fighters in the team were pretty
notorious. This perked Bucky's interest though he didn't show it - maybe he
could put what he learnt in Russia to practice.
7. The last 5 years were terrible.
8. Steve really missed Bucky (he said it 12 times. Bucky counted.)
9. Steve seemed to have had a good time. 
Bucky refused to let the hole in his heart open up now and kept up his playful
banter, maximising the volume of his laughter.
10. Steve's Ma had terminal cancer. 
 
Bucky hadn't realised he'd fallen silent for nearly a minute until Steve looked
away. "Yeah. I shouldn't have told you, though. Didn't wanna ruin the mood."
There's a look in Steve's eyes that seem to mirror Bucky's own when he's alone,
and it's not a look Bucky ever wants to see on Steve. 
"Hey. Don't. You can tell me anything, anytime." Bucky swallows. He isn't sure
what to say. What can a 14 year old say in such a situation? I hope she gets
better soon or that sucks don't exactly make anything better. Bucky shrugs
aside any doubts and holds Steve's hand - fingers intertwined, like they did
when they were kids and nobody called kids fags. 
He doesn't stop to look at Steve's reaction, doesn't think he could handle a
rejection. He might have once known Steve from the inside out, but things could
have changed. Must have. "Kay. My turn. Let me tell you about Russia." 
He leaves out all the moments that had drowned him in their bitterness. He
talks about the physical cold, the language barrier, the huge penthouse, the
dogs. He doesn't talk about the vodka, or Pierce, or the street fights. By the
time they get off the bus another 10 minutes later, the shadow of his Ma's
illness has all but left Steve, and Bucky's managed to make his time in Russia
sound so outrageously fun he almost believed it. 
He thinks Steve may have doubts - he's way too perceptive and sharp not to. But
neither of them question anything. Bucky pulls his hand out first, feels his
heart shift heavily and forces himself to leap off the bus with the most cheery
smile he could ever conjure.
"Come on, come on," he half runs, half drags Steve toward the gates of their
new school and tries his best to look like he's really excited for this.
Chapter End Notes
     (this story could potentially get a hell lot angstier and sadder)
***** rusted *****
Chapter Summary
     Bucky makes a friend... or two.
Steve
 
"Is Bucky with us in Science?" Clint asks. It's become a ritual - at the start
of every lesson, he'll poke Steve in the neck with his pen and ask if Bucky's
in their class or not. Steve's frustration is growing by the hour: he misses
Bucky already, he's starting to hear girls whispering Bucky's name and he has
every subject with Clint bloody Barton. 
Clint's a bro, but he was never a good classmate. He spent most of elementary
school shooting rubber bands at teachers' butts (he never misses) and pulling
Nat's hair. He's spent the first day of high school staring at teachers' butts
- "Maria Hill is so hot I would shoot more than rubber bands at her" - and
Nat's chest, when he thinks she isn't looking. 
Steve has been trying to not think about Bucky and Clint isn't helping at all. 
"I don't know, man," Steve grumbles. He internally slaps himself for the
hundredth time for not checking Bucky's timetable before they parted ways for
their different classes. The last time he saw Bucky, his best friend was
smiling like the sun with his arm around Loki Laufeyson's skinny shoulders.
Huh. Loki - the famously antisocial, straight As kid. He hadn't expected Bucky
or Loki to remember each other, but the way they'd greeted each other was as if
they hadn't lost contact over the years. It made Steve pissed and jealous, and
pissed that he was jealous. 
"You know what's cool? Our teacher is Howard Stark. Tony's dad." Clint says. He
doesn't sound like he cares, and neither does Steve. The room starts filling
up, and Steve's head is starting to buzz. The sheer amount of new faces he sees
in every lesson is getting too much to handle. "I hear Bucky!" Clint says
suddenly, his extraordinary hearing aids proving itself again. 
The buzz leaves Steve's head when he sees Bucky coming in through the door.
He's laughing, holding hands with Nat, fingers all intertwined. Steve feels a
sudden, unexpected pang - Bucky's so quick to win everyone back, in less than
half a day. Steve feels dispensable. He ignores the ache in his heart but Bucky
spots him. "Stevie!" He shouts, and he sounds so happy to see Steve that it
sets Steve off-kilter again. "I met the damn Guardians of the Galaxy! They're
actually really rad. Well, just Quill. The rest are goofs." 
He notices Clint then and barrels towards him. "Clint clint clint my man, how
are you?" Bucky launches himself onto Clint and tackles him with a hug. This
time, Steve can clearly hear the girls behind him whispering about how hot
Bucky is. He tries not to let it get to him, focuses on the rather epic Bucky-
Clint reunion in front of him. Nat joins him as Bucky and Clint hug, shout how-
have-you-beens laden with expletives and laughs.
"It's so good to have Bucky back," she muses, quiet. "It's like he never left
at all." 
Steve nods. Laughs along with them when Bucky plonks himself on Clint's lap and
refuses to get off, not even when Howard Stark comes into the classroom. Then
Tony enters the classroom and all hell breaks loose. "What the hell, Dad?" Tony
demands, and the whole class erupts with laughter. Including Howard. "Sit the
hell down, son," he says, and proceeds with an astounding scientific
demonstration that no one, including Tony, listens to. 
It's the fourth lesson of the day, and Steve has never felt the air alive like
it is when Bucky is in the same room.
 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------
 
Bucky
 
"Y'know, Steve said the fighters were kinda notorious." 
Bucky's climbing the stairs to the rather secluded, infamously exclusive boxing
room with Natasha. Neither of them had particularly been afraid of people so
they decided going for boxing tryouts was worth a shot. Bucky thinks one of the
reasons why he gets along so well with Natasha is that she's almost the female
version of him - dives headfirst into situations normal people wouldn't put
themselves in. 
"Yeah, some of our seniors warned us about them." Natasha grins, shit-eating,
"Not that it matters, right? I think there's a good chance of getting in."
Bucky loves that about her - her self confidence, never arrogant or
narcissistic, but the kind that's rightful and inspires the people around her.
Bucky's always been inspired by her. Had even learned some ballet in Russia
because she'd learnt it since she was 5, and was always trying to make him
dance with her back in elementary. 
The coincidence that they'd both picked up fighting in the years they spent in
different continents doesn't surprise Bucky. Or Natasha. While Steve has always
been the sun in his life and Bucky's source of
lightwarmthhappinesshopefaitheverything, Natasha is his soul mate and his non-
identical twin. They'd always known what each other were thinking, back in the
days of classroom finger painting and duck farm field trips. Seeing her again
earlier today felt strangely like he'd found a part of his soul and put it back
into him. 
That was how natural it felt to be with her. 
"I haven't actually seen you fight yet," Bucky jabs, playfully. "Don't
embarrass yourself if there's auditions, kay? Or I'm gonna pretend I don't know
you." He gets a playful elbow to the ribs, hitting a spot he never knew could
hurt so much and swallows a groan. 
"Wait for it, Barnes. I'm gonna be one of those MMA fighters one day." 
They reach the room and knock tentatively like grade 3 kids trying to access a
forbidden classroom. The door is opened in about 2 seconds by a handsome-ish
brown-haired guy in gym shorts and nothing else. 
"Freshmen?" he asks, gruff. "Come on in." 
Not as bad as everyone's making it out to be, the doorman's pretty friendly as
it is, Bucky and Natasha think in unison. They're led into what looks like a
rather legitimate arena with a boxing ring and all. It turns out they're not
the only freshies: there's about 5 other kids, all muscly and bulky. The guy
who brought them in sizes Bucky and Natasha up. They're both slender and
probably look like they'll get their asses whacked. Bucky smiles at the guy
patiently. Come at me, he thinks, trying to look as suggestive as he can. 
"Hey kids." Another topless senior with short-cropped hair calls out from near
the stage. "Okay, I'm Wade Wilson. I'm in charge of recruiting you kids so that
our team doesn't die out. Blah blah blah. I know you heard shit about us, real
bad shit. Lemme tell you now, those stuff are probably true. Or like, toned-
down versions of our cruelty. Naw, I'm just kidding. But we are pretty cruel.
But we're also fun. You'll love it. So let's test out your skills first, get
everyone bloody and sweaty, and then we'll sit in a circle and introduce our
names. Okay? Okay. Biggest kid goes first. Smallest goes last. You stand in the
ring until one of us comes out to beat your ass." He says it all in one breath,
manages to smile, flex his arm threateningly, and wink at Bucky. 
Bucky likes this team already. So does Natasha, he feels. 
Smallest goes last means they take a seat near the ring without being asked to.
Fights are boring to watch when you're not in them, so Bucky puts his head in
Natasha's lap and ignores the grunts and heaves coming from the ring. 
If Wade never makes it a professional fighter or graduates from high school, he
would make a damn excellent commentator. Bucky listens to him rattle off about
how cool the newcomers are, points out good moves and analyzes mistakes,
praises the freshmen, thanks the wrestlers. Then, "Hey sexy, it's your turn,"
and Natasha gives him another elbow, to his shoulder blade this time. 
Bucky's blood pulses and his senses wake up almost all at once. He moves
quickly into the arena, brushes past Wade and winks back at him. There's a
movement from the seats near the stage, and the guy who led them in earlier is
making his way up to Bucky. Looks like he got the hint from earlier, Bucky
thinks. The guy is really good looking, Bucky thinks, then Steve's head pops
into his memories and whites out his vision for a second. No, there's good
looking guys everywhere. Steve's beautiful. Steve's a relic, and Bucky's gonna
see him once tryouts are over. 
It puts his senses in good drive, makes it easier to smile at his approaching
opponent. He isn't scared, of course. He stopped being scared since he was 13
and surrounded by the whole group of boys in Russia. Bleeding has always been
easy after getting it knocked out of him by ten pairs of fists and boots, into
the snow, mere metres away from his house. 
"Folks, keep it up for Erik Lehnsherr, the face of Brooklyn! Careful there
sexy, his eyes will knock you out before his fists do." Wade banters playfully.
Bucky doesn't move, doesn't drop his smile. Erik is right in front of him, and
he's fast, so damn fast when his fist swings out, full force. But Bucky's
faster. He's dodged at the same time the strike comes at him, and in one split
second he sees snow and blood, feels his four broken ribs and sprained ankle
and the tears on his face are frozen, and then he comes to and grabs Erik's
non-striking hand. 
Time always passes slow for Bucky in the ring. It stretches out before him as
he twists Erik's arm. He can feel Natasha's awe and pride, can sense dozens of
eyes in the audience, can almost predict Wade's gasp and "bravo!". He's got
Erik thrown off momentum and one knee hitting Erik's head on. He chooses to
block out all his senses except instinct, sidesteps a half-hearted kick from
Erik as he goes down, and then he's seating on Erik's chest with one hand on
the throat for the kill. 
There's a lot of noise which he chooses to block out, because Natasha's
applause is drowning his head and Erik's eyes are really quite something. 
"Hey," Bucky says, feeling the wounded pride oozing from Erik even as his face
remains neutral. Bucky's always been perceptive. "You needn't have gone so easy
on me just 'cos I'm not built like a truck." He says it loud enough for the
people in the audience to hear. Doesn't know why he's downplaying his win, but
you should never let anyone know your full potential, right? 
He gets off, holds out a hand and is pleasantly surprised when Erik accepts it.
Wade's still rambling away, and Bucky feels drained suddenly, even though the
fight was all but 30 seconds. He sits with Erik for Natasha's audition. She
slays it, of course. Looks as graceful fighting as she does dancing. 
And then, later, they do dumb name introductions which neither he nor Natasha
cares about. 
He runs off to find Steve as soon as he can. Waits for an hour and a half but
football tryouts are something else altogether and Steve's still doing
frogleaps around the field with the rest of the freshmen when Bucky leaves,
because he doesn't really want to get beaten by Pierce for missing curfew.
He gets through the evening surprisingly well. Sneaking out at 12am is easier
than he would ever expect, and the road to Steve's house in the dark is more
familiar than he expects. Of course, he walked it once the day before. 
Steve's half awake when Bucky scales the low wall and hoists Steve's window up,
like he did all the time when they were 8 or 9 or 10. Steve's warm and he's
making Bucky's heart swell with an overload of unnameable emotions when Bucky
crawls into Steve's bed, ignoring the fact that they're both 15 now and their
combined weight is making the bed creak. He doesn't care that boys in high
school don't sleep together, in the purest sense of the word. 
Steve lets Bucky under his covers, lets Bucky press his face into his shoulder
blade and sleep there through the night.
For all the soul mate bond he shares with Natasha, he thinks he might be
willing to lose a thousand soul mates for one Steve Rogers.
 
***** benign *****
Chapter Summary
     Bucky gets caught deeper in the tangled, messy web of high school.
     Everyone's sunny, but even Bucky is not the only one who's having a
     hard time.
He's still in Steve's bed, pleasantly warm, half-awake and half-asleep,
delaying the moment he has to get up and wake Steve too. He can see the colour
of the sky from the open window: the startling shade of blue between the indigo
of the midnight and the cornflower of the autumn day. 
He feels the exact moment when Steve jolts awakes, just as the coughing starts.
It comes from the next room - the walls in Steve's house were never very
soundproof - and it sounds like someone is dying. Someone is dying, Bucky
reminds himself, and it feels like a kick in the heart.
From the next room, Sarah Rogers hacks up choking breaths, and Bucky imagines
he can almost hear the sound of the tiny fibers in her throat tearing. There's
a crash from the next room, the coughing worsens and Steve untangles himself
and moves out of the room at a pace that's way too fast for someone who just
woke up.
"Ma, are you okay?" Steve sounds desperate, slightly muffled by the wall but
Bucky can hear the panic and tears in his voice. Bucky shuts his eyes against
the traitorous beauty of the sky and follows Steve into Sarah's room. (The room
where they had spent countless childhood hours playing, reading, talking, so
much that Bucky can't remember the number of times Sarah Rogers had came home
from work at the hospital to find Bucky and Steve sprawled on her bed with
crayons or books or toy cars, and she always, always, wakes them up with
croissants or cookies)
 
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
 
They're late for school by 10 minutes and end up walking straight into the
discipline master, Mr Fury, and receiving the honour of having one of the 5
famous Furious Talks for the 5 sins of Brooklyn High (latecoming, PDA/sex,
fighting/bullying, homework, breaking or vandalising school property) right in
the middle of the hallway. It's embarrassing, even for Bucky, especially when
he sees some of the seniors walk past and smirk.
Bucky's heart aches when he sees the blank look in Steve's eyes, even as Steve
tries to look respectful and stands straight, puts his hands by his side and
all. Those hands had just been splattered with his mother's blood just half an
hour ago. Those hands had frantically dialed for a taxi and carried Sarah
Rogers into it, straight to the hospital. 
Steve must have been dying to follow, but Sarah had insisted that he go to
school. "I'm fine, honey. I'll see you at home later, okay? Maybe bake some
cookies, the ones you like." The last line had been a whisper. Steve hadn't let
her see the tears that filled his eyes. Had smiled and said "Okay, Ma, see you
later. Put extra chocolate chips please." Bucky doesn't think Sarah caught the
crack in Steve's last word, but he sure as hell did and it broke his heart for
the second time that day. He hopes that faith and love would be enough to get
Sarah through this scare. To prolong her life at least, because it doesn't seem
like Steve is ready to let her go anytime soon.
How much disaster can happen in one morning? 
Thankfully, Fury dismisses them with some stern remark that sets off a few
snickers from the last few students walking past.
"Steve", Bucky tries to catch his eye, but Steve forces a smile and turns away
before Bucky can get to him. "See you in science Buck. Have a great day." He's
walking away, fast but not fast enough for Bucky to be unable to catch up, yet
his footsteps are heavy and sound like they are pleading with Bucky to leave
him alone.
So Bucky doesn't follow, even though his gut instinct screams at him. He walks
down the hallways for Literature, feeling dread creep in at the prospect of
sitting through lessons while Steve's Ma is physically dying and his best
friend is dying too, emotionally. At least he can spend time with Loki in
class. He's halfway there when an arm wraps around his shoulder and Peter
Quill's smiling face pops into his vision.
"Buckaroo! Nice to see ya early in the mornin'. Haven't been on the 10th grade
side of the building for so long, but y'know what - today is prank day and I'm
stink-bombing the math class. Are you headed there?" 
"No but I wish I was! Damn," Bucky pulls out one of the smiles from his bag of
facial expressions and hope it's the right one. 
Quill grins like a maniac. "Oh, you will get some of it, I promise. By the way,
hey, I got big news for you man. You met Lensherr yesterday, right?"
"Yeah, at tryouts. I had a short fight with him for some audition crap. What's
up?" Bucky feels his stomach coil. He doesn't want to make enemies so early in
the year. It's only the 2nd day of school! And he thought America was where
shit couldn't go wrong. 
"Uh huh. He says your skills are neat. I gotta ask you something, though. Are
you gay?" 
The change in topic comes so quickly it stops Bucky in his tracks. He hopes the
colour didn't fade too fast from his face, or that his eyes haven't widened by
too much. He sincerely prays that Quill can't hear the suddenly terrified and
accelerating heartbeat in his chest. 
Bucky doesn't know if he's gay, but he hasn't loved anyone, in the romantic
sense, but Steve. And he did hook up with the Maximoff fella 2 years ago. He's
sure he isn't straight. He's not sure if it's okay to tell Quill - he doesn't
really want to earn a rep as a faggot so early in his school life, because what
happened in Russia taught him that such a rep could only cause his life to go
downhill.
"What the fuck?" Bucky manages. He sounds doubtful, even to himself.
Quill looks at him, and it's a strangely understanding and accepting, even kind
and knowing expression that he wears. It's so odd that a 12th grade prankster
and lead singer of a fusion rock-rap band who's about to shit bomb a 10th grade
class is capable of such an expression. Against his better judgment, Bucky
nods, and gets a big fat grin from Quill.
"Figured that. The best looking boys always are. Like Lensherr." Bucky feels
his eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, so I asked you this because he's my really good
friend. One of my top 5, apart from my band mates. He said that after what
yesterday, he's making it his mission to fuck you, by the end of the year.
Fuck, like in a sexual way, not the bash-you-up way." 
Well. Things could be worse. Bucky swallows, and chases away the ten thousand
images of Steve that immediately come to his head. "Wow." He doesn't know what
to say. He does think Erik is really hot. And from past experience, having
someone around for benefits does help numb some of the horrors at home and also
gives him a reason to stay out of the house. He knows he has Steve, but Bucky
has always felt like a dumb dog chasing its own tail when it comes to Steve.
He's been suffocatingly in love with Steve since he even remembered having
feelings. But he knows that all he'll ever be to Steve is a brother. He has the
two Carter girls, after all. Even when he was abroad, Loki had updated him on
how Steve and Peggy won the couple of the year in middle school. And when Steve
founds out all the bullshit that happened in Russia, he may not even see Bucky
as a brother anymore. 
Before he regrets it, Bucky pulls Quill's phone out of his hand and types in
his number. "Tell him I'm not gonna make it easy. If he wants, he gotta chase."
Bucky winks at Quill (probably nailed the art of summoning facial expressions
that don't match what he's feeling). 
"Fuck! This is splendid. Thanks, Buckaroo. Erik's been suffering from the
eternal blue balls since his last boyfriend ditched him for some junior. I
almost wanted to get him to visit a prostitute." Quill's eyes dance in the
light. "Okay, see ya! Gotta set off some stink bombs. And you, you're late as a
fuck. You should pretend like you care and run to your class."
Bucky slaps Quill's back and heads to class. The disaster of the 2nd day of
school worsens when he can't find Loki in class. He settles down beside Tony
Stark instead. Contrary to popular belief, the two don't actually hate each
other. Neither does Tony hate Steve. They'd all been friends back in elementary
school, and even as a kid Bucky had learned that Tony didn't have the best
family situation and snide remarks, sarcasm and insults were his usual displays
of friendship.
"Hey fuck boy," Tony greets. He's grown a bit of facial hair in a really funky
shape, like he's preparing his look for his future when he's no doubt gonna be
famous as hell. "Where's Loki?"
Bucky raises an eyebrow, but smiles internally for the first time that day.
Tony's got a not-so-subtle thing for Loki - it started after Bucky left, or so
Loki said, and Loki had always found it fun to keep Tony hanging on a thread.
"Uh. Goat boy, I don't know. I'll text him." Goat boy was Bucky's nickname for
Loki since the year he started wearing that horned headpiece and green cape for
Halloween because he thinks he was named after some Norse demigod.
By the time Bucky pulls out his phone, he already has 2 missed calls and 5
texts. The calls are from Loki, and so are 3 of the messages.
4.07 am: Fuck Odin just came back drunk and smashed my clay artwork
4.08 am: Hes starting again. The 'useless Loki' talk. I think he might just
kill me
6.31 am: I can't go to school. He gave me some bruises i can't hide. Will be at
our spot at the park. Same one. Its still there. Please come later.
Bucky's heart drops. He can't believe how this day is turning out. His
expression probably gave something away, because Tony's looking at him and his
wide brown eyes are serious and full of worry. "Did something happen?"
He has no idea how much Tony knows, so he goes for a vague response. "Family
issues. I'm meeting him later in the noon, will update ya."
He's grateful that Tony doesn't probe, or ask to come along. Out of everyone,
Tony best understands Loki's relationship with his father. Sometimes Bucky
feels lucky that his real father probably isn't as sadistic as theirs. He
wouldn't know, because his father died a long time ago. Beside him, Tony's got
his phone out, probably texting Loki too.
Bucky types in "will come right when this shitshow ends. hang in there".
The class starts, and his brain shuts down.
***** furnace *****
Chapter Summary
     Brock Rumlow is a seasoned badass who's never been in love before,
     but maybe a certain blue-eyed brunette can steal his heart
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Rumlow
 
At no point in his sixteen years of life did Brock Rumlow ever enjoy lessons.
He did decently and didn't kick up trouble most of the time. He spent most
classes with his head on the table or buried in his elbow, sleeping. 
Today both his fists were wrapped up in layers of bandages, having nearly
broken his knuckles during a particularly vicious boxing tournament with some
shady underground gang. To his left, Jack Rollins looked nothing like the
fearsome boxer he was in the ring, with drool running from his mouth to his
calculus paper and his hair flopping over his reading glasses. To his right,
Erik Lensherr was on his phone as usual. 
"Rum, are you going for training later?" Erik's eyes don't leave his phone, and
his fingers move rapidly. As fast as Rumlow thinks he can swing, in the gym.
"Yeah." Rumlow's not a guy of many words. He has a good bunch of friends,
forged from the bloody intensity of fistfights. Over the past 2 grades in high
school, he built a good rep as someone you don't mess with. He's not a bully by
a far mile - he can't give a fuck to waste so much breath on puny freshmen. 
Most people have a grudging respect for him. Boys nod at him. Girls have long
given up trying to get into his pants. Now that they're in the 11th grade,
there are enough stories about asexual Brock Rumlow who rejected even the girls
widely considered to be hot stuff.
Rumlow did get boners, but girls were too much commitment and he found most a
bore after they got through the sex and moved on to the dates. Rollins always
says he's screwed in the head, and maybe that's true.
"Hope it's 1 on 1 today. I want to spar the new guy."
"Which?" Rumlow asks, although he doesn't remember most of them. He does have a
vague impression of one of the better fighters, the one with brown hair and a
slightly off accent. "My name's James Barnes, but call me Bucky." For some
reason, he remembers the guy's voice and even what he said, crystal clear. Huh.
Memories are strange sometimes, how they capture random bits and pieces so
vividly yet the rest just slides into some wasteland. 
He wishes he knew how the brain selects what to remember. If only classes
actually taught something useful.
"Bucky. The one who knocked me to the ground." When Rumlow turns his head,
Erik's actually smiling wistfully. It looks to him like the kind of smile you
don't even realise you're smiling. 
"You got a torch for him already?" 2 years with Erik Lensherr has gay-proofed
Rumlow. It's not that he would care, though. He grew up with a gay brother and
a lesbian sister. His best friend Rollins is in love with inanimate objects. So
having a gay friend around is about as natural as breathing. Erik's numerous
crushes, which change with the season, are the most casual topic to discuss
whether they're in math or at lunch or waiting for training to start.
Erik shrugs. "Don't know yet. Have to get to know a person better for that." He
gives Rumlow a sharp look. Erik disagrees with Rumlow's 'fuck first, date
later' ideology just because he's a hopeless romantic but it isn't like his
relationships or affections last longer than 3 months. Granted, Rumlow rarely
lasts 3 days. 
Now isn't the time to ponder his lack of attachment or desire to have
attachments. Rumlow ends the conversation with silence and falls back into his
usual brooding silence. He thinks of pounding the punching bag until he paints
it with blood. Thinks of the sweet, sweet feeling that comes with connecting
his fists with someone else's face.
When the bell rings, Rumlow, Rollins and Erik are the first to bolt the hell
out of there. 
Training starts late at 5pm and for the past 2 years Rumlow has always spent
the hours before training in the same, typical routine: lunch with the guys,
then a nap or homework, and then a run.
Today's different. Rumlow decides to skip the first two for a run because his
head feels buzzed and for some stupid and inexplicable reason he can't quite
seem to shake the image of Bucky Barnes sitting on Erik's chest, seconds from
crushing his throat, out of his mind.
Why the fuck did Erik bring up Bucky Barnes' name? Rumlow is frustrated, and so
he runs 12 laps around the track and finally collapses, soaked to the bone in
sweat, on the brick red spongey track and plasters himself there, blood
pounding in his ears.
He's doing geometry under the shitty lighting of the boxing gym and sharing a
joint with Rollins who's in the disgusting process of peeling off dead skin
when the door opens and the freshman who can't quite seem to get out of his
head enters, along with that redheaded girl who was pretty decent in the ring,
if he remembered correctly. He looks away like he can't quite be bothered.
There are sounds from the training mats, where the other new freshmen and some
of the grade 10s are at work with the punching bags or practicing with each
other.
Older and more established members of the team like Rumlow and his crew pretty
much do whatever the hell they want. Wade's their captain, and he lets them get
away with anything since they win most of the medals and trophies for the team.
Even at the start of his good ol' freshman days, Rumlow had quickly risen the
ranks as the best fighter in the team by a long shot, so from age 14 he'd
gotten away with drinking, smoking and fucking girls in the gym toilets. By
now, his wildness had died down and he'd left the crazy shit for the grade 10s
to do. Old men like him just wanted to smoke and do homework.
(Boxing had a damn amazing benefit of letting him study anywhere and anytime
without being called a nerd, at least not openly)
"Rum," calls Wade, approaching in his ridiculous neon green boxing shorts. He
has a fresh, swelling bruise on his shoulder from playing baseball with
Rumlow's class during gym in the morning. "You wanna spar with hotstuff? Bucky
Barnes? I don't know man, I think kid needs a reality check or he's gonna go
thinking he's some big shot in his team 'cos Lensherr can't do shit about it
and I don't want this new kid to knock out our seasoned members one by one. It
ain't fair. I would train with him, but I wanta keep my face pretty for
clubbing tonight. It's either you or Rollins, man."
Rollins puffs a cloud of smoke lazily. "Nah. Plan on lifting some weights and
practicing my kicks. Rumlow's the best anyway, let him kick some sense to the
kid's head."
Life is always unfair to freshmen. In every single after-school sport. Rumlow
knows this, he's been through it. Getting whipped by the best seniors is a rite
of passage every kid who joins boxing goes through. So he chucks his math aside
and goes up to the kid. Bucky. Whatever.
Bucky's eyes are like blue fire in the dim, burnt-out lighting of the gym and
he smiles when he seems Rumlow as if he's greeting a friend. Rumlow keeps a
straight expression. Friendliness, sunshine and rainbows aren't the kind of
shit that's associated with a place like this. Someone's got to keep it real.
"Get in the ring with me. I'm not going through basics with you. We're going
straight to it. Gloves or no gloves?" He asks, brisk.
Irritatingly, the smile doesn't leave Bucky Barnes' face. He looks way too
comfortable in his own skin, but his smile doesn't meet his eyes. It's
something Rumlow can pick up instantly based on years of experience in dealing
with troubled openly gay siblings who were too often bullied or ostracized at
school. "None." The kid's eyes are piercing, and nearly luminous when he moves
forward enough to a position that makes the dirty orange light from the ceiling
lamps strike his eyes just so. He looks zero percent scared, which nearly
pisses Rumlow off. Did Wade not bother to mention that Rumlow's the best
fighter and had won at least 5 individual medals? Huh.
Rumlow leads the way to the ring, cracks all ten knuckles on his hand. Bucky
Barnes follows, and stands there watching him with an unreadable expression.
After a long pause he stops to push back his hair - and then lunges into the
fight.
He's like a fucking wolf, Rumlow thinks, a whole air of chill and calmness,
almost eerie in the way his blue eyes have gone dead calm once he starts
throwing punches. The kid's got raw skills. He would be lethal to almost the
entire team and could probably take out 2 or 3 at a time. But Rumlow is Rumlow,
and he catches the first flying fist and twists it within about 15 seconds into
the fight. His senses are in overdrive and he can't tear his eyes off the
darting, swinging kid in front of him.
He corners the kid forward until he's got him crowded against the ropes and
kicks the kid so hard in the shin that he loses his footing and balance. To
anyone but Rumlow, the fact that this boy literally had no change in expression
as he crumbles would be terrifying. The returning punch is so fast he almost,
almost doesn't dodge away fast enough, but his years of experience in both
clean, brightly lit arenas and dirty, sweat soaked rings with dried blood on
the ropes in underground dens with peeling paint and mouldy walls can handle
this kid.
He grabs Bucky Barnes by the shoulder, fingers pressing amazingly into a scar
that must have been brutally painful at some time and flips him. By the time
Rumlow has Barnes to the ground and smashed his fist inches away from the kid's
head, he's raining a monsoon of sweat and his heart is so loud he can hear it.
He can hear Barnes' heart, can see the sweat at the edges of that thick brown
hair. Bucky Barnes is smiling, even though he got trashed hard by the best
fighter on the team. There's not a trace of fear in his eyes, even at this
juncture, and Rumlow realises belatedly that one of his punches got the kid in
the shoulder and it's tearing.
"Fuck that was hot!" Wade yells, his timing annoyingly accurate. Rumlow flips
Wade and takes his fist off the mat. "That wasn't an easy fight." Rumlow
concedes, though it's not his job or his nature to dish out encouragements to
bright-eyed newbies.
Bucky Barnes doesn't acknowledge that. He wipes sweat off his forehead with the
back of a hand where his knuckles are beginning to bleed. He looks Rumlow
straight in the eye and asks, "Do you wanna go drinking tonight?", and it's so
bizarre and straightforward that Rumlow is caught off guard.
He's fucked boys before. He grew up with gay siblings. He suddenly realises
what all of Barnes' actions has been about - the non-stop smiling, the semi-
intense, challenging stare, the way he pushed back his hair. Fuck, Rumlow isn't
a romantic but if a nice hot piece of ass or pussy presents itself he isn't
gonna say no. "Sure," he rasps, and walks out of the ring leaving the kid lying
on his back in the ring.
Erik punches him, half angry and half playing, on his way to the toilet. He
shrugs, plays it cool, but jerks off like a madman once he's alone in the
cubicle. Fuck, he never even realised when he'd gotten hard. The rest of
training suddenly seems like a long stretch of time.
 
It's close to 8pm when the room is finally almost empty. Erik had unwillingly
left earlier on at around 7, grumbling about Polish relatives and 'fucking
retarded family dinners'. It's a fairly good thing, since Rumlow figures that
Erik would have invited himself to go along with him and Bucky Barnes. He
doesn't even know why he's playing it so cool, trying so hard to avert
suspicion by waiting to be the last few to leave.
He finally gets up and tosses his last cigarette in the bin when Barnes kisses
his redheaded shadow on the cheek and she leaves. He makes it to the side door
at the same time as Barnes does, and they leave the sweaty room together in
silence.
 
It's close to 10pm when Barnes is shit-headed drunk and still downing vodka
from the bottle like he's trying to get over the grief of someone's death.
They're at some quiet, dark spot behind a thick cluster of trees at the
neighbourhood park, a perfect spot for Friday fucks and drunken teenagers. It's
a spot he used to go to when he was in his hell-wrecking days in grade 9 and
10. 
No surprise the kid brought him there, though he was plenty surprised earlier
when the kid pulled a fake ID out of his pocket and bought the alcohol without
even blinking. Though, it hadn't been necessary, since Rumlow knew the cashier
and had been buying booze from the ripe old age of 12 or 13.
"Think you had enough." Rumlow says, taking the bottle out of the kid's hand.
When their hands brush together, he feels a jolt of something going through his
veins. Barnes looks at him with slightly dilated, soul-sucking blue eyes that
are suddenly so large and captivating in the dark of the night.
"I haven't tried - yet," Barnes fumbles. He looks frustrated and half-heartedly
tries to snatch his bottle back from Rumlow, very much like how Rumlow's
sister's kitten tries to grab at things. It's endearing.
"Tried what?" Rumlow puts the nearly empty bottle of vodka beside his own empty
cans of beer. 
"You," Barnes says, and he moves surprisingly fast for a drunkard and plants
himself in Rumlow's lap. He's fever-hot to the touch and his hair, dripping
with sweat from the tips just 3 or 4 hours ago is now falling in a mess all
over his face. When he kisses Rumlow messily, the kid's hair is tickling
Rumlow's face and it's mighty soft. Rumlow doesn't hesitate, tangles a hand
into that hair to leverage himself and slides the other to the kid's ass. 
He's drunk, but sober enough to stop, which he doesn't bother to. He's had
plenty of good fucks, and although some confusing unknown deep inner feeling
tells him this kid isn't gonna get out of his mind so easily, he doesn't stop
until he's got the kid's pants and underwear down to his knees and presses him
down. He doesn't care that this might not be a simple one-time fuck, although
that's all he's known for so long. 
Right now, the alcohol in his blood and the soft sighs of Bucky Barnes under
him is enough to get him going.
Chapter End Notes
     In my universe, Brock Rumlow isn't 100% bad and he may seem like a
     douche without feelings for now but trust me, he will have some soon
     enough :)
***** freight car *****
Chapter Summary
     It's always one step forward, three steps back for Bucky.
     The universe continues showering him with misery, but it's times like
     this that prove who really loves him
Chapter Notes
     Warning: physical abuse (!!!)
     Translations:
     начальник: chief/boss/superior
     дерьмо: shit (as in the cuss word)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Bucky
 
He has two feet on the snow - and what a sight it is today, albedo on full
mode, so white it almost hurts to look - and he's surrounded by a pack of
rugged, coat-clad delinquents. 
This time he gets to enjoy the taste of the snow on his lips when he licks them
in anticipation of the fight, because he isn't alone or unarmed. Beside him is
Vasily Karpov, his godfather and the man who'd picked his bleeding ass off the
snow after the second time he got bashed to the ground by drunk youths all
sharp at the edges. Karpov had taught him how to fight to win - had given Bucky
some sort of identity in this lonely, alien town that wasn't his home. He'd
given him a disjointed family of boys like him who had homes but didn't spend
most of their time there. 
And with him and the boys by his side today, this fight was going to be as easy
as street fights get. Maybe no one would die this time.
Except, there's a rumble and the snow under his feet trembles violently. He
tries to hold his ground but it's giving way and he falls, hands scraping at
the vibrating, recoiling snow frantically. He doesn't feel the cold, but his
hand shoves the snow so far off that it comes to rest on grey tar, and he
thinks of Brooklyn, and below his hand the ground is coming to life, shaking
ceaselessly like it's about to rupture.
"начальник?" Bucky asks. He gets no answer, and the shaking stops everywhere
except under his hand, and he swears the air smells like Brooklyn nights all of
a sudden. 
 
He opens his eyes to a windshield facing a patch of night sky, his phone
vibrating like a thunderstorm under his hand. The car window is open beside him
and the air that's flowing in is all Brooklyn, the cold of Russia forgotten in
the panic that suddenly seizes him. 
There's no Karpov to save him here. He checks his phone - 12 missed calls from
Pierce, 4 unopened messages. It's 2.31 am and Bucky only has time to open the
thankfully unlocked side door until he's puking so violently into the concrete
ground (no ankle deep layer of snow, any blood isn't gonna be buried with the
next fresh round of snowfall). His head is throbbing so hard and the panic
rises up so fiercely in his gut that it feels for one terrifying second like he
might just vomit out his organs and die here.
Then it stops, and Bucky has tears dripping down his face into the black
tarmac, like raindrops racing down a windowsill.
"дерьмо, дерьмо, дерьмо," he whispers, too far gone to even care what language
he's speaking. Of course he'd forgotten about Pierce's reminder to come home
early. Of course his adopted father had found out that he'd snuck out at night
the day before. And of course he's still awake right now and thirsty for blood.
Pierce is like a shark - once the flame of anger has been lit, he won't stop
until he's blazed the world down with his rage. 
This isn't the first time. Bucky's always been the pathetic moth, first to be
burned until Pierce has exhausted his fuel. 12 missed calls - it's a first, and
it's a damn good sign that tonight's beating is going to set new records. His
stomach lurches again and he's gagging out of the door with nothing left to
throw up but air when a hand rubs his back, rough but gentle at the same time,
in a way Bucky never knew was possible. 
"Kid, you alright?" It's Brock Rumlow, and Bucky wants to fall face-first into
his own bile and never resurface. He can't believe he'd just thrown his entire
image into the drain like this. Puking like a first-time drinker, crying and
going unintelligible in another language. Beside the deadliest fighter on the
boxing team and one of the hottest guys Bucky had ever laid eyes on - in fact,
one of the only few people Bucky admired so crazily. 
When the retching stops, Brock takes his hand off and Bucky slumps back and
hopes Brock doesn't see his tear stained face. He's so far gone he can't find
it in him to put up an act anymore. 
"I - I need to get home now. I'm sorry, i'm sorry, fuck. Fuck." He's fumbling
again, close to hysterics, and he doesn't look back at Brock Rumlow as he pulls
himself out of the car and stumbles his way onto the road. The quiet corner
they had parked last night to drink isn't far from his house, and he still
knows the shortcuts around these streets like the veins at the back of his
hand. He doesn't stop his half-run, half-walk as he scrambles down the road and
away from the car, doesn't want to see the judgment on Brock's face when he
realises the boy he fucked last night is a freakshow. 
He falls, once, twice, stops counting after. Brock doesn't come after him, but
that doesn't hollow his heart out. All of it's frozen in fear at what Pierce is
going to do to him - the phone's vibrating again. 14 missed calls now. Bucky
starts crying in earnest, now that there's no one here to judge him but trees
and faceless houses.
He misses Russia all of a sudden like he never thought he would. He misses the
gravel of Karpov's voice and the pride in the man's eyes when Bucky's fighting
skills started picking up. More than anything, he misses the feeling of being
in power and in charge when he finally found the strength to hold himself up in
a fight. 
All of that means shit now, when he's staring at the polished arch of the front
door of this house he's supposed to call home. The lights are on, he can see
them, and his breathing is far too quick and far too shallow as he walks in,
disheveled, heart hammering painfully in his chest. 
Pierce is at the table in the main room, at the usual place he does his work.
Even seated, he's tall - no, huge - and the mere shadow he casts on the ground
is intimidating. He doesn't look up even as Bucky enters, although he must
know. The maid, standing quietly at a corner, turns and hastily leaves when she
sees Bucky. 
The funny thing about the servants: they're never present when Pierce is
handling Bucky. Or after. 
Bucky never wondered if Pierce had instructed them to leave. But the fear in
the maid's eyes is enough proof that they know what's going on, oh yes they do.
And the fear tonight wasn't for herself - it was for him.
"Sir." Bucky's stomach recoils at the shame of even having to say this word.
It's more than necessary right now, though. Pierce has always gotten pleasure
from feeling like he was in power, and he fed on words like "sir" as if they
were ambrosia.
Pierce finally looks up, and the look in his eyes is almost feral, as if a
Katrina-sized hurricane was brewing in them. "You're late," he booms, and rises
to full height. "And didn't answer your phone." His voice drops to a
frightening low, and Bucky realises to sudden horror that the back of his pants
are wet - Brock's cum, seeping out of him, a stark reminder of how fast the
night had changed. Just a few hours ago, he was crushed in the arms of the
insanely hot boy who'd captured his attention from the moment Bucky saw him
walking over. And now, here he was, about to get fucked in an entirely
different sense.
"Look at you," Pierce sneers. "You filthy creature. Disgracing the name of this
household." He crowds Bucky backward with advancing steps, making him flinch,
and grabs him by his shirt that's crumpled as hell and stained with splashes of
alcohol. "I took you in when your goddamned parents had forsaken you and you
repay my kindness by acting like a child who can't behave, no matter which
country you're in." 
Pierce is still moving forward like a wild dog on a hunt, forcing Bucky to
retreat until his back is to the wall. There's no escape this time, and he
prays for it to be over as soon as possible. Looking into Pierce's eyes isn't
an option; he might actually piss himself in fright. When Pierce backhands him
out of nowhere so hard that the side of his face is flung against the wall,
it's almost a relief. 
The adrenaline kicks in and the ball of nervous fear loosens. He's like a
butterfly that's been stripped of its wings - unable to fly away. No, he's like
a fighter without limbs. He can't escape this in any way, can only curl up and
take it and wait for it to be over. There's a sound as Pierce rips his belt
off, and Bucky's terror returns tenfold. He had only been hit by the belt on
one occasion a year ago, and it'd left him crying on the floor for almost two
hours after. Even Karpov had turned pale when he saw the marks.
There's a hand in his hair and he's being dragged viciously to the empty side
of the table. His scalp is burning as Pierce shoves him down, and he's still
scrambling for to grab onto something when the belt comes down so hard on his
back that his whole body jerks nearly 90 degrees in agony and shock. The scream
is torn out of him but he can't hear anything except for the rushing of air as
he crumbles, only to be dragged upright again. 
"Love bites?" Pierce bellows, and his thumb drags across a spot on the back of
Bucky's neck ruthlessly, bringing tears to his eyes immediately. He faintly
remembers Brock kissing him as his hips moved behind him, and maybe the imprint
of Brock's thumb is still on his hips. Pierce slams Bucky face-first onto the
table, nearly knocking him unconscious and his hearing goes all fuzzy. He can't
exactly feel his limbs. Molten: that's what he is now, and Pierce grabs him by
the back of his hair and bangs his forehead onto the table again. 
Bucky's vision white-outs for a moment, and the air doesn't quite seem to want
to go to his lungs.
"I warned you, you little ingrate. You're a slut, just like your mother was.
Going around and giving your body for free to all those worthless junks out
there." The last word is punctuated by a glob of spit that hits the bull's eye
- the hickey on the back of his neck. Bucky gasps and spasms, tries to croak
out "please", but it's buried by the sound of his shirt being ripped off.
For all the posh, educated and wealthy appearances that Pierce presents to the
world, he's a beast at home, with unnatural strength and animalistic violence.
He strips Bucky's unresisting body with ease, like he's been doing it for years
(oh, but he has), and goes all out with the whip, finally, now that he has the
entire blank canvas of Bucky's body to work with. 
It's like being underwater, at the bottom of a swimming pool - overwhelming
pressure on his head, everything sounding like it's coming through a tunnel.
The tears in his eyes make the world watery and unfocused, the edges of
everything smeared and dripping. Like the blood that's weeping from the fresh
welts on his back now. He doesn't count the whooshing sounds of the belt flying
through the air, nor the sharp cracks when the belt lashes out at him and
splits his skin. 
The entire process seems to go on and on for hours. Bucky doesn't know, he's
losing his edge on everything. He doesn't realise when, but he starts mumbling
Steve's name, just for a tiny measure of comfort. There are a million things
Bucky doesn't understand, and one of them is how Steve always creeps into his
head in moments like this, when he's delirious and lost and about to lose his
grip on reality.
As if Steve is the last thing left in his life, if he lost even himself. As if
Steve is the only thing left worth caring about, when he's naked and flopped
over the pristine white table, unable to even cry out anymore. Steve. Steve,
Steve, Steve. Bucky struggles for his mind to catch and hold onto a wobbly
memory of Steve smiling at him under the sun, his hair as golden as wheat. 
The storm rages on around him and he whispers "steve" into the tablecloth like
one of those loonies that live on the street and crawl around rubbish bins
uttering the same word over and over to themselves.
 
He doesn't realise when it stops and Pierce leaves, but he comes to a long time
later, still naked. He's on the floor and all the lights have finally been
switched off save for one table lamp in the corner. It's dim enough to fool
himself that the dark splashes of liquid on the floor aren't blood. 
His breathing has finally stilled, and his lips have long stopped moving. There
are tears dried up in his eyelashes. He doesn't rub them off. 
James Buchanan Barnes, who'd turned numerous heads and made dozens of friends
within the first 2 days of school; who'd charmed hundreds with his walk, his
smile, his hair; who'd attracted the attention of even the hottest upper grade
boys - he was nothing now, really. 
He crawls pathetically, ignores the wailing pain from the map of wounds on his
back and pulls his jeans towards him. His hand is surprisingly steady as he
pulls out his phone. 3.58 am. 
He resists the urge to bawl and scrolls through his contacts for Steve. He's
selfish. He should let Steve sleep, but he's never needed his best friend so
badly until now.
 
Steve
 
The midnight air is cold on his weary limbs. Ma must be feeling cold, Steve
thinks, and gets up to close the window. The cheap floor tiles are freezing
under his feet. He tucks the blanket even more snugly around his Ma and listens
carefully for her thin breathing for several seconds. It's all okay. 
He sits back down in the armchair, the weight on his heart still not lifting.
The tenseness hasn't left his muscles the entire day, and even now every muscle
in his body feels as tight as a pulled cord. He'd come home earlier and thanked
God so hard to find his Ma in the kitchen, weak but alive. The air had been
warm and thick with the smell of cookies baking, and Steve had nearly broken
down on the spot. 
Steve knows his Ma is living on borrowed time. She could leave him anytime, any
second. And he hopes so hard it's in her sleep, so she won't feel pain. This is
why he's never leaving her side when she's asleep. Accepting that her time is
almost up was the hardest thing in the world to do. Being there when she leaves
would kill him, but not doing so isn't even an option to him. 
So here he is. He'd planned to sleep, but just couldn't. Too many thoughts
weighed on his mind,  too many worries. The grief clings to him like sweat that
takes hours to dry after a run on a humid day. Even the cool night air
threatens to suffocate, and he feels like a skinny pre-puberty kid when he
looks at his Ma - like he can't do anything, can't change shit. Can't save
anyone. Can't even breathe without a hitch.
The day has taken a toll on him, and his eyes are drifting close when his phone
rings. It's the familiar tune of 'Under the Sea' from The Little Mermaid, his
favourite Disney musical which Bucky had teased him endlessly about when they
were kids. Bucky. Steve's heart aches, remembering the look on Bucky's face
when he walked away in the morning. He hadn't meant to, but his head was on the
brink of a nuclear meltdown and he didn't want to hurt Bucky in case all his
emotions came exploding out. 
He hurriedly picks up the call before it wakes his Ma (he checks, and her thin
chest is still moving ever so slightly, it's all safe) and walks out of the
room quietly. "Hello?" he whispers, realising he forgot to check the caller ID
when he'd been too busy making sure Ma was alright. 
There's no sound from the other end, and Steve's eyebrows knit. Seriously, a
prank call at this hour? He pulls his phone back to check the number, only to
see that it's Bucky. Steve frowns even harder. It's the most ungodly hour for
even Bucky to be up. 
He puts the phone back to his ear. "Hey Buck? What's up?" he says, louder this
time. When he strains his ears, he thinks he can hear Bucky's soft breathing. 
Then finally, "Steve." It's Bucky alright, but his tone makes alarm bells go
off in Steve's head at once. He's known James Buchanan Barnes for close to 10
years, and even though he hadn't seen or heard Bucky for the past 5 years, he
can read into Bucky's signals even better than Bucky himself does. He's never
heard Bucky sound so defeated, ever. Not even when he'd told Steve that he was
moving to Russia and as hard as he'd begged, Pierce was forcing him to go. 
"Hey. Hey, yeah, it's me. Are you at home?" He refuses to let himself panic,
even as the familiar tension draws back into his muscles almost at once, like
he can transition from half-asleep Steve to dead-alert Steve at the flip of a
switch. 
Bucky sniffles, coughs, and makes a sound that's somewhere between a sob and a
groan. "Steve, I... Please come over. But don't make a sound, please. Please.
I'll give you the address." 
Steve's already pulling on a jacket and jeans over his boxers - checks again,
yes Ma is safe and sleeping - and he's got his feet in his shoes and one hand
locking the door by the time Bucky's telling him where his house is. He
mentally berates himself for not having asked in the past 2 days, just because
Bucky had went to find him first. 
Even though he's had less than an hour of actual sleep the whole day, Steve
doesn't think he's ever run quite so fast before, not even for football
tryouts. He nearly steps on a cat running across his path, ignores the distant
barking of Brooklyn's strays. His feet come to a stop only when he's finally
reached the address Bucky had given him. It's at the end of the street which
the richer families live in, like Tony Stark and his family, and the Carters. 
He's never seen this house before: white, massive and solid, with an arching
doorway and glass windows, the insides shielded by curtains. It doesn't look
like somewhere Bucky would like to stay in. Steve moves quietly, stealthily,
and finds the back porch. 
As instructed, he scales the brick wall behind and plants himself on a ledge.
There's an open window with a tiny bit of paint peeling off the wall beside it,
as Bucky had said there would be. Steve knocks the Morse code as quietly as he
can on the edge of the window and hoists himself in, feet dangling dangerously
as he uses his arms to pull his weight in. Thank God for having strong arms. 
When he's finally in the room - and yes, this looks more like a place that
belongs to the Bucky he knows: posters, books, a beanbag - it's dark, only one
beside lamp lighting the surroundings. And then he sees Bucky, and his heart
stops.
Bucky's sprawled out on the floor, right next to the door, looking for all the
world like he crawled his way up here. He's stark naked, but even Steve who's
had a boner for Bucky since his dick started getting hard can't feel remotely
turned on, because Bucky is literally tearing open. 
There's a network of intersecting welts on his back, long, thick and brutal
rips of the skin along his back, his arms, his butt, even his thighs. They're
quite fresh too, most of the wounds still welling up with blood, and so much of
the blood has overspilled the valleys of the whip marks that run zig zag along
Bucky that most of his flesh is red. The shock has left him cold, and the rage
that swells up is so intense he struggles to push it down. 
Making his way to his friend, he touches Bucky's hair as a greeting, unsure
what to say. His tongue feels lost and his heart is aching so hard, he didn't
even know he could feel pain like this. Bucky moves his head when he senses
Steve, and tilts to look up at him. Steve's heart wilts, because the pair of
eyes he loves most in the world looks dead and lost, and the dim golden light
highlights the tracks of dried up tears on Bucky's face. Steve fights back his
own.
"Hey, Steve," Bucky says. "Thanks for comin'." He smiles, but it looks terrible
and doesn't match his eyes. 
"Oh god, Bucky, no," Steve's hands automatically come to rest on the sides of
Bucky's face, and he strokes gently as if he can wipe away all the tears and
this - whatever it is. "What happened?" 
"Pierce," Bucky says. "Don't ask anymore, I beg you. Don't say anything to him,
it's only gonna get worse." There's a trace of fear that comes to life in
Bucky's eyes like a sudden jolt of lightning, and it really burns Steve's
heart. Bucky was never afraid of anything, most of the time. And it felt like a
cold slap that Pierce had done this to Bucky, Pierce, who was Bucky's adopted
father and was supposed to be protecting his son. 
"Yeah, okay I won't. I'm gonna get you cleaned and patched up." With a new
duty, Steve finds himself less at a loss and can think clearer. It's not a
secret that Pierce has always been the worst stepfather alive. There had been
numerous slaps even when Bucky was a kid, but he never knew it had gotten this
serious. Bucky hadn't said a single word about it, hadn't even shown whether
he'd suffered at all in the past 5 years. Steve hadn't questioned, and now he
regrets it. 
The regrets slam like a freight car but he can't sink in now, not when Bucky is
bleeding out in front of him and clearly needs him to be strong.
 
It's a cold midnight, and the Autumn sun will rise the next morning as usual
but Steve realises now that nothing was as good as it seemed and tonight's
events would change everything about their lives.
Chapter End Notes
     PS i'll be overseas for the next week or more so this will be the
     last update till then. do leave comments for me to come home to x
     additionally, i apologise for any language errors as i operate
     without a beta and i don't usually check through before i post
***** seventeen part I *****
Chapter Summary
     The 17 days after the events of the last chapter
The first day: 
Bucky would burn the world down if it meant having more days like this. He was
sick as hell of lying on his stomach and every movement hurt, even the tiny
ones, but it was worth it for getting to spend time with Steve like this, away
from the rest of the world.
It's been too long, and he finally gets Steve all to himself. An unguarded
Steve, as comfortable as he'll ever be in his own skin. Bucky knows Steve has
never really felt like he fit in with people and always preferred being alone.
He's lucky to have seen the Steve the rest of the world doesn't get to see -
the one who drools in his sleep, who can spend hours sketching without even
taking a piss break, who sings the Bee Gees when the only audience is the dust
motes in the air (and Bucky). Being here feels safer and more comfortable than
he's ever felt in any other place in his life.
He drifts in and out of sleep, and each time he wakes Steve is there, sitting
on the rackety old chair by the window and working hard at the sketchbook on
his lap.
One time Bucky woke, Steve was doing push-ups on the floor. "17, 18, 19 -" He
looks up at Bucky and stops, dropping to the floor ungracefully, making Bucky
smile.
Steve scrambles up and is beside Bucky on the bed at a speed he could never
reach when he was still a scrawny kid, not yet blessed by the miracles of
puberty. "Heya, Buck," Steve says, only the slightest bit breathless. "Sleep
good?"
"Yeah." Bucky's voice is still thick with sleep. "Your room's still my
favourite place in the world. Smells like Steve." He doesn't care that he
sounds stupid. The lazy sunlight drifting through the pale yellow curtains,
floral patterns long faded, makes him feel like he's perpetually in the state
between being asleep and waking.
Steve only laughs, and Bucky's heart aches for the fact that he can't capture
that sound and how it makes him feel into a jar so he could pull it out and
listen to it the next time Pierce beats him up again. "What does Steve smell
like?" Steve asks, and his smile is so golden and warm, engulfing Bucky like a
tsunami of the best kind.
"Home," Bucky says. "Can I wake up later?" He closes his eyes but he thinks he
can still see Steve's nod. "Mm hmm," says Steve, still a solid weight beside
Bucky on the bed that doesn't shift long after Bucky has fallen back asleep.
Somewhere later in the afternoon, when the sunlight is degrees brighter and
making the dust motes in the air dance, Steve's ma comes in with chicken noodle
soup and her best cookies. "Rise and shine, Bucky!" she says, chirpy despite
the cancer. Her sharply protruding cheekbones or sunken eyes does little to
dampen the radiance in her smile, and her eyes are every bit as kind and loving
as Bucky remembers.
"Steve says he'll send you back home when you're feeling better, but you're
welcome to stay as long as you like. And gracious, do eat more. Steve's putting
on the pounds all the time but I don't remember our Bucky Barnes being so un-
chubby." She pinches Bucky's cheeks gently, like he imagines a mother would.
"Thanks, ma'am," Bucky says, voice scratchy from not speaking for the past few
hours. "I did miss your cooking so much. Russia got nothin' on you." 
There's a lot of smiles going around, and if atmospheres were to be described
in colour, Bucky would call this one the purest shade of gold. He's already
freezing this moment right here into a snapshot in his memory, eyes swallowing
in the details so that he won't forget exactly what it feels like to be here
right now. Steve, of course, could do a much better job at remembering things
and drawing such a vivid sketch of whatever incident or moment that it'll take
Bucky's breath away, but he wants something for himself this time.
He isn't stupid, he knows that happiness is always expiring.
Good things don't last, in Bucky's world.
 
The fourth day:
He's back in school, walking slowly like a cripple. The story he tells everyone
is how he fell off his bicycle and got a ton of scrapes, but he doesn't show
anyone except Nat and Clint how he's bandaged like a mummy underneath his
clothes.
There's one person he can't keep the truth from, and little green-eyed Loki has
him in a corner and looks like he's ready to kill someone, just minutes before
Literature.
"You didn't answer my messages, and it's been 3 days. You didn't show up for
school yesterday. Do you know how fucking worried I've been?" Loki barely
manages to keep his words to a furious whisper. He has his slim hands balled
into fists inside his coat pockets.
"I'm sorry, goat boy. I should have called you, but it was really bad. It was
so hard to even stay conscious after that." Bucky comes undone easily, under
Loki's intense gaze that always carries too much pain for someone so young.
"Can't even remember the last time I just zoned out of reality like that. Lyin'
on the damn floor. Not even knowing if I was breathing or not, for god knows
how long."
Loki blinks, and his anger dies down by notches. There's an understanding in
his eyes that Bucky can never see in anyone but Loki. "I know. That was me, the
day I texted you before school. I wish you could have let me be there for you.
It's like, you're always there when I need you, but I'm a useless friend when
you're the one in trouble." He's reproaching himself again, falling into his
guilt and insecurities and self hatred like he always does.
"No, Loki, no. You're not useless. Don't ever say that," Bucky pulls Loki into
a big hug, screwing the fact that it kind of hurts and the bell is going to
ring any second AND there are loads of people walking to their classes. He's
already counting the number of stares they're getting, but he figures its worth
it if he can convince Loki of how much he means to him.
"Okay, okay. Get off me, everyone's looking," Loki hisses, embarrassed, but
Bucky only smiles and on impulse, pulls Loki off the ground and spins him
around. People are definitely staring now, and a bunch of girls have even
stopped in their tracks. He gets a kick in the shin from a mortified Loki and a
very jealous glare from an approaching Tony Stark.
"You know you love it, Loki-Dokey," Bucky teases, and sticks out his tongue at
Tony. Yes, it's definitely getting easier to act like nothing's wrong at all.
 He spends his break later in the afternoon with Nat, Clint and Tony. Steve's
nowhere to be seen, but Clint said he saw Steve heading to the gym along with
some of the football guys. Bucky tries hard not to feel jealous, tries to feel
happy for Steve that he's hanging out with new friends and probably having fun.
Of course, Nat doesn't miss a beat, hooking her arm around Bucky's in a gesture
of comfort and leaning her head on his shoulder. Clint buys them all food and
launches straight into a funny story about how he'd torn his shorts in gym, in
front of everyone, and Tony laughs obnoxiously while alternating between using
his expensive new tablet and eating some sort of exotic food from a lunchbox.
Clint ends up eating half of everyone's food and tosses the crushed-up wrappers
and drink cans with frightening accuracy into the trash can five metres away.
It's like elementary school all over again, except without Steve around.
 
The seventh day: 
Bucky's been avoiding the boxing team like they're a plague, since he can't
quite explain why he's in no state to fight and it's hard to excuse himself
when he looks physically okay, since his wounds are all concealed under his
clothes.
It's a good thing he has Erik's number. When he finally checked his phone the
day before he went back to school, there were 5 unseen messages from Erik
asking how he was and if he wanted to hang out. He had sent Erik a "sorry, got
into a shitty accident while cycling and sprained my wrist and ankle. won't be
at boxing practice for this week too, help me tell wade. by the way, i'm sorry
i haven't been replying. i don't really check my phone much. xx". The two
kisses were for fun, but Erik had replied him just about 5 minutes later and
he'd added two kisses too.
Fucked up as it was, Bucky still thinks it's fun flirting around. In Russia, he
had spent most of his time fighting boys. Maybe here, he could do less fighting
and more having fun.
He doesn't know whether texting Erik will make real life conversations awkward.
He hasn't seen Erik, or anyone from the boxing team (those he remembers, which
is less than half since he spends more time talking to Nat and gazing at Brock
Rumlow and Erik) yet. Which is good, since Bucky hasn't an idea what to do if
he sees any of them around, especially Brock because the last time he saw
him... Bucky doesn't ever want to think about that time.
He's always careful in blocking out all thoughts of Brock because they bring
back memories of a warm hand soothing him and a seismically vibrating phone in
the car, a shaky walk home, overwhelming panic and a dimly lit road.
Of course, his luck runs out eventually. He's looking for his friends in the
cafeteria on Friday after a brain-numbing Calculus lesson when a familiar voice
shouts "Buckaroo!" and Peter Quill has a friendly arm around his shoulders.
"Hey, Quill, what's up?" Bucky grins brightly and turns to face his friend,
nearly dropping the book in his hand when he sees Erik behind Quill. And worse,
Brock beside Erik. His grin is frozen in place and he can't stop the wave of
panic rising in his gut.
"Ya having a break right now, buddy?" Quill asks. Bucky tries to focus on the
longboard in Quill's arm. "Yeah, an hour. You goin' skating?"
soundnormalpleasesoundnormalpleasedontfreakout, he thinks.
It must be working, because Quill is still smiling and he doesn't seem to sense
anything wrong. "Uh huh, honey. You wanna join us? There's this part of the
senior block where hardly anyone goes. These two fellas, they always go there
to smoke." He gestures to Erik and Brock, and Bucky lets his eyes flit briefly
to Erik only, shooting him a side smile.
"Nah, I don't smoke." Bucky's sure it's rude to reject, especially if it's a
senior asking you to hang out. Quill only pouts. "C'mon, Buck. I could teach
you to skate. And I'm sure Erik wants to hang out." He winks.
"I could teach you to smoke," Erik offers. "It's more fun than skating." It's
the first time Bucky's really talking to him, which is weird as they'd been
texting every night about all sorts of random topics, from movies to music to
sports. "Even Ponyboy smoked. And you said you dig him." Erik smiles with all
his teeth, and it's endearing (and so un-Steve).
Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Kay then. I'll let you make me a bad
boy," he says playfully. He pointedly doesn't look at Brock even though he's
being rude as hell since the guy did nothing wrong and the last interaction he
had with Bucky was when he was trying to help him through a panic attack. In a
dark car, on a dark street, yellow street lights cloudy in the dark.
He suddenly remembers with vivid clarity the taste of vomit in his mouth and
the way Brock's car was warm and smelled like cigarettes. It makes him feel
sick.
Thank goodness for Quill, who drapes his arm back around Bucky's shoulders and
leads him past the canteen into a part of the school he's never been in before.
"I'm supposed to be writing a new song for The Guardians. We have a performance
on Sunday at some babe's birthday party. Apparently she's gonna be 17 so Gamora
wants me to write a song about being 17 but man, you wouldn't believe how hard
it is. Seventeen, years in the sun. Um, seventeen, we're all having fun?" Quill
laughs so hard he snorts. 
Bucky smiles along, easier this time, and at least it's easier to breathe now
too. Quill has a way with people, and Bucky barely even knows the guy. 
 
The eighth day: 
Bucky would burn the world down just to spend time with Steve. But Steve
doesn't seem to have time for him these days - the past week in school, he
hardly ever saw Steve around. There were the fleeting moments of catching
Steve's eyes across the cafeteria, or seeing his blond hair from somewhere in a
packed hallway. Bucky was finally getting used to how huge Steve was now, like
his body finally matched the size of his soul, and he was so blindingly perfect
to Bucky, as he'd always been. 
But Bucky definitely isn't the only one who thinks so. He never gets a moment
with his friend alone in school, and Steve hardly ever joins their usual group
of friends. He's always with the football guys now, and the sharp eyed black
guy, Wilson or something, was always by his side. Bucky swallowed the jealousy
as easily as he downed vodka shots or threw punches, with a twinge of pain and
a burn that never quite went away. 
Life is cruel though, has always been cruel to Bucky. These days, Steve seems
to be all anyone can talk about. 
"Heard the football coach is considering Steve Rogers for quarterback next
season." 
"Sharon's one lucky bitch to have gotten into Rogers' pants so fast. Who
would've expected him to become so hot?" 
"Mr Stark is so biased towards Rogers." 
Bucky refuses to get jealous. It's still so early in the school year, and
though it's mean and selfish of him, he hopes all the attention over Steve will
die out soon enough. It makes him feel dirty to feel so possessive over Steve,
especially since he's messing around with other guys. But the thought of other
people loving his Steve, the Steve he knows inside and out, makes him feel like
stabbing himself.
5 days without proper interaction with Steve hurts nearly as much as the 5
years out in the cold alone, especially when Steve's radiant presence always
seems to be dangling at the edge of his periphery like a distant star. Saturday
morning has him out of the bed and leaping from his bedroom window before 7am,
and his heart feels out of shape in his chest as he jogs quickly towards
Steve's house. 
The sky is unusually dark for the hour, and already there's thunder rumbling
from a distance, but Bucky has a big smile on his face when he deftly scales
trees, wall, window pane and clambers through Steve's window, breathless and
sweaty. He isn't surprised to see Steve awake already - for some strange
reason, Steve has always woken before Bucky - but the sight of him shirtless
and wet from the shower takes Bucky's breath away momentarily. 
This is the first time he's seeing Steve's new body proper, and it takes all
his effort not to stare. "Hey buddy," he says, and it's so easy to smile for
Steve, just like how it's easier to sleep in this room than anywhere else in
the world. 
"Buck!" Steve looks taken aback, but his smile is blinding though it doesn't
quite reach his eyes. "What's up?" He's stuffing clothes into his duffel bag. 
"Haven't seen you all week, and we didn't get to hang out much after school
either. I thought we could go do something today." He tries to sound as casual
as possible, sprawls himself out on Steve's bed like he belongs there. Beside
him on the bed, Steve's phone lights up with a call. Sam.
Bucky's sharp enough to catch how Steve's adam's apple bobs as he swallows
hard, and then it really clicks into place for him that this isn't turning out
the way he wanted it to. 
He lets out a low whistle, though it sounds more like a deflating balloon to
him, and tries a smile that hopefully looks good natured. "Is this a bad
time?" 
Steve scratches the side of his ear, a nervous habit that has endured his
transition years. His not-quite smile is still on his face when he answers.
"Actually, I'm supposed to go out with the football team today. Team bonding,
lunch and games at Sam's house, and some training." His smile fades completely
because of course he registers Bucky's crestfallen expression. "I'm sorry,
Buck, I really am. I wish I could spent more time with you too, you know that."
He sits beside Bucky on the bed, puts a huge warm arm around Bucky's shoulders
in what feels like the most friendly way possible. 
It makes Bucky want to curl up and die. He wishes Steve would say that he would
ditch his friends for Bucky, or to arrange another time to hang out, but it
seems an apology is all he's getting. And while Bucky craves Steve's touch like
nothing else in this world, Steve makes everything so platonic. Like Bucky's
just another dude that he spends some of his time with, like he doesn't realise
how he's Bucky's entire world. 
All of a sudden, Bucky feels like he's back in Pietro Maximoff's room in that
little Russian town, staring at his retreating silhouette after their last
night together. This feeling could have a name, for it just keeps coming back. 
Still, Bucky doesn't let his shoulders slump too much. "Its fine, Steve,
really. I've got a million friends beside you anyways." He puts on the typical
Bucky appearance like it's his oldest, most worn set of clothes. Shrugs
nonchalantly, winks at Steve, glances at the window like he's considering who
to hang out with as if he really has a list. "Have fun today then." It hurts to
hug Steve but he still does, as briefly as he can, and he tears himself away,
shoving Steve's arms away before they can really find their way around him. 
"Bye, Buck." Steve sounds like a little boy suddenly, and Bucky doesn't want to
look back because he thinks he can imagine the exact look in Steve's eyes right
now. 
So he clambers out of the window and walks out into the light drizzle with his
head down. Of course, it starts raining as he walks home. It's only halfway on
his way back that he realises he forgot to knock the Morse code on his way in. 
***** seventeen part II *****
Chapter Summary
     Sometimes days are just stolen from your life.
     Or, how the next nine days passed without Bucky Barnes' realisation -
     or consent.
Chapter Notes
     as Peggy Carter said - "It's been so long."
     warning: dark.
     depressing.
     *edited some parts
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The eighth day, the long day: 
 
Stupid. That's how Bucky feels, in a way he hasn't felt in so long, as the
little drizzle morphs into a real storm as quickly as his mood had deflated.
The rain thunders down from the sky, lovingly. The cold is more welcoming than
he remembers, and it brings a strange, sad hope into his bones. 
He takes a different route, one that he almost gets lost in because the
landscape has changed in the past 5 years. This one takes twice the amount of
time, and the strange, painfully bitter feeling in his heart pushes him along,
almost like he can feel Karpov's strong hands shoving him into the warm house
and out of the bleeding cold. 
He thinks Steve might follow him. The old Steve would, for sure, but Bucky
suddenly feels like he's lost his best friend in all that new muscle and absurd
height. Steve's become a man, and Bucky should be feeling happy for him. He
chases away the image of a skinny, rain soaked Steve with clothes plastered to
his rail-thin frame, tripping over puddles. 
Instead, he focuses on the houses, takes in the details and all the homely,
American beauty of the houses that look warm and safe to him, every single one
of them. Even his own house would look cosy and comforting, but he knows all
too well now, how every house hides its secrets. (Even the crumbling and
beautiful Rogers' house with its blooming rose garden hides a dying woman) 
He passes the Odinson house, which hasn't changed one bit. It's even more out
of place than his - Pierce's - house, towering with gold framed windows and
rows of columns like stone forests. Old Mr Heimdall's black Ford is still
there, with hardly a new scratch. Bucky shudders away Loki's stories of how the
security guard locked him in the car on several occasions away. He can't deal
with anyone else's pain right now, not when the cold scratch Steve made on his
heart is threatening to rip open any moment. 
The world lights up with a supermassive bolt of lightning and a deafening
thunderclap that forces Bucky's heart to skip a beat. For a few painfully
nostalgic moments, the whole world is washed over, a fuzzy dream-like filter
coating everything in blinding white and he can almost smell the pine in the
air and feel the snow crunching under his boots.
A car honks loudly beside him, and before he can even jump Erik is out of the
driver side and he's being pushed into the shotgun seat. 
Bucky shakes the water out of his eyes, unapologetic in messing up Erik's car
for the moment. He's too shocked to react and just the slightest bit enraged at
being broken out of his reverie. 
"What're you doing in the rain, you crazy kid? You're gonna fall sick like
that," Erik fusses, turning off the air-conditioning and stuffing a jacket into
Bucky's lap. Only then does Bucky realise how hard he's shivering. He looks
down at his trembling hands, at Erik's navy blue bomber jacket, at the beat-up
old leather seat. Then finally, he looks at Erik's handsome side profile, the
grim, worried furrow in his eyebrows and the set of his jaw. 
"I'm used to the cold," Bucky's fake-happy voice sounds horrible to his own
ears. "I just got back from Russia not too long ago, remember?" He shoves
Erik's non-driving hand playfully, and Erik flinches a little at how cold
Bucky's hand probably is. "Thank you though. Feels good to be warm again." 
He snuggles up into the jacket that smells like cigarette and watches the rain
racing down the windscreen. 
"Not an excuse to stand in the middle of a storm like that, buddy. You're so
insane." But there's no hint of an insult in Erik's tone, just admiration and
affection that even Bucky can't miss. "You headed somewhere? I can take you.
I'm just on my way home from breakfast with the guys." 
"Damn, friendship goals," Bucky says, grinning as wide as he can. His heart
constricts painfully in his chest and he rubs his hand over it just to make
sure he hasn't started he hasn't actually started bleeding out yet. "I don't
really need to be anywhere now. Just ran some errands and thought I'd take a
walk and see the neighbourhood." 
They make a turn and the car heads past shops to the other, poorer side of town
that Bucky has never really been to. It isn't that he or Steve have
particularly wealthy families (the army compensation for Steve's father's death
in service got them a reasonable house on the right side of town, at least),
it's just that this side of the neighbourhood is notorious for housing the poor
and the criminals. 
The houses are dilapidated and older as they drive inwards, and graffiti stains
most of the walls. "Well, come along to my house for a while and get changed
out of your wet clothes. I can drive you back home after." Erik isn't even
paying much attention to the road anymore, muscle memory and familiarity
guiding the hand on the steering wheel. "I hope you don't think too badly of
me. It's a real shitty living environment, isn't it?" 
They have corresponded so much through texts that Bucky knows, of course. He
knows Erik's family is dirt poor - his parents are Polish migrants and his mum
works in the garment factory down South while his dad, in a metalworking
factory in another state. He comes back only every few months. Erik's seen a
lot of hardship and suffering, Bucky knows. Maybe that's why he bothers to stay
good friends with the senior. 
Being around imperfect people feels easier than being the flea to a perfect
best friend's golden fleece sometimes.
"I think it's pretty punk. And hella rad, for sure. There's so much fun things
to do here without being arrested. My old friend Peter Parker used to live
here, and he told us a lot about it." Bucky smiles at the memory of the little
brown-haired punk from his elementary school class. The kid showed up with
holes in his shoes and stained clothes the whole year, and he spent much of his
entire life on his skateboard. Bucky hasn't seen him around since he returned. 
"Yeah? You know what, there's gonna be an underground fight night later,
informal fight ring, no rules no weapons. And a hell lot of cheap booze.
Rumlow, Rollins and me, we're all going. Quill is too, I think. You wanna join
us?" 
Bucky stops feeling the cold, finally. The jagged scrape in his heart sobers
down a little, and his smile is face-splitting and genuine. "Fuck yeah." 
 
 
Night
The bed may be the hardest he's ever slept in, and it smells so Erik -
cigarettes, some kind of candle fragrance and budget cologne - nothing like
Steve. Bucky crashes after showering and eating, somehow sleeping till late
evening. 
"What's in European food that puts people in comas?" He whispers to the room,
where he can feel Erik sitting on the bed beside him. He's playing Final
Fantasy on his phone, Bucky can hear the sounds.
"I don't know, semen?" Erik jokes, and Bucky laughs and sits up, hair sticking
around wildly. He feels dizzy with how long he's been asleep.
"Dang, I haven't slept so well in so long. Are you sure you didn't drug the
food? You didn't plant a bomb in me did ya?" He's teasing, but Erik drops his
phone on his lap and looks at him in wide-eyed horror and hurt.
"God no, Bucky. I went out and played basketball for a while after it stopped
raining, that's all." He's biting back some other words, and Bucky doesn't
push. 
"I know, I'm kidding." He scoots over and nestles his head on Erik's shoulder,
picks up Erik's phone and continues where Erik stopped. He knows he probably
shouldn't string Erik along like this - Bucky knows what the guy wants and how
he feels about him, but he feels so empty and desperate for someone, anyone's
warmth right now. 
Erik hums happily beside him and it's all good, it's all okay for a moment. 
 
2 hours later they're walking down a flight of old, deteriorating stairs that
reeks of stale beer and piss, to some basement of what used to be a sports and
community centre. Bucky can hear the faint, distant sounds of shouts and a mass
of voices getting louder, and finally Erik pushes the door open and the acrid
smell of sweat and beer hits him like a truck. 
The underground ring is sweltering, with no ventilation, and it's almost
depressing how the people on this side of town get their thrills in life. Erik
was right about the alchol - cans and bottles are stacked up in a small
mountain at the centre of the room, and there's an enormous tub of ice at the
side and towers of plastic cups. It's every bit a poor man party, and the
strained, distorted music pulses out from rusty old speakers. 
The fight ring itself is a pity case, the ropes loose and the floor stained
with patches and streaks of brown, once upon crimson red, no doubt. Bucky's
heart leaps a bit when he sees Brock Rumlow, all 5'8 of him, topless and
sweaty, getting into the ring. A much huger guy who looks a few years older
climbs in after Brock, and yes, Bucky can smell the fight in the air. 
Erik's eyes have this light in them too, and Bucky thinks it's mirrored in his
own. They push their ways to the front after grabbing a few bottles. "Hey
Rumlow, bash it in!" Erik yells when they're appproaching the front, and Brock
looks down and smiles. He sees Bucky, and his eyes soften noticeably, and it
makes Bucky's stomach drop out under him. He swallows - and watches in horror
as Brock gets a fist in the jaw. 
The crowd cheers as the fight kicks off. It's brutal and raw in a way Bucky has
never seen Brock fight, and although he's known how good Brock is, he finally,
finally understands why guys like Brock can smoke pot and actually do
fucking homework in the gym while other guys train their hearts out at punching
bags, at building core strength. Brock fights in a way that reminds him of boys
like Pietro in Russia, whose bodies seem to have a mind of their own. 
His opponent may be huge and burly but Brock is fast. His face is red, tell-
tale signs of being slightly drunk, but he's full of manic energy, dodging
punches almost as soon as they are thrown. He hasn't thrown any of his own yet
- "He's tiring the guy out, that's what he does when he knows he's outsized,"
Erik shouts in Bucky's ear above all the excited, bloodthirsty shouts.
Bucky drinks half the bottle in a gulp and holds his breath when he thinks he
might puke, for a split second. Gin, he realises in disgust, looking at the
label. He glances around the room, newly conscious. There are girls in here
too, and many sport tattoos and are surrounded by entire groups of guys. The
place is a vice hole, he thinks, and hell if he doesn't feel like he fits in. 
Suddenly, it feels okay to admit how unbearable it has been, going to high
school and being a normal guy who makes friends and flirts and gets teachers
vexed but secretly charmed. He feels like Russia has changed his DNA, and its
dark shadow has followed him here, to this pulsing, sweating, dripping basement
filled with smoky lungs and inked skin and bleeding fists. 
He doesn't really mind. 
He tips back the bottle and takes more swigs, relishing in the familiar buzz,
and watches as Brock backhands his giant opponent and finally shows him a taste
of his true abilities. The fight gets faster and bloodier after that, Brock
delivers hits but gets chipped a few times too, but he still wins. 
He's bloody and sweaty when he jumps down and joins Erik and Bucky. They drink,
Bucky loses track of how much he has drank. He ends up in the toilet, kissing
Brock on his split, bleeding lip at some point. Everything is a haze, but by
the time he's back in the room, Quill has appeared and he's pushed onstage by
excited hands. 
The fight sobers him up like nothing else in the world can. Drunk and dazed as
he is, Bucky's punches pack a hell lot of a weight and his unfortunate
opponent, Shaw or something, gets a tooth knocked out within the first 5
minutes. Normally, he would drag out a fight, but Bucky feels tired despite all
the adrenaline in his veins and he misses Natasha suddenly. He can't see his
friends in the crowd, and he gets hit in the nose so hard he smells blood. 
The kick to Shaw's knees has him down, and the rowdy response only spurs Bucky
on to kick the guy's back so hard he's flat on his stomach. He spits on the
ground beside the gasping teenager and gets the hell out of the spotlight. 
"Man, fuck that. Forgot to tell ya not to go too hard on him. Shaw's got a lot
of influence 'round here," Quill looks worried, impressed and guilty all at the
same time. "I think we should beat it early, 'cos the last guy who knocked him
out flat couldn't even walk out." 
"Huh. Shaw's signature position is flat on his back, is it?" Bucky wipes his
bleeding nose on his sleeve. "Lemme just get one more drink." He breaks away
from his group. People look at him as he pass, but being a new face stopped
getting to him a long time ago.
From the short experience of being in this boisterous, shady underground fight
ring, he thinks he doesn't mind being a regular. Since Steve won't have time
for him anymore, anyway. Steve, steve, steve, a tinny voice in Bucky's mind
pleads with no one in particular as he scans the stash of alcohol for vodka.
Bucky realises he's more than a little drunk when the words on the labels bleed
into weird barcodes and he's squinting to try and read them. 
Steve is the last thought in his mind when a bottle comes crashing down on his
head out of nowhere and he hears the way the entire room lapses into a shocked
silence in one breath, even before he hears the sound of glass shattering on
his skull. It feels like all the wires in his system have been disconnected
suddenly, and the pain is halted somewhere, frantic, searching for an outlet.
The silence is deafening, and the blond chick in white throws the end of the
broken bottle at Bucky's feet. 
"Fuck you. That's for Shaw. Stay the fuck away from this place from now on."
Her voice seems to come from far away, through several passages, the words
looping weirdly. Bucky can't move, can't see suddenly, and white noise starts
to bleed into his head.
The place breaks out in noise and he feels hands grabbing him just as he
collapses ungracefully like a chopped flower.
 
 
The ninth to seventeenth days: 
There isn't a concept of time, or memory. Whatever dreams he has are forgotten
the instant he wakes up, and he wakes up for barely a few seconds each time.
Bucky sees Steve only once, when he comes to. The pain in his head is
frighteningly sharp and his stomach feels hollow, and Steve is sitting by his
bed with his head in his hands. Bucky wants to reach out, but when he tries to
move his hand the pain explodes everywhere and he's thrown back into the
darkness.
When he thinks back to his comatose days a long time after, he doesn't remember
seeing anyone else. He remembers hands, though, not Steve's, because he would
recognise those, for sure. He thinks there are more than one pair of hands
holding his. And one random memory stands out strikingly clear: Waking up in
the darkness, with just the beep of the monitor and freaking Arnim Zola,
Pierce's butler, sitting there in the dark reading a thick book.
 
When he comes to after who knows how long later, Natasha and Clint are at his
bedside. Nat's talking softly on the phone and Clint is sleeping in his chair,
drool running down a side of his mouth and an opened bag of potato chips on his
lap. Bucky squints at the window and sees sunlight.
His throat feels deathly dry. "Nat?" he rasps, unable to even cringe at the
horrible taste in his mouth or the sandpaper-scraping sensation in his throat.
Nat's eyes widen, and even from here he can see how beautifully her eyeliner is
drawn on. Nat is always, always put together, no matter what shit circumstances
she's in, he thinks. She mutters something into the phone and cuts the call,
dropping it on the bed and scooting her chair closer to him.
"Oh, thank goodness. Damn you, Barnes, you worried the hell out of me!" She
doesn't even bother to try and look angry with him for being so stupid as to
get knocked out by a bottle. She scoops his hands up in hers, perfectly
manicured fingernails tracing patterns on the back of his palms. "God, Bucky.
Oh god. You were out for so long, and..." Nat saves both of them the pain of
witnessing her tears, and goes for "School was hell without you" instead.
Bucky tries to smile, pulls a hand free so that he can touch her face. 
"I'm not... God," Bucky whispers, throat screaming in protest. "How's
everything?" The words barely make it, but Nat seems to hear anyway. 
"Terrible. Listen, I shouldn't be telling you this but you know I'll never keep
anything from you, and Steve probably won't tell you until like, next year.
It's horrible news though, I should warn you first." The relief in her eyes
upon seeing Bucky awake is clouded by a heavy grief and pity, and Bucky's heart
shrinks on itself alarmingly fast.
She knows he's ready for the news once he's steadied a few breaths. "Steve's
mum died the night you got injured, Bucky. I've never seen him so torn up in my
life. If only you were there... None of us knew what to say. It's like, the
whole light in his life was switched off." Tears fill up her eyes this time,
and she wipes them away quickly, presses her face into Bucky's hand instead.
And Bucky, he can't breathe. He's never hated himself more than he ever did,
right now. While he was out having fun and getting cheap thrills... the person
he loved most in the world lost one of his dearest people. And all Bucky could
ever think of was himself.
His heart breaks completely, for Steve.
Chapter End Notes
     next chapter: into steve's head we go
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