Happy New Year!

There is a closed door. It's painted pale cream. There is one chip a quarter inch above the brass door knob; it looks out of place enough for Bucky to furrow his eyebrows and brush his right thumb across the indent it leaves. He takes a deep breath and counts to three.

It took one (1) day for Bucky to move back in.

They waited for the sun to sit directly in the sky before they crawled out of bed. Steve watched Bucky leave through the window, tried to paint while waiting for him to return but found that he could not. He paced the hardwood, followed the footprints that Bucky himself had laid down when all he could do was walk back and forth to try and keep his mind at ease, and listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He heard them as the sun was beginning to dip into the earth, Bucky's heavy shoes made heavier by the weight he held in his arms. His things were minimal, but enough – mostly clothing, Steve noticed. "Is Nat alright with this?" he asked.

"Practically kicked me out," Bucky replied with a smile, spilling into the apartment and dropping his things on the counter. Steve caught the DVD case for Hocus Pocus in Bucky's box and narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Things were returned to their natural place. Bucky's razor laid next to Steve's in the bathroom. Bucky's body laid next to Steve's in the bedroom. When Steve woke up in the night, he had to take a split second to remind himself that Bucky was back. When Steve rounded a corner and saw him lounging on the couch, or hunched over a book at the kitchen table, he had to take a split second to remind himself that Bucky was back.

"You always look so shocked to see me," Bucky had said from his place at the table. There was a crooked smile playing on his lips and an old Flash Gordon anthology in his hands.

"Well," Steve had asked, lifting an eyebrow in Bucky's direction before turning his back and facing the countertop. "You were gone for a couple of months; gotta get used to you being around again."

Bucky frowned. He wanted to say 'I never meant to hurt you', but the words refused to form in his mouth. He tapped his fingers once, twice on the wood of the table. They made no sound.

Steve turned to face him, leaned against the counter with a page of a newspaper in hand. His eyes were scanning the page. "There's a special on shrimp down at the market today if you're –"

"Steve," Bucky interrupted. His speech was short. "It's nice to be back," he said.

Steve smiled. "It's nice to have you back," he returned.

It was a comfort. It was an oddity.

It was the new forwardness and confidence behind Bucky's motions, the independence that was almost cat-like, and when Steve realized it he laughed so hard he cried, leaving Bucky in the adjacent chair with a bewildered look on his face. Bucky stepped lightly, moved gently. It was somewhere between robot and human; too fluid to be mechanical and too poised to be natural. Steve could watch him walk for hours, look with scanning eyes and a cool, neutral face. But he could reach out and remove Bucky's mask with one touch of his thumb on Bucky's chin, discard it in moments of complete safety.

The waters were still and deep and they weren't the Bucky that left, and they weren't the Bucky in Brooklyn or Europe, but they were Bucky. Bucky refracted through the light of a diamond, spliced in half and quartered and then thrown all around again, until he pieced himself back together. Same parts, different places. They burned just as bright and beautiful.

It was a miracle in the deepest sense of the word, and Steve reflected on it as he watched Bucky read.

Bucky the reader, he mused. It's a triumph and a victory, but it's bizarre and somewhere deep inside Steve there exists a thirteen year old version of himself laughing incredulously. Bucky, who couldn't be bothered to pick up a book let alone look inside of it, spending whole afternoons reading novel after novel.

"It doesn't make sense to me the way it does to you, Steve," he had admitted once a long time ago in 1929, a few weeks before the stock market crashed. It was a moment of unguarded honesty that Steve hadn't been expecting and wouldn't see again until words spilled from Bucky's slack mouth, their meaning written in the scars on his body and the vacancy in his eyes. Steve nodded, didn't hold it against his friend.

"What are you reading?" Steve had asked in France, post-Zola, perplexed to see Bucky curled around a thick book. Bucky had held the book up so Steve could read the title. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "Where did you get that?" Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged. "Picked it up at a shop some place back. I like it; this Captain Nemo guy's a real piece of work."

"Since when did you start reading?" Steve had asked. He meant it as a joke, but Bucky's mouth thinned.

"Dunno," he had said in response. He turned the book over in his hands, held it like he didn't know what it was.

Steve didn't see it again. He asked after it, once. "How'd that book end?" a quiet question whispered in the worst part of war – the waiting.

"Dunno," Bucky had replied. "You know me," he had said. "I don't like reading."

Steve had let it go.

"You ever read this?" Bucky asked in the warm light of the living room, 2015. One year ago he was tearing across Europe in a dazed panic. Now he was sprawled comfortably across the sofa, a thick old book in his left hand.

Steve was at his desk, composing a response to E. J. L. Dodson. He narrowed his eyes. "Well, first of all I can't speak Russian, so –"

Bucky furrowed his brow, cast a glance at the Cyrillic title of the book and cracked a low smile. "Well, it's The Brothers Karamazov."

"Ah!" Steve said, leaning back. His chair creaked beneath his weight. "Dostoyevsky! I've read a little Dostoyevsky." He took a moment to think, and then asked "How did you get Dostoyevsky?"

They said it at the same time. "Nat."

"She thought I should read some of the classics," Bucky said. "Her classics," he clarified. "She also gave me music recommendations." He paused for a moment. "It was mostly Russian composers and pop music from the 1990s."

Steve laughed; it rang throughout the apartment and made Bucky's heart skip a beat. It's good to be back, he thought again. Good to be home.

It was watching Steve hunched over an easel in the corner, completely absorbed in his work. His hands, larger now than they were before, worked with a precision that made Bucky melt. There was a peace to his actions, a calm fallen across him that did not exist before. It flowed from Steve's body and out into the space he occupied, not that he occupied the apartment much. He left for supplies and therapy and sight-seeings and lunch, a whirlwind of activity that clicked right in Bucky's brain when he thought of it.

Always the go-getter, Bucky thought idly.

But Steve spent most of his time with Bucky, whether that time was lounging around the apartment or out and about. Steve's actions were warm, eyes soft. He should be angry at you, Bucky thought, not that he wanted to face Steve's wrath. Steve had been angry enough. Steve had spent enough time alone.

Bucky runs the fingers of his right hand through Steve's short, soft hair and thinks of the little boy cornered in an alleyway somewhere in Brooklyn, 1925. The bullies had tight fists and mean faces, and they reminded Bucky of the kids that used to throw rocks at Rebecca or the look in his father's eyes when he raised a hand at his mother.

"Hey!" Bucky had yelled before mustering what strength he had to peel the boys one by one off of their target. "Hi," he had said, sticking out a sweaty hand after the worst was over. "I'm Bucky."

"I'm Steve," the boy had told him with a mouthful of blood. It dripped from his nose and pooled on his starched, white shirt. His eyes were wide and his manner was short, but Bucky melted him with candy and jokes and the insistence of knocking daily at the door of Steve's apartment, until they walked, laughed and spoke in tandem.

"Dunno what you ever saw in me," Steve had admitted once on the eve of his twenty-first birthday, more drunk than he'd like to admit. Bucky was speechless.

"Could say the same to you," he had replied, and he couldn't say anymore. Words about Steve's heart and valor and honesty floated to and then died in his throat because the only from that they would take was 'I love you'.

And Bucky couldn't say that just yet.

In the darkness of their bedroom, Steve stirred. He leaned into Bucky's hand, and Bucky drew circles on Steve's scalp. What would I do without you? he thought, closing his eyes. Would he still be a machine, frozen in some cell, or at the beck and call of Alexander Pierce? Would he be free but lost, drifting across highways? Dead without the satisfaction of some sense of closure?

Would he have died like a pig in Brooklyn? Fat and old, sad and alcoholic?

Bucky leaned forward and placed his lips against the back of Steve's neck. "You didn't have to take me back," he whispered. After Ethel, after the war. After all of this.

"Of course I did," Steve whispered back. His voice was hoarse with sleep and disuse. "Haven't had a choice in the matter since 1925." His voice was stronger now, fond in nature. A hand drifted upward to catch Bucky's.

They closed their eyes and fell asleep.

In the morning, Steve said "Sam is coming over. Is that okay?"

Bucky snorted. "Of course it's okay. Why wouldn't it be?"

Steve shrugged, continued to stretch before a morning run. Sam arrived at noon, and as he stepped into the apartment Bucky's heart seized. He hates you for what you did to Steve, a voice whispered in his ear. It gnawed at his gut.

"Hey, Bucky," Sam said with a warm smile. It was an invitation. Bucky wanted to reach a hand out and take it, but he was tied back by something that made his fingers twitch and his countenance cold. He straightened his back, said little, smiled even less.

Sam let him be while he and Steve talked and laughed and joked. Bucky was rigid.

And, after Sam bid farewell, Bucky spent the better half of an hour sitting beneath the hot spray of a shower. His instincts itched to dig his fingers into his ribs, but the memory of a sharp crack of pain on his way to Nat's the first night stopped him.

Steve stopped him, too, with a gentle rasp on the door of the bathroom.

"You okay?" Steve asked.

"I'm fine," Bucky responded in a voice that sounded hoarser than he imagined. "It's unlocked," he added.

Steve came in. They sat on the floor and dried Bucky's hair off with a towel. Bucky fought for control. "Are you sure?" Steve whispered, kneading into Bucky's head. Bucky replied with a low moan, and gave up the fight for resistance. There was safety there.

The next time Sam dropped by was better, as was the time after that, until they were sprawled on the couch together like they had been before, comfort and familiarity bridging any distance between them. "He doesn't hold anything against you," Steve had whispered on the bathroom floor. "He understands." Sam shot Bucky a warm look on the couch. Bucky thinks of the look in Sam's eye, knows he does.

The sun rises, sinks, rises, sinks. The days grow warmer.

"Hey, what's this?" Bucky asked one evening, picking up a book thrown open and left on a table in the hallway.

"Since Rogers never kept a formal journal or diary, the best record of his life can be seen through his many sketchbooks. Early drawings like his pre-war 'Untitled, April 11th, 1941' drawing of the New York marketplace…"

"Oh," Steve responded, looking up from an easel. Bucky cringed for a moment, briefly grabbed by shame for interrupting him. "That's, uh," Steve began, breaking into an almost embarrassed smile, "Well, when I went under the ice they thought I was dead, and they had all of my sketchbooks so, I guess, given my status as a historical figure," Steve cleared his throat, "There was an interest in looking at what I had done. Professionally."

Bucky furrowed his brow, turned the book over in his hands to read the title. "American Art in the Twentieth Century," he said. "Steve, this is –"

"Kind of embarrassing?" Steve offered.

Bucky frowned. "Amazing," he finished. "Steve, look at this! Professional recognition for your stuff; isn't this what you always wanted?"

Steve bit his lip. "A lot of the pieces they review were never meant to be critiqued professionally."

"You gotta admit it's cool," Bucky said. "Unless their reviews aren't so favorable?"

"No," Steve said. "They were all very, uh, very nice."

"Then why are you being so coy!" Bucky exclaimed.

Steve shot him a knowing glance and began to smile, low at first and then wide. "It is pretty cool," he admitted. His slang was carefully chosen. He snorted. "I'm actually writing letters to the author of that."

"What!" Bucky exclaimed, turning the book over again. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

Steve swallowed. "Honestly, Bucky, it embarrasses me."

Bucky laughed. "Steve," he said. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Steve replied. A smooth breeze from outside carried in on an open window, fluttered the curtains. It blew at Bucky's coat as he crossed the room to run his right hand through Steve's hair.

They end up together, on the floor.

When morning came, Bucky left for Nat's. He trained there two (2) times a week. Before he left, he asked "Sure you don't wanna come?"

"I'm sure," Steve replied with a mug of coffee in hand.

Bucky left. The day past. Bucky came back.

"How was it?" Steve asked. He was boiling noodles on the stove.

"Great," Bucky replied. "You know, you should come sometime."

"I'll think about it," Steve returned. He does.

It took three (3) weeks for Steve to follow Bucky to the gym. It was a repeat process that ended with them on the mats beside each other, panting and dripping with sweat. It happened every week, twice a week, until it happened more and more regularly.

"It's been awhile," Steve had said on the first day.

"I'll go easy on you," Bucky had replied. Steve threw the first punch. Bucky deflected it with easy, ended the match with Steve beneath him. "Okay, but you can't go easy on me."

"Sorry," Steve had said. "I guess I'm just not used to –"

"- having a partner that can handle a super soldier?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, I guess." Bucky smiled back. They each followed the contours of each other's teeth, neck, body with their eyes. "If we wanna go again you're going to need to get off of me," Steve had said.

Bucky was about to reply with some quip when Natasha interrupted them. "No hanky panky in my gym," she shouted from the doorway. Bucky scrambled off with deftness and quickness. Steve was on his feet in no time.

They sparred. They trained. Natasha joined them. Clint joined them sometimes. There was power in Steve's movements. There was comfort in the familiar.

"You know we'd love to have you," Natasha said as he left one day. Bucky waited outside, listening to the city. Steve threw her a hard glare. "I'll only bring it up once," she continued. "It's not SHIELD. It's not even like SHIELD. It's independent. It's small. It's me, him, Fury. The people that stood by you last April." Her lip twitched. "It doesn't have to be official. We'd love to have you on as a consult."

"I'll think about it," Steve said.

"Please, do," she had replied.

He didn't intend to, but he couldn't help himself when the bed was empty, and Bucky was halfway across the world. "Should take three days tops," Bucky had murmured before kissing him goodbye. "Don't worry," he added as he walked out the door. But Steve leaned against the wall with arms crossed and worried. He made dinner and worried. He painted and worried. He turned the light off and pressed his head against the pillow, and he worried.

And worse yet, there was an itch beneath his skin to help, to take part. The same that propelled him to sign his life away to Erskine and Philips in the first place. Steve closed his eyes, turned over in bed.

In the morning, he met Sam for breakfast. "You will not believe who called me," Sam said. "Last night, just about to go to bed and my phone rang. I pick it up, figure it's either a telemarketer or a butt dial, and I hear the dulcet tones of your old boss on the other end."

"Fury called you?" Steve asked. He stabbed at his pancakes and worried.

Sam nodded. "Wants to know if I'd be interested in fighting the good fight with him. Part time, of course. I assume somebody has been bragging about me."

"Wasn't me," Steve replied. There was a weight on his heart. A complication to his plans. "Would you be interested?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Said it before, I'm more of a soldier than a spy." He paused. "But if they need a soldier –" he stopped. "How are you holding up?" he asked.

Steve shrugged. "I'm alright," he replied.

Sam watched him stab his eggs. "Are you?" he asked, raising an eyebrow but keeping his eyes glued on Steve's plate.

"Just fine," he lied, and as they left the diner he realized the fear of loss was no longer the greatest darkness hanging over him – it was the need to take part.

Later, he thought of the conversation when Bucky returned a few nights after, all-post adrenaline sleepy but content. It's a feeling Steve recognized.

It's a feeling he missed.

Steve asked how it went. Steve held Bucky while he slept. Steve trained at Nat's. Steve spent a lonely four days in DC, wondering after the safety of Sam and Bucky halfway across the world.

"Steve, I need to talk to you," Bucky started one evening. His voice was apprehensive. Steve bit his lip, closed the book on his lap. It was a dark, quiet evening. The weather was warmer every day.

"Yeah, Buck?" he asked.

"Look," Bucky began, sitting down on the adjacent cushion. "I hate to bring this up, but I feel like I have to. Nat would kill me if she knew." Steve raised an eyebrow. "There's this mission we have, and we could really use your help."

Steve said yes before Bucky finished. Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Bucky counts to three. Bucky knocks.

"You ready?" he asks.

The door opens and Steve steps out with a grin on his face. "I was born ready," he says.

He's out of practice.

Steve's holding his own in the belly of the building, an old school house converted into the headquarters of the HYDRA copycats who are currently overwhelming him. He sends a hard punch in the way of one guard and uses the brief moment of clarity to jump up, grab onto one of the lead pipes directly above him, and lands two direct kicks to the faces of two more guards. He can feel the pipe began to tremble under his weight and uses it to his advantage, wrapping his legs around the neck of another guard and swinging forward. The guard who Steve has trapped falls with a thud. There's a loud crack and the pipe breaks, spewing steam and water into the face of new arrival. The new arrival falls backward as Steve stands up.

He's out of practice, but he's not helpless.

He stretches his neck, takes the brief respite to catch his breath. Where do these people even come from? he thinks to himself.

"Everything kosher?" Sam radios in. He's perched on the roof of the building, scouting perimeter.

"Everything's secure," Steve radios back. He's telling the truth. His objective was to secure the boiler room. That's done, now all he needs to do is get out. "How about you, Nat?"

"Second floor secure," she says after a moment. She sounds breathless, but pleased. "Mission accomplished."

"Target taken care of?" Steve asks, stepping lightly to peer around the corridor. He's close to the side stairwell leading out of the building, he knows from the floor plans. He hugs the wall and begins to run out, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"Target taken care of," Nat radios back, sounding more assured. "Barnes?"

There is no reply. Steve's heart drops.

"Barnes?" Natasha asks again. "If you're available please radio in."

It pulls at Steve's heart, and he's about to radio out himself with a hard "Bucky?", but the sound of footsteps catches him off guard. He swings to face another team of guards. A bullet pierces through the air and he dodges it, feels the cold shatter of dust as it imbeds itself in a wall of concrete. Something akin to righteous fury twitches through his limbs.

There's another gunshot and Steve deflects with the shield, the bullet ricochets elsewhere. He doesn't wait for there to be more; instead he cartwheels forward and lands hard, heels catching the faces of the two front most guards. He's too close and furious for long range weapons to do much help, throws his shield and lets it bounce off the structure of the building. He catches it after it slices down two more guards.

But more and more come. The fight is at first exhilarating, if annoying, but it soon becomes more and more frenzied and panicked. They are on him like dogs and he is against the wall doing the best he can. There is an inch of cold panic creeping up his lungs. He's in a glass elevator and the men he called his friends for months are turning on him. Rumlow's hard hands are on him now.

There's the loud crack of a gunshot, and Steve instinctively throws the shield up and dodges a bullet that is not aimed at him. He lands hard on his left shoulder, and uses his shield to throw of the guard who mistook his moment on the ground as a sign of vulnerability. The man's body bounces back and catches the bodies of two other guards on the way down. Steve hops to his feet, throws the shield at the corner of the ceiling so it bounces and catches one of the guards in the neck.

The other two guards are almost on their feet, and Steve is about to knock them back again but there are two more gunshots in quick succession. On instinct he blocks it, cursing the lost time, but it's not aimed at him. There is a spray of blood from both guards, and two strangled cries. Each clutches their shoulders and falls to the ground again. Steve looks up and sees the Winter Soldier.

He hates himself for it, but he almost has a heart attack. Bucky had been deployed before the other three to help secure the building; the suit he wore had been unseen by Steve, and he's half-shocked to see that there was very little aesthetic change from the dark uniform the Soldier wore in DC. Same black mask, same goggles. There are minute cosmetic changes, but they don't distract from the overall look. Steve trails his eyes up and down Bucky's form, wonders briefly if it's a statement.

"Need some help, old man?" Bucky asks him. Steve can't see his face, but he assumes there's a grin hidden beneath the mask.

"Doing fine before you showed up," Steve replies. Relief hangs over him like a cloud. "Why didn't you radio in?"

"Too busy trying to save your ass," he replies. Steve rolls his eyes.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he says. Bucky nods, and his manner of movement changes. He crouches, slinks along with a gun in hand. There's a ferocity to his manner that unnerves Steve, and the very fact that it unnerves him catches him off guard.

He's on your side, he tells himself. It's Bucky.

Steve follows in suit. They are silent as they move. They are both calculating: distance to exit, distance to the plane, the number of guards based on the sound of the footsteps that are running to chase them.

One last pack of them. Steve takes the first thing, throws his shield to bounce and throw down to others. Bucky takes a shot over his right shoulder, throws out a hard metal fist in the face of the guard who tries to overwhelm him.

Steve thinks of storming bases in Germany with Bucky at his side, or taking down bullies in the alleyways of Brooklyn. They fight in the darkness, with the dim light of some hanging lamps to guide them. It smells like blood and smoke and sweat, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, or flesh hitting metal, echoes throughout the corridor. He's back to back with Bucky, tearing through guards like old times.

It feels great.

A well landed blow knocks Bucky's mask off his face. Steve can see him snarl like an animal as he goes in for the attack. Bucky's blows are vicious and furious, and later if Steve dwells too long upon them he is disturbed. Bucky goes for the throats, and Steve picks off the guys who think Bucky distracted is an easy target.

Bucky wraps his left hand around the throat of a guard, throws him back. Another guard tries to catch him from the behind, and Steve catches the guard instead.

"Steve!" Bucky shouts all at once, and Steve looks up suddenly very aware of the change of air pressure behind him. He turns just in time to catch a lead pipe coming down on his head. He kicks his legs out to land square in the stomach of his attacker, but it is almost too late.

Bucky shoots him in the throat with a bullet made of electricity.

The guard's body stumbles, falls. The pipe goes crashing to the side. He is stunned.

Steve manages to get to his feet, but he is grabbed by the hand of another guard. "Hail Hy-" he starts.

Bucky stuns him. "Shut the fuck up," he says. He's breathless.

They are finally done.

And Steve starts to laugh. He grabs his stomach, leans up against the side of the wall in exhaustion. Bucky frowns. Steve can't tell, but he thinks Bucky is narrowing his eyes. Steve takes a deep breath, sighs and lets his arm hang at his side.

"That was good," he says with a smile. Bucky looks at him stone faced, and then grabs him by his suit and pulls him into a deep kiss. Steve grins against his lips, entwines his finger in Bucky's short hair and pushes it deeper. His heart is pounding with the adrenaline. Bucky drags his hand down Steve's chest.

They are about to break when Sam says "Should I come back later and give you two a few moments, or -?"
Bucky jumps, drops his hands and scoots at least two feet away from Steve. His demeanor is completely solid, stoic. Steve's cheeks burn. He wipes at his mouth, stumbles to regain his balance. Sam is laughing, smiling warmly.

"I hate to interrupt a moment, but Romanov's getting kind of itchy about leaving. You know how she can be." The joke is Natasha is waiting patiently on the plane.

"No, we're good. Everything secured?" Steve asks. He is desperately trying to regain some composure.

"Mission accomplished," Sam replies. "Barnes, good to see you're not dead. Radio not working?" The three of them leave the building. Steve welcomes the cool night air on his burning cheeks.

Bucky grunts a response.

They board the plane, are debriefed as they leave. Strapped into seats, they sit in twos: Steve and Bucky facing Sam and Nat. Bucky's eyes bore holes into Sam's face. Silence over comes them.

It is broken by Natasha. "Anybody else get the feeling that building was haunted?" Natasha asks once they are a good thirty minutes away. Her voice is even, but there is a playful light behind her eyes.

Sam laughs. "I am so glad I am not the only one. That place was scary as hell."

"Hey," Steve says, and Nat raises an eyebrow expecting to be scolded, but he continues with "Neither of you were in the basement. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Watch yourself," Sam says, "I had to spend an hour in the attic of that place."

"I heard children's laughter coming from a classroom at one point. Thought maybe it was a trick, went to go check it out. Nothing," Natasha adds. She's only half-fucking with them.

"Children's laughter?" Steve repeats.

Natasha widens her eyes and nods. "Creepiest mission I've been on since I quit throwing punches for the KGB."

Steve furrows his brow. "Are you counting that raid in Ottawa a few years ago? The one with the – you know –"

"The abandoned asylum?"

Steve nods. "Wait," Sam starts. "You guys raided an abandoned asylum?"

"It was Halloween, too," Natasha adds. There's a small smile playing on her lips.

"Alright, rewind. I'm gonna need the story about that one."

Nat shoots a look at Steve. "I'm pretty sure it's classified," she says in a smooth voice.

Steve shrugs. "You probably put it on the Internet anyway."

Natasha's smile widens into a grin, and she leans forward, crossing her legs as best she can in the seats. "Alright, so it's Halloween 2013 – " she begins. Steve interrupts to embellish details. Sam sits at attention.

Bucky says nothing and stares forward.

Eventually the plane crosses land and sea. Natasha is the first to sleep, setting herself into slumber with meaning and poise. After she falls, the conversation dwindles. The lines between Steve and Sam are strong if Steve doesn't dwell on it. It's okay now, he reminds himself. And Sam obviously doesn't care.

Steve is the next to sleep, and it is an accident.

To speak or not to speak dominates Sam's head, and he chooses the latter. He presses his back against his seat and tries to close his eyes, but he finds that he cannot relax with Bucky's stare digging into him.

There is silence on the plane again. Sam breaks it. "Hey," he whispers. "Look, I don't know how things were back in the '40s, but –"

"How what was?" Bucky asks. His voice is hard. Sam doesn't like it. It's sharp and cold, and cuts.

Sam is talking to a closed door that he is accustomed to seeing open.

"Don't play dumb," Sam replies. "You know what I'm talking about."

Bucky squares his jaw.

"Things are different now. I mean, I'm the first to admit not much, but we're better with stuff like that." Bucky glowers. "I won't lie to your face. Some people might have a problem with it, but I'm not one of them." Sam takes a deep breath. "There. You happy?"

Bucky's mouth twitches. "Are you sure?" he asks. He sounds more vulnerable than Sam expects, and it catches him off guard.

"Of course I am," Sam says. His voice is softer. "And don't go assuming everyone you meet is straight." Bucky raises an eyebrow. Sam smiles, tries not to laugh.

Bucky's lip twitches. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ground. The wheels are turning in his head. "Thank you, Sam," he says.

"You don't have to thank me for anything," Sam replies. "The only thing I care about is that he's okay," he adds, gesturing toward Steve. There is a warm moment of silence.

Bucky swallows. "I will do whatever it takes," he says.

"I know you will," Sam says. "I know."

They speak quietly for a few more minutes about the mission. Steve's breath rises and falls. Sam is the first to fall asleep between the two.

Bucky closes his eyes and thinks - it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, because no matter what, in the end, they always come back to each other. He and Steve, always. Fighting together, living together.

Traveling the country together. Bucky likes that idea, files it away.

And lets himself drift away to the hum of the plane's engine.

Thank you so much for reading. Let me send you to a final author's note hosted on tumblr: hey-josephine . tumblr post/123422646896/this-is-a-long-authors-note-for-the-story-the