Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4969834.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies), The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers, Howling_Commandos, Tony_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Vampire, Vampire!Bucky, almost_canon_compliant,
      Pining, Lifelong_Devotion, First_Time, Dom/sub_Undertones, Switching,
      Blood_Kink, Spit_Kink, Codependency, Self-Hatred, Catholicism, written_by
      an_atheist_but_I_tried, Starvation, Food_Issues, Because_Bucky_is
      literally_a_vampire, Food_as_a_Metaphor_for_Love, Blood_as_Actual_Food,
      Not_even_remotely_sorry, Lots_of_Angst, Canon-Typical_Violence, Period
      Typical_Attitudes, detached_and_medical_descriptions_of_torture_and
      pregnancy, Rape/Non-con_Elements
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-10 Completed: 2016-10-28 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 61438
****** Vampire Smile ******
by BlueJayRose
Summary
     Bucky is a monster, he is the child of a devil who grew up in a God-
     fearing orphanage, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind him, so he keeps
     his head down and loves Steve and tries not to care about the fact
     he’s going to hell. But then comes the war, and Zola, and all of his
     carefully hoarded secrets break loose and Steve will surely never
     love him the same way again.
     Then he falls, and winter comes.
     And then, much later, he remembers.
Notes
     Did I probably read too much Dark Romance in my tweens? Yes. Is this
     entire fic utterly self-indulgent and unnecessary? Absolutely. I
     apologise for nothing. You’re welcome.
     Title from Kyla La Grange’s 'Vampire Smile' because it’s a good song
     and I have no shame.
***** Chapter 1 *****
                            Baby you need to leave
                 'Cause I'm getting drunk on your noble deeds
                  It doesn't matter that they don't get done
              When I feel this cold they're like the fucking sun
                             Baby I need a friend
               But I'm a vampire smile you'll meet a sticky end
                   And here I'm trying not to bite your neck
                     But it's beautiful and I'm gonna get
                     So drunk on you and kill your friends
                   And you'll need me and we can be obsessed
                 And I can touch your hair and taste your skin
               The ghosts won't matter 'cause we're high on sin
 
===============================================================================
                                        
 
He doesn’t exactly know what he is, but he doesn’t really care. He can’t change
it, so there’s no point in wondering if he really is the kind of monster people
have told fearful stories of for centuries. He’s never met another like him,
and it wouldn't bother him if he never does. It doesn’t stop him knowing who he
is. He doesn’t let the fact that he’s a monster change the way he behaves. Or,
he tries not to.
This is what Bucky knows about what he is: he came to the orphanage when he was
a baby. The nuns tell him now that a woman dropped him off at dusk, a tiny pale
child with dark hair and green-grey eyes who did not cry. They say the woman
wanted them to tell him when he was older that it was better like this, that
she couldn’t raise him herself. She said she was sorry, but she didn’t know
what else to do. And she said that his father was the devil. She said that the
devil had come to her in the night, she couldn’t help it, and she prayed to God
for forgiveness. Mother Superior hadn’t wanted to tell him that, but the woman,
Bucky’s mother, she made Sister Maria swear on God’s name to tell him. She
needed him to know that he had a mother who loved him, and prayed for him, and
that she was sorry but she wanted him to be raised by good people who could
bring him up well, despite what his father was, so that Bucky can be good. That
snippet of information and the name James Buchanan Barnes, that’s all his
mother gave him. Still more than what others have got though, he supposes.
Steve, he remembers his mother’s perfume, her smile, he knows that her name was
Sarah Rogers and his father was a soldier. He knows his birthday is the fourth
of July and he knows his mother wouldn’t have left him unless she couldn’t help
it, unless she hadn’t died of tuberculosis when he was seven. It’s ok though,
Bucky’s not jealous of Steve. Steve deserved those few years of happiness more
than Bucky - hell, Steve deserves every good thing that exists. Bucky’s fine,
he’s alright as long as he’s got Steve. And he has, they’ve had each other
since they were seven, so that’s ok.
When they met, Bucky was surviving the bigger boys and bullies by fighting
anyone who came too close. Most of the boys even a few years older than him
were hardened already, a lot had spent time living on the streets. Some stole
things or hid knuckledusters in threadbare pockets. So Bucky learned to lash
out at anyone before they could touch him. If they stole his food, he stole
someone else’s. He was a constant trial to the nuns, intimidating to most of
the smaller boys, and he tended to get a detention, caned or at least scolded
at an average of once a week.
But Steve was different, right from the start. He smiled, he was kind. He only
fought anyone if they threw the first punch. Steve shared his food with Bucky
without Bucky even having to ask. Steve shared his drawings and his time with
Bucky too, and within a week they were friends. One month later, Bucky had
ensured he gained a reputation for fighting anyone who hurt Steve Rogers. He
stopped caring about people in his space quite so much. After that, he still
usually got caned about once a month, because Steve Rogers had an apparently
unstoppable inability to keep his damn mouth shut, but it was worth it.
Bucky found out that his father was the devil when he was maybe thirteen, but
it didn’t really help much the next spring, when he and everyone else around
him started waking up with messy sheets, and hair started growing and voices
changing, and he also started getting hungry. Not hungry like a growing boy,
but really starving. Starving all the time. He ate just the same amount as
everyone else, even though the food stopped really tasting good anymore, but
his ribs showed up more than Steve’s. Steve was scared for him - he wasn't
obvious about it, but he'd always try to give Bucky at least of a little of his
portion, saying something like, "Here, you eat this, it's disgusting and I'm
not hungry," and it's an obvious lie; Steve's terrible at lies. Bucky would
refuse him every time, because somehow, despite his hunger, he didn't want
Steve's food, or his own. The truth was, he was scared for himself, too.
Because he started wanting...Everyone was talking about how now they wanted to
kiss girls. Bucky wanted to bite them. He wanted to bite everyone he came
across. He wanted to tear and rip and suck. Blood, he realised, when Steve
grazed his knee and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off it, blood was what he
really wanted.
It was ridiculous. Unheard of. But nonetheless, in class, when he was supposed
to be concentrating on his times tables, the hunger would creep up on him, and
his mouth would start watering, his thoughts wandering to bitter red cherries,
salty scarlet jellies, the rarest of rare steak. After a while, he could barely
make himself eat normal food. Meat was the easiest to handle, but it didn't
make him feel full. He couldn't look the desire head-on in his mind, but
nonetheless, relentlessly it dodged around the edges of his head, woke him in
the night and sidled up to him at inopportune moments. He couldn't get out of
his head the idea that blood could fix the hunger that filled him up with a
dreadful hollowness. It helped, in a way, that his conscious mind couldn't take
the idea seriously. It meant it was easy to tell himself, as he was doing it,
that he was just picking a fight with Frank Mullins because the guy was an
asshole and had it coming. Because what else would make sense?
Frank Mullins was a kid from down the block, one of the ones who looked down on
the orphanage kids, and he always tried to beat on Steve when he saw him, even
though Steve was tiny at thirteen and Frank was huge at sixteen. So the next
time that Bucky walked past him on the street he called out names, he can’t
even remember what now. Frank herded him into a back alley, right into the deep
dark trash-filled recesses, didn’t even seem to notice that he went willingly.
He yelled, “asswipe” “bastard” and “fuck-face”, and he carried on saying it
while Frank held his arms in one hand above his head and punched his face over
and over. His sight went with the pain and tears. He could probably get out of
it if he tried hard enough, but he didn’t, he wasn’t even trying. Part of him,
the rational part, was demanding he run, asking what the hell the rest of him
thought he was doing? But, really, he knew, and then the skin of Frank’s
knuckles tore, and Bucky smelt blood, and it was on his face, so close to his
lips and his vision went red. He tore out of Frank’s grip, turned and pushed
them back into the alley wall hard enough that the smack echoed, and then he
lunged at Frank’s throat and bit.
This is what happens when Bucky drinks blood: his teeth get longer and sharper
and sensitive so that the parting of flesh feels like a lovers caress, and it
feels like drinking water after three days without it. It feels like cinnamon
and sugar and maple syrup sliding through his mouth and down his throat, it
feels like a sugar rush. It tastes of iron and salt and it’s so warm and so
rich and it fills him up until he feels like he’s bursting. It slips straight
into his own bloodstream and into his brain and sometimes he actually moans at
the way it feels. It feels like a high, like the whiskey he stole and drank
with Steve when they were fourteen that made everything blurry, hilarious and
brilliant, but without the aftertaste or the burn. It feels like a drug. He
drinks and sucks, though he barely has to suck at all because the body’s own
heart pumps it out. He drinks until his stomach is full, and sometimes his dick
is too because there’s probably a few crossed wires in his head and it just
feels so good. Soon enough, the hunger and the instincts clear enough for him
to think again, and although he’s never quite sated he’ll pull back and lick
over the wound he’s left and it heals in a minute or two.
He didn’t know that back then, in the alley, but he sucks and licks anyway.
Probably instinct takes over, that’s what it feels like. Like how you shrink
from pain or lean into pleasure, it just makes sense. The mark he leaves on
Frank isn’t neat, but it hasn’t messed up his throat completely. It just looks
like a regular bite mark, like into the skin of an apple before you tear the
flesh away, just two red, bleeding and aggravated semi-circles. As he watches,
the marks get shallower, the skin knits back together and although the area
around it is bruised, the cuts are gone. At some point, Frank stopped being
able to hold up his own weight, and now Bucky’s kneeling over him and holding
up his torso. Frank’s pale but Bucky’s not scared, because he can hear Frank’s
heartbeat. It’s a little slower than normal maybe, but it’s still steady. It’s
fine. Bucky’s sated and full, the hunger that's been driving him for weeks
finally abating, and for a moment he just breathes, enjoying it's absense.
It takes a couple of seconds before the panic sets in. Because what is he, what
is he doing, how can he have done this, how is this possible? He dumps Frank
onto the ground and runs. Almost dashes straight out into the street full of
people, but then he flinches back fast, turns his back on the alley opening and
furiously scrubs at his mouth. There’s blood on his lips, it’s dripping down
his chin. It’s only then he notices that all the marks Frank left on him are
gone - his nose was bleeding before, but now it’s not, his split lip is healed
and the bruising he could feel swelling round his eye has abated completely.
And he feels different too. He feels good, strong like he hasn’t since he
started feeling hungry all the time. Stronger, actually. He flexes his hands.
Then he hears a groan from Frank, still on the ground. He props himself up on
his elbows, says, “What-” and Bucky’s gone. Onto the street, but not running,
just walking with his head down and his cap pulled low, usual swagger
completely gone. He walks fast back to the orphanage even though it’s Saturday
afternoon, the only time of the week when they’re allowed to go out
unsupervised, and he finds Steve where he’s reading his new comic books, in the
playground under the cherry tree because Steve is predictable like that. Steve
looks up and says, “Hey,” and then goes back to his book. Bucky goes next to
him, and Steve glances up at him again, notices all the blood down his shirt
and on his cuffs and says, “Did you get in a fight?”
“Frank Mullins,” Bucky says, and it’s an answer.
“You know you don’t gotta do that on my account-”
“It wasn’t on your account. He was hassling some girl.” Bucky lies easy, the
way Steve’s terrible at.
“Oh. Well then. You fine?”
“Of course.”
“Mmm.”
Steve goes quiet, goes back to his story again, and Bucky lies down next to
him, staring up at the sky. Petals from the cherry tree are falling around him
and Steve. It looks like snow, it looks like winter in spring, but it’s just
petals, it’s not cold. They’re pink. Bucky closes his eyes, tries to think.
The first thing he thinks of, obviously, is vampires. It’s very clear to him
that he’s not human. He could hear Frank’s heartbeat before, and now, if he’s
quiet and listens careful, he can hear Steve’s too. He’s never been able to do
that before. And something else...a smell. He can smell Steve’s skin, and
they’re sitting half a foot apart. So that means he’s been changed somehow,
though he has no idea how. He goes through all the vampire myths he knows; the
holy water and garlic, the sign of the cross and silver, and the sunlight.
Well, he’s lying in the sunlight right now, and he’s fine. He walked under the
sign of the cross to get in the gates of the orphanage. This is ridiculous,
it’s impossible. He’s never been bitten by anyone, and vampires don’t exist.
But vampires are supposed to be demons, and he remembers then what his mother
said, and then he’s sure. It doesn't make sense, it shouldn't be possible and
he has no idea how it is, but Bucky is a vampire.
The next few days, he’s walking on eggshells. He waits to feel the hunger
again, to want to drink from someone again, but the thirst is barely present.
He waits for Frank to tell someone - tell everyone - what he is. He waits for a
mob to swarm the orphanage or the police to knock on the door and tear him away
from Steve, kill him, maybe. But no one comes. He eats his breakfast lunch and
dinner like usual, and while the food doesn’t really taste of anything, or sate
his hunger, he can still eat it. On Sunday, he waits for the holy water he’s
blessed with at mass to burn him, and it doesn’t. Steve gets into a fight with
some bully on Tuesday, and Bucky cleans up his cuts without feeling the urge to
suck from Steve, even when he can’t hold his breath any longer and lets himself
smell it. It smells good, there’s no denying it, and he does want, but he can
stop himself from taking. It’s not that hard. It’s harder by Friday, when some
boy Henry falls and skins his elbow across the playground, and Bucky can smell
it on the wind where he’s playing cards with Steve. It’s hard, but he can do
it. He is not a demon. He is not the devil. He can resist temptation as good as
any of the saints.
Come Saturday, and what he’s dreading is seeing Frank again. Because Frank
knows what he is. He’s - what he did to Frank was so sick. It was so wrong.
(He wants to do it again. He needs it again. He’s so hungry.)
What if Frank points at him on the street, yells “vampire,” “monster,” “demon,”
what if they come and get him and lock him up where he’ll never get out again,
what if they take him away from Steve, from his home? He’s jittery and sick
with fear, but he walks down Frank’s street anyway, because if it’s going to
happen, he needs to know now, he can’t avoid this. If he’s a demon, he’s got to
get what he deserves. If they take him away from his home, it’s because he’s
evil, and if they take him away from Steve, it’s for Steve's good.
But when he walks past Frank where he’s mucking around with his friends outside
his dad’s butchers' shop, Frank’s eyes meet his, then slide over him. And Bucky
just keeps on walking. And it’s like nothing happened.
Bucky goes back home stunned after that, he forgets to do anything else. And by
the end of that week, the hunger is so bad that he feels dizzy when he stands,
his throat feels like sandpaper no matter how much water he drinks, he’s cold
all the time and when John grazes his arm climbing the oak tree, Bucky holds
his breath and walks away before he climbs up there too and -
The next Saturday he finds David Collins who’s hurt Steve eight times this year
and it’s April, and bites him in a different back alley, because he cannot
survive any longer like this. Once he’s done, he waits for a while, he hides
himself back into the grimy dark space behind a dustbin and watches while David
wakes up, picks himself off the ground, stares around the alley in apparent
confusion. He checks his neck, and it comes away covered in blood, but the
wound’s already healed over like Frank’s was. David stands, and he’s a little
unsteady, but he rights himself in an instant. He says, “Fuck,” takes a step,
pauses, then walks right out of the alley. Bucky waits a second, and the
follows behind him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he has no clue at all - by
all rights what he’s about to do is ridiculously stupid. But he’s been living
for two weeks like there’s a weight over his head, and if it’s going to fall he
just wants it to happen already, so he goes up to David and taps him on the
shoulder. David’s face twists into a sneer and he says, “You coming back for
more, Barnes? You knock a guy out once, think you’re so big, but I’ll get you
back. Just you wait, I’ll fucking kill you-”
He cuts out when he sees Bucky smiling. He’s grinning so big because David’s
forgotten just like Frank forgot, neither of them remember what he’s done and
no one knows what he is apart from him. He’s safe, they don’t know, and he can
stay living at the orphanage, he can stay with Steve. His grin is wide, and
shows his teeth, and David catches sight of them and his sneer fades a little,
his brow fades in confusion but not comprehension and Bucky smiles wider and
says, “See you later then, fuck-face,” turns on his heels and walks away.
 
 
 
After that, Bucky drinks once a week. He takes blood from two guys most weeks,
sometimes three in winter. It means that the gnawing hunger eases enough that
he can think without obsessing over feeding. It also means his body stays warm
like it should, so that no one who touches him will suspect what he is, and
that means he can keep Steve warm when he gets sick. He drinks all the bullies
on the nearest ten blocks, and none of them ever remember him. He doesn’t want
to create too much of a risk though, so he tries to leave a long time before he
drinks from the same one twice. It doesn’t ever seem to hurt any of them long
term, so he decides not to feel that guilty over it. He’s not killing them,
he’s barely even hurting them, and if they’ve hurt Steve than they deserve it.
A few months after he starts feeding regularly, he notices that all of them are
scared of him. None of them want to start a fight with him or Steve anymore.
Good. And it’s lucky for him as well, because he watches his thigh gashed by a
broken bottle heal up in under a minute and that would be extremely hard to
explain to or hide from Steve if they were still getting in too many fights. He
heals slower if he doesn’t lick his wounds, but it’s still way faster than it
is for anyone else. Anyone human.
 
 
 
The summer he’s fourteen, and he’s kissing Amanda, the first girl he ever
crushed on, in a diner. It’s good, kissing, it’s sucking and licking, and he
likes that. Sometimes it’s hard to remember not to bite, hard to stop his teeth
from cutting, grazing, but he practices, gets better and better at it. Still,
by the end of the week she’s bored of him, but he shrugs it off, and kisses her
friend Kate instead. Steve just rolls his eyes when he hears, and says, “Just
remember that sinners like you go to hell,” and Bucky laughs, but yeah, he
knows.
 
 
 
That winter Steve gets pneumonia, and Bucky stays with him every day and every
night he’s not in lessons or mass, he jokes and tells stories and reads to
Steve and he’s so so glad when he gets better. There was a little while there,
a space of days, where he wasn't sure. When the foundations of his world showed
their cracks and he almost broke down because Steve Rogers shouldn't hurt, no
God worth spit would create a world where Steve Rogers has to hurt like that.
But it's alright, because Steve's breathing eases and his lungs clear. It's all
ok, because Steve gets better. Steve Rogers is -
He’s -
Bucky’s best friend is the best guy he knows. He’s funny and dry, but he’s also
kind, and he’s caring and he’s clever. He never once lets Bucky down. Sure, he
sulks when he’s mad, he can’t lie for shit and he gets pissed off if you
compliment him, but basically he’s a saint. He stands up to bullies, he yells
and screams until authority comes over if he can, and if he can’t he’ll use his
fists and his feet and elbows and even though he is tiny, he can hurt people.
Bucky taught him to throw a punch when they were twelve, because Bucky’s
learned the hard way all the ways not to do it, and Steve’s not very strong but
he learns how to use the force he does have pretty fucking well. He can cheer
anyone up by being near them, even the new kids who aren’t used to being
orphans and still cry through the night. He will be friends with the kids who
have no friends, the damaged and broken and abused ones, even the ones that
don’t talk. They talk to him. He can draw anything better than a photograph,
and when his subject is beautiful he has a way of making it look transcendent.
When he draws Bucky, it's like looking at his reflection in rosy candlelight,
and Steve can draw Bucky fast, because he's practiced it so many times. His
fingers are sometimes cold but always gentle. He can sew stitches after secret
fights with thread stolen from the infirmary neater than a sailor, with barely
any pain. When he says his prayers and swears to always do good unto others, he
means it. Altogether, Steve is a really good guy, and Bucky likes him a lot.
Loves him, even. Like a brother.
And of course, Steve’s beautiful, too.
Bucky knows. He knows about sodomites, he knows what goes on near the docks, he
knows about queer bars and he knows about Hell, too. He also knows that he is a
demon. He knows how wrong everything he wants is. That does not stop him from
wanting it.
 
 
 
But he does want girls, too. Kate’s funny, and she’s pretty, but she doesn't
much like kissing, and anyway she doesn't like Steve, and a few weeks later her
friend Ellen is prettier, so Bucky goes with her. Ellen isn’t like her friends.
Ellen is a fast girl. She’s a year older than Bucky, at sixteen, and she tells
him she’s already fucked guys. She tells him she wants to fuck him. Ellen has
long beautiful hair and long beautiful legs, and Bucky says, yeah, ok. They do
fuck, in her bedroom on Sunday night while her parents are out, and Bucky had
to sneak out of the orphanage to get here but it was so worth it. Ellen has
rubbers, and she lets him come inside her and when he does he cannot help it,
it is not like most of the time, he can't think and he needs it, and he bites
her neck and she shouts out and comes. It’s incredible, for a few moments. It’s
the highest he’s ever been. It tastes different from any other blood, hotter,
sweeter, more. He literally feels out of his body with pleasure, it’s like
coming again except better, it’s like he’s still coming, it’s like he’s coming
non-stop for minutes.
He feels disgusting when it’s over and she’s passed out. He hates himself for
hurting her this way, when she was so vulnerable. But she comes round and
smiles, says, “Wow, that was incredible. That really was...wow. You sure are
something for a beginner, aren’t you?”
Bucky grins because he can’t speak. She says, “You sure you were a virgin?” And
he nods, ducks his head faux-shyly and looks up through his lashes because
that’s obviously what she wants, despite what they’ve just done, and she says,
“Well, not any more you’re not,” and they go again, and this time Bucky bites
the pillow instead of her. It’s still good, it feels way better than when he
jerks off, she is still tight and hot and slick and beautiful, but it’s not the
out of body experience he had when he bit her. Ellen giggles at him when he’s
spitting the damp pillow out of his mouth. Afterwards she gives him a
cigarette, and she laughs again when he coughs at the first drag. It makes him
dizzy for a moment too, and sick, but he can’t deny that it’s also kind of a
thrill.
So after that, he gets what he needs from girls. Blood tastes sweeter laced
with arousal than fear, and he can hurt them less if there’s no fight, if
they’re not expecting it. (Victims, that’s the word he’s not thinking.
Victims.) He dates them, and uses them. It's wrong, he knows it's wrong to use
girls for their bodies. He knows what it makes him. But he doesn't take any
nice girl's virginity, he never would, and he never asks them to do things they
don't want to. He always gets them home by the time their parents want them
back. He never lies to them about what he wants, never tells any girl he’ll
love them forever or any of the bullshit that other guys his age use to get
into girl's panties. He only ever promises a good time, and tries to make sure
they get one, taking them out and treating them well. He makes them laugh,
makes them feel special. He takes care to date girls who don’t mind that
arrangement, always tries to make sure both parties understand each other. He
always does his best to treat the girls to a meal first, as well. Bucky takes
his dates dancing, or to the pictures, or a diner. And then afterwards, like
most couples their age, they go to a park or a bedroom before parents get home
or a secluded corner, and make out, and then, after a short enough period with
the right kind of girl, it starts getting heavy. He never takes a risk with
knocking a girl up, makes sure he's always got a rubber. When they're fucking,
he bites them.
He’s worked out now, from experience and trial and error that as long as
someone feels good when his teeth dig in, they feel good when they wake up.
Their sensations seem to be amplified; if they’re scared before it makes them
terrorised, if they’re aroused sometimes it makes them come. There’s something
in his spit, probably, it gets into their bloodstream and fucks with their
minds so they’ll stay still for him, and when he’s done it knits them up and
makes their last few moments hazy. Anyone could do anything they like to those
girls, when he’s finished feeding. They’re vulnerable, unconscious, in the
night time out on the street. He knows it, and the what-if’s float through his
head sometimes, and they terrify him. They’re vulnerable, so it’s up to him to
keep them safe, that’s what’s important. That’s what being friends with Steve
has taught him, because Steve has never failed to be a voice for the weak, and
he has taught Bucky to listen. So Bucky watches out for them, keeps them out of
view and harm's way while he waits until they’ve come around. When they do, he
tells them they’ve fainted from the alcohol or the exercise of dancing, when he
made them come, something. Most times they make up their own explanations,
stumble their own flustered apologies. He just nods, smiles, laughs, tells them
it’s fine, that they were only gone for a few seconds, reassures them that they
didn’t drool, but looked flushed and gorgeous, because most often it’s the
truth.
He usually can't get an opportunity to drink from a girl too early on in his
mayfly relationships, but he also doesn’t stay with any of the girls for more
than a month or so, because he’s sure it makes them weak to have him take from
them, and he does not ever want to be responsible for a woman to coming to
harm. He may be a devil, but he can still be a gentleman. However, because of
the space that sometimes stretches to weeks between times he can feed from
girls, he learns to take more than he ever did from the bullies, to think
through the lust, for their blood and their bodies, to time it just right so
that he gets enough to last him for more than a week, but making sure the girls
stay healthy. It's hard, and he's often unable to think of anything but blood
in the hungry times between girlfriends, but he has to try.
Sometimes, of course, he breaks, and takes from bullies. Sometimes he takes
from guys who have reputations for treating their dames badly, for hitting
them, sleeping around when they're supposed to have a partner, or guys who
won't take no for an answer. He takes from guys who like to go around beating
on coloured people, or the sodomites in the back alleys. He drinks from a lot
of bad men, leaves them vulnerable, shaken, alone and blood-stained in back-
alleys all over Brooklyn, but he can't honestly say he feels guilty about that
all that often. The fact is, he has to live somehow. Someone has to look out
for Steve. He still tries to be as good as he can be, apart from what he can’t
help. He tries not to make terrorising the neighbourhood as a vigilante into a
habit. He does not have to hurt other people, he does not have to succumb to
temptation, he does not have to infect others with his evil.
The thirst becomes manageable, more or less.
His other wants do not. His other wants get harder. He's sixteen now, and he
thought he might grow out of it, or maybe find a nice girl who could distract
him from it, but he sure as hell hasn't so far. It's just getting harder to
ignore. Because Steve is -
He’s -
Steve is an angel. His eyes are deep warm blue like pools of seawater and his
hair is fine and soft and gold and lustrous like spun silk and his skin is
milk-white and smooth. He is tiny, and he fits so well in Bucky’s arms. Bucky
can hold all that he cares about in the world when they lie together in winter
in the cold, he can cover Steve up safe with his body and pretend like there’s
a way they can stay like this forever. Bucky doesn't need to sleep as much as
normal people, so he's spent countless hours holding Steve's sleeping form in
the dark, stroking his hair, his face, listening to his breathing. Darkness
with Steve is a sanctuary. When Steve laughs it’s like the sky at noon in
summer. Steve gets angry and he’s terrifying, because his righteous rage is
like a fire that’s held in the core of him that will never go out. People are
cruel to him, bullies and thugs and scum, and he does not fold up in sadness,
he fights back. Steve is good, that’s the essence of it. It spills out of him
and it warms everyone around him. It is impossible not to love him. He is so
good, but he just doesn’t see it.
Bucky can’t have, but he wants anyway. And he knows that Steve feels the same,
because the spring they’re sixteen, the first year they move out of the
dormitory and get their own room, he makes sure to always take off his shirt
slow and in full view of Steve, and every single time he does it, he hears
Steve’s heartbeat pick up. Steve doodles eyes and mouths, hands and torsos in
the corners and around the edges of his drawing books, and all of them are
Bucky’s. Sometimes Steve’s eyes track pretty women down the street, sure, but
mostly they track Bucky. They sleep in the same bed sometimes, because Steve
needs to stay warm in winter, no matter what position they start the night in,
Steve's limbs are always wrapped around him like vines by morning. When the
nights get hotter, he lounges around without a shirt on almost as much as
Bucky, his bones bird-thin and beautiful, and he doesn't preen, because he
doesn't think he's good-looking, but he never takes care to be decent either.
Bucky wants, and he knows Steve wants, and it does not go away. It is a
constant in his life for months, until finally he cannot go without anymore,
and he takes.
They're in their bedroom in the orphanage after lights out, in summer when
Steve’s breathing's still good and they're both shirtless. Two days ago Bucky
got his hand up Suzy Akers’ skirt, and he’d been telling Steve about it every
night since. Steve always complained, “that’s disgusting Buck” or “you
shouldn’t kiss and tell” but he didn’t tell Bucky to shut up, and, though the
lights were out, Bucky could still see the blood stain his cheeks red in the
low glow from the window. He can hear Steve’s heartbeat spike when he tells him
about how last week Linda Parker went down on him, how it felt to have her
lipstick red lips around his cock, the way her throat felt, how she sucked him
down like his dick was a popsicle, the little slurping noises...and Steve is
hanging on his every word. Bucky can hear the blood pumping through his
arteries, flowing through his veins. Bucky’s talking about how he kissed her
afterwards, and he could taste himself on her.
(He doesn’t tell Steve how after that, he kissed down her body, to her thigh,
kissed her sex and licked into her until her heart was beating hard and fast
again, and then turned his head into her thigh and bit and drank and drank and
drank-)
Steve’s listening to him, and he licks his lips. He does that when he’s nervous
sometimes, but Bucky doesn’t think that’s why he’s doing it now.
Bucky’s talking shit like this, and Steve’s staring at his mouth, and he’s
licking his lips. They’re on opposite sides of the room on separate beds, but
Bucky gets up, and it’s quiet now he’s not talking, it’s late at night and the
room smells like clean cotton and sweat. He walks across the room to where
Steve’s sitting, one leg hiked up and the other trailing down so his toes brush
the floor. Steve hasn’t broken eye contact with him. His heartbeat’s thrumming
it’s slightly uneven lub-dub faster than normal, but he doesn’t smell of fear,
or worry. He actually smells a lot more of the other thing. When Bucky reaches
out his hand and places it on Steve’s knee, draws his leg down the bed, Steve
gasps a little, and now Bucky’s closer he can see the hard-on that Steve was
using his shin to hide. Steve’s lips stay parted, and he says, “Buck-” and then
Bucky’s leaning down and kissing him and kissing him and it’s bliss.
He's always known he's a sinner, has always known, so he probably doesn't
deserve something this good, but it doesn't matter because Steve wants it too
so he can't help taking it anyway. Bucky knows it’s dangerous and stupid. They
have to hide it from everyone - they live in a Catholic orphanage, the Sunday
services are fire and brimstone, and no one here can ever know. The other boys
are their friends, but any one could turn on the pair of them at any moment if
they found out. They both know that inverts get taken to an asylum, where some
people say they get fixed and others say they get punished. Obviously, Bucky
can never let that happen to Steve. Ever. So they never so much as hold hands
in public, they spend plenty of time away from each other and with other boys,
and Bucky chases skirt. Of course, that’s not optional for him. He needs
willing warm bodies to survive. Steve doesn’t like it, but he thinks that he
knows why Bucky does it, he thinks it’s to throw off any suspicions the people
around them could be harbouring, and he doesn’t give Bucky shit for it. The
rest of the world does that to the both of them, so they will never do it to
each other. They will never blame each other for what they cannot help.
But Steve doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Bucky is, how he survives. Why
he’s so much stronger than the others, why he never gets sick even when Steve’s
nearly dying, why he doesn’t need to eat much or sleep much. He doesn’t know
that Bucky only ever drinks from the girls he spends the night with. He doesn’t
know that Bucky never fucked anyone after they kissed when they were sixteen,
and it kind of breaks Bucky’s heart to let him think that there’s any way he’s
not satisfied with Steve as he is. Steve hates the way he looks, he hates how
frail he is. Bucky thinks he’s the most exquisitely beautiful person
imaginable. He still has to let Steve think he’s screwing other people. And
Steve doesn’t protest, because he thinks that’s what he deserves, and he thinks
Bucky deserves better, deserves more. Yeah, it breaks his heart a little.
Steve can’t know, though, he can’t know what Bucky is. If Steve calls him demon
-
If Steve recoils from him in disgust -
If Steve leaves him -
So Bucky can only try to let Steve know, with every touch, how much he loves
him, whenever they are alone together. He feeds himself up fat like a tick once
a week so that he never gets hungry when he’s with Steve - because he will
never hurt Steve, he will never use him, he will never ever let Steve be hurt
for him, and he will never threaten Steve’s already fragile health. He drinks
enough that his teeth don’t feel buzzing and sensitive even when he’s kissing
down Steve’s neck, enough that his skin’s warm and his cheeks are flushed. He
fills himself with blood, and he wants to pour himself, his health and his
strength into Steve’s bird-wing bones. Steve is -
He’s -
Before their first kiss, Steve and Bucky are best friends. They look out for
each other. Bucky gets Steve out of fights and Steve draws pictures and Bucky
tells stories and Steve laughs at his jokes and it’s brilliant. Afterwards,
it’s still like that, but they do other things together too. Bucky presses “I
love you,” into Steve’s skin, he whispers it behind Steve’s ear and into his
mouth until Steve believes it. Their fist kiss was in summer and Bucky kisses
him in secret all autumn, they touch each other with hands and mouths and he
says those three words and others, he says everything he feels the best way he
can, he says, “You’re it for me,” “I’m yours forever,” and “I’ll stay with you
‘till the end,” and Steve says, “I’m yours,” “I love you more than anything”
and “I trust you,” and Bucky knows it’s true. This is what they whisper in the
night time; in the day time they call each other “dumb punk” and “stupid” and
“idiot face” and that’s true as well. That’s just how they are. It’s good.
Before their first kiss, Bucky would die for Steve. After their sixteenth
summer, Bucky would kill for him. He’s Bucky’s everything. He’s Bucky’s
forever. He is Bucky’s world.
 
 
 
Their sixteenth winter, like every winter, the world comes so close to ending,
but this time Steve isn’t getting better. Last year he had tuberculosis, and
this year it’s come back, and it’s stronger than before. Steve is stronger too
though - Bucky’s been giving him as much of the food he doesn’t need as he can
for the last three years, pretends to eat enough that Steve doesn’t think he’s
starving, and it’s helped. He’s bigger and taller and stronger than he was
before. Bucky knows he’s going to live. But the nuns call in the doctor, and
the doctor shakes his head and they can’t afford the medicine anyway, and so
the nuns call in the priest who gives Steve his last rights, chanting useless
words and Bucky opens the windows of the infirmary afterwards because the
incense made Steve cough, he doesn’t care how holy it is. He makes sure that
they let him stay near Steve whenever he doesn’t have to go to lessons or mass,
and then, as the days draw on and Steve gets worse, they let him stay with
Steve through lessons too. People here know they are at least as close as
brothers. They just don’t know exactly how close.
It’s dark outside the window, snow is falling past and settling on the sill and
Steve hasn’t been out of bed in a month when his heart beat slows down to
almost nothing. The slightly uneven lub-dub that Bucky’s been sleeping next to
for as much of his life as he can remember, the muscle keeping everything he
loves alive, it’s stopping.
This cannot happen.
Bucky knows he heals fast, and he knows that his spit makes people heal fast
too. He knows that vampires are supposed to turn people by feeding them blood.
Bucky is not stupid. He can put two and two together.
He bites his wrist open until blood flows down to his elbow and the pain
doesn’t even register. He puts his wrist over Steve’s mouth, blood fills his
mouth and Steve is just present enough still to swallow instead of choke.
The change is almost instantaneous. Bucky can actually hear Steve’s heartbeat
speed up, go back to it’s regular if still uneven beat, and after three breaths
his breathing’s stronger too. Bucky takes his wrist away, and prays some of the
most sincere and fervent prayers of his life. A few moments later, Steve gasps
and his eyes flicker open, and his eye’s meet Bucky’s, and Bucky says, 

“Shh,
shh, you’re ok. You’re gonna be ok now, I got you.”
Steve says, “Bucky,” reaches out his hand and swipes Bucky’s cheek and there
are tears, he’s crying. “Don’t,” Steve says, and it’s firmer than he’s been
able to sound for a week now, and Bucky buries his head in Steve’s side and
cries and cries. Because his best friend is alive, he’s ok, he’s going to be
ok. And because Bucky’s poisoned him now, by sharing his blood, he’s sullied
the best person in existence. What if he’s polluted Steve’s immortal soul? Is
it worth Steve’s life if he’s infected him with his own sickness, his own
demonic monstrosity, if he’s stolen Steve’s chance at heaven? He’s always been
Hell bound, but Steve is an angel, and Bucky’s pulling him down with him. Steve
breathes, stronger than he has for days, strokes Bucky’s hair, and it comforts
him.
Steve gets better within a week. Bucky stays close to him, smiles and jokes and
laughs and does not let Steve see how he’s constantly watching him for signs of
change, for any difference in mannerisms or behaviour. If Steve is like him
now, he’ll need blood. Now he’s got his head on straight, Bucky knows that he
may be demon but Steve will never be anything other than good, and if he needs
Bucky to go out and bleed some dame out into a flask for him to drink, Bucky
will do it until he can do it for himself. And if Steve never forgives him, he
will go. If Steve decides to tell them all what he is, he’ll let them do
anything to him, as long as they don’t hurt Steve.
But Steve’s behaviour doesn’t change. He doesn’t act thirsty, he doesn’t want
blood. He eats food and gains weight, he’s smiling and laughing for real. They
make Bucky go back to lessons when Steve can get up and walk, and the first
Sunday Steve comes back to mass, Bucky thanks God. He doesn’t know whether God
listens to whatever Bucky is, but he prays anyway. When they’re both in their
shared room, alone together for the first time after Steve’s been ill, they
curl up around each other in one of their beds, and Bucky pushes his face into
Steve’s shoulder and breathes in the smell of him that is unlike anyone else,
and listens to his lopsided beloved heartbeat and does not ever want to loose
him.
And then Steve pulls back from him so he can meet Bucky’s eyes and give him a
Look, and he says, “We need to talk about what you did.”
If Steve does not want him, he will go. But oh Jesus, Mary and all the saints,
it’ll break his heart.
“I’m sorry.”
Steve frowns, says, “I’m not mad at you Buck. I’m pretty sure you saved my
life, right? I just want to know how.”
Bucky can’t meet his eyes, but there is nowhere else he can look, so he closes
his eyes.
“I don’t-” His voice cracks, and he can’t speak.
“Hey, it’s all right Bucky. Like I said, I don’t mind. Just tell me honestly,
did you steal the money?”
Wait.
“What?”
“For the medicine you gave me.” Steve gives him an affectionate look that
nonetheless conveys that he is not impressed. “Come on Bucky, I’m not stupid, I
know I didn’t get better like that on my own. Just tell me, where did the money
come from?”
Bucky laughs almost hysterically until he can force himself to calm down, and
now Steve looks mildly concerned. He clears his throat, thinks on his feet,
says, “I didn’t steal it. I’ve been saving money for a while now. From that
lifting I did for the grossers, you remember?”
Steve says, “Mm-hm” and is not convinced.
“I’m telling the truth! And then I found a guy who’d let me owe him, but I’ll
pay the money back, when I said I would, and he’s not the type who’d chase me,
I swear. I talked to the pharmacist two streets over and he told me what to
buy. I wasn’t sure it would work as good as this, I’m so glad it did. You feel
all better now?”
Steve gives him one last Look, then lets it slide, because he knows Bucky’s not
telling the truth but he’s not sure which part of what he’s said is a lie.
“Yeah, I’m good as new.”
“Well, I’m glad.”
And Steve just harumphs and wriggles further into the space directly in front
of Bucky in between his arms, and Bucky’s chest feels full and warm where Steve
presses against it.
 
 
 
Their fist kiss was at sixteen and they make love as often as they can after
that. Bucky's seventeen and it's summer, and for a year now, he’s lain with
Steve every night and held him in his arms. They sleep face to face in one bed,
swapping beds every night so that both look slept in come wash-day. The first
and last thing they see every day is the other. They kiss whenever they can,
whenever they are alone and Steve’s mouth is not bloody, and they kiss most
everywhere, they use hands on each other, thrust together and catch the mess in
rags. Bucky’s always careful, he’s too strong. Holding back isn’t hard though,
or at least, it’s as hard as not drinking is, and if he can do one he makes
himself do the other. Steve likes to use his mouth, and fuck if his lips don’t
look gorgeous stretched around Bucky’s cock like they’re fit to burst. Steve
likes to settle into it, he likes to take his time, lets his eyes drift closed
until those long lashes brush his cheeks, and he doesn’t like being guided but
he loves Bucky’s hands in his hair, and he likes Bucky to tug, hard, and to
scrunch up his fists full of the long fine strands and pull. Bucky doesn’t go
down on Steve for months even after the kiss, because Steve dick smells salty
and rich, so so good and hot and thick and full with blood, and he will never,
he will never hurt Steve. He will not risk that taste making him want to bite.
But Steve thinks he’s fucking other women behind his back, Steve doesn’t think
he’s beautiful, and Bucky cannot tell him categorically that it’s a lie because
he cannot tell Steve the truth. So Bucky gives Steve everything he can to make
him feel loved, he whispers the words and touches him like a sculpture and in
winter he goes down on Steve under the covers, careful and slow little licks
and then more and more and more, swallowing but not biting, not even grazing
with his teeth. His teeth are humming and buzzing and sensitive and he wants to
bite but he will not, and every time he moves his lips or tongue over them he
wants to mewl. Fuck, it’s incredible. It’s a tease, it’s torture but it’s sweet
and he sucks and licks, greedy like he’s starving, and drinks Steve’s come when
he spills and it is rich, bitter, salty and filling and although the taste of
it’s not right, the feeling of it going down his throat is so close, so close
to what he wants that he comes without touching himself. And after that he does
it every chance he gets and Steve’s face scrunches up as he holds back the
noises, and he pets Bucky’s cheeks, strokes his eyes and traces his fingers
over his stretched lips.
So it's been a while now, it's been almost a whole year since their first kiss,
and they've done most other things, but they haven't penetrated each other yet.
Bucky, he told Steve he wasn’t going to until they were both of age. It feels
too much like a step further than they've been, to him. He couldn't explain it
to Steve, but Steve just said fine, so long as when they were both of age Bucky
would “finally stop making excuses and treating me like a precious doll,” and
Bucky smirked slow and dirty and said, “But you are my precious doll, doll,”
and Steve bit his lip hard enough to bruise and he had to say he’d been
punched.
So now they’re going to do it, they’re going to go further than either of them
ever have - or, well, with a guy at least, on Bucky's side, though he's pretty
sure Steve was a virgin in every way before him and Bucky. And it's important,
somehow, because other boys help each other out, of course they do, that’s
normal, someone else's hand can just make all the difference, some nights, and
it’s not unheard of for guys to suck each other off, but guys don’t kiss, and
they sure as hell don’t put their dicks inside each other. That’s what inverts
do, but Bucky’s going to do it to Steve, even though he knows that this is
wrong, he knows about sodomites and queer bars and back alleys and Hell and he
knows he’s a demon. He doesn’t want to drag Steve down with him, but Steve says
that being inverted can’t be wrong because God gave them each other, there’s no
way He’d be cruel enough to make them like this and then forbid them from each
other. Bucky doesn’t know, because the best person he knows nearly dies every
winter and learned to fight because he couldn’t run without wheezing, so maybe
God is that cruel after all. But he supposes that Steve hasn’t actually died
yet, and also Steve seems to think that this is ok, so what does Bucky know.
Steve wants this and Bucky wants this, and that's going to have to be reason
enough because he can’t resist any longer.
It’s the fourth of July and they were allowed to watch the fireworks until
midnight, and they’re allowed to stay in bed until nine tomorrow morning. They
watched the city sky light up from the playground, boys clumped together under
blankets and Steve is cold in Bucky’s arms from the night air. Under the
covers, no one can tell that Steve’s hands are holding Bucky’s where they wrap
around his torso. Bucky’s legs are crossed but Steve’s leaning far enough back
into his lap that Bucky can rest his chin on his fluffy blond mess of hair.
It’s ok. It’s cold and it’s dark and no one’s looking at them anyway. It’s
Steve’s birthday, and they can have this.
When the time is up not all of the lights are over, but they go to bed anyway,
and they aren’t complaining nearly as loud as the other boys.
God, he burns for this. Steve’s been real smug recently. He's wanted them to go
further for a while now and in the lead up to his birthday he's been well aware
that he's about to get his way. Steve is a saint, but he knows about back
alleys and sodomites too. They live in New York city. Recently, when Bucky
sucks his cock Steve strokes one hand around his own asshole, pushes his
fingers inside himself. He bought Vaseline from the chemists and he keeps it
under the floorboards of their room, and he slicks up his fingers and pushes
into himself while Bucky drinks and licks and sucks and grinds down into the
bedsheets. The noises he makes - they’re quiet, they’re always quiet, they have
to be because the walls are as thin as planks and four boys sleep in the two
rooms on either side, but the noises Steve makes when he fingers himself sound
like muffled screams. He always finds one point inside himself and presses and
rubs at it, over and over until he comes, and when he does his whole body goes
boneless.
Now Steve wants to know what Bucky’s dick feels like up his ass, and Bucky will
do anything for Steve to make him feel good. He’s used his own fingers on Steve
before, he knows where Steve needs it. They go up to their room, brush their
teeth and change into sleep clothes that will only come off again in minutes,
for the sake of appearances, on the off-chance that someone barges in. They’ll
say that one of them had a nightmare, to explain sharing a bed in July. They
press into each other, grind their hips in the darkness while the noises of the
other boys going to sleep fades in bumps and rustles into nothing, and no one
comes to check on them. Finally, when it’s silent apart from their breathing,
Bucky pulls of Steve’s shirt and then his own, they kick off their shorts and
Steve reaches down for the Vaseline and slicks his fingers, and then he starts
stretching himself open. Bucky’s told him that he won’t do it if it hurts
Steve, but Steve swears it’ll be ok if he stretches himself first, that Bucky’s
dick isn’t that much bigger than three fingers anyway. Bucky thinks that
actually, it could well still be big enough to hurt, but Steve hates being
treated like he’s fragile, so he calls him punk and doesn’t protest any
further.
Bucky kisses him now and Steve’s mouth keeps falling open, his lips going slack
while his attention’s elsewhere his breathing’s harsh and ragged but his
heartbeat’s strong, so Bucky isn’t worried. Steve is healthy and he smells like
sex. Bucky waits until Steve’s panting open mouthed more than he is kissing,
and then he says, “Now?” and Steve says, “Yeah,” and his voice sounds rough and
low, his throat’s humming with it, and fuck, Bucky just wants to put his lips
on it, put his teeth on it, just brush them gently, just close to where the
blood flows hot...but he won’t. He will not. He takes his dick in his hand and
lets Steve use his slippery fingers to slick him up, and a shiver goes through
him just at that bare minimum touch. And then Steve rolls Bucky onto his back,
sits up above him and carefully, slowly, presses Bucky’s dick into the hot
wetness of his body and Bucky’s brain shorts out. It’s tighter than any girl,
it’s -
It’s Steve.
Bucky tries hard not to come just from that, thinks about semolina pudding and
the Dodgers’ latest scores until Steve’s all the way down, forces himself to
calm before looking up at Steve’s face. Steve’s brow is scrunched up a little
like he’s in pain, eyes closed, and Bucky says, “Hey, Steve-” before Steve cuts
him off, “I’m fine, just gimme a sec.”
“You’re hurting-”
“I’m not, I’m fine. It’ll be good, just give it a minute, just let me-” but the
grooves in his forehead haven’t let up any, he’s still in pain, and Bucky moves
to pull Steve up and off him. Steve’s eyes flick open and he says, “Hey!”
shoves himself back down, and oh fuck, oh God, oh Jesus, that’s so good.
Bucky’s head falls back into the pillow with a dull whump, and he can feel
Steve’s whole body shudder where he’s holding onto his waist. Steve makes a
noise like, “Hah-ah” pulls himself up, pushes himself back down again and bites
off groans, moans, little whimpers and mewls. He’s almost always silent but
this is so obviously totally new to him, it’s like every movement is a shocking
new revelation. It’s all Bucky can do to lie there and force himself not to
fuck up into Steve like he wants to, forces his hands to stay loose on Steve’s
sides, because he could bruise Steve or break him if he lost himself to this.
He lets Steve set his own pace, get used to it in his own time, and waits until
Steve does so before he starts thrusting his hips up into Steve’s. He can feel
Steve’s hand moving on his own dick between them, he can feel Steve’s rumbling
groans where their chests are pressed together. He can feel Steve’s muscles
moving around his dick, he can feel the delicious slip and drag. His hands are
on Steve’s hips, and he has to remind himself every few moments, when Steve
presses down on him in exactly the right way, that he cannot squeeze too
tightly, he cannot grip Steve tight enough to hurt him.
Steve’s hips are juddering into his now, his whole body is shuddering and
shaking into him, and he holds Steve’s waist as he bends to kiss him, Bucky
kisses him back and sucks and licks and fucks upwards until Steve comes all
over their stomachs and chests, and he follows a second later, clenches his
throbbing teeth hard against each other and holds Steve still, as deep inside
him as he can go. Steve falls forward, braces himself on his elbows above Bucky
at the last second, presses their foreheads together and they kiss sloppily for
a few seconds before Steve huffs out a harsh breath and rests his head in
Bucky’s shoulder while he gets his breathing under control. Bucky listens to
his heart beat like a bird’s, his breathing slow back to Steve’s shallow
normal. He can also almost taste Steve’s blood where it beats, so close to his
mouth in Steve’s neck, but he cannot take so he turns his head and kisses
Steve’s pliant mouth, and it’s flushed and hot and wet and tastes enough like
what he needs that he can find some satisfaction in sucking Steve’s tongue into
his mouth. He stops before his teeth get sharp with need.
Steve passes out not long after, and Bucky takes a minute to breathe before he
gently slides his body off, goes to get a washcloth to clear up the worst of
the mess before it dries. He curls around Steve’s body as he sleeps.
In the morning Steve has bruises on his hips. Bucky traces them with
featherlight fingertip touches in the low light and hates himself, but when
Steve wakes he presses his fingers into them and smiles, kisses Bucky sweetly
and chastely, because Steve doesn’t like to kiss with a stale mouth in the
morning, even though Bucky swears he doesn’t care. Later, when Henry asks why
he’s walking funny Steve says his joints are hurting again, and Bucky catches
Steve with his hands in his pockets throughout the day, digging his fingertips
into his hips. That night, Bucky raises his eyebrows kissing over the marks,
and Steve just smiles wide with eyes closed, content. He wriggles his hips
insistently and pouts, but Bucky won’t fuck him, because despite his protests
he knows that Steve’s been sore all day. He insists that, “it was a good kind
of sore, honest to God, Bucky, I do want it, I want it, gimme” but Bucky
doesn’t care. He won’t draw blood. He won’t risk it. Instead, he licks around
Steve’s hole, kisses it and licks into it, uses his tongue to fuck him and
Steve comes with barely a touch to his dick, and the taste is foreign enough
from blood that Bucky can stop his teeth getting long and sharp, can still kiss
Steve properly after.
A few nights after that, Bucky caves to curiosity and the obvious pleasure of
Steve’s reactions, and asks Steve to show him how to finger himself open. He
hadn’t wanted to before - it’s kinda unnatural, and it’s dirty, and Bucky
already has enough unsavoury addictions, he doesn’t need more. But Steve does
it, Steve loves it, and Steve’s not an invert or a nymphomaniac for it, he’s
still Steve. Bucky knows that his reasoning’s shaky, that the rules are
different for someone like him compared to someone like Steve, that when you’re
as pure as Steve is the same acts have different motivations. When Steve
fights, it’s to save people who are hurting and when Bucky does it it’s to hurt
people who hurt Steve. When Steve’s polite to women it’s because he’s a
gentleman and when Bucky does it it’s to get into their bedrooms, into their
bloodstreams. But Steve keeps offering to show him how, not with words but
subtle touches, looks and glances, and he does not want Steve to think that he
sees this as wrong. He already thinks Bucky fucks other women, he already
thinks he’s a burden, he already thinks he’s ugly. Bucky will not let him think
he’s dirty too.
Steve’s slim fingers slip inside him, and at first it feels weird,
uncomfortable, foreign and odd. But Steve talks him through it, says, “Just
give it a moment. You need to relax. Stop squirming. Just stay still and let me
do the moving, just lie back and take it,” and then Bucky does, and Steve’s
gentle fingers of artist’s hands rub against his inner walls, stroke and caress
and somehow it’s loving. He gets used to it fast, and then Steve has to hold
him down with his other arm to stop him squirming up into his fingers instead
of away. And then Steve says, “Ok, you’re gonna like this next bit. You ready?”
meets his eyes challengingly, and it doesn’t matter what he’s gonna do next
when he uses that tone, Bucky just nods, and Steve’s fingers dig a little
deeper, twist, search, locate and rub, and fuck. Bucky’s saying, “Ha, yes, yes,
fuck, fuck yes more, please, there, right there, oh god, please” and Steve has
to lean his whole weight down onto his forearm to get Bucky to stay still.
There are lights behind his eyes, there’s sparks up his spine, his skin’s on
fire. Steve says, teasing little shit, he says, “Oh, you want a little more?”
and before Bucky can answer he adds another finger, presses harder, crook his
fingers and rubs and Bucky jerks his cock a couple of times and then comes.
Steve kisses him while he still can’t breathe right, strokes his other hand up
Bucky’s back and makes him shiver because the sparks that were flowing under
his skin moments ago have left him sensitive. “Good right?” Steve asks and
Bucky can only laugh breathlessly and disbelievingly, because, fuck, yeah, that
was good.
 
 
 
After Steve’s eighteenth birthday, Bucky and Steve start moving out of the
orphanage that has been home for most of their lives. Mother Superior had been
kind enough to let Bucky stay the few months he probably is older than Steve so
that they could stay together, and Bucky used the time to find an apartment for
them in Brooklyn. It’s where Steve had lived with his mama before she died. He
doesn’t say anything, hasn’t cried for it since the first year, but Bucky knows
he misses home. He would too, if he’d ever had another. So they move into a
tiny tenement building in Brooklyn, and sure the water’s cold and the
neighbours are noisy, but none of them are a patch on an orphanage full of
adolescent boys, so it doesn’t matter to Bucky and Steve. In winter, they heat
the water in a bucket over the stove for baths and in summer they don’t bother.
Bucky gets a job down at the docks lifting crates for cargo ships and Steve
works freelance as an artist. He does magazine covers, adverts, posters, all of
it. Bucky’s always known that Steve was good, but he was perfectly prepared to
support them both here, if he needed to. He’s so glad for Steve that he doesn’t
have to. It makes Steve feel good, to be bringing home as much money as Bucky
most days, you can see it in him.
Times are hard, the Great Depression is everywhere and the second Great War’s
on the horizons, to the east and the west of America, but it doesn’t matter to
them. Steve loves drawing, so it's not much skin off his back to draw eight
hours a day instead of six, and it means he makes a little extra. Bucky gets a
promotion, starts working as a clerk in the office at the docks. He always was
good at numbers. It means a rise in his wages, and he gets to stay in the warm
and dry most days, though he still takes extra work lifting in the summer so
he'll have spare come winter, when Steve is most likely to get sick. All in
all, they're lucky. They almost always have enough money for Steve to eat.
Bucky tells him he picks up breakfast travelling in in the mornings, buys lunch
at the docks and is always too full for dinner. He eats when Steve cooks
something for him specially, but other than that he survives only on blood. He
doesn’t need to eat, and he doesn’t suffer any without solid food - in fact, he
thinks he’s actually faster, more awake. Maybe he’s saving energy by not
digesting unnecessary food - he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. It saves them
a lot of money, Bucky not eating, so he almost always has enough for medicine
when Steve’s ill, and that’s the most important thing. Bucky will never get
desperate enough to give Steve his blood again, if he can help it.
Bucky still drinks once a week, and now he’s away from the orphanage and the
Catholicism he can go to bars, find a new girl every time, and it’s loose and
immoral and disgusting but now he can be sure that he’s not hurting any of them
long term, so it’s what he does. He sweet talks, dances and kisses, buys drinks
and licks his lips, and if they like him he takes them to their homes or to
back alleys, kisses and maybe fingers fast girls until they feel good, and then
bites them out of the light of the streetlights. They cum, they forget, and
then he walks them home, or helps them find their friends in dance halls, or
politely closes the door on their apartments. And he goes home to Steve.
Bucky has never drunk from Steve, and he never will. It does not matter that
Steve will forget afterwards, that Bucky could do it while they fucked and
Steve might not even know it. It does not matter that he’d only have to do it
once and he’d have the memory of the taste forever, because he will not hurt
Steve, ever. It does not matter that he’s licked Steve’s cock and his lips and
tongue and ass so often, he can almost imagine what he tastes like underneath
his skin. He’ll never know. And Steve will never know what he is.
 
 
 
Except, it does happen once. When they are nineteen, and Steve’s managed to get
beat up by the one asshole left in the neighbourhood that Bucky hasn’t drunk
from yet, who isn’t instinctively scared of him. Steve’s got a black eye and a
split lip and cut knuckles, and a bruise on his ribs where the guy was kicking
him before Bucky arrived and had to seriously concentrate on not killing the
guy. Bucky’s cleaning Steve’s hands now, wiping them as gently as he can and
ignoring the gorgeous smell of the blood, telling Steve, “You’re such a Goddamn
idiot, why do you have to do shit like this?”
To which Steve replies, “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” like he does
every time Bucky blasphemes, even though Bucky’s done it since he was ten and
both of them do it when they’re fucking.
“Stevie, will you just hear me out for one second, please? Because I know that
you can’t stand by and ignore bullies, but would it kill you to just wait a few
extra seconds for me to get over to you before you run your smart mouth and get
it punched-”
“Oh, shut up, I’ll show you my smart mouth,” Steve says, leans forward and
kisses him.
Steve’s mouth tastes of Steve’s blood. Steve’s mouth tastes of copper and honey
at the same time, his lip is hot and wet and Bucky’s sucking, it tastes of salt
and sugar and sex and Steve. It’s better, it’s better than any other taste,
it’s hitting somewhere deeper in his head than anything else ever has, because
he’s always known the exact smell of Steve, his sweat, his hair, his seed,
that’s always been home, and this is the essence of that. It’s familiar and
comforting and erotic. He’s groaning into Steve’s mouth, his dick is hard and
his teeth are throbbing, sensitive, sharp -
He pulls away from Steve fast before the urge to tug on Steve’s lip with his
sharpened teeth overwhelms him. He can’t. Won’t. Steve’s eyes are blue and
beautiful, and when he opens them he blinks and smirks slowly.
“Woah, Bucky, you look incredible. Your eyes...” Steve reaches out to touch his
cheekbones, where he can feel he’s flushed, and he resists jerking back only by
pure willpower, only because Steve won’t understand that it’s because Bucky’s a
monster, he’ll think that he’s the one who’s done something wrong. “You like my
smart mouth that much, huh?” Steve’s eyes flick down to his lap where his pants
are tented, and he meets Bucky’s eyes again, licks his lips, and Bucky can’t
help but zeroing in on the blood still on them.
“Yeah, Stevie. I like your mouth that much.” Bucky is careful to breathe as
little as possible as he finishes patching Steve up, careful to ignore how much
better the smell of Steve’s blood is now that he knows the taste. When they go
to bed afterwards, Bucky dodges Steve’s mouth before he can kiss him again,
tells him, “Let me show you my smarts now, yeah?” as he lowers himself down
Steve’s body to his cock, and it’s harder than ever not to bite, now that he
knows how good it would be if he did...but it would hurt Steve, so he doesn’t.
After that Bucky’s careful never to kiss Steve when he’s bleeding again. The
only thing he ever drinks from Steve after that is his come. He won’t take
more, he won’t bite Steve. He does go out to find the guy that hurt Steve the
next night, just to be sure that there won’t be any more trouble from him, but
apart from that he sticks to his resolution to only bite girls, because he can
make it nice for them. And now they’re older, he thinks Steve believes that
he’s not fucking anyone else, that he only dances and flirts to throw off
suspicion. Bucky tells him how he’s never fucked anyone else with anything more
than his fingers since they were sixteen, and only then to keep up appearance,
how he’d rather he didn’t even have to do that, and he thinks Steve believes
him. And it’s something Bucky’s had to work on, Steve’s belief that he can be
more than enough for Bucky in himself. Bucky’s got little habits, though. He
makes sure to tell Steve he’s gorgeous at least once a day, when they’re alone.
Whispers “I love you,” in the silence after sex. Worships him with his touches
as explicitly as words. Touches him every second he can, though that one’s at
least as much for Bucky as for Steve.
There’s one thing he’s found, though, which works particularly well. He licks
and sucks and does not bite down on Steve’s neck, works himself up until he
knows that his pupils are blown and his cheeks are flushed because of the way
Steve’s hands trace his face, until there is real, raw and desperate hunger in
his eyes, and he tells Steve, over and over, that he is beautiful, that Bucky
wants him so much, that he needs him. He begs for relief from Steve even whilst
he’s fucking him, and he’ll never get it, not what he wants the way he wants
it, but it doesn’t matter because Steve likes it so much when Bucky gets needy
for him. He loves when Bucky begs for it, paws at Steve like he’ll never get
enough, whines like a good time girl, moans like a whore. Bucky wants, and it
makes Steve feel wanted. He mumbles the words, “gorgeous, so gorgeous, Steve,
you’re so beautiful, I want you so much,” into the pulse in Steve’s neck where
the blood beats so close, and it is in no way a lie.
Yeah, Steve struts a more taller nowadays. You’d think he’d get into even more
fights, but he doesn’t. Now, he only hurls fists when someone else's honour is
impeached upon, and Bucky’s damn glad of it, because he can’t bear the mixed
agony and delight of bandaging up Steve’s bloody body too often. Steve’s more
confident now, a little taller than he was, a little fuller, a little stronger,
and so fucking gorgeous. Every one of his lines is God’s brushstroke, his every
movement is an angel’s grace. The night after they move in, Bucky’s overcome
with it, and he falls to his knees in front of Steve and says that he wishes he
could marry Steve, and Steve says, “I know Buck. I do, too.”
Bucky repeats, “I do,” and he’s worried because it’s goofy and juvenile, but
Steve’s pupils dilate and it becomes solemn and grave. Steve sinks to his knees
in front of Bucky, kisses him, whispers “I do, I do,” and it’s real. They don’t
need vows. Together sickness and in health is a well established part of their
lives. To love, honour and obey Steve is the code Bucky lives by. They fuck and
it’s not consummation, they are already one, they have always been two halves
of one, since before either of them can properly remember, not even God will
ever be able to part them now, and there is no way this will not last for all
of both of their lives, as Bucky whispers, “‘Till the end of the line,” into
Steve’s shoulder.
Bucky thinks maybe the way he loves Steve is obsession, maybe it’s fixation,
but he doesn’t know because he doesn’t have much else to compare it too. He
doesn’t care. Steve is worth all of it, Steve is worth all of the love in
Bucky’s sick soul.
That apartment becomes the most important place in the world. There’s no hot
water and the walls are cardboard, the radiator makes odd noises and drips
occasionally, and the drafts are something awful. They have a beat up sofa with
stained upholstery covered in a thick blanket. They have kitchen table and two
chairs that match neither each other nor the table. They have a stove and a
sink and about three pans, maybe five plates and probably enough cutlery. They
usually have enough food in the cupboards. They have soap, razors, a bathtub.
They have a pack of cards and a wireless. And they have one bed. It is an act
of defiance, of recklessness, the only one that they can have, because it is
also a secret. No one else is ever allowed to come into their apartment, ever,
no one else has since they’ve moved in. Steve has friends and Bucky has
associates from the orphanage, but they meet in diners or dance-halls. They do
not kiss or touch or lean on each other in public, they do not flirt or hug or
speak of love. But inside this apartment, they are two halves of a whole.
Inside this apartment is how they are supposed to be. They kiss and touch all
of the time that they can, they sleep in the same bed and share the bathroom
and the sofa and the cards. Bucky teaches Steve to dance to the music on the
wireless, because Steve was at the orphanage reading while Bucky was out dating
good-time girls on Saturdays, but he’s always wanted to move like this with
Steve. Bucky sits at Steve’s feet when he’s drawing, or when they’re listening
to the radio, and Steve strokes through his hair and it is so good. All of him
becomes where Steve’s hand is touching him, and none of the rest matters. His
monstrosity, their money, his job, all of it is nothing compared to Steve’s
hand in his hair, his fingers parting the strands, his fingernails scritching
lines into Bucky’s scalp. The sun pouring through the windows, warming his
flesh and Steve’s hand warming his mind and his soul, soaked in heat and
pleasure, this is how it’s supposed to be.
 
 
 
Though he’d sworn to himself to never let it happen again, Bucky’s forced to
feed Steve his blood once again, when they’re twenty. Steve’s choking on fluid-
filled lungs, seeing things that aren’t there and crying out for his ma. He’s
in unbearable pain and Bucky has the power to stop it. He’s disgusting, he’s a
parasite and a demon, an unnatural aberration, and he’s selfish because he
can’t let Steve go and be with God in heaven like he deserves. Bucky is a
heathen, Bucky is a blasphemer because he’d rather have Steve, alive and
healthy, than God’s approval and paradise after death for himself, and
apparently now he’s willing to risk staining Steve’s immortal soul to keep him
alive. But he will risk that because he’s done it before and it didn't change
Steve, he’s never been anything less than himself, and he cannot accept the
idea of a world without Steve Rogers.
So Bucky goes out and feeds off two different girls, as much as he dares until
the light starts looking different and his muscles itch with strength, and then
he goes home to Steve and splits the veins of his wrist, presses the bleeding
gash to the rim of a cup until it’s full. He knows that Steve will not be able
to taste the blood on his tongue when he wakes because Steve always complains
about how his illnesses mean he can’t enjoy his food even when he gets his
appetite back, so Bucky puts the cup Steve’s mouth and lets him drink. Three
hours later, Steve’s coherent, sitting up and asking for solid food, “some
bread at least, come on Buck I’m not an infant,” his temperature is normal and
his colour’s healthy again, and Bucky thinks maybe it’s worth being like this
if it keeps Steve alive. Maybe this is in some way part of how things between
them is right. Because Bucky is sinful, but Steve is good enough that it
doesn’t matter. Steve stays healthy and Bucky stays good. Or good enough. And
in this apartment they have a sanctuary.
 
 
 
When they're twenty-one, the war blows in from the horizon. Steve wants to
join, of course he does. Bucky does not. Bucky does not care about Poland or
Germany or Britain, he doesn’t care much for America for that matter. One thing
matters, and that’s Steve. But then the draft letter comes, and he doesn’t have
a choice.
He has to leave Steve.
***** Chapter 2 *****
When Bucky goes off to war, he has one aim: to keep himself alive long enough
to get home to Steve. Steve’s not safe alone in Brooklyn. Steve’s not safe
alone anywhere. Bucky has to be there, always, to protect him. So he’ll fight
for the US of A, but if he sees a single opportunity to desert, he’ll take it -
the first time the chaos of battle descends, the first time he has leave, he’ll
run. It’d be good if he could get himself missing in action, presumed dead,
because then they won’t be looking for him, but he’ll take less. He’ll get away
and get home to Steve, somehow. It doesn’t matter where he ends up. Bucky’s not
like other guys. He doesn’t need to eat, he doesn’t need much sleep. If he’s
fed, he can run for hours and not get tired. They’ll never be able to catch
him. He’ll find Steve and they’ll go somewhere. Anywhere. He’ll keep Steve
safe. So in basic he fights well, with all of his strength for the first time
in his life, and he is unbeatable. He shoots with eyes that can see in the dark
and hands that are unnaturally strong and still and he hits the target every
time. He gets promoted to Sergeant before he even ships out.
He leaves Steve and it’s like part of him is being ripped away, but it doesn’t
matter because he’ll be back soon, he’ll get Steve back soon. Steve sees him
off in the street, but before they left the apartment he spent three hours
kissing every part of Bucky’s body and making him swear to bring every bit of
it home. Steve doesn’t know, of course, that Bucky fully intends to do anything
to keep his promises. He probably suspects though. Bucky’s never pretended to
be the same kind of patriot as Steve is. Or, actually, any kind of patriot.
Steve probably doesn’t expect that Bucky would do something as cowardly as
shirking his duties, but Steve’s just going to have to be disappointed.
After England they’re sent to Italy , only it’s the north so it’s not warm,
it’s freezing. Bucky kills three men in cold blood his first time out, a sniper
in a surprise raid on a Nazi military base, covert and behind enemy lines, and
he realises that he wasn’t prepared for this. Oh, he can fire a gun better than
any other man in the army, but he has never killed anyone before. In Brooklyn
he’d have killed any bully that hurt Steve, but he never had to, and these men
aren’t hurting Steve. Ok, it’s not like they’re not hurting anyone, they’re
soldiers in a war for God’s sake, but then so is he. If they’re evil and
deserve to die, how does he not? He’s got Steve to protect, but what if they
have someone at home too? Bucky cares about as much for propaganda as he does
for anti-homosexual pamphlets. He knows not everyone in Nazi Germany is a Nazi.
He knows that some of those soldiers don’t deserve to die. He kills them
anyway. He has no choice. Getting home is not optional.
Bombs rain from the skies some days and other days it is just rain. He starts
to sleep with a knife under his pillow after the first night time surprise
attack that wasn’t started by them, when fourteen men died and the blood fell
on Bucky’s sleeping bag. It’s a good job he doesn’t need as much sleep as the
others, too, because the nightmares of bombs falling on Brooklyn, and
shattering their apartment open, the ruins they see in every town they pass
infecting his home town, burning all of Steve drawings and Steve-
They keep him awake.
He gains friends easy by sharing his unneeded rations liberally, and the men in
his unit are good men, sure, but he’s still willing to ditch them at the first
opportunity he gets to go back home, away from this hell. He doesn’t care what
kind of demon he is, he doesn’t belong here. After he gets promoted to a front
line unit there are almost always enough enemy soldiers within running distance
to find and drink once a week. A month after he arrives on the front line, he’s
licking the wound closed on a Nazi’s neck when he realises that he doesn’t have
to. The hunger’s quieter now, like it always is after feeding, but it’s not
gone. It’s never completely gone, it just stops hurting. He looks down at the
dirty, sweaty foot soldier in his lap. The guy was a guard on patrol, and Bucky
watched the routine for half an hour before he snatched him when he had the
longest time to go before he checks in again, pulled him out of sight of the
trenches, into one miraculously whole copse of trees. His hair’s a greasy
brown, his skin has freckles. He hasn’t hurt Bucky. He never even had time to
shoot at him. But he’s an enemy soldier, and Bucky’s job description is to kill
people like him. He has killed people like him. This isn’t even really crossing
a line, or at least not one he hasn’t already crossed.
So Bucky bites the wound open again before the man’s eyelids have a chance to
flicker open, and drinks more. More, more, more, he’s filling up with it. It’s
not like normal, it’s better than normal, it’s better than he’s ever felt
before. He’s full of sugary energy, every single part of him is full of power.
Every single part of him is stronger, better. Every single part of him is hard
as stone and smooth as steel, he is impenetrable, impermeable, he is
invulnerable. It’s in his fingers, his toes, his stomach and chest and dick and
head, it’s filling up his head with a buzzing rush. This is better than just
feeding, this is second only to sex with Steve, and only by a hair’s breadth.
This is euphoria.
He is not just drinking and lapping now, he dimly realises, he is sucking,
because the body’s heart has stopped beating. He stops, abruptly, when he
realises it, drops the corpse. He stares at it and it’s bloodless and pale. Of
course it is. He just drank an entire man. He backs away, turns, runs. He jogs
then sprints, darting back between patches of woodland back to his own dug-out,
and he realises he’s running faster than he ever has before. His startled laugh
is snatched by the wind and halted whilst he races past it. The stars blur, his
route takes moments where before it took minutes, and he’s slowing to a walk in
under a quarter of the time it took him to get out there. He must be thinking
faster too, that’s the only way he could have been able to slip himself back
into his bedroll in the bare milliseconds before the guy on patrol walks past
and a snoring man rolls over, completely unnoticed by either, soundless, a hazy
streak.
The hour before dawn, Bucky thinks, and he knows what he’s going to do. Because
he’s pretty sure that right now, he could outrun bullets - or at least, dodge
them. There is no way that anyone would be able to stop him if he ran. When he
runs. He can just break away from the front of the march tomorrow before anyone
can blink, and even if they can shoot at him, he can dodge. He’ll probably heal
too. He’s always been a faster healer than Steve, faster still if he licks his
wounds, but now he’ll probably heal as he’s wounded. So he’ll risk it, he’ll
run, he’ll run to a city on the coast, rob someone, catch a boat back to
Brooklyn, get to Steve.
But.
But these men are good men. They don’t want to be here any more than he does.
And he knows they have sweethearts at home, seeing as most of them won’t shut
up about them for five minutes straight. There’s a guy in his unit, John, who
can do any accent from any place scarily accurately, from Texas to Germany, and
it’s fucking hilarious. There’s another who insists on being addressed solely
as Dum Dum, who sleeps in his bowler hat. Michael, he’s Irish like Steve’s
mother was and he knows the dirtiest jokes Bucky’s ever heard. Mathew’s
nineteen, and he’s a brilliant shot but all he wants is to be an engineer.
These guys, they deserve to get home as much as he does. Maybe more, because
none of them have ever killed a man with their teeth and drunk his lifeblood
while his heart beats it’s last. So he’ll stay with them. He’ll stay until they
report back in to base at the end of the month, until they’re out of enemy
territory, so that at least he’s not leaving them a man down. He owes them that
much. But Steve is more important, so he’ll still go home.
He’s going home at the end of the month.
He works twice as hard as any of the other men for the next week, and it’s
apology in advance but they don’t know that, and they appreciate the extra
elbow grease. He’s faster in battle than he ever has been before. His jog is a
sprint now, and his sprint looks ridiculously fast to human eyes. They comment
on it, a few times, but in the confusion of battle most people are focusing too
much on the ones shooting at them to notice him. He can’t outrun a bullet, but
he can move out of the way if he sees one flying towards him, same way he could
dodge a ball thrown to him. He can pull other people out of the way of them,
too, and he does. He feeds once more that week, so his strength doesn’t wane
like it normally does after a few days, and it feels so good. It feels like
this is how he is supposed to be, like his entire life up until now he’s been
suffocating, and now he can finally breathe.
But it doesn’t matter, he reminds himself every time he catches himself
reveling in it, it doesn’t matter because he’s going home to Steve, back to
Brooklyn where he won’t be able to feed like this. And it’ll be worth it, to be
near Steve again. He can’t allow himself to get used to this. He has to
remember that the price for him feeling like this is other men dying. This is
not permanent. The state that he is made to exist in is not this, it is with
Steve.
In the meantime, he uses it to watch out for his men, to keep them safe for the
time he has left with them.
Nine days before they rotate out, it’s a dusk surprise attack, they’re charging
across lines held by the Italians up until now, and they’re winning. The enemy
are retreating, scattering, running scared. They’re winning.
And then they’re not. There’s white-blue blasts up ahead. It’s armoured tanks
and men with guns which shoot - something; light, energy, heat? - and they’re
plowing through the soldiers ahead in moments that would take an ordinary
armies triple the time. Then there’s a blast nearby, in front and to the left,
and it’s heading for Michael so Bucky moves to throw himself in front of it.
Whatever it is, fire, shrapnel, he can take it.
But he can’t. The blast moves faster than a bullet would and it gets to Michael
before Bucky can, but it’s radius is still wide enough that it catches him too.
The blast burns through this skin, through his muscle and to his bone before he
can heal. He can feel it go through his torso, he can feel it hit his ribs, he
can feel it underneath them. It’s scorching hot, it’s hotter than hell, it’s
crisping his lungs into nothing, it’s cauterising the wounds it makes so he
can’t heal like he should. It is the worst pain he has ever known, it makes
every other pain into nothing. His eyes feel like they’re boiling out of his
head but he can see because his head’s turned to shield his face, his hand in
front of his eyes. He can see the outline of his bones through his burning
flesh. He can see Michael behind him, and thanks to his enhanced vision he can
watch every single millisecond of Michael disintegrating into dust in the harsh
illumination of the blast, abject terror on his face.
It ends, an eternity later and a second, and Bucky crumples to the ground.
The world is hazy around him.
Shapes, some colours.
“Surrender”
“Please”
“Camp”
“-Sargent still breathing!”
“Kill-”

“Keine! Warten!”
There are arms around him and he wants to scream because it hurts so bad to be
moved but he can’t because his lungs are ashes. His clothes are burned, the air
scours his chest with cold. He’s jostled but he still can’t scream or speak.
Nothing, blackness.
Cold hard ground underneath him, thank you God for the stillness. Damp,
stinking. Fear, a dozen heartbeats. Yelling, not in English.
Dark.
 
He wakes up and he’s in a cage. Dum Dum is there, his fucking bowler secure on
his head. Bucky coughs, feels his breath, says, “The others?” Dum Dum shakes
his head.
Fuck it all.
 
He wakes up and he’s in a cage. Someone is pouring water into his mouth. He
drinks.
He wakes, hears “Welches ist es?”
“Ihm.”
A kick to his ribs and he curls into himself as the world goes white. Not
again, not another blast, not again -
He’s hyperventilating as someone carries him away, there’s a cage of tired,
pale, freezing, dirty men behind him and there’s a bloodstain on the floor that
doesn’t smell right, and that was him, wasn’t it? He’s not bleeding any more
though. The voices are German. They’re in a prisoner of war camp. But he only
needs to feed once, he can get out. He can still get home. He can still see
Steve again.
A table, it’s cold and hard and still but he’s tied down, a room with dark
corners and high windows and a rabbity little man, who the others address as
"Doktor Zola" and who never speaks in English, not even once. He doesn’t say
what he’s doing, Bucky doesn’t know what he’s doing, except that he’s cutting
little lines, digging in knives, and it’s not like Bucky can help them healing
up as fast as they do. There are others around him, sometimes, their voices
seem excited but he can’t understand what they’re saying. They crowd around him
like trees in a forest, pale forms in lab coats. He isn’t thinking, can’t think
right. He’s so hungry. His stomach is shrivelled and painful inside him, his
limbs are aching and his head beats with his heart like a red drum. Breaths
still hurt. He thinks it’s maybe because his body used up everything to keep
him alive, and now he has nothing left to live on. He is barely surviving. All
he wants to do is drink, and they’re right there, they’re bending over him and
their necks are pale, but he’s tied down with locked metal cuffs and he’s so
weak. They’re cutting and cutting him and he heals slower every time. Needles,
are the next thing. Long thin knives they are, pushed into his veins and
sucking. Hideous and painful and like him. Other things pumped into him.
They’re marking everything down, and they’ve never asked him even his name, let
alone army secrets, so this is science, not torture, but oh God it hurts. A
while ago now, he started loosing time. There’s light from the windows, and
sometimes it’s there and he blinks and it’s gone, it’s hours later. He doesn’t
know what they do to him while he’s gone. He just wants it to end. He just
wants it all to be over. There is no way for him to get out of this situation.
All he wants is the pain to end.
Steve. He looks up and Steve is there, golden and beautiful, and Bucky knows
that he is dead. He smiles up at Steve’s face. Reaches out to touch him, but
the cuffs are still around his wrists. Maybe this isn’t heaven, maybe it’s
hell. To be able to see Steve, but not to touch. He doesn’t care, he’ll take
it. It’s better than to be without Steve altogether.
But Steve’s face is panicked and relieved, he’s covered in dirt and sweat, and
he’s trying to pull Bucky up, yanking at the metal restraints before he sees
the locking mechanism, and he’s huge, he’s hulking over Bucky, he must be about
six foot.
“You used to be smaller,” Bucky tells him. Steve pulls him out of that room
with the high windows where he thought he’d died, and down dank, dark and
filthy corridors, towards the smell of other men and blood, the sound of
yelling. He doesn’t think that he’s dead any more.
The next few minutes, things are still a little blurry still, but he’s upright
and Steve’s here, and before long he’s staggering along next to him. His vision
is clearing and, surprisingly, Steve does not appear to be a hallucination. But
he’s not the same as Bucky remembers him. It’s Steve’s face and Steve’s smell,
his voice and his words. But Bucky can hear his heartbeat and it’s not the
same, it’s not the arrhythmic lop-sided lub-dub that Bucky could pick out of a
crowd at a hundred paces with the characteristic swish of blood through a
faulty valve, it’s stronger and steadier. Steve’s breathing sounds different
too - they’re running and they’re panting but Steve’s not wheezing, and that’s
good, of course it is, but it’s also damned impossible for the Steve Bucky
knows.
“What happened to you?” Bucky asks, and Steve says, 


“I joined the army,” and yeah, that’s Steve alright. God forbid he answer a
straightforward question with a straightforward answer when an opportunity to
get smart presented itself.
“Is it permanent?”
“So far,” which, huh. If this definitely isn’t a dream - and he thinks it’s not
because he’s pretty sure you can’t dream smells, and he can smell Steve, there
is no way he could be mistaken about that - then that means Steve is in fact
here, and huge, and staying that way. This is important. He can’t understand it
yet, his mind is exhausted and addled and all he can coherently think of is how
hungry he is, but he can understand that something big has happened, something
momentous has changed, and things are never going to be the same again.
He’s stumbling and Steve is striding, and watching out for both of them.
They’ve left the corridors, are in a huge high-ceilinged room filled with
flame. Steve’s leading them up stairs, because there's no way out below across
the ground that is nothing but fire, and Bucky tries not to look down. He
doesn’t want to know what his death will look like, he doesn’t want to see the
hell that is his immediate future. The heat is making his vision swirl, or
maybe that’s just how hungry he is. He and Steve aren't talking anymore;
Steve's mouth is set a grim line, and Bucky's panting for air.
And then suddenly, “Captain America,” an unfamiliar and dangerously accented
voice yells, “How exciting! I’m a great fan of your films.” Bucky knows Captain
America is a character in propaganda comic books that do great back home and
are used as toilet paper on the front lines, but Steve’s carrying a funny
looking shield and his new form certainly matches the guy in the drawings, so
the voice must be addressing him. The sources is a man in a long leather coat
speaking German accented English, and he’s blocking their only way across from
one side of the huge room to the other. And Zola is at his right shoulder.
Bucky wants to tear across the walkway so fast he blurs and rip Zola’s throat
out, but even the rush of rage and hatred at the sight of him makes him feel
sick, weak, he hasn’t eaten for days and there is no way that he can move that
fast. He’s having trouble standing upright.
The Black Leather Man is saying, “So, Doctor Erskine managed it after all,” and
Steve is walking up to him in the way that means someone’s about to get
punched, but Bucky can barely move, he cannot protect Steve, and the swagger is
jarringly intimidating on Steve’s huge new un-Steve-like form, and the man’s
saying, “Not exactly an improvement, but still, impressive,” and, sure enough,
Steve hits him with his shield, hard enough to clang, and his eyes are already
going red with blood. Yeah, the new Steve’s intimidating.
And from the low-growled, “You got no idea,” he knows it.
But the man says, “Haven’t I?” and his punch dents Steve’s shield, Steve goes
for his gun but he looses it, and the man’s next punch sends him to the ground.
Bucky hates how close Steve is to falling into the flames, he wants to move but
when he lets go of the railing he sways, his head is swimming and his vision’s
blurring, he can barely think. Every breath is tainted, smells of smoke, Zola
and wrong, and he feels like he’s choking. The next thing he can focus on,
Steve’s desperate kick takes the man down, and while they’re both out Zola, the
little toad, pulls a lever and the walkway separates at the middle, and Steve’s
pulled back to safety, to Bucky, away from Black Leather Man, but they’re
trapped.
Black Leather Man, who’s saying, “No matter what lies Erskine told you, you see
I was his greatest success.” And he’s picking, peeling away at his neck.
There’s a flash of red and Bucky can’t stop the reflexive swallow, but it’s not
blood, it’s a mask. His whole face is a mask and he peels it away, and
underneath he’s...he looks emancipated, almost skeletal, sharp and harsh, his
nose looks like it’s been sucked inwards and his skin is a horrible, burned,
cooked-lobster red. He looks like he’s dying, starving, burning. He looks like
he’s already dead. He looks like the devil Bucky knows is hiding under his own
skin.
Bucky’s not stupid, he can put two and two together, even through the hungry
terrified fog his mind’s become. Some creepy fucker like Zola has experimented
on Steve, and the last guy he touched is skull-faced and insane.
But Steve smells right, Steve joked with him, he was leading Bucky to safety
and he’s Steve, Bucky knows he’s Steve, he’d know if he wasn’t and this isn’t a
hallucination but he blurts out “You don’t have one of those, do you?” anyway,
and it’s supposed to be a joke but he can hear the fear in his own voice.
The Black Leather man ignores him. “You are deluded Captain. You pretend to be
a simple soldier but in reality you’re just afraid to admit we’ve left humanity
behind. Unlike you, I embrace it proudly, without fear.”
Steve says, “Then how come you’re running?” like the punk he is, always got to
have the last word, but the two men are gone away in a lift sharp, presumably
to an escapee route, and it’s just Bucky and Steve left here, in a Godforsaken
factory in the process of burning to the ground. Neither of them know this
building, and they don’t have time to search for a way out. Bucky doesn’t
expect that Steve has a plan for getting out of here. Steve never has a
plan. But Steve says, "Come on, let's go, up," and Bucky follows because the
ground floor is on fire and because it is Steve, and although he never has a
plan he has always been the best, out of the two of them, at improvising.
At the top of the next flight of stairs is a metal girder between the two
gangways to the side closest to the compound entrance, and Steve must be able
to tell now how weak he is, because he helps Bucky over the railing, saying,
"One at a time," in the same coaxing tone he uses when Bucky's drunk. He makes
it, over, and then he's balancing on the girder, and he can feel the vibrations
from the exploding factory through the metal. They echo through him and his
hands are shaking, but his overall balance is still as unnaturally sure as it
always has been. He shuts out the fear, shuts out the smell and the heat and
the knowledge of the great deep drop and just concentrates on putting one foot
in front of the other. He makes it half way across before the beam starts to
slip from it's moorings. The heat and the explosions rocking the foundations of
the factory are too much for the structure to hold. The metal screeches and the
whole beam judders. Bucky feels a horrifying soaring swoop in his stomach, the
girder's already falling before he's running. He has to leap for the railing,
drag himself up and over, and he could almost cry from relief. Except then he
realises that again, Steve is trapped on one side of the factory while he's now
stranded on the other. He's cursing himself, because he should have made Steve
go over first, but it's too late for that now, it's not productive.
He searches with his eyes for a solution instead, yells for Steve to do the
same, "There's got to be a rope or something!"
But Steve calls, "Just go, get out of here!"
The reply is visceral, "No, not without you!"
He can see Steve cast around for something, anything, and he is too but there's
nothing there, nothing to help them, nothing to save Steve and they're going to
die here, he's going to die here, and worse Steve is too, and they can't even
touch each other-
But Steve's pushing the metal railing back on his gangway with strength he
shouldn't have, and then he's backing up. Bucky doesn't understand why he's
backing away, then realises Steve's idea a second before Steve jumps.
Bucky's screaming, because he knows the one he loves most is about to die,
about to fall to his death in fire and there is nothing Bucky can do to save
him.
And then Steve is flying out of a mushroom cloud of fire and slamming hard into
the railing in front of Bucky. Somehow, miraculously, he made the jump. Bucky
grabs Steve and yanks him up with all his might. They both go crashing down on
the other side, Steve's welcome weight falling on top of him. The metal floor
is warm against his back and an explosion rattles through his bones but Bucky
laughs, because Steve's amazing and a genius and an idiot and alive. Steve
grins down at him, and then stands, pulling Bucky to his feet.
"Come on," he says, "We're not out yet."
Bucky takes a second, just one second, to hold Steve close, and Steve nuzzles
his face against Bucky's neck, and Bucky tells himself that it doesn't matter
that Steve has to lean down to do that now. Then they part, and Steve guides
them through a doorway to another set of stairs, but these are held within
their own stairwell and they've held up better to the onslaught of explosions
than anything on the factory floor. They go down a couple of floors because
they can't go any higher, and then Steve takes them out of the stairwell and
into a corridor leading away from where they came. Bucky thinks he can hear
gunshots over the booming explosions now. Suddenly he trips in the dimly lit
corridor, nearly falling flat on his face, and the lump that tripped him up is
a dead man in Hydra uniform. He takes the guy’s gun, a rifle, checks the ammo
and snaps the barrel back into place, and Steve’s hesitated so that he can
catch up. He does, and walk, and they don’t speak. Yeah, something huge has
changed.
They follow it across the length of a building, the prison block, probably,
although Bucky hasn't been here. Once they're far enough away from the burning
machinery, Bucky sees another stairwell and they take it down. At ground level
Steve kicks through a locked door, and they're outside.
The air out here smells of pine, blood and burning. It's still night but the
floodlights and the orange glow are light enough for Bucky to see by. They've
come out by the side of the building, and around the corner, shines the flash
of a white-blue blast, to the left, only they’re hidden from the source by some
crates or something, and he can’t help but flinch back, sink into the shadows
of the doorway once again. Steve notices, stops immediately.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you-”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Let’s just get out of here.”
There’s another white-blue blast up ahead, but this time he doesn’t flinch, and
Steve nods grimly, his forehead pinched with worry. “Not much further Buck,
don’t worry. The other guys here, I let them out. I think they’ve got some of
the weapons, and Hydra wasn’t expecting an escape attempt, we should be able to
get out-”
“Yeah, ‘course we will.”
Steve's gaze hardens in the way it does when he's about to do something stupid,
and Bucky knows exactly what he's thinking, knows Steve's plan is to shield him
from the fighting while he is so obviously weak. But Steve's shit at plans, and
his shield is made of wood. And Bucky has already almost lost him once today.
Bucky leans for a second longer pretending to catch his breath, then runs past
Steve, with a burst of speed he knows he doesn’t have left, before he has a
chance to protest, around the crates, so that his head and one shoulder are the
potential line of fire with his gun ready to shoot. But there’s no one in a
Hydra uniform still standing. The ones that are are ragged, dirty and thin, and
cheering. There are tanks, but the tops are open and there’s guys in rags
climbing half-way out of them, and there are piles of dust on the ground. Like
Michael.
“Do not,” says Steve, in the bossiest voice he has, “ever do that again,”
coming up behind Bucky on his right and his stomach swoops and his hearing
dulls, his vision goes white around the edges and he really didn’t have any
speed left at all, did he?
“Hey, it’s ok buddy, I got ya,” Steve’s darting in to hold him up, “are you
alright?” his throat is right there, his blood beating so close to the surface,
just a whisper of skin away, “What do you need?” Bucky could just reach out and
bite down, God, he’d feel so much better, he’d be full, he’d be warm, he’d be
strong again, safe, “I’m sure we can find you some food-”
“No. I’m fine.” Never. He can never hurt Steve.
He rights himself, stands on his own again, forces himself not to sway on his
feet. There are men coming towards them, not enemies. They swarm around Steve,
saying, “Thank you,” in three different languages Bucky knows. He hates them
being so close to Steve, but he knows that, even as bone-weary as he is,
they’re just as exhausted, whereas Steve is healthier than Bucky’s ever known
him to be, and if there’s a fight, he will win. Then there’s a familiar smell,
and Dum Dum is there and he’s still got his goddamn stupid hat on, and a grin.
“Hey Serge, you alright?”
Bucky tries to grin back, says, “Yeah, I’m fine.” How many times does he have
to say that until people stop asking? It's getting harder to lie, the more
exhausted he gets.
“Thank God. I thought for sure...but then this idiot turns up - are you Captain
America for real?”
Steve’s been paying attention since Dum Dum spoke to Bucky, and now he says,
“Yep, that’s me.”
“What? The publicity stunt?” Bucky asks.
“Well, yeah.”
By now there’s quite a crowd around them, and Steve raises his voice, yells,
“Alright men, listen up!” and the babble dies down a little, which is frankly
astounding in a recently secured battle field. “There’s an allied camp about
thirty miles south of our location, that's where I came from, that’s were we’re
headed. It should take about a day to get there if we can keep up the pace, and
they’ll be food when we get there. It’ll be dawn in an hour, so we start
walking now, we’ll get there at sunset. Anyone who’s been wounded, we carry.
And take as many Hydra weapons as you can too, our people can use them.” 
These men have been starving and freezing for days, some of them weeks. Most,
like Bucky, are exhausted. However, they've been running on empty long enough
now that the promise of rest, warmth, food, even a modicum of safety is enough
to galvanise them into action. That is enough for them to march all day on an
empty stomach for. They arrange themselves into a rough column, and although
there is probably about one wounded for every five able-bodied, most can at
least limp. Those who can't are hefted up onto the tanks that idiots like Dum
Dum, Gabe and Dernier are reckless enough to try driving. They orientate with
the help of the sun warming the sky to the East and start marching south about
forty minutes after they break out.
Bucky just hopes that he can hold up as well as the rest of them are doing.
He's walking at Steve's left side at the front of the column. Bucky leans on
Steve for the first mile, but after that he feels a little stronger, so he
pushes off Steve and he hitches up the rifle in his arms.
Steve lets him, but asks gently, "You gonna make it?"
And Bucky replies, as if scandalised by the question, "Of course," and
privately thinks that if he'd ever asked Steve the same in such a tone full of
tenderness Steve would have bitten his head off. He can't say he minds it
himself. Not at all. He knows objectively it hasn't been very long, but he
feels like he's been at war forever.
In the dark, they walk silently, watchful, but as the sun starts to rise in the
sky and the forest around them is revealed to be empty of enemies, and actually
quite beautiful in the morning glow, the sound of chatter starts up. They are
heavily armed, after all; everyone who isn't carrying someone wounded is
carrying a gun. Steve and Bucky don't talk though. Bucky thinks Steve's letting
him walk unmolested to conserve his energy, and he doesn't mind. The freedom to
remain silent is welcome, after all those days he'd been forced to scream.
However long that was.
When the sun's high enough in the sky for it to be almost noon they come across
a stream. After a few of the thirstier men try it for taste and proclaim it
fine, the column breaks down and the men gather along the length of the stream.
Some go as far as taking off their clothes and starting to bathe, but it really
is too cold for that, so most stop. By the time the men at the back get to the
stream, most of those that were at the front have sat down. Without anyone ever
deciding anything, they are apparently taking a break.
Some guy comes up to talk to Steve, saying, "Where exactly 'south' is this camp
then? You got a map?" and Steve goes off to talk to him, leaving Bucky alone.
He keeps Steve within his sights as he finds a tree to lean on. Steve stays
within hearing distance however, so Bucky allows himself a moments repose,
crouches down and rests his folded arms on his knees, his head on his arms. He
stares at the dark little world created in the gaps between his limbs, at the
moss on the floor of the forest, at the mud caked on his boots, and does not
think of blood. The blood on shirts, oozing out of cuts, pumping through
arteries, the blood of the men bustling around him, talking, laughing, wounds
with water from the stream. It’d be sweet with relief and joy he knows, even if
it was a little thinner than it should be. He’d only need a stomachful. If he
picked one of the healthier guys, they’d probably be fine. One of them who’d
only been forced to work, instead of pinned down to a table like an insect, cut
into. One of the lucky ones, they’d be fine, and he could be strong again, he
could use his speed to make sure Steve stayed safe-
“Hey, Bucky.” It’s Steve.
He looks up, tries to find a smile, but can’t, so doesn’t plaster on a fake
one. Steve would see through it.
“You haven’t drunk anything, have you? Selfless idiot - there’s enough to go
around, if we’re careful. Here, have some.” Steve holds out a canteen, and it
sloshes with empty, flavourless water. It’ll do nothing for him, he knows that.
It’s not what he needs.
“Thanks Stevie.”
He takes the canteen, does not grab Steve’s wrist with it’s purple-blue-green
veins and an artery under the base of the thumb. He drinks the water, and it
tastes of nothing. It’s hardly similar, really, to what he needs, but he’s so
starved now that it’s enough to make his mouth water and his teeth sharpen and
throb.
“You gonna be alright Buck?” Steve’s watching him worriedly. “I can help you,
if you need. You don’t gotta be proud, you were a prisoner of war. I can-”
“I can walk, Steve. I’m just tired. I need to sleep, and then I’ll be right as
rain.”
“Yeah, well, ok then. But if you start seeing stars again, you tell me,
y’hear?”
“Loud and clear, Captain America,” he smirks, and the smile is real.
“Oh come on, don’t laugh. It was awful. The whole thing was a complete farce, I
was a damn showgirl.”
“What, with tights and a short skirt and everything?”
“Buck-”
“Hey, I’m not mocking. You’d look swell like that, honest. Some thin tights and
a short, short skirt, it’d be great-”
“You talk so much shit Bucky.” But he’s smiling, and there’s a blush on his
cheeks. It turns up when he’s embarrassed, and it turns up other times too.
Bucky likes how a blush looks on him. The red, it makes his eyes so blue. The
red, the hot, so close to his skin-
No.
“We’d better get moving again soon, yeah? I’d say it’s about noon now,” Bucky
says.
Steve glances up in the sky, checks the sun’s position. “That’s about right,
yeah. I’ll go and check that the ones who can’t walk have had water, and then
we’ll get started again.”
“Ok. See you in a bit.”
“I’ll catch you up.” Of course, Steve will stay a while with the ones at the
back, who’re walking slow because they shouldn’t really be walking. He’ll be
making sure that each of them has got someone to hold them up before he makes
his way the front, nominatively to lead, but actually to watch in case Bucky
needs holding up. Of course he will.
Bucky stays down until the last possible moment, when all the other men have
got up again, does not let himself move towards any of them. Does not let any
of them touch him. Most of them know where he’s been, and they let him keep his
distance. It’s lucky for them they do. They are being kind, and their kindness
saves them.
They trek all day, and it’s hard to walk but it’s bearable because he’s upwind
of the wounded and bleeding at the back. He ignores both his pain and hunger by
badgering Steve with questions, learns everything he’s been doing in Bucky’s
absence and all of the knowledge he has about the serum he was injected with.
Bucky can’t help but mourn, in a quiet corner in the back of his mind, for the
tiny kid he’s loved to fuck all of these years. But, really, this is just the
belated appearance of all that should have changed for Steve during puberty, if
he’d had enough food and medicine every winter he got sick. He’s stronger now,
physically powerful enough to finally have a bite big enough for his bark. He’s
safer now from fights and disease, if not war, and he’s happy about the change,
so Bucky is too. He’s angry that Steve found a way to get involved in the war
that Bucky would have done anything to save him from, but Steve is like a
bulldog when he gets an idea stuck in his head, and he was never going to let
his patriotism go. Despite all of the awful things that could have happened to
him, in Brooklyn or in the war, he is still alive, healthier than ever and
safe, and he is with Bucky again. This is what he thinks of, instead of the
hunger pains and increasing desperation.
When they get back to the camp, there is a crowd and a woman, and Steve knows
the woman. Bucky watches Steve look at her, and there is fear, respect and
fierce affection, but there is not lust. He is unsettled nonetheless, but tries
to ignore the feeling. Steve has always liked girls, if perhaps not as much or
in the same way as other guys, and if Steve wants to have her, as well as or
instead of Bucky, he will do nothing to stop it. He doesn't think Steve will
though.
Bucky rouses the crowd to cheer for Steve mostly because he wants Steve to know
that he deserves it, and only partly to break the tension between Steve and the
woman with lipstick-red lips. Then the army bases personnel come forward, and
immediately start organising. He’s not the worst wounded, not anymore, by a
long shot, so when the nurses and the medics rush forward, they take the ones
on make-shift stretchers, or with blood soaking their clothes first. Bucky’s
shirt was put on him when he was on the table, and there’s no blood on it, or
singe marks. He looks gaunt, filthy and starved, but so does everybody. He gets
left alone. Bucky and Steve are manhandled with the rest into the wash tents
which have cold water showers, and he ignores the presence of inviting warm
bodies all around him as he has done all day even as blackness passes in front
of his vision again. He blinks through it and concentrates on ensuring that he
never looses sight of Steve for a minute. They are bundled out when the next
lot of guys get impatient for their turn, and they’re given a change of clothes
because Bucky’s wearing piss-stained stinking rags and Steve’s wearing a USO
costume.
The medical staff may have other priorities, but Stevie will not leave him
alone. He stays by Bucky’s side, he positions himself subtly so that no one
else can get close to him, he’s a warm and solid presence that keeps Bucky
grounded. But Bucky needs to drink, now. He doesn’t think it’s exaggerating to
guess that he will die if he does not. The next man to come close to him when
there’s no one else around may be killed, if it’s not Steve. He might not be
able to stop, he’s so hungry. His hunger scares him. He’s never felt this
starving, this out of control. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s not even sure
if he can stop himself hurting Steve. He needs to get away from everyone, find
an enemy soldier, although they’re in allied territory, or perhaps a hopeless
man on the brink of death, but he can’t, because Steve will not go away.
He finally slips out of sight of Steve while he’s called up to the ranking
officer’s tent, probably for discipline. Bucky’s not worried. If they get
booted out of the army, they get to go home. If Steve gets imprisoned, Bucky
will break him out. Just as soon as he can drink. It’s hard, because he can’t
move fast anymore, can barely move as fast as a normal human, but he scouts
around the camp, tries to find someone alone. But everyone he comes across is
wounded or busy helping wounded people. The normal camp personnel are all
gathered in the mess or the barracks or the hospital tents, trying desperately
to provide enough beds, food and medicine to supply about a hundred and seventy
starving ex-prisoners. No one has so much as wandered off alone for a
cigarette. No dying man has been left alone. Bucky’s not strong enough to catch
someone, and sure as hell not without a struggle, and he can’t get noticed, not
here, not now. If his secret is discovered by soldiers, like this, in a war, he
will be shot through the head. There are no enemy soldiers any nearer than the
Hydra camp they’ve just spent a day’s hike escaping.
It’s ridiculous, that he’s made it this far, that he’s among allies, but he is
still going to die. They’re supposed to be safe now. Him and Steve are back
together, finally. He’d thought, on that table - Bucky can’t leave him now, not
when he’s finally got him back. The soldiers here, some of them are healthy.
They could stand to loose a little blood. He’s a recently liberated prisoner of
war, after all. All of the rest of them, they’re getting shown to the mess,
they’re guzzling down the food, couldn’t he be allowed to just have a taste -
There is no way he can feed, and then Steve is back from Colonel Phillips. He’s
asking, “Have you eaten?”and Bucky’s lying, “Yes,” so Steve leads him to a tent
that is his now, because apparently staging an unsanctioned rescue mission into
enemy territory with only basic military training qualifies you for actual
Captain-hood in this man’s army. The whitish canvas hides them from view, and
when they’re inside, they’re a little ways away from where most of the others
are, the mess and the sleeping quarters and the ordinary barracks, so that no
one can hear them if they talk quietly.
Steve moves in close, so close that Bucky’s drowning in his smell, and says, “I
was so scared you were dead.”
“Yeah, me too, for a while there,” Bucky says, trying not to breathe.
Steve moves in to kiss him but it is too close, the smell of him is
overwhelming, and Bucky blanches. Steve is hurt, Bucky knows, but there’s no
sign of it in his face or voice when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” It’s
probably the fact that he’s hiding his pain so well that makes Bucky’s heart
ache for him.
“It’s not your fault. I’m just - just tired. I just need to sleep.”
“You can sleep here. I’ve told them you’re my friend, that we’ve known each
other forever, and there aren’t enough tents to go around anyway so they said
we could share. There’s another cot, if you want...”
Steve doesn’t want, Bucky knows that.
“It’s fine. Honestly. I do want to be close to you.” God, he wants it.
But he can’t, he should refuse, if he gets too close there’s no way he can
resist-
But he has to, because there is no other option, there is no alternative, he
must bear this. He has to wait until an opportunity presents itself. There is
no other way.
But he does not think that he can make it though the night, unless he feeds, it
has been so long-
“Bucky?”
He’s barely moving, his eyes are staring at a fixed point, and as he blinks, he
realises it’s Steve’s neck.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m fine.” He’s cursing himself for his pathetic lying,
but mostly he’s thinking, need.
They’re alone. Steve is strong. He’s healthy. He can take it.
No.
“Bucky please, talk to me. How can I help? What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
The inside of the tent sways alarmingly.
“Bucky! Hey, what’s going on? You didn’t eat at all, did you? What the hell are
you playing at- Did they drug you? Are you - Oh God, are you-”
“I’m fine.” The lie is so obvious now, when he’s crumpled to his knees on the
floor, and Steve’s the one holding his torso upright.
And then, suddenly, Bucky’s swooping upwards. He’s in Steve’s arms, he’s being
carried, “Just hold on Buck, we’ll get help-”
“No!” If Steve takes him to the medical tent, they’ll notice whatever Zola did.
They’ll have needles, and knives, they’ll have handcuffs, they’ll -
“Ok, ok, Bucky, breathe! I won’t, I won’t take you anywhere.” Steve sinks to
the ground, with Bucky still in his arms, until they rest on the ground. “See?
We’re not going anywhere.”
Bucky’s breathing normally again now, but all he can smell is Steve.
He can’t.
He needs.
“Please...” he says, and it sounds like a dying breath.
“What is it? Bucky, please tell me what you need! Let me get you - food, water,
what...?” Steve sounds desperate, pleading, though Bucky can’t see him because
lifting his face would put his nose too close to Steve’s neck. But Steve wants
to help. Surely he’ll let Bucky take...He doesn’t even have to know...
No. That would be wrong. To do to Steve what he’s done to the others, it’d be
wrong. And what if he can’t stop?
The need is throbbing inside him in time with Steve’s heartbeat.
Steve is saying, “-doctor might help you, I’ll be there the whole time, I won’t
leave for a second-” when Bucky interrupts, “I need to...I need to drink.”
Steve moves to get up, “I can get-”
“No. Stay. I need.” A deep breath, and he can taste Steve’s blood. “I need to
drink your blood.” His voice comes out cracked and broken, and the silence is
still and terrible for a second before Steve coughs, “What?”
“There’s no time. I just. I’m different. I’m wrong. I don’t know what I am. But
I can’t live if I don’t have blood. I need it. I need.”
He can’t meet Steve’s eyes. He’s staring at his neck. He needs, it pulses in
him in time with Steve’s new strong heart beat. Lub-dub, he needs.
Lub-dub, need.
Need.
Need.
Need.
“Can you- You’ll feel better?”
“Yes,” a gasp.
“Then, yes. If it’ll-” Bucky lunges forwards, and his throbbing teeth sink
through Steve’s neck like it’s butter, and he can taste Steve.
When he was fourteen, the first time he drank blood. The first time he had sex.
When they were sixteen, the first time he kissed Steve. The first time he
sucked Steve off. Seventeen, the first time they fuck. Nineteen, his one stolen
taste of Steve’s blood. The first time he drained a man completely. None of it,
not any of it, was as good as this.
Steve’s blood pumps into his mouth, and it sinks into bloodstream, into his
flesh, like liquid light. His body lights up like he’s on fire. Every single
fucking nerve is screaming pleasure. His head is a mess of need, satisfaction
and a higher high than he’s ever reached before. He feels like he’s a single
point of awareness in an entire universe of ecstasy. He feels surrounded by,
cushioned in, buoyed up with bliss. It feels like coming home, and coming, at
the same time. His dick is hard, but it feels like it’s a long way away, it’s
only a fraction of the sensation he’s experiencing. This is so much more than
just arousal. This is everything.
Steve groans, his voice thrumming through him, Bucky feels it through his teeth
and it trembles through his world. He pulls himself away, and it is the hardest
thing he has ever done, but he can’t hurt Steve, and this, this is wrong. He
licks, once, pulls back and away, crawls blindly backwards until his back hits
a cot. His senses are sped up as if he’d drunk every last trickle of a strong
man’s blood, and he has to focus hard on Steve’s heart beat, has to reassure
himself that he hasn’t made a mistake, that he pulled back in time, that Steve
is safe.
“Bucky,” Steve says, and he sounds drugged, like he does when they’ve been
fucking for hours, on Sunday after church. Bucky has a momentary flash of
habitual pride because I did that, before he realises that all he’s done is
doped Steve with the poison of his body. All he’s done is tainted Steve with
his darkness.
But Steve shifts and his dick is hard between his legs. He liked it. And he’s
not asleep, either, like all of the others were, so whatever they’ve done to
him must protect him from Bucky’s venom, somehow.
“Bucky,” he says again, and Bucky can’t meet his eyes so he stares at the
ground. He can see Steve’s limbs moving towards him, as Steve settles beside
him against the cot, and does not flinch back because he physically can’t make
himself do it. It’s too late now anyway. Steve knows. Bucky can’t protect him
from his filth any longer. Steve’s hand cups his cheek, and he can’t help but
tilt his head into it, because even though he’s pulled away, his heart’s still
beating in time with Steve’s. The hunger’s gone, he is as strong as he’s ever
been, but he still...needs. He doesn’t know what. He’s never felt like this
before. He’s never felt so much.
Steve’s fingers are brushing gently over his cheekbone, and they still feel the
same, they’re still artists’ hands, the calluses are still the same. Steve’s
thumb strokes Bucky’s mouth, his lips, and he stifles the whine in his throat,
but he can’t stop his eyes from fluttering closed, because his teeth are so
sensitive and Steve’s skin is so close, Bucky can smell him. Steve’s thumb
parts his lips and he’s powerless to resist, lets his jaw fall open. Steve
strokes across Bucky’s teeth, and somehow it must be obvious that they’re
changed now, Bucky doesn’t know, he’s never seen his face in a mirror like
this, and he hears Steve’s sharp intake of breath. Bucky glances at Steve’s
face, and he looks...wondering? Not afraid. Not disgusted. Just amazed. And
then a rage ripples through his features, his cupped palm turns into a fist and
Bucky jolts with fear before he says, “Did Zola do this to you?”
“No! No, Steve, don’t worry, it’s not...” He trails off. It’s not unnatural?
It’s not evil? Of course it is.
“Then how did this happen? How did you...get like this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t.” He turns his head away from Steve’s face, so close,
turns his cheek into Steve’s fist, and it opens and cups his face again. He
wants it, he wants all of it, all of the affection he can get, just in case
Steve takes it away again. He could. If he does, Bucky has nothing.
Bucky takes a deep breath. “I’ve always been like this. Since- I think I was
born like it. Sister Maria told me that my mother said my father was the devil.
I don’t know what that makes me.”
“What? Our whole lives? When we were kids you were-?” and he stops himself.
Inhuman, a parasite, a demon.“Yeah.”
“But how did you-” feed. “I would have noticed. How did you hide it for so
long?”
“I fed off bullies, after fights. Girls, after dates.”
“No one ever knew?”
“They forget. Usually, they pass out, forget what happened. I just say, you
fainted for a moment.”
Steve’s hand is on his neck now, his other hand is on his thigh. His tone is
quiet, calm and neutral when he says, “You ever do that to me before, Buck?”
Bucky chokes on, “No!” it comes out so fast.
“Why not?”
His thoughts freeze, “What?”
Steve licks his lips, glances down. “It felt good.”
“You- It- You liked that?” Steve’s lips twitch in a smile for a second, then he
says, “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Yeah?”
“Bucky that felt - it was - It felt good. It felt like being...overwhelmed.
Everything just went out of focus and there wasn’t anything left
except...feeling good. It was like a rush of hot and white, and then like
floating. It felt, well." Steve's blushing now. "It felt like sex. I really
wouldn't mind doing it again.”
Bucky blinks, reorientates his world view. “Oh.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Well, it doesn’t feel like that when I just bite my tongue.” Steve snorts. “I
didn’t know it could feel all that good. I thought it was just, nothing. Like
they just passed out.”
“Right. Well. It’s nice.”
“Ok.”
“Are you- I feel stupid just saying it, but are you a vampire?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Are there other-”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone like me. Or - not human. The only thing I
know is that whatever my father was is the reason my mother couldn’t bear to
raise me herself. And none of that shit about garlic or the day time seems to
apply, obviously.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“So. Let me get this straight. For our entire lives, you’ve been feeding on
blood to survive, and you’ve been...drinking from the girls you dated, and you
never bit me, and you’ve kept all of this a secret from me because...?”
Bucky can’t keep up with this turn of events fast enough to reply
intelligently. “I, uh, I thought it’d be...You wouldn’t like it?”
Steve’s eyes go unbearably soft at that, though there is no pity. “You thought
I’d leave you?”
Bucky says nothing. Yes he’d thought that. And he wouldn’t have blamed Steve.
“I’m not gonna leave you Bucky. Not over anything. I swear. I’m with you until
the end of the line, remember?”
Bucky can feel tears in his eyes as he huffs a laugh. “You sure about that? No
take-backs.”
Steve smiles, a small, sad smile, and leans forward to press his forehead
against Bucky’s. “’m sure.”
“‘k.”
They rest like that for a long moment. Bucky breathes in Steve’s breath, smells
nothing but Steve, focuses on his touch, and this is how it is supposed to be.
This is his place. He has never doubted it, and he has still never been surer
of it than he is at this moment. Steve knows everything he is, he knows all of
the worst things that Bucky’s done, but he is still here. Steve will always be
here.
And then suddenly he can’t keep his hands off Steve. His lips slip to Steve’s,
his hands find Steve’s the bottom of Steve’s shirt and move up under it.
They’re in an awkward position, sitting side by side and twisted to face each
other, so Bucky moves on top of Steve, grinds their groins together, relishes
the way he doesn’t have to be careful not to crush this hulking new Steve, and
kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Steve responds immediately, and
Bucky, thinking nothing but, perfect perfect always so good so right here
mine, whines into his mouth. He moves down, off Steve’s mouth and down across
his jaw, onto his neck and presses his open mouth against the pulse-point,
feels the beat of blood right beneath his tongue, and Steve said it was ok. He
feels loose, open, needy. He wants, and Steve is here, and he can have. He has
never been able to have blood and have Steve at the same time before, it’s
always been one or the other, never both and it’s, God, it’s-
“Hey, hey, Bucky, it’s alright.” Steve’s hands are steady at his sides. Bucky
realises that his kisses taste of tears.
“Sorry,” he gasps, swallows. “I’m sorry. I just thought, if you ever found out,
you’d- you wouldn’t want me anymore. I was scared. But you do, you’re still
here. And you’re strong now, I won’t be able to hurt you. You saved me - I
thought - fuck.”
Steve’s hands moving soothingly up and down his ribcage as he shivers and
breathes before he can say, “Love you.”
Steve says, “I love you too Buck,” while Bucky skims his humming teeth across
Steve’s neck and feels the thrum of his voice and nearly groans with it. And
Steve’s always liked when Bucky lets go, and now his hands are stroking more
down than up, his waist and his hips, pushing and controlling just a little,
Bucky’s groin down into Steve’s.
He has to check, “You’re sure you’re ok. You’re not lightheaded or hazy, or-”
“I’m good, Buck, I swear. I feel good. I want you.”
There’s a hungry, dark voice inside Bucky now, and it’s telling him, you only
took a few mouthfuls. You didn’t even take as much as you used to in Brooklyn.
Sure, Bucky’s not hungry anymore, but he’s not full. Somehow even a little of
Steve’s blood is enough to make him feel stronger now, but it hasn’t sated him.
Yet. And Steve is so strong now, the venom or whatever it is in his spit barely
even affected him, and he enjoyed it. So there is no reason, no reason
whatsoever, not to drink from him again. And Steve’s pressing up against him,
cock hard and lips soft, his skin smooth and eyes bright and Steve, and he’s so
eager. Bucky could take, his lips over Steve’s neck, his cock throbbing, his
teeth buzzing and his cheeks flushed and his heart one-two-three time with
Steve’s, he could just take a little more -
“Please,” he says, and it is partly begging and partly prayer for forgiveness,
because he’s sure this is wrong but he can’t resist any more, “Please, Stevie.”
He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.
“You want more?”
Yes. “Please,” he says.
“Ok. I...” Steve pulls back a little, so he can look Bucky in the eye, and
Bucky has no idea what he sees there, but his hands grip tighter to Bucky’s
hips. Steve says, calmly, although he’s still a little out of breath, “You
could kill me, if you went too far, couldn’t you?”
“No-” he’s shaking his head and shaking all over-
“I know, I know you wouldn’t. Just tell me. You could, couldn’t you.”
“I...have.” He never wanted Stevie to know this, he never wanted him to see
this part of him, he never wanted to stain Steve with the filth he lives in.
Steve hasn’t left him yet, and it’s a miracle. He would leave himself if he
could. He wishes he could be normal, human, for Steve. But he’s not and has
never been.
“That’s ok.” Steve’s hands on his face, brushing into his hair, and he still
can’t look away, still doesn’t know what Steve can see in his eyes. “Everyone’s
killed someone in war.”
It’s horribly jarring, to hear words like that coming out of Steve, Steve who
is good, Steve who is uncompromisingly moral, but this is not Brooklyn. This is
not their apartment. This is not home. “Yes,” Bucky says.
“Listen carefully, Bucky, ‘cause I need you to know this: I trust you. I’d
trust you with a loaded gun pointed at my head with the safety off, and I trust
you with this. I know you won’t hurt me. Ok?”
It’s like they’re eighteen and innocent all over again. It’s- Steve’s placing
his life in Bucky’s hands. He knows everything and he still-
“I love you. I won’t hurt you,” Bucky swears.
“I know.”
Bucky pulls back and off Steve fast and jerky, forces himself onto his feet and
pulls Steve up with him. He’s stronger than he has been for a while now, and
before he would have been scared of hurting Steve, would have hidden care
behind ever movement so Steve wouldn’t see it and start bitching, but now he
can just let go, so manhandles Steve roughly onto the cot, pushes him down onto
it. He pulls off his own shirt, undoes Steve’s with hands that blur, because
old habits die hard and he’s not ripping the buttons off a perfectly good
shirt. Steve barely has time to blink by the time he’s done, says, “You could
do this all this time and you hid it from me?”
“No. It never used to be like this. Only recently, when I...when I drank a man
until he died. And now, apparently, from whatever’s in your blood.”
“It’s incredible-” Steve’s interrupted by Bucky undoing his pants, pulling
until they come down far enough Steve’s legs that he can kick them off. Then he
takes off his own, his underpants with them, until they’re both naked, and he
climbs on top of the covers, next to Steve. He pushes Steve to the side so that
he can lie flat, and then pulls Steve on top of him.
“So you can pull away. Just in case,” he says, and brings Steve’s hand up to
his mouth, starts licking long stripes across his palm to distract him so he
doesn’t object. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t trust himself, but this
is Steve. He has to be sure, he has to take every precaution.
Steve presses his fingers gently against Bucky’s open mouth until he takes them
in. He laves his tongue around each finger individually, keeps eye contact with
Steve.
“Fuck,” Steve says, “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
He turns his fingers slowly, so gently, presses them against Bucky’s sensitive,
hot-cold buzzing teeth, and Bucky moans in his throat, lets his eyes roll back
in his head.
“That’s good? You like that?”
Steve doesn’t really want an answer, and anyway his mouth’s full, but Bucky
moans again, low in his throat, in affirmative.
“They’re different now. Your teeth. They’re...longer. Or maybe it’s just
because I can see them...they’re so sharp. I’d never really noticed. You like
me touching them, huh?”
Bucky moans again but Steve’s still talking.
“Does it feel like that when we’re kissing? Does it feel good when my tongue’s
stroking over them?”
Bucky pulls Steve’s fingers out of his mouth before he bites, guides them down
to Steve’s cock, gasps, “In me, now.”
He feels Steve’s cock through his fingers, and he wasn’t small before but now
he’s proportional to his towering new frame, and he opens his mouth to speak
before Steve says, “Not a damn word.”
So Bucky swallows down, why Captain, someone must be happy to see me, and
instead smiles the way he feels, like the cat that got the cream, and then
gives his own fingers a far less thorough and more hurried coating before
pushing inside himself, rubbing, pressing, pushing where he needs it. Steve
strokes his hand slick with spit over his dick, while Bucky scissors his
fingers, pushes another in, and there’s burning and stretch and it hurts but it
doesn’t matter because he heals in seconds and he needs Steve in him now.
Steve’s nipping kisses over his jaw, neck, chest, licking over his nipple and
it nearly makes him shout out. He stifles it though; they’ve both had a lot of
practice at that.
When he feels like he’s about to burst he chokes, “Steve,” and he pulls his
fingers out of himself, and Steve lines himself up to Bucky’s entrance. He
waits, the fucker, until Bucky’s made eye contact with him, and then he pushes
in slow and sweet and painful and perfect. It’s still good but Bucky can feel
every fraction of an inch of Steve’s new girth and length, and he’s kinda glad
Steve’s going in slower than normal. Bucky used to hold himself over Steve this
way, ride his cock, but now, it’s Steve above him, pressing into him, hot and
huge above him. It’s new but it’s not bad because it’s Steve. He’s trapped but
he’s not afraid. He never could be.
Steve’s bottomed out now, but he’s not moving gently like Bucky would, he’s
holding back in a way that Bucky’s never dared to, because of the way Steve
would feel if he thought that Bucky couldn’t take it. Bucky realises, now, just
exactly how frustrating it is.
Steve asks, softly, “This ok?” and Bucky grunts, “‘Course it fucking is, you’re
barely moving. Come on.”
So Steve does, and it’s- fuck, Bucky’s missed this so much. He’s missed Steve
so much, he’s felt his absence every other waking moment. The sex, he’s missed
too, although it hasn’t really been that much of a priority. Of course, now
he’s drowning in the ecstasy of Steve’s touch again he doesn’t know how he’s
ever gone a day without it. The pressure and the friction deep inside, it sings
into pleasure at the same time as flashing into pain. It’s beyond intimate to
be so close to Steve, to have Steve touching him inside as well as his hands
skimming along his sides, lips on his lips and his jaw and his shoulders and
collarbones as he moves over him and through him. Steve’s throat is so close,
Bucky can see the blood moving through his jugular, he can almost taste it, hot
and salty and incredible. He reaches up - he can’t help himself, Steve said he
could, Steve trust him, it’ll taste so good - he licks across Steve’s pulse,
sucks, just a little. His skin is salty and nearly tastes right, so close, and
he lets out a whimper. Steve notices, of course he does. He ducks his head
down, lowers himself on his elbows so he’s closer to Bucky, until their chests
are almost completely pressed together, and Steve can hear his voice rumble
through him as he says, “You can take it, Bucky. You can bite.”
Bucky tries, one more time, in what he feels is a Herculean effort, “I don’t
want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t hurt. I like it. I-” he huffs out a breath, “I want you to do it.”
Fuck. At this point, Bucky decides that if God didn’t intend for him to bend to
temptation, he wouldn’t have made Steve so ridiculously tempting. Steve’s neck
is right there, so he bites, and the blood spills down into his mouth. And
Bucky’s lying on his back with his legs splayed open around Steve as Steve
fucks into him, melting him inside and his arms bracket Bucky’s head, Bucky’s
kissing the bite letting the blood trickle between his lips, so gently, not
sucking even the slightest, and it feels better than drinking a man dry. It
doesn’t matter that they’re in some godforsaken camp in the middle of nowhere
and a war, this is heaven. Steve, over him, is making the sweetest little
noises, whining in his throat and brokenly moaning deep in his chest, his pace
is fast and his dick is hard, and this is so obviously not in any way hurting
him. So Bucky can just...let go.
 
 
 
When they’re twenty four, Bucky begs him to let them both go home to Brooklyn,
but Steve won’t, so they don’t. It’s his fucking moral compass, and Bucky
sometimes wishes he could tear it out of him, but then where would the pair of
them be? Following Steve into battle is the same as following him into back
alley fights is the same as loving him. Bucky would die to protect him, but he
doesn’t have to. They have a team now, the Howling Commandos. Officially,
Bucky’s the sniper, and it’s true that he’s good with a gun. But he’s so much
faster now, and firing a gun is not all he can do. He is so fast that, Steve
told him, his body is a blur to human eyes, they can’t track him when he moves.
They experiment with his strength together, after the first night, and he is as
strong as Steve. Stronger, if Steve is tired, because Bucky doesn’t get tired
anymore. Not while he’s drinking Steve’s blood. He refuses to take more than a
mouthful at a time, he refuses to take any of Steve’s strength while they’re in
a war zone, and he only takes as much as he does so that he is powerful enough
to better protect Steve. It’s too much like caving into the temptation that
he’s been fighting all of his life, when he drinks from Steve, and the only way
he knows it’s not a sin is because it’s helping him keep Steve safe. It feels
sinful. In the night, in tents and dug outs, as far away from the other men as
Steve’s rank will allow and silent with the benefit of years of practice,
fucking. Perfect, and sinful. Don’t that just say it all.
It’s different now, from how it used to be. Steve’s body is towering now, but
he’s still beautiful. Bucky doesn’t even have time to worry about their dynamic
shifting before he realises it couldn’t. Steve’s better able to protect himself
now, but Bucky is in no way redundant because there is an infinitely greater
scope for Steve to get himself killed in war-torn Europe even than there was in
the least friendly parts of the slums back home. They are the same way together
now the same way they always were. The fact that Steve is officially his
commanding officer apparently doesn’t matter much, in this surreal situation
they’ve all found themselves in, where an idealist artistic-type punk with
boxing and Basic training has been super-sized and put in command of a mixed
race band of thrill-seeking pyromaniacs, and no one can tell him no because
everyone back home knows him as the face of war bonds. So although Steve is
nominally the leader, and they’d all follow his orders in a combat situation or
die trying, most of the time it just kinda feels like they’re a pack of idiots
let loose on the enemy by high command with an air of mild regret and
incredulousness.
It’s odd and improbable, but it’s how he’s got to live now. He goes camping
with Steve and a bunch of unknown but friendly men for days, sometimes weeks of
just getting into and out of enemy territory, scouting out targets and
assessing bases, with interludes of violent and terrifying firefights. Bucky
kills soldiers before they have a chance to shoot and he takes eight bullets
for his team just the first battle they have. After that, they’re deeper into
enemy territory, and he looses count. His blood doesn’t even have time to stain
his uniform before the wounds heal, the bullets falling to the floor.
Officially being a sniper, ostensibly staying away from the fighting, is a good
cover for remaining uninjured and remaining invisible whilst soldiers drop
around them, but the others, they know that there’s something not right about
him. Dum Dum saw him heal in days from a blast that should have killed or at
least permanently crippled him, and the others may not be able to see him when
he moves, but they know he turns up in places he shouldn’t faster than should
be possible. But they also know that Bucky is Steve’s right hand man, his
trusted childhood friend. Bucky’s always been great at putting on a charm when
he needs it, and he puts it on now. It doesn’t feel right, being friendly and
open with strangers after everything that’s happened. He trusted one team and
lost them. But he is stronger now, and Steve is here now, and it will not
happen again. He trusts Dum Dum and makes friends with the rest of the
Commandos, Morita, Gabe, Falsworth, Dernier and in a couple of months he trusts
them too. He has to trust the men at his back in order to sleep at night, and
they are good men. And they know, probably, that he is not normal. He thinks
they know that whilst Steve is their leader, Bucky is the reason that none of
the Commandos loose their lives in action. He thinks that’s part of why they
protect both of them with their silence. He could be wrong.
Really, what makes him trust them the most is the way they seem to know that he
and Steve aren’t normal either, and they never do or say anything about it. So
as they know the Commandos longer, Steve and Bucky stop trying to hide quite
the way they have been so far. They’ve been sharing a tent the whole time,
because they can only carry so many tents so pairing up makes sense, but after
Falsworth opens the door on them with their blankets, pillows and sleeping bags
swirled into one communal mess, and Bucky bleary-eyed and sex-mussed in Steve’s
sleeping, fingerprint-bruised arms, and only says, “Coffee’s ready. It’s bloody
cold out here and if the rest of us have to deal with it, I don’t see why you
two should get to rest easy, I don’t care how romantic it is,” that they stop
pretending they aren’t sleeping together too.
They start sitting as close together around the campfire at mealtimes as they
would if they were alone. Steve leans on Bucky when he’s tired, the way he
would back in their apartment, and Bucky decides he likes the reverse as well,
now that Steve’s boney shoulders are well padded and cushioned with muscle.
However, they don’t go any further than that, in public, not when Dum Dum
watches Steve play with Bucky’s overlong hair as his head rests in Steve’s lap
with an uneasy expression on his face. Bucky knows Steve just gave him a
reproachful look and continued, but in private he asks Steve if they can just
avoid explicitly affectionate stuff like that around the Commandos, because,
“It’s not Dum Dum’s fault, it’s just how it is. I mean, you were literally
braiding my hair. I know Morita doesn’t care for it much either. It’s only down
to their loyalty to you that they’re coping so well as it is. I don’t want to
push any of them past breaking point. They’re good men, they just think
differently about it that the others do. Hell, we’d probably be like that if we
weren’t, well, how we are.”
Steve sighs, mutters, “Breaking point, what breaking point, they all already
know we’re fucking,” but he isn’t as obvious as that again in public. They’ve
always been silent, they’ve never kissed in front of anyone else and their
marks have always been strictly bellow the collarbones. They are well practiced
at being surreptitious, so they just keep up the charade. It’s a bloody good
job that no one else can see through Steve’s attempts at lying like Bucky can.
He seems to have picked up at least enough skill to fool everybody else,
probably from Bucky, at some point over the years. Bucky still knows when he’s
hiding something, but Steve manages to pull the wool over everybody else’s
eyes, just about.
Although, Steve does still hold Bucky’s hand tight enough that his knuckles go
white when Bucky gets hit with shrapnel to the stomach and they can’t get back
to base in time, so Morita has to get it out and there’s no anaesthetic, and he
does finger-comb Bucky’s hair off his sweat coated forehead and murmur, “You’re
ok, you’re ok, I got you, you’re so strong, I know it hurts but you’re safe
now, only a little longer and then it’ll stop, you’re doing so good, I’m so
proud of you, you’re safe,” continuously to him whilst Bucky’s eyes blurred
with tears.
And after one particularly difficult, drawn out and complicated Hydra base
takedown with more than a few close calls is followed by a week’s R&R in
London, it is true that Bucky, elated with the fact of their continued
existence to the point of feeling high on endorphins, bites his own tongue on
purpose and deliberately drips a few drops of his blood into Steve’s mouth
while they’re fucking for the very first time, which makes Steve come with a
moan louder than any noise he’s ever made during sex before. It’s a strangled
scream caught in his throat, it tips Bucky over the edge instantly because it’s
the hottest thing he’s ever heard, and although it’s definitely loud enough for
the others to hear in their adjacent rooms, no one ever says a thing about it,
save for Gabe clapping Bucky’s shoulder at breakfast and laughing at a comment
of Dernier’s, the only word of which Bucky can understand is “rabbits”.
There is also the time when Bucky doesn’t take too kindly to a beautiful woman
in liberated Paris propelling herself onto Steve’s lap and kissing her way
across his cheeks and down his neck before Bucky can yank her off, which
results in dark bruises sucked across Steve’s collarbones and up his neck that
evening which Bucky is very careful not to allow his spit to aid the healing
of. They fade in two days, but they last a while first, fading into beautiful
yellow, purple and blue blossoms under Steve’s skin that are clearly visible,
and all the Commandos know that Steve didn’t bring anyone else back to the room
he shares with Bucky last night. So the other Commandos know, and they don’t
mind, and they don’t try to stop them, and that, more than anything, makes
Bucky trust them with his life. And he and Steve test the limits, but they
don’t break them in public.
In private, Bucky enjoys learning all the new ways he can make Steve come. When
they don’t have a night mission, when it’s not his or Steve’s turn to look out,
when they have the canvas walls of a tent to protect them from eyes and the
elements, that is what he lives for. Steve’s body under his or over, Steve in
him or him in Steve, and Steve’s blood in Bucky’s mouth. He learns to take a
tiny sip at a time, to let it heal up before biting again, because if he takes
too much at once he comes and Steve loves the way the venom feels in him, but
it’s effects don’t last long. Steve says it feels like a drug, like he’s drunk.
If Bucky’s careful, it’s something he can make Steve beg for. He’ll give, and
give, and give, and stop just when Steve’s about to come, completely untouched,
or perhaps only with a single finger in his ass, pressing and rubbing him in a
way that was easy to relearn, despite his body’s altered topography. Sometimes
it’s enough to make Steve cry, and Bucky tells himself it’s ok to enjoy how
beautiful he looks doing it because Steve's cock is weeping too. He likes to
tease Steve as well, to give him something close enough to what he wants to be
maddening, but not enough to get him off. Steve needs the venom in his
bloodstream, but Bucky likes the way he can get Steve to open his mouth wide
and watch with eager eyes as Bucky lets his spit slowly stretch and drip down
into his mouth. The way he swallows convulsively and licks his lips for more.
Bucky likes the way it looks when he gives Steve relief too, when he finally
bites Steve’s bicep and licks and laves at it, finger-fucks him though it and
leans back to watch Steve coming with his hands obediently clasped behind his
neck.
And if Bucky’s spit gets him off, Bucky’s blood drives Steve wild. Just a drop
on his lips will make Steve’s eyes roll back in his head in anticipatory
pleasure, and any more will force gorgeous punched-out sounding whimpers, moans
and pleas from deep inside his chest which Bucky knows for a fact no one else
has ever heard. It can make him writhe and gasp like he’s shocked that anything
can feel this good. It can make him clutch onto Bucky’s limbs like he’s the
only real thing Steve knows. It can make him arch up and present his ass for
Bucky like getting fucked is a physical need he’ll die without. A drop of
Bucky’s blood can get Steve from nothing to fully hard in seconds, and it makes
him pretty fun to play with. All Bucky has to do is bite his own lip and get
Steve alone for a second in the morning, and after that he can lick his lips
and the tips of Steve’s ears go red. Bucky’s careful though, of course he is.
He doesn’t distract Steve when they’ve got a real mission to focus on, only in
the aftermath, the debrief, any off-duty second they can get. Also he knows
it’s probably bullshit, like the stuff about garlic and the crosses, but he
doesn’t want to risk making Steve like he is. Steve tends to make it hard for
him though. He likes to say things like, “I need it, please, please don’t do
this to me. I’m begging you, I’ll do anything. It feels so good, you can’t just
give me something that feels like that and then take it away. God, it’s like -
it’s like after Project Rebirth, it’s like finally being able to breathe, it’s
like being able to run," and sometimes he comes out with shit like "It’s like
there are stars in my head and my blood and suns on your lips, please Bucky,
please just give me a taste.” Fucking romantic idiot poet. How that counts as
dirty talk, he's got no idea, but it sure as hell gets Bucky going.
Steve talks like it’s a drug, sure, and he talks like he’s addicted, but Bucky
knows better. Bucky says he’s just glad Steve likes it, smiles, kisses him, and
doesn’t tell him that he knows it can’t feel like a drug for Steve, because
Steve can still think straight without it, he isn’t crippled by longing, he can
still blush in front of beautiful fierce Agent Carter, can still keep his mind
on the mission. He doesn’t tell Steve that he doesn’t know the first thing
about addiction, because the way Bucky craves him, every part of him, in every
single moment he is aware is beyond any emotion a rational, sane man could
experience. Bucky doesn’t know, now, how he could live without this. There is
no going back from this. And that’s kind of terrifying, because if Steve said
no, if Steve told him to go...he doesn’t know if he could. The way he longs for
Steve is a force inside him, and he doesn’t know if it’s strong enough to
overwhelm every other part of him, including his conscience. He thinks it might
be.
Steve learns ways round his tricks, Steve learns cut his own tongue on Bucky’s
teeth and get his own back when Bucky resorts to tearing his clothes off like
an adolescent. They have an argument and Bucky refuses to drink from him for a
week, taking only from enemy soldiers, and after Steve ends their fight by
pinning Bucky down and forcing his forearm into Bucky’s mouth, coerces him to
drink until he’s completely out of his head with it Steve does it again and
again. He does it because he says he likes the way Bucky curls into and clings
onto him after like he can’t help himself, how adorable he is when he stays
completely immobile even after Steve pulls away, can only spread his legs to
get fucked. Bucky lets him because that much of Steve’s blood means he can hear
the sound of Steve’s blood pulsing through the arteries buried deep inside him,
he can feel the thrum of Steve’s pulse in every inch of Steve's flesh including
the inches buried inside him, he can hear the creak of his bones and rush of
his breathing as Steve moves over him, he can see the individual muscles
contracting inside Steve’s irises as they dilate and, really, he is helpless to
stop himself. He’s careful though. He only lets Steve restrain him like that
when they don’t have a mission later.
Bucky takes bullets and shoots bullets, drinks as much as he can from the enemy
whenever he can, drinks from Steve whenever he allows himself the euphoria, and
it must be ok, because it’s in order to protect Steve, and he’s lost track of
what’s right and wrong now but it doesn’t matter just as long as Steve stays
alive. Sometimes, some missions, there are moments when he can't be sure, and
his ears rush with rapids and his vision speeds up and gets slower at the same
time, his muscles freeze and turn shaky. But he always gets there in time,
Steve always dodges the shot or the blow or the debris. With Steve's strength
and Bucky's power, he lets himself believe that they can make it out of this
alive.
 
 
 
When he’s twenty six, Bucky falls off a train.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ten hours later, they find him. They are amazed to find him whole, and alive.
His left side was almost shredded when they find him, his left arm mostly torn
off, but he heals by the time they bring him back to the facility like no human
ever could, until he is almost scarless. They keep him restrained, test him.
They realise that he is the same man that Arnim Zola reported to have
unparalleled strength, endurance and healing power, which nonetheless decreased
drastically in the time that Zola had him. This man is strong enough to heal in
a day what would kill another man, but by the third day they have him he’s as
weak as a child. Whilst he is still lucid, he will not talk, although it
appears that most pain-related methods of torture are as effective on him as
they would be on an average person. Sleep deprivation appears to be
quantitively less effective on him, although over the course of a week, it
takes it’s toll. His core temperature is unusually low, and decreases with the
progression of time he is held captive. His blood contains most of the expected
components, although he does not appear to have a blood type. However, it also
has traces of organic molecules which are completely unknown to science, the
function of which can only be guessed at. The man is an enigma.
It’s puzzling, until the man, almost delirious, apparently, with pain and
exhaustion from their methods of testing, begs for blood. Within minutes of the
request being granted in the form of donated human blood in a bag, he is
restored to full health.
(These are men of science. But they have heard the stories. Everyone knows the
stories. Everyone knows about vampires. No one writes the word down on paper.
Everyone knows vampires do not exist.)
They conclude that he has some kind of supersoldier serum, like Captain
America’s, but that the Americans must have kept it under wraps because of it’s
side effects, namely his boundless lust for blood. It would be disturbing for
the American public to know what the US government has done to Captain
America’s best friend. They, however, have absolutely no issue with a strong,
fast, bloodthirsty super soldier.
The first thing they try to do is, of course, to replicate the effects of the
serum. There is no end to what they could do of an army of men like him. At
first, (lead by the myths that none of them believe in) they try feeding some
of his blood to an ordinary human. It looks hopeful at first; his blood has
restorative properties for the recipient, and also produces an affect which
appears to be comparable to an endorphin high, although it appears to be
longer-lasting and more potent, coupled with a slight amnesiac effect. However,
although his blood is useful for wound healing, it does not permanently effect
the subject's biology in any way.
Next, they try direct transfusion, and although that heightens the effects of
the natural high induced, no permanent transformation of the hosts’ tissue is
recorded, no matter how much blood is pumped into them. Instead, they try to
isolate and identify the individual unique components of his blood, but they
cannot understand the structure or functions of the molecules they find, so
they cannot replicate their effects. It is obvious that his teeth are sharper,
his muscles faster, his brain less fatiguable and his spit a natural drug, but
none of those things on it’s own results in a creature like him. The teeth and
the spit are of no use to them, and the secrets of his muscles and brain appear
so deeply lodged in his blood, glands and digestive system that to uncover them
would require nothing less than a vivisection that would quickly become an
autopsy, and then they would loose the only specimen like him that they had. 
(This is looking less and less like something the Americans could have done.
This is nothing like Project Rebirth. Still, no one says the words. But this
man has not been engineered. He must have been born.)
It's a last ditch effort, they know, but their superiors require results, and
soon. So they try sexual reproduction. There's no point in using sexual
intercourse for insemination - there is no way that the subject would
cooperate. He fights them at every opportunity he gets, constantly tries to
escape their imprisonment and requires restraints for even the most simple
procedures. Instead, a semen sample is procured. The subject struggles and
complains, but whatever his physiology, it transpires that he is still as
vulnerable to their methods as any human male. A combination of drugs and
specialised machinery does it's job. They artificially inseminate ten female
surrogates, to start with. Of course, if all goes well, they will soon
inseminate more. Seven of the women miscarriage, within weeks. Three of them
carry to full term, but the products of the pregnancies are stillborn. Whatever
the Americans have done to this man, they have changed him enough that his
genetics are no longer compatible with a humans.
Or, whatever he is, he is not a human, and possibly never was. They still do
not write the word vampire on paper. But it is possible that the subject is a
different species. In which case, it is suspected that there are some members
of the population who do have the ability to procreate with this species,
although they must be in the extreme minority. Perhaps there are some with a
genetic predisposition allowing successful conception, or perhaps it is only
with another member of the same race that reproduction is possible, perhaps
sexual reproduction would have been an option, if this were not the only one of
whatever species he is that they've ever seen.
The explanation is unclear. The classification of the subject is unclear.
Perhaps if they had enough time, enough funding, to canvas a racially and
geographically diverse population, to inseminate many more women. But they do
not have the time, or the money. The project has already gone over it's
allotted budget. The profitable world war is over, and this new silent secret
war receives a lot less government funding. They conclude that they cannot make
more of him, whatever he is, so he’s going to have to be good enough. It is
unfortunate, but they still at least have this one perfect soldier.
If only he would do as he is damn well told. They subject him to the normal
reconditioning process. Sleep deprivation, torture, solitary confinement, a
relentless training schedule. Still, the first time they give him a mission
with the promise of a full blood meal at the end of it, they nearly loose him
in the field. They punish him aptly of course, and the second time they starve
him first, but this time he escapes and lasts almost two days out of their
custody. 
So they transfer him to Russia’s Red Room for an experimental combination of
the new mind-editing technology and drug therapy, and it works marvellously.
The man has no memory of his past life, or self, and will do and believe
whatever they tell him. They own him, right down to the soul. He stops
struggling, stops trying to escape, mostly, and once he has none of his self
left to cling to in resistance, pain appears to be a much more effective
motivator. So they tell him that the war against America is for the greater
good, that his loyalties lie with Mother Russia and Hydra, and condition him to
drink from no one but his target. Effective as he is, the newly christened
Winter Soldier is unfortunately expensive to maintain between missions, because
the electroshock reprogramming has to be done at least three times a week and
it takes six times as much of the normal dosage of the drugs to make him
adequately complacent, so they put him on ice when he is not needed.
Overall, the project is eventually very profitable, and continues to be so over
many years. Of course, one day the subject will become too expensive to
maintain, or his mental or physical state will deteriorate until he is useless,
and then he will be decommissioned, but his hardy biology will probably ensure
the continuation of the project for the forceable future. Decades, possibly. 
 
 
 
He does not know who or what he is. He does not know how old he is, he does not
know his name. All he knows is that he is a soldier, the Winter Soldier, and
this is a war. His superiors tell him that he is a weapon, that he is
superhuman. They call him Fist of Hydra, and it means animal. They keep him in
a cage, wash him with hoses, punish him for ever acting as if he were human,
for trying to speak or ask questions or beg, for trying to be friends with team
members or for showing mercy to targets, for refusing or resisting orders, or
for trying to own things. They let him out to feed, but only on the people they
want him to. They keep him cold when they don’t need him. When he wakes they
feed him on blood through an IV drip but it is barely enough to keep him alive,
it does not fill his stomach and it does not sate him. They equip him with the
weapons he needs, and they send him out on missions and he kills people.
Sometimes he is allowed to drink them, and it is bliss and hell. Drinking a
person dry is the most intense pleasure he has ever experienced, but the moment
he feels the heart stop beating it feels like his does too, it feels like a
part of him dies with his target. If there is no time or he has to use a gun,
they feed him when he gets back to base, when he gets back from his mission,
the blood is in bags but he can take as much as he wants and it is almost as
good. They clean him next, cold jets aimed at his body. And then they- 
It’s the procedure. It’s necessary to maintain optimum functioning. It’s a
necessary evil, a little like him. It recalibrates his brain to make it easy
for him to follow orders. It makes him a more efficient weapon.
This is what they tell him. It feels like a punishment, it feels like whips and
tasers and clubs inside his skull and it makes him forget in a way that
terrifies him. The cold, he does not mind so much. The cold is sleep, it is a
welcome refrain from the fighting. But the procedure is the worst pain he
knows, and he knows that he has tried to run from it before. He thinks that’s
why they put the needles that dull the world into his veins, to stop him
running again. Or maybe that’s why they cage him. Or why they strap
electrocution devices onto him when he goes out on a mission, and why they put
the disks under his skin to track him and hurt him. Or maybe all that is just
because he’s an animal, and he doesn’t deserve any better.
 
 
 
He thinks, alone at night, that he used to be something more. That he used to
be, if not a man, then something close. There used to be a reason to fight this
war, he thinks. There used to be- He used to be better. He used to have a home,
and he had...someone. He had someone he would have killed and died for in a
heartbeat, who never gave even the vaguest threat of punishment. There was once
a reason to endure even the worst pain, because everything about that person
was a balm. An order from that person was not an order, it was doing something
good. Doing something right. It was praiseworthy. The Soldier can remember, a
long time ago, people used to praise him sometimes. There was once a reason for
what he is and what he does. He doesn’t know how much of what he thinks is true
and how much is subconscious self-deception to force himself not to
purposefully screw up the next mission so badly that their only option is to
kill him. He does that because no matter how much he wants it to end, there is
no point, they will only find another, and he doesn’t want them to ever make
another like him. Either way, faraway truth or self-deception, it’s a nice
thought, the idea of an owner who treated him well and a reason to fight this
war, but whatever the reason was, he can’t remember it now. It’s been a long
war, after all. He doesn’t know how old he is, but he feels ancient sometimes.
 
 
 
A mission, like any other until it isn’t. He’s eliminating a target named Fury
on a roadway in a densely populated urban area called Washington DC in North
America. He co-ordinates with a strike team to isolate the target, and then
utilises a bazooka for the death-stroke. He is starving, the way he is usually
kept, and his mouth is already watering as he goes over to the upturned vehicle
to drain his target.
But his target is not there. His target has escaped. The Soldier has failed his
mission.
He is punished until he screams and begs the way his targets sometimes do,
until he is pleading for release or forgiveness or death, and receives neither
but is mercifully granted a second chance. His target is tracked to an
apartment building, so he gets transport there and shoots Fury through a window
and a drywall. He is not permitted to drain him, as further punishment for his
recent failure, so he runs, but there is a man chasing him. The man has golden
hair and blue eyes and a shield that he throws, so the soldier catches and
throws it back, and runs again.
When he gets back to base, he is told that the next part of the mission is to
capture the man with the shield, who is called Steven Rogers, and the allies he
is working with, Natasha Romanov and Samuel Wilson. Steven Rogers is very
powerful, he is told. He was a Captain in a previous age, a warrior in an
ancient war, and he has enhancements similar to the Soldier’s own that have
enabled Hydra’s enemies to bring him back from the dead. (The Soldier wonders
if they can do the same to him. The Soldier wonders whether he will ever be
permitted to die.) The Soldier is ordered not to make direct contact with
either Steven Rogers or Natasha Romanov in any way. Samuel Wilson has a pair of
bionic wings, but his employers do not anticipate that this will be a problem
for him.
He is transported to the relevant location. Again, he co-ordinates with a
Strike team, and they shoot at the car the targets are driving until they are
forced out of it and onto the road. A firefight ensues, and the woman, who is
called Natasha Romanov, shoots at him. He hunts her down, but she is well
armed, and she electrocutes him before he can kill her. Then he is fighting
Rogers in the middle of the road and the man is as strong as he is. He throws
the shield and the Soldier throws it back, and the sense of familiarity goes
further back than the last mission, for the first time in a long time. He
almost feels like he knows this man from somewhere else. Then he looses his
mask and Rogers says, “Bucky?” and it-
Echoes, echoes through his head, that’s me, I know him. He’s never felt his
before - or has he? Is this familiar? He used to want to run -
“Who the hell is Bucky?” He spits, even though he is not supposed to make
direct contact with this man, is not supposed to ask questions of anyone every,
is not supposed to engage with his targets at all, and he never has before.
Rogers - Steven - he looks sad. He looks like someone close to him has died.
The Soldier knows what that looks like, he’s seen it on the faces of secondary
targets who had time to watch the primary target’s death, he knows, and it
looks like pain, misery, shock, horror -
Then the strike team have finally caught up and they’re putting cuffs on Steven
Rogers and they’re taking the Soldier away. They take him back to base and give
him blood to drink, and it’s good, because he’s been starving since they woke
him, but then his employer comes. The Soldier says, “I knew him,” and his
employer tells him it is from the previous part of the mission, but he knows it
is not, he knows that the sense of familiarity goes further back than the last
mission, for the first time in a long time. His employer is trying to placate
him, to pacify him, his employer is telling him the nice words they always roll
out when he gets difficult, about doing good work, aiding great causes and
furthering the greater good, but he is not stupid. He is old, he has lived a
long time, he has been promised tomorrow's utopia for decades and it has never
come, he has been alive for so long and this war is never-ending. He is not
stupid, he is just forgetful, and it is the procedure’s fault that he is, it’s
their fault -
He says, “I knew him,” again and his employer slaps him across the face. The
Soldier turns and snarls, bares his teeth, because a lifetime’s worth of “Fist
of Hydra” - animal, worthless, monster, ours, tool, do as you’re told is
surging through his head, but now he can remember Steven Rogers and he knows
that he used to try to run, and he knows that he could try again. He could kill
everyone in this room, his employer included, before they could even touch him,
he could run before they could even move -
Someone presses a button and electricity jolts through his body. It comes from
everywhere at once. It comes from the ground, from the air around him deep into
his bones, his spine, his head, into every nerve in his body at once. It comes
from the plates they put under his skin and it makes his flesh sizzle and burn.
He screams through clenched teeth and tastes his own blood, thick and heavy and
sickening on his tongue, flattens himself instantly to the chair in an obvious
pose of submission, head back and neck bared, arms on the chair’s open
restraints. The pain stops and his ears ring. His body feels like an elastic
band pulled too far. The after-shadow of agony is still pain. People around him
strap him down while he breathes, tries to think. Steven Rogers, the man on the
bridge, is important. There’s no way of knowing how, but he makes the Soldier
think of running. Running is good, he needs to run -
Someone presses another button, and the procedure starts.
 
 
 
A mission, like any other until it isn’t. He’s eliminating a target named
Steven Rogers in a hellicarier hovering above a densely populated urban area
called Washington DC in North America, and the man has a shield which he throws
at the Soldier. The Roger’s mission objective is to plug a chip into a
computer, and the Soldier’s mission objective is to eliminate him before he
can. He has a gun and knives and his mouth, and he’s full and strong on a blood
meal he can’t remember drinking. But Rogers - Steven, something in him says -
he’s starting a forest fire inside the Soldier’s head. It’s burning, beautiful,
shining and bright and it hurts. Steven says, “Bucky,” and he means the
Soldier, he means the Soldier’s name is Bucky, and that is ridiculous because
he does not have a name but-
Before his most recent procedure, he can remember that his employer told him
that he knew the man on the bridge from his previous mission but the sense of
familiarity goes further back than that, even, he knows. The Soldier has not
felt familiarity like this in a long time. And he has always thought that once,
there was a reason - something or someone, he doesn't know - a reason for
fighting, for enduring pain, a reason why the endless war he fought was worth
winning.
Fire, fire in his head, it feels like a physical pain. They’re fighting, and he
knows he should be winning but he’s not, because this man is strong. That, and
the Soldier is distracted; the man smells familiar, smells good, and the
Soldier wants to bite, but somehow, intrinsically linked to that sweet-rich-
full smell is the idea of restraint, of...gentleness? The urge not to hurt...
He doesn’t know but he knows that he can’t eliminate this target. He can’t kill
this man. Not this one, because...
He fights slower, like a human would, fights with fists, kicks and a gun
instead of his teeth even though usually one bite to the neck is enough to make
a person too weak to fight. And Steven is strong, he knows that, perhaps as
strong as him but he’s going easy on the Soldier too. But mission objective is
still mission objective for both of them and-
Steven says, “Bucky,” and it’s like an activation code, it’s like deeply
embedded programming, it’s like a command even though there is no order, he has
to - what? Not hurt? To protect?
Steven gets him in a choke hold and he tries to break it and he can’t, and the
room fades to blackness and it’s almost a relief. Steven’s body is behind him
and it’s warm, and somehow that matters, it’s making something deep inside him
feel like it’s falling. And the darkness swallows hearing and consciousness too
now, and he’s not as scared as he should be, because although unconsciousness
makes him vulnerable, this man could have killed him already and has not.
He wakes and the man is close to fulfilling his objective, and fear jolts
through the Soldier like an electric current, an echo of the pain he’ll feel if
he fails this mission. He shoots the man, but no, don’t hurt, can’t, protect,
so he aims at the midriff. The fear inside him abates and the mission-
orientated part of him is satisfied but he is not.
Then Steven says, “I won’t fight you,” and drops his shield. He can’t fight
this man, he cannot fight someone who refuses to fight back. He has done,
before, so many times, he has killed people begging for mercy, but not this
person, not this man, not Steven, and then Steven says, “‘Cause I’m with you to
the end of the line.”
The end of the line. The end of this war. And he remembers that once there was
an end to this war, there was an escape from this limbo he lives in. There was
once a reason to exist. And the realisation that this man is that reason
smashes into his incredulous mind like a meteorite in a shower of sparks and
light and rightness and he can feel it changing him, carving out a crater in
his world-view and rewriting his programming. It’s overwhelming and huge and he
doesn’t know what to think or feel-
The world collapses and explodes and his reflexes save him, and his confusion
is cut short. Recently rewired instinct takes hold and tells him, save. He
dives for Steven Grant Rogers, grabs him with the strong arm, the one Steven
didn't just dislocate and swims for the shore of the river with his injured arm
and frantic kicks. He shoves Steven’s inert form across his back so that he can
breathe, although it means his own head is constantly ducking below the surface
of the water and he chokes on water that tastes of filth and metal and air that
smells of burning. He gets them to a beach and drags Steve up onto it. He
checks that Steve is still breathing. He is. Now that his newfound instincts
are quiet, their mission having been accomplished, he begins to think again.
He realises his mission is not accomplished at all, his mission is alive and
well when he should be dead, he has failed his mission and he will be punished
-
He quells that panic quickly. He has changed. Old programming resurrected, an
older form risen from the ashes of who he was. However, he feels that the
process is not complete yet. He is not wholly sure of what has changed, of who
he is now. He is in flux, he can feel it, he is in free fall, he is tumbling
into chaos like the wreckage of the helicarrier, and although he is not as
afraid as he probably should be, he is still afraid.
Steven is breathing, and there are people coming, sirens coming closer. Steven
is safe, so his mission is accomplished.
The Soldier leaves Steve on the shore and finds a clump of bushes dense enough
for him to hide in. Because he is running. Running away from Hydra, because
they call him their Fist but they are not his reason for fighting, and he will
not fight for them any longer. He is sick of their pain. He is sick of the
endless monotony of constant misery. He has changed, he has found his purpose.
He has longed to run for so, so long, even when could not remember. Steven has
reminded him. 
His first priority is to remove any claim of theirs on his body so that he can
belong to Steven, as he is sure he once did. They pushed the discs to inflict
pain and track him with satellites into his flesh, so he digs them out with his
fingers. They are just under the skin, above the muscles in his biceps, thighs,
his shoulders. Hydra thinks he doesn’t know about them, but despite he always
remembers them because he can feel them itching, he can feel his body trying to
heal around him. They don’t really register most of the time though, while his
hunger usually feels like a demon trying to crawl up his throat. There are
metal bands around his ankles, wrists and neck too but he tears them off,
although it cuts deep into his fingers faster than they can heal. His blood
even has time to fall from the deepest cuts before they heal, and he watches it
with morbid fascination. He barely ever bleeds, even from their worst
punishments, except when they starve him and he cannot heal. He licks the blood
into his mouth, but it doesn’t taste right. It’s not like human blood.
He comes out of the bushes with bloodstained hands and clothes, so he walks
until he finds clothes stores, looks for one with poor security. He takes
clothes - plain, nondescript colours and a cap to hide his face, a band to tie
back his hair - and puts them on in their changing room, leaves through the
back exit. He dumps his more conspicuous tactical gear in a dumpster, but he
keeps the knives and the guns, his holsters and sheathes, puts them under his
clothes instead of over them. He is now untraceable and unnoticeable.
His next instinct is not one of the shiny new ones born of old red bitterness
and his newfound purpose, but something deeper down and darker. His next
instinct is to feed. He could not feed from his last target or from Steve, and
he doesn’t know how much blood Hydra gave him while he was unconscious but it
isn’t enough, right now he’s starving again. Every person he walks past on the
street smells appetising, and there is no directive, no handlers, no employers,
he can take whichever one of them he pleases.
Except, he can’t, because with every step the tumbled new instincts in his head
settle into a recognisable pattern, and each one slots into the parts of
himself that have felt empty for so long, and he does not feel like an animal
when he thinks of Steve. He has always hated killing, it has always felt wrong.
Now he knows that he does not belong to Hydra, that he is Steve’s, and Steve
never told him to kill. When he was with Steve, killing was forbidden. It was a
last resort, to be avoided at all costs, so now that he has remembered who
truly holds his ownership, he will not kill again. But now he’s walking through
the streets of Washington DC and the arm Steve injured has healed but he is
hungry, and he cannot feed.
He sleeps for a few hours in a dumpster in a back alley. It is hard, because
this is not a secure location, this is not a base, this is the field, but he
cannot go back to base now. He does not have a base now. There is no end to
this mission, and there are no parameters either. He is lost and alone and
starving and exhausted, and one of those he can fix, so he must sleep. It is
hard, but it is not impossible. He knows that no one on these streets can hurt
him, and it is highly unlikely that any trained agent will succeed in finding
him, in this buzzing hectic maze of a city, if any have even been assigned to
look. So he sleeps, and when he wakes, he considers what his next actions must
be. There is no mission and no parameters, and he has abandoned his employers.
However, he still has an owner. He still has Steve. The only person who might
know what he is supposed to do is Steve Rogers. A warrior from an ancient war.
Perhaps even as old as the his own never-ending conflict. He does not dare to
visit Steve, because it’s too risky. Hydra may be looking for him, and they
could predict that his original owner is the first place he would go. Instead,
he must be creative. It’s not a trait that Hydra ever encouraged in their
Soldier, but it’s one he always retained.
Hydra trained him how to use modern technology in case he needed information
whilst he was between check-ins in the field and to prevent targets using
modern devices to call for help. He walks around the city, looking for a
computer he can hack, steal or use. He sees plenty of options, phones, tablets
and laptops he could easily take from absentminded people, but he does not want
to draw attention to himself. If he commits a crime, he may be discovered,
reported. It may cause his face to be known. Instead, he finds and enters a
library, on the basis that a public store of information should have access to
the internet, and finds a computer he can use. He quickly hacks into the
government mainframe, and locates the hospital that Rogers.S, TOP PRIORITY;
PRIVATE PATIENT is being treated. It’s not far. With another ten minutes'
looking he finds Steve’s room number and the hospital’s layout, then uses the
internet to plan a route to it by public transport. He catches the metro to get
to it. It is unpleasantly crowded, and he has to constantly remind himself how
far superior his own training is to the capabilities of anyone likely to be
around him to keep himself calm in their presence. He breaks into the building
opposite the hospital, climbs to the roof via the fire escape and locates where
Steve’s room must be, according to the building’s blueprints.
He sees that Steve does not have an intravenous drip, so they can’t be drugging
him heavily, which is good because it means that Steve is less easy to
surreptitiously poison. He is conscious, so it is likely that he would be able
to call for assistance in case of a surprise attack. Steve is pale, which is
his own fault, he knows. His bullets, his hand, his gun. But he is sure that
Steve must realise that there was nothing else he could have done, that obeying
Hydra was not an option. Steve must realise that he was stolen from him, that
Hydra wiped him, imprisoned him and controlled him, and he never would have
hurt Steve if he had the choice. Steve must realise that he was trying, that he
did not shoot at his head, he must realise who saved him from the river. Steve
must realise. If he explains, if he tells him what it was like, if he begs
forgiveness-
Someone walks into Steve’s room and the Soldier cocks his gun and aims based on
the best guess for the intruder’s head he can make from his limited view of the
room before he takes his next breath. But Steve smiles, speaks, and the man
laughs and takes a seat next to Steve’s bed. The man, he sees now, is Sam
Wilson, the winged man. Wilson does not appear to be crippled by the loss of
the wing he tore from him. He does appear to be Steve’s friend. Friends, he
knows about from watching the men around him, in the various teams assigned to
work with him. Friends watch out for each other, covering each other in combat
situations, and outside of combat they spend time physically near each other
and make each other laugh. Wilson makes Steve laugh. That makes him feel...feel
something. Something other than fear, or rage, or guilt. He feels - is it
called jealousy? It feels like he wants to drag Wilson away from Steve, push
him out of the room and lock the door, because Wilson has no right to be near
to Steve, or to make him laugh. Because that is part of his own function, he
realises. That was part of being owned by Steve, making him laugh. Keeping him
safe, being close to him, and making him laugh. Although he knows from his
briefing that Steven Rogers is a strong and capable target, he also knows that
Steve needs protecting often, that he makes the world his enemy and so has to
be protected from all of it, from everything and everyone. That used to be his
job, he thinks. He was Steve’s friend. Before he was taken from Steve, a long
time ago. So that must be why he feels jealous of Wilson, because he is
impinging on his own duties. It is not a rational response, because Wilson is
causing no harm to Steve, so he takes no action against him.
However, now he has thought of it, he cannot stop. Now he has seen Wilson with
Steve, and acting as his friend, he fears that Steve has already replaced him.
Perhaps Steve has no need for him anymore.
If he has no place with Steve, he has no place anywhere. He will never go back
to Hydra. He has failed this mission so badly, has so thoroughly proven himself
defective, they may well kill him for this, as he always hoped-dreaded they
would. And besides, he has suffered long enough, so long, he needs the fighting
to end now. But without Steve or Hydra, he may die anyway, because they will
find him, and besides he does not know how to live, he has no knowledge of how
to live, he is maintained, that is how he survives, he can’t -
But when he was Steve’s, he was not maintained. He did not kill, he drank
without killing. Steve did not hose him down, he washed himself. There was no
cold, and there were no procedures. Steve did not need those things to stop
Bucky from running away. Steve was once a captain in a war long ago. Steve was
his captain once, he is sure of it now. Steve commanded him, Steve owned him,
but it was more than that, he remembers.
Because they were friends, and - the realisation is like dawn - he wanted to
protect Steve, he wanted to be near him. Everything he did, he did because he
chose it for himself. Hydra never let him choose, never even let him want,
Hydra stopped him wanting, Hydra filled his head with scratchy cotton wool
pumped from shunts pushed into his veins. Hydra punished him with pain, they
made it so that he could not want, he could not even want to run away or to
flinch or yell or bite them because if he did, they could lance him through
with pain from the disks and beat him until he could not feel past his torso.
He is familiar with need; Hydra only let him need the blood, because he was so
starving it was pain without it, and they could take away blood until he became
nothing but bestial instinct with no thought. Need was dangerous, need meant
brief pleasure followed by guilt. Wanting is new, wanting is novel and unique,
and also old and familiar, and there is no pain. And he has run, he is
untraceable. His mission is complete and Hydra does not have him and there is
nothing to stop him getting what he wants.
The Soldier watches Steve in his hospital room for hours. Nurses, doctors come
into Steve’s room, and they talk to Steven but they do not go near him with
needles, so he does not need to intervene. Steve stays there overnight, and the
Soldier does not move from where he is, because he has a perfectly good view of
Steve’s room from where he is and there is no need to draw attention to his
position. He does not sleep, because covert ops are very often carried out
under cover of darkness and he cannot leave Steve without protection while he
is most vulnerable. He lies on the rooftop of an apartment building watching
Steve and keeping him safe, and he tries to understand want. He wants to be
owned by Steve again. He does not want Steve to replace him.
 
 
 
He does not know how old he is or what he is or who he is, but he knows what he
wants and he wants Steve. So he watches out for Steve, because it is part of
his duty as Steve’s friend. He hides from Hydra and follows Steve everywhere he
goes, and he does not feed. He wears caps to hide from cameras and changes
clothes often and never sleeps in the same place twice. He watches from the
shadows as Steve goes grocery shopping and jogging and for out lunch. He
watches Steve chat with Wilson in parks and meet Romanov in cafes and he
watches a man he identifies as Anthony Stark visit Steve in his apartment.
He was worried, before, in DC, about Steve replacing him with the dark-skinned
man and the red-haired woman, but he realises now he need not have done so. He
remembers, now, how they used to be, when he belonged to Steve. He remembers
the warmth of a human body next to him with no threat of violence (there were a
thousand times, he thinks, in beds, somewhere). He remembers the joy of making
Steve happy (a smile, plush bottom lip taught across teeth, “You idiot,” and
it’s affectionate, he wants to hear it again). He remembers the pleasure of
protecting Steve, having him happy, safe and healthy (not bullet wounds, he
protected Steve from illness, from his lungs, Steve tiny and wet-gasping for
air through crackling lungs, he wishes he could breathe for him, and from
punches, he’d take a hundred, he’d take a thousand beatings to protect Steve
from pain, because-). He remembers how he loved Steve.
He sees Steve talk and laugh his friends now, and he sees how, although they
make Steve happy, they do not fulfil the same duty that he used to. Steve does
not touch them like he used to touch the Soldier. He does not fuck them either.
So the Soldier thinks there is probably has a space left for him in Steve’s
life.
He watches, and remembers, and thinks. The hunger grows stronger every day
until it feels so strong inside him sometimes that it’s almost a separate
entity, eating away at his insides so that at least one of them can have
sustenance, but he ignores it. He thinks about how was devoted to Steve, he
can’t believe that Hydra ever managed to make him forget it. How could he have
forgotten his first owner when Steve used to treat him so well, he used to say,
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, buddy,” he used to touch and his touch
was a reward, it was comfort and home and addiction. Steve’s body was younger,
once, that it is now, and he used to be smaller. Then Steve got bigger fast, he
thinks, and he was unsure at first but Steve still needed him just the same. He
thinks of bird-wing bones, and hollows, dips, ridges, shadows and rippling
definitions, he thinks of hands running down lines like waves, like mountain
ranges, like rolling hills, he thinks of one person being the whole world, and
he feels a hunger like the bloodlust but stronger. He wants Steve Rogers. He
wants to protect him, and be close to him, and to make him happy. And he can
remember a dozen, a ten dozen times when he has fulfilled those parameters. He
can remember touches layered upon words layered upon emotion - the memories are
individually faded and blurry, like everything from long ago is, but the sheer
volume of them carries enough weight to assure him of their truth. He thinks
this feeling, this knowledge of better times has always been there, in the back
of his head, behind a forgotten door, somewhere ignored and unneeded because it
wasn’t about how to do Hydra’s bidding.
So when he follows Steve to an exhibit at the Smithsonian museum, keeping and
eye on Steve and staying ten steps behind, and finds his face and name and
history written on the walls, he is not really that surprised. His memory’s
patchy, but he can fill in the gaps just fine.
When he is probably thirty something and also ninety-six, he remembers that
Bucky is not an activation code, but his name. He remembers who he was.
 
 
 
Three days later, he watches from the shadows as Steve packs up his apartment
and brings one suitcase with him on the train from Washington Union Station to
Penn Station, New York. Bucky gets the same train, different carriage, stands
to keep his sightline on Steve clear. It is hard, his hunger has made him weak.
He drinks water sometimes, occasionally steals red meat, but he can feel
himself getting weaker every day nonetheless. No matter. He holds onto the bars
on the swaying train to keep himself upright and ignores painful memories of
other bars and other trains and falling because they are in no way helpful.
Still, he kind of wishes Steve had chosen to travel by car, despite how much
harder it would have been to track him in one without being seen.
Steve already has an apartment in New York when he gets there. It’s in their
old neighbourhood, more or less, although, really, so much has changed it’s no
longer really old or theirs anymore. Bucky watches Steve for a week, but he
realises fast that something has got to break soon. His hunger is beginning to
grow out of his control. He has got into the habit of sticking to rooftops to
avoid the temptation of being surrounded by flesh. He has learned the addresses
of every butchers in ten miles’ radius so that he can steal raw meat from a
different one every night. It isn’t enough, somehow, he doesn’t know why. He
doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what he is, only that the blood
he drinks needs to be human and fresh. He cannot, he will not feed, but it’s
been weeks now, three, four maybe, he’s lost count and he can’t remember when
Hydra last fed him. Now, his hunger is inhabiting every breath, has invaded
every limb, haunts his every thought. He can no longer sleep through the night
because the pain keeps him awake.
As Bucky lies awake and hears clock towers chime the beginning of his eighth
day back in Brooklyn in the twenty-first century, he tries to think. Steve has
an apartment, Steve is happy, Steve has friends. He is safe and alive, and
likely to stay that way. That’s all Bucky ever wanted. Ensuring that was the
Soldier’s last mission, and now it’s completed. It hurts him to even think it,
but Steve no longer needs him. And whilst it’s possible he may be welcomed back
into the circle of Steve’s arms, it is more probable he will be turned away. He
is well aware that he has no right to live. He has committed war crimes,
atrocities. The danger is so inherent in him that nothing and no once could
burn it out, it's in his DNA and in every bit of training Hydra ever gave him.
Death is the obvious and only solution to the problem of his continued
existence, after everything he’s done, all the things that have been done to
him, all the ways he has broken others and the ways others have broken him. No
one and nothing can live like he does now, an existence which means only pain,
and the memory of pain. To allow himself to die would be the best course of
action, he knows that.
But.
But though he has been through so much and for so long, despite all of it
Steve’s smell, his face, those words were enough to shine through all of that,
to remind him of the way he was before. He has existed for so long in a vacuum
of any kind of comfort or kindness. He survived all of that, and now, now that
he’s remembered Steve, escaped Hydra and is finally free, now he’s going to let
it end? He is starving on the streets, stalking the only person he knows in the
world and wracked each night with horrors of his past, and this is still better
than anything else he’s experienced in the last however many decades. Steve is
alive, he’s alive and safe and Bucky could go to him, he could touch Steve’s
face with his hand and -
But his hands have crushed throats and pulled triggers, he has cowered before
those he should have fought and fought those he should have saved -
But he saved Steve, he did that. And he has suffered for so long, surely,
surely he is due some kind of reward? Some kind of pleasantness, at least,
something, something good after all of this. He's done horrible things, yes -
- a little girl screams for her mother, dead in the other room and he bites,
and learns that the blood of a child tastes better than that of an adult -
- but he didn't want to. He may be starving now, but he is still thinking
clearer than he had at any other point in the last few decades. Hydra scrabbled
his brains like eggs and he couldn't think, he hurt all the time and it was his
finger on the trigger but they're the ones who turned him into a weapon, it was
their fault. He used to run, he's sure he tried to run. He didn't want to, he
never wanted to, they kept him a cage and starved him.
So he will not seek out death. If he could, he would turn himself in. He would
not expect the life of a free man, but he would ask for a pleasant prison. He
would ask for enough blood to live, no more, and to be allowed to see Steve
whenever it is convenient to him. Some music, perhaps, a few books. But he
can't just turn himself into the authorities, because there is currently no
stable and trustworthy organisation in the world that has the power to hold
him, and anyway, no one can know what he is, or that he needs to drink blood to
survive. They will turn him into an experiment, and he will not live through
that again. 
He doesn't know what else to do. Steve saw him as he was before, as a monster,
devoid of humanity, and still saw something in him worth loving, worth saving.
And Steve was his first owner - or rather, friend, lover, commander,
everything. Steve should help to decide whether he should be alive or dead. He
may have a use yet for the Soldier, a mission or a task to complete. His head a
swirling grey mess of thoughts like the sky in a storm so that he hasn’t got
enough clear space to exist in, let alone to make decisions, so in the end, he
doesn’t. He’s alone in a city where he knows no one and he barely knows
himself, he’s starving steadily more day by day, he knows death is near and he
can’t decide whether or not he should run, and in the end he goes to Steve
because instinct dictates that he must, and for no other reason. Steve is home,
and Bucky has been too lost for too long.
He watches Steve leave his house to go shopping, and moves for the first time
in hours from his perch on the roof of the building opposite. Black spots
appear in his vision when he pushes himself up. He moves despite them, climbs
down the fire escape and the darkness has more or less stopped chewing on his
vision by the time his feet hit the floor. He doesn’t know where Steve is but
his run for groceries never usually lasts long. He walks the few steps from the
alley where the fire escape comes out to the street at the front of the
building, fighting the way the world is swaying alarmingly with every one, and
sits in the doorway of the apartment building he was just on top of. He waits,
and he does not think because he is concentrating on breathing in, out, calm
and steady, breathing in the scent of the occasional passer by without reaching
out, grabbing an ankle, pulling them to the ground fast and hard with a crack
and -
He keeps a watchful eye out for Steve from beneath his cap. No one looks twice
at him, a dishevelled bedraggled man sitting in a doorway, except for one woman
who sniffs pointedly as she passes him on the way out of her building. Bucky by
contrast holds his breath to ignore the smell of her blood, (so close and he’s
so hungry, he knows he couldn’t resist it, he’s so hungry) waits for her to
pass. She does, but it feels like an age, and when he breathes again it’s a
gasp, and he can still smell the echo of her on the air, and it’s still almost
too much. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps he shouldn’t have done this, come
down to street level and put himself too far into the path of temptation.
Perhaps he should go back to his rooftops to die, where strangers are safe from
him, and forgo a last meeting with Stevie in exchange for lives saved. It’s
selfish for him to remain here, around people, when he is a monster in so many
ways, should be isolated accordingly.
But instinct brought him here, and now it won’t let him leave, and then he
smells Steve before he sees him, and he’s glad no one’s walking near him when
he does because the whimper he makes would be clearly audible. Steve’s smell
brought him back into his own head after decades of absence from it, his head
is still recovering from the shock of the explosion Steve caused, but he hasn’t
been near enough to smell Steve since the hellicarrier, and now he’s had time
to miss it, and to remember. Now, he has all of the memories that go with the
smell of home-sex-love-devotion-Steve and he feels like he’s drowning under
waves of memory of curled smiles against cheeks in the dark, he feels like he’s
at the bottom of an ocean made of shared meals and a hundred thousand evenings
of Steve bitching about some asshole or waxing lyrical about art or arguing
with air about politics and always making dumb jokes over everything. There’s a
surface of reason and common sense up there, maybe, but it doesn’t matter
because he’s buried under the memory of a million nights spent together alone,
kisses, touches, wet slick hot lips, sweat and moans and he hasn’t been touched
for so long, he does not care if he never breathes air again as long as Steve’s
scent is the last thing he inhales.
Steve says, “Bucky?” and he realises he stood, crossed the street and moved to
stand in front of Steve as fast as his starving body would let him, and he
doesn’t know what his face looks like but Steve’s looks simultaneously
overjoyed and sick with fear. He is so close, close enough to touch and there
is only euphoria -
Then the instant breaks and Bucky crumples to the ground as the blackness
steals his vision, he’s blind and exposed on the street and he someone’s
touching him, he wants to lash out but he’s too weak and anyway all he can
smell is Steve, all he can hear is Steve saying, “Bucky, Christ, Bucky are you
ok?” so he’s safe, because Steve loves him and Steve is his first owner and
Steve will look after him. A hand pushes his head down and he lets it because
it’s Steve’s hand, and his vision slowly comes back as he’s crouched on the
pavement with his head down. When he can focus on the individual flecks of grit
on the ground, he risks raising his head to meet Steve’s eyes again. This time
his face holds mostly concern, but the joy is still there in his eyes and he is
still beautiful. Bucky smiles, dazed, says, “Stevie,” and hears, “Hey buddy.”
Steve’s arms are around him then, and his mind goes blank. Not with blackness,
but with bright white calm. He has not been touched with kindness for decades,
and despite the floods and oceans of remembering, none of the memories are as
good as this. Steve’s body is close, warm even through his clothes, the
pressure of his arms encompasses all of Bucky, one around his shoulder, one
cradling underneath his arm, and every atom of Bucky’s existence is saturated
by Steve’s smell. He would be limp in Steve’s hold even without the starvation.
He loses himself in the unfamiliar familiarity of Steve’s smell, hardly feels
himself being held up while Steve takes him into his apartment building,
supports him up three flights of steps and holds him up again gets the door to
his apartment open before finally lowering him to the couch. He only barely
senses that he is being moved, and it only vaguely occurs to him that he’s in
an unknown enclosed space with a prior target. Because it’s Steve.
“Ok Buck, there you go. Can you focus on me for a second?”
Bucky opens eyes he hadn’t realised he had closed, looks up at Steve and does
his best to focus. Steve’s face kind of looks like he’s surrounded by blurry,
hazy halo of light, but maybe that’s just Steve.
“Hey, there.” Steve’s smiling. He looks incredulous, and almost unfathomably
beautiful, and like every familiar thing Bucky knows. “Ok, so you didn’t get
hit in the head. Bucky, can you tell me; are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.” Bucky smiles more, would laugh if he had the air. As if there’s anyone
alive other than Steve who could ever get close enough to him to do permanent
damage. Stupid Stevie.
“Well, if you say so.” Steve’s hands frame his face, his fingers run back into
Bucky’s hair, and his eyes roll back in his head. He nearly moans, but manages
to swallow it. Steve’s thumbs stroke Bucky’s cheekbones as he says, “God, you
look thin - is that it, are you hungry?”
Bucky almost wants to frown; that had almost slipped his mind while Steve was
caressing him, and he’s not too thrilled at the reminder. But, now he thinks of
it...
Bucky turns his head so his nose bumps Steve’s wrist. The scent of Steve’s
blood is -
Fuck, Steve’s scent is everything.
That ocean he was remembering, he’s drowning in it again.
His mouth is open and he’s panting over Steve’s wrist.
He doesn’t mean to, but smell and taste are so similar apart from how scent is
drastically inferior, God, he just needs a taste, just a taste of it would be
enough, he could fucking die happy if only -
He’s kissing open-mouthed and sucking, grazing with his teeth.
“Oh, ok, alright,” said calmly and kindly cuts through the daze. He remembers
that there is a danger here. He is a rabid dog, and Steve is everything
precious which cannot be harmed. His teeth are almost painful with the urge to
bite and his spit’s dripping from his lips onto the delicate skin of Steve’s
inner wrist. He jerks back in an instant, before his instincts can turn him
into a drooling animal again. He falls off the couch Steve placed him on, falls
to the floor, scrabbles backwards, legs flailing, until his back hits a wall.
His vision’s gone again, fuck it. Oh well. He’s seen Steve again, that’s all he
wanted, really...
The edges of his thoughts are getting fuzzy. He doesn’t mind. Hurts less that
way. Steve’s scent is still all around him. It’s nice. He can go now. He’ll
just go, now.
 
 
 
There’s white light shining through his eyelids, and something warm is covering
his whole body apart from his face. His hunger has abated enough to let him
think again, though he can still feel the vacuum of it sucking at his insides.
There’s nothing hard, sharp, painful or cold touching him. There’s voices, too.
“-know, sorry, but I won’t let you. It’s just not happening.”
“Look. Captain-”
“Steve.”
“Captain Steve.”
“For God’s sake-”
“I know he’s your best friend. I know you want to believe he’s the good guy,
but we cannot take that risk, not when what’s at stake is the safety of every
person in this building. I take care of my own. Steve, this is where the woman
I love sleeps-”
“And I love that man sleeping there. So you can understand how strongly I am
going to protest you putting anything other than saline in that IV, or anything
at all around his arms. You will not restrain him. No one will restrain him,
ever again, until I die, do you understand!?”
The room is quiet, and Bucky guesses it’s because Steve hardly ever shouts.
He’s not sure if talking now would escalate or diffuse the tension, but he
hates when Steve’s upset, so, “Steve,” he says, while he blinks his eyes open
and waits for them to adjust. His voice sounds a little croaky, a little
cracked. He swallows, tries again, but Steve’s already there.
“I’m here, Bucky, I’m here.”
“I know. I’m not deaf.” He can see the room around him now. It looks like a
bedroom, and a pretty swanky one at that. It’s sparsely decorated but the
furniture’s expensive. In it is one bed, a bedside table, a dresser, a window
with a view of the Chrysler building, Steve, and a short man with ridiculously
well-groomed facial hair, who sees him looking and jerks his head in a nod of
greeting. He says, “Looks like we’ve got another joker on our hands. You can
hang out with the bird, you two will have great fun. It’s tragic, it really is.
Nice to see you awake, by the way, sleeping beauty-”
But Steve’s speaking over him, saying, “Ignore him. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine, now,” Bucky says, at the same time as Neat Beard Man says, “Excuse
me, what?”
Steve asks, “Are you sure?” and Bucky replies, “Yeah, I’m much better. Almost
back to normal,” instead of ‘functionality regained, mission readiness
imminent’, and barely has to think about it. And then, because Neat Beard Man
still looks indignant, “Who is this?”
“He’s Howard Stark’s son. His name’s Tony and he’s the one putting us up.”
“Really. You’ve known me for two years and the best descriptor you can come up
with is ‘Howard Stark’s son’, really Steve-”
Bucky doesn’t realise he’s smiling faintly until he catches Steve staring at
him and beaming, before Steve says, “You get used to him,”
The way Steve talks over Tony, casually inconsiderate, it’s just like how he
used to treat the Commandos. People he trusted enough to disrespect. So that
means that Tony is Steve’s friend. And that’s alright. It’s fine.
Tony says, “Oh, that's lovely, that is. I welcome you and your stray into my
home, I offer free medical care and a luxury apartment, and this is the thanks
I get.”
“I didn’t ask for the apartment.” Steve still hasn’t stopped studying Bucky’s
face.
“Ungrateful! So ungrateful. Very poor manners. Your mother would be horrified.”
Steve just rolls his eyes at this, though Bucky thinks that this is probably an
outrageously false statement. Sarah Rogers had known her own son, after all. If
only for a few years.
Bucky licks his lips, considers his first words to the most important person in
his world since he tried to put a bullet in him and decides to say, in a voice
that comes out like scrubbed raw stone, “Same old punk.” He hopes Steve hears,
I remember. He hopes he understands, I love you.
Steve reaches out for Bucky’s hands, holds onto the wrist of the one closest to
him and twines his fingers with Bucky’s on the other. “God, I missed you,”
Steve says, the grin on his face like dawn breaking, while Stark quietly
mutters, “Unbelievable.”
“Yeah, me too.” Bucky wraps the hand closer to Steve around Steve’s wrist, in
correspondence. And it’s true, God, it’s so true, but, “I couldn’t remember
what it was I missed most of the time, though.”
The quiet flame of hope in the wrinkles around Steve’s eyes is extinguished
with those words, and sadness and regret wells up from deep enough inside him
to give Bucky vertigo.
Steve says, “I’m sorry. I should have looked for you, I should have found you-”
His voice is even but Bucky can hear the edge of tears, has always dreaded that
sound in that voice. It’s wrong, and it’s worse because he’s the cause. It’s
not Steve’s fault, it was no one’s fault, Steve shouldn’t feel guilt over an
accident like that, “You thought I was dead. It’s fine. There was no way for
you to know I could survive that,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s fingers with
his own in an effort to comfort him, then remembers that Stark is in the room.
Steve sees him glance to Stark, then cocks his head in a movement so tiny
there’s no way that Stark could recognise it for what it is, a shake of the
head. No, he doesn’t know what you are. Bucky smiles a little to show he
understands, and inside his heart’s singing because they haven’t lost this.
He’s lost so much, but this wordless communication is still theirs.
“What do you remember?” Steve asks aloud.
“I don’t know - I don’t have any way to compare it to how much I’ve lost. A lot
though, I think. And I went to the exhibition.”
Steve looks down and his smile is almost bashful. It’s a pretty regular
expression on Steve. So damn proud, but always surprised when some one other
than Bucky recognised his worth. And it took Bucky at least half a decade of
love declarations before Steve got used to it from him.
“I liked it.” Bucky adds, just to watch the blush spread on Steve’s cheeks.
“Lots of nice pictures. Very informative. Pity they missed some of the more
obvious stuff though.”
Steve’s smile quirks, and he gently squeezes Bucky’s hands in his.
Stark clears his throat before asking, “So, um, now you’ve woken up and aren’t
killing anybody, shall I go get Bruce to come and check you over?”
“I’m fine,” Bucky says, at the same time Steve says, “I don’t think that’s
necessary.”
Tony doesn’t even blink, just says, “Ok, well, take some time to settle in or
whatever, but it’s probably a good idea that we check for any, like, long-term
injuries, hormone imbalance, sub-cutaneous tracking devices-”
The assertion that no one will come close enough to him to even test for those
things is knee-jerk, but this instinct is one that helped him leave Hydra, so
he follows the impulse to deter. The knowledge is there, it’s always been
there, so he says, “No long-term wounds were permitted, they would have
hindered my effectiveness. The drugs that were regularly administered to me
have a half-life of approximately three days, based on how often they were
injected. There were six subcutaneous trackers and remotely operated shocking
devices, I removed all of them myself. I’m fine.”
“Ok, if you say so.” Tony shrugs. “Just so you know, if you change your mind
and you want a second opinion, all you have to do is ask. The machines I can
use to scan you wouldn’t even have to touch you. You wouldn’t have to be in an
enclosed space either.”
This consideration, which appears to be without agenda, had never been shown to
the Soldier. Bucky can remember kindness though, as surely as he remembers
Steve, and he remembers how to say, “Thank you for the offer.”
“Right. Look, Steve, Bucky’s got some manners - learn from him.” Tony’s eyes
flick to where their hands are still wrapped up around each other. “And I’ll
just go then, shall I? Yeah, I’ll go.” Tony’s backing out of the door as he
says, “Tell Jarvis if you need anything,” and closes it on the last word.
Steve looks to Bucky, and neither of them speaks for a moment. Then Steve asks,
“Are you really ok, Buck?”
“Yeah. I mean, I will be. It’s fine.”
"I...I should tell you. There was a file, it - It, well. It says what they did
to you. I'm," Steve's face crumbles like it did when he was younger and his
frustrated anger brought him close to tears, "I'm so sorry that happened to
you. I wish I could have stopped it, if I'd known you'd survived I'd have-"
"I know you would have, Stevie." Bucky tries to smile reassuringly, tugs Steve
closer to him by their joined hands. "It wasn't your fault. It was bad, but
it's over now. I'm not going back."
"No. Never." Steve leans forward and rests his head on Bucky's shoulder for a
moment. Bucky remembers, in a moment of startling clarity, two boys on their
knees on the scuffed floorboards of a cold-water apartment, hanging onto each
other and saying, breathlessly, I do. He blinks and, now, Steve’s saying, "That
file. It’s got some information about how you’re biologically different from
most people,” and what a very Steve way of putting it that is, “but I haven’t
shown it to the others. No one apart from Natasha’s seen it, and she can be
trusted with secrets.”
That, and the flash of red hair and pain in his nerveless arm, that rings a
bell. “Natasha - you mean Natalia Romanova?”
“Yeah, do you know her?”
“I…” a mission, shots which didn’t hit their target and - “No. I just met her
once. It wasn’t…”
“No, she told me. Odessea, right?”
"Right." He doesn’t know when or where it happened, but he's seen that word in
the subject line on the front of a folder and he remembers being punished when
he told them he’d spared her life because collateral damage was unnecessary,
that leaving less people dead was more efficient, and had the audacity to look
his commander in the eye as he said it. They liked to beat the confrontational
out of him.
"You don't need to worry though, she won't hold what happened to you against
you. No one here will." 
Bucky is glad to hear Steve say that, he is, but he's not sure that he believes
Steve. Steve's always been kind and understanding, has always loved him despite
his flaws, but Bucky knows that it's not what's happened to him that's made him
a monster, not really, not completely, but what he's done. What he is. Yeah,
Hydra made him worse, so mostly what he did when they had him was their fault,
but they weren't the ones that made him into the predator he is; it was still
his body that did those things, his mind that planned the kills. He is and has
always been a killer. 
Steve asks him, “Do I even want to know what happened to you to make you act so
out of it at my apartment, before?”
“Nothing. It was nothing. I was just hungry.”
“Hungry - shit, Bucky, you must have been starving, you were barely talking!”
Steve looks troubled to the edge of fear.
“No! No, I wasn’t starving, I just...” Bucky can’t bear to see Steve so
worried, so he can’t let the truth hurt him. “I was sorta confused, after,
after everything and I -Is this room secure? Are we being overheard?” Steve
shakes his head in the way that really does mean no, and Bucky trust him, so he
admits, “Well, I didn’t want to...hunt. Try and find someone. Didn’t trust
myself.”
Steve still looks concerned. “How do you feel now? Do you still feel hungry?”
Yes.
But he still isn’t safe. He’s still just an filthy, base animal. He still won’t
take Steve’s blood, he’s still not deserving of it. Despite that, having Steve
so close is making him stupid again. The faded hunger doesn’t seem to matter
anymore. What he wants is the intimacy, the closeness. He wants to be with
Steve, he wants them to be inseparable, he wants to have part of Steve inside
him again. And...and even though it’s bad, and wrong, and always has been, he
remembers Steve’s flushed face, slick lips as he says, a thousand years ago and
yesterday, in a tent in Austria just miles away from enemy lines, the joy and
shock of hearing the words “Bucky that felt - it was - It felt good. It felt
like being...overwhelmed. Everything just went out of focus and there wasn’t
anything left except...feeling good. It was like a rush of hot and white, and
then like floating. It felt, well. It felt like sex. I really wouldn't mind
doing it again.”
Steve sees him hesitating and starts to pull away the hand that’s holding
Bucky’s wrist, and he knows, he knows that Steve will put it to his lips and
say, “Drink”, and he will because he’s a thoughtless beast that can’t stop
itself, and he does not know if he will stop after, if he will be able to stop,
because he hasn’t exercised control over himself in years, and he might kill
Steve after all, after all this time and hunger and everything, he could still
kill Steve-
He grabs hard onto Steve’s wrist so that he can’t pull away, and says as
decisively as he can, with the practiced deception of the boy who never
admitted to sodomy in two years of confessions, “No, Stevie, I’m fine. Whatever
you gave me intravenously seems to have been enough. I feel much better.”
Steve knows that that’s not the whole truth, but Bucky guesses that hearing him
together enough to lie convincingly has reassured Steve that Bucky’s ok. “Well,
alright, if you’re sure. But the offer stands, ok? Just ask. Or, well, you
don’t even have to ask, really.”
Steve’s body, willing, open, allowed, he can take as much sweet-salty-life as
he wants, he can take -
The shudder is something Bucky feels all the way up his spine and through his
mind, but he suppresses it enough that Steve can’t see it. He manages to
mumble, “Thanks, maybe later,” breathes, blocks the want that comes with
Steve’s scent, waits for his mind to clear.
Through the foggy mess of his head, he hears Steve say, “Is there anything else
you need? The bathroom, or...?”
Actually, he probably does smell awful. And he’s been concertedly ignoring the
taste of the inside of his mouth for a few weeks now.
“Yeah, actually, a shower’d be great.”
“Ok, sure.”
Steve lets go of his hands while he sits up from the pillows he’s been propped
up against. As he turns and swings first one, then the other leg to the ground
the dizzy, sickening blackness swarms back in around him and the void in his
stomach clenches. The world swims a little, but he can still make out Steve
reaching for his shoulders, his face concerned all over again.
Steve asks, “Bucky, are you sure-”
“Yes,” he interrupts before Steve can make him that offer again. He breathes,
once, twice, ignores Steve’s smell and stands. He is glad to belatedly realise
that he’s still in his own clothes - or at least, the clothes he stole most
recently, a few days ago. Probably Steve insisted that no one touch him. He is
so glad. He does not ever want to be touched whilst unconscious by unknown
hands ever again. Steve is still hovering near him, over-helpful but hiding
worry, ducking his head to glance back and check Bucky’s steps as he leads him
out of the richly furnished bedroom and through into the equally sumptuous
bathroom.
“There’s towels - there. Soap, shampoo,” Steve says, pointing. “The tap is
simple, just twist it like that for hot, that’s cold. You can use as much as
you want. I can get you spare clothes. You can yell for me if you want me?”
Somehow, Steve’s scent is even worse in this enclosed space, more intense
somehow. The allure of Steve’s scent is the blood-hot salty-fresh of his skin,
but he smells clean and scrubbed, too, and that part of his scent is even
stronger in this room. It’s his shampoo, and Bucky realises that once he
showers he’s going to smell a little like Steve, in this small way. He will be
able to smell Steve on himself after. He will be marked, in this minor,
accidental coincidental way. He needs it, he needs to be owned, he needs a
brand of Steve’s name on his flesh, he needs Steve burned into him so he never
forgets again, he doesn’t ever want to forget again, and, God, it used to feel
like that when they fucked back in Brooklyn sometimes, when they shared baths
and beds and undershirts, when he’d smell some reminder remnant of Steve on
himself at work or on the street and it’d make him smile at air, and it’d
always be stronger when they’d just fucked -
“Is that ok?”
“Yeah. Ok. Sure.”
“Right. I’ll just be out here then.”
Bucky peels off his clothes and clambers into the shower. The tap mechanism
only gives him slight pause, and then he fumbles through washing himself with
the products Steve pointed out as best he can. He tries not to moan when he
opens the cap of Steve’s shampoo and is hit with Steve’s incomplete scent, just
enough to be a reminder of the blood and body he craves. He stands in the warm
gently-flowing water rubbing Steve’s scent into his hair and skin, being washed
clean of the smell of the river and the streets and the loneliness, and he
knows that he cannot and will not just die now. His animalistic existence was
pointless and painful for decades, but even just this feeling, being just this
close to Steve, is enough to survive for.
Standing there, he realises that this is it. This is the end. The war is over.
He is here, he is with Steve once again, and he is here to stay.
When he turns off the water, his body feels relaxed and his mind feels clearer,
though the ache of hunger is strong in his stomach. He finds a towel and wraps
it around his waist easily without thinking about it, although he cannot
remember ever doing so before. When he leaves the bathroom, Steve rises from
where he was sitting on the bed and hands him a neatly folded pile of clothes.
Bucky puts them on the dresser next to him.
“I guessed the size but I think we’re about the same now. Uh, if anything’s not
right just tell me and I’ll-”
Steve stops as Bucky takes off his towel to put on the undershorts that are on
the top of the pile. When Bucky looks up to see what the matter is and sees the
look on his face, he realises what he’s doing. Hydra made an animal. Hydra made
a thoughtless beast living on honed instinct. Hydra peeled him back and bared
him down into nothing, and for the past seventy years, nakedness has been an
insignificant intermittent part of life. When he was with Steve, his naked body
meant something else. The look on Steve’s face is mixed shock, sadness, longing
and uncertainty, and that is not a reaction Bucky ever wanted to provoke in
him. For the first time in a long time, he feels something like shame. He does
not know what to do. He has no instincts to guide him in awkward social
situations, and all memories of such are still fuzzy and a lifetime away.
Besides which, he does not think there was ever a protocol for dealing with a
gap in perspectives this huge.
“I, sorry, I, it’s fine-” Steve says, at the same time that Bucky says, “I’m
sorry, it’s just-” and then they both pause.
Then Bucky says, carefully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. That wasn’t deliberate.
But,” he glances back to Steve’s face which he is inconveniently leaving
unhelpfully blank of emotion which could serve as clues on how he should
proceed, “I still want that, if you do.”
Bucky holds his breath while Steve seems to force himself to pause and gather
his thoughts before he says, “Ok. Yes, I want that too. But we don’t have to
rush. I know sometimes we used to, well, to play rough sometimes, we sometimes
didn't really give each other the opportunity to say no, but we don't have to
do things like that anymore. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.
I’m not expecting anything. To be honest,” Steve’s shoulders square in a motion
Bucky recognises means he’s steeling himself, “you being alive is more than
anything I could ever have hoped for. I can’t ask for more. It’s - You - well,
you’re everything.”
There were times, back before a lifetime of blood, back in Brooklyn, when Steve
would say things, like shaky secret midnight confessions or, perhaps, prayers,
things like “I love you,” “I need you,” “I do,” and Bucky would wonder if it
was possible that Steve loved him as deeply as he loved Steve, if maybe the
well of devotion that went down into the very depths of him had a mirror
somewhere in Steve. He always thought that probably, the way he felt about
Steve - which he could acknowledge was, at it’s basest level, a tangled knot of
clingy needy dog-like devotion, obsession and infatuation, all mixed in with
the love, reinforced by hormones and time into something stronger than anything
else in him - was part of the way he was, what he was, an animal driven by
polluted instincts, attachments and biological imperatives. But when Steve says
things like that, he can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, Steve really
does feel exactly the same way that he does, and that it’s something good and
pure. Perhaps the way he’s always cared more about Steve’s wellbeing than any
other person’s existence isn’t wrong and selfish, but natural and right.
Perhaps it’s ok that love, for Bucky, has always come before morality. Perhaps
love is the strongest thing in Steve too. And, at the furthest reach of
possibility, that means that his nature is not a dark and twisted thing but
has, by extension, some of the same light that Steve’s does. That he is in some
way worthy of Steve.
Fuck, he loves when Steve says things like that.
Bucky drops the towel still bunched in his hand onto the floor, takes a step to
close the gap between them and kisses Steve’s lips for the first time since
1945. It’s blood-hot and wet straight away and he can taste. His heart soars
and his head feels filled with light and sky. Steve’s lips are soft and his
mouth is gentle in a way he always remembered and also didn’t remember until
now. This, this is why he stayed alive. This is what he fought for. Steve is
perfect. The kiss deepens, gets rougher, and then Bucky feels Steve run his
tongue along his sensitive throbbing teeth and his hardening cock twitches and
he moans. Steve was only just learning how to do this right back in the 40s, to
tease him just enough to make him desperate without accidentally cutting
himself on sharp inhuman teeth and forcing Bucky to end the kiss before he lost
control. Steve always was a fast learner though. Fuck, God, yes, shit, it feels
amazing, rough and dragging friction that’s still as smooth and soft as
eiderdown, he wants that taste down his throat, he wants that tongue on his
cock -
He’s growling, pulling away and going for Steve’s jugular before he can think.
He manages to stop himself, just, to force himself to lick and kiss up Steve’s
throat instead of bite. It’s so close, he needs it, it’s so close-
But he knows that if he lets himself start, he may never stop. He refuses to be
a slave to his instincts. He wants to stay with Steve, he wants to be worthy of
him again the way he once was, and for that he needs to try to remember how he
was. He has to become himself again, become the Bucky that Steve used to love.
He can’t let himself be Hydra’s animal, and he cannot let himself maul Steve
like he’s prey, a victim, a bloodstained wrenched open corpse on the ground-
Bucky jerks away from Steve, forces himself back into focus. Steve still looks
dazed and blurry, and blinks a few times before saying, “Did I do something
wrong?”
“No.” I’m what’s wrong, he doesn’t say. “It’s not your fault. But we can’t...I
can’t feed from you the way we used to. I don’t really - I don’t have any real
control over myself, anymore. They made me think less. Made me into instinct.
I’d hurt you.”
“But you’re starving...” Steve says, glances at his lips, his eyes. “Ok. Ok,
we’ll find another way. What about - what if someone took my blood, then you
could drink it from a container? Would that be better?”
There is probably a reason he should say no to letting Steve hurt himself in
even such a minor way without the anesthetic of Bucky’s spit to sooth it, the
only thing that ever seemed to work on him back in the 1940s. However, Steve
offered, and Bucky has been feeling his body slowly shutting down over the past
few weeks, it feels worse even than some of what Hydra did to him, and he is
ready for it to be over. If he drinks the blood from a container, the'll be no
venom in Steve's system, so it'll be easier for him to stop Bucky if he looses
control. He could drink somebody else's blood, he supposes, but he doesn't want
to. Before the war, he drank whenever and whoever he could, but now he knows
what it feels like when it’s Steve, what it’s like with Steve’s supercharged
blood, and he will never be able to drink anyone else without wishing it was
Steve. Steve is strong, he is probably the strongest and fastest healing human
alive, and Bucky knows rationally this will not hurt him. The fact of the
matter is, somewhere along the line, Steve became completely inseparable from
Bucky’s existence, and then sex with Steve did, and then sex and Steve’s blood.
He can remember there was a time when he didn’t live like this, just like he
can remember a time before he was the Winter Soldier who’s killed dozens, just
like he can remember his childhood before he had to drink blood at all, but he
can no longer go back to being the person he was then than he can travel back
through time. So, the only option he has now is to find the safest way he can
to drink Steve’s blood. It’s selfish and wrong, probably, but it is motivated,
by a twisted and thorny path, by love.
“Yes. Please.”
“Ok. We’ll do it right now.” Steve turns him, leads him out of the room with a
hand on his shoulder. They enter a hugely spacious living room, full of white
surfaces, wooden floors, windows and light. Steve sees his face in the full
light of day for the first time. 
“You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Bucky’s eyes are caught on the view of a modified Manhattan out of the sky-high
window, but he turns in time to catch the shit-eating grin that accompanies
Steve’s comment, alight with triumphant glee and relief, and it’s worth the
twisted beauty that’s grown up in his absence outside the window. It’s worth
seeing one to see the other. Steve leads him to the couch, and he sits and
stares out of the window. He can see the Chrysler building from here, and it
still looks just as majestic and incredible as the day they finished it, but
it’s surrounded by other buildings now, that are just as tall, if not as
beautiful. He can hear Steve moving around in the kitchenette area. He doesn't
look. He doesn't want to think. He knows what Steve is going to have to do.
Then Steve clears his throat. Bucky turns to see him holding a pint glass and a
kitchen knife. The blade is sharp and shining steel, and the sight of it makes
Bucky feel sick to his stomach. The idea of letting Steve come to even the
slightest harm has always been unacceptable. But the hunger is roaring through
him, and he needs this. He wants this. He wants Steve. He reminds himself that
Steve offered to do this.
Steve asks, “Where shall I-”
“Not in front of me. I can’t...” can’t watch you hurt, can’t stop myself
hurting you, not if I smell your blood. “We should do it so that I can’t smell
you.”
“Ok,” Steve says, “Whatever you need, Buck.” He turns to leave.
"Steve, don't...don't take the whole pint. It's too much. Just let it heal."
"It's alright Buck. I'll only bleed a little, and then I'll heal up faster than
you can blink. I'll be nothing. Just a scratch."
"Take a bandage with you, don't do anything deep enough to need stitches. Be
careful, don't...don't hit an artery or..."
"I'm not an idiot Buck. I've got beat up enough times to know what not to do.
You know that. There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. It's going to be fine,
I swear." Steve smiles reassuringly, and Bucky nods. He turns back to the view,
and listens to Steve's strong heartbeat move back through their bedroom, into
the bathroom, and then it muffles as he shuts the door behind him.
Bucky sits and stares at the streets below clogged full of cars, the tall
buildings and blue sky, the East River in the distance and the city that
stretches into all directions, and tries not to think. He knows what Steve is
doing. He knows that Steve is cutting into his skin, his soft milk-white gold
freckled skin and he's wounding himself for Bucky, to feed Bucky's sick nature.
He knows that this damage is a thousand times less than the damage he himself
did to Steve with bullets and fists. He hates that he is not strong enough to
say no to this. He tries to focus on what Steve said, about how it was nothing,
and how willing he is to do this for Bucky. He tries not to, but he's straining
for the scent of Steve's blood in the air. God, he misses it. 
He can hear Steve unlock the door. Steve comes into his sight and he's holding
the knife and the pint glass awkwardly in the same hand, because the forearm of
his other is wrapped in a bandage. His left, so that he could hold the knife
and the bandage in his right hand. Smart, Bucky thinks distantly. Distantly
because most of his attention is focused on the glass in Steve's other hand.
It's more than half full, but not much more. Steve hasn't been dumb about this,
Bucky's pleased to see. He's thinking about how Steve's blood, even such a tiny
amount of it, has always been so potent to him, just like the drug Steve always
liked to dirty-talk it up to be. Just this much, just the blood in that glass
could keep the thirst that’s drowning him at bay. The urge to rip the glass out
of Steve's hands and drink it all, the urge to pull the bandage off Steve’s
skin and sink his teeth into it instead, the urge to bite into the rich artery
on Steve’s neck and take his fill, all of those urges are strong.
But Bucky can hear Steve, faintly, as if from far away saying, “That’s it Buck.
Nice and gentle. It doesn’t hurt a bit. There, there we go, you’ll be able to
drink in just as second now. Just wait for another few moments, and you can
drink it. I’m so sorry, I know you’ve been hungry a long time, but it’s just a
little while longer now. You’re being so brave. You’re so strong.” The words
and the tone form a reassuring background hum that Bucky can ground himself in,
enough to force himself to freeze as Steve comes closer, sets the knife on the
table and sits next to Bucky. 
He feels like the beast Hydra wore him down to, all exposed senses and
instincts. Still, he remains still. His awareness of Steve's body overwhelms
his own but his eyes are locked onto the glass of Steve's blood. He feels raw,
but it doesn’t feel all that bad now that he knows that he was, always has been
more than instinct, even when he couldn’t remember. Even now, he can force
himself to say, "Is your arm ok? Does it hurt?" even though his voice sounds
odd, almost as far away as Steve's does.
"I'm fine Bucky. Like I said, barely a scratch. I think the skin's already
closing over."
That's probably a lie, Bucky knows. Steve would at least have to knick a vein
to make himself bleed that much, that fast. He tries not to concentrate on how
veins are always closer to the surface, they don’t pulse but flow gently, how
the red looks welling up from blue veins, the colour change on contact with
air, how the blood from Steve’s veins would flow slower onto his lips, but
still taste just the same as blood from deeper beneath his skin’s surface, God,
the taste -
“It’s ok Bucky, breathe. I'm fine, I swear. You're ok, just - come on, just
drink it."
Bucky watches as his hands reach out to take the glass. Sniper’s hands. They
never shake, no matter how hungry he gets, no matter what he feels. White skin,
cold, around Steve's blood, and fuck, the glass is warm from his body heat.
God, he wants. He wants, he wants, he wants he wants he wants-
Steve's fingers curl around his own. “There you go. You can drink now, it’s ok-
”
Bucky tilts the glass to his mouth almost aches as the liquid pours onto his
tongue and all his salivary glands go into overdrive at once. His senses seem
to sharpen to a knife point. The blood, it’s lifeblood, it’s everything he’s
been needing. It tastes of strength and security and home. The salty-iron
liquid eases the burn in his mouth and throat and stomach, and then it's gone.
He drank the whole glass.
He needs more.
He hears, “Steady now,” and turns into the source of the familiar voice,
burying his nose into the neck and scenting the artery, running his teeth along
the pulse point in one shining moment of anticipation before he is pushed away.
He growls - his prey is not allowed to refuse him like this, not when he is so
desperate - and he lunges again for the throat. But the man pushes him away
again, and his muscles are strong. His eyes are beautiful, and piercing as he
says firmly, “No, Bucky." 
Bucky. That's...that is the activation code - no, that's his name. Bucky.
That's him. 
"You're ok. You're allright."
Steve. His victim is Steve.
He tries to pull away from Steve, to put distance between them, to make Steve
safer. But Steve's arms are still around him, still encircling him. Now, he's
holding Bucky close. He's saying, "It's fine, you didn't do anything wrong. You
didn't hurt me, I'm ok. You stopped when I said stop - you're fine, we're fine.
You stopped yourself, we're safe. I'm so proud of you."
“Steve,” he gasps.
“Yeah, I got you buddy,” comes the reply, and Steve is still holding him, so he
leans back into Steve's arms, which, now he's breathing normally, are cradling
him rather than restraining him. He lies back and lets himself just savour the
touch. Because whatever else happened, he and Steve are together and safe, and
Steve's arms are warm around him. The hunger still hurts, but it hurts less. 
After a few moments, “Do you feel better now?” cuts through the fog in Bucky’s
head.
“Yeah,” he says. “Much better.” Steve smiles, looking down at Bucky where his
head rests in Steve’s arms, and Bucky’s heart seems to swell and rise up in his
throat at the sight. He wants to kiss that smile off Steve’s face, but he
can’t. He thinks he left himself, for a while there, the way he did when he was
the Soldier. He's not safe right now. He clears his throat, says, “Thank you.
For everything. And especially for stopping me.”
“It’s ok, Bucky. We knew it might happen. And besides.” A grin breaks over
Steve’s face like a wave. “It was nothing, I don’t think you were even trying.
You did so well, Bucky. I know you were worried, but you didn’t need to be. You
did so well, you were so strong. I know it was hard, but you listened to be
when I told you to stop. I’m so proud of you, Buck.”
Bucky has to reach up to kiss him then, because the fireworks that Steve is
setting off inside his chest are a fire hazard. His head is at war; he didn’t
do well, he would have bitten Steve’s neck if he could have, it was only
Steve’s strength that saved him. Bucky had floated away and only the beast was
left, and that beast had no place anywhere near Steve -
But. But Steve had stopped him, with barely any effort and hardly a stern word,
and he didn’t bite Steve’s neck. Whatever animal he had become when the
instincts overcame him, it still obeyed Steve. And Steve obviously had no
reservations about controlling him when he couldn't control himself. It seemed
like he could be trusted to look out for his own safety and not indulge Bucky
when he went feral.
So...perhaps they can manage like this. Perhaps he can feed like this again,
can drink Steve’s blood again. Perhaps he is not completely an animal without
restraint. Perhaps he can trust Steve to manage him if he looses a little
control. Perhaps, if Steve really does still want it, they could fuck again, if
Bucky can drink enough to hush his instincts. Bucky sits up a little, although
he’s still leaning across and mostly on Steve’s lap. He tries to take stock of
himself, to gauge how much of his restraint he has regained, how much danger
has been averted by him feeding from Steve indirectly. It’s done him good, he
can tell that. The endorphins his blood stream has soaked him in have relaxed
him in, the hunger is less fierce, and he can think a little clearer now. But
although Steve’s blood is strong, that half a glass wasn't enough. 
“Was it enough to take the edge off?” Steve mirrors Bucky's own thoughts,
sounding considering.
So Bucky says, “Yes,” and resigns himself to get through another few hours or
days of silent hunger, because Steve is a kind and good man but he is also a
fucking punk idiot, and he would bleed himself out if Bucky asked him to, so
Bucky can't ask. 
But Steve’s next words are, “So do you think it will be safe for you to feed
straight from me, now?” Steve asks, and Bucky could choke with shock and sudden
pleasure. He wants to, fuck, he wants to, but “I...I don’t know whether that
would be a good idea.”
Steve’s brows are furrowing, so he rushes to say, “You don’t know what I would
do. You don’t know what I’ve done. What’s worse is, neither do I, exactly.
Sweetheart,” because it always makes Steve go soft, “I know that you want to
see the best in me, but a lot of that’s gone. I don't think you should trust me
as much as you used to. I sure as hell don't.”
But Steve doesn't go soft. Steve sighs and turns to face Bucky, who's left to
lean back into the cushions of the sofa instead of Steve’s shoulder and feels a
little petulant because Steve’s shoulder was much more comfortable. Steve
appears to be thinking, and Bucky huffs and presses their thighs back together
before Steve says, “Bucky. I mean, it’s fine if that’s true. You know yourself
and your body better than anyone else. It’s just, well. If you’re saying that
because you think you need to protect me, I don’t think you need do. I meant
what I said, you did well just now. You stopped when I said stop, you listened
to me. I don’t know what you’re thinking, how it feels, I’m not gonna try and
pretend I do, but I do know you always used to underestimate yourself, before.
I thought we got past that, in the war, but I guess it’s been a long time for
us since then. So it’s completely your choice, but I just wanted you to know,
for what it’s worth,” Steve pauses, bites at the inside of his lip, and Bucky
can’t stop his eyes from tracking it, “For what it’s worth, I know you. You’re
still the same guy you always were. You’re still the same person who would have
died before he hurt me, who fought to protect me. I still trust you, just the
same-”
Bucky can’t stop the words from welling up, like pus from a wound, “Like a
loaded gun, yeah? Like if I pointed a loaded gun at you, and had my finger on
the trigger?”
“Yes, but-”
“But I already did that, that happened, and I shot. I pulled the trigger. I
failed, and you can’t - you shouldn’t-”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, shut up.”
Steve barely ever swears except when they’re having sex.
“Bucky, I am not putting up with this shit. Both of us have been through too
much for this - for you to doubt yourself like this. You put a gun on me and
you pulled the trigger, and despite the fact that we were indoors and you are
an expert marksman and I was ten paces away, you shot me in the gut. You didn’t
fail. Ok? You fought Hydra, and you won, I don’t care if it was in a battle or
in your head or wherever, you fought and you won and you saved me. I trust you.
With a gun, or with your teeth, or anything, and you should too.”
Bucky was familiar with this, once, with Steve’s rhetoric and the affects it
had. He’s made bullies blush, mumble and apologise and roused troops into
action with his speeches, Bucky’s seen it. Bucky has been familiar with
persuasion, too, of Hydra’s more painful manner, persuasion of screaming and
white-hot sickening metal-tasting pain. This is more powerful than that. This
is Steve looking at him with his eyes turned to steel, his words to etchings in
stone, and ordering him in the voice of his owner and commanding officer and
best friend and lover to have faith in himself, because Steve already does.
“Ok,” Bucky says. “Alright then.”
Steve blinks, once. “Good.” He’s adorable, in this moment. He’s everything to
Bucky, and he looks as if he hadn’t realised it until this moment. “Right.
So...are you still hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to-”
“Yes.” Bucky leans forward, back into Steve’s space. He pauses for one moment
to say, “I know you trust me enough for this to work, but that has to go both
ways. You have to promise me. You have to stop me. You have to be prepared to
restrain me, if I can’t.”
Steve looks at him and he looks incredulous and indignant, probably on Bucky's
behalf, but also loving and accepting, and he just says, “I promise.”
So Bucky starts to scent along Steve’s neck. He presses his nose under Steve’s
ear, closes his eyes against Steve’s nape, and breathes. He’s still thinking
enough to say, “Don’t wait for it to hurt, ok? Don’t leave it until the last
second, push me off as soon as you feel lightheaded,” but only just.
“You always make me feel lightheaded when you bite me,” Steve says, a little
breathlessly, and Bucky pulls back to look at him until Steve says hurriedly,
“But I know the difference. Of course I’ll stop you.”
“Ok then,” Bucky says. He goes back to Steve’s neck. The column of flesh and
bone and blood that holds his pounding lifeblood, and it smells like food to
Bucky, but that’s ok. He hasn’t wanted anything other than blood since he was
thirteen, and no one’s but Steve’s since he was twenty-four, so it’s been...a
long time. He’s ancient now. He’s going to drink Steve’s blood, and it’s ok,
because Steve said he could, and Steve will stop him, and Steve trusts him.
He’s hard already, and it would be embarrassing, except that as he licks across
Steve’s pulse point, Steve moans.
“You want it?” His grin is pressing his teeth against the tissue-thin skin of
Steve’s neck.
“Yes, God, Bucky, do it,” Steve’s saying, and he can feel the words thrumming
against his lips. Bucky is starving and his body is desperate, but he is calm.
He is not afraid, because Steve is not afraid. He will not hurt Steve. He knows
that now.
“Bed,” he manages to say, and Steve groans, before Bucky pulls them both to
standing. They kiss as they half walk half stumble backwards, hands fumbling on
buttons and zips and kicking out of pants before until they both hit the
mattress and go over. Bucky lands on top of Steve and yanks off his shirt,
hearing fabric tear. Steve’s now wriggling gracelessly and adorably out of his
own shirt beneath Bucky. Bucky laughs at him and receives a glare before he
goes back to kissing down Steve’s neck, his exposed chest, his collarbones, his
nipples, and Steve hisses as he lets his teeth graze them, but not break the
skin. Bucky takes a moment to force the urge to bite back down, and forces his
hands off Steve’s neck - he can’t remember when they got there. He thinks for a
second, and then flips over, pulls Steve down on top of him, and puts his hands
behind his back and grips his elbows with his opposite hands before he leans
back onto them. Just in case. Steve makes use of the new position immediately
to straddle Bucky, and start grinding their cocks together. Bucky can feel
himself beginning to loose his mind, and he’s not scared. It always felt like
this, after all. But he takes one more moment to say, “Steve?” and gets a hum
in response, because Steve is currently busy skimming his hands down Bucky’s
sides, feeling the minute ridges of the almost perfectly-healed scars he can’t
remember getting. “Steve,” he says again, more loudly, and this time Steve
bothers to look up and meet his eyes. “You promise?”
Steve says, “I promise.”
So Bucky lets himself relax. Leans back onto his trapped arms, and opens his
legs. Steve comes back in between them just like he’d never left, and his
thighs are strong and thick now and his groin is pressed up close to Bucky’s.
Their cocks are rubbing up against each other and it’s enough to make Bucky
moan, open mouthed. He almost misses when Steve whispers, “You’re still an
idiot,” into his hair. Bucky turns to make a retort, but that puts his mouth
right against Steve’s jugular. He mouths along it, and remembers the way
tension builds like this, just as powerful at the moment when the has not-
quite-fully depressed the trigger before the shot shouts out. He recognises the
way the air has a charge that feels almost like static, pulling them to each
other, coating them, outlining the negative space between their bodies in a way
that only makes them ache to close it. He wraps his thighs around Steve hips
and pulls him down hard, until their bodies are pressed tight together and
Steve's heat is soaking into almost every inch of his body, from ankles to
shoulders, and then he bites. 
It's like coming home. He can taste the arousal and the joy in Steve’s blood,
he knows him so well. He hasn’t forgotten anything about this. They burned up
his mind but this goes deeper, smell and taste and touch right down in the
centre of him where their knives couldn’t reach. This is what he kept
remembering, what they couldn’t make him forget. Steve’s rich warm healthy
joyful red blood slipping out of his flesh and into Bucky’s mouth...it’s like
the antithesis to everything he’s suffered. This taste and this sensation and
this man, this is the best thing he knows. Steve’s blood is sustenance-love-
companionship-home-longing-satisfaction-devotion-loyalty-lust-comfort-rest-
tranquility-sex-need. He’s been without it, without any of it for so long, and
now...
He can feel it building, and he remembers this from before; the tingling,
tripping point moment before the fall, when his head is awash with rush and
seems to exist only as a mere extension to his body, just part of a conduit for
pleasure. Bucky can feel himself slipping under as Steve’s hand goes to his
cock. Bucky’s own hands are trapped behind him, he put them there, but he
doesn’t want to move, to break this connection, so all he can do is lie there,
and feel as Steve strokes his rock-hard cock and thrusts against his thigh, as
Steve’s groans vibrate across his buzzing teeth and straight into his skull and
his bones, and, somehow, back into his cock and...
“God, Bucky, I missed you so much. I love you,” Steve says, in a low, quiet
voice resonating with pleasure, drugged with the venom, and Bucky whines and
presses up into him. Steve’s skin is hot and slick against Bucky’s and he can
feel the beginning of Steve’s stubble rough against his lips. Steve is hot and
heavy and hard against him and his hand’s on Bucky’s dick, and he’s missed this
so much, this visceral, uncompromising assertion of Steve’s closeness. Steve's
warmth is soaking through his skin into his bones. This close, with this much
of Steve’s blood in his system, he can hear Steve’s panting echoing through the
cathedral of his chest, he can feel the pulse of Steve’s heart in his cock
where he’s thrusting onto Bucky’s thigh. He hadn't even realised how much of
his never-ending hunger has been for this until it's being satisfied - not for
blood, but for the act of drinking from Steve. Steve, who was always kind to
every outcast, Steve, who retaught Bucky his humanity whenever he got close to
loosing it, Steve, who saved him, who dragged him out of hell, who let Bucky
live off his blood, who lets Bucky fuck him, who isn't scared of him, Steve who
is his, all his. Steve's hand stroking his cock just how he needs it, Steve's
blood in his mouth, in his throat, Steve's blood filling him up inside and his
skin pressed against Bucky's, filling him with hot and love until there is no
cold or anger left in him. Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve, whose voice is
gravelly and intoxicated and sex-rough when he says, “Babydoll. Just let go.
Come on, Bucky, Buck, I love you, just let go.”
So he does. Steve's presence lulls him down into the state where there is no
thought. He lets all of the sensation drown him. The friction of Steve's touch
washes over him in waves, and he is powerless. He is safe, and loved, and
Steve's hand is fucking his body and his mind. Steve is fucking the thought
right out of him. If Steve wants him to come, he will. If Steve wants to draw
it out, Bucky will lie here and take it until Steve decides to release him. It
was about Steve's safety, but now it's about Steve's pleasure. He always did
like it when he got Bucky overwhelmed. Right now, that's exactly what he's got.
Bucky's hips are humping up to Steve's hand without instruction, trying to
chase the touch, even though he knows that Steve won't stop now. He's
whimpering into Steve's throat, tonguing and licking as much as he can to keep
the wound open, and to keep the venom in Steve's bloodstream, and he's
swallowing almost convulsively. Steve's other hand was stroking down his ribs,
but now he's moving lower, rocking so that most of his weight is resting on
Bucky so that his other hand can move lower. Bucky gets stuck for a moment on
how good it feels to be pinned down by Steve's solid and undeniable body weight
before he realises that Steve's finger is now pressed up against Bucky's
asshole. If his mouth were free, he'd say Steve's name, but as it is all that
comes out is a strangled moan. Steve's finger presses and massages and teases
maddeningly until Bucky could nearly cry with need, and then he presses in and
finds Bucky's prostrate within seconds. There's the slightest burn that blurs
into pleasure as bright as a searchlight behind Bucky's eyes, and he comes into
the rough stroking of Steve’s hand and the flood of his blood and the pressure
of him inside and the warmth of his arms. He can feel himself shaking, and he
hears Steve gasp as white stripes up both of them, and hears him say, “There.
Just like that, perfect. Let go, just like that, fuck, just look at you.” 
Finally, the sensation as strong as an ocean moving inside him abates, and
Bucky takes his teeth out of Steve’s neck and gasps, shuddering still. He’s
still sensitive, but Steve’s pulls out his finger gently and his hand gentles
Bucky though the aftershocks, and Steve doesn’t stop thrusting his slick cock
against his thigh. Steve’s other hand, so recently inside him, comes up to
stroke Bucky's hair away from his face, the hair that smells of Steve and marks
Bucky as his, traces his fingers over Bucky’s cheekbone. Then Steve sends a
shudder in the seismic range of an earthquake through him when he feels Steve’s
lips and then his teeth pressing into the tender lobe of his ear - it’s
something Steve likes to do sometimes, playfully returning Bucky’s bites on
unexpected areas at unexpected times, because he’s a shit and he thinks he’s
hilarious, and if, this time, Bucky huffs out breathless laughter in reply it’s
only because he’s missed Steve very much for a very long time. Bucky rolls,
pulls his arms out from under him, and pushes Steve down, so that Bucky's on
top of him. He crawls down Steve's body, and without ceremony swallows Steve's
cock. He can't take much of it in, he's been out of practice for too long, but
he strokes what he can't take in and sucks and licks all that he can. He keeps
his teeth out of the way and he's so full and sated that it's easy. With the
amount of his venom in Steve's system, it takes him about half a minute until
he comes down Bucky's throat. Bucky swallows and the satisfaction of it makes
him grin, as much has he can round Steve's cock. His eyes were closed but Steve
must have been looking at him, because he laughs breathlessly, and pulls Bucky
up so their faces are level, and kisses him. Bucky rolls them both so that
Steve's on top again and and drags Steve down, closer, right down on top of
him, until all of Steve’s torso is pressed up against all of his own once more.
He doesn’t move after that, and neither does Steve, and he can feel himself
drifting into sleep. He rouses himself enough for a moment to get out, “Love
you,” and hear Steve’s hum, and then sleep overwhelms him.
 
 
 
He is close to waking, and he feels Steve’s heat has left him, but he can hear
Steve moving around close by in the bedroom and bathroom, so he doesn’t bother
to move or get up. He hears cupboards opening, the tap running, and then
shutting off. And then there’s warm water dripping onto his stomach, and he
wakes the rest of the way up to crane his neck to see Steve washing the dried
come off his stomach with a wet towel. He smiles, and lets his head fall back
on the pillow. He knows that Steve didn’t much like Bucky, or anyone actually,
even appearing to look after him and hated to have things done for him that he
could do for himself, but Bucky, from the receiving end, is experiencing no
such qualms whatsoever.
“Lazy,” Steve says, and it’s affectionate. He’s always loved how Bucky gets
pliant when he gets enough of Steve’s blood to fill him so he won’t be hungry
for a week. He hums in reply and clasps his hands behind his neck. Steve
smiles, and when he’s finished washing Bucky’s torso clean, or clean enough, he
runs his hand across Bucky’s damp skin, and Bucky doesn’t even bother to stop
himself arching up into the touch.
Steve says, “I’m gonna go get some food.”
“Well, none for me. I’ve already eaten.”
“Did I offer?” Bucky laughs, and then rolls over, back into the warmth Steve’s
body’s left in the bed. He’s very acutely aware of how the whole thing smells
like Steve - his shampoo, his sweat and his come - and Bucky wallows in it. He
hears Steve puttering about in the kitchen, opening the fridge and frying
something, switching on the microwave, and the unappetising smell of food wafts
into the bedroom. And then he hears, quite distinctly, when an unknown voice
says, “Mr Rogers, when it is convenient to you, Mr Stark would like a word." 
Bucky freezes. No one came into or out of the apartment. He cannot hear anyone
other than Steve breathing, or any other heartbeat. He is with Steve in the
kitchen before he has time to think any more, and this time, the rush of speed
doesn't make him dizzy.
Steve sees him sooner than anyone else would be able to, says, “Buck - hey,
don’t worry, it’s just Jarvis.” Steve’s hands are up, palms facing him, at
Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky relaxes at Steve’s tone, and at the realisation that
the voice was remote.
“Who is Jarvis?”
“Um. Well.” Steve seems to gather his thoughts, and then takes a deep breath
before he says, “This may be a little hard to believe, but, basically, as I’ve
had it explained to me, Tony made a person out of a computer. He, um...he
figured out how to program a personality into a machine. And the guy’s pretty
nice, his name is Jarvis and he uh, ‘lives’ in the tower. That is to say, he’s
installed all over the tower. He sort of acts like a butler, but I think he’s
also ridiculously smart.”
Bucky believes him. It's the twenty-first century - anything is possible. The
only thing he wants to know is, “Is he always listening?”
“No, Jarvis is pretty good about that sort of thing. Tony said he only
activates listening protocols when directly addressed. Or unless there’s a
threat to security.”
Bucky swallows. “A vampire probably counts as a threat to security, doesn’t
it.”
“Oh shit,” says Steve.
“And if he finds out about me, will he tell Tony?”
Steve is silent, and then goes pale as the same smooth male British voice as
before says, “Yes, Mr Barnes. However, due to my recommendations and Mr Starks’
own threat evaluation, he has decided to take no action against you at this
time. Rather, since my report of your unusual diet, he has spent the last six
hours analysing the samples taken from you during your recovery, in an attempt
to understand how your biology differs from that of a humans’.”
Someone knows his secret. Not Steve - a scientist. Like the men who found him
before. But Steve’s friend. A good person? Who has chosen not to take action,
after finding a monster in their midst. Why not? “You’re not...he’s not going
to - to lock me up?”
“No, Mr Barnes.”
“Even though he knows I’m...not human.”
“Mr Stark decided that your species would not be reason for discrimination.
Currently, the number of altered or non-humans in residence on the top two
levels of this tower outranks the number of non-altered.”
“What.”
“Yourself, Mr Rogers, Mr Odinson and Mr Banner, in comparison to Mr Stark, Ms
Romanov and Mr Barton.”
Bucky turns to Steve. Steve clears his throat, “Well, the serum. And other
people tried to replicate it, after the war. The team is..., think Howling
Commandos 2.0.”
The smooth voice cuts in again, “This tower is very well reinforced, can be put
into lockdown at the first hint of a security threat by either myself, Mr Stark
or Ms Potts, amongst a multitude of other easily implementable precautions.
Therefore, unless your behavioural patterns change drastically, Mr Stark
decided that in light of your high level of reasoning, compassion and self-
restraint obvious even whilst engaged with Mr Rogers,” and there is no
inflection on the word but Steve makes a sound like he’s choking on a fur ball,
anyway, “Mr Stark will engage in conversation with both you and the other
residents of the tower before attempting to put any restraints on your freedom,
Mr Barnes.”
“Right.” Bucky’s head is still reeling. “And this conversation will be...?”
“Most of the team are already assembled in the penthouse common room. I was
requested to inform Mr Stark when you awoke. However, they are not expecting
your presence for the duration of Mr Rogers’ meal.”
Bucky pauses. This is not the world he knows. This is not the same city he grew
up in. This is the twenty-first century, he is talking to a sentient computer
and apparently being inhuman is not unheard of now. Apparently, Steve has found
people who can forgive a monstrosity like his. What Jarvis seems to be saying
is ridiculous, but there is a chance that this is not too good to be true, that
this is not a trick, that a home here could be a reality. Bucky turns to Steve,
“You sure they’re not going to...to try and take me away from you, are they?”
“No! No, of course not. Bucky, these are our friends, we can trust them - like
the Howlers, remember? And you know that if anyone ever did try to separate us,
we wouldn’t let them.”
“Yeah, of course.” But it was nice to hear it from Steve, no-nonsense like
that. “But with everything? Not just what the Howlers guessed, but the truth?”
“Yes! I swear, it’s going to be fine. It’s…times have changed now, and…two men
together is allowed. That at least will be fine.” Bucky raises his eyebrows and
opens his mouth, but Steve speaks over him, “And anyway, like Jarvis said,
they’re not…most of them have secrets too. Natasha already knows, and she said
it doesn’t matter, and it sounds like Tony’s more interested in breaking down
the science than anything else. Thor probably won’t care at all, and Bruce,
well, he won’t hold it against you. He’ll probably just be interested in the
biology aspect too. Clint’s not going to blame you for something that’s not
your fault. All these guys’ll want is to make sure that you’re safe to be
around, and when they find out you are-”
“And if they decide I’m not?”
“Then we’ll convince them otherwise. And if we can’t, which I highly doubt,
well. I’ll be with you, whatever happens.” That faith in him again, that trust.
Fuck, he really fucking loves when Steve says things like that.
“Ok.” Bucky considers. “If they have my file, and my blood, they already know
everything, don’t they?”
“Yeah, probably. I expect Natasha will have shared the file Hydra kept on you,
now keeping the secret is a moot point.”
“What’s in that, exactly?” Steve’s expression clouds, darkens. “They have
information on all the tests they ran on you. All the invasive procedures. I…I
don’t know how much you remember…?”
“No, you know, that was a stupid question. I don’t want to know. It doesn’t
matter. It happened. It’s over now.”

Steve still looks torn. “Well, ok. Do you really not remember any of it?”
He could say, I remember all of it, just none of the details.
He could say, I remember being what was left, afterwards.
He could say, I remember the pain, the fear, and that is enough.
He says, “No. And I don’t want to.”
“Ok. Then, what the folder has in it is a very thorough examination of your
biology, as well as a description of all the things they did to you.” Steve’s
voice sounds pained. Bucky imagines Steve reading that file, alone, not knowing
for sure whether there was any of Bucky left inside after that. Not knowing
whether or not he was reading his lover’s death sentence. Why would Steve put
himself through that, when he didn’t have to?
But then, of course he did. Steve would read it because he would feel
personally responsible for every needle and knife that ever pierced Bucky’s
skin. The ridiculous idiot. Bucky says, carefully, “Well, I don’t remember
that. I know that it happened, but I’m here now. I don’t want to think about it
anymore. You don’t have to either.”
“No, yeah. Ok,” says Steve, unconvincingly. “Well, anyway, now they know all
that I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They’re all reasonable
people. They’re going to understand that at every point, you’ve been the victim
and not the aggressor. None of them will blame you.”
“Hm,” Bucky says. “And you’re sure no on will care that we fuck?”
This time, Steve cracks a smile, and it’s believable. “Oh, they’ll care. They
think I’m a virgin. They kept trying to set me up on dates. They’ll be
ecstatic.”
“A virgin. You. The dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard speak.”
“I know. But then, to be fair, I turned down everyone they told me I should go
with.”
Bucky feels a sharp sweet pain at that. Because it’s been two years, for him,
and he believed Bucky dead, and he still didn’t want anyone else. The
possessiveness would have eaten him alive if Steve’d done otherwise, but as it
is, something else is doing the same, thinking of Steve alone and stubbornly
lonely like that. Steve reads whatever it is his face is showing, and says, “I
know. I couldn’t have done anything else. I’m not sorry that I didn’t, either.
I don’t know what I would have done, if…”
Bucky moves in close and hugs him, warm from Steve’s blood and as firmly
present as he can be. When he moves back, Steve’s face is a twisted mess, and
he doesn’t know what to say to fix it, so he says, “So we have nothing to worry
about, now, then?”
“No.”
“Ok,” Bucky says, and Steve must firmly believe that he is right, because he
doesn’t even bother to argue with the tone of uncertainty in Bucky’s voice,
merely smiles. If Steve is sure, Bucky can do his best to be the same. Steve
turns away, scrubs his hands over his face, and then dishes up the food that
lain forgotten on the stove. It’s toast, bacon and eggs. Bucky supposes that,
if pushed, he might pick at the bacon, but the toast looks like it tastes of
bland cardboard and the eggs smell disgusting and look like fried mucus.
Because it always used to make Steve groan and laugh when he was younger, Bucky
tells him his opinion of his food, and Steve’s laugh is surprised and
delighted.
“Oh jeez, thanks for that. I really needed that. God, you’re delightful you
are.”
Bucky smiles at him, smirks, actually, and Steve grins and kisses him.
Steve is sure about this. Steve is certain that whatever is about to happen,
it’s going to be ok. Sometimes, that’s enough for Bucky to believe it too. He
always wants to believe that Steve is right, at least about the big things, the
important things. He always used to. But, well. After everything, after all
this time, he can’t help but doubt Steve’s optimism sometimes. And, he feels
cruel even thinking it, but Steve has always been too generous in his
judgements about people. Bucky’s seen the worst, Steve sees the best, and
sometimes the fact that Steve sees the best in people and expects it from them
means that they find the will to live up to his expectations, but oftentimes it
doesn’t. Of course, Steve’s not naive, not anymore anyway, and his judgement is
almost always sound. But this is the biggest secret they’ve ever spilled, more
even than what the Howlers knew back in 1945, all of the information Hydra
prised from under his skin, and Bucky hasn’t even met most of Steve’s new
friends. And almost isn’t always.
When they’re dressed and showered, Bucky and Steve take the elevator up to the
communal living room, where Jarvis has, politely, informed them that Tony,
Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton and Bruce Banner are waiting for them. Thor is
apparently off-planet. Bucky intends to ask later. On the elevator ride, Bucky
concentrates on the multitude, the host, the pantheon of Steves surrounding him
on all sides in the windowed walls, instead of the fact that he is trapped in a
tiny metal cell hurtling through air to meet a group of people who know all his
sick secrets and are possibly powerful enough to kill him. As the numbers flick
up to their floor, Bucky’s not hyperventilating or panicking, but that’s only
because that’s never helped him win a fight before. He ignores the fact that
he’s trusting the future that he’s only just got back to the goodwill of people
he’s never met. Comforts himself with the knowledge that if he has to run or
fight or kill or hide, he will, and Steve will do it with him, and as long as
he has Steve it will be ok. He’s a demon, he’s a monster, and he’s killed so,
so many people, but he has been through too much to be selfless now, and he
will never loose Steve again.
When the doors slide open, it’s a pretty casual scene in the living room. There
are as many windows as there were on their own personal floor, and the view is
possibly even more stunning. The decor is similar, white and chrome and
tasteful wood accents, but this room looks more lived in. There are blankets
and throw pillows scattered around, piles of books on a table by the sofa.
There are also the expected four people in the room, and they are all staring
at Bucky. Bucky knows Tony Stark, sitting on a stool at a kitchenette to the
right of the room, sipping what looks like coffee, and he knows that Natalia
Romanova is the strikingly beautiful woman sitting in an ostensibly relaxed
pose with her legs crossed and a book on her lap on the sofa, whose clothes are
too loose for Bucky to see how many weapons she’s carrying. He’s not sure which
of the two remaining men are which until Steve introduces the tired looking man
standing and cleaning his classes at the window with, “Bucky, this is Bruce
Banner,” and the blond man next to Natalia on the sofa draped in a blanket, who
also seems to be drinking coffee, with “and this is Clint Barton. You know
Tony, and Natasha-”
“We’ve met,” she says, with a rye smile.
Bucky says, “Wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“Water under the bridge,” she says, and her smile looks sincere but her eyes
are still watchful.
“So,” says Tony Stark, “We all know each other’s names, how nice, how
civilised. Now, I suggest we cut to the chase and address the very obvious
elephant in the room here: Bucky, Jarvis tells me you’re a vampire.”
None of the others in the room react, apart from Banner’s heavy sigh and eye-
roll, which Bucky thinks are probably directed at Tony. Bucky can feel Steve
slightly bristling at his side, but he can’t think of any way to answer other
than, “Yes.”
“Right. So, Bucky, would you say that you pose a serious threat to national
security?”
“Uh..no?”
"Got any plans to go on a murder rampage and kill a ton of people?"
"No one who's not Hydra."
“Good answer. Great. Guys, we done?” There nods or noises of assent from all
around the room.
“Wait, is that it? Are you serious?” Bucky asks, incredulous.
“Yep. Jarvis told me about how you very clearly negotiated with Steve for his
blood, and expressed a desire not to let yourself loose control of your
instincts.” By the window, Bruce Banner puts his glasses back on. “You
apparently managed to avoid seriously hurting him even as your teeth were in
his neck, which, I have to say, is very interesting biologically. Natasha has
assured us, after looking through your file, that there is no way you could
have undergone what they put you through and not become a killer, but that by
no means dictates the change is permanent.” Natalia’s smile becomes a little
sharper, and Clint Barton resettles himself next to her so that his crossed leg
is pressed against hers. “She also said your file indicates that you don’t have
to kill people to drink from them, and that donated blood is good enough. And
has Steve reassured me, multiple times and very insistently, that you’re really
truly an all-round nice guy who’s just been misunderstood.”
Steve seems to be in stunned silence at Bucky’s left shoulder, so he just says,
“Ok. Sounds about right.”
“Fantastic. So, would you like any coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Bucky says, at the same time Clint Barton says, “I’ll take a
refill.”
Bucky looks to Steve to see if he thinks this is odd behaviour, but Steve’s now
smiling smugly as if he knew this would happen all along. And it’s true that
Steve always does expect the best from people, but that’s never been Bucky’s
habit, and he can’t believe that this is how anyone could react to the
discovery of a monster like him in their midst.
“But you really don’t...You really don’t care that I’m not human. That I feed
on people to survive. How can that mean nothing to you?”
“Pal, no offence, but I’ve fought bigger than you and survived. And I have an
impenetrable metal suit that I can summon in my sleep, so.” Tony smiles with a
look in his eyes that Bucky can’t interpret, and then turns and walks back to
the kitchen to fiddle with what Bucky presumes is a coffee machine. He’s still
staring after him when Natasha clears her throat. “You’ve already chosen not to
kill me once, and that was when you were under Hydra’s control. So I’m willing
to take my chances now.”
Natasha looks at Clint, who says, “If I started worrying about hanging out with
dangerous people now, I’d only give myself a complex.”
Bruce says, “I don’t think that you have the physical capability to kill me.”
Which is worrying enough on it’s own, except for how he says it with a pained
and mildly apologetic smile.
Steve, at Bucky’s side, now has a grin on his face that has moved past smug and
into triumphant. He sees Bucky looking and says, “Sorry Buck, I guess you’re
just not as scary as you thought you were after all.” Bucky could punch him, or
kiss him, but they are in public so he does neither. Whilst Bucky wasn’t really
expecting a mob and pitchfork reaction from Steve’s new friends, it’s true that
he certainly wasn’t expecting easy acceptance and no questions asked. He was
aware that the twenty-first century was more liberal than the decades he’d
grown up in, but he hadn’t realised that included afflictions like his. He’s
glad about it, of course he is, although all of these people must be either
insane or used to some incredibly weird situations. Steve always did seem to
gravitate to the oddest people in any given circumstance. Steve, who is still
visibly gloating over how much of a non-event sharing Bucky’s secret has been,
leads Bucky over to the sofa opposite Natasha and Clint’s.
"So, Steve," says Natasha, as they sit down, fixing Steve with a mock-firm look
ruined by hints of a mischievous grin, "Why didn't you just tell me I was
barking up the wrong tree, trying to set you up with all those girls.”
So, apparently, no one cares that he and Steve are sodomites. This is New York
city, it's the twenty-first century, these are Steve's new friends, and this is
going to be ok. Steve was right, this is going to be ok. Then Steve says, "You
were barking up the wrong tree trying to set me up with anyone who isn't
Bucky,” and now he believes it. The knowledge that Steve will never take a
lover other than him twists in Bucky's gut like a bittersweet knife again, and
although he feels guilty, he also feels very smug, and can’t help but let a
small smile settle on his face.
Natasha sniffs, says, "You could have just told me, you know.” Steve only
shrugs.
Clint, who, now that Bucky is closer, looks like a rumpled owl woken up outside
of it's preferred nocturnal sleep cycle, says, in a conversational tone, "So.
Vampire, huh?”
"Yes?" Bucky has got absolutely no idea where this conversation is going. 
"So, like, how are you up in the day time?" Clint asks almost as if Bucky will
reveal a secret Clint can share to achieve such alertness.
"Uh, well, I'm pretty sure all those myths are bullshit. The only thing that's
accurate is that I need to drink blood." Bucky's aware that his tone up until
this point has been on a gradient between incredulous and monotone, and if
these are Steve's new friends, he really does want them to like him, so he
adds, "And, also, I turn into a bat and fly around at night.”
Clint laughs, surprised, Steve chuckles, and even Natasha cracks a grin.
"So, garlic, sign of the cross, running water-”
"Do you sparkle?" Tony interrupts from the kitchen.
"Nope, none of it.”
“Huh,” says Clint.
"You sound disappointed," Natasha notes, and there's humour in her voice.
"Well, just, you know. It would be really cool if he was an actual vampire. I
mean, you guys are super powered and cool and all, but it doesn’t really count.
You’re not properly magic or anything.”
“Thor is a god,” Natasha remarks mildly. Bucky makes a mental note to ask Steve
who exactly this Thor person is.
“But he’s not, is he, he’s an alien. It’s not the same. I just wanted something
to be actually magic. Just once, you know?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” says Bucky.
Clint grins and says, “Apology accepted.”
“See, what did I say,” Tony says, coming over to Clint’s couch and filling up
his coffee over his shoulder. “I said you two would get on great, didn’t I?”
Bruce, ignoring Tony, asks, “So, if none of the myths apply, how much do you
know about what you are?”
“I don’t know anything.”
"So whoever bit you didn’t tell you anything?" asks Clint.
"I’ve never been bitten. I just started needing blood, when I was a teenager.”
Bruce puts his glasses back on, comes away from the windows, closer to the
couches. He looks intrigued. "So, there was a time when you didn't need to
drink blood? And this isn’t something that’s happened to you, it’s how you were
born. That's interesting - so it could be genetic, then?”
"Maybe. I don't know. We were orphans," Bucky reminds him, slightly tersely.
Does not mention his demon of a father. 
“Have you never met anyone else like you?”
“No.” 
He’s aware he’s being rude, now, but he doesn't need to dwell on this, on the
hows and whys. He can’t change it. And he doesn’t want anyone to try to figure
out how he works, to cut him open and pick apart the pieces. He can’t remember
the specifics, but he thinks that Hydra were very curious about his biology, at
first.
Bruce has obviously picked up on his discomfort. "Well, whatever the cause, you
seem to be perfectly healthy. It might be worth running some tests though, just
in case there's something you're deficient in - because, I mean, there's no of
knowing what an ideal diet is supposed to look like for you. And we could look
at synthesising an alternative food source for you, if you wanted.”  
"I..." It hadn't occurred to him, because Tony's offer had seemed so focused on
making sure that Hydra no longer controlled him, but there's no way that
Bruce's offer isn't directly offering help, for no other purpose than good
will. "Thank you." He’s surprised to hear that voice sounds slightly choked. He
supposes it's been a long time since a stranger offered him kindness for the
sake of it. Sometimes, he thinks, he forgets that Steve is not the only good
man in the world.
“Oh, I already did that. Sorry, you seemed busy, so I just got on with it.”
Tony says to Bruce. He’s dispensed with the coffee machine jug now, and vaults
over the back of the sofa to squash in next to Clint as he speaks. “His blood
work looks completely normal in most ways, but there’s also some added
components which I have no idea what the fuck they are. I looked through the
file, but Hydra had no clue what was going on with his biology either. They
just gave him blood and vitamin supplements and hoped for the best. But, you
know, if you feel fine on it, I’m pretty sure that just blood’s enough, plus
occasional water.”
“Yeah, I know.” Bucky had successfully fed himself as a vampire for thirteen
years after all.
“Right, fine, good, that’s sorted then. I guess the only thing to ask is
whether you want us to organise to have some donated blood diverted this way,
or if you’d rather keep feeding off your boyfriend instead.”
Bucky doesn’t know what it is, but he must show a reaction when he realises
that Tony means Steve.
Tony just grins like an asshole and says, “I mean, that’s what you guys are,
right?”
Bucky notices Bruce rolling his eyes at Tony’s lack of tact whilst sipping his
tea. Natasha is stealing some of Clint's coffee and Clint still looks half
asleep. No one thinks that this isn't normal. Next to him, Steve is saying
nothing, but his thigh presses into Bucky's. He knows that whatever he says
next, Steve will back it up. He answers, “Yes. I just hadn’t heard that word
before. But yeah, I suppose that’s what we are. And yes, although I’ll mostly
feed from Steve, some donated blood would be good.”
“Well then,” says Tony, “Sorted.”
“But how will you be able to get blood from a hospital?”
“Well, seeing as I do have a legit medical centre here on site, for the purpose
of maintaining this rag-tag little team of killers, they’ll probably just
assume it’s for official Avengers business.”
“Avengers?” Bucky had assumed that this team would have some kind of stupid
name, as these are Steve’s friends, and had assumed they’d have some kind of
defensive role to play, but he’s aware that he’s missing the specifics. “Care
to elaborate on that?”
“Well, I like to think of us as-” Tony starts, but Natasha cuts him off. “We
were a specialised task force, originally created to fight off an alien
invasion, which now deals with whatever situations arise that the regular
military, police and special ops can’t deal with.”
“Are there a lot of those, then, nowadays?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Who’s your handler?”
“We don’t have one,” Steve says. “Not anymore, anyway. We did answer to SHIELD,
but now Tony funds us and provides our equipment. We can make our own
decisions.”
“And you’re the leader?” Bucky asks, knowing the answer.
“Yes,” Steve says, just as Tony says, “Well, we let him think he is.”
“Ok,” says Bucky. “So, when can I start?"
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry this took so long. And sorry for the abrupt ending! I know it
     was supposed to be the last chapter, but it was taking too long and
     getting too long for me to wrap up the loose threads as best as I
     can, so there’s an epilogue on it’s way. Thank you all so much for
     your patience, kudos and kind words!
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The afternoon after Bucky comes home to Steve, Steve takes Bucky to Central
Park through the streets of New York on the back of his shiny modern motorcycle
which he is obviously very smug about owning. When they get there, the joy of
showing Bucky how all their childhood haunts have changed is so catching that
Bucky doesn't have the heart to tell him how he's been following Steve around
the park on his morning jog. Steve gets a hotdog from a vendor and they walk in
the sunshine. Bucky gets the sense that Steve’s expecting him to be
uncomfortable around so many people, but pretty soon he stops glancing at Bucky
from the corner of his eye, so Bucky doesn’t bother to explain to him that he’s
not uncomfortable because he knows that he could likely kill anyone in their
immediate vicinity easily, even without the guns that have been confiscated
from him, and the trees are providing enough cover that a sniper wouldn’t be
able to get a clear shot. 
They don’t talk much for a few hours, mostly just walking and exchanging
slightly dopy smiles, and then later they find a secluded area by the lake and
Steve touches Bucky’s cheek like he’s a miracle, and then it’s like they can’t
stop. Steve talks about how art has changed, and food, and clothes, and social
standards. He talks about how there are so many more people in the world now,
and so much more knowledge, and how much bigger it all seems. He talks around
waking up alone without Bucky, avoids talking about what it was like to think
that everyone you loved was gone. 
Bucky doesn’t talk as much. He doesn’t say that he’d been forced to live like
an animal. He does say he hated every second he can remember and he can’t
remember all of it, but that he’d never completely forgotten Steve. 
Steve says, “I wish I could have been there for you. I wish I could have got
you out.” 
"That would have been something to see, remotely staging a rescue mission from
underneath the arctic whilst unconscious."
Steve laughs, a bright surprised shining sound that makes Bucky smile too,
makes a glow well up inside his chest like he did something amazing.
Steve's smile gets a little dimmer as he says, "Yeah, well. I should have
thought of something. I shouldn't have just given up."
Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he leans a little into Steve where
their shoulders are touching, and Steve takes his weight. 
Steve says, “But you did it. You escaped. And I’ll never let them take you
back.” He smiles even though he looks like he wants to cry, and Bucky doesn’t
want him to look like that any more, and that is most of why he stops talking
completely. He listens to Steve talk instead, watches the sadness and pain and
joy pass over his face like the weather, and tries to let the certainty that
this is permanent settle into himself. That he can have this. 
Eventually, lights start going on along the footpaths, and they need to start
heading back to Stark tower. In the warm orange night lights of the park, Steve
takes Bucky’s hand in public, and he starts for a moment before squeezing,
hard. They walk hand in hand and it is not familiar, not muscle memory. This is
not something they could ever have had before. This is not part of their shared
past, but it is part of their shared future, and they have always fallen into
step beside each other anyway, so it comes naturally enough. On Steve’s bike,
Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, hard, and his thighs are straddling
Steve’s hips. The bike slowly warms, vibrating beneath them as they cruise
slowly on the crowded streets, and by the time they get back to the tower, both
of them are hard. 
That night, the light from the city outside and the tasteful dimmed bedside
lamps blends golden, and so does Steve’s hair, and his skin. In their
apartment, in their hometown. Bucky steals kisses while Steve cooks pasta at
the stove, settles his arms around Steve's waist and refuses to let go.
"Get off asshole, you're gonna get burned."
"Nope."
"Look, this sauce says it's got garlic in it. Begone demon." 
"Nah."
Then Bucky sits next to Steve on the couch and kisses his neck and shoulders
while he's trying to eat.
"Hey, lay off, I'm gonna spill it on you in a minute."
"Don't care, you can lick it right off again."
"You are awful." 
"Would you say I'm...a pain in your neck?"
"Bite me."
"Gladly."
As soon as Steve's bowl's in the sink, Bucky grabs a sports drink, because he
takes preparedness as seriously as any boy scout, pulls Steve into the bedroom
and pulls off his clothes. He doesn't really care how they fuck as long as he
can feel close to Steve again, the wondrous electric blur of sex and blood that
he's missed for so long. Steve's squirming and writhing but staying underneath
him, and when Bucky grabs the lube Steve takes it from him and hurriedly starts
to finger himself open, so apparently Steve's the one getting fucked. Bucky
takes the lube back, and knocks Steve's hands out of the way in favour of
scooting down the bed and doing the honours himself. In this as in everything
Steve doesn't take his own comfort into account nearly as much as Bucky thinks
he should. So Bucky takes over, puts his fingers inside Steve and his other
hand on his dick, and gets Steve panting and begging, "Please, yes, come on,
please," pretty fast. Steve's got his head thrown back, eyes closed and hands
on Bucky's long loose hair, so he doesn't see when Bucky swallows down his
cock, but jerks with the sensation, cries out, and then again when Bucky pushes
another finger into him. Steve's dick feels hot and good and heavy on his
tongue. He's not blood-sated like he was the last time they did this, but he's
overwhelmed at how easy it is despite that not to bite down. The urge is there,
like it was always there, but Steve's hand is on the back of his neck and his
hip is underneath Bucky's hand and somehow in the midst of lust and heat he's
grounded. He maybe gets a little carried away with the sucking, the licking,
maybe scrapes his teeth just a little bit, just to ease the buzzing in them, or
tease it maybe, but he doesn't hear Steve complaining. All he hears out of
Steve is, "Fuck, Bucky, yes, you're so fucking good, you're so good, yes," so
that's ok.
"You're real easy, you know that stud?" Bucky takes the time between downward
strokes to tell Steve.
"Sure, ok, whatever you say. Just there, come on, just there." Bucky pretends
not to know what he means, then blatantly refuses to give him what he wants,
keeping his fingers away from Steve's prostate. Steve's caught between bowing
up for Bucky's mouth on his cock and fucking back onto Bucky's fingers. He
whines, high and petulant, and Bucky quits teasing him almost instantaneously
because his ass is whipped and Steve is a brat, but he's Bucky's brat and Bucky
can already taste how it's gonna be when Steve comes on his tongue, the hot
rush of salty liquid, completely different but still close enough to feeding
that it's liable to make him come without even needing to touch his dick.
But Steve doesn't want that. Steve wants to get fucked, and Bucky's precious
fucking brat always gets his way. Steve starts panting, "Come on, Buck, I'm
ready, just get the fuck in me already, c'mon." 
So Bucky gets off his cock, takes his fingers out of Steve's ass and moves over
Steve to fuck into him. Steve gets his legs up around Bucky's waist, and his
arms around Bucky's shoulders, and the full body hug feels so good he just
pauses for a second to enjoy it. It's so warm, and he's surrounded but he feels
so safe. Steve's skin is soft and smooth and everywhere. The comfort and sense
of home are just as much of what he missed about Steve and sex as any of the
rest of it. But Steve's fussing, "C'mon Bucky quit teasing, I want it in me,"
so he fucks his hips into Steve's, one hand lining up his dick and the other
bracing his weight on the headboard and fuck.
"Holy fuck."
"Yeah," says Steve, grinning dazedly beneath him, "yeah."
He holds there for a moment, the closeness unbearable like the bittersweet pain
of his teeth, and then Steve's hips are moving beneath him and then they're
fucking hard. Their bodies make obscene noises where they're joined, straight
out of a blue movie, but Bucky can still hear the little huff of breath Steve
makes every time Bucky bottoms out underneath his own harsh breathing, the
occasional little panted, "yeah," "fuck," "God," "just like that." They're
going hard, but they're not going that fast, and there's plenty of time for
Bucky to watch Steve's face as he fucks him, the little moments of bunching
brows and licking lips and flickering eyes as he gets fucked. Bucky steals a
kiss, and then just breathes, lips wet and touching, and then pulls back to see
Steve's eyes again. Steve's watching Bucky watching him too, and like a hall of
mirrors it feels like infinity's echoing in the space between them, the gap
between them getting smaller until it blurs away. He has missed this for so
long. In a way, it feels like the first time. He still has all of his memories
of before the fall, but none of them are immediate like this, none of them are
happening now like this. Steve is his past, present and future and at this
moment they are physically inseparable from each other. Bucky could take this
moment and live in it forever. 
The hunger's not even present in his mind until Steve says, "Bucky, bite me,"
and he doesn't even think before he does it. He's raw, he's elemental. Steve is
his and he is Steve's. He is home, Steve is his home, and Steve is his. His
hips thrust into Steve without his input, and his mouth sucks at Steve's throat
where the blood's running hot and wet out of Steve and into him, and he's
rolling into Steve, where he's hot and wet and tight. There is nothing but
Steve's blood in his mouth, slipping down deep inside him, and him deep inside
Steve, and Steve's arms around him protecting him and keeping him safe and
loving him. Steve's whispering, "Bucky, Bucky," breathlessly and desperately,
Steve loves him, he loves Steve. Steve's breaths sound like waves rushing in
and out of his lungs, full and strong, and his hips are rolling up and into
Bucky's every thrust. Bucky nuzzles Steve's neck, scents him as he fucks him
and feeds from him, breathing his essence in deep, letting the feeling build
inside him until he feels high out of his fucking mind with it. Steve's making
the cutest fucking sound like, "ah, ah, ah" where Bucky's hitting his prostate
on every stroke, like shots of liquor into Bucky's bloodstream. He can taste
Steve's orgasm mounting in his blood. He feels Steve's ass clench up round him,
feels Steve painting come across their chests, he feels Steve's high in his
blood, and he comes so hard he sees stars. 
Some time later, Bucky doesn't know how long and he doesn't care, Steve's hand
is combing through his hair. He presses his face into Steve's neck again, half-
wistful for that high again. He finds quickly that licking and sucking and
breathing is easily good enough to fulfil the urge, so he kisses Steve's neck
while they both come down. He sucks hickies into Steve's neck with relish. It
must be a little painful for Steve, because Bucky's making them dark enough
that they'll still show a little in a few hours despite Steve's rate of
healing, but Steve doesn't complain. After a while though he says, "You know
what, I think I like it."
Bucky sniggers, probably still a little sex-drunk, "I should fucking hope so
Rogers."
"Dumbass." Steve swats his head, gently, before he goes back to petting him. "I
meant your hair like this. It's soft."
"Hmm." Bucky tries to sound noncommittal, but he's fooling no one. They both
know he's keeping the hair now. 
A little while later, Bucky rolls over and grabs Steve's t-shirt off the floor
and half-heartedly mops up their mess with it. He hands the sports drink to
Steve, who snorts. 
"These taste gross Buck."
"Don't care. Don't want you getting dizzy or something."
"That has never happened."
"Can't be too careful."
A little while after that, Steve is snoring softly beneath Bucky while he
strokes Steve's skin and watches the city. It’s perfect. He has never known
anything as perfect as this, lying fucked out and full in Steve’s arms. Sure,
he can remember the way it was before, but those memories are blurred and old
now. They feel like a long time ago. He feels like someone else. Bucky’s had to
live through so much to get back here, with Steve, and every second of pain was
worth it. 
A little while later, he sleeps.
 
 
 
Bucky thought, after that, that Steve was fine. That he felt as sure as Bucky
does that now they’re back together, nothing bad can touch them. But five days
later, he realises how wrong he’d been. Steve wakes up screaming Bucky’s name
in the dead of night, and when Bucky calms him, it’s worse, because then he’s
sobbing. Bucky holds him and pets him, wraps every limb around him and offers
all the comforting words he can, until Steve’s breathing calms enough for him
to say, slowly and carefully, “I know it was nothing, in comparison. I know it
was only a couple years, but. I thought you were dead. I kept thinking, if I’d
only...but it was in the past, it was over, and so I thought I should move on.
I couldn’t, but I tried, and all that time, you were alive, you were out there,
you were suffering. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I should have-” it’s coming out in
a rush now, a torrent of emotion; Bucky can only guess at how long Steve’s been
holding this back. 
Steve’s distress is almost physically painful, and all Bucky can say is, “Stop.
Please, just. Just stop.” Steve does. He’s not crying anymore, but he’s burying
his face into Bucky’s shoulder like if he holds on hard enough, he’ll never
have to let go. Bucky holds him, and thinks. He thinks about how screwed up
he’s felt the past few weeks before he came back to Steve, how alone and
anchor-less, with the memory of Steve his only safe-harbour in the storm of his
head. He thinks about Steve feeling that way for two years, without even the
comfort of Bucky’s presence. He thinks about how both of them have lost
everyone they’ve ever known. He thinks about the way it always seemed like
Steve felt personally responsible for every bad thing that ever happened, if he
could see even the slightest chance of being able stopping it, and he thinks of
that moment, the barely-remembered, lost-in-time, suspended-animation feeling
of falling, and Steve’s hand, and terror, and what that might feel like on a
loop in nightmares. 
Bucky says, “It’s not nothing. It must have been hell. And I’m sorry too. I
wish it hadn’t happened, too.”
Steve leans back enough to look at him, and you could drown an ocean in the
guilt in his eyes when he says, “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. The reason
you were there. The mission. The plan.”
This time, Bucky doesn’t have to stop and think. He has been dealing with
Steve’s martyr complex for as long as he can remember. “Stevie, I love you, but
you sure as fuck are stupid sometimes. Look, I chose to follow you into the
war. I made that call - I did, me. We did important work - good work. And
after, there was an accident, and I fell. You are no more at fault for failing
to grab onto me than I am for not being able to reach you.”
“I…I suppose.” Normally, Steve would be trying harder to fight against what
Bucky’s saying, he can remember that much. So that means that Steve must really
desperate to stop feeling the way he is now. He must be desperate for
reassurance. Two years, Bucky reflects, is a long time to be tortured,
emotionally or physically. And he should know; he has more of a sense of scale
for that sort of thing than most people. 
Bucky wracks his brains for the right thing to say, and then he has it. “If
you’d been the one to fall, would you blame me now for not catching you?”
“No. Of course not.” Steve sounds surer now, but still not certain.
“Steve, this guilt needs to stop. I understand the way you take responsibility
for your actions, the way you feel duty bound to prevent people coming to harm,
and I admire you for it. I love you for it. But this isn’t one of those times
where it’s helpful. This isn’t a fight that needs winning. I know that you
think that because you were there you should have stopped it, but Steve, you’re
not a god. You’re not all-powerful. There was no way you could have saved me.
You need to stop blaming yourself for something that was just bad luck.”
Steve nuzzles into Bucky’s shoulder again. His hands are holding onto Bucky’s
sides, his leg is flung over the top of both of Bucky’s. It’s no secret that
he’s possessive of Bucky - that they’re possessive of each other - but Bucky
thinks that he didn’t used to feel the need to stake a physical claim like
this. It’s something he’s been doing a lot recently 
“You don’t need to worry, Stevie.” What is it that Steve needs to hear? What is
it that he can’t convince himself of? 
“I forgive you,” Bucky tries. Steve’s hands tighten around him, and he lets out
a deep sigh, but he doesn’t say anything else. Bucky listens as Steve’s
breathing slows down to sleep patterns again. 
Bucky thinks back to how it was before, so long ago, in Brooklyn. How they just
used to be two scrappy kids with one moral compass between them, but it was
Steve’s, so it was more than enough. The number of times and the number of ways
that Steve has sacrificed himself for someone else’s good is vast - he’d risk
teeth to fight bullies, he risked death to fight in the war, and he as good as
let himself die to stop Red Skull’s plan. Bucky remembers reading about that in
the museum, his brain a blurring mess of past and present, conflicting
information and double identities, and at the time he’d only felt proud. Now,
he thinks about how Steve followed him into the ice only a few days after Steve
thought he’d died. Thinks about the words Steve spoke in the Park, "I shouldn't
have just given up." Dawn paints neon light across their walls, and Bucky
wonders how many times he’ll have to tell Steve that he is forgiven before he
believes it.
 
 
 
He wakes Steve up by sucking his dick, and then uses his extremely shaky and
rarely-used culinary skills and a lot of Jarvis’ help to make an approximation
of pancakes for Steve to eat once he gets out of the shower. When Bucky kisses
Steve he tastes of orange juice and syrup, and it’s nice. Bucky can still
appreciate the taste of some foods, as long as he tastes them on Steve’s lips.
Steve returns Bucky’s favour, sucks down his dick where he stands at the
kitchen counter, and Bucky sinks into his head enough to be unable to stop
himself from curling down for Steve’s wrist as his hand strokes up Bucky’s
chest and biting, just a little lovebite, just a tiny shot of venom, and then
of course it escalates and they end up missing their early morning jog with
Sam. 
They finally meet him an hour later for brunch in Sam and Steve’s favourite
cafe bordering on Central Park. That evening they watch an anticlimactic horror
movie with hilariously terrible special effects with the rest of the Avengers.
As Bucky cradles Steve in his arms as he sleeps and watches darkness fall on
top of an insomniac New York, he hopes that enough days like this will prove to
Steve the truth that he doesn’t seem to believe when he hears it in Bucky’s
words. Forgiveness, that was what Steve wanted. Bucky will prove it to him,
with time and love. 
 
 
 
It takes two weeks before Bucky says anything to Steve about how they kept him.
He’s reluctant even then, but Steve is so earnest, so determined not to push
him and so desperate to know how to make it better. It’s a bad day - there was
a news report this morning with an estimate of the number of people Hydra has
killed through SHIELD and the number is in the thousands, and that’s not
including the hundred thousand casualties of the wars that Hydra started, that
he has helped to start. He feels like acid’s corroding his insides, anger and
hate directed both at himself and his entire past, and Steve’s sticking close
to him, not letting him sink into himself. He’s being so good to Bucky, keeping
him occupied with new apps and books and TV shows to distract him without
pressing him to spend all of his time interacting with Steve, and Bucky knows
he has to give something back. Steve needs to know what Bucky feels, needs to
find a way to help him, so Bucky tries his best to explain. He pulls Steve over
to the couch and tells him, “I know what you think the problem is. You think
I’m scared, because of what happened. I know you think that talking about it
would help. I wanna try.” Steve smiles, proud and encouraging and hopeful, and
Bucky looks away. 
He says, “I - they treated me like an animal. I hurt so much. I wanted to die
and they wouldn’t let me. They told me - they brainwashed me. I thought there
was no way out, nowhere I could go. I thought it was me or someone else. I
can’t remember how long they made me live in a cage. I was always so fucking
hungry, cold. I always needed to feed and I had to kill. I needed to kill. I
knew it was wrong but I was so hungry. Like it was killing me. I couldn’t stop.
Every time, I’d swear to myself I wouldn’t again, but then I’d forget. I killed
all those people and none of them deserved it, I didn’t even have a reason. I
thought that was how I’d always lived. They took away everything that was left,
I didn’t know who I was. There was no one to talk to, to ask. They beat me for
asking. For talking. I just gave orders, on missions. I didn’t talk for years.
How could they do that? How could they take that much? Kill someone, and make
them carry on existing? I don’t-” His breath shudders in without his permission
and he can’t speak. Steve is a tense unmoving pillar next to him, but Bucky
knows what he wants to do, so he leans into Steve and lets it happen when he
feels Steve’s arms come around him. Softly, into the silence he can feel Steve
forcing himself to keep, he says, “I should feel more guilty than I do. I
should...I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a punishment bad enough. The
things I did.”
“No.” Steve’s voice is jagged dark flint. “No, baby. That’s not your fault.
What they did to you - it’s not on you. None of that blood is on your hands.” 
Bucky laughs hollowly into the side of Steve’s neck, marvelling at how clear-
cut and clean Steve’s mind must be. But he doesn’t say anything, because there
are tears in his throat. Steve gets the message anyway, doesn’t try to make it
better anymore, just holds him, calls him “Baby,” “sweetheart,” “darling,” and
Bucky’s glad. There’s nothing comforting Steve can say that he will believe.
There’s nothing anyone can say that Bucky doesn’t already know. 
Steve stays close to him for the next few days, and it helps. He’s never liked
to feel alone. There’s nothing either of them can do about his past, and every
reminder always tends to trigger a bad day. But Steve is always there, Bucky
has faith that he’ll always be there, so that makes it a little easier. 
 
 
 
Bucky didn’t want to go to Bruce or Tony, but he does, eventually, about four
weeks after he arrives at the tower. He picks Bruce, because of his tact, and
gives him a blood sample and a specific question. 
The thing is, Bucky has always known he was different, since he was thirteen
years old, but all he knew for sure was that the rules that are true for
everyone else were not true for him. There was no guidance, no one to help him.
There were things he had to stop wondering about, lest he go insane. He did not
let himself think about where he fit into the grand scheme of heaven and hell.
He did not think about how pure his attachment to Steve was. And he never, ever
let himself think about the fact that since he was sixteen, he has known that
Steve could die every winter. 
The idea of a world without Steve was enough to destroy his patriotism, his
faith, himself. Steve knew that. Steve has always known him so well. Bucky
didn’t talk about Steve’s weakness, so as not to upset him, and Steve did the
same. Steve has always been self-destructive, and reckless, and it is because
he has always known he would die too young. However, Bucky has always known
otherwise. He has spent his life saving Steve from the fights he gets himself
into, and he knows that he holds in his veins a cure for the fight against his
own body that Steve can’t win. He couldn’t tell Steve, but with luck, he
wouldn’t need to. Bucky has always been determined to keep Steve alive, and
safe, and healthy, and happy, and to stay with him until the end of the line.
Until the day he died. Steve will die an old, old man, if Bucky has anything to
say about it.
But the rules of biology do not apply to Bucky. He didn’t let himself think
about it, but it had occurred to him that he has no way of knowing whether or
not he would ever grow old. He just had no way of knowing, no one to ask. If he
ever let himself think of it, it was only ever enough to come to the obvious
conclusion - that he and Steve were destined for twin graves, side by side.
There was no world for him without Steve in it. If Steve died before him, he
would follow as soon after as he could. But mostly, he did not let himself
linger on matters so morbid.
Of course, now, in the twenty-first century, there are people he can ask. 
Three days later, Bruce explains the results to him. The first thing he
emphasises is that they’re unclear and inconclusive, and he has no way of being
certain that his conclusions are accurate when he has no understanding or
knowledge of Bucky’s species. Bruce also stresses that there is no record he
can find of anyone surviving in anything like the cold that Bucky experienced,
let alone for that long, except Steve, who isn’t human either, nor in any way a
comparable sample. Bucky tells Bruce to get to the point. Bruce says, “Your
body is approximately ninety years old, and yet despite that, you appear to be
in your late twenties, early thirties.”
Bucky says, “I’m ninety-six. Well, I was born ninety-six years ago.” 
“Right. Well, I am in no way sure, but I think, and this is just an opinion-”
“Bruce.”
“I think part of the reason you don’t appear to have aged at all is because
your body was in cryofreeze. I mean, your heart wasn’t beating - Hydra
essentially killed your body, preserved it, then resurrected it, multiple
times. You haven’t actually been alive for ninety-six years.” Like a zombie,
like something out of one of the goddamned stupid horror films. Ghosts. He
knew, but he didn’t know. He thought he’d slept. Bucky can’t breathe for a
moment, can’t think for a moment. He’d asked to do this privately, but he
imagines what Steve would say if he were here. He’d say something stupid about
Lazarus, probably, about miracles. Talk about Jesus, rising on the third day,
because and only because God willed it. 
Bruce says, “There’s more, though.”
There always fucking is, isn’t there?
“The file Natasha found is incomplete, but there are still more than ten years
worth of time recorded with you awake. Your body doesn’t show a change like
that. You still show indicators of being barely out of adolescence.”
“Twenty-six. I was twenty-six, when I fell.”
“Right.” Bruce’s professional demeanour is broken, for a second, by a furrow in
his brow. He’s probably thinking something like, he was so young. Bucky knows
that. It’s sad, sure it’s sad, but there is no age requirement for pain. Boys
like he was died younger than that in the war. He’s killed people younger than
that. “Right, sure. Ok. In that case, I think that although your cells are
ageing, it’s at a much slower rate than most humans’. Now, I have a - who am I
kidding? It’s not even a theory, it’s an idea.” Bruce takes off his glasses,
rubs a hand over his face. The professional demeanour is completely gone now.
“I know why you asked me this, ok? The way you and him are. You haven’t cared
about anything else, but you care about this. It’s obvious why you want to know
how long you have. Lucky for you, this was my specialty, once. Cell function
optimisation. I did a lot of work on this, a long time ago.” He sighs, sounding
exhausted, before he says,“What I’m about to share should be good news, or it
could be false hope, so I want you to take it with a pinch of salt, ok?” 
He waits for Bucky to nod impatiently before he continues.
“Neither you or Steve are biologically comparable to most humans, but there are
some similarities between you. As far as I can tell, both of you have most of
the same genetic material as every other human, with only a few differences. I
think to explain this I need to explain how human biology is really pretty
flawed. Every time a cell replicates, the original genetic material is split,
and damaged. So as you get older, the new cells that you create are flawed.
That’s part of the normal human ageing process. It’s the cause of cancer. It’s
something experienced by every single type of organism. Apart from you two.
Because if that process occurred in your cells, you would both be dead already,
your cell replacement rate is so fast. You would both be riddled with multiple
tumours by now, twenties or not. I mean, apart from getting shot at and
whatever else, there’s the practical every day wear and tear. Your cells have
the ability to replace themselves at a much higher rate than normal humans. You
heal damage almost as fast as it happens - you need to be well-rested and well-
fed but you can, within limits, heal anything. Being able to heal like that
should kill you. And then, on top of that, your cells are capable of much, much
higher rates of respiration than any other animal cell. This enables the
incredible feats that both yourself and Steve are capable of - the speed,
strength, etcetera. Your breathing and heartbeat speed up to ridiculous rates
that would look like a fit in a normal person. But that level of respiration
would kill any ordinary cell. And the rate at which your bodies demand energy -
it should burn you out. A heart attack or a stroke or…your abilities should
kill you a dozen times a minute. So both of you have adaptations. I’d need a
few years, better equipment than I have here and your permission for a lot of
invasive tests to be sure how you’re still alive, but I can hazard some
guesses. Your bodies might be able to continue producing stem cells throughout
your entire life times, in order to create more effective new tissue and heal
wounds faster, or maybe you just have improved autophagy processes so any
cancerous tumours are destroyed as they develop, or…” Bruce ceases to make
broad hand gestures. "Well, anyway, there’s almost no one that can be trusted
to study any of this because of how highly weaponisable it all is. So it’ll
probably be a long time before we can understand for sure, if we ever do at
all. But in shoddy and inconclusive conclusion; you and Steve probably
shouldn’t exist in the first place, but now that you do, you’re probably going
to carry on existing for a very long time. You may well begin to age, at some
point, but it isn’t going to be soon. For all I know, it won’t happen at all.”
Bucky is reeling. Immortality. That’s what Bruce is talking about. He’s
immortal. He latches onto the most important thing first, “But we’re the same?
Me and Steve, whatever happens, it’ll be the same for both of us?”
“As far as I can tell with the samples, timeframe, reference data and equipment
that I have - yes. I think so.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you going to give me any more samples, or…?”
“No.” 
“Probably for the best. Whatever mechanism your cells use, I don’t think that
the world is ready to know about it, just yet. But, hey, if you’re still around
in a few years, maybe we can see.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you go and find Steve then.”
“Yeah.” 
 
 
 
When he does, all he can get out is, “Forever. We have forever.” And then he
blows Steve where he finds him on their couch, where he was trying to get some
drawing done. Steve, gentleman that he is, feels the need to return the favour.
In the end, they miss dinner with the rest of the team, and it’s not until an
hour later that Bucky tells Steve, haltingly, that, “I asked Bruce to look at
some samples. He did a lot of work on them. He thinks - he thinks that we won’t
age. That we’ll never age. We heal too fast. We’re gonna live a really fucking
long time, Stevie.”
“What? How?”
“Um, I don’t know really, you’d need to get him to explain it to you-”
“But it’s the same for both of us? Whether we age or not, it’s the same?”
“Yeah, he thinks so.” 
“Fuck. Thank God.” Steve rolls into him, where they lie in bed, and buries his
face into Bucky’s throat. “I didn’t even want to think about it-”
“I know, me neither-”
“-but it’s going to be ok, we have forever-”
“Bruce said he thinks so, he can’t be sure-”
“Yes, but-”
“Yeah.”
“Forever. Both of us.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank God. All the ways it could have gone. Thank - I’m going to start going
to church again. This is brilliant.” 
Bucky laughs out loud at the joy on Steve’s face, the joy that’s mirrored in
himself. “Yeah, you do that. I might even join you.”
“You better had. Sinner like you, you need to get in as much of a good word as
you can.”
The joy fades a little, at that. “I know.”
“Hey, Bucky, hey, I’m joking."
“I know.” He tries to smile and succeeds, because he is, still, ecstatically
happy about this.
“Well, you’ll have time now. We’re going to have time. Fuck, you know, I always
thought that I wouldn’t - And then the war and - but we really are.”
“Together.”
Steve kisses him. He kisses back. Ten minutes later Steve's holding Bucky’s
wrists fast above his head in one hand while his other’s messing around with
Bucky’s well-lubed asshole, teasing with him, playing with him, making sure
he’s hard enough to hammer nails well before Steve ever touches his dick,
before he even gets to be fucked. He could get out of it, but the pressure of
most of Steve’s weight on his wrists and on his thighs where Steve’s legs are
pinning his own down is still substantial, and it would take some effort. Even
though it’s restraint it feels like release. He can feel and think and say
whatever he wants, but he cannot act. It feels like there will be no
consequences. It feels like he’s free. Steve’s ankles are twisted around
Bucky’s calves, and his hand is gripping hard enough to leave marks, and his
fingers are fucking teasing his asshole every fucking place apart from where he
needs them, and Bucky talks nonsense, talks about how much he loves Steve’s
body on top of his. He’s loose and losing control, and safe. Hot heat surging
through him, and he doesn’t have to worry, he doesn’t have to think. He just
talks shit, lets his mouth run however it wants. He can feel fire burning him
up inside as he tells Steve that he’s “a complete and utter bastard, you know
that? Heartless, you are. You owned me since I was sixteen. You made me into a
fucking idiot for you. You never gave me a fucking chance. Ruined me for
everyone.” 
Steve likes it, he’s possessive as fuck and he loves Bucky talking like this.
The stuff Bucky’s saying’s would be heavy if he wasn’t sex-drunk but it doesn’t
matter because it’s true and Steve likes the sound of it and it’s bringing him
closer when he’s been so far from Bucky for so long. Smile like a wolf’s looks
good on Steve. He’s pressing his fingers deeper, scissoring them and rubbing
and pressing just right, giving Bucky a little relief from the burning need
Steve’s built inside him, a reward for talking so sweet to him. There’s very
little Bucky won’t do for relief, at this point, so he says, breathless, “Since
I was a kid, I had no choice. I’ve known the sound of your heartbeat since we
were kids, you know that? I could pick you out in a crowd of hundreds.
Everything, your smell, everything, it’s wired so deep into me, I won’t ever
forget it. Can’t. Didn’t.”
“Wow Bucky.” Steve’s grinning into Bucky’s collarbone, the shit, Bucky can feel
it. “I feel so sorry for you. You love me. Sounds so awful for you.”
“Well, it is. Never gave me a goddamned choice.” 
He hears Steve muffle his laugh at Bucky’s petulance. Then he lifts his head
up, makes eye contact as he croons, “Oh, poor baby. My poor darling. But tough
shit.” He tightens his grip on Bucky’s wrists. “Because I love you too. I need
you too. Nothing either of us can do about it. You think I could ever look at
anyone else? I can’t.”
“You can. You can have anyone-”
“So could you. But you won’t. This is it, for both of us, sweetheart.” He
presses his fingers into Bucky’s prostrate, and then he doesn’t take them away,
just grinds into him until Bucky’s a stuttering mess. Finally, after a
concentrated effort, Bucky slurs out, “Worth it.”
“What’s that?” Steve asks in a casual, conversational, completely innocent
tone, as he scissors his fingers and then twists three of them - Bucky sure as
fuck doesn't know when the third got there - against Bucky’s sweet spot, and he
almost whines as he says, “You. Worth it.”
“How sweet. My sweet sweetheart. Yeah, you’re right. No one else could ever
give me this. You’re so fucking beautiful for me. Gorgeous.” Bucky does whine
then, now that he’s desperate enough that his pride doesn’t matter any more.
Steve teases Bucky for just a little longer before he finally slides into him,
and time stretches and snaps. Bucky just floats. His vision is blurry as he
comes. Steve fucks him through it and then keeps on fucking him. The sounds
coming out of his mouth now don’t even vaguely resemble speech. He’s used up
and raw, but it’s Steve, kissing him and nuzzling him and pressing his weight
down onto him, and despite or because of the fact that he feels like an open
wound, he knows he could come again. Then Steve presses his neck into Bucky’s
mouth, a clear invitation, and in retaliation for all of that fucking teasing,
he does nothing but lick and kiss and graze with his teeth for minutes until
Steve gets impatient. He kisses Bucky roughly, practically assaulting his mouth
because he’s a sneaky little shit with a definite aim in mind, and sure enough
he gets himself cut on Bucky’s teeth. And then Steve’s blood is in his mouth,
and this time when Steve presents his neck Bucky bites. He can feel Steve
coming inside him, then going languid and pliant against him. But that won’t do
at all - he’s close again, now, the taste of Steve’s blood getting him hard all
over again. He rolls them so he’s on top of Steve, dislodging his teeth but not
Steve’s dick, and bites into him anew. Steve’s still hard, will probably stay
hard for as long as Bucky’s venom’s in his system, so he carries on rutting on
Steve’s cock until he comes again. He rolls back off Steve, but Steve moans and
pulls him close again, throws his legs over Bucky’s possessively. 
They don’t see any of the rest of the team until the next morning, and when
they do, although they’ve both showered and combed their hair, they still get a
couple of wolf whistles from Tony and Clint, because they’re both pretty marked
up and they’re wearing each other’s shirts. 
 
 
 
Bucky doesn’t meet Thor until over a month after he comes to the tower. Thor is
boisterous but polite, and brings four of his boisterous but polite friends
with him from Asgard. Tony decides that it’s enough of an event to merit a
celebration, and somebody cracks out the Asgardian mead. Bucky has exactly two
memories of the night after that point: 
Attempting to explain his own deep and abiding love for Steve, despite the fact
that for the majority of the past seven decades he couldn’t remember Steve’s
face, personality or name, whilst Thor’s friend Sif, who he had first met
earlier in the evening, nodded solemnly and said, “I know exactly what you
mean,”
and
fucking Steve hard enough to break their bed, and then continuing to fuck him
into the mattress resting directly on the floor, not realising that an equally-
drunk Steve was laughing the entire time even as he came, and realising the
hilarity in the afterglow only to giggle with Steve, hiccuping occasionally,
for minutes afterwards before falling into sleep.
In the morning, Bucky wakes up with a headache to rival the aftermath of
electrocution to the head and swears to never drink any kind of alcohol ever
again. 
 
 
 
Bucky explains the nature of his condition to Thor a week after he arrives back
at the tower, due solely to oversight and lack of communication; everyone
assumed that someone else had told Thor. Once he’s done explaining that he’s a
vampire, and also what a vampire is Thor, intrigued, asks, “Is this common,
then, on Midgard?" 
“No. I’m the only one that I know of.”
 
 
 
When Bucky has been back with Steve for a little over two months, Natasha
approaches him in the common room early in the morning, when no one else is yet
awake, because despite the various serums, suits, species and superpowers in
the tower, Bucky still wins the prize for the worst insomniac. His favourite
use for his extra time, is, as it always has been, to lie in bed and hold Steve
in his arms as he sleeps, sometimes reading and sometimes just enjoying Steve’s
peaceful presence. But today he thought he’d have another try at getting Steve
breakfast in bed. There’s more food in the common room kitchen than in theirs,
since only one person in their apartment eats, so Bucky decided that he may as
well make enough breakfast for everyone. Jarvis has helped him do the maths to
make enough food for three people plus a superhuman and a god. He’s mixing the
pancake batter when Natasha comes over and situates herself directly opposite
Bucky on a stool at the kitchen countertop.  
She tells him, “Since I found your file, I’ve been working on, well, on a
little research project of mine. Just tracking down a few leads in my spare
time, you know. And I’ve recently had a little success. To cut to the chase: I
don’t think you’re the only one.”
Of course he’s not, he can’t be. His father was like him too. He knew that. So
why is this such a shock?
“I haven’t been able to find anything solid, but I think that the KGB were
tracking someone like you in Moscow, a few years ago - it was a woman suspected
of treason and facial recognition software matched her to a portrait of a
nineteenth century revolutionist. She hadn’t aged a day. Also, the CIA have
been keeping tabs on a chain of clubs along the west coast of the US where
patrons occasionally disappear and then turn up a few days later, in their own
beds, with no traceable drugs in their system or wounds but exhibiting signs of
blood loss. There was a suspected vigilante in South America a few years ago
who SHIELD tracked running at 100 metres in 9 seconds flat. He also had an odd
knack of getting any information he wanted whilst leaving the informant
unconscious and unharmed, but, again, with the blood loss. So, I think it’s
safe to say that whilst vampires appear to be rare, you are definitely part of
a wider species.” 
There is a pause, and Bucky says, “Ok.” He does not say, what about the others?
Because although Natasha has told him about revolutionaries and vigilantes,
vampires who leave their victims alive, he’s guessing that there are also a
dozen stories of serial killers who leave drained victims in their wake. 
“I don’t suppose you want to get in contact-”
“No.”
“Fair enough.” Natasha watches his face carefully, and then sighs. “I know what
you’re thinking. But I didn’t find anything about killer vampires. I know that
doesn’t mean that there aren’t any, but if there are, a they’ve learned to
cover their tracks pretty well. I expect one would, with that much time.
Immortality, Bruce said.”
“Yes.”
“Steve as well?" 
“Yeah. Well, probably.”
“That’s lucky.” Natasha studiously studies the fridge door behind him for a few
seconds. It’s got a shopping list, a few post-it notes and a swear word written
out in magnetic letters on it. Then she says, “You know, the original files the
Red Room kept on me have all mysteriously vanished. They didn’t even get turned
up in the Hydra data dump. But, once upon a time, there were a few documents
that listed my date of birth in the 1960s. Height of the Cold War. Lots of
research into super soldiers. So, how would you say I look for a woman in her
fifties?”
“I would say you look beautiful. But it’s rude to ask a lady her age.” Natasha
laughs at him, not unkindly. 
“Do you want to help me make pancakes? I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”
“You look like you’re doing fine. Although, you could add vanilla essence. And
I like mine with blueberries.”
Natasha helps him make pancakes, and then serves up the food for herself,
Bruce, Tony, Clint and Thor while Bucky takes Steve’s portion to him in his
bed. 
 
 
 
Ever since that first day, going round Central Park has become something of a
tradition for them. 
Bucky’s always been a city boy, through and through. His time in rural war-torn
Europe has only ever cemented that assertion - he’s had enough waterlogged
fields of mud, suspicious and violent livestock and sleeping in shit-stinking
barns for a lifetime, thank you very much. He’s been other places too. Other
farmland in hotter countries with emaciated animal carcasses in the rivers and
bloodstains and burning villages. Wars he’s started. He’s been in deserts as
far as the eye can see, ones filled with nothing but ice and mud under snow,
where the grounds is solid and frozen down miles deep. Other deserts filled
with sun-baked brown dirt and grit that got under nails and into his hair and
his eyes despite the goggles. Jungles filled with a smell like warm bodies, air
thick with biting insects, canopies as high as the sky, choked with vines.
Forests heavy and quiet with snow. 
He’s seen cities filled with death as well, of course. He spent a few weeks in
London in the Blitz, and he’s started revolutions in cities full of domes,
skyscrapers, townhouses, cathedrals, mosques, synagogues. Despite it all, his
home is still in cities - this city. This one in particular, he has never seen
broken. Poor, sure, he grew up in the slums, but he has never seen it dying.
The Great Depression just made Brooklyn more stubborn. Political turbulence,
unrest and riot barely put a scuff in the paintwork. World wars one and two
sucked out the joy, but peacetime breathed it back in. People die, people get
born. And despite how much he loves the streets and alleyways, the skyscrapers
and the marketplaces and squares, the streets full of light and noise, his
favourite place in New York City is Central Park. He likes the pigeons
strutting in grey suits like CEOs, he likes the squirrels greedy and brave like
pickpockets, and he likes the trees. He likes being here, with Steve, as much
as he can be. 
Both of them don sunglasses and caps, hoodies as well if the weather’s bad
enough, and they walk around the park. Steve buys terrible junk food and Bucky
tastes it on his lips. When it’s raining they share an umbrella, and when it’s
sunny they lie on the grass. This is the same place they sometimes played as
children, and it’s not. It’s older - trees that were saplings are now giants,
trees that were old are now stumps. But the flower beds still grow the same
blooms, there are still ducks in the ponds and there are still the same winding
gravelled paths, which are sometimes crowded and sometimes empty for hours.
Being together in public is still a thrill, for both of them, Bucky thinks.
It’s the greatest luxury he can imagine to be allowed to hold Steve’s hand,
kiss his lips, lie next to him under the cherry trees, snowing pink in spring.
Like the first time, sometimes they don’t stop talking for hours, sometimes
they say nothing.
If he’s got eternity, this is where he wants it. If he hasn’t, then keeping the
memory of this place within him for the rest of his days will be enough.
Chapter End Notes
     This fic would never have been completed without the constant aid of
     my self-proclaimed ‘tireless cheerleader’ protectthesandwhich. Thank
     you so much to everyone who’s commented and kudosed this fic, I
     treasure every one! Sorry it took a year. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
     EDIT: re-posted with one less embarrassing typo. Thanks so much
     Reesachan for letting me know!
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