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1250 BCE, Athens
His feet kick up dust as he sprints through the market-place, leaping over someone’s fruit basket and leaving behind a trail of confused, angry stallholders in his wake.
“Sorry,” he throws over his shoulder, not sorry at all, because he’s running late, and gods above, he doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if he doesn’t make it to the dock in time.
He clears the market and keeps running, not stopping despite the stitch in his side. The harbour’s in sight, now: a flotilla of sleek-prowed warships docked, and a huge crowd milling around the headland – women clasping the hands of children, bidding tearful farewells to their husbands, who are decked out in full armour, the red plumes on their helmets marking them out to be the soldiers amongst the crowd.
The blast of a horn sounds from afar, and he almost trips in his haste to get to the bottom of the slope, his balance thrown, but rights himself with his good arm. He reaches level ground and pushes himself even harder (the soldiers are filing onto the ships now), not letting himself stop despite the growing pain in his chest because of the exertion. It’s been far too long since he’s had to run like this.
“Stephanos!” he shouts once he reaches the dock, and the cry sounds wrenched from him, somehow. He shoves his way through the crowd, (accidentally) elbowing a young boy in the face, searching desperately for his friend.
He sees a flash of blonde amidst the red-plumed, bronze-plated uniformity, and the ache in his chest eases slightly. He worms his way through an embracing couple and snags the blonde’s shoulder, spinning him around and stopping him from boarding the ship.
Stephanos blinks at him in surprise, his helmet and spear clutched in hand, before a grin splits his face and his expression lights up like he’s seen Olympus.
“Brother,” Stephanos exclaims in delight, clasping his forearm with a broad hand (it feels hot, like a brand), “Come to see me off, have you?”
“Something like that,” he pants, massaging his side, before regaining his breath and straightening. He pokes an accusing finger into the centre of Stephanos’ breastplate. “You were about to leave without saying goodbye, weren’t you?”
Stephanos’ eyes (blue as the Mediterranean) glance at him, then away, as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “I thought it best, especially after–”
“After what, hm?” he snaps, ire rising at Stephanos’ stubborn chivalry and the way the armour looks on him, the bronze-gold-and-red looking like it’s been moulded to his skin (for his skin). He wants more than anything to take it off, to take Stephanos apart piece by piece, and later to reshape him as his. “You think that’ll work? Just up and leaving after – after last night,” he hopes Stephanos doesn’t notice the slip, “– you think you can just fuck off to Troy, Zeus only knows when you’ll even come back, and you weren’t even going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t, I’m not –” Stephanos denies, the flush in his cheeks belying his words. He glances up at him quickly, pleadingly. “I was going to–”
“Cut the crap, brother,” he sneers, and is only slightly heartened when Stephanos flinches, a parody of the pain he’d felt when Stephanos had first used the word, laid it out and slapped it down between them like a wall, despite the fact that the only thing separating them had been the thin sheets of Stephanos’ bed.
He takes a deep breath, wills himself not to think about himself, or the hurt he feels, because this could in all conceivable possibility be the last chance he gets to see Stephanos for a long, long time, and he doesn’t want them to part like this, as enemies instead of friends.
“Look, be careful out there,” he says, instead of the million different things he wants to say. “It’s different, you’ve gotta remember. It’s not like what we do in our courtyards, or even palatial trainings – the Trojans are out to kill you, Stephanos, and you can’t go soft on them.”
Stephanos snorts, a piece of hair falling into his eyes (his hand itches to brush it back, tuck it behind Stephanos’ ear). “Yeah, I know. You’re not the only one who’s seen war, you know.” Then, because he seems to sense his disquiet, Stephanos adds softly, “Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”
He rolls his eyes, and manages to pass off his sigh as a half-hearted chuckle. “I think you’re forgetting which one of us here lost an arm to the Thessalians.” He indicates his scarred stump self-deprecatingly, and quells the customary resentment he feels (towards himself) that he was stupid enough to make that mistake, because it means that now, with the Trojans threatening war, he’s unable to go with them, unable to protect Stephanos.
“I’ll be fine,” Stephanos says, in what he probably thinks is a reassuring manner, as the horn blows a second time and the first gangplanks start being pulled up. Stephanos glances behind him at his ship, says apologetically, “I’ll – I’ll see you if I get back.”
“When you get back,” he corrects Stephanos, glaring at him (that earns him a wan smile), “Zeus, Hera and Poseidon, if you don’t make it back alive, Stephanos, I’ll join you in Hades myself.”
“When I get back,” Stephanos agrees, leaning in close and giving him an awkward, one-armed embrace. The butt of Stephanos’ spear digs into the small of his back uncomfortably and the side of his face is crammed against the edge of his plated armour, but he fancies he can hear Stephanos’ heart, thrumming steadily in time with his own, and the persistent ache in his chest eases a little more.
Then Stephanos turns and boards the ship, a hand raised in farewell as the Athenian flotilla raises anchor and pulls out of the harbour.
(He doesn’t know it then, but it’s the last time he’ll ever see Stephanos in his life.)
-
79 CE, Pompeii
He’s one of the first to realize something’s wrong when the mushroom-shaped cloud in the sky doesn’t dissipate, rising inexorably up from Mount Vesuvius. If anything, it’s growing larger, heading towards the city, towards them, as the sky darkens and the sun’s blotted out.
It’d been an ordinary day: just a trip to the baths, then some catching-up with friends at the Forum, and tonight he’s scheduled to dine with Lucianus and his family at their place.
Just as he’s making his way back home from the Forum, the earth gives a violent tremble, heaving like Terra herself means to eject the human populace from the earth’s surface. There are cracks appearing in the cobble-stoned streets, the foundations holding up the houses and thermopolia on either side giving way as the ground shakes with a vengeance.
Like everyone else, he remains frozen, rooted to the spot, helpless to do anything except gape upwards at the uniform blackness that Jupiter has decided to cloak the sky in. Another tremour shakes the earth, and with it comes bits of flaming rock, raining down onto rooftops, into courtyards, hitting heads and unsuspecting limbs. There are short, sustained screams before they collapse; they’re dead before they hit the floor.
And just like that the world moves back into motion. He flattens himself to the nearest wall to avoid the sudden stampede as everyone in town makes a collective dash towards the beach, struggling to put as much distance between themselves and Vulcan’s wrath as possible.
He debates briefly whether he should salvage what he can from his house, but the flurry of burning stones land, one of them perilously close to his feet. He watches it sizzle, leaving a singed mark in the cobblestones, and decides not to risk it.
He steps back out onto the street and lets himself be swept along with the crowd, and although progress is slow, he’s made it three-quarters of the way to the beach when he hears it: a faint cry for help.
He doubles back, following the voice until he finds himself in an alley near the town’s most popular brothel. The building’s side has caved in, and its rafters collapsed so that they’re strewn haphazardly across the alley. The plea for help came from the man the rafters landed on, one skinny leg sticking out an awkward angle (and he’s no physician, but even he can tell that it’s broken).
“Hold on,” he tells the man, as he manages to shift the heavy wooden beam just a fraction, enough that his companion is able to wriggle his way out from underneath, settling on the ground and cradling his leg once he does so.
“Thanks,” the man says, pushing his hair (blonde, like metal warmed under the sun) out of his eyes and grimacing when the movement aggravates his leg. “I’m Stefanus.”
(Why this Stefanus thinks now is the right time to make his acquaintance, what with the world ending and all, is completely lost on him.)
“Jacobus,” is what he says instead, in spite of himself, and he holds out a hand, which Stefanus takes. “But nobody calls me that.”
He pulls Stefanus to his feet and Stefanus immediately slings an arm over his neck, slotting against his side with an almost familiar ease, as he leans his entire weight on him (which isn’t saying much, because if it wasn’t for the beard, the guy could’ve passed for a fourteen-year-old in height and weight).
They walk (well, he walks; Stefanus hobbles and stops every two steps to catch his breath) towards the beach, their progress painstakingly slow.
“You don’t–” Stefanus says, and they stop so he can clutch at his side and wheeze. He can hear the breath rattling through Stefanus’ chest, the sound painful and heart-wrenching for reasons he can’t fathom. “–have to wait for me. Just – go, go with the rest.” He gestures at the thinning crowd, the majority of the townspeople already congregated at the beach, waiting to evacuate by ship.
He raises an eyebrow at his companion. “What? And leave you here?”
“Yes,” Stefanus says insistently, vehemently. He pushes at his chest like he means business (in actuality Stefanus is so weak he doesn’t even give an inch). “You don’t even know me.”
“I –” he says, brow furrowing as Stefanus’ words strike home. He’s right; he’s only just met Stefanus and he owes him nothing (he owes him everything), so why should he risk his own life for a complete stranger’s?
“Go, I’ll be fine,” Stefanus says, and when he still doesn’t budge, Stefanus uncurls the grip he’d had on his shoulder, grits his teeth and hobbles slowly over to the nearest inn, collapsing against its wall.
He stares after Stefanus dumbly, while the sky above continues spitting out rocks and debris, and the ground below keeps trembling, growling like a ravenous dog. He stares at Stefanus’ crumpled figure and wonders. He wonders why it had felt like home when Stefanus slung his arm across his shoulders, why the sun-kissed gold of Stefanus’ hair stirs in him a longing he can’t begin to express, why his chest feels as though it’s being cleaved in two the longer he stands there, hands useless at his sides while Stefanus is in pain.
He makes up his mind, then.
“No,” he says, striding back to where Stefanus is, and sliding down the wall so they’re sitting side by side, “Not without you.”
Stefanus turns to him, an incredulous expression on his face. “You can’t be serious,” he says flatly, mind seemingly taken off the pain of his broken limb, “We don’t know a thing about each other, and you’re going to risk it.”
“Yes.”
“For the likes of me.”
“Yes,” he says again, louder, like the volume will justify his conviction. Stefanus gives a self-deprecating laugh at that and he bristles, because he needs Stefanus to see, needs him to understand. He shifts and turns around so he’s facing Stefanus. “You’re not going to tell me you don’t feel it, too.”
Stefanus just looks confused, and his heart drops like a stone. “Feel what?”
The rumbling of the sky saves him from answering, and as he glances over at the flaming mountaintop and what looks like flames, licking their way down the hill in fiery waves, heading for the town (for them), he doesn’t think; he just reacts on instinct.
The fire rushes at them in a roaring surge of heat, and instinctively he pins Stefanus’ small frame to the wall, placing himself between Stefanus and the flames, ineffectual though he knows the gesture will be.
The wave hits, and their world is awash in burning heat and fire. Throughout it all, he keeps himself curled protectively over Stefanus, and before he closes his eyes, he wonders if they’ll meet again.
-
1588, Gravelines, Northern France
He’s just finished making his rounds on deck, dimming the lamps as he does. Below, he can hear the crew carousing, probably helping themselves to the King’s port, their drunken shouts loud and vulgar in the still night air.
He heads back up front to where their captain’s steering, setting his own lamp down and leaning back against the railings. For a while they stay in companionable silence, broken only by the intermittent splashing of waves against the ship’s hull.
“Captain,” he says, at length, when he notices the captain’s chin listing inexorably towards his own chest. “Estavan.”
“Wha – what’s happening,” Estavan says, straightening and snapping to attention as though he hadn’t just caught him nodding off on the job. “I’m good.”
He snorts, amused at Estavan’s stubbornness. “No, you’re not. You’re dead on your feet, go get some sleep. I’ll take over.”
“But I –”
“No buts,” he says firmly, and watches as Estavan’s brow furrows in consternation, watches as he opens his mouth to argue some more (God, the things he’d do to that mouth, if he could, if he ever had the chance). “Get your ass to bed and leave it to me.”
“Thanks,” Estavan says, albeit reluctantly, as he steps down from the platform and cedes the wheel to him. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”
“Oh, believe you me,” he says, grinning as he grabs hold of the wheel, “I’m doing this for the rest of the crew. Don’t want us to die before we make it to England now, do we.”
“You’re the best, buddy, I ever tell you that?” Estavan says, clapping a hand on his shoulder (it’s warm; a brand he fancies he can feel through the material of his uniform) and squeezing.
“Not enough, you don’t,” he smirks, and turns his back on Estavan before his stupid mouth can do anything else to embarrass him.
Estavan’s barely made it two steps when a light flares in front of them out of the pitch-black sea, growing into two, then three pinpricks, steadily growing larger as they advance towards their ship.
“Estavan,” he says sharply, and when the captain turns he gestures towards the light.
Estavan’s eyes widen a fraction which, if he hadn’t been observing closely under the dim glow cast by the lantern, he would have missed. But then the moment’s gone; Estaban composes himself, back straightening and stance widening as he says, “Get the men. Tell them it’s an ambush from the English.”
He gets the men, although he has to upend a bucketful of water on a couple before they’re sober enough to be of help.
“Above decks, now,” he snaps, his boots slipping on the mingled port and vomit strewn all over the floor, evidence of the men’s celebratory activities. “The English are attacking.”
He climbs back on deck to find that the pinpricks have multiplied; there are now seven, no, eight growing spots of light on the otherwise pitch-black horizon. A couple of the lights veer off sideways, slamming bodily into some of the other ships from their flotilla, but the bulk of them seem to be heady straight for theirs.
“Men, arm yourselves,” Estavan calls from his position at the wheel, and despite their inebriation, the men manage to ready their weapons fairly quickly.
The lights are near enough now that he can see they’re wavering, quivering around the edges like… like they’re on fire. He sees them at the same time Estavan does, that the lights aren’t from the ships’ lanterns or men’s torches; it’s the ships themselves that are on fire.
“Jump!” he shouts, at the same time Estavan yanks the wheel a hard starboard to avoid a collision with the burning ship. The ship’s stern tilts, and the wood creaks ominously as their hull scrapes against the burning ship’s, the fire catching and spreading to theirs almost instantly.
“Go!” he says to the men nearest him, to any of them who aren’t panicking too much to listen. A couple of them climb onto the railings and jump off with no finesse, and he hurries down the deck, herding the men off the ship and into the water.
“Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos,” one of the men (Carlos, he thinks he’s called) is saying, getting down on his knees and doing the sign of the cross, either oblivious to or uncaring of the fact that a burning ship is about to rain hellfire down on him in the next few moments.
“Get up, Carlos,” he says, and hauls him to his feet despite his protests about finishing the prayer, “I don’t care that the King’s ordered us to pray in times of danger. What I do care about is saving your life, so if you’ll kindly get your ass off this deck and into the water.”
He hurries back down the deck, herding the last few stragglers off the ship, breathing a small sigh of relief when the deck’s finally clear but for him and Estavan.
“C’mon, pal, we gotta go,” he says, grabbing Estavan’s uniform by the collar, “The men’re gone, and so should we be.”
Estavan remains rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on the burning instrument of doom headed straight for them. He’s standing so close now he can see the Mediterranean blue of Estavan’s eyes, the leaping orange-yellow flames from the looming ship reflected in the irises.
“Have we met before?” Estavan says suddenly, with a renewed urgency, twisting in his grip to look at him. “Before King Philip made me captain and you my first mate, I mean.”
He glances at Estavan, incredulous, cautious (hopeful). He wonders how much (if at all) Estavan remembers. “We might’ve,” he says, in what he hopes is an offhand manner, although judging from the way Estavan’s gaze flickers from his mouth, to his eyes, and back again, he doesn’t think he’s done a very good job.
Before them, the English ship looms, the heat from the flames below decks singeing the wooden floorboards beneath their feet, but he can’t find it in himself to care, and apparently neither can Estavan, because he’s waited a millennia and then some for this moment, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to give it up just for the likes of Queen Elizabeth and her burning ships.
“England can go fuck itself,” he mutters, and before Estavan can comment on the profanity (as is his wont), he uses his hold on Estavan’s collar, tugs him close and slots their mouths together as the ship collides and their world dissolves in flames.
(So worth the 1500-year wait.)
-
1916, the Western Front
“Up, Barnes, now!”
James blinks his way awake and stretches, groaning when that reignites the ache he feels in every limb. “Timesisit?”
“Time you kept watch,” Colonel Philips barks, watching unsympathetically as he starts struggling into uniform. “If you’re not out there in five, I’ll put you on overnight.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, straightening, and when Philips is out of sight James turns his eyes heavenward.
He’s dressed and presentable in 3.5 minutes, not wanting to get stuck on the night watch, and as he climbs to the parapets, rifle slung over his back and face slowly going numb from the cold wind, he wonders whether he’s going to see him again.
It’s been two weeks now, since James last saw him on one of his morning stand tos, although the other hadn’t acknowledged him at all. Their regiment’s stationed the closest to the enemy line, and despite what their superiors keep threatening will happen if they catch the troops fraternizing with each other, no punishment’s been meted out yet.
He adjusts the periscope lens of his rifle, settling in for the watch with his jacket tucked around himself to preserve warmth. By the time dawn breaks, the German ranks are stirring. He straightens, peering intently down the scope as he scans the German encampment.
There’s movement from behind the enemy line, and James watches as a shock of blonde hair appears, followed quickly by a head and torso, as the German pulls himself up and out of the trench and begins making his way over to the bottom of his parapet.
And it’s him, it’s definitely him.
And James has been a lot of places and lived a lot of lives since their last meeting, but he’s been around long enough to sense that there’s apparently a theme to their rather fateful (fatal) encounters. But the hair’s the same, neatly shorn, if a little straggly from spending too long in the trenches, and the eyes, bluer than the sea off Normandy in mid-July, full of life and vibrancy, completely at odds with the death they’re surrounded by.
The German stops before his parapet and spreads his arms, sweeping them out wide, and the glance he levels down at James is as much an acknowledgement as it is a challenge.
“Why haven’t you shot at me?” the German asks, in heavily accented French.
James schools his expression of surprise back under control. Foolish. He’d let himself think (let himself hope) that the other recognized him, that the other remembered. “I was under the impression that our two sides had called a truce,” he shoots back, in the impeccable German he’d picked up from a previous lifetime.
The German’s expression lights up when he hears his native tongue, and when he next speaks, it’s with the relief of someone who’s had to watch his words for far too long. “That’s what I thought, but the rest of my men – they don’t give a damn. We’re Germans, you’re the Allied, and that makes you all,” he gives a sweeping gesture that encompasses their French defence line, “evil.”
“Well, then, why are you here?” James asks, and because he’s starting to feel silly now, with his elbows resting on several grain sacks, straining his neck to speak to the German, he straightens, hoisting himself out of the trench and onto level ground.
The German shrugs his broad shoulders, rubs the back of his neck in a self-deprecating manner. “My men, they told me to – um, that is. They sent me here to, to.”
James squints at the other man, noting for the first time the pallor of his skin, the dull, unhealthy flush to his forehead, cheeks, the beads of sweat at his temple. “They sent you here to die, didn’t they,” he says flatly, in a tone that brooks no argument. “They thought I’d shoot, and they sent you here anyway.”
“I, um, I guess so,” the German mutters, as though loathe to consider the bad characters of his men. A shudder passes through his entire body and he grimaces, clutching at his side. “But I mean, they knew I was dying, and ‘sides, our side doesn’t need someone like me, who’s ready to betray his own countrymen at the mere mention of a truce.”
“Hey,” James says, concerned, because his companion looks like he’s going to collapse at any given moment. He glances back towards the dugout and doesn’t see anyone, thinks fuck it and scrambles fully out of the trench, standing so he can put an arm around the German and guide him to sit by the sacks of grain. As a precaution, James adds another two sacks on top, in case Philips or anyone else happens to pass by and see the top of the German’s head.
“What the hell’re you doing,” his companion mutters, when James unslings his rifle, setting it aside and settling down next to him.
James shrugs. “Keeping you company, I guess. And while we’re at it, since you’ve damn well risked your life just to meet me,” the German snorts at that, which promptly sets him off on a coughing fit, “James Barnes, how d’you do.”
“Steven – Steven Rogers,” the German says, once he’s regained his breath. They shake on it.
“Rogers, huh?” James muses, thumping his head back to rest against the grain sacks. He turns to glance sideways at Steven, “You English?”
“My dad was, yeah,” Steven says, and falls silent for so long James starts to worry he’s offended him, until he breaks it again with a, “You? James sounds distinctively… American.”
James grins to himself, because for once in his (many) lifetimes, he’s finally gotten a name he doesn’t dislike. “My father’s side, same as you. They immigrated.”
Steven opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a hacking cough that flushes his cheeks and leaves him doubled over, gasping for breath.
James doesn’t even think (because when does he ever when it comes to Steven, Estavan, Stefanus, Stephanos), he just places a hand between Steven’s shoulder blades and rubs in small, concentric circles until his breathing evens out and his airways are no longer constricted.
“Better?”
“Thanks,” Steven mutters, and if James doesn’t retract his hand from his back, neither of them say anything.
Somehow Steven’s head winds up on James’ shoulder, and James’ hand in Steven’s hair, and the position Steven’s neck is craned at makes him uncomfortable, he doesn’t complain.
“When all this is over,” James murmurs, lips against the top of Steven’s head, “I’ll find you. I’ll find you and we can go away to, to Athens maybe, and start over. Put this behind us.”
Steven blinks his eyes open, and James feels a swell of pride and affection because he’d done that, made Steven feels safe enough to let his guard down around him. “We’ve only just met and you’re, you’re already proposing elopement?” he asks, voice lethargic, unhurried.
“Uh,” James says, stalling. “Too soon?”
Steven gives a vehement shake of his head which James feels against his collarbone. “No,” Steven says, and turns so the tip of his nose is buried against the side of James’ neck. “No,” he says again, his lips curving up into a smile that James feels as he breathes the word into his skin.
“Wow, Rogers, you’re easy, aintcha?” James smirks, nudging Steven gently in the ribs and doing his damnedest to ignore the crushing grip around his chest, tightening its hold until breathing becomes a commodity.
“Only for you,” Steven murmurs, eyes slipping shut once more as his breaths even out and his pulse fades.
And James holds him for the rest of the day, cradling him to his chest until the sun sets, and when it does he presses his lips against Steven’s temple, lays him down on the ground, and picks up his abandoned rifle.
The next morning finds the bodies of two soldiers (one French, one German), lying by the edges of the German defense line, one of them curled protectively over the other, their fingers intertwined.
-
1943, Brooklyn
Bucky hears scuffling, followed by a thud as something (or someone) is thrown to the ground, and he ducks into the alleyway, chasing the source of the trouble.
“I could – I could do this all day,” he hears Steve say, and even before he rounds the corner he knows what he’ll see: Steve, bruised and beaten, picking himself up and readying himself for more.
He’s right; there are three of them, all significantly larger and older (and more thuggish) than Steve. Not that that’s hard to achieve.
“Hey!” he says, getting their attention. “Pick on someone your own size!”
They glance back at forth between him and Steve, who’s struggling to his feet, one hand braced against the fence behind him, the other nursing a cut lip, and one of the bullies bares his teeth like a rabid dog, as though debating whether he can take Bucky on.
Bucky rolls his eyes, aims a kick at the nearest bully, and although his boot barely comes into contact with him, his eyes widen in fear and he bolts, the other two following suit.
Steve gives him a look that’s half-gratitude, half-resignation. “I had him on the ropes.”
“Yeah, pal, sure looked like you did,” Bucky snorts, and holds out a hand for Steve to take.
He does, and as Bucky pulls him to his feet and Steve slings an arm around the back of his neck, Bucky thinks of a dusty, debris-strewn street from millennia ago, of a volcano spitting out pumice behind, of lifting a rafter and feeling his heart lift when he sees the blonde hair, and wonders how much Steve knows (remembers).
He chances a glance sideways at Steve, but he’s lost, caught up in his own world. Bucky wraps his arm more securely around Steve’s waist, and decides that if this is as good as he’s going to get, he might as well take it and be grateful.
-
“Bucky? Bucky.”
Bucky blinks his eyes open, groggy from the pain and floating on Zola’s drugs. Startling blue eyes peer down at him, and Bucky groans. Not again.
He clenches his fists, shuts his eyes, and braces for the pain. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he mutters, just in case Zola catches him unawares. “32557–”
“Bucky, it’s me,” Steve’s voice says again, sounding more than a little hurt, and in spite of himself, Bucky opens his eyes.
And it’s him, it’s definitely Steve (he’s followed that blonde hair, those blue eyes through the Bronze Age, he’d know them anywhere), but it’s also... not.
“I thought you were dead,” Steve says now, voice cracking, helmet askew on his head.
“Thought you were smaller,” Bucky retorts, and breathes a sigh of relief when that elicits a wan smile from Steve, even as he works furiously on unbuckling the straps tying Bucky to Zola’s table.
This time, it’s Steve who stretches out a hand, Bucky who takes it, lets himself be pulled up from the table (from the rubble). And when his legs almost give way when he takes his own weight, Steve’s there, one hand around his shoulders (as always), but this time it’s Bucky who leans in, Bucky who slots himself by Steve’s side and doesn’t let go.
-
“I had him on the ropes,” Bucky says, more out of habit than anything now, because this new-and-improved Steve is always faster, always one step ahead.
Steve snorts, picking up his shield and stepping over the fallen HYDRA soldier. “Sure you did, champ, sure you did.”
Bucky gets his feet under him, opens his mouth to retort, but the car door slides open to reveal another HYDRA soldier, who levels a blast at them that takes Steve off his feet, even though he’s managed to raise his shield to deflect it in time.
Steve groans, struggling to raise himself from the ground, and as the soldier readies his weapon once more, Bucky doesn’t think (he rarely does around Steve) before scooping up Steve’s shield and advancing on the HYDRA soldier, covering Steve.
There’s another blast from the soldier’s weapon, and it happens so quickly he doesn’t realize it until all of a sudden his world’s flipped and the wind’s screaming in his ear, and he’s hanging to the train car’s side, the Alpine abyss yawning beneath him.
“Bucky! Grab my hand!” Steve shouts, nothing short of abject terror in his voice. His outstretched hand brushes Bucky’s, and they’re both straining, but it’s nowhere near enough.
“Steve –” Bucky grits out, wind tearing at his hair and his heart in his throat, because he’s had the whole of this life with Steve, but it’s not enough (it’ll never be enough. “Steve, remember –”
The train twists, suddenly and without warning, and Bucky’s falling, the abyss rising to meet him, Steve’s anguished shout echoing in his ears, and as he’s lying in pieces at the bottom of the ravine, colder than he’s ever been, he closes his eyes and wishes for the flames that swallowed him in Pompeii.
-
2014, Washington, D.C.
The target’s shield flies towards him, and the Soldier deflects it with his left arm, ducking as the target follows through with a kick that almost catches his sternum.
And now the target’s talking, which in itself is an anomaly because the only time the Soldier’s targets opened their mouths during his mission was to scream.
“Bucky, don’t, you can fight this,” the target says now, wiping the back of his hand across his cut lip. The Soldier frowns; something about the gesture feels intimately familiar. He shakes his head to clear his muddied thoughts: the mission objectives always come first.
He throws himself at the target, knocking them both to the floor of the helicarrier, and when the target goes surprisingly pliant in his arms, the Soldier pauses, unsure.
“I’m not gonna fight you,” the target says, almost defiantly, and the Soldier watches as the shield (red-white-and-blue concentric circles, with a silver star in the centre) falls from the target’s hand, clatters into the Potomac below.
There’s a bruise on the target’s cheek, from contact with the Soldier’s left fist, and the sight of it wrenches something loose in the Soldier’s chest. He wavers, arm raised to deliver the final blow and eliminate the target.
The target seizes his chance, and the Soldier freezes when he feels the first brush of fingers, cautious and gentle, as the target (his target) cups the side of the Soldier’s cheek.
“I’m not gonna fight you, Buck. You’re my friend,” the target says now, eyes bluer than the sea off Normandy in mid-July, and the Soldier startles (because he hasn’t been to Normandy; how could he have known?) and the pieces slowly begin falling into place.
The plates of the Soldier’s arm whir, click, as the Soldier slowly lets it fall to his side. “I – remember,” he says haltingly, more a question than a statement of fact.
Steve smiles up at him then, and the cut in his lip reopens and starts to bleed afresh, and Bucky tilts his head down, cups the back of Steve’s head with the hand HYDRA gave him, pressing their lips together as the helicarrier falls, and falls, and the waters of the Potomac swallow them up.
-
Bucky shifts restlessly from foot to foot, running a hand through his hair every couple minutes. He’s in a navy three-piece that Natasha has assured him brings out the blue of your eyes, but the starched collar is suffocating, and he keeps tugging on his left shirtsleeve in an attempt to hide his hand.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” he asks Natasha, who’s texting someone (no doubt Sam) at high speed on her phone.
Natasha opens her mouth to answer, but before she can do so, Steve’s rounded the corner, and Bucky swallows, mouth suddenly dry because Steve’s in a charcoal three-piece that looks like it’s been molded onto him, Jesus Christ. (He thinks about Troy, and has to stifle a sudden urge to laugh as he pictures this Steve in bronze-plated armour and a red-plumed helmet.)
“All right, you boys have fun,” Natasha tells them, giving Steve an appreciative once-over before smirking at Bucky, “Stay safe.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but turns and offers an arm to Steve, who takes it, hand settling at the crook of his elbow. Bucky gestures at the doors of the restaurant (three Michelin stars; their reservation courtesy of Stark), “Shall we?”
Later, when their plates have been cleared and the bill taken care of (read: paid for by Stark), they wind up on the restaurant’s veranda, overlooking the glittering metropolis below, each clutching a champagne flute in hand.
Steve leans his elbows against the railings and Bucky does the same, stepping close so the sides of their bodies are pressed up against each other, and lays a hand on top of Steve’s because this is the 21st century and they’re allowed to do things like this, finally.
“How much do you –” Bucky starts, and stops, glancing over at Steve. He’s backlit against the restaurant, the warm glow from inside spilling onto his hair and turning it in turns gold and fiery yellow, and Bucky thinks of Vesuvius, of the Armada, and tries to bury the millennia-old ache he feels in his heart.
Steve looks over at him, then, a familiar crease forming between his brows.
Bucky takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “How much do you remember?”
Steve’s expression clears as the magnitude of Bucky’s question hits him and he shifts, clearing his throat. “I – not much,” he admits, and the hand under Bucky’s clenches into a fist. “Only that we – that we go way back, and. I get flashes, sometimes. Dreams or visions or, or memories, if that’s what they are. But I can never hold on to them,” he rakes his free hand through his hair in frustration, “Only thing I get to keep when the dreams’re over is this,” he murmurs, and places a thumb in the centre of Bucky’s lips.
Bucky draws in a deep, shuddering breath. This is good, he tells himself. At least they’re not starting from zero all over again. He grins, and presses a light kiss to Steve’s thumb before pulling away.
“Steven Grant Rogers,” he says, sliding down on one knee as he reaches into his breast pocket for the ring, “Will you marry –”
“Yes, yes, Jesus, yes,” Steve cuts in before he can finish, hauling Bucky up by the lapels and pinning him against the railing, before leaning in and kissing him; and it’s easier than walking, than breathing, even, as their mouths slot together and they find in each other the pieces of themselves they lost.
“That – was a long time coming, huh,” Steve says ruefully, when they break apart, Bucky’s legs trapped between both of Steve’s and the metal rails digging uncomfortably into the small of his back, but he’s not complaining. Steve darts in, then, pressing a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Till death do us part, and all.”
Bucky laughs, and tips forward to rest his head against Steve’s chest, feel the steady reassurance of his heartbeat, and feels more at peace than he can ever remember being (in any and all his lives).
“Not even then, Stevie,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and seeing mud-splattered trenches, and debris-strewn streets, “Not even then.”