Archive of Our Own

It takes Phil a month longer than Bucky had expected him to, but he eventually asks.

Bucky is in his room, pressed tightly into the corner of his window sill and keeps his cheek turned towards the glass. He can see Phil’s shadow stretching across the floor and almost gives the man his attention.

It’s the least he can do for someone brave enough to enter his space unannounced. Bucky -- no, the Winter Soldier -- has killed for far less than that.

From the doorway, Bucky hears Phil work his throat for words. It makes his ears perk.

“The offer still stands.”

He is slow to answer. “What?”

“You joining the Avengers Initiative. It’s been an offer since you came to the Tower,” Phil answers lightly, almost as if his words weren’t a surprise, and they really shouldn’t have been.

Bucky, while no longer the Winter Soldier but not quite yet himself, is still an asset. Even beyond the grips of Hydra and white-washed scientists, Bucky is a soldier who knows how to complete a mission. It’s a gift of his.

He remembers someone telling him that once.

Focusing his eyes on the darkened streets below, Bucky presses his tongue against his teeth and wonders if the blood he tastes is just his imagination. Cars pass below in a steady trickle hundreds of feet down and pedestrians line the streets, bustling to get home for dinner or on their way to a late-night shift. A few, unable to walk straight or escape Bucky’s watchful eye, look like they are just looking for the next bottle of whiskey to warm their bellies.

It all seems strange. It all amounts nothing.

Phil is still waiting at the door, expecting an answer that Bucky doesn’t want to give him. He is better with quiet these days as is. A sniper bred in the silence of battle only found on top of roosts covered in camouflage. It’s easy to forget how to even speak after hours spent on a rooftop with a rifle cradled against his shoulder.

But Sam is persistent (“You want something? Really? Couldn’t tell with that thousand yard stare you got looking through me. Try to use your words, alright?") so Bucky takes a breath that makes his lungs burn.

“No. I don’t want to be a part of the team.” It’s a concise sentence -- one that even Steve would be proud of him for -- and it gets his point across clearly. He knows this because Phil leaves the doorway soon after he’s spoken, and Bucky finds himself left alone in his empty room.

A car honks on the street, and Bucky stills. But as his left arm whirrs, fingers curling into a tight fist that shakes in its force, Bucky knows that it isn’t the noise outside that has put him on-edge.

_______

Bucky first came to the Avengers Tower eight months ago. He had been sprayed with dried blood -- having only been hours out from his most recent Hydra take-down -- and was shoeless when he walked into the lobby of the Tower. It had been late, just according to plan, and he didn’t resist when security came flooding into the lobby.

They must have been warned to not draw weapons on him. Even Bucky wouldn’t have been able to control his actions if they hadn't been.

Everything went to his plan as he was escorted to the upper levels of the Tower, overseen by none other than Maria Hill herself, and found himself locked in a isolation cell with a two-way mirror and lights so bright that they made his eyes sting.

It wasn’t until a man came into his room, fitted in body armor that cut off at his arms, that Bucky’s plan started to change.

Arguably, it changed for the better, but that argument is only fought by that very man himself these days over dinner and training.

Clint Barton, to Bucky’s amusement, just couldn’t let the stupid thing go.

“...better, right? I mean, look where you are now,” Clint tells Bucky one day in the training room, wriggling on the floor to escape Bucky’s hold on his elbow. “I feel like we’re getting closer and closer each day.”

Bucky breathes through his nose and twists his wrist. The move makes Clint curse under his breath before he somehow manages to nearly disjoint his arm to get out of Bucky’s grip. He rolls backwards onto his feet, putting some space between the two of them, and Bucky begins reevaluating his strategy.

The two of them have been down training for hours, sparring and grappling at one another even now that their hair is slick with sweat and muscles twinge with exhaustion. They are stubborn fighters -- dirty ones even -- and Clint told Bucky earlier that it is why Steve and Natasha came down to train as well halfway during one of their spars.

Natasha handles Clint. Steve cares for Bucky. It is like they’ve got their own personal brand of babysitters or something.

Across the mat, Clint’s chest rises sharply as he regains his breath, and Bucky tries to track Clint’s thoughts almost as if he believes he can read them. He can't, not with Clint’s blank face meeting his searching gaze, but he can track the other guy’s eyes as they dart around the mat.

Bucky tenses.

He’ll feint left and go under for my knees. Sidestep to avoid then hit the ground. Spin to avoid reach before countermeasure. Grab for ankle and roll. Disorient target to immobilize.

He has a plan laid out and is ready for the next round, but Clint never makes a move. Instead, he relaxes is shoulders and looks to the side of the room where Natasha is drilling Steve through a krav maga lesson from actual hell.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You want to have some fun?”

Bucky shifts on his feet. “What do you suggest?”

And it is with that question that Clint goes from being a curious hooligan to an all-out warmongering prankster.

He really doesn’t know how it ended up like this, but Bucky finds himself casually walking alongside Clint with towels slung around their shoulders. To any observer, they just look like they are heading to grab their drinks from across the room. But to Clint, they’re heading straight towards an arsenal of rubber balls piled into a bin that is sitting next to their bags.

It’s a genius plan, according to Clint. They’ll never see it coming.

Bucky glances carefully towards Steve and Natasha. They are both on the mat, or at least, Steve is. Natasha is up around his shoulders, arching gracefully around his neck with her thighs, before she brings Steve’s hulking body down to the ground with a heady thump.

Clint is at least right about one thing. They definitely won’t see it coming.

As soon as they reach their bags, all-consuming chaos erupts in the room. Clint takes the first shot at Natasha -- and, god rest his soul, for he will need it -- manages to clip her right in the ass. This proves to be too hilarious for Clint as he laughs loudly, lips curling under his gasping breaths, and his next shots are easily dodged by Natasha’s righteous fury.

Bucky aims true every time. Clint would as well if he could just keep it together, but Bucky’s lips don’t even twinge as he manages to hit Steve in the back of the head. A smile, or something close to it, does threaten to break his concentration when Steve groans pitifully and clutches at the back of his skull.

Pulling his shots, Bucky hits his friend’s chest, knee, and shoulder with clean shots.

Natasha and Steve pick up their lost ammunition, cocking their arms back and letting their hands pull a proverbial trigger when they let their balls fly through the air. Clint and Bucky dodge, and suddenly, the room becomes a game of dodgeball tag that would make even the toughest of gym teachers cry in terror.

The balls are nothing but blurs across the room, thwacking against the walls with enough force -- from Steve, at least -- to leave tiny craters that Tony is sure to complain about at length. Natasha has her eyes narrowed on Clint, and the two hide and shoot like they’re on a secret mission.

Maybe they have lived through something like this before. Bucky hears Clint mention Budapest from across the room, but the rest of his words fade out when a ball smacks into the side of his head.

Steve is laughing from across the room, wide shoulders curled in with shaking laughter, and Bucky watches it for a moment before he drops the ball in his hand. He walks towards him until he’s just a few few from Steve and waits. Steve laughs until his voice gives out and his cheeks are red, but he eventually straightens and looks wide-eyed at Bucky as if he’s staring straight at his executioner.

It’s not the first time that look has been directed at Bucky. It won’t be the last.

He keeps his face empty and clasps his hands behind his back. Steve doesn’t know he’s unarmed, and well, Bucky isn’t exactly inclined to let his friend in on that secret. From across the room, Bucky hears Clint let out a sharp yelp, and Steve blanches when he looks to see the fallout of Natasha’s hit.

Bucky almost feels bad for Clint if Steve’s face is any judge of the damage.

Steve turns his stare back to Bucky and holds his hands out in the air. “Please.”

And that does it.

Bucky’s lips twitch once, twice, and then it grows into a booming laugh that surprises Steve as much as it does himself. He’s not laughed like this since...well, his best guess is 1943. The air knocks through his chest as he struggles for control, and dimly, Bucky can hear Steve’s laughter join in as they stand across from each other.

A hand drops onto his shoulder a few minutes later, after Bucky’s shoulders have stopped shaking, and Steve smile is brighter than he ever remembers it being.

“I’m starving. You want to get some food with me?”

Bucky wants to roll his eyes because he’s starting to wonder if Steve is never not hungry these days, but he just blinks and nods as always. They are heading towards the door when a voice calls out for Bucky.

“You can’t just leave me here with her!”

Bucky and Steve turn to find Clint standing in the middle of the room. He’s staring at them, hands waving wildly around the room, and Bucky frowns. “Where is she?”

A sound that might be a whimper dislodges itself from Clint’s lips. He points to the ceiling, and Bucky suddenly understands.

“You’ll be fine. She’s probably making a retreat,” Steve says after a moment, and Bucky can hear the lie so thickly that it makes him snort.

“She’s waiting, I tell you. Waiting!”

Steve turns around, hooking an arm to Bucky’s to bring him along, and Clint cries out as they reach the door. It opens with a hiss of air, and the two are just outside of the door when they hear a loud crash from the training room.

Clint shrieks, and for the second time that day, Bucky finds himself bent over with laughter.

It seems that Natasha’s tactical retreat through the air vents was anything but.

_______

As it is with most things he winds up doing in the Tower, Bucky isn’t sure how this started.

He thinks Steve might have persuaded him to go for a session once, but Bucky isn’t sure of that. It’s really the only explanation he has though. How else he wound up visiting Bruce’s floor every Thursday for meditation is beyond him.

He doesn’t mind it though. Bucky will even admit that he likes going down on those afternoons, dressed in some of Steve’s oversized sweats, and just emptying himself out. It takes discipline. It requires concentration. Most importantly, thought, it demands silence.

On any given day, that kind of internal quiet is what Bucky strives for. His thoughts are so quick in their rush that they overwhelm him. Whether they are making up the puzzle of his past or the picture of who he used to be, those memories keep him wound tighter than a coil about to spring under pressure.

This meditation keeps him from bursting underneath the weight of it all. Even more so than his therapy.

Bruce does his own meditation everyday right at five o’clock each evening. His living room is sparse, saving for a few bookshelves and a couch, so he puts down his mat and meditates for an hour before moving into yoga. It’s his routine, one that he takes pride in and has even shared with others besides Bucky.

(Tony, however, is apparently banned from even entering Bruce’s room unless the world is ending during meditation time. Something involving jet fuel and AC/DC had almost caused an incident the last time Tony had interrupted their local physicist.)

Sitting on a mat, legs crossed and spine straight, Bucky evens his breaths to the sound of the music echoing through the room. He lets the air go from his chest slowly, feeling his muscles relax as it steams past his lips, and then another breath fills him up again.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

It’s a rhythm that clears his head.

The hour is nearly over, and as Bucky brings himself towards fuller awareness, he realizes just how close his own mat is to Bruce’s. The older man is still aside from the rise and fall of his chest, and on the other side of Bucky, Pepper sits on her own mat.

She, however, has her eyes opened and is staring straight ahead at the white wall across from her. Bucky watches her and notes the hard lines of her shoulders, the pinched skin between her eyes. Pepper, he knows, is a woman of force who handles international business with the same practiced ease in which she handles Tony. Her tailored suits and pulled-back hair never fails to remind Bucky of some women from his past, ranging from his own mother to Peggy and beyond.

He usually finds himself standing almost to attention when she speaks to him, as if it might make him seem taller. Anything to make himself bigger than how he feels under her attention.

But her stare today is glazed with tension, and Bucky feels his stomach tug deeper into his skin. Once, he had known how to make a lady laugh with just his charm and wit, but that was a lifetime ago.

Thoughts that had blissfully left him earlier now start to come back, screaming at Bucky to move, to do something. They swing about his head like flittering birds, chirps trilling against his skull, and it makes him want to empty himself again.

Pepper still hasn’t moved her gaze, and with that, Bucky takes a breath and makes a move.

He reaches a hand out, slowly in uncertainty, before he rests it on her bent knee. Bucky breathes as if he is still meditating, and Pepper doesn’t move at the contact. Her eyes stare straight ahead at something he can’t see, and Bucky doesn’t do anything other than keep a hand against her hot skin.

It’s something Steve had done for him during the beginning of his recovery. (“I’m here, Buck. You don’t got to talk or anything. Just let this ground you, okay? You’re safe here.”)

From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Bruce shift out of his meditation and is grateful that the doctor says nothing. He hadn’t expected Bruce to though.

Out of all of them, Bruce knows just how important grounding is. He understands the difference it can make to a person on the verge of losing a piece of themselves to whatever person lies in wait in their shadow. It’s something that Bucky has known about Bruce since he was first informed about the Hulk.

It was not something, however, he had known about Pepper until she had told him about extremis.

Her skin underneath his hand flares red like molten lava, but Bucky ignores the burning heat. She won’t hurt him, Bucky knows. How he does is beyond him, but Bucky trusts in that feeling.

And, when Pepper comes back to herself after another half hour, Bucky moves to take his hand back. She stops him though with a hand of her own.

The skin of her hand is rougher than Bucky had expected. There are calloused palms and tough fingertips that curl around his hand lightly, and in the back of his mind, Bucky wonders what else there is to Pepper Potts that she hasn’t let the world see.

Bruce has gotten up at the point, putting his yoga on hold in favor of brewing some east asian tea that Pepper drinks like water, but Bucky can hear the man padding about the kitchen as the kettle begins to whistle.

Pepper tightens her grip on Bucky’s hand for a moment before letting go, and Bucky doesn’t tense under the pressure.

“Thank you,” she tells him softly after a moment. Pepper then gets to her feet, smiling like nothing had happened, and Bucky doesn’t return the gesture.

He’s not so good as to smile on command these days, so he just sits and watches Pepper as she trails towards the kitchen, disappearing around the corner just like the ghost that Bucky used to be.

Bucky stares at the spot where she had just been, feeling heat rise up his neck with a feeling that he just quite can’t explain.

“You’re welcome,” he breathes to himself before pulling himself to his feet, and he heads towards the door.

_______

There are many things about the future that leave Bucky homesick for a century long gone, but food is not one of them.

It had taken him month to relearn how to eat. Hydra, he remembers, never bothered themselves with feeding their asset beyond tasteless gruel that slid thickly down his throat. He hadn’t cared then; There was no reason too. What opinion of food did a machine deserve to have? To give?

These days, however, Bucky finds himself treading the water of culinary discovery lightly. There are foods to avoid, and Bucky still breaks into a cold sweat when he remembers the fallout of eating salmon. He hadn’t left the bathroom for a whole day, retching pathetically into the toilet, and kept his face pressed against the cool tile of the floor.

Steve had made a memo for everyone to keep fish out of the fridge from then on out if possible, along with a few other foods that were guaranteed to make Bucky go greener than the Hulk itself.

It’s late at night -- well, technically early -- when Bucky finds himself on the resident’s shared floor. He’s at the kitchen counter eating a sandwich when Tony comes stumbling into the room, rubbing at his face with grease-stained hands.

Bucky keeps quiet as Tony makes his way across the kitchen, not even bothering to open his eyes against the bright lights of the kitchen, until Bucky finally clears his throat. Tony jumps at the noise and swears violently.

He presses a hand to his heart. “A bell. I am getting you a bell. Jesus, you know I have actual heart problems, right,” Tony wheezes, and Bucky shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, and to his own ears, it sounds more like a question. It must to Tony’s ears as well because he rolls his eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry, he says. I hope you will say that at my funeral. Tell it to all the press when they ask about how I died from a heart attack,” Tony grumbles as he turns back to the counter towards the coffee machine.

He is reaching a hand towards the pot when another voice cuts through the air. “Excuse me, Sir, but I must advise you to rethink your coffee for now. You have had three cups within the past two hours. Such caffeine intake is not recommended for your heart.”

Tony whines. “JARVIS, just this once? God gave this nectar of life to us for a reason.”

“Sorry, Sir, but I must insist. I would hate to awake Ms. Potts should you ignore my advice,” JARVIS continues, and Bucky is almost certain he can hear the satisfaction in the AI’s voice.

Pulling away from the coffee pot, Tony heads towards the fridge to pull out of bottle of water, all the while grumbling as he goes.

“Should’ve kept the damn reactor in my chest after all. I could have all the coffee I want then. Now, all I got is a scar and no coffee. How is that fair? Does that sound fair to you?”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Tony had addressed that last question to him.

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know.”

Tony sighs. “What a help you are. Really, just the answer I wanted to hear.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at that, though his eyes do narrow into a type of glare, because he is used to Tony’s filter-free tongue. The man says what comes to mind and apologizes later if he remembers to.

He hadn’t once when Bucky, two months into his stay at the Tower, had grabbed Tony by the collar and pushed him up a wall for one of his famous quips.

They have a sort of understanding now. Tony steps lightly around Bucky -- still full of himself and all that he does -- but keeps his barbs to himself. And, if he’s smart, he does the same about Steve. Bucky, everyone has found, still has a protective streak the size of a semi for their fearless captain.

So Tony prattles about the kitchen, putting ice in his water as Bucky eats his food, and Bucky will be damned if he knows half of what Tony is going on about. He’s two days in without sleep, that much is obvious, because Bucky can see the strained veins in Tony’s eyes that scream bloodshot from across a poorly lit room. There is a grit to his voice and a sluggishness in his words that belay Tony’s eccentric thoughts, and Bucky can see the slouched curve of his spine.

Nightmares, Bucky guesses. The whole team is famous for them, but Bucky and Tony? They are a different breed with theirs.

Bucky is just finishing his sandwich when Tony goes quiet with his bottle pressed to his lips. His throat bobs as he takes long gulps, and his eyes situate themselves on Bucky. To be specific, on his left arm.

It’s instinct at this point. Bucky moves to hide his arm behind himself, and Tony pulls the water away from his mouth.

“You know, I am going to ask to look at that one day,” he says lightly, “after you stop doing that,” he continues, gesturing at Bucky’s hidden arm.

Bucky says nothing. He has been waiting for Tony to do something -- to ask -- about his arm. But the tinkering never came. The worse he’s gotten about his arm is when Sam started putting magnets on it in his restless sleep.

He still doesn’t know how that happened. Part of Bucky doesn’t even want to know.

So Bucky just nods at Tony, which pacifies the guy because his lips turn into a small smile, and he listens as Tony whistles himself out of the kitchen. Bucky just sits and looks around the chrome-covered room.

JARVIS sounds a few minutes later. “Is there something you want, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky shakes his head after a moment.

“Not anymore.”

(It’s only a month later when Bucky finally interrupts the sanctum that is Tony’s R&D lab. The room is open, spread against a wall-to-wall window that overlooks the city, and music blares over the speakers until Bucky walks in. Tony looks at him dumbly once he sits down and moves his left arm towards him, and they both wince when it grinds at the motion. Natasha, it seems, packs a more shocking bite than even her namesake can boast.)

_______

Thor is an alien.

That sends Bucky for a loop when he finds out.

Bucky can remember being ten years old, sat on the top of his apartment’s fire escape in search of a soft breeze in the summer, and being obsessed with pulp fiction magazines. They were gaudy things with illustrations and crinkled paper that would fall apart at the slightest pull, but Bucky kept stacks of them beneath his mattress to read whenever he got bored.

He remembers a story in one that involved green martian men with oblong heads and slanted eyes.

Thor, Bucky realizes, is nothing like them.

He is a giant man, bulging with muscles and spirit, and Bucky just doesn’t get him. They get along alright, as well as any ex-assassin and an actual norse god could, but there is always a tingle that shoots through Bucky’s skin when he stands in the same room as Thor.

It’s disconcerting because Thor is one of the few people Bucky knows he can’t kill.

Thankfully, seeing as Thor is an alien and by definition not of this planet, he’s not around much.

He does, however, make a visit to the Tower when some crazed scientist by the name of Victor von Doom starts causing issues in midtown. Thor comes along in a steaming light of impossible colors from the sky, and Bucky is relieved to know that he isn’t the only one who looks completely taken back by his appearance.

They all get ready to set out as Bucky watches from the sidelines, but then Doom’s lackeys blip off the radar and slither back underground.

He assumes that Thor leaves after the false alarm, but Bucky doesn’t stick around to find out. He goes to the large balcony of the Tower, stretched out on a chair, and watches the city unfurl before him. Bucky stays out there until the sky turns dark and stars begin to dot the sky. It’s peaceful, despite the sirens and clean-up that's still going on in the heart of the city, and Bucky takes in a deep breath.

“Beautiful, is it not?”

He is on his feet in an instant, hands gripping the kitchen knife Bucky had stolen and holstered against his waistband, to find Thor standing on the opposite end of the balcony.

For such a large guy, he is too light on his feet. And, dressed in sweats with his hair pulled back, Bucky has to stare at the god for a moment before he realizes it is really Thor.

He releases the knife, and Thor nods. “It was not my intent to startle you. I should have announced myself earlier. For that, I apologize.”

This is the first time that the two of them have ever been alone together, and Bucky wipes his hands against his pants. “It’s fine. I let my guard down.”

A short laugh booms from Thor’s chest. “Even the best of warriors must rest their guard. That is what their comrades are for. Our shield brothers will protect us when we cannot ourselves. You are in a home surrounded by such comrades, James. Do not be so quick to apologize for relaxing in their company.”

Bucky blinks at the words until they cipher through his brain, and then their meaning makes Bucky’s chest tighten. A year has passed since he arrived here, and still, there is a part of Bucky that urges him to keep protected.

It’s that same urge that kept him sleepless for weeks after his arrival, afraid that SHIELD would come into his cell in the middle of his night and make him disappear as they have made so many others. It was the one that kept him separated from the world, mute and deaf to all save his own scattered thoughts.

It’s the same part of himself that keeps him from being part of a team.

Forcing himself to relax, Bucky reclines in his seat. “I’d rather take care of myself. It’s easier that way.”

Thor says nothing. Bucky tracks the other man’s gaze to the stars above, and a heavy weight settles upon his chest when he sees the hooded look on the god’s face.

He thinks it’s because Thor reminds Bucky so much of Steve. Their headstrong beliefs and self-sacrificing will to keep going when all others have stopped. Both of their broad shoulders carry the weight of many, but they bear it with high heads. It’s something the two men share that Bucky never will.

For that, he is grateful.

“I knew a man once who thought as you do. That protecting himself alone was more noble than to lean on the strength of friends. He fell into a deluded reality that escaped even me, and for all my tries, I could not bring him back from his fallen depths. It was only in the end that he realized the true worth of friendship. He gave his life to learn such a lesson.”

The timbre of Thor’s voice rocks straight to Bucky’s core, and he is speaking before he can stop himself.

“Who was it?”

Thor pulls his gaze from the stars to look at him, and it is then that Bucky can see just how old Thor is behind his giving smiles.

“He was my brother.”

And Bucky nods.

It is yet another thing that Thor and Steve have in common.

_______

Bucky can speak seven different languages. Half of the time, he isn’t even aware that he is speaking them until Steve patiently points it out. It takes some time for Bucky to rethink the words in his head until the words that do come out of his lips are decidedly English and not Polish.

He’s been learning to control it, and someday go better than others.

His Russian, however, is damn near perfect. Natasha has been giving him lessons, feeding him vocabulary of the arts and foods and pleasures. His knowledge goes beyond mission parameters and extraction points now, and he finds that the language -- though bloodied in his memories -- is one that lilts from his voice in conversation whenever Natasha is around.

It’s how they find themselves in a sort of book club. Natasha will find a book and give Bucky a copy as well, and the two will read in his shared apartment until the day passes in a flurry of inked words and creased papers.

His apartment is empty save for himself one day, and Bucky tries not to think about that because Steve is late for a mission check-in. Sam and he had gone on a flyover of a suspected Hydra base late last night and should have been back by this morning. Marking his page with his thumb, Bucky looks at the clock on the wall.

5:59 PM

His stomach turns.

An hours passes, and Bucky still hasn’t finished the paragraph he had been on. The words blur across the page as he tries to read, and finally, he sets his book down on the seat next to him.

He leaves his apartment. Bucky’s feet tread along on a path of their own design, taking corners and hugging the wall, until he finds himself with a hand raised to knock against Natasha’s door. He doesn’t even get the chance to bring his fist against the wood before the door swings open, and Natasha is standing there her arms folded against her chest.

She says nothing, but the tilt of her head speaks volumes. Bucky slips through the door, and she lets him in. He walks into her kitchen, careful of the arrows that Clint must have forgotten on the table, and takes a seat before resting his head into his arms.

Bucky can hear Natasha walk about the kitchen, glasses clinking and water trickling, but he doesn’t look up from his arms. It’s all Bucky can do just to keep himself from being sick with what he recognizes as worry.

The chair across from him scrapes against the floor, and Bucky hears the moment she takes a seat by the creaking of the wood. There is a rough sound against the table, and he can feel something cold press against his arm. Bucky looks up.

There are two shot glasses on the table, filled halfway with full-proof vodka, and Bucky heaves a laugh before taking the glass between his fingers. Natasha does the same.

They drink their glasses in one go, but they don’t go for a second round. Instead, Natasha speaks to him about the book they are reading, and their conversation takes on a familiar feel as they navigate around one another.

It’s a distraction, pure and simple. And it works for awhile until a look out the window lets Bucky know that it’s late -- later than he wants it to be -- and Natasha can see it in his face.

“Dyshat.”

So he does.

When he returns to his apartment later, Bucky stops in the hallway when he sees Steve’s door cracked. Looking through the sliver, he can see a pile of clothes puddled at the end of the bed, and Steve’s shield is propped up against his dresser. Steve in on top of the covers, curled into himself despite the bandaged cuts on his arm, and Bucky steps back into the hallway.

He goes to sleep and dreams of home.

_______

Steve has a garden.

It isn’t talked about much, but everyone knows that the little herb garden that just sprouted from the rooftop balcony didn’t just appear by magic though Thor insists it is possible. The soil is moist, fragrant in the way that fresh fertilizer is, and covers the garden bed thickly. Different herbs shoot up from the soil at different times, but for now, rosemary and basil have found their way into the mix.

Bucky knows this because he’s the one who helped Steve seed the stupid things.

It is always his best bet to find Steve at the garden if he’s not in his studio or the training room. The elevator hums softly around him as it climbs the few floors between his apartment and the roof. With a clink, the doors open and heat hits Bucky’s face in a stilted wave.

He can already see Steve’s crouched figure from across the roof, soaked in dark sweat and flicked with dirt. Bucky walks towards his friend, hands tucked tightly into his jean pockets, and kicks a pebble at Steve’s back when he gets close enough.

Steve dodges it.

“What are you planting now?” Steve shrugs a shoulder before bringing an arm to wipe at the sweat dotting his forehead. Super soldier or not, it is the middle of summer, and the heat outside is even enough to make Bucky uncomfortable.

“Lavender. Bruce wanted some, so I figured I could cut the middleman out,” he answers after a moment, and Bucky can see just enough over Steve’s shoulder to find the pitted soil where the seeds will go.

Bucky frowns. “And how long have you been up here exactly?”

Steve has the decency to look embarrassed. “I might have lost track after the second hour.”

Bending to his knees, Bucky shoves Steve against his shoulder and picks at the seed pouch on the ground. He puts a few in his palm, rolling the smooth, waxy seeds in his hand, before giving Steve a look.

Steve laughs. “All you had to do was ask, Bucky.”

The two work around one another in garden as if they were one. At one point, Bucky finally pulls his hair back behind him to cool his neck, and Steve mercifully -- after a well-placed scowl -- gets the two some water and takes a break in the heat.

Steve had once asked him months ago if he wanted to help more with the garden. Something about it being therapeutic and helping people think longterm. Planting a garden means planning a future, Steve had said.

Bucky had wanted no part in that.

But he does now, rather unwittingly, and he relishes the burn in his thighs as he scoots around the garden. He loosens soils, plants seeds, marks plots, and starts over again. Steve follows behind with a hose and drizzles water over the starved soil.

It’s something, Bucky finds, that he enjoys.

It’s nearing the evening when they finish, and judging by the pink skin of Steve’s neck, Bucky knows that his friend is more exhausted than he’s letting on. After all, he really should. He spent the better half of his morning working with trainees at the newly established SHIELD base, and while he thinks he has hidden it well, Bucky can see the purple splotches blooming just below the collar of his shirt.

Though they will be gone by the morning, the sight of them makes Bucky’s jaw tighten. Steve is, after all, an idiot about these things.

“We did a good job, Buck.”

Bucky dusts his dirt-covered hands against his jeans -- a sight which would have once made his mother grab his ear -- and kicks some off his shoes as well. “I’d say so, punk. Just try and remember to take some breaks next time, alright? If you could sunburn, you’d be in a world of hurt now.”

Steve laughs. “Good thing I can’t then. Pinnacle of human perfection, or so they tell me,” he says and gestures at himself.

He is right. Bucky know this. Whatever half-cocked serum that was running through his own system wasn’t nearly as complete or effective as Erskine’s creation. Just standing across from Steve illustrates that point, and Bucky feels every inch of the differences between them.

But the thing about his memories, the ones that peak and rumble between his ears like a symphony of chaos? They remind him of a brittle boy from Brooklyn with weak lungs and a big mouth. With matted blonde hair and an angled jaw, Bucky isn’t sure if he’s over-exaggerating the number of times his memory would have him believe that he’s saved Steve from back-alley rumbles. There is blood on his chin, dribbling from a split lip, but a hardness in Steve’s eyes that would soften when Bucky came into view with a shoulder to lean on.

(“I had ‘em on the ropes, Bucky.”)

The pinnacle of human perfection is what Steve is now, but his friend has always been the best man of everyone he's known. Before the serum and before the acclaim, Steve Rogers was a man of solid make.His body now just matches his spirit. And Bucky is ashamed of it now, but at one point during the war, that had made him more jealous that he cared to admit.

Bending down to grab a pair of gloves off the garden bed, Bucky feels Steve’s hip jerk towards his, and he lists sideways. He arcs his back to avoid the plants below, and in the sacrifice, he finds himself flat on his stomach in an empty bed filled with fresh mulch.

Bucky sputters. He can taste the soil behind his teeth.

Steve just laughs, and Bucky -- feeling each day more like the man he once grew to be decades ago -- reaches for the hose on the ground next to him. His friend is still laughing, eyes screwed shut, and Bucky takes a moment to watch his friend until the itch of his finger becomes too much. He opens the valve on the hose, and a rush of water can be heard dredging to the spout.

It is this noise that knocks Steve out of his laughter before his eyes widen with fear.

“Bucky, no. We can talk about this. Remember what Sam told us,” Steve manages between poorly hidden snickers, and Bucky can see there is no regret in his friend’s stare.

“Sam is not here,” is all Bucky says before he lets his thumb off the hose. A stream of water spurts from the end, and Steve honest to god squeals when the cold water splashes against his chest. Bucky moves forward, shaking the hose at his friend.

Steve is nothing more than a collection of gasps and curses as he scuttles backwards. His whole body is soaked, dripping with water, and his limp hair clings to the top of his head.

The sight brings a memory flooding back to Bucky, and he watches a younger version of himself running through the dry streets of Brooklyn with Steve in tow. From across the street, there is a spewing fire hydrant gurgling water like a geyser, and Bucky remembers that that summer had been a hot one. Even Steve, as scared as he was of being chewed out by his mother, jumped into the steam without any hesitation.

Both now and then, the smile on their faces is still the same. Not even seventy years, a war, and his own special personal hell could take that away from Steve.

As Bucky shuts off the hose, a smile of his own plays at his lips until Steve starts shaking himself like a dog to dry himself. Water flies everywhere and on everything, including Bucky, and his friend apologizes for the collateral damage with a tone that really says he’s not sorry at all.

Bucky snorts.

It’s nice to know that some things never change.

_______

Doctor Doom -- who’s perhaps the most aptly named villain that the Avengers have faced -- challenges the team over and over again. Really, it is too the point that Tony just wants to ignore the guy's theatrics all-together, but then he pulls a stunt to drag them into a final showdown of sorts.

He does so by hijacking a UN meeting and holding the attendees hostage. And that is how the Avengers find themselves suiting up in the middle of the day to finally finish things between them and Doom.

The team assembles in record time, partly because of they are -- for once -- not getting ready at the middle of the night and also because of Steve’s quote-unquote Captain America voice kicking them all into action.

Everyone’s packed into the quinjet and strapped in, even Sam who had sworn after their last tryst with Doom and his ugly minions that he was done with the superhero thing for a while. Steve, however, doesn’t seem surprised to see him when he finally gets onto the jet.

His mouth is already open, ready to tell Clint to prepare takeoff, but then the words die in this throat.

Buck assumes it is because Steve is much more surprised to see him than he is to see Sam.

“Bucky?”

Looks like he is right.

The team looks away from the two to give them the illusion of privacy, but Bucky knows that Tony is eavesdropping with such intensity that is face is turning red with exertion.

Dressed in black combat armor, knives holstered and rounds clipped to his belt, Bucky shifts in his seat and ignores the way his rifle digs into his spine. “You called?”

Steve blinks. “What are you doing here?”

“You called for the team to assemble. So I did.”

“But you had told Phil...”

Bucky nods because, yes, he did once tell Phil to go shove his offer for Bucky to join the Avengers where the sun don’t shine. He had meant it then, every word. But things have changed -- no, Bucky has changed -- and so has his answer.

There was once a time when Bucky Barnes was a team player, second-in-charge of the Howling Commandos and every bit feared for such. He was the kind of guy who could lead others into battle and make calls that others didn’t want to make. It was something Bucky remembers being proud of.

And it is something that Bucky is ready to get back.

“I know what I told Phil, and so does everyone else on this thing. I’m making a different call now though. I’m ready,” Bucky says, and he tries to ignore the flush that works up his neck when he sees Natasha’s approving smile.

Steve takes a step forward, and the shield on his back glints in the sunlight. “Alright. I trust you, Bucky.”

They takeoff shortly after, and Steve situates himself between Sam and Bucky. The rest of the team is spread out across the hangar, talking in low tones or checking their weapons, and Bucky watches them all carefully.

This, he thinks, is his team. These are the people he will trust his life with, and in return, they will entrust him with their own.

He thinks of the months ago when he would have killed any of these people with a single shot between the eyes, but for once, his stomach doesn’t turn at the thought. Not in the way it used to.

It’s because Steve is sitting next to him, legs spread wide in his seat, and Bucky can hear his friend’s voice filter through his ears as he discusses strategies with Sam. Across from him, Natasha is cleaning one of her guns while Clint counts through his arrowheads, and their feet touch on the ground below them. Bruce sits next to Tony, humoring his friend as Tony goes on about all the creative ways he is going to make Doom pay for canceling his date night with Pepper. And Thor, well, Bucky knows he is doing just fine judging by the thunder crackling softly outside.

Things are different now. Bucky has been planning for such all along, and it’s a good thing.

He doesn't shake when his metal hand fingers the bullets at his waist, counting them once then twice for good measure.

This time around, he knows exactly who he is using them for.

This decision is all his own.