Chapter Text
They know enough to know this place is safe.
Flashes of a face and a name all lead back here, even though everything is wrong. They knows it’s wrong - it’s wrong, but they don’t know why, doesn’t know enough between the flashes and the hints of knowledge to know. They know that the target isn’t a target but a friend - they remember a fight, another fight, metal collapsing around them and the target, and water, and dragging the target out of the river - but everything is in pieces, cloudy, and without context.
All they really knows is the ache in their chest and the emptiness in their muscles and the frayed wire of their instincts telling them they won’t make it alone much longer. Retreat. Rejoin with the group and report back to base. You don’t stand a chance alone in these conditions, soldier, not in your condition.
They shakes their head, clearing the thought away. It’s strange, unfamiliar. Like everything is.
It’s raining as they make their way to the apartment building. Tires hiss on wet asphalt and continue down the road; they can hear faint sounds from inside nearby buildings - music, raised voices, life everywhere.
They can’t make sense of any of it.
They know the apartment number, so when they gets buzzed in, dripping wet and shaking, it’s only a matter of focusing long enough to find it
-
The apartment buzzer goes off, and Steve Rogers looks up, frowning. He’s not expecting any guests, and he might be coming into the twenty-first century with his heels in the dirt, but he does have a cell phone that someone might use to reach him if they were dropping by.
Still, after a moment of consideration, he gets up and presses the button to open the building door. Worst case, what - someone less than friendly bursts in and he gets the chance to throw a few punches?
Nothing he can’t handle, he thinks, and sits back down to wait.
It’s a lot longer than he’s expecting, long enough that he’s beginning to think it was just a joke of some kind, before someone knocks on his door.
"It’s not locked," he calls, but he’s already on his feet and crossing the hall to open the door onto the landing and come face to face with about the last person he ever would have expected to find, rain-soaked and bedraggled, outside the door of his apartment - at least, the last person he would have expected in this day and age.
"Um," says Bucky Barnes in a hoarse voice, looking up at him warily. "Can…can I come in?"
For a few stunned seconds, Steve can’t find his voice. He blinks, shakes his head, and then quickly turns it into a nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I - of course, Buck, come on, of course you can.”
He steps back out of the doorway so Bucky can get past him. The poor guy looks like a wreck - though maybe it’s because he’s so drenched it’s like he’s been swimming. He doesn’t say anything as Steve closes the door and turns to face him, just stands in the hallway silent and dripping and shivering slightly.
"You want to come sit down?" Steve offers. "I can get you some coffee, or some food, or - whatever, you know. I, uh, I don’t have any liquor, though. Don’t drink really."
"Okay," Bucky says, but he doesn’t move. He’s got a look on his face that Steve can’t read.
"Feel free to take your shoes off," Steve says. "Make yourself comfortable."
He slips past to cut through the living room and head for the kitchen, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder and see whether Bucky is following him.
It’s not that he’s not glad to see Bucky, of course he is - hell, he’s overjoyed. Beyond the relief of knowing he’s alive and at least on his feet, there’s something particularly uplifting, Steve thinks, about Bucky coming to find him, seeking him out instead of the other way around - something that gives him hope.
But on the other hand, he’s more than a little worried.
He takes a moment in the kitchen to compose himself and collect his thoughts while he pours himself another cup of coffee.
Technically Bucky didn’t say he wanted coffee, but Steve gets out another cup from the cupboard anyways. He knows Bucky likes coffee. Well, he knows Bucky did like coffee, before, so he assumes he’ll like it now. What if he’s wrong? What if Bucky doesn’t like coffee anymore? Or what if he doesn’t like the coffee Steve has, or it’s too strong, or —
Okay, he thinks, slow down, Cap. One thing at a time.
He pours the coffee and takes both cups back into the living room.
Bucky’s sitting on the couch with one arm curled around himself, looking around the room, but he turns as soon as Steve comes back to watch him.
"Here," Steve says, holding out the cup of coffee. "You want anything with that?"
Bucky blinks at him and very slowly reaches up to take the mug from his hands. “No, that’s fine,” he says, and takes a cautious sip, and then another.
Steve relaxes slightly and takes a seat in the chair.
"Sorry," Bucky says after a moment.
"For what?" Steve takes a sip of his coffee.
"For showing up like this." Bucky won’t quite meet his eyes; he looks mostly at his hands and at his coffee cup.
"Hey, it’s fine," Steve says.
Bucky still doesn’t look up. “I don’t really know where else to go. I, um—”
"Bucky," Steve says, cutting him off. "It’s fine. Actually - I’m glad you came here. You’re welcome here, okay? You’re always welcome here."
Finally, Bucky lifts his head. There are shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw has grown into the scruffy beginning of a beard, and he looks wary and frightened. For a long moment he’s silent, and then says, very quietly, “Thanks.”
They sip their coffee quietly. Steve tries to find more to say but all he can think is how damn quiet Bucky is, and how small he looks hunched over the table, damp hair falling in his face, shoulders drawn in, head tucked down. Even in the apartment with the hot coffee in his hands, he’s still shivering.
"Hey," Steve says, and the quiet is so tense and heavy it seems to swallow his voice right up. He continues regardless, determined. "You wanna take a shower and warm up? I can find you something dry to wear - my clothes might be a little big on you but they’ll work, probably."
"Mm," Bucky says without looking at him. "I…alright."
He sets his coffee cup down and pulls his arms around himself again. Steve wouldn’t have thought the guy could make himself smaller still, but somehow he manages.
Steve swallows and tries to ignore the ache in his chest.
"Come on," he says gently, and gets to his feet.
-
Sam wakes up to his phone going off. He rolls over, patting around till he finds it and sees that it's Captain America calling him. They'd exchanged numbers after the whole SHIELD fiasco thing, when Steve -- it was pretty weird to be thinking of Captain America as just Steve -- had asked him to help track down the Winter Soldier -- who's actually Bucky Barnes brought back from the dead by SHIELD.
He answers it.
There's a moment before he gets a response and he thinks it might be a mistake. Then he hears Steve's voice -- "I found him," he says.
Sam's mind immediately goes to a million different places. Did he go after him on his own? What the hell was he thinking? "Do you need backup? Where are you? I can come over there if you --"
"No," Steve says. "Actually, it's more like --he found me. He showed up on my doorstep. Everything's fine, I just… thought you should know."
"Oh," Sam says. "Okay. Good. Then I’ll be right over.” The fact that Steve is calling him means he's probably not in any immediate danger, but Sam has seen this guy in action. He'd imagined them having to track him across the country and incurring some serious property damage in the process of taking him down. The idea that he'd just shown up at Steve's door like it was nothing didn't sit right. Still, the two of these guys went way back. If Steve thought it was okay, then it was okay.
“Alright,” Steve says, after another pause, during which Sam definitely does not imagine anything horrible happening. “I’ll tell him…” he trails off.
"You do that," Sam says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
"Thanks, Sam," Steve says, and all Sam can think is that Steve Rogers is going to get them both into so much trouble. Again.
-
The shower is warm and sharp as they slip in, completely naked for the first time in a while.
There are marks on their skin, bruises, almost faded, which they hesitate over, trying to place them by shape, location, size --
—Men, rushing at him. Wrong. Should be here to help - extraction, back to base, mission failed - attacking them instead, barely getting away —
Their right palm slaps against the wall of the shower. They brace themself, the force of the memory bowling into them. Fingers curl as they remembers the fight, the fear, the agents sent to terminate the asset, his usefulness to us has ended and the sounds they made when they —
Not the first.
The fear, the confusion. Falling apart inside, nothing makes sense. They remember — but only barely. Just enough for survival to win out against programming. To come here. For whatever reason.
The shower has gone cold now. They reorient themself - shower, apartment, the man on the bridge. Slowly they reach and turns the water off, metal fingers touching metal handle. They stare, stand there till they realize the air is colder than the shower and their skin is raised in goosebumps. They’re shivering.
The man left clothes. They put them on - the clothes are loose. They can’t tell if that’s right or wrong.
They’d forgotten all about the rain till they find their way back to the couch. There is a window and the rain drums against it, and it’s hard to think past the faint, repetitive noise. Hard to think past the static in their brain. Like their head is full of cotton - something very important that they can’t remember. They settles into stillness. There is a protocol, a routine, but it has to wait. Too hard, when everything is so far away.
“I called Sam.”
They startle internally, but only internally. The man is back. Steve, they reminds himself. The man’s name is Steve, and they know him.
“He’s going to come over,” Steve continues. “I, uh, if you’re ok with that, I mean. He was going to help me look for you. But here you are.”
It makes sense, two against one. Maybe more, is hiding his — but wait. That’s wrong. This is safe. There’s no attack. No target, no enemy. Steve is an ally.
They realize they haven’t moved, let alone spoken. They wrap their arms tighter around their legs, which are folded up to their chest. They stares at the floor.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk,” Steve says, soft and kind. He knows something. He has all the pieces of the puzzle which makes it even more infuriating to be in the dark.
Their hand clenches and unclenches - the flesh one - then hugs themself tighter.
-
“Hey,” Sam calls from the hallway when he comes in, and looks around the corner. “Anyone home?”
"Hey," Steve replies, and gets to his feet.
For a long moment no one says anything, and Steve looks over at Bucky, who hasn’t moved. He’s watching Sam with wary eyes.
"Uh," Steve says, and swallows. "Bucky, this is Sam Wilson, he’s a friend of mine. Sam - well, you know who Bucky is already."
"Right, yeah," Sam agrees. "Nice to actually meet you, man."
Bucky doesn’t answer, or make any motion of acknowledgement at all. Steve looks back at him and sees his right hand clenched into a fist, so tight his skin stretches pale over his knuckles.
"You wanna come into the kitchen and get something to eat?" Steve offers.
"Sounds good," Sam agrees quickly, and crosses the living room to join Steve in the kitchen.
“Help yourself to whatever,” Steve says. “There's, um – stuff to make sandwiches, if you want, or leftover pizza.”
“Are you sure I should stay?” Sam asks, keeping his voice low. “I don't wanna upset him, or anything.”
“I think it's fine,” Steve replies. “Don't worry about it too much.”
Sam's looking at him funny, but he nods. “Alright, if you say so.” He pulls out one of the kitchen chairs to take a seat at the table. “You think he's gonna be alright?”
“Dunno,” Steve says, and sighs, leaning against the counter. “I think – I hope – he just needs time.” He takes a sip of his coffee, and makes a face when he realizes it's barely lukewarm by now. “I mean,” he says after a moment, “he's here, right? That's gotta count for something.”
“You're the one who knows him,” Sam says. “You tell me.”
Steve shakes his head and shrugs, wishing he knew the answer.