Memories of the Future

I wrote this for a writing challenge involving "The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows." I picked the word "avenoir," which in this fictional dictionary means: "the desire that memory could flow backwards." I'm not sure if I have the correct grasp of this concept, but I figured I would give it a shot and I took it to mean that a person with this would have memories of events in the future the same way that others remember their past. I apologize in advance if this is confusing!

"People are going to die, Buck. I can't let that happen."

The two men stood on the metal walkway, explosions sounding in the distance while the sound of howling wind blew all around them. One of the men was dressed in some sort of costume, blue and white with a star on his chest. A helmet obscured his face except for his strong jaw and bright blue eyes. The other was smaller, but looked more dangerous. His eyes were dead, red around the edges but carefully void of any emotion. His long hair hung in his face as he stared at the costumed man towering above him a few feet away. His left arm was made out of some kind of metal, deadly even at its place at his side.

"Please don't make me do this," the man in blue pleaded. His grip on the metal shield in his hand tightened ever so slightly.

The metal armed soldier made no moves to surrender or advance. His blank stare was his only response as the masked man sighed nervously. Seconds passed before either made a move; the shield was launched at the smaller man, but he blocked it easily with his metal limb. It deflected without effort and he pulled out a gun in retaliation. The two men charged and met, fists flying as the gun was knocked to the floor. The smaller man brandished a knife and ran to end the attack with an angry roar.

New York, 1941

He woke with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. The cold air of the apartment was bitter against his sweat drenched skin. The blankets and sheet were soaked through from the distress of the nightmare. His breaths came in shallow gasps as he tried to calm his racing heart.

"Buck?" a small voice sounded from across the room. "You alright?"

The room was dark, the only light from the streetlight outside streamed through the threadbare curtains. Bucky looked across the small room to Steve's bed. A pair of wide blue eyes peered back at him from where Steve was cocooned under every blanket in the apartment except for the one Bucky had now drenched in sweat. Concern radiated from that stare and Bucky had to look down at his hands to pull himself together.

"Go back to sleep, Stevie. Everything's fine," Bucky brushed the question off. The last thing he wanted was for Steve to worry or get out of the blankets to help. He was just getting over a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia and Bucky wouldn't risk him getting sick again.

A few moments of silence ticked by. "D'you have one of those nightmares again?"

Bucky sighed, running his hand over his face in frustration. Steve was always stubborn; he should have known he wouldn't drop the subject. The little jerk was going to keep prying until Bucky let up and answered him.

"Yeah, but it's not a big deal. I don't want to talk about it or anything, alright? It's just a dream. I just want to get back to sleep." The last thing Bucky wanted to do was lay back down in those sweat covered sheets, but he could deal with the shivering for one night. Steve couldn't spare any of the blankets he was piled under and Bucky would never ask for one.

An annoyed sigh broke through the cold night air. Bucky could practically imagine Steve rolling his eyes and didn't have to look over to know that was the case. "Buck, come sleep over here."

Bucky forced a laugh, "You don't want me stinkin' up your bed. Besides, I don't think I could even find my way in there with that mountain of blankets you've got goin' there. I gotta get up for work in a few hours anyway. I'll just start a little earlier today, that's all. Go back to sleep, Stevie."

Steve let out one of his signature huffs of indignation. He shuffled around more until he was sitting up, staring at Bucky with eyes only half open with sleep. Bucky knew Steve wouldn't let up until he climbed over onto the small bed next to him.

It shouldn't be a big deal to sleep in the same bed; they had done it countless times since childhood. Steve was always getting sick and winters were especially brutal for the smaller man. He would lay awake, wheezing as he shivered in the freezing temperatures that crept into the apartment despite the meager amount of heat pumping through the old radiator in the corner. There were many nights over the years that Bucky would climb in behind Steve to keep him warm; sometimes his body heat meant the difference between life and death for someone as sickly as Steve. He didn't mind doing it; he would do anything to keep Steve safe. Bucky already worked extra shifts down at the docks to ensure they had enough money for all of Steve's medicines and enough food to keep him from losing weight from all the coughing and fevers he could never seem to completely shake. Keeping him warm under the same blankets was just another part of life that Bucky had accepted for himself and he was happy to do it.

"Don't make me drag you over here, Barnes. I'm tired. Hurry up." Steve was always cranky when he was woken up, his stubbornness amplified even more than usual.

Bucky felt the ghost of a smile on his lips, but he held it back. He secretly was always happy to lay beside his best friend at night. Those dangerous times when the rest of the world was asleep and Bucky could almost pretend that those feelings he kept buried far down inside were not as wrong as everyone always said it was. Steve had a rough enough life without Bucky throwing the shame of his own dirty perversions into the mix.

"Alright, alright," Bucky pulled himself together enough to hide behind his practiced smirk. "But I don't want to hear any complain' about how I stink, got it?"

"When do you not stink?" Steve laid back down and shuffled over to give Bucky enough room to lay down. He pushed under the covers quickly, trying to keep the cold air from rushing in and starting up Steve's shivering again. Steve had already rolled to face the wall, so Bucky slid up behind him as close as possible without actually touching the younger man. On occasion, if the night was abnormally cold, Bucky would fling his arm over Steve's waist to conserve more heat, often laughing at the situation to keep it from becoming too awkward, but Bucky couldn't come up with a good enough excuse to do that now.

"What was the nightmare about?" Steve asked. Bucky had thought he was asleep. Steve's breaths were always uneven and tight because of his asthma, so it was hard to tell sometimes when he had drifted off. "I won't make fun of you. Ma always said talkin' about bad dreams helped so they wouldn't come back. Worth a try, right?"

He could lie. Bucky knew he should lie. The dream sounded ridiculous even when he recounted it in his own mind, but all the same, it still filled him with fear long after waking. Steve was waiting patiently for once, not stubbornly pushing Bucky to answer right away.

"I think it was some kind of science fiction thing," Bucky started, "There was some metal flying craft of some sort that was crashing. Or it was about to crash. I'm not sure. There were two guys in weird clothes. One had a metal arm and the other had a shield. I think...they were us. Well, if we were in some kind of movie or cartoon strip, but in the dream, I knew they were us. I was the one with the metal arm." Bucky felt his throat go dry as he played the scene over in his head.

"That's cool, Buck," Steve told him. "You probably listen to too many of those science fiction shows on the radio, but that's neat. Why would that be scary though?"

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. "I was tryin' to kill you. You begged me not to, but I was going to kill you."

He blinked away the tears that had formed, embarrassed by his own reaction to the dream. Logically, he knew it wasn't real, but he could still feel the cold, simmering anger of the man he was in the dream. He could feel the way his body had focused on Steve as a target, ready to eliminate his own friend. The memory of the nightmare made him sick to his stomach. He had been getting these weird dreams for the last couple of weeks and it was only getting more frequent.

Steve stayed facing the wall, but his body went tense with Bucky's words. "Sounds like a stupid dream to me then. No way that would ever happen, Buck." He sounded confident in his dismissal, but Bucky could tell the idea had rattled him.

"No way you'd ever be taller than me like in the dream either." His attempt at a joke fell flat, but Steve gave a sleepy chuckle that managed to sound only half forced.

The two men were in a tent, a blanket of snow falling outside as the shivered under thick coats against the cold. It was dark, the only light coming from a small gas lantern hanging from the frame on the roof of the tent. It was turned down as low as possible, just giving off enough light to keep them from being in the pitch black. The men each sat on their respective army cots, facing each other and expressions vastly different.

The smaller of the two was obviously Bucky, easily recognizable despite the dirt covering his skin and the troubled look on his exhausted face. His hair was slightly longer than usual, but he seemed to have made a halfhearted attempt to push it to the side with his hands. His eyes were dull and confused as he stared unblinkingly at the man across from him.

"It's still me, Buck," the man said softly.

The voice was the same, but the deep tone was no longer surprising when matched with the man it came from. It did not belong to a man with hunched shoulders or a curved spine. There was no trace of the wheeze deep in a small chest that never fully went away. That voice was well suited to the man sitting in front of him. His shoulders were broad, back straight as he held himself proudly without even trying. Even under the thick overcoat, his muscles were a constant reminder of his strength and his potential to be a threat. He could easily take down any foe that trying to start something, but his face held no hint of aggression towards Bucky. Despite the unrecognizable body, that face was unchanged and one that Bucky would always remember.

"You shouldn't be here, Stevie," Bucky said, dropping his head into his hands to block out the hurt look in his friend's eyes.

He wasn't sure what he meant by that. Steve seemed know though, sighing with exasperation as if they had already had this conversation dozens of times. The larger man shook his head helplessly, suddenly looking more like the young sickly boy that Bucky had always known.

"I did what I had to do," Steve told him, pleadingly, "You know that. I couldn't just sit at home while everyone else we know was shipping off. I couldn't let them fight this war without me."

This sparked a glare from Bucky, "You damn well could have, Steve. You were safe back home. As bad as shit got over here, at least I knew you were safe and far away from all of this."

"I was never safe there. I would have gotten sick like I always did or a group of guys would have jumped me in an alley again. I wouldn't have made it until the end of the war. It was just a matter of time, Buck. We both know that." He silently brushed off Bucky's disagreeing glare. "Besides, I was worrying myself sick without you. I couldn't stand the thought of you in some trench somewhere, all alone and so far from home. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you and I wasn't there to stop it."

Bucky sighed, shoulders slumping as he surrendered to those words. As selfish as he felt, he couldn't help the rush of relief at having Steve with him now. He looked over, meeting the blue eyes he had missed every single day since shipping out. He had to look up now to make eye contact, but those eyes were still the same and they looked back at him with the familiar expression he knew so well. Steve slowly stood and moved to sit beside him, careful with his movements as if trying not to spook him. Bucky leaned into him, still surprised at the amount of heat he gave off after so many years of worrying about Steve being too cold.

"What else did that serum do besides turn you into a human furnace?" Bucky asked, a wry smile finding its way onto his face.

Steve chuckled, "We should do some research into it. Permission to proceed, Sergeant?"

Bucky answered by turning and tilting his face to push his lips against Steve's. He felt the other man smile into the contact, bringing a hand up to cup the side of Bucky's jaw. He sighed into the embrace as Steve responded by opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. A hand pressed into his chest, pushing Bucky gently backwards until he was on his back on the cot. Steve slid his body to hover over his without breaking the kiss. He should have felt dwarfed by Steve's new size, but somehow his body responded to it instinctively, arching his hips up to roll against Steve's with a groan. Steve responded with fervor, grinding him down onto the cot and moaning into his mouth to muffle the sound. Heat radiated from between them as the both pressed desperately into the friction as their bodies found a rhythm with ease.

Steve trailed his lips down to the side of his neck, sucking at the skin near his shoulder and lightly biting at the sound of Bucky's breath catching. They had to be quiet to avoid attracting the suspicion of the men outside, but Bucky couldn't stop himself from sliding his hand between them to palm Steve through his pants. He smirked at the surprised moan the contact elicited.

"They really did cover everything when they invented that serum, didn't they?" His laugh faded into another moan before the words had even left his mouth.

New York, 1941

Bucky jolted awake with a start. It had been a few weeks since a nightmare had scared him awake, but this was the first time Bucky had found himself in that same type of disoriented half-asleep state like this. His heart was beating fast and erratically, but it wasn't because of some horrific scene conjured up by his subconscious. No, this was far worse somehow.

Of course this would be one of the nights that the apartment had been so cold that the two men had climbed into the same bed to keep warm. If this had happened in the summer, Bucky would have been able to save his dignity at least a little bit more, but luck was apparently not on his side. He stayed as still as he could, praying that his sudden waking had not interrupted Steve's sleep. Their bodies were far too close, a fact that was even more glaringly obvious as Bucky tried to breath through his nose to calm himself down. His body ached under the threadbare clothing, overwhelmingly hard as the heat throbbed dangerously close to Steve's curled back. One slight movement from the other man and his issue would be found out.

Bucky had no idea how to explain the situation in a way that would make it not awkward for both of them. He couldn't explain it. Steve was always a little too skilled at being able to read Bucky. He would know if he was lying, but the truth was not an acceptable thing for him to admit. What he had dreamed about was wrong. He couldn't put the weight of those thoughts onto his best friend, not when he already had guys beating him up just for being small.

He took a shaking breath in, trying to push the images of the dream as far out of his mind as he could, but Steve sighed softly in his sleep and his efforts were instantly thwarted. He involuntarily closed his eyes and found himself back in the grips of the dream for a few seconds before he caught himself. Bucky wanted desperately to reach down and touch himself to stop the ache between his legs, but that made him feel too dirty. It wouldn't be right. This was different than waking up after a dream about some pretty dame he met at the dance hall. He couldn't touch himself after having those thoughts about his best friend.

It wasn't the first time that those types of feelings had cropped up about Steve. Ever since the two of them were little, Bucky had noticed Steve more than he should. Sure, they were best friends, but Bucky had always wished he could be more with him. He knew it was wrong to want to do the same things with Steve that guys did with girls on dates. He had gotten damn good at ignoring those feelings, focusing them on the pretty girls who were always quick to bat their eyes at him as he asked them to dance. Bucky liked those girls too, but he loved Steve.

That revelation made him jerk upright and dash out of the room. He faintly heard Steve call out for him, but he slammed the bathroom door behind himself and bolted the lock. Bucky turned the faucet on and dunked his head under the cold spray. The shock of it erased the hard bulge in his pants and he stood up to look at his reflection in the mirror, gripping the sides of the sink to keep his hands from wandering elsewhere as he took in his own panicked expression.

As much as Bucky tried to forget the dream with Steve, he couldn't quite get it out of his mind. It had seemed so real. He had not only woken up hard, but with the memory of Steve's breath on his neck as they moved together and the way his mouth tasted against his own. It wasn't like the other dreams he had since he was a teenager. This wasn't just a scenario his traitorous mind had cooked up; it seemed more like a real memory of something that had already happened.

Bucky knew that made no sense, no matter how much he may wish it was real. He had been picking apart the dream with a fine toothed comb, trying to somehow prove to himself that it had not been real by looking at everything that happened that did not make sense.

The tent and their clothing had seemed to suggest it took place with them being in the military, which was a career that never even occurred to Bucky to contemplate. He had never been interested in joining the military, not even when the other boys their age had talked about it as kids. Some of the guys at the docks had joined up recently with the news of the fighting overseas, but Bucky didn't see any reason to get involved in a war that didn't concern him here in America. He was content to stay right where he was. Steve would have joined the army to follow in his father's footsteps, but his health would never allow him to even make it to basic training, a truth for which Bucky was secretly thankful.

The most obvious difference between the dream and reality was Steve himself. There had been mention of some kind of "serum," but Bucky had no idea what that meant. He had probably been reading too many science fiction novels. Whatever this "serum" was had made Steve into some kind of super soldier for the military. Bucky couldn't imagine Steve being accepted into a program like that even if it was a far fetched idea conjured up by his brain; one look at his health chart and the military would send him on his way, fancy "serum" or not. There was no way that Steve Rogers would ever turn into someone who looked like he could be the poster boy for the United States military. Even without the ridiculousness of that scenario, Bucky liked Steve how he was now. He liked his small frame and feisty attitude, bad health and temper included. To even think that Bucky would be interested in doing...things...with the man in the dream…it seemed even more wrong than imagining it with Steve now. The man in the dream wasn't his Steve.

Bucky groaned and let his head fall back onto the back of the tattered couch. Steve had not gotten home yet, so Bucky was taking a few minutes to knock some sense into his own brain before he got here. It wasn't working, not if he was referring to his friend as "his Steve." Bucky didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to hide his feelings from Steve. It was taking so much effort to act like he felt nothing whenever the other boy was there. He shouldn't stare at Steve as he stirred food on the stove. He should not like the way Steve's hair curled slightly at the ends after he came out of the bathroom, still wet from the shower. He should not hope for the cold weather to continue just so that there was an excuse to sleep in the same bed as Steve.

That dream had been more than just embarrassing. It had put things into Bucky's head that he could not afford to think. He had seen the news articles about guy's getting beaten in the streets for looking at another guy the wrong way. Bucky had a reputation for going on dates with girls every weekend, but Steve had never been lucky when it came to women. There was already guys who liked to beat Steve bloody for no other reason other than that they could; if there was a rumor that Steve had done something with another man, those bullies might not stop when once Steve was unconscious. Bucky couldn't risk his best friend's life over his own immoral thoughts.

Bucky jumped at the sound of the door unlocking. He snatched up one of the torn pillows on the end of the couch and covered his lap to hide the obvious hardness in his pants. By the time Steve noticed him on the couch, Bucky had fixed his signature smirk onto his face and told Steve they were going out to find some girls to dance with the rest of the night.

1942

He had known the draft letter would be in the mailbox before opening it. It wasn't so much that he had a dream about it as it was that he had the memory of it somehow. Bucky wasn't sure how that was possible and there was no way he could try to explain that to anyone without being taken off to the loony bin, but it was the truth.

His hand wasn't even on the door to the mailbox before he remembered. He remembered opening it and taking the letter out. The printed words on the front of it would be smeared slightly from the rain earlier in the day. He would open the envelope as soon as the door shut behind him and he was alone in the apartment. Steve wouldn't be back for a few hours; he would come back right as the sun was going down, having been delayed by an old lady he saw struggling to carry her groceries inside as he walked home from his art class. Steve had only just said goodbye to Bucky minutes ago, but Bucky knew this all the same. He would find Bucky at their table in the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey gone except for the last couple of sips and the draft notice clenched in his fist.

Bucky wanted to laugh it off. He wanted to believe that he was wrong. Even being crazy would make more sense than having a memory of something that hasn't happened, wouldn't it? But he knew. Bucky could recall the whiskey on his tongue like the taste of bitterness. He could still feel the way he face itched from his stained cheeks, the tears long since dried up by the time Steve will get home. It wasn't a vision, like the homeless woman down the hall always claimed to have about when it will rain or who will marry what girl in their neighborhood. Bucky didn't see events folding out in his mind. He just knew.

The mailbox opened with a creak as he reached inside. The envelope was damp and the address was smeared, but it read James Buchanan Barnes right beside the government stamp.

Bucky shipped out to basic training tomorrow afternoon. Steve had gone down to the recruitment office three times since Bucky had gotten the notice, but he returned with a rejection form every time. Bucky couldn't pretend to be sorry for him any of those times, which only served to make Steve angry. It was the one comfort Bucky had in the face of the fear he felt about leaving. He knew Steve would never survive the war if he was accepted. He was already terrified of what might happen if Steve got sick again without Bucky here to take care of him, but at least he would be home and Bucky could write him letters to check on him. He wouldn't be left not knowing where Steve was or if he was safe and that was solace enough.

"I thought you were taking those girls dancing," Steve blurted out when Bucky walked into their apartment. He shoved a wrinkled piece of paper into his nightstand and slammed the drawer shut. "Rejected again. Guess the Stark Expo wasn't as lucky as I thought it might be." Bucky disagreed.

"I was going to, but I decided I'd rather spend my last night in Brooklyn with some punk instead," Bucky teased. He swaggered over and slung his arm around Steve's shoulders, pulling him out into the living room. "It'll be a while before I'm stuck in this broom closet of an apartment. I need to make sure I remember how terrible it is so the trenches will seem even more upscale."

Bucky rummaged around in one of the mostly empty cabinets before brandishing a half empty bottle of vodka. He shook it at Steve, trying to cheer the younger man up after his latest rejection from the military. Bucky could at least pretend to sympathize with him this last time if it made Steve happy. He didn't want his last night with his best friend to be tarnished by their ongoing fight.

"The war isn't supposed to be upscale, Buck," Steve reprimanded, his face deadly serious but his tone less so. "Besides, you're just jealous that I'm going to have such a fancy place all to myself now. I'm going to steal all the girls in the city while you're gone. By the time you get back, you'll be stuck with crazy Mrs. Alberts down the hall."

"I'm sure she's already having visions of our lovely wedding," Bucky chuckled, taking a long sip straight from the bottle and passing it to Steve.

They flopped down on the couch, passing the bottle back and forth. They joked about the past and reminisced about their adventures growing up. The stories grew more animated as the amount of vodka steadily disappeared from the bottle. Bucky was retelling the time Steve got into a fight with a group of boys because they had tripped one of the girls in their class to try to get a glimpse up her dress. Steve had yelled at them about the proper ways to treat a lady and had been answered with a bloody nose and a sprained wrist. Bucky had found Steve in the middle of being kicked by the group and had jumped in right away, sending every single one of the bullies away with an injury of their own and badly wounded pride.

"Remember how Billy ran off with his pants ripped all the way down the back? He's probably still afraid to be rude to a lady after that. We taught them that lesson pretty good, huh, Stevie?" Bucky laughed, his words slightly slurred from the alcohol, "Whoa, whoa, whatsa' matter there?"

Bucky sat up off his spot sprawled on the floor and crawled on his knees over to where Steve was still sitting on the couch. The younger boy put his hand over his face and turned away, but Bucky had seen the tears sliding down his face. Steve's shoulders shook violently as his body gasped for air. He was afraid Steve might give himself an asthma attack at this rate.

"What's goin' on? Talk to me, Steve," Bucky pulled his hand away from his face, but Steve wouldn't meet his eyes, "Are you feelin' sick? Is it your asthma? Tell me what it is and I'll fix it, Stevie, I promise."

Bucky felt panic sweep through him when Steve kept on crying, ignoring his questions. Even after all the fights and bouts of sickness, Steve never cried. Bucky knew how to take care of him when he had the flu or his nose was broken, but he didn't know what to do when Steve Rogers sat in front of him in tears. He moved to sit on the couch beside him, pulling the smaller man into his arms and holding him tight against his chest out of desperation. Steve's only response was to turn his face into Bucky's shirt, gripping it tightly in his fists and crying harder.

"Come on, punk," Bucky pleaded, "You're gettin' yourself all worked up and we don't have any of your medicine if you have an asthma attack. You gotta calm down, Stevie. You just had a little too much to drink tonight, that's all. You gotta calm down. Everything's alright. Just breathe." He rubbed circles over Steve's back as he sobbed over Bucky's pleas.

"It's not alright!" Steve yelled. "Nothing is ever going to be alright again, Buck. You're leaving and what if I don't catch up to you in time? What if you don't come back?"

Bucky clutched him tighter, "Don't say that. I'm coming back and everything will be fine. Don't you try to come after me. I'll be back before you even miss me. You're going to stay here and keep yourself safe so I have someone to drag out on double dates when I get home. Nothing is going to happen, understand?"

He didn't believe his own words, but he forced them out with as much conviction as he could muster. Fear threatened to overwhelm him as he faced the unavoidable reality of leaving the next day. He couldn't stop the tears that spilled over as he tried to comfort Steve without success. The two of them cried until there was nothing left, but made no move to untangle themselves as they huddled together.

"I'm sorry," Bucky finally whispered. "I'm so sorry I can't stay here with you. God, Steve, I'm so scared."

Steve's finger dug into Bucky's back, "You'll be okay, Buck. No matter what happens, I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

He knew tomorrow those words would be harder to hold on to as the distance grew larger between them. He would soon be faced with people shooting at him and learning to fight for his own life; there was nothing Steve could do to fix that from halfway across the world.

For the first time, Bucky found himself wishing that dream from a few months ago could be true and that the two of them were going together. He wished he didn't have to face this war without his best friend by his side. They both still had so much they needed to do and time could be running out for either of them. So many things could be left without being said or done and the thought was dizzying.

"Steve?" Bucky's voice was barely more than a rasp after his break down. He wasn't sure if he was still drunk or if the fear had clouded his judgement, but he knew the clock was ticking and if he might not come back from the war, he had to do something just one time before he died.

The young man pulled back slightly to look at Bucky, waiting for him to speak. His blue eyes were red and puffy, threatening to spill over with tears again. His hair was sticking up from being tucked under Bucky's chin. Bucky glanced smoothed one side of it down unsuccessfully, but then kept his hand on the side of his face. Steve looked back at him questioningly and Bucky knew right then that he would never be coming back to this apartment again.

He was in a factory, surrounded by men he recognized as they huddled in a cell with thick iron bars. Soldiers with glowing weapons patrolled the walkways between cells as what remained of his unit were forced to build weapons for the enemy that now held them as prisoners. His stomach ached with hunger as he forced his exhausted body to hold on just a little bit longer. His men needed their sergeant to keep what morale they had left from disappearing completely.

One of the guards escorted a wiry man in civilian clothing to their cell door. This was the one every man in here feared. This man surveyed the prisoners every day and picked one of them out to take with him to the medical wing of the building. Those who went with this man never returned, but their screams would echo through the halls for the entire night until the sounds gave way to a crushing silence.

The man looked down the end of his nose through his tiny glasses as the men shrunk back from his stare. His cold gaze flickered back towards Dugan more than once. Dugan had a girl back home who was waiting for him to come back so they could finally get married. He carried a picture of her in his coat pocket. Bucky stepped in front of his friend and held his head high. He wouldn't let Dugan miss out on that wedding. Bucky didn't even blink when the doctor pointed his finger straight at him and smiled.

He sighed in relief that this would mean one more day that his men were safe and could still hope that a rescue would show up. His men would live until tomorrow and that was enough to die for. The peace he felt was short lived as guards seized him by both arms and dragged him down the hallway behind the doctor. Even the most stoic of men knew that nothing but pain and fear awaited them at the end of this walk and Bucky knew none of his men would think less of him as he began to fight and scream just like the ones before him had each day.

"You're going to be okay, Buck," Steve promised, eyes wide and almost childlike in his forced conviction. "You're comin' back real soon. I know you will."

No, I'm won't. Bucky already remembered how this would end, but he couldn't say it. He couldn't bring himself to take away Steve's hope that everything would be alright. Somehow the knowledge that he would meet his fate in that factory made the choice for him.

He closed the short distance and pressed his lips to Steve's. Even if Steve hated him for this, Bucky couldn't leave without knowing he would never have this chance again. He tried to put all of the love and adoration he had bottled up all these years into this one kiss; he had to make it count. Steve tensed under his touch, inhaling roughly through his nose. Bucky pulled away, but could not force himself to open his eyes. The possibility of seeing disgust or anger in those blue eyes set his heart hammering even faster than before. He could feel Steve's breath against his face, but the other man did not pull away. Bucky reluctantly eased his eyes open and found himself staring back at Steve, but no words came out.

Steve surged forward and grabbed both sides of his face, joining their lips again with ferocity. A few seconds of shock paralyzed him before Bucky eagerly pressed back into the kiss. A joyed laughed bubbled out of his chest as he smiled into the kiss along with Steve. It was everything he had imagined and so much more; it was a feeling of finding home. They kissed until both of their heads were spinning and they broke apart breathing heavily, each still cradling the others face as if they would never let go again.

"Steve…" He whispered. He wanted to say the words that had been stuck in his throat for years without even realizing their truth. I love you, Steve. It's always just been you. The words would have been a relief to admit, to share, to exclaim for the entire world, but Bucky couldn't push them passed his lips. It wouldn't be fair to Steve to hear those words and the empty promises behind them, not if Bucky would never be coming back home. Saying those words would only make it harder for the younger man to move on after Bucky was gone. Another, perhaps selfish, part of Bucky also knew that if he proclaimed his feelings aloud, he would never be able to march down to the train station the next morning and ship out with the rest of his unit.

"I know, Buck." Steve always knew what was going on inside Bucky's head. It was a bittersweet source of solace that Steve understood and returned the sentiments that terrified them both.

Italy, 1943

Bucky had given up hope on Zola's table, resigned to the fate that he knew was meant for him. He remembered not making it out of the war, not making it back to New York, to Steve. He had tried to let go and stop holding on when the pain from the experiments had threatened to break his mind. He slipped in and out of dreams, often unable to tell where the dream ended and reality began.

When Steve had finally stormed into the factory and found Bucky on that table, he had laughed when the straps around his body fell to the ground. Bucky saw the tall, strong Steve that appeared in a few of his dreams a few years before and was delighted to have a more pleasant person in this dream than the nightmares from the rest of the day. It had taken a while for the truth to finally take hold. Bucky had become used to the strange memories that came to him on occasion of events that had yet to happen, but the dreams of Steve, of this...Captain America...Bucky had always thought those seemed too good to be true, even in the future. He had never thought it possible that Steve could be this healthy, this strong.

Despite the torture and pain of the past few days, Bucky was safe now. Being in this tent in the middle of Italy, warm from the cold winter outside, Bucky couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder at that memory playing out again for him to experience without the fear of waking up and ending it. The men outside by the fire complained about the weather and the distance they would have to travel in the morning to get back to base, but Bucky had never been more content.

"Are you sure, Buck?" Steve whispered against his ear as he stilled his movement on top of him.

Underneath the scratchy wool blanket, they were both naked, pressed together tightly as if to make up for their time apart. They had managed to keep quiet and avoid detection from anyone who might have walked near the tent, even staying almost silent as Steve had worked him open with gentle fingers. Bucky looked up into those blue eyes as Steve hovered over him and waited for permission to close the last bit of distance between their bodies. "Please."

Steve pushed forward into him slowly until their hips were flush against each other, coming to a stop to let Bucky adjust to the feeling. It was painful, but that ache quickly faded away to pleasure. He rocked his hips against Steve gently to coax him to move. Their motions were slow and careful, an attempt to prevent the wooden cot from creaking and alerted the rest of the unit to their actions. Steve rolled his hips deeper, keeping his forehead pressed to Bucky's the entire time as they held each other tightly. Their moans were quieted against each other's lips.

Their thrusts grew more frantic, both barely able to contain the desperation behind the movement that they had waited so long to feel. Bucky could feel himself about to tip over the edge as he buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck, wanting to envelop himself in this memory so he would never forget. He let himself spiral over into his climax, muffling his gasp as much as he could. Steve kept going until Bucky felt himself come back to his senses enough to tilt his head back to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked and Steve's thrusts became erratic until he pushed himself deep and stilled, whispering out Bucky's name almost frantically, never dropping eye contact for even a second.

Neither one of them wanted to move or pull away. Their breathing was heavy, but somehow relieved of the momentous weight that both men had struggled with for years. This was home. This feeling, in the middle of the war, in the cold remote region of Europe, was home.

The air was so cold that it stung against his skin. Every breath felt like it was laced with ice. The movement of the train was jarring, making every single step unsteady as he tried not to crash into the shelves that kept exploding as the bullets continued to fly. A gaping hole had been ripped into the metal wall of the train and the snow swirled into the car. The sound of the train and the guns was deafening, but Bucky saw Steve lose his grip on the shield. The foe advanced, gun drawn and pointed at Steve.

Without a second thought, Bucky darted forward and snatched the shield. He held it in front of himself and stomped purposely towards the Hydra soldier, firing with a new-found rage coursing through his veins. He would not let Steve get hurt. He never stood by and watched his best friend get beaten up by bullies when they were children and he sure as hell wouldn't allow it to happen now. Not when they had finally admitted what they had between them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve join him as they pushed the soldier back slowly. He felt stronger with Steve at his side. A smirk was creeping onto his face as they worked together like they had their whole lives. The two of them were a formidable team; Hydra would never know what hit them.

A flash of blue light. An impact that knocked all the air from his lungs. The world tilted end over end. The cold burned his skin with a shock. Somehow, his hands had managed to find a bent scrap of metal. It had been pure luck, but it had saved him from plummeting into the ravine as the train sped along with a roar. Panic overwhelmed him at the realization that he had been hit by the soldier's weapon. Steve had been right beside him; had he been thrown from the train as well?

"Bucky!" A deep voice boomed above him over the screech of the train on the tracks. His hands were aching from the effort of holding on as the train car bounced roughly, but that voice was enough to quell his fear considerably.

Steve leaned out, eyes wide and terrified. He held onto the side of the train with one hand and stretched out towards Bucky. His words of encouragement were filled with fear. Bucky's hands were shaking against the cold metal, but Steve was leaning further and further out of the train. He wouldn't be able to reach Bucky without falling himself, so Bucky knew he had to move. He had to bridge that gap the rest of the way himself.

He threw his hand out as far as he could. He could feel the heat of Steve's fingertips on his own. Steve was hardly even balancing himself in the effort of reaching for him. So close.

A metal screech pierced the air and the piece he was holding broke loose. Bucky was jerked backwards as gravity took him away from Steve's open hand as he flailed. He couldn't help the scream as it erupted from deep in his chest. It was a scream of surprise, fear, and most overwhelmingly, despair. He had been close enough to hear Steve's own heart-wrenching scream echo after his own into the blackness.

The blackness stretched on and on. It felt like it would swallow him up, rip him apart until nothing was left of himself but a shell. It crushed against his chest with an icy grip that reached deep into his bones. The blackness was empty of everything except the pain that coursed through his body like lightning as he screamed.

He didn't remember the blackness receding until he was blinking in the blinding sunlight. The street around him was in disarray; cars turned over onto their sides, broken glass blanketed the ground. Sirens blared from all directions over the sound of people screaming.

"Bucky?" The man stood in front of him, fists raised to fight but forgotten as he stared with a look of pure shock.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The Asset demanded in a growl, angry at the painful jolt of electricity that the name triggered in the back of his mind.

Italy 1943

"Are you sure you should be coming along on this, Buck?" Steve asked again for the tenth time.

They had gotten word that Zola was on a train in the mountains, trying to escape without being noticed. Their mission was to infiltrate the train while it was on the move and capture Zola to bring him in alive. It was risky, but not impossible, especially not for the Howling Commandos. It would be the last mission before their unit would go back to the States.

"I'm fine, Stevie. Besides, someone has to keep you out of trouble, punk," Bucky forced a laugh.

He would fall from the train. He knew it would happen almost as if it already had. The thought terrified him, but he also knew the fall would not kill him. He would Steve again; the details on their reunion were confusing, only appearing in flashes in his memory and it was hard to make sense of, but he knew it was not the end between them. Whatever happened, they would figure it out.

Steve smiled at him and Bucky tried to memorize everything about that moment before they set off to begin the last mission.