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They’re under attack, or the world is ending, or Clint’s shown up with another litter of puppies. Barnes doesn’t know which it is and doesn’t particularly care. It’s peaceful right here, in spite of the muffled howls emanating from above, and he’s got no interest in moving from his perch—his perch being seventy stories up, propped on a six inch ledge inside the shaft of the elevator he disabled a week after moving into the Tower (there’s more than enough functioning elevators in this monstrosity of a building, no matter what hipster-stache says about it, and as for safety, “If I was planning on falling to my death, Rogers, I coulda just stayed on the flaming helicarrier of doom”). Anyway, whatever’s inspiring the commotion in the common room doesn’t concern him. Barnes knows the A-Team will do their thing, rush into the fray and come out bruised and bloody (or covered in puppy slobber and fur) but mostly fine. In no time at all the troops will rally and Barnes’ll be back to blocking out Stark’s self-fellating banter and Rogers’ claustrophobic mother-henning.
It’s always the same. The do-gooders save the day while Barnes skulks in the rafters.
He could go along, help out with whatever Nazi/alien/monster/magician/robot of the week it is they’re facing down. He was mission approved months ago, and he’s been told by people with lots of fancy degrees that he’s mostly not crazy anymore. He just doesn’t give a shit. Seventy years as a mind-fucked-somnambulant-cyborg-assassin has a tendency to suck the joie de vivre out of a guy. Besides, Rogers has a good team; doesn’t need him on his six anymore.
Not that Rogers gets that.
Whoever he was expecting to crawl his way out of the wreckage of Hydra wasn’t Barnes. Rogers has good intentions and long-suffering patience blowing out his ass, but he can’t hide his wince of disappointment whenever Barnes shows up to the party Bucky was invited to. The guy obviously cares—cares too much, really, spreading himself thin to make things better, to make Barnes whole again—but it’s a desperate, grasping love, suffocating tentacles of concern that drive him into small dark spaces where no one expects anything of him, where he can fail to live up to Rogers’ impossible standards on his own terms.
So that’s what he does. Barnes is just settling back into his busy schedule of a fuck-ton of nothing, pointedly ignoring the shit going down on the floors above, when there’s a quiet ping from somewhere over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mr. Barnes, your presence is requested in the common room.”
Bucky shifts his footing and turns to address the source of the interruption … and realizes that’s fucking ridiculous because there’s no one there. He shoots a scowl into the darkness, certain Stark has at least one infrared camera picking him up right now; they seem to crop back up as quickly as he can disable them.
“Thought you liked all your pieces in one piece, Jeeves.” There’s an agreement in place to keep shit like this from happening: J.A.R.V.I.S. leaves Barnes alone and Barnes doesn’t rip out J-dot’s soft electronic underbelly. It’s not the most terrifying of threats since Stark could conceivably patch up any damage to his beloved AI, but it would be enough of a hassle that the arrangement remains. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure the Scoobies can handle whatever it is.”
Cool as a cybernetic cucumber, J. returns, “I am rather fond of all my ‘pieces’, Sir, but it stands that your presence is required. Mr. Rogers is experiencing … an episode.”
First of all, Rogers doesn’t have episodes, unless you count letting your brainwashed pal repeatedly shoot you and then smash a metal fist into your face. Second, Mr. Belvedere here only ever refers to him as Captain Rogers, never Mister. He’s particular about the way he addresses people, defaulting to the highest-ranking title unless otherwise requested. There was a brief time in the beginning of Barnes’ stay—while he was detoxing all the shit the octo-nazis had pumped into him and had lost, among other things, the ability to speak—when J. tried that Sargent shit on him, but he cut it out as soon as Barnes regained access to his voice, and a veritable feast of Russian curses along with it.
“What kinda ‘episode’?” The silence thrums, and Barnes collects himself, already resigned to his fate.
“It is one of those rare instances of needing to see to believe, Sir.”
“Ain’t they all?” he sighs, and climbs a few stories up to the level where exciting new adventures are just begging for his attention. “Fuckin’ great.”
….
Rogers is pretty fired up about something. Barnes can hear him before he even enters the room, screeching in a thick Brooklyn accent that hasn’t shown its face since Truman was in office.
“Get off’a me! What do you want? What the hell did you people do?”
There’s a gentle murmur from the rest of the crew, dulcet tones usually reserved for when Banner is about to go Jolly Green Giant on them all. Well, no, that’s not entirely true: under the soothing, “It’s okay, Steve, we’re gonna figure this out,” and “Don’t worry, we’re all friends here,” Stark is cackling like a banshee. Iron Asshole enjoying someone else’s distress? Barnes wouldn’t expect anything less. He rounds the corner, adding a bit of old school swagger to his step and putting on his best I’m-a-real-human voice. If he plays up the old Bucky mannerisms, he can save Rogers the stress of remembering he ain’t that guy, maybe take some of the bluster out of his sails.
“Alright, Rogers, what’s got your shorts in a twist?”
And then his breath is knocked out in a one-two punch of not enough wrong and too much right, and he thinks maybe he should track down a secret Hydra base and get friendly with the recalibration tech because something clearly ain’t connecting in the rat’s nest jumble of his brain.
“Stevie?”
Through the circle of bodies familiar eyes snap to his, relief flickering through the panic. “Bucky? Buck?”
And it’s him. It’s little Stevie Rogers. Head too large for his sparrow-boned frame and huge blue eyes big enough to take on the world. Rail thin limbs dressed in cheap, sepia-toned cotton. Defiant chin jutting in anticipation of a punch. It’s him. His Stevie—not a memory or a souped-up version shaped by time and hands unseen. Not the careful, lumbering Adonis that stole his friend’s face and wears it like a sad mask. No hint of heartbroken dismay, this Steve is angry and reckless, shoulders hunched as he inexpertly shields himself with a silver serving tray snatched from the coffee table. This is hunger pangs and bloody knuckles, sickbed vigils and first kisses and the fucking universe. This is the man buried so deep in Barnes’ psyche they couldn’t rip him out, no matter how completely they chiseled and burned and corrupted everything else.
“Stevie? How?”
He sees the moment Steve fully takes him in, eyes jerking wildly, reads the dawning horror as that impossibly wide gaze travels over his long, snarled mane, age-lined face, and deadly metal arm. Then Steve’s charging ahead, and all ninety pounds of snapping anger and bitter confusion comes barreling through the crowd towards Barnes.
“What the fuck have you bastards done to him?”
Steve runs a possessive hand over his torso, patting as though checking for injuries, while Barnes nearly chokes on his tongue. Satisfied, he pivots, pressing his back into the length of Barnes’ chest and shielding them both with the flimsy protection of Stark’s fancy serveware. “Where are we? What did you do? I want answers. Now.” It’s all Captain, that voice, from a time before he had any reason to believe he would ever command anyone.
“It’s, okay, Steve,” Barnes says, smoothing trembling hands across the sharp scaffolding of his shoulders. It’s strange to touch another person—and also not strange at all, not this particular person. In the back of his mind he knows it’s possible this is still Rogers, some shrunken version of his current self, but Barnes doesn’t believe that. Not just because all signs indicate the man doesn’t know where the fuck he is or who the fuck the Avengers are, but more importantly, Barnes can feel it in his bones that this is a fundamentally different person than the man he pulled out of the Potomac. Someone who’s never felt the weight of the world crushing him from above. Someone whose hope outshines his grief. “You know these guys, Steve, or at least one version of you does. They’re your friends. They ain’t gonna hurt us.” Steve turns a searching look on him, unconvinced. “Hey, lunkheads, why don’t you start with the explaining, already? The man wants answers.”
They take him through it, words overlapping, stilted and confusing: mystery artifact pulled from the bowels of the Triskelion, uncertain trigger, a heavy tug of gravity, a flash of light, and bam! mini-me replaces the big guy. Even swap. Banner is examining the thinga-whatzit with some kind of electronic scanner while Stark yammers on about time-portals and infinite universes. Romanoff is keeping tactfully silent while Wilson experiences a sort of dissociative trance, eyes lovingly locked on the diminutive version of his friend as Steve squirms under the unyielding inspection. Meanwhile, Barton’s propped on the spine of the couch, watching this all play out like it’s the best entertainment he’s had in ages.
“I don’t understand. You’re saying I’ve traded places with another me? In another time? Like the future?” Steve’s shoulders aren’t sitting next to his ears anymore, and he seems to be following most of what the eggheads say, even if he’s scanning the room like it’s some sort of alien spacecraft.
“That’s exactly what we’re saying, short-stack.”
Steve glares at Stark but bites back his retort. “So where are we? What year is this? Why does Bucky—” He hesitates, obviously stifling something he thinks will hurt Barnes’ feelings. “—look so different?”
Wilson cuts off the chorus of awkward responses. “Are we thinking it’s a good idea to share … you know, details? I mean, I’m no time travel expert, but the movies all seem to indicate messing with shit like this produces some not so great results.”
Banner nods. “Absolutely. We don’t know what the repercussions could be if Steve learns too much. How it might affect his future, our future. If Steve knows where he’s heading, he could decide to change course, fundamentally alter history—even if he doesn’t intend to.” His face is pinched, lemon-sucking sour. “Like Sam said, we’re talking world-shaping changes here. It might already be too late, but we should at least attempt to minimize the impact.”
Stark circles the room as he paces, sweeping his arms in a wide arc as he gains steam. “Right, right, right. Butterflies and hurricanes. Fabric of the universe ripping apart. Airplanes and assets and aliens, oh my!”
“I don’t understand half the words that come outta your mouth,” Steve grumbles.
“That’s because he mostly talks out of his ass,” Romanoff says from her perch on the couch, wry expression hinting at a smile. Steve looks briefly scandalized, then impressed, then blushes a red streak down his neck. Barnes is torn between wanting to throw Romanoff across the room and kissing that blush purple.
As they hash through the details, Steve drifts to Barnes’ side, lowering his makeshift shield and folding his arms across his chest. And Barnes can already feel it, the way his body re-shapes itself in Steve’s presence—sliding from machine efficiency into an orbiting moon. The way he leans a bit to the right, protectively looming, hips swaying to accommodate the curve of his spine. How he tips his head like a preening peacock, only to get his mouth closer to Steve’s good ear. His arm aches with the urge to fold around Steve’s shoulders—fingers flexing and tingling—before he realizes he can; there’s nothing keeping him from touching the way he wants. Steve startles, then catches his eye with a shy grin.
And if Wilson’s eyes widen at the contact, and if Barton gapes like he’s just discovered unicorns are real, and if Romanoff keeps her expression so neutral it’s clear how very much she’s hiding, Barnes can’t bring himself to give one single shit. So he never touches Rogers? So what. This is Stevie, and fuck anyone who has anything to say about it.
In the end, Steve takes charge. “So I can’t know anything unless I want the universe to explode?” Greeted with silent affirmation, he goes on, “And you don’t know how you’re going to switch me back?”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” Banner says, running his scanner over the artifact again. “It looks like there’s a countdown. If I’m reading this thing correctly … you’ve got roughly twenty-four hours.”
“Until what?”
“ … it reverses itself.”
Barnes catches himself tensing around Steve, but it’s not the metal arm so he doesn’t do any real damage. He feels sick. He knew this couldn’t be permanent, but still, the idea of sending Stevie away just when he got him back hurts like stiletto to the gut. Makes him want to snatch Steve up and make a run for it.
“Just like that? I go home and your Steve comes back?”
“Uh-huh.”
Barnes isn’t providing any answers here, but Steve glances up at him anyway, looking for reassurance. “So I just hafta wait.”
Banner shrugs. “Pretty much.”
“And in the mean time, I can’t talk to anybody about anything that might impact the future.”
“Right,” Stark says from behind the bar. Apparently he’s done with the intellectual heavy-lifting. “Cocktail?”
“He’s got liver problems,” Barnes growls.
“Okay, tall, dark, and glowering. No liquor. Jesus.” He shakes his head, carrying on mixing some potent concoction for himself. “You know, you’re taking this pretty well, Steve.”
Steve meets Barnes’ eyes, lips pressed into a grimace. “Don’t really have a choice in the matter, do I?”
“Nah,” Barnes murmurs quiet enough so only Steve can hear. “Sometimes we don’t.”
….
Steve begs off from the group rap session. There isn’t much he can say to a roomful of strangers, well, not much that won’t fundamentally change existence as they know it. So he and Bucky slink off to an unused section of the common floor, an innocuous guest room meant for friends and visitors. Barnes steers clear of Rogers’ personal rooms since chances are good they’re full of all kinds of world-destroying intel, and Barnes’ space feels a little too bleak in its utilitarian character to be of much comfort to Steve right now.
The room is well-appointed, tastefully bland, and Steve collapses into a plush armchair as soon as the door is closed. “This is something else, huh?” He looks exhausted, heavy circles under his eyes, face pale. “Sure am glad you’re here. Not sure what I woulda done if you didn’t show up when you did.”
Barnes shakes his head, shrugging off the intimacy. “You need anything? Food? Something to drink?” He’s unaccustomed to playing nursemaid in this life, but some habits are carved so deep they come back unbidden.
“Nah. Not sure I could keep anything down right now. Thanks.” He looks half a breath from passing out. Ain’t surprising. Barnes knows how exhausting it can be to process everything after a leap forward in time.
“You should rest. In the bed. Gonna get a crick in your neck if you stay there.”
Steve looks up from under his lashes, wicked. “You trying to put the moves on me, Barnes? I ain’t some goodtime gal you can just sweet talk into bed.”
“I didn’t—” Barnes chokes. “That wasn’t—”
“I’m just teasin’ ya, doll,” he laughs. “’Sides, I ain’t the one we should be worrying about.” He nods slowly, indicating the whole of Barnes’ wrecked figure. Sour disapproval falls over him like a shadow. “Com’ere.”
Barnes lets out the breath that’s been locked up for years, stumbling across the room and collapsing at Steve’s feet. Arms wrapped around Steve’s thighs, cheek pressed to the bony length of them, Barnes slumps into him.
“What happened to you? Why…” Steve trails off, slim fingers carding through his hair. “Never mind. You can’t say, I know.”
“Time changes things,” Barnes rasps. Fucking understatement of the century.
“I don’t like what it’s done to your eyes.” Steve presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose, smoothing over the scowl permanently etched there. “You’re so sad, Buck.”
Of all the things he might have honed in on—the mutilated arm, the overgrown mass of him, the ugly scars and hobo hair—that’s maybe the worst. Barnes twists his face into the meat of Steve’s thighs, hiding a broken sob. He shudders and gasps, clutching tiny hips. He can’t catch his breath. Can’t get a grip on the grief welling up in his throat, clasped like a vice around his chest. It hurts. Everything fucking hurts.
Steve pets him, hushing and murmuring quiet comfort. “It’s okay, Buck. I got you. Come on, it’s okay.”
“I miss you so much, Stevie. So much.”
“You got me. I’m here,” he urges, hands stroking through tangled locks, over knotted shoulder blades. “That other Steve—you got him too, right? Don’t he take care of you? Can’t imagine a future where Steve Rogers ain’t trailing after Bucky Barnes, lovin’ on him and takin’ care of him.”
And, God, that’s so true, every bit of it, but Barnes can’t think about what that means right now. “Yeah,” he warbles through his tears. “You always take real good care of me.”
“I hope so. Or me and him are gonna have words.”
Barnes makes a sound that’s half-laugh half-sob. “That’d be a real trick, punk.”
“Well, I know all sorts of tricks. I’m talented like that.”
And there’s something velvet in his tone, something dirty and familiar. Barnes lets the feeling settle in his stomach, a pooling heat that soothes away the iron grip of anguish. Part of him wants to let Steve take it there, lose himself in touch and comfort and passion. But cold rationality tells him it’s been too long. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“Bucky?” Steve gentles his hand over Barnes’ nape, urging him out of the cocoon of his thighs. “Hey, Buck.”
Barnes turns, streaking tears across Steve’s slacks. His jaw is clenched, tongue resting heavy in his mouth.
“What do you need?”
Barnes groans, squeezing his eyes closed against the raw kindness in Steve’s face. “Should be me askin’ you that.”
Steve huffs. “Well I’m askin’ you. Get over it.” He thumbs over Barnes’ cheekbone. “Come on. Can’t be too comfortable there on the floor. What say we go stretch out on the bed for a bit?”
Barnes grimaces, but Steve cuts him off before he has a chance to reject the suggestion outright. “We don’t hafta do nothing. Just relax. Cuddle a while.”
He takes a breath. Mumbles his assent.
“Okay.” Steve scoots him up and off his lap. “Good.”
They shuffle to the bed, fingers twined, shedding shoes along the way. Barnes wraps himself around Steve’s slight frame, the heavy bulk of him dipping low in the bed. Nose buried in honeysuckle hair, fingers gently mapping ribs, Barnes counts the shallow breaths rising under his palm and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
…
He rises from unconsciousness, violently emerging as if from icy depths.
“Steve!”
“I’m here, Buck,” he rasps. “I’m here, it’s okay.”
Barnes exhales, urging his pounding heart to steady. Steve’s still here. It wasn’t a dream.
It’s dark outside. Hours have passed. He grimly considers the lost time, but it was the best sleep he’s had since before Azzano, and he can’t bring himself to regret it. They lay silent for a while, listening to the clock tick, soaking in shared body heat. Barnes presses a kiss to the base of Steve’s neck, testing it out. Chaste affection. The first kiss he’s given in seventy years.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m real sorry.”
Barnes tenses, preparing for a blow. “Whaddya mean?” he intones, accent slipping deeper into the past the longer he’s around Steve. “Sorry for what?”
“Whatever it is that made you like this, whatever changed things between us … I gotta bear some responsibility for that.”
“Don’t say that,” he bites out. “You didn’t do this—you had nothin’ to do with this.” It’s so like Steve, trying to take responsibility for something he hasn’t done, for something larger than himself.
“I may not have done it, but I didn’t do right by you, either. Don’t lie,” he snaps before Barnes can correct him. “The way you looked at me when I first appeared, the way you’re hangin’ on me now, it’s like you haven’t seen me in years. Like the other me is a stranger.”
And it’s so close to the truth Barnes nearly chokes on it.
“I knew it.” Steve twists in his arms to face him, brushes the pads of his fingers over Barnes’ brow. “I’m real sorry for being the kinda jerk that would leave you alone. Guess I took all the stupid for myself at some point.”
Barnes snorts out a laugh, a painful hitching of breath. It’s all he can do to keep from crying, and he’s not fucking going there again. Not gonna waste another second of his time with Steve on tears. He snuffles, plants a grin on his face. “Nah, we both took plenty of stupid. More than our fair share.”
Steve smiles, open and bright—if tinged by sadness. He looks so young. Unblemished. Barnes wonders if he could borrow some of that radiance, soak it up. Fill in the cracked parts of him, maybe, just a bit.
“Steve. Stevie.”
He leans forward, tipping his head slowly to give Steve a chance to pull away. Steve meets him instead, kissing through his grin. It’s steady and careful, so gentle it hurts. Barnes doesn’t remember many details of his former life—impressions mostly, watercolor dreams—but he feels like this is different from how they used to be. More tender than hot-blooded Steve would usually allow. Seems like all they had room for were hurried exchanges with a desperate edge, huffing through gritted teeth so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, connection hungry and rough because Steve wouldn’t stand for being treated tender. If it’s for Barnes’ sake, this slow slide of lips, this subtle teasing, that says an awful lot about how much Steve is willing to do for him.
He pulls Steve close, palm pressed to the base of knobby spine, rolling them until Steve is on top. He likes the slight weight of him, the easy way Steve spreads his legs around his hips, hands cradling his face while they kiss. He’s got the theory down but doesn’t remember specifics, and he wants Steve to run this show.
The man doesn’t disappoint.
Steve kisses like he’s leading an orchestra, all confident grace and subtle notes of whimsey, playing Barnes in a way that suits them both. Barnes even learns to follow along. It comes back to him in surprising flashes, the way Steve keens when Barnes sucks on his bottom lip, the soft groan drawn out with a scratch of stubble against Steve’s cheek. Muscle memory. History built anew.
After a while, Steve widens the scope of his exploration—tripping a trail over Barnes’ jaw and down his neck, mouth and hands roaming. Barnes whimpers as Steve lifts the thin cotton of his shirt, stroking a narrow patch along his abdomen. “This okay?”
If Stevie wants it? Yeah. Anything Steve wants.
“Sure.” Pulse racing, he lifts up to help get the shirt off. He squirms when Steve scans his mutilated shoulder, heartbroken horror writ across his face.
“Oh, Buck. Jesus, what did they do to you?”
“’S’okay, Stevie. Really. It’s part of me now—I’m used to it.”
Steve runs his hands over the scarred juncture at his socket and down the sleek plating of his arm. He gentles over Barnes’ elbow and wrist, across smooth palm and absent fingerprints. “Can you feel this? Does it hurt?”
“Feels like … pressure. Like the idea of a touch.”
He can’t bring himself to say what else it makes him feel. That watching the reverent slide of Steve’s hand over that despised limb sends a queer jolt of longing through him, a cascading loop of revulsion and desire. He can’t say that he suddenly wants to touch Steve with that hand, explore every part of him, defile him with the metal monstrosity. He gives in to the urge—to touch, not to spoil—fumbling with the buttons of Steve’s shirt and revealing his smooth, petal-pale chest. He slides the shirt all the way off, settling his hands against Steve’s waist with an admiring sigh.
“You’re perfect, Stevie. So gorgeous.”
A blush blooms from neck to belly in a pink wave. “Ain’t gotta lay it on so thick,” he grouses. “I’m a sure thing here.”
“I ain’t blowing smoke.” Barnes sits up to taste a rosy nipple, relishing Steve’s responding gasp. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in sev—in some time.”
Steve ignores his gaff, tightening his hands in Barnes’ hair and pulling their mouths back to together. He grinds down and Barnes flexes, pelvis snapping up. “Fuck, Steve.”
“Told you I knew some tricks.” He rolls his hips again, grinning against Barnes’ low groan.
The arm whirrs, recalibrating, and Barnes recoils from the rigid pinch of his grip. He frowns down at the shadowy patches where his fingers have dug into Steve’s sides. “Shit. Did I hurt you?”
“No—what? ‘Course not, Buck.”
He’s dangerous. Like getting into bed with a loaded gun. He shouldn’t do this.
“Hey, no. I see your wheels turning there, Barnes. No way you’re beggin’ off that easy.”
He cringes away. “But I—”
“Shut it.” Steve glowers. “Here, if you’re so worried about it, let me do the work. You sit back, okay?” He hesitates, and Steve takes his wrists, pushing them down on the pillow and setting Barnes’ hands behind his head. “See? Crisis averted. Stay here and let me take care of you.”
Barnes sighs, relenting. “That doesn’t sound like much fun for you.”
“I think you’re havin’ some trouble remembering how I like to take care of you, pal.”
And isn’t that the fucking truth? Chagrined, he says, “Could be.”
“Well, lemme jog your memory then.”
Steve kisses him deep and slow then undresses them both with practiced efficiency. Barnes watches silently when Steve hops off the bed and rummages through the nightstand, closing it with a frown. “Shit. Need some slick—think there’s anything in here?” He squirrels into the bathroom, utterly at ease in his nudity.
Barnes shrugs. His erection is bobbing against his belly, and now that he’s noticed, he can’t take his eyes off it. The octo-nazis had him on something that Banner called a form of “chemical castration” (and woo-boy, Rogers’ tragic mug at that discovery was like something straight outta daytime soaps). The drugs have been out of his system for a while, but he hasn’t had cause for this since he moved into the Tower. He wasn’t actually sure the thing still worked, so it’s a pleasant surprise. If he had to put words to the feeling, he’d say it was … nice? Tame description considering the size of the thing, but accurate. There’s a quiet, anticipatory warmth diffused through him, not too intense. Just … good. When your major formative experiences all resemble stomping barefoot into a rusty bucket of nails, “good” seems pretty fabulous. Maybe the best you can hope for.
Steve emerges from the bathroom with a small bottle in his hand and a haunted expression on his face. “That Stark guy sure has some funny ideas about how to accommodate his guests.”
Barnes has no idea what that means, so he just keeps his eyes on Steve and waits for what comes next. What comes next, apparently, is Steve using the slick to open himself up while Barnes watches, blushing a red streak. He does not remember this. How could he forget this? It’s just about the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen: Steve’s pinched expression turning liquid and euphoric, ribs fluttering as he tries to take in enough air, the glorious slide of fingers disappearing inside himself. He clamps down on the urge to get in there with Steve, to add a hand to help out. He imagines how easy it would be to unwittingly do damage, though, and it’s not like he can move, anyway, frozen as he is with his hands trapped behind his head and his dick leaking on his belly.
Steve catches Barnes’ wrecked gaze and smiles, all tender and sweet. “It has been a while for ya, hasn’t it, Buck?” He crawls over his prone form, pouring more slick on his hand and stroking Barnes’ cock.
“Fuck! Stevie—I don’t—that’s—” It’s so much, too much. He squeezes his eyes closed, tensing from his scalp to his toenails and gasping through clenched teeth.
“Shh …” Steve settles his thighs around Barnes’ hips, hovering. “I got you, it’s okay.”
He sucks in a breath and wills his body to relax. Steve’s looking at him like the sun shines out of his ass, and Barnes wonders at how dumb the kid is to hold such a flame for someone as broken and wrong as him. “You got no sense, you know that, Stevie?”
“Well, that makes two of us then.” He grins, a wicked twist of lips, and guides himself down onto Barnes’ erection.
Oh no.
Steve takes it slow, lowering inch by inch, surrounding Barnes in slick, tight heat. Barnes goes rigid as Steve settles, arms slapping out from their confines, spine cranking into a taut line. He’s inside Stevie—Jesus, he’s in him—and it’s immediately, violently overwhelming. From empty nothingness to everything all at once, numb survival to a crushing feast of sensation. He can’t process the overload, heart spasming, brain an electric storm.
“Steve,” he keens as tears slip down his cheeks.
“Buck? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I can’t. Please, it’s too much.”
Steve stills, panic writ across his face. And of course Barnes would fuck this up. Of course he can’t even manage something as basic and human as sex.
“I’m sorry—” he gasps, trembling through the effort of holding himself together. “I think—I can’t—”
Steve gentles his hands across Barnes’ chest, murmuring a comforting babble of words. He shifts minutely, rising up on his thighs as though to try to separate them, and the hot, tight drag around Barnes’ cock is all it takes to send him crashing. He slams his eyes closed and jerks up into Steve with a horrible, broken howl. Snowy Siberian landscape floods his vision while brutal electric charges crackle across his skin. He’s gasping and shivering, arms splayed in a T, fingertips shredding blankets.
He pants through it while his heart pounds and aftershocks zip through him in static waves.
At some point the euphoric-pain reconciles itself into a thrumming whisper. Softer. Bearable. Pleasant, even. His breath evens out, clenched muscles relax. He floats a while, watching thoughts trip through his head with no particular desire to latch onto them. It’s Steve’s voice that draws him back into his body.
“Buck?” Steve is frozen above him, devastated.
“Oh, Stevie,” he rasps when words finally return. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s better. I’m good.” He’s sticky, but Steve is too, so there’s no need to comment on that.
“Do you want me to get up?”
“I don’t—” He doesn’t know what he wants. Just that he doesn’t want Stevie gone. “Maybe can you just … hold me a bit?”
“Of course.” Steve folds himself over Barnes, clutching protectively. He buries his face in the crook of Barnes’ neck, planting kisses wherever his mouth can reach.
“Thanks.”
“No need for thanks, pal.”
He’s still hard inside Steve, but the edge has been taken off. He doesn’t feel overwhelmed by sensation.
“That was somethin’ else.”
He winces. “Lots of stuff has happened since your time. Guess you figured out I’m a little bit broken.” He grimaces, reconsidering. “More than a little.”
“Hey,” Steve snaps, pushing upright. “Nobody gets to talk about my best guy that way, not even you.”
“Yessir,” Barnes says with a sad smile. That voice is so Rogers he almost feels like saluting. And when the hell did he start thinking of Rogers so fondly?
Steve pets his chest, fingers drawn to the puckered skin on his shoulder. “You really are okay, though?”
“Really.” Barnes drinks in the flush over Steve’s collarbones and his pretty pink nipples. He looks lower, jolting with awareness that the man is still sitting on his dick and Steve’s erection hasn’t flagged at all. It’d be really shitty to leave the guy like that. They’re here now, and Steve will be gone soon; this could be his only chance. Tentatively, he pumps his hips, sucking in an excited—and wholly manageable—breath. It feels like something he wants to chase, not something he needs to hide from.
“Hey. Think I can get a second shot here?” He leers, puffing up with more bravado than he feels.
Steve gapes, then he’s shaking through a cackle. “Greedy sonavabitch.” He’s doing a real good job of hiding his concern, but not good enough to fool Bucky. “If you think you can handle me twice in one go, by all means.” He nods, indicating Barnes should take the lead on this one. That’s fair, considering what happened the first time around.
Barnes shifts under him, planting his feet with knees propped up, and lifts the cradle of Steve’s pelvis in his hands. As long as he focuses on keeping his grip loose, he shouldn’t hurt him.
He hopes.
The first few strokes are slow and shallow. It feels good—really good—and the voice of caution prickling through him makes a careful retreat. After a few minutes, warmth puddles along his spine, easing him through each undulation. It’s so different from the initial wrenching overstimulation that he braves more, letting Steve’s weight do the work of driving all the way down before Barnes lifts him back up. It feels gorgeous, and he’s mesmerized watching himself disappear and reemerge over and over. He shifts a bit to get a better view, but when Steve responds with a series of wounded little whines, Barnes freezes.
“No, Buck. ’S’okay,” he slurs. “F-feels good.” His head is hanging forward, eyes glazed and jaw slack. He’s either enjoying himself or he’s a very good liar. Barnes lets himself believe it’s the former.
He carries on, pleasure coiled in his belly, intent on teasing out more sounds. Steve’s face is red, chest heaving, but no matter what Barnes does he just huffs shallowly, mouth fixed in a silent O. He flashes on dark alleys, boys getting the shit kicked outta them for having features that were too soft, for daring to walk too close together, and his heart clenches in understanding. But that was a long time ago and they’re safe. No one’s gonna care what they’re getting up to.
“You don’t gotta be quiet here, Stevie. It’s okay to let go.” He snaps his hips once, twice, to prove his point and is rewarded with a beautiful, open howl.
After that, there’s no more holding back. He pumps wildly as Steve bounces, deep voice pitched high through a steady stream of babble. “So good … oh God, Buck … yes, please …”
It’s hard to latch onto thoughts, sensation driving him forward. He’s all heat and breath and messy connection. His skin tingles, every nerve-ending crackling with desire. Steve takes himself in hand, stroking desperately, and then lets loose a wild shout as he comes hot and wet across Barnes’ belly. He clenches hard through his orgasm, and Barnes follows, shuddering with blissful release.
He huffs wordlessly as he comes down. Steve collapses against him, slipping free, and it’s some time before either of them speak, caught in an intimate bubble both are hesitant to break. Barnes figures it’s edging towards midnight by now. They’ve got maybe twelve hours left together.
“You think the other me is havin’ as good a time with other you?” Steve says after a long while.
Barnes laughs, picturing it. “Man I hope so. That guy sure deserves some fun.” Even after he says it, he doesn’t know if he’s talking about Bucky or Rogers. Both, probably. Steve nods as if thinking the same thing, hair tickling Barnes’ nose. Barnes strokes his back and presses a kiss to his head.
“When I go back, and he comes here …”
His stomach lurches. There’s no way that sentence has a good end.
“… you’ll make sure he takes care of you, right? You can’t keep goin’ like this, Buck—you deserve better.”
Barnes grunts, and Steve reads it for the bald challenge it is. He wrenches himself up. “Screw you, Bucky Barnes. You don’t get to play the stoic, wounded man, here. It ain’t right. It’d tear me up, watchin’ you keep yourself from good things. If he’s got any bit of me left inside, it’s tearin’ him up, too.”
Barnes has absolutely nothing to say to that.
….
After a shower they make their way into the kitchen adjacent the common room and share ice cream from the tub, trading spoonfuls on the tile floor. Bucky knows he can’t give too much away, but introducing Steve to the glory of refrigeration and Ben & Jerry’s Salted Caramel Core surely won’t break the universe. Movies are out, radio too, so Barnes tells J-dot to pump some Bessie Smith through the speakers, and that asshole promptly turns on After You’ve Gone. Serves him right, Barnes supposes.
“Jay Dot?” Steve asks, looking around. “Is someone here?”
“Nah, just—” he hesitates. Salted caramel is one thing. Artificial Intelligence is another altogether.
“Future stuff?”
Barnes nods, relieved. “Yeah. Future stuff.”
Steve smiles and shoves another spoonful in his mouth, seemingly unaware of the inexorable ticking of the clock.
Barnes will remember the next few hours for the rest of his life, though he’ll never speak of that time to anyone. The way Steve rises to his feet, hands outstretched, and asks for a dance. The slow rocking of their feet, bodies silhouetted against sparkling city lights. Curling up on the couch and reminiscing over Steve’s schoolyard fights and Bucky’s parade of pretty dames. Steve fills in the details, recounting each story with defensive exasperation (“It wasn’t my fault he was being such a jerk, Buck; Creever deserved every bit of what he got”) or prickling jealousy (“You may not remember Louisa, but she still blushes whenever we run into her on the street”). The long silent stretches when Steve traces shapes onto the metal arm and Barnes memorizes the delicate bend of Steve’s fingers. The grief-hued rise of the sun over a New York City skyline that is strange and foreign to both their eyes.
Barnes swallows the lump in his throat, grateful for the pointed absence of the team, but certain they won’t be able to keep themselves away for much longer, now that it’s morning. He leads Steve back to the room and takes him apart, slowly and reverently. One last time.
He does not cry.
…
A soft ping announces their unseen guest. “It is approaching time, Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers.”
Barnes grunts an acknowledgement and lifts his head from Steve’s lap. Steve sets down the old pulp paperback he’d been reading aloud and swings his feet to the floor.
“Welp.”
Barnes sighs. “Yeah.”
There aren’t any words.
They walk into the common room hand in hand, and though his palm is clammy and shaking—certainly unpleasant to hold—he can’t bring himself to regret it. He knows misery and affection are writ across his face in equal measure, but he can’t bring himself to regret that either. All eyes land on them, surprise registered in their silent gapes. Well, silent until Stark opens his big mouth.
“Is anyone else disturbed by this? Come on, I’m not the only one seeing it, right?”
Barnes growls, and Stark has the sense to shut his yap.
“So what do I do?” Steve looks to Bruce, who is monitoring the artifact from a careful distance.
“In theory, you don’t have to do anything. This should just, uh … take you back.” He seems to understand enough to not openly celebrate that fact. “We’re one minute away now.”
Whatever goodbyes the others had planned for Steve are scrapped in the face of Barnes’ protective hovering. Steve turns to him and clasps the metal hand in his—a closed loop. Barnes wishes he’d kissed him one last time, chokes up with the regret of it. It feels too late now, their bubble broken.
He does not cry.
“Hey.” Steve’s smile is small and sad. “See ya in a minute, right?”
“Sure, Stevie,” he says, gripping tight.
“Remember what I said.”
Barnes nods. A promise.
They hold hands as long as they can. Then the world feels heavy and Steve is eclipsed by a light too bright. There’s a deafening crack, and his hands are empty.
He stands in place, eyes closed. Maybe if he keeps them shut, he can ignore reality for a little while longer.
Of course, Steve’s voice brings him back.
“Buck? What are you doing here?” Rogers is across the room, next to Banner—presumably standing in the same place he disappeared. He’s disoriented, gaze tripping from one face to another. “What happened? The artifact was going all kablooey—” His eyes snap back to Barnes. “When’d you get here?”
Even from here, Barnes can see how clear and blue his eyes are. The same eyes he’s been looking at for the past twenty-four hours. Same iron strength. Same tender concern. Seventy years hasn’t changed them, not really. All this time he was thinking Rogers wanted him back the way he was: a factory reset. But that wasn’t it at all. He was the one who couldn’t see what was right in front of him.
“Stevie.”
Steve winces, like hope is too much to bear, and how the hell did Barnes let himself become this much of a monster? Steve registers the moment Barnes makes his decision, panic flashing in his eyes, tensing for a fight as Barnes barrels across the room and leaps into his arms. They tumble to the floor, Steve’s breath knocked out, while Barnes hovers over him, determined.
“Whoa. Hey there, pal," Steve says, wary. “You okay?”
Barnes gives him no chance to pull away, just dips his head—ignoring the schoolhouse twitters from the team—and steals the kiss he should have taken months ago. It’s an apology and a promise. A new beginning to an old story. After a stunned second, Steve returns it, arms wrapping around him like he was built for it. Barnes lets the kiss linger much longer than propriety allows, figuring they’ve earned it after all this time. Eventually he does pull away.
His smile is open and wide as he looks down at the man he loves.
“Am now.”
….