Bucky got into the shower after stripping off his clothes, muscles relaxing under the hot spray. His metal arm was designed, thankfully, not to rust from the water. He worked his fingers through his hair, untangling it. He used the soap, but squinted in confusion at the shampoo and conditioner, not sure what he was supposed to do with it.
Steve sat on the now neatly dressed couch and eyed the bottle of Vodka. Figures, He thought, almost laughing to himself, remembering the night he'd thought Bucky was gone and realizing he couldn't get drunk. Now bucky was here, which seemed impossible for a while. Hell, it still seemed impossible. His eyebrows furrowed in thought, wondering how he would break the news to SHIELD, well– if he would, and how to get Bucky the help he needed.
Bucky finished the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, his hair falling down around his shoulders. He looked at the ragged, ruined HYDRA clothes, and frowned. He stepped out of the bathroom, eyes finding Steve. "Uhm… clothes." He said slowly, the towel still wrapped around his waist. His upper torso was peppered in scars, many of them close to the metal arm.
"Hmm? Oh- yeah." Steve snapped out of his daze, picking up the folded clothes and handing them to Bucky. As he walked over to him, he couldn't help but notice the deep scars scattered across Bucky's chest. What did they do..
He averted his gaze before his eyes would linger any longer. "I, uh- set up the couch."
Bucky nodded, taking the clothes. He went back into the bathroom, changed, and came back out, heading over to the couch and sitting down. He was still watching Steve. He ran his fingers through his hair, fingercombing it out.
Steve chewed his bottom lip nervously and rubbed his tired eyes.
"Okay, so- um, are hungry? It's kind of late, but I dunno…I could make something." He said, thinking back to his kitchen.
Bucky frowned a little, then nodded. He would have offered to help, but he didn't think he would be much good in the kitchen. If any good at all. He let out a short, sharp sigh, shaking his head a little.
"Okay," Steve nodded and headed for the kitchen. Without thinking, he turned on his record player holding the best of 1941's Jazz, his routine whenever he cooked something. It seemed to calm his demeanour a bit, and as he took out a saucepan and a box of mac n' cheese, he felt like he was back home in Brooklyn lounging around in his ratty apartment.
Bucky froze when he heard the jazz, the sounds tickling at something in the back of his brain. He inhaled, closing his eyes. Remember. Please. Anything. I want…I want to remember. A vivid memory that was still somehow faded at the edges drifted through his mind. He had taught Steve to swing dance in the living room of Steve's apartment. Not to this song, but a similar one. It had been one of the best moments of his life…right? It started to drift away again, and he grimaced. "Nyet!" He exclaimed without meaning to.
Steve darted from the kitchen and back to the living room, "What's wrong?!" He asked, eyes wide and looking for the threat. "Wha-"
I taught you to swing dance in the living room of your apartment. We had the curtains closed and the record player on as loud as it could go. I kept trying to teach you the lead, but you kept taking the woman's part instead. "Я научил вас танцевать свинг в гостиной вашей квартиры. У нас были закрыты шторы и проигрыватель проигрывателя как можно громче. Я продолжал пытаться научить тебя вести, но ты продолжал брать женская часть вместо." He said quickly, looking up at Steve. He didn't seem to realize that he had reverted to Russian. "Я помню."
"Hey," Steve said, taking a cautious step forward, not even thinking about his shield in the corner. "It's okay." He sighed, trying to speak softly, and offer perhaps a bit of comfort to Bucky, though he felt like he didn't know how.
He took another slow step, pacing himself, meeting Bucky's dark and frantic eyes,
"I'm never going to let you fall again."
Bucky shook his head quickly. "Мы не могли позволить людям увидеть, что мы делаем, потому что, если бы они думали, что мы странные, они бы никогда не позволили мне заручиться поддержкой. Тогда это было незаконно. Но ты споткнулся, и я поймал тебя и почти …" He stared up at Steve. We couldn’t let people see what we’re doing, because if they thought we were queer, they would never let me enlist. It was illegal, then. But you tripped and I caught you and we almost…
Bucky was having some type of flashback, Steve decided. "I don't.." He wanted to say he didn't understand but realized that whatever Bucky was saying was important to him, and it was some type of…self-soothing way for Bucky to confront the thing he was talking about, "Hey," Steve said softly, reaching for his arm so slow, like he was afraid to touch him. That he might shatter at any moment and spiral into shock.
Bucky blinked up at him, clinging to that one single memory as he watched Steve. He swallowed, shaking his head quickly to clear it. His brown hair was still drying, and his pale blue eyes were wide and slightly unfocused. He was finally silent, done speaking. He was still watching Steve carefully.
Steve's eyes might have hindered on the now still Bucky for a moment too long. He shook his head. The music. He noticed, Bucky– here, It felt like a dream. The record playing skipped and started playing something slow, and familiar.
Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"
Birds singing in the sycamore trees
Dream a– little dream of me.
He chuckled, nervous and held out his hand,
"Care to dance?" He smiled, repeating the words Buck once told him to say.
"Depends, you gonna step on my feet again?" Bucky's mouth was forming the words in a way that felt all too familiar, though his mind had no idea where they came from, what he was trying to say. He blinked in surprise, looking up at Steve. The song sent an itch through his mind, sending faint traces of memories winding through his brain.
Steve laughed quietly, the first real laugh he'd had in a while,
"I guess you're going to have to see." And slowly, Steve's hands met Bucky's, a shiver going down his back, and there they moved, swaying in a gentle waltz.
What was this feeling? Longing, perhaps. Whatever it was, Steve thought, it made things seem a little less painful. Bucky leaning onto his chest, head on his shoulder, and them together, moving slowly side to side. The music, almost foggy in an ethereal moving.
Bucky had his head on Steve's shoulder mostly out of instinct. He had no idea what he was doing like this. His body remembered this, but his mind didn't. He could remember snatches from HYDRA. That he behaved better with blonde handlers. That if he was taken out of cryofreeze on July 4, he went ballistic and couldn't be controlled. That when he was in the city, he checked alleyways. For what, his handlers were never sure. It was the same memory of his body that controlled him now, telling him how to move and what to do.
Steve lowered his heavy gaze, nearly closing his eyes, After all these years, He thought, He still smells the same.
He thought of all the times Bucky swooped in to save him from some fight, his firm grip lifting him off the ground, and later pushing each other affectionately, side to side, on their way to wherever they were going.
I could stay like this forever, Here, at this moment; nothing could be confirmed or denied. Just us.
Bucky stayed silent, eyes closing and inhaling and Steve's scent, which was both familiar and not. He sighed softly. He didn't know what he was doing, and he wasn't sure he ever would. He could remember teaching Steve to swing dance. Could remember holding the man in front of him. But…he had been smaller, then. And he couldn't remember why.
Steve exhaled, sighing in his state of peace. The fact that it wasn't a dream—something telling the truth wrapped in the physical, touchable fact of the body—healed him in ways that he could not have known were possible.
This was no dream; or maybe it was…for one day or forever. The whole thing made him feel there was no turning back. He was going to walk away from his past, leave it behind—and focus on his future, which, right now, was helping Bucky. Slowly, he drifted away, taking the smallest step back so he'd meet Bucky's eyes,
"C'mon," Steve said playfully, "Let's get you some supper."
Bucky nodded, and let go of Steve, stepping away as his eyes opened. He didn't know what was expected of him. Didn't know what Steve wanted from him. He took a deep breath, and let it out in a sharp sigh. He was wearing Steve's pajamas, which, while long sleeved, did nothing to hide the metal arm and hand. He knew that that wasn't normal, but he wasn't quite sure why.
Steve served the mac n' cheese into two bowls, placing them across from each other at his small dinner table, and went back for some cutlery and water. As he set the table, he smiled to himself, though he didn't really know why. Maybe it was the thought of settling down– or rather, having time to sit down to a meal, seemed so appealing right now.
His purpose was to serve his country in the war of the past, and seventy years later, he found out they'd won. Maybe, he'd had enough. Maybe this was a sign that the world didn't need him anymore…but Bucky did.
Bucky hesitantly sat down. For some reason, this felt vaguely familiar. As if he had done this before…but when, he couldn't imagine. He couldn't imagine when he would have done something like this, but… based on that one memory, maybe he had. He didn't know.
Steve sat down with Bucky and began eating, not realizing how hungry he was. All he'd had today was a bagel, and coffee from a diner down the road with a neon sign that said "World's Best Coffee," in which he thought to himself,
"sure, sound's good." Sighing, he shook his head, "So much has changed, Buck." Steve said.
"Apparently, we got into another war. Vietnam." He shook his head again. "You'd think, by now we'd understand…"
Two generations of war were enough, and he didn't understand why this kept happening to people. He almost let himself frown, thinking of the quicksands of his memories, of mud and cold and gunfire, the sharp chill of speeding wind cutting his face, the traumas that shook men to their core. Steve clenched his jaw. Anything but ice and cold, a sliver of black river set against unforgiving white cliffs, and the way the howling winds stole the screaming falling from his reach.
To make people go through pain like that again seemed…unforgivable.
(look what i came across lmao https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioilVOfMm5s&list=UUGxXp5pjsBceAiT4pWKGeQA&index=13)
Bucky took a bite of food, looking at Steve. Vietnam… A flash of memory. A well-loved president. An actor. "I killed Kennedy." he blurted, without preamble. "At least, I think that's who it was." he blinked, looking at Steve still. He didn't remember anything more than that. Just that he had killed Kennedy on HYDRA's orders. Bucky The Soldier had killed a lot of people on HYDRA's orders.
(lmao)
"Oh," Steve said, trying to sound like it wasn't a big deal. "Well, shit happens, and it wasn't your fault." He said, trying to steer his thoughts from all the possibilities and assassinations his best friend might have had a part in. Picking at a fraying splinter of wood, he looked down, "You do know that it wasn't your fault, right?"
Bucky shrugged a little. "Does it matter if it is?" He responded, eating more of the food and trying not to wolf it down like a starving animal. Because he was. He was starving and desperate for food, but he wasn't going to show that. It was a weakness.