Longing

James Buchanan Barnes went to war in 1943, leaving his mother and sister behind. Winifred was a widow and worked in a factory; his sister, Rebecca, was barely a teenager but she had a job too. He hated leaving them all alone. They had only had each other since his pa died; James worked so much, he never made many good friends, none that he could trust to look after his girls, anyway.

When he was drafted, he quickly rose to the level of Sergeant. He imagined it had to do with his good ol' boy charm and hard work ethic, but he knew that his name helped too. His father, George Madison Barnes, had been a Master Sergeant when he'd died in 1937. James was proud of his name but it hung heavily over him.

His ma had wept when he received his orders but he promised to stay safe and alive; to return home. However, no matter how many promises he made, he did not come back to them.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and many of his regiment were taken as POWs by the Nazis. Or, he had thought that they were Nazis but, really, it was HYDRA. Before his capture, he'd never heard so much as a mention of them from his superiors, which wasn't a surprise. Not really. He only learned about the concentration camps and other horrors later – much, much later.

While he was held, they tortured him; performed experiments on him; humiliated and degraded him; and made him watch them do the same to his friends and comrades. They never asked him questions, though; they never demanded locations or battle plans. They just tortured him.

One by one, he watched his men die. Good men, honest men, brave men. But no man can stay brave and honest and good forever.

Some small part of him held onto hope of rescue. For the first year, he truly believed the cavalry was coming. Any day, he thought, any day. As HYDRA tortured him, he repeated his name, rank, and serial number, "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 32557038" over and over.

But help never came.

Eventually, HYDRA began injecting him with what he assumed was poison or else some kind of truth serum. He imagined they would, finally, begin to interrogate him and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes knew he would tell them everything.

But they never did. They just continued their experiments. The injections hurt. They hurt bad, the worst pain he could remember experiencing. But he never died and, oh God, did he want to.

He lost all hope of being saved when he heard that the Germans had surrendered; the war in Europe was over and all of America's forces were heading to the Pacific Front.

But these Germans weren't surrendering. These Germans dug in deeper, free now to continue their brutal work without American interference.

He knew he would die there, like Izzy and Gabe and Dum Dum; and maybe, in some way, he did. He didn't even flinch when they took his arm and replaced it with a heavy metal one. He didn't blink when they killed other POWs in front of him. He did nothing as they strapped him to a chair and fried his brain.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes forgot his name. He no longer remembered his mother's eyes or his sister's smile or the pain of missing them. He became a machine; he became the new fist of HYDRA: The Winter Soldier.

"Soldat?" [soldier?]

"Bereit zu erfüllen." [ready to comply.]

The Winter Soldier stood at the side of Johann Schmidt as the ship took off to attack the United States by dropping bombs on major cities. He was ordered to inspect the weapons and he left the cockpit to make his way to the lower deck. As he was looking at the names written on each one, he stopped and stared at the words New York City.

The Winter Soldier had never heard that name before but something was… familiar. Something burned in his chest; he was malfunctioning. He turned to leave but stopped. He felt a painful beating behind his ribs and had to grab hold of the railing to stop from toppling over.

An image stuck itself in his head; he couldn't shake it away. A girl, a child, young; she was smiling at him and speaking English. She was saying, "Bucky, again, pick me up again!"

"Rebecca," he heard himself say but had no idea where it had come from. A malfunction. He needed maintenance.

"Bucky, come home, promise you'll come home."

He gasped and, this time, he did fall to his knees. His face felt strange, wet. He was malfunctioning. A voice he did not know – a voice that sounded boyish, desperate, and horrified, was screaming at him. A voice was begging him. Stop the ship.

The Winter Soldier returned to the cockpit and attacked Johann Schmidt; he was no longer in control of himself. The machine was malfunctioning; he had taken the head of HYDRA by surprise and began beating him, using his metal arm to break bones and rend flesh.

Schmidt ran toward the center console and grabbed the blue cube that made the Soldier's eyes burn. The Soldier knew it could be used as a weapon; however, it only made Schmidt… disappear. The Soldier watched as a void opened in the middle of the cockpit and Johann Schmidt screamed into nothingness.

The Soldier moved to the main console and looked out; he could see a coastline. New York City. Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed the steering control forward, sending the ship careening into cold, dark, bitter water.

"Bucky, come home, promise you'll come home."

The Soldier had lost all power but before he did, he believed that Bucky had kept his promise.

Rusted

The Winter Soldier was an asset, a machine, and machines did not think. When it appeared that the Soldier had thoughts, he was placed in the chair and those thoughts were burned out of him.

It. Burned out of it.

It was awoken and used many times after it became a tool of HYDRA. It received new handlers – a weapon handed from person to person. Its location changed often, though it could only vaguely recall each prior base. Its nutrient sources evolved from the feeding tube to intravenous injections.

"Солдат?" [soldier?]

"Готовы соблюдать." [ready to comply.]

The Soldier was given orders and it carried them out with efficiency and brutality. Politicians, businessmen, prostitutes, police, officials, families. It did not recognize mercy or pity. It executed its tasks as any weapon would – without compassion.

Machines cannot feel. Machines do not think.

It had no concept of time; it awoke cold and weak, was given nutrients, and then it completed its mission. Afterward, it returned to its handler and was placed in the tank.

Repeat.

On one mission, it was in its target's apartment when he entered with another man. They were kissing and whispering to each other; they spoke Italian and the Soldier understood them. These two men were lovers. They each wore a ring.

The machine blinked.

"Hey, baby, you lookin' for a man to take care of ya?"

The Soldier heard a man's voice but there was no one else in the apartment; it had checked.

"Come on, handsome, ain't nobody gotta know."

It clenched its jaw and focused on the mission. It shot the target and, as the other man screamed and cried, the Soldier watched him.

"Scusa." [sorry.]

The Soldier shot the second man and left the apartment as if it had never been there. When it returned to Pierce, its handler, he knew that something was malfunctioning. Unlike the usual protocol, it was put in the chair again.

It hated the chair. It was afraid of the pain.

Machines do not feel.

Furnace

The Soldier was awoken but not by HYDRA. A suit of gold and red armor that spoke; a red haired woman; an archer; a large green creature; and a blond giant with a hammer. It was lying in the tank, shivering, when several pairs of hands reached for it.

"What are we lookin' at here, Nat?" The golden armor asked.

The woman's eyes were wide and frightened as she looked at the Soldier. "We need to get him to the compound," she said. "Now."

It did not understand who she was referring to. The hands – all warm and gentle – pulled it out and tried to stand it up, but it was too weak. It needed its nutrients.

It lost all power.

Daybreak

The Winter Soldier listened as the woman spoke; her voice was calm and soothing. She said that it had been lied to; she said that HYDRA had kidnapped and tortured it; she said it was not a machine, but a human.

A man.

It didn't believe her; didn't trust a word she told it until Natasha said a name. James Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes.

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 32557038."

He had gone to war in 1943 and never came home. Until, finally, after 73 years, he kept his promise. He came home.

"Who are you?" The Soldier asked in a heavy Russian accent.

"The Avengers," she replied.

The Soldier had heard of them. They had disabled the Triskellion and revealed HYDRA to the world. He had fought them, she said, but he didn't remember that.

He.

The suit, Iron Man, was more than gold and red armor; he was a man inside the machine. The Soldier understood what that was like, though Stark – his name was Tony Stark – did not feel the same. He was uncomfortable around the Soldier; they said he had murdered Stark's parents. The Soldier remembered them and knew he did not deserve to be forgiven.

The green monster, the Hulk, was also a man. He changed his shape to complete missions. The Soldier understood that too. He could become whatever he needed to be in order to execute his target.

The Black Widow – Natasha – she told him she had known him in Siberia. He knew that HYDRA had a base there but he only vaguely remembered it. "It's okay," she said. "It's better that way."

The giant was actually a God – Thor, God of Thunder. He was alien to this planet and these people. The Soldier understood that too.

The archer – Clint Barton – was mistrustful of him; he did not seek to kill the Soldier because he trusted Natasha. The Soldier did not seek to kill Barton because he, too, trusted her. But he did not know why.

They were kind to him; they gave him medical care and showed him who he was – who he used to be. They took him to a large building called the Smithsonian; in its walls were many faces of men and women who became POWs during World War II.

That was what they called it.

His face was there, or… someone's face that looked like his. The Soldier couldn't remember that man, couldn't remember the things they said about him.

They said he had a mother and a father, a sister; they said he was a Sergeant. They said he was taken prisoner by HYDRA – tortured, experimented on, forced to do terrible things.

"I… helped shape the century," he whispered to the woman, repeating the words they had told him over and over.

She gave him a half smile and said, "When I was KGB, I believed that too."

Though they did not trust him completely, they helped him recuperate. They helped him heal. After several months, Stark made him a new arm and had wet eyes when he showed it to him.

"My old man was a piece of work," he said. "I'm just glad to know what really happened to them."

The Soldier felt something stir, something that ached inside him. "I am… truly sorry, Stark."

They did not speak again for many days but, when they did, Stark asked the Soldier to join The Avengers. Even the archer smiled when he said, "Yes."

Seventeen

James Buchanan Barnes lived in a spacious apartment in Brooklyn. He did not like to leave it; the world outside was loud and nothing that he remembered it was. The memories he did have of this city didn't match with what he saw when he was in it.

Nothing felt safe; no one was familiar. The Winter Soldier, fist of HYDRA, was afraid, displaced in a new world that made no sense to him. Sometimes, he recalled his mother's voice or his sister's laughter, but those memories – happy, though they may have been – only made him feel more lonely.

As time went by, he slowly remembered more and more. Some good, some…not good. He remembered his mother, Winifred, and sister, Rebecca; he remembered his father, though not as clearly. He found their graves and tried to visit frequently.

Rebecca had married and had a family; some of her descendants still lived in New York. He hoped to meet them but also… he was afraid.

He remembered the faces of people he had killed; he remembered murdering children. Natasha said he had no choice but that did not matter to the lives he had taken.

His work with the Avengers helped him atone for his crimes but he could not be forgiven. He knew. Following the release of SHIELD data online, his existence became common knowledge and he was approached by the Department of Veterans' Affairs. They offered him back pay – a lot of it – and told him they wished to present him with a Medal of Honor and a Purple Heart.

He had no way to prove that he was who Natasha Romanov believed that he was but, apparently, the SHIELD leak provided…detailed documentation of his capture, torture, and subsequent brainwashing.

"I cannot accept medals," he said. "I do not deserve honor."

He watched a lot of television and read books to improve his English; he could speak the language perfectly well but his accent was thick. He didn't understand idioms at all and nicknames confused him greatly. He was grateful to Natasha; she let him speak Russian and allowed him to discuss his fears.

Stark, on the other hand, was less supportive. He told James that he needed to spend time with the living but James didn't understand what that meant. "I am around only living people," he said, confused.

"Yeah, not what I meant, tin man," he replied, shaking his head.

"I am not made of tin," James argued in his accented English, but Stark wasn't listening; he was already speaking again.

"I'm throwing a party this weekend," he said. "You're coming. Work on your language skills." James did not agree to attend but he knew that Stark would not take 'no' for an answer.

As the date of the party arrived, James pulled his hair into a bun and wore a nice suit. The jacket and slacks were dark gray over his black shirt. He thought it was beautiful. Stark had bought it for him to wear for the press conference when the Avengers announced he was joining the team.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he remembered dressing in something similar, though of much poorer quality. It was the suit he'd worn to his father's funeral. It had belonged to George Barnes.

He shook the melancholy away and left his apartment. It was November; though there was not much snow on the ground, he felt the chill deep inside anyway. He pulled his coat tighter around himself as he left the building. When he reached the street, there was a town car waiting for him. He preferred to ride his Ducati but Stark always complained when James' clothes were dirty from riding in poor weather or because he took turns too sharply. He let the driver open the door, having learned from experience that he sometimes forgot to be careful – especially when he was anxious.

He did not enjoy large groups of people; he did not do well when they asked him questions. His heart was hammering in his chest as he pulled up to Stark Tower and the driver opened his door for him.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator – an act that garnered him strange looks from the personnel in the lobby. By the time he reached the correct floor, he was breathing hard but not from exertion. When he walked in, he gulped at the sheer number of people surrounding him. Stark's music was blaring and there must have been two hundred people moving around, dancing, talking, or drinking.

"Tin man!" Stark called out, having seen him almost immediately.

"Дерьмо," James said to himself and shook his head. "Мудак."

Stark approached him followed by a group of beautiful women. "Did you just call me an 'asshole'?" He asked but James simply cocked an eyebrow and ignored the question. "Glad you decided to come."

"You do not give me a choice," James argued.

"Of course I did," Stark replied, feigning innocence. "Now, these young ladies are all very excited to meet you –"

"I am not interested in any young ladies," he interrupted, catching Stark's surprised expression before he walked away.

He hoped that Stark would leave him alone; he hoped that he could make one round of the party and then leave, quietly, to return to his apartment. He found the bar and, though he could not experience inebriation, he ordered a glass of bourbon. He set his left hand on the bar and kept his head down; he did not wish to engage with these people. Stark's 'friends' were all pompous socialites, celebrities, or people desperate to be one or the other.

His English was impeccable but they all struggled to understand him. He had to repeat himself, enunciate slowly, and they still couldn't discern what he was saying. It was exhausting.

They often asked him, "But you're from Brooklyn, why do you have that accent?" He never felt the need to explain that HYDRA had pulled James Buchanan Barnes out of his body and replaced him with a machine, that he was no longer that man. He had seen pictures but had no memories of his own voice. How could he ever truly know what his accent had been before?

He threw back his drink and asked for another. "Same for me, please," a deep, sultry voice said.

James turned in the direction it came from to find… a small, blond man. He took in the visage before him, quite stunned. The young man stood at James' shoulder height, wearing black slacks, a white button up, and a black vest; his skin was fair; he had blue eyes and full lips and the right side of his head was shaved with an intricate design.

He was truly beautiful.

"Идеально," James whispered.

"Id-e-what?" The man asked, chuckling.

James shook his head, "Nothing, sorry to have bothered you."

The blond furrowed his brows and said, "You didn't. If anything, I'm bothering you."

"Never," James breathed into his glass, though it was loud enough for the man to hear.

"Oh, well," he said, stepping up to seat himself on one of the stools. "I'm Steve," he said, holding out his left hand. James hesitated for a moment before answering the gesture with his own. "Oh!" Steve gasped, gripping the cool metal. "You're… you're the new Avenger."

James grinned, watching as Steve's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Yes, I am. James Barnes."

Steve was smiling, his face bright and open. "Steve, uh, Steve Rogers."

There was a strange warmth in James' chest that spread up his neck and over his cheeks. It was familiar to him, though it usually occurred while he was alone. It was the first time he had felt good with another person in seventy-four years, maybe longer. He replied, grinning, but Steve looked confused again.

"Sorry, I don't, um, I don't speak Russian," he whispered, looking embarrassed.

James blinked, then chuckled at himself. "Прости, er, I am sorry, Steve," he said, thinking out each word in English. "I was saying that… I am happy to meet you."

And he was.

Steve's smile returned and he took a drink from his glass. "Why is a handsome guy like you all alone?" Steve asked, his eyes roaming over James' body.

He shivered, "I – I am not good with people." He drank his bourbon and ordered another; Steve finished his and did the same. James looked at Steve and then glanced around. "You could be with others, no?"

Steve smiled, maintaining eye contact, and replied, "I like where I'm at."

James blinked, looking down at the bar and releasing a shaky breath. "I am… I do too." After a few moments where the music and voices made his mind feel hazy, James asked, "Do you work for Stark?"

Steve shook his head, "No, I do graphic design and some architecture. Stark hired the firm I work for to help with the Tower redesign after the Incident. He just keeps inviting us to parties."

James smiled, "He keeps inviting me too."

"But you're part of the team," Steve said.

"In a way," James replied. "But I am also, how do you say…?" He trailed off, murmuring to himself in Russian. "Loner. I am loner."

Steve's eyes changed then; they were no longer flirtatious, but sad. "It must have been really hard. For you."

James usually hated these comments; it always seemed that they were meant to illicit stories of his life rather than allow him the opportunity to grieve it. He remembered very little from before the war, but what he did remember was precious. However, the expression on Steve's face and the way he sounded truly made James believe that he had no expectation of an answer.

James took a breath before saying, "Thank you."

They each had another glass and exchanged phone numbers, then James walked Steve downstairs and watched him climb into a taxi. Steve had pulled on a blue scarf and hat, and a heavy jacket to combat the cool air, but James could barely feel the cold at all.

"Goodnight, James," he called.

James raised his hand in a wave, "Доброй ночи, Стив."

His town car was on the Brooklyn Bridge when his phone chimed; he pulled it out of his pocket to reveal he had received a picture message. Steve was biting his lip, his hair mussed, and his shirt partly unbuttoned.

James gasped at the sight; he had not seen the appeal of technology beyond the things that he required to cook, clean, and protect himself. But, seeing this image made him rethink his feelings on the topic. He replied, Beautiful.

Thirty minutes later, James was breathing hard; his hand was covered in cum and lube, and he was still staring at it.

Benign

They texted or talked on the phone often but had not seen one another for more than a week. James felt hot all the time; he shivered at the sound of Steve's voice; and his libido became insatiable. He approached Natasha about it; he spoke in Russian and described his symptoms. She was surprised when he told her these feelings had come on after meeting Steve. He was unsure why his body felt the way it did and he worried he was malf-, no, ill.

She gave him that half smile and spoke Russian, "[No, James. You're attracted to him.]"

He realized at that moment that she was right. He wanted to see Steve again. He wanted it so much, he shook with its intensity. In seventy-four years, the Soldier had not wanted anything and now he did. The Soldier wanted.

"[I – I'm afraid,]" he whispered, hearing the quiver in his voice. "[I could hurt him.]"

She looked at him, her eyes sympathetic. "[You've saved so many lives, James. When will it be enough?]" He couldn't answer her, but she didn't expect him to.

That night, when they talked on the phone, he asked, "Steve, will you have dinner with me?" Steve was quiet for a moment and James was sure that he had crossed a line, sure that Steve would never want to speak to him again. "I'm sorry," he said in a rush, "It is not important."

"No," Steve said, suddenly. "I would love to."

They decided to go the following Saturday; James asked if Steve would prefer to meet him at the restaurant or to go by town car together.

"Pick me up," Steve said, his voice taking on a different tone.

"Okay," James replied.

Steve's voice returned to normal when he gave James his address and directions to his apartment. The days went by so slowly that, when The Avengers got a mission, James was actually glad. The fact that they were battling demon-like creatures with crab claws couldn't deter his good mood.

They returned to the compound on Friday afternoon and James rode his Ducati back to Brooklyn. He showered, washing away grime and demon blood, as well as some of his own, and collapsed on his bed. He picked up his cell phone and saw three text messages from Steve.

Be safe.

Saw the news. You ok?

I can't wait to see you.

James felt as if the sun was rising inside him. He replied, I am home safe. I cannot wait to see you.

The following afternoon, he searched through his closet to find something to wear; he wanted to impress Steve, but the restaurant he had chosen was more casual. Finally, he pulled on black jeans and a Henley that was a bit too tight across the chest, but Clint had told him that was a good thing. He wore his heavy coat and boots, too – even if his body temperature was warmer than other people's, he still felt the cold.

He hated the cold.

When he arrived at Steve's apartment, James rang the bell. "Hello?" Steve asked through the intercom.

"Hi," he replied. "It's me. Ready to go?"

Steve's voice lost its hesitancy as he replied, "Yes! I'll be right down."

When Steve emerged from the main entrance, James felt his breath catch. He was beautiful – even more than he had been when they'd first met. He was in a gray sweater under his dark coat, with his blue scarf and matching hat, and black jeans.

"Красивая," he whispered.

Steve grinned, "I'm happy to see you too."

James felt his skin heat up – more so than it was normally. "You look beautiful."

Steve's cheeks turned pink. "Thank you. You look amazing. I like your hair down like that."

James smiled and said, "Come."

As Steve approached him, he took James' right hand in his left, twining their fingers together. James looked at them and then met Steve's eyes. "This okay?" Steve asked.

James nodded, smiling. "No one has held my hand in…" he trailed off and Steve waited, watching James' face as he worked through his thoughts. "In long time," he finally said.

"I'm honored," Steve said with a deep sincerity.

"Thank you," he replied. "Let's go."

The drive to the restaurant was filled with the sound of Steve's voice. He talked about his week at work and how excited he had been for their date. James smiled and listened, feeling that warmth inside him grow and spread. He had asked JARVIS to get them a reservation, which meant they did not have to wait for a table when they arrived at the restaurant. It was filled with people but remained quiet, which James needed.

The server approached their table and James asked Steve, "Do you want wine?"

"I'd love some," Steve answered and James ordered a bottle of red.

James struggled to find things to talk about, but Steve had no issue. He asked easy questions and didn't press for answers if James couldn't give them.

"What were those creatures?" Steve asked.

James shook his head, frowning, "To me, they are, how you say –" He broke off, muttering to himself in Russian, then – "demons, but Stark said they are lab experiments."

Steve smiled and changed the subject to his own work, discussing the project his firm was working on. He was sweet and kind, he didn't shy away from the metal arm, and he didn't let go of James' hand unless they had to.

The touch fed the fire inside but it also made him feel grounded; it made him feel that this moment was real. James realized, that reassurance was something he desperately needed. As they ate their food, he itched to feel more of Steve, to kiss him and hold him. These feelings were very distracting.

They drank the bottle of wine with their meal but James tried to fill his glass more often than Steve did. He knew that he could not get drunk but he didn't want Steve to do anything he regretted.

"May I ask you something?" Steve said, setting his fork down. James felt his chest tighten but he nodded his head. "Are you, well, you obviously are because you asked me to dinner, but – I guess, I'm wondering if you're interested in me, um, romantically."

James blinked a few times, feeling his skin heat up and his heart race. He wanted to kiss Steve so badly, to pull him close and never let go. Deep in his memories, he believed that he had been with men before going to war, or was at least aware of his attractions to them. But he had not been with anyone romantically in seventy years.

"Yes," he whispered. "Is that… okay?"

Steve's face had begun to close down while James thought through his answer but when he heard James speak, he lit up again. "Yes, so okay. More than okay."

James smiled too. "Do you want dessert?"

Steve shook his head, "No, I'm definitely too full."

The server brought their check and James handed him cash while he carted the plates away. "Please, keep the change," he said and the server smiled.

They gathered their coats and scarves and walked out of the restaurant, still holding hands. The town car pulled up and James slid in, followed by Steve. James reminded the driver of Steve's address and looked over to find Steve watching him with… fear? Or disappointment? It was difficult to see in the light of streetlamps and neon glow of bars and nightclubs they passed. Steve didn't talk much during the ride and James wondered where he had gone wrong. Had he scared Steve somehow? Why wasn't he speaking?

James looked at their hands, still joined, and worried what it would feel like to have to let go again.

They arrived at Steve's apartment and James stepped out so Steve could too. They walked to Steve's door and James stopped, suddenly. Steve turned around and asked, "What is it?"

James' breathing was harsh and his heart was pounding; his entire body felt like it was on fire. "Steve," he began, then hesitated. He hadn't done this in a long time but he wanted. He was allowed to want and have; he was a man, not a machine. "Can I kiss you?" He finally asked.

Steve nodded his head, pushing up on his toes as James leaned down, cupping Steve's cheeks with his metal and flesh hands. When their lips met, it was warm and soft – things James had not felt in a long time. Steve gripped his forearms at first, but then wrapped his arms around James' neck to pull him closer. James went willingly, stepping even deeper into Steve's embrace. When James licked along the seam of Steve's lips, Steve let out a quiet moan, and opened his mouth.

James pressed Steve back against the door to his building and ran his hands over Steve's shoulders, arms, sides, and back. He kept his touch light but couldn't pretend he didn't feel the heat coming from Steve's body beneath those layers.

"Oh my God, James," he gasped, pulling back. "If we don't slow down, I'll drag you upstairs."

James' eyes roamed over Steve's face; his lips were pink and swollen; his hair was a bit mussed; his pupils were dilated. "Okay," James whispered, releasing his hold on Steve's body. "I would like to see you again."

Steve nodded his head, "Yes."

"When?" James asked.

"I would say tomorrow but I go to evening mass. During the week, I'm done with work at 6, usually, but weekends are better for me."

James tried to ignore the longing he felt already. "Until next weekend," he said, quietly, and began to pull away but Steve gripped him tighter.

"I'd like to… could we see each other during the week? Get coffee or, maybe, lunch?"

James smiled, "Yes, text me your work address."

Steve relaxed a bit, letting his grip release but maintaining physical contact. James didn't want him to let go; he wanted to see Steve's apartment – mostly his bedroom. He wanted to see Steve's body, taste it, feel it. James wanted in a way he could not remember having wanted ever before.

And he was allowed to want.

After a few more moments of basking in the warmth of Steve's presence, James stepped backward. "Goodnight, Steve," he whispered.

Steve's hands shook as he pulled his keys out to unlock the door. "Goodnight, James."

Nine

James spent hours researching; he bought bottles of lubricant and condoms; he briefly considered asking Natasha, but decided he wanted to learn this on his own. Using Stark's internet, he found many, many videos of men having sex; some of the men looked like Steve and he bit his lip as he watched them. He wondered if Steve would really enjoy for him to do such things. He wondered if Steve would want him to ask or if that would make him uncomfortable.

The things he read described the need to be careful and prepare a male partner for sex. It terrified him that he might hurt Steve, whether by rushing or using too much strength.

The more information he found, the less assured he felt that it was safe for him to even try. He kept imagining the worst of scenarios. What if he hurt Steve, or scared him? What if Steve was too afraid to tell him to stop? What if he didn't realize until it was too late?

One afternoon, he was sparring with Thor – the only Avenger that could match him, physically – when he asked, "How do you not hurt your girlfriend? You are much stronger, yes?"

Thor considered for a moment, breathing heavily, and then said, "I must always be aware of myself. I cannot forget how fragile Jane is. Don't tell her I said that."

James agreed not to, then asked, "Does she know how strong you are? Does she not feel afraid?"

"She knows," Thor said, nodding. "She is no fool."

"You don't think she is foolish for trusting you?" James was not malicious in his question; he was curious. Was Steve a fool to trust him?

Thor smiled, "We must have trust – not just in each other, but I trust myself. I know my own strength. I believe you know yours, too, James."

James looked away and said, "I don't want to hurt him."

Thor put his hands on James' shoulders and said, "If you cannot trust that he will tell you when something is too much, you must ask him. You cannot know how much he can take unless he is open with you."

James' nodded his head, then landed a wallop of a punch right to Thor's face, sending him flying. "Always be ready," he called after him.

On Wednesday, Steve texted James that he would be able to take a long lunch at twelve-thirty and asked if James would like to get sandwiches. He texted back, I will see you then.

He showered and changed into clean clothes, brushed his teeth, and left his hair down. Steve had mentioned he liked it that way. He arrived at Steve's office building at twelve-twenty and waited on the street. He wore a hat, gloves, and scarf – not just to keep the weather out, but to avoid being noticed.

Steve came outside within a few minutes and caught sight of James. "Hi," he said as he approached.

"Hi," James replied, smiling.

Steve took his hand and they walked down the street to a bistro. Steve said, "I'll buy."

"No, Steve, I eat a lot, I can –"

"I said," Steve interrupted, "I'll buy."

James hesitated for a moment before he ordered two sandwiches, chips, and a drink, then ordered another bag of chips and a salad. Steve chuckled and paid the ridiculous bill, then they found a table while they waited.

"How is your work?" James asked.

"Stressful, right now. We have a big project going on it's an all-hands-on-deck kind of thing."

James had no idea what that meant but nodded anyway. When their food was ready, James picked up the bag and brought it to their table. As he was setting the items out, he said, "Tell me more about your project."

Steve smiled and was off, explaining a complicated design project that he had been working on for almost two months. James didn't fully understand but he loved listening to Steve talk about something he was clearly proud of. It was infectious, Steve's excitement, and James found himself asking questions, requesting deeper explanations, and wanting to understand more.

He had eaten both of his sandwiches, the bags of chips, and half of his salad by the time Steve finished his food. "You do eat a lot," Steve joked, then his eyebrows furrowed and he looked away. "You must work out a lot, too."

James smiled, "I do, every day." Steve looked down at his sandwich wrapper without responding. "What is it, Steve?" James asked, tilting his head.

Steve glanced up but was clearly uncomfortable making eye contact. "I'm not a whole lot. I'm – I've got asthma and I can't work out. I have a lot of food allergies; I always get sick no matter how hard I try. I'm just… I'm not someone that a guy like you would typically go for. Especially compared to the types of guys you're probably used to going out with."

James shook his head, "Steve, I haven't – you are first person I want to go out with." He was surprised that the same man who had approached him so boldly at a party had such insecurities but he also understood that there was more to Steve than what he showed the world.

Steve met James' gaze; he was searching James' face for something – probably sincerity or hesitation. When he didn't find it, Steve gave a small smile and said, "I should probably get back to work."

James knew it hadn't been the full hour, let alone the extended break Steve had promised, but he chose not to push. "Okay," he said and helped Steve clean the wrappers and bags up, then they walked back to Steve's office together.

Steve hesitated near the doors and turned toward James, though he continued to stare at his shoes. James waited; his heart was pounding, though he wasn't sure why. He worried that Steve wouldn't want to see him anymore.

"Would you…" Steve began but hesitated. He looked around for a moment, then glanced at James' face. "Would you still like to see me this weekend?"

James released a breath in a whoosh. He stepped into Steve's space and cupped his face with both hands. "Yes, please," he whispered and pressed a kiss to Steve's lips. "I always want to see you." He kissed him again. "Every day."

Steve was clutching James' jacket at his waist, standing on the tips of his toes to press his lips to James'. They remained there; the kiss had turned lazy, though each and every touch of Steve's mouth sent sparks through James.

After several more minutes, Steve pulled back and their eyes met. "I should get going," he breathed.

"Yes," James agreed, though it lacked conviction.

"I really do need to get back to work," Steve said, leaning in to kiss James again.

"Of – of course," James stuttered against Steve's mouth.

"I'm going now," Steve said.

"Okay."

"I am."

"Yes."

"Oh, fuck, James," Steve whimpered and pulled back.

He was breathing hard and his pupils were blown wide; there was a sheen of sweat on his brow, even though it was cold out. James saw all of it; he wanted to see more.

"You must go," he said in a husky whisper. "I will see you soon."

Steve nodded his head and James released him, though he immediately felt the loss of warmth and contact. He waited for Steve to reenter the building before he began walking to the tower, which was about a dozen blocks away.

He needed the cool air to calm him down. This was the first time the cold did not feel as if it touched his bones. He actually felt warm, as if the sun shown on him through the gray clouds of winter.

Maybe Steve was sunshine.

Homecoming

James had to cancel their second date. The Avengers were called to some dark corner of South America but he knew that he couldn't tell Steve any details. If Steve had information, he would be in danger.

"I will call you right away when I can," he said.

"Okay," Steve said. The disappointment was obvious in his voice but James could tell that he was trying to conceal it. "Just be careful, okay?"

"I will come back," James promised.

Something about the words strung together like that seemed… familiar. He blinked but the feeling was gone; taking its place was a deep ache in his gut. He pushed it aside to do the job, to complete the mission, but it gnawed at him.

The Avengers had been informed that a HYDRA base was moving weapons throughout Bolivia and Paraguay, planning some kind of attack. When they arrived, it turned into a massive fight and James tried not to enjoy it. Each and every HYDRA member he ended was one less that could do to someone else what they had done to him.

Slowly, The Avengers made their advance inside and captured the remaining members. The air was thick with humidity, even inside the base, and James felt worn out after the two-day incursion.

When it was over and they had won, he sat down to rest and looked around. He drank several liters of water and tried to eat. As he glanced around, he felt an involuntary shake begin to overtake his body, followed by nausea and weakness. It was as though he were just pulled from cryo.

He shook his head but it did nothing to the hazy cloud in his mind. He stood up and began walking to find Natasha but Stark appeared, wearing his armor but with the face mask open.

"Slow down, tin man," he said, holding up his hands. "Jarvis, what's going on?"

"I do not know, sir," the AI replied. "His vitals are abnormal but he is uninjured."

"Okay, James," Stark said, slowly. "Okay, take a seat."

Seat. Chair.

"No," James growled, pushing Stark away. "Get away from me!"

"James," Natasha said as she moved closer, though at a slow and steady pace. "You're being triggered by this place. Let's get out, okay? Let's just go."

He couldn't focus on her; he felt tired and afraid; he was breathing heavily and sweat dripped from his skin. "They'll put me in the chair," he whispered, leaning against the cool wall, though knowing it made him look weak. "They'll make me hurt people."

"No one will do that," Bruce said, stepping closer; he was holding his pants up since his transformation had stretched them but everything else about his body language was open and reassuring. "We're here and we won't let anyone do that to you."

"It's alright, man," Clint said, doing his best to not aim his bow at James.

The Soldier could see the way his arm was poised to reach for it if needed; how Stark's hands were still up, able to use his weapons at any moment; how Thor stood ready to tackle him; and how Natasha's stun gloves were alight with electricity. The Soldier saw everything.

"Put your weapons down," Bruce called to them. "He thinks you're a threat to him. He's scared out of his mind, look at him!"

"He's scared?" Clint argued. "Bruce, he –"

"Put it down," Natasha said, powering down her weapon. "Now."

After a few moments, Stark dropped his hands and Thor relaxed; Barton had not taken his bow out but continued to watch James with a wariness he had not worn in months. James lost his resolve; the tension in his body snapped and his knees gave out. Bruce rushed over and caught him, holding James up as Thor approached to help.

"Kill me," James whispered as tears spilled from his eyes. "Do not let them take me again."

Bruce shook his head, holding James in more of a hug than just physical support. "No, we can't do that, James."

"Please," he begged.

"We will keep you safe, friend," Thor said, putting an arm around James too, followed by Natasha and Stark. Barton remained a safe distance away but his expression lost its hostility.

For the second time since James Buchanan Barnes returned from the dead, he felt the gentle hands of the Avengers coaxing him back to himself.

One

James couldn't remember exactly how he had made it from the rain forests of Bolivia to his own bed, but there he was. His head felt hazy as he looked around the room. He needed to shower and eat, so he gave himself a few moments before getting up and walking to the bathroom.

He scrubbed the sweat, blood, and dirt away, then allowed himself some time to let the hot water relax his muscles. The serum ensured that his injuries were healing but he still felt the ache of some of the harder hits he'd taken. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, then dressed in a fresh pair of sweatpants. When he emerged from the bathroom, he heard voices coming from his living room.

Stark was arguing with someone, but trying to keep his voice down. "You think it's a good idea, Nat? You saw him –"

"He was scared, Tony," Natasha interrupted. "You, of all of us, know what that kind of fear can do. He's spent seventy years not having to deal with it. He has no coping skills."

"That doesn't mean we send the kid in there to, I don't know, hug it out!"

"I'm not a kid," a deeper voice said, a voice that James hadn't expected to hear. Steve. "I've got some experience with PTSD and trauma recovery. I want to see him."

"What if he doesn't want to see you?" Stark asked.

"Then I'll let him tell me that," Steve countered.

James would have been impressed that Steve could stand up to Stark so easily – if he wasn't cowering on the floor of his bedroom. The voices stopped but James heard footsteps approaching his door. There was a soft knock which he didn't answer, then another.

"James," Steve said, "It's me, Steve. I'm coming in, okay?"

James pressed himself into the corner, hoping that he was invisible; if Steve didn't see him, he might leave. But when the door opened all the way, Steve's eyes found his immediately.

"Oh, James," he whispered and took a few steps into the room, then he stopped. "Is it okay if I come closer?"

James shook his head, "No, Steve." Steve nodded and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. He was fully in James' view but maintained some distance. He was smiling, keeping his expression open and comfortable. "W-what are you doing here?" James asked.

"I missed you," Steve said.

James took a breath; his mouth was so dry. "You shouldn't be here, Steve."

Steve nodded, "I should be at work."

"I'm not – I'm not safe to be around right now," James whispered.

"Tony and Natasha are here," Steve said. "But I'm not afraid of you."

James shook his head, "Steve…" How could he not be afraid? James had murdered hundreds of people; he could kill Steve with his flesh and blood arm before Natasha or Stark even entered the bedroom.

"Work has gotten busier," Steve said, interrupting James' thoughts. "We're so close to finishing the design but we hit a snag, so I've been working late every night."

James blinked. Steve wasn't asking him if he was okay; wasn't asking what happened. He was simply… talking. He wasn't pushing into James' space or pressing him for anything he couldn't give. This topic was one that allowed James to just listen without the expectation of responding.

"After we finish," Steve continued, "we're supposed to get a bit of a break and I'm hoping to take a few days off. But then we have another big project for a different company. It will be so nice to get some time off after all this, though."

James swallowed around a dry throat and asked, "W-what are you going to do for your vacation?"

Steve's smile became warmer, brighter, and James felt that sunrise inside him again. "I was hoping I could spend it with you."

James couldn't explain it but, one moment he was terrified and, the next, he was moving. He crawled toward Steve on the floor and, when he could, he reached out and pulled Steve against his chest. Steve wrapped both of his arms around James' waist and James buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck.

"Steve," he whispered. "Thank you."

James knew that Stark and Natasha were just outside, waiting to ensure Steve's safety, and James was profoundly grateful to them for that. He wanted to be a man, someone that Steve would be safe with; someone who would take care of Steve and never let him come to harm.

"Steve," he said, taking deep breaths. "You make me feel human. I can't repay that. I want to be good… for you."

Steve's hand rubbed up and down on James' back, soothing him. "I want you as you are, James. I don't want you as you were seventy-five years ago. This," he said, pulling back and touching James' cheek to hold his eye contact. "This is who you are and this is who I want to be with."

There was nothing in Steve's voice, his eyes, or his expression that made James doubt what he was saying.

"I'm dangerous, Steve," he said, though his voice trembled.

Steve smiled, a more diminished one, and said, "You don't want to hurt me, right?" James shook his head; his eyes were wide in fear at the very thought. "Then you won't. I've known plenty of guys who didn't mind pushing a little guy around because I'm small and can't fight back."

James blinked; a hot rage burned inside him and he got to his knees. "Others have hurt you?"

Steve put his hands on James' chest. "It's alright. It was the past. Come on," he took James' left hand and stood up to lead him out of the bedroom. "You must be starving."

James was; he had no idea how long he had been asleep but he knew he had not eaten much the two days they were fighting HYDRA. But he couldn't temper the fire inside him, the pure fury that someone would lay hands on Steve that way. James knew he was smaller than some men but Steve was kind and smart, he cared about others.

"Steve," he whispered.

Steve stopped and turned around to face him; there was a guardedness to his expression that James had never seen before. Well, he had – but only on himself. Steve wouldn't discuss the topic further; James saw that.

He swallowed and asked, "What would you like to eat?"

Steve smiled and the wariness melted away. "Tony ordered pizza. A lot of pizza. The others were on their way over, if that's alright."

James gasped, surprised that any of the Avengers would want to be near him after what happened. He remembered pushing Stark; he remembered how afraid they had all looked; but then he remembered each of them reaching for him, even Barton.

He didn't respond but did grab a t-shirt to ward before they continued walking into the living room area. There, sitting on his furniture, were the Avengers.

"James," Bruce said, standing up. He was fully dressed now, though still looked a little pale. "We hope it's okay we called Steve."

James nodded, "Thank you."

There was a knock at his door and James flinched, but Stark headed toward it. "Food's here!"

Steve led James to an open area on the couch and they sat together. Stark returned with five boxes of pizza, paper plates, and napkins, followed by Thor with two cases of beer. They all found seats and Barton suggested, "Anyone up for a movie?"

They searched through James' sparse collection for a few seconds before Stark took control of the Smart TV and signed into Netflix. James loved movies; he had a few memories of seeing old picture shows in his youth but he hated leaving the apartment to go buy them. The ones he had were given to him by Natasha or Barton as gifts.

He avoided movies that featured war stories or excessive violence. He had seen enough of both. He enjoyed love stories and comedies, but really liked fantasy and science fiction films, such as Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. He remembered, before the war, that he read cheesy sci-fi dime novels when he could afford to buy them. Seeing the stories come alive on his television helped him remember what Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes had been like.

It felt as though he was given a little piece of that life back and every bit was precious to him.

That evening, James Buchanan Barnes ate dinner with Steve Rogers and The Avengers. Steve pressed close to him as they ate. Steve finished two pieces of pizza and threw his trash away before coming right back to sit in the same spot. Everyone ate a few pieces each, but James ate nearly two boxes on his own. But no one said a word.

When the movie was over and dinner cleaned up, The Avengers said goodnight, leaving Steve and James alone in his apartment. He was painfully aware that he was aroused merely by the idea of being so close to Steve but he was also exhausted.

Steve could see the dilemma on his face and said, "Do you happen to have a spare toothbrush?"

James blinked, then nodded, "I have many."

Steve smiled, "Is it alright if we just sleep?"

"Wh- you want to stay?" James asked, shocked.

Steve's grin widened and he said, "I missed you."

James smiled too and stepped forward, pulling Steve against him. He wrapped his metal arm around Steve's back and buried his flesh hand in Steve's hair, then pressed his nose into it. He let his fingers touch the shaved part of Steve's hair, tracing the intricate lines. Steve wrapped his arms about James too and they just stood there for what could have been an hour or a minute – it didn't matter.

"Thank you," James whispered. "Please stay with me."

They walked to James' bedroom, holding hands. Steve went into the bathroom first, so James sat down on the bed to wait. He tried to adjust the pillows and took a moment to sniff the sheets and other bedclothes to make sure they didn't stink. Steve emerged from the bathroom wearing only an undershirt and his boxers; James forced himself to avert his eyes and walked past Steve to brush his own teeth. He splashed cool water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked at the scarring on his shoulder, surrounding the metal arm, and wondered why Steve wanted him.

Steve was truly beautiful – inside and out. He was kind and caring; he never treated James any differently than other people, apart from the flirting and kissing. James rubbed his neck and stretched it. He pulled his t-shirt off and left the bathroom to find Steve lying on his side on the bed, beneath the covers.

Steve was staring at James' chest, seeing it for the first time. "Jarvis," James said, "Lights, please."

The room went dark and Steve whispered, "Cool."

As James lay down, he pulled Steve's back against his chest and wrapped his flesh arm around his waist. "Is this okay?" He asked, shaking from a mix of diffidence and fear.

Steve's breathing was even but he nodded his head and readjusted himself. "Yeah, 's nice."

James bit his lip to hold back the flood of heat that threatened to escape beyond his control if Steve kept pressing against him that way. His breath hitched but he forced himself to think about other things.

In his mind, he took apart a Dragunov SVDS folding stock sniper rifle and cleaned it thoroughly.

A short time later, James' breathing had evened out as well. It wasn't long before they had both fallen asleep, wrapped around one another.

Freightcar

James awoke as sunlight spilled through his window. It was December and had been cloudy nearly every day. He was still holding Steve tightly and he marveled at how well they fit together. He had not often thought of having a lover – not that he and Steve were lovers, yet – but one fear he had was that he would be too big for Steve. Too broad in the shoulders; too thick in the thighs; too wide in the waist. Steve was perhaps five-foot-seven and was barely even as wide as the length of James' forearm.

James was not only keenly aware of the visible size difference, but of his own strength. Could he be totally aware of himself at all times, as Thor had told him? What if he were to get lost in the sensations and stop paying attention, even for a moment? He could snap Steve's leg, or fracture his hip, of crush his sternum. He could –

"Stop thinking so hard," Steve mumbled, sleepily. "I can hear the wheels turning."

James blinked. "I don't know what that means."

Steve chuckled and explained, "It's an expression. It means that you're thinking so hard about something, I can hear your brain trying to work it out." James considered that for a moment. "You're still doing it," Steve said, his tone amused.

"I'm sorry, I cannot help it," James said, hiding his face in Steve's hair.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked.

James felt his body heat up with embarrassment. Surely, he couldn't tell Steve he was imagining all of the ways sex with a Super Soldier could disable him? "I – I was thinking," he stuttered, "th-that I could hurt you."

"You won't, James," Steve said. "I trust you."

James sighed, trying not to argue. "I don't… I don't mean – I mean, I was thinking –"

"A-about sex," Steve supplied, suddenly.

He was trying to keep his voice even, but James heard the quiver. Steve was facing away, but James could see the change in his pallor, the way his ears and neck turned pink. It eased James' own anxiety, knowing that Steve was nervous too.

"Yes," he breathed.

Steve swallowed and said, "You think you'll get carried away and break me."

His voice was flat and James worried he had made Steve angry. "I am afraid I will… forget myself. You are very strong, Steve, but I am engineered to be stronger than other men. I am engineered to kill."

"You were," Steve said, looking at James over his shoulder. "What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

James was barely breathing when he said, "I know. But I did it."

Steve rolled over – an awkward action, considering that they had been pressed against one another – and took James' face in his hands. "I'm not afraid of you. I know you think I should be but I'm not."

James looked over Steve's face, his eyes flicking to Steve's lips for a moment before he leaned forward. "I am afraid, Steve," he whispered.

Steve met James in a kiss, using his hold on James' face to tilt his head for a better angle. James wondered, if kissing could become muscle memory, could other things? He pressed with his left leg to roll Steve onto his back; he held himself up with his left arm and let his flesh hand wander. He felt Steve's pronounced collar bone, his protruding ribs, the soft, plush skin of his belly, and the sharp jut of his hip bones. Steve gasped and wound his hands into James' hair, while he wrapped one leg around James' waist.

James pulled back a few centimeters, "Tell me to stop and I will."

Steve nodded but said, breathlessly, "Don't stop."

James smiled and pressed his lips to Steve's again. Steve shimmied himself so he could wrap his other leg around James, cradling him with his hips. They both moaned and James reached around to touch Steve's lower back and press their hips together harder.

"Oh," Steve groaned, gripping James' hair tighter.

James wanted to hear every sound Steve could make; he wanted to be the reason Steve made those sounds. He let his hand wander further and felt the roundness of Steve's ass.

"James," Steve gasped, reaching to feel the bare skin of James' back, digging his nails in.

"Steve," he whispered, digging his knees into the mattress to grind their hips together. The way Steve gasped and scratched and whispered nonsensically – all of it had James' mind reeling. He leaned down and began kissing along the sensitive skin of Steve's neck, continuing the slow and steady motion of his body against Steve's.

James knew he was fully hard; he had been pretty much since he saw Steve in his boxers and t-shirt the night before. But the feeling of Steve's erection pressed against his own was sweet torture. He wanted to know what it would feel like if they were both naked; he wanted to remove Steve's shirt and taste more of him.

"Steve," James whispered against Steve's ear, "I want to see you. Can I take your shirt off?" Steve froze and James pulled away, eyes searching for signs of distress. "Do you want to stop?" He asked, slipping his flesh hand out from underneath Steve's body.

Steve bit his lip, then reached down and took hold of his shirt. He hesitated a moment longer before he pulled it up and over his head. James leaned away to allow himself to admire the newly exposed skin. Steve's hair was a mess; his lips were pink and swollen from kissing; his pupils were blown wide; he was breathing heavily; and his blush didn't stop at his neck – it resonated across his chest too.

"Beautiful," James whispered, allowing his flesh hand to explore. He could see the outline of Steve's erection through his boxers and he wanted to touch it and taste it.

"Use the other one," Steve whispered and James' eyes snapped to meet his. Steve's cheeks were pink but he had so much lust in his eyes, it made James gasp. "Please, touch me with your other hand too."

James kept his eyes locked on Steve's face as he sat back on his knees, allowing him to move his left arm. His fingertips brushed from shoulder to shoulder, dancing along Steve's collar bone. He understood that the arm was wired into his nervous system somehow – Stark had explained it to him – but it had never allowed for sensation. It could detect heat and cold, recognize when it was gripping something – usually a weapon – but it could not feel.

This arm, however, was different; designed by Stark, it simulated nerve endings. He knew that Steve's skin was soft, that it was warm, and had a light sheen of sweat. James could feel it and he knew he needed to thank Stark somehow because, for the first time in seventy-three years, James Buchanan Barnes felt the body of another person with both hands.

"What is it?" Steve whispered.

James shook his head, whispering, "я тебя чувствую."

Steve smiled but said, "English, please."

James looked at Steve and chuckled. "Sorry, it is hard at a moment like this." Steve nodded but his eyes were heavy with lust as James repeated, "I can feel you."

Steve began arching into the touch; the cool metal left goosebumps in its wake and his warm flesh soothed them. The fingertips of both hands grazed Steve's nipples and he moaned, gripping the sheets.

"Oh, yes, James," Steve breathed and James repeated the action over and over, watching Steve twitch and writhe. "Oh, fu- James, please," he gasped.

"What do you need, Steve?" James asked, his own voice sounding husky.

"Ah! I – I need you. Please, need you."

James groaned at the desperation in Steve's voice. For the first time since he was rescued, James was grateful he couldn't remember if he had made love before or with whom. He wanted to share this experience with Steve alone. It felt as though it was always meant to be Steve.

"Yes, Steve," he whispered, "anything for you."

"James, I –" Steve gasped, "I think I – I'm f-falling in love with you."

James' eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. "You – what?" He asked, the shock evident in his voice.

Steve's reaction was immediate; he covered his mouth with one hand and grabbed his t-shirt with the other; he began pulling it back on, while simultaneously attempting to get his legs to one side of James. His face had become splotchy red and he was biting his lip, avoiding making eye contact.

"S-sorry, I'll just go," Steve said, reaching for his pants.

For too many seconds, James did nothing but stare in awe that someone so wonderful could love him. But, by the time he recognized that his response had hurt Steve, Steve was already getting off of the bed.

"Nyet," James said, reaching out and wrapping both arms around Steve's waist, hoisting him back onto the bed. "Nyet, do not go," he said, blinking tears away. "Stay, Steve, stay with me."

Steve wasn't struggling but he was crying, though James could tell by the way his jaw was clenching, he was trying to stop. He wasn't looking at James either and was trying to cover himself with his jeans.

"Steve, you make me so happy, I cannot get words out. I – I wish I could tell you in Russian how special you are to me. I love you, I love you so much, Steve. I feel that I have known you forever; that I have been protecting and caring for you for ninety years.

"Maybe – maybe I have. Maybe I was waiting for you. I could not be a person until I could find you." As James spoke, Steve's tears eased and his jaw relaxed; then, he met James' eyes. "Please, Steve, please don't go. I think I loved you when we met. Maybe you are old soul and we have met many times before."

Steve remained silent for almost a minute before he said, "Who knew you were such a sap, Barnes." He pulled James into a tight hug, laughing as he went.

"Fuck you, Rogers," James replied, laughing too.

Steve wrapped his legs around James' waist again and whispered, "I thought you were gonna."

James felt lightheaded after nearly all of the blood in his body rushed southward. "Jesus, Steve," he groaned.

He wrapped both arms around Steve and sat back on his knees, pulling Steve into his lap. They kissed each other hard and a little desperately but it was amazing.

"Oh my God, James," Steve groaned.

He moved to kiss James' neck and shoulder, along the scars. James gasped and his hands moved to Steve's hips, pressing down as he pushed his hips up. Steve was moaning as he sank his teeth into James' shoulder and James thrusted harder.

"Goddamn it, Steve," he groaned, trying to maintain control.

"Your pants," Steve mumbled, "Want 'em off."

James almost tossed Steve on the bed in his rush to do as Steve said. For his part, Steve laughed and pulled his shirt back off. When James' sweats came off and Steve saw that he was naked underneath, he swallowed. The look on his face was a mix of lust and fear.

James asked, "This is… okay?"

Steve's eyes snapped up and he said, "God, yes."

James sighed in relief and reached out to touch the waistband of Steve's boxers. He watched Steve's erection twitch on contact and he asked, "Can I… can I undress you?" Steve nodded, licking his lips and James' eyes followed the motion. He whispered, "я тебя хочу."

"English, please," Steve teased, grinning.

"It all sounds same in my head," James said, then he gripped Steve's boxers and slipped them down his thighs. Steve gasped as the cool air touched his skin. "Бог," James whispered.

"I have no clue what you're saying but it sounds so sexy," Steve groaned, gripping the sheets.

"я хочу любить тебя," James said.

"Come on, James," Steve whined, trying to pull James closer with his legs. "Please, please."

James kissed Steve's neck and shoulders before making his way down Steve's abdomen, leaving small bite marks along the way. He found Steve's nipple and kissed it, then lapped at it while Steve shivered and arched into James' mouth.

"James, ah!" He gasped and gripped James' hair again.

James moved to Steve's other nipple before he continued kissing and nipping his way down Steve's body. The closer he moved to Steve's erection, the more Steve shook and moaned. Finally, James reached the pool of precum that was growing under the steady stream dripping from Steve's cock. James licked the entirety of it up in a few strokes of his tongue, all the while avoiding its source.

"J-James, oh – oh God," Steve whined, tightening his grip on James' hair and throwing his head back.

"Hey," James said, tapping Steve's sternum until he looked down. "Watch me," he whispered, maintaining eye contact while Steve groaned out desperate sounds.

James used his flesh hand to touch Steve's erection for the first time – gently running his fingers from tip to base. Then, he wrapped his hand around it to hold it up while he licked the tip. Steve cried out but tried to keep his eyes locked on what James was doing. James took the head in his mouth and sucked.

Steve was biting his lip so hard, the skin was turning white, but James knew he was determined not to look away. James closed his eyes to allow Steve to relax and tried to take as much of Steve into his mouth as he could.

"Ah! Ahhhh, ohhh," Steve threw his head back onto the bed and cried out.

James bobbed his head up and down, each time trying to take Steve all the way. When he realized that, if he kept doing that, he would gag, he used his flesh hand to increase the stimulation.

"Oh, fu- James, st-stop, 'm gonna come, stop," he begged, trying to pull James off by his hair.

James released him when Steve said 'stop' and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Steve was shaking harder now, breathing heavier, and James remembered that Steve had asthma.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

Steve met his eyes and smiled, "Yeah, I'm so, so good."

James smiled too and said, "Do you want to stop?"

Steve shook his head, "No, but do you have, um, lube?" James nodded and opened the bedside table drawer, pulling out the lubricant and condoms. "You want to use a condom?" Steve asked.

James nodded. "I am Super Soldier and, theoretically cannot be infected with or transmit any communicable disease," he explained, "but that is only theory." He touched Steve's cheek with his metal hand. "I want to keep you safe."

Steve smiled and asked, "Do you know what to do?"

James nodded, "I did research."

Steve cocked his eyebrow and grinned, "Research, huh?"

"Yes, I read and watch videos."

Steve's smile turned wicked and he asked, "Videos?"

"Of men having sex," he explained. "To learn how."

Steve was trying not to laugh, so he said, "Let's find out what you learned in class today."

James blinked and cocked his head, "I do not have class. I teach myself."

Steve smiled, "What, you don't remember all the guys from your day?"

James shook his head, "I don't believe there were any."

"What?"

James shrugged, "I understand it was illegal for men to be lovers."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't," Steve suggested.

"You are right but many things I do now, they feel, how do you say…?" He sat back a bit and muttered to himself in Russia. "Familiar. Like I have done them before. But this," he gestured to Steve and himself, "it does not."

Steve pulled James back down against him so suddenly; James nearly dropped his entire body weight on Steve's small frame. He caught himself just as Steve lunged for him, pressing their lips together. This action also brought their naked bodies together for the first time and Steve gasped as James moaned into the kiss.

Steve breathed, "I'm honored. To be your first."

James smiled and said, "It could also be that you are like no lover I have had."

Steve chuckled, "Ain't that the truth. Now, come on," he said, grabbing the lube, "show me what you've got."

"I'd like to," James grinned and took the bottle.

He moved Steve's leg and positioned him on his left side, then James lay down behind him. He wrapped his metal arm around Steve's chest, keeping them pressed together. James placed the lube in his left hand and popped the cap, drizzling some onto his fingers, closed the cap, and tossed it onto the bed.

"You must tell me if I hurt you," he said, his voice level.

"I will," Steve whispered, watching James' face, "I promise."

James nodded and reached down between them; his fingers slipped along the cleft of Steve's ass and Steve gasped. James kissed his temple, his cheeks, and his lips as he located the furled muscle he sought. He watched Steve's face intently as he swirled his fingers around the opening. Steve was breathing heavily and his skin had taken on that pink shade again; his eyes seemed hazy and unfocused. James slipped a finger inside, slowly, and released a shaky breath when Steve moaned.

James pushed his finger all the way inside; he twisted it, gently, as the videos showed him and was rewarded when Steve gasped and turned to muffle himself in his pillow. James repeated the motion, listening to ascertain exactly where his touch felt the best and he figured it out very quickly.

"Can I try another?" He asked, breathing into Steve's ear, and he nodded.

James slipped the first finger almost all the way out and began pressing a second finger inside. He took this one much slower, knowing from his research that it could become uncomfortable. But Steve was pressing down on him, trying to take more.

"I can take it," he whispered. "Come on, I can."

James groaned as he pushed both fingers inside to the knuckle. Steve shivered and James began twisting his hand again, knowing that spot was just around –

"Oh, God!" Steve gasped.

James smiled and focused on rubbing that spot as he spread his fingers, trying to keep Steve's focus on the pleasure and not the discomfort. He used his left hand to touch Steve's nipples, adding more intensity to Steve's moans.

"Come on," Steve whined, "one more."

James ignored him; he continued to rub Steve's prostate and toy with his nipples, reveling in the sounds he made and the way his body jerked. He knew he was causing this pleasure and that was heady knowledge.

"Please, please, please," Steve begged, bucking his hips involuntarily.

James nodded, "Anything for you."

He slipped his fingers out and pressed the third one inside. Steve clenched before the first knuckle was in and James stopped. He leaned down and began kissing and sucking on Steve's neck, focusing on the sensitive skin behind his ear, while his hand pinched Steve's nipples as gently as he could. After a few moments, Steve relaxed and James pushed in more and more until his knuckles met the skin of Steve's perineum.

"Oh, fuck," Steve groaned. "Were your fingers this big before the serum?" James shrugged and was about to answer but Steve cried out. "Please, please, don't make me wait anymore."

James whispered, "Блядь," and slipped his fingers free.

He wiped his hand on the sheets and reached for the condoms. He held the wrapper in his mouth to tear it and slipped the condom over himself with only minor difficulty. Steve popped the cap on the lube for him and drizzled some into James' hand. He spread it over his dick, moaning at the intense feeling.

"Steve," he hesitated, "you are sure?"

Steve groaned and said, "Get the fuck in me, Sergeant."

James grinned and said, "Yes, sir," before he pushed against the tight ring of muscle. Once the head of his dick slipped in, he bit Steve's shoulder and gripped his chest, holding him close. It was so tight and warm; Steve was clenching around the girth of James' dick and the sensation was making James see stars.

Steve's head was beneath James', thrown back against his shoulder; his mouth was open and his eyes were shut. He had reached back and was digging his nails into James' hip, though not pushing him away, but pulling him closer.

"Oh, oh, James, yes," he groaned.

James waited a few more moments before he pressed inside further. He was focusing on being careful and gentle; he made his left hand grip the sheets instead of grip Steve because he couldn't be sure it wouldn't cause damage. After what felt like hours, James' pelvis met Steve's ass and knew he was ripping the sheets but he didn't care. Steve was moaning almost constantly, pressing himself back to take more though there was no more to take.

"Oh, fuck, Steve," he groaned. "Вы – вы чувствуете себя удивительно. Я люблю тебя больше чем что-либо. Oh, God."

He continued rambling in English and Russian, trying to keep from getting carried away and hurting Steve. He gripped Steve's hip to keep him from moving anymore because it was almost too much.

"H-hold on, Steve," he begged.

Steve shook his head and pulled Bucky's hip again. "Want it," he whined. "Want you, wanna feel you."

James grit his teeth and nodded, pulling out a bit and thrusting back, then again, pulling out a bit further this time. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered, clenching his eyes shut and making his movements slow and deliberate. "Oh, God, you feel so good."

"You do too," Steve gasped. "I'll be okay, please, you can let go."

James shook his head, "No, Steve, I – oh, fuck – I can't."

Steve's hand left James' hip and reached around to cup the back of his head. "Come on, James," he whispered, "you said I'm strong. I trust you. Let go."

James bit Steve's shoulder again and pulled further out; he paused for a moment and snapped his hips, hard and fast. Steve cried out, tightening his grip on James' hair and arching his back. James began a punishing pace; he was sure his hand would leave bruises on Steve's hip and his teeth would leave terrible marks on his shoulder, but God, he couldn't stop. As long as Steve continued to make those sounds and pant in that way, James didn't think he'd ever find the strength to stop.

"J-James, yes, oh, fuck, make me come, please, fuck," Steve was saying and James growled – growled – against his shoulder.

He snapped his hips harder, feeling his own orgasm steadily approaching. He released Steve's hip and gripped his cock, jerking it in time with his thrusts and Steve got louder. James didn't think he could survive the sounds Steve would make when he came; each noise rushed more blood to James' cock and he was sure everything else was bone dry.

"Oh, yes! James, yes, yes!" Steve cried out, arching his back.

James watched as Steve's release coated his hand and the bed, but James had to shut his eyes as Steve's body clamped down on his dick. "Fuck, I'm so close," he groaned and Steve turned his head while he pulled James' hair, bringing their lips together. James' thrusts became imprecise and erratic; he was losing control and had gone back to gripping Steve's hip. They kept kissing and James felt like he would die.

Then, Steve bit James' lip and he snapped his hips harder than ever before – harder than he should, but Steve cried out in pleasure. "Come for me," he groaned, "please, James, please, come."

And James did – he came so hard, he thought he might cry. He buried himself inside Steve; his metal and flesh arms wrapped around Steve's chest as he shuddered and grunted.

They remained like that for several minutes, breathing hard and pressed together as close as they could be. When James pulled out, he kissed Steve's neck and the spot he had bitten so much. Steve smiled, still looking a little loopy. James gripped the condom and slipped it off, throwing it in the trash by his bed. He grabbed some tissues and wiped some of the come off of Steve's dick, then reconsidered.

"Would you like to shower?" He asked.

Steve turned to look at him and nodded, "But you may have to help me get up."

James' eyes widened in panic and he began looking Steve over. "I hurt you. How bad? Do you think something is broken? I knew I shouldn't –"

"James," Steve interrupted, rolling over onto his back. "Nothing is broken, torn, sprained, or anything else you're imagining right now." James didn't really believe that; he could imagine a lot of things. "It's just been a while since, you know. It'll be easier next time."

James felt himself blush at that comment; the knowledge that Steve intended for this to happen again – the he wanted it – made James' dick twitch. "The serum shortens my refractory period," he said. "Next time could be in the shower."

Steve cocked his eyebrow, "Is this lube water soluble or will it hold up?"

James grinned, "Want to find out?"

"Fuck, yes."

James didn't wait for Steve to get up; he slipped his arms under Steve's shoulders and knees and picked him up. He carried Steve into the bathroom as they laughed and kissed.