Chapter Text
The elevator ride is smooth as it carries Bucky and John up to their level of the Watchtower. The glass panels reflect the bruises and dust from battle that still cling to their uniforms.
John’s shield hangs awkwardly at his side. He thought he would be used to it by now. But seeing how Steve throws his shiny new disc around to take down their enemies is enough to irritate him every time he glances down at his own arm.
Bucky keeps silent. The stiffness in his gait betrays the toll of the third mission this week Valentina had sent them on.
According to Yelena, Val hadn’t bothered with an excuse, nor did she seem to care that her intel could have gotten one of them killed earlier this week. Expect the unexpected, she said. All part of the job.
They swing open the door to Bucky’s unit, the place they both prefer. Bucky keeps his place neat, unlike John, who hardly spends any time in his own apartment at all. Now the space looks and feels lived-in, with John’s things scattered throughout.
As they step inside, a warm, synthetic voice chimes overhead.
Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes, Captain Walker. Your vitals suggest moderate fatigue and elevated cortisol levels. Shall I recommend meditation protocols?
John freezes mid-step, his shoulders snapping rigid. His eyes dart to the ceiling. “What the hell is that?”
Bucky drops down heavily onto the couch with a dull thud and rubs a hand down his face. “It’s CLOC.”
John frowns. “It’s a clock?”
“No, John.” Bucky sighs, the sound heavy with tender exasperation. “Centrally Located Organic Computer. CLOC.”
The AI’s voice interjects smoothly: Designation confirmed. Thank you, Sergeant Barnes.
John blinks, mouth half-open, before he scowls. “That is annoying as hell.”
Bucky drops his head back onto the cushions behind him and closes his eyes. “You’d know this if you actually paid attention during the daily, instead of scrolling on your phone. Val’s rolling it out across the building this week.”
Still standing in the entryway, John bristles. He glares up at the tiny security camera in the corner of the room, out of commission until presumably just recently. “I was checking my email for mission updates.”
“Sure,” Bucky says flatly. “Mission updates. On X.”
CLOC chimes again, helpfully: Captain Walker spent ninety-four percent of the briefing accessing non-mission-related data feeds.
Bucky’s chuckle rumbles low and deep.
John glares at the ceiling. “Great. Even the damn building’s against me.”
Bucky slowly unlaces his boots with sharp tugs. John drops his bent shield onto the counter and then comes over to collapse onto the couch next to him, sprawling wide across it.
John breaks the silence first. “You want to order something for dinner? I’m kind of feeling Thai tonight.”
Bucky doesn’t look up. Slowly, he says, “I kind of told Steve that I’d grab Gray’s Papaya with him.”
John throws his head back with a groan. He’s already resigned himself to sharing Bucky’s time with Steve. An unspoken arrangement where some evenings Bucky will go to Steve’s apartment in the tower. They probably order pizza, rehash the same war stories, and call it bonding while John gets left out in the cold. All the things John can’t compete with, because how do you top Mr. Perfect and the Glory Days ?
Bucky always comes back. Always climbs into bed with him every night. But John thinks he’s still allowed to be a bit miffed about the situation.
“Why does it feel like he’s taking my boyfriend out on a date?”
“We’re grabbing hot dogs, not candlelight.”
“Doesn’t matter,” John mutters, half serious, half joking. “The guy shows up, steals all the air in the room, and now he’s stealing my dinner plans too. Perfect Steve Rogers,” he mutters under his breath, pulling a face. “What can’t the guy do?”
Bucky snorts under his breath.
John pauses, then straightens with a serious expression on his face. “Do you think Yelena likes him more than me?”
Bucky finally glances over, his brows furrowed. “Why do you care who Yelena likes more?”
John shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I already know where you stand.”
That earns him a faint huff of amusement. “Oh, really? Now you’re cracking jokes?”
John shrugs, lopsided and self-deprecating. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m capable of humor. Dark, bitter, soul-crushing humor, but still.”
Bucky shakes his head and leans back. His expression shifts, suddenly serious. “Steve’s not perfect. You just think he is because you’re trying too hard to measure up.”
John lets out a scoff and rolls his eyes. “Aren’t I always? Story of my life—Captain America’s shadow.”
Bucky studies him for a moment, the look on his face soft and wry. “You’re not in his shadow. You just keep putting yourself there.”
John blinks. He shifts in his seat, trying to cover his discomfort with bravado. “Yeah? And how am I doing?”
Bucky’s smirk curves wider. “Better than you think.”
John pulls a face of consideration. He suddenly shifts closer on the couch, tilting his head toward Bucky. “So… what time are you meeting the old Boy Scout?”
Bucky glances down at his watch. “About an hour.”
John raises a brow. His voice dips lower. “Plenty of time, then. We could… do something else first.” His hand suggestively brushes Bucky’s thigh, casual but deliberate.
Bucky huffs a laugh but doesn’t move away. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably efficient,” John counters as he leans in, his grin cocky and wide. His hand slowly trails upward. “I should send you off to him with my marks all over you. Fuck you so hard you’re going to be limping the whole way there, dripping with my—”
The speakers hum to life, interrupting: Human sexual references detected. Tone recorded as inappropriate.
Bucky throws his head back with laughter.
John groans and snaps at the ceiling, “CLOC, shut the hell up.”
Acknowledged, Captain. Muting.
Bucky smirks, shaking his head. “You keep picking fights with it, one of these days it’s gonna lock you out of the building.”
“Whatever,” John mutters, already tugging Bucky up by the wrist. “Come on. Let’s not waste the little time we’ve got.”
Bucky lets himself be pulled toward the bedroom. The soft thud of their feet on the floor echoes through the quiet apartment.
They collapse onto the bed, urgency and relief mingling into something familiar. Lips and hands meet, and for the next hour, the world outside the room ceases to exist.
From the corner of Bucky’s bedroom, CLOC’s lens silently swivels.
Tracking, recording, always watching. Even here, in what should be their private sanctuary, nothing goes unseen.
Bucky rounds the corner on one of the R&D levels of the tower. Ahead of him, he catches the familiar curve of John’s shoulders. Blond hair reflects the warm light that shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hall.
Without hesitation, Bucky closes the distance and reaches out, fingers curling around a hand like he’s done so many times before. “Hey!—”
The figure stops and turns.
Bucky freezes. He jerks his hand back, his heart stumbling for a beat as he looks up into Steve’s face.
“Steve.” Bucky blinks. Then he takes in the faint, embarrassed downturn of the other man’s expression. “Oh. Ohhh. Valentina finally got you, huh?”
Steve exhales through his nose, making a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. She said we’re going to start press soon. So…”
Bucky glances up at the freshly cut and dyed blond hair. The new look, in combination with the casual hoodie and jeans, made him almost indistinguishable from John from behind.
That throws him more than he wants to admit.
And now, with the cropped blond hair, neatly trimmed beard, and the casual clothes to soften the edges, Steve looks younger—much more like the man Bucky remembers from another life.
“So much for my silver fox days.” Steve’s voice drips with dry humor.
Bucky blinks, still struggling to name the feeling that knots in his chest when confronted with the proof that the two men who matter most to him look so unnervingly alike.
Steve’s features echo John’s in a way that tricks the mind at first glance. Yet the tilt of his smile, the line of his jaw, the calm steadiness in his eyes—it’s all Steve.
In his silence, Steve seems to be reading his mind. His eyes narrow with mischief, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilts his head. “Did you think I was John?”
Bucky’s cheeks warm, and he chooses not to answer.
Steve grins, his eyes teasing. “You have a type, don’t you?”
Bucky rolls his eyes and lets the moment hang. Then he huffs a laugh and shakes it off. Deflecting, he says, “I gotta hand it to Val—you clean up pretty good, Rogers.”
Steve laughs, and together, they resume walking down the hall.
Bucky feels the knot in his chest loosen. Still, the resemblance lingers in Bucky’s mind, stubborn as a shadow.
*
The gym is dead quiet at five-thirty in the morning, save for the steady rhythm of John’s fists hammering into the heavy bag. The chain rattles with each strike, his breath sharp and ragged as sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. He enjoys the solitude at this hour, before the rest of the team is up. Nothing but the sound of his own pulse and the leather cracking under his fists.
A few more rounds and he might make it back to bed before Bucky is even up. He loves morning sex when Bucky is still groggy with sleep, while he runs hot from adrenaline.
Lost in his thoughts, John doesn’t notice the figure in the doorway watching him until the bag swings wide and his rhythm breaks.
Steve.
The man leans casually against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. Even in workout gear, he looks too put-together. Too steady. His head slightly tilted as he studies John, his gaze appraising and unreadable.
“Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
His instincts scream: I do mind. Instead of voicing it, John wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of a wrist and says, “It’s an open gym, pal.”
Steve’s smile is thin. “I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot somehow,” he says as he steps into the room.
John doesn’t bite, turning back to the bag. “Nice hair,” he mutters, before he resumes driving his knuckles into the leather. Handsome bastard, he adds in his own head.
He hopes that would be the end of the conversation. But no such luck.
Steve’s voice follows him, calm and measured. “Come on, John. You’re Bucky’s partner. And I’m… well—the whole world knows my history with Bucky. You and me, we should try to get along. You know, for his sake.”
The words dig under John’s skin like barbed hooks. Further reminders of the significance of this man in Bucky’s life. The bigger man. He forces a laugh, but it comes out rough and hollow. “Yeah. And you always have his best interests in mind, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” Steve’s answer is immediate. “Bucky’s been through enough. He deserves something good. He deserves stability. I just want to make sure he has that.”
John’s jaw clenches. His fists freeze, and he suddenly thinks he might want to go another round—this time with Steve on the other end instead of a punching bag.
He’s been itching to fight the guy ever since he watched him spar with Bucky. Partly so he can see how he matches up. And partly just so he can punch that smug, perfect face. But he knows how that would look to Bucky. So he holds back.
“You think I’m not those things?”
Steve doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. He just looks at John with that infuriating calmness.
“I don’t know, John. You tell me. You’ve barely said ten words to me since I got here. You always seem… tense around me. Is it because you think I’m judging you?” He lets the pause hang in the air. “Or is it because you’re judging yourself?”
The silence that follows is suffocating. John tries to swallow it down, but his throat’s dry. He hates the way Steve just stands here, calm and patient, like he’s not even trying.
He silently curses Valentina. The new look only sharpens him, makes him look better than ever. It leaves John feeling exposed. Weak. Vulnerable. A pathetic fear claws at him, ridiculous but unstoppable—that Bucky might see this shiny, polished version of Steve, and forget John was ever in the room at all.
Ridiculous.
John finally mutters, “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”
Steve’s smile softens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know you think I’m a threat. You don’t need to worry. If there’s one thing I know about Bucky, it’s that he’s loyal. To a fault. He wouldn’t betray you. He wouldn’t leave you just because…” Steve’s voice dips, almost kind. The next words land like a knife. “... well, because history’s hard to compete with.”
John feels the heat crawl up his chest, every nerve screaming at him to swing a fist and break that smug look on Steve’s face.
But Steve is already turning. He pauses right by the door, just long enough to add, “From what I’ve heard, you’re doing better than most people thought you would.”
The heavy bag creaks on its chain. It’s the only sound in the room save for the echo of Steve’s words that hang in the air long after he’s gone.
*
Ava doesn’t like being snuck up on. That’s supposed to be her trick.
So she’s glad she doesn’t visibly jump when she looks up from her phone and her coffee to see John standing a mere foot away from the couch she’s sitting on. His jaw is tight, eyes hard in a way that makes her pause.
He usually greets her with a cocky grin or a sarcastic jab. Today, though, there’s no trace of humor on his face.
“Got a minute?” He asks. But it doesn’t sound like a question.
Ava drops her phone onto the table with a clatter. “Sure. What’s going on?”
John doesn’t waste time. “You’ve been talking shit about me to Yelena?”
She blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“You heard me.” John’s voice is sharp, edged with something dark that she’s not used to hearing from him. “I see you two always whispering. Laughing. You think I don’t notice? What exactly are you telling her? How I screw up missions? That I’m reckless, that I can’t keep up?”
Ava frowns and straightens. “If I had something to say about you, I’d say it to your face,” she says slowly. “You know that.”
“Do I?” He steps closer and uses every inch of his towering height to loom. “Because it sure feels like you’ve been running your mouth behind my back. Yelena looks at me like she already thinks I’m a joke. Reviewing mission footage, looking for places where I’ve fucked up—”
Her pulse spikes, but she’s not one to back down when forced into a corner. She stands to her full height, meeting him eye to eye. “You’re being paranoid. If you’ve got problems with Yelena, don’t put that on me.”
John scoffs, dry and humorless. “Whatever. Gonna talk shit behind my back?” He leans in, close enough that she can feel his breath. “You better watch yours.”
Ava stiffens, hands curling into fists at her sides.
For a moment, his gaze pins her in place, unblinking. She’s used to John’s bravado, his stupid, hot-headed temper. But this—this feels different. More dangerous.
And then, just as suddenly, he eases back. His mouth curving into a thin smile.
He walks away, leaving her standing alone, chilled by the coldness of his words.
The next mission goes wrong. And there’s a storm brewing in the air when they return.
Alexei barrels through the bay doors, Yelena limp in his arms. Her head lolls against his chest, her blood painting his suit with even more red as he charges straight for the med bay.
The double doors slide shut behind them with a whoosh , leaving the rest of the team lingering on the flight deck, raw and vibrating with nerves until it breaks all at once.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Bucky’s voice cracks like a whip, sharp enough to make everyone flinch.
He turns to John, steel eyes burning into him. “You were supposed to wait for my signal. Instead, you—” His gaze drops to the blood on the floor of the quinjet. His jaw locks so hard the muscles jump. “She could have died.”
“Don’t put this on me.” John shoots back, his voice is defensive, coming out too quick. “I was following your signal—”
“You were supposed to wait until she was clear,” Ava snaps, trembling with fury. Her voice is merciless and cold. “We all saw it. You didn’t wait!”
“I was doing my job!” John explodes, spinning on her. His voice is too loud, too defensive, and no one is buying it. “You think I wanted her to get caught in it? I was going after the target like you told me to!”
“No.” Bucky’s voice is low and sharp enough to silence the room. The air stills, and his glare doesn’t waver. “You don’t get to spin this. You ignored protocol. You ignored me . And Yelena is the one paying for it.”
John’s fists clench, then loosen, and then clench again. His voice lowers, desperate now, wobbling between anger and panic. The guilt bleeds into it now, too. “You said she was clear, Bucky. I heard you,” he says quietly. “I swear, I heard you say it.”
Ava scoffs in disbelief.
Bucky shakes his head, slow and deliberate. The anger fades, replaced by… disappointment, maybe even pity. “I didn’t, John. I told you to hold.”
John’s face twists, searching for footing that he doesn’t have. “Look, I—I know this looks bad, I’m sorry—”
“You’re benched,” Bucky cuts him off flatly. “Until further notice, you’re off all missions.”
The words hit heavier than any blow. John’s expression goes between disbelief and devastation. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky’s voice stays level and calm. “This isn’t a minor blunder that we can overlook. This isn’t the first time you ignored direct orders—it’s just the first time someone got hurt because of it!”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Ava folds her arms tight. Her glare on John doesn’t soften, and there’s not an inch of kindness in her eyes.
Steve stands off to the side, quiet through it all as he watches the exchange. His face is unreadable. That calm, steady look gnaws under John’s skin, worse than Bucky and Ava’s shouting. It makes his skin crawl, like Steve’s already decided he’s a fuck up that will never measure up to anything.
The sliding doors hiss open again. Without another word, Bucky strides inside, Ava just a few steps behind. Presumably to check on Yelena. A beat later, Steve wordlessly trails after them—though not before flashing John a look, something sharp and smug that vanishes as quickly as it came.
John stays rooted in the hangar, the silence pressing down heavily. For the first time in a long time, he feels small. And utterly, completely alone.
*
The door of his apartment swings shut behind him. John presses his back against it like he’s holding off an attack. He barely makes it over to the couch before his legs give out. He sits heavily, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and he drags both palms achingly slow down his own face.
Now, alone in his apartment where he so rarely spends his time, the silence presses in on him. Choking him like a hand around his throat. He still hears Bucky’s voice echoing in his head: You’re benched.
Benched. Like he’s a rookie who can’t be trusted. Like he’s a liability instead of a soldier.
He’s been called worse. He’s been dragged through the mud before, but this time it cuts deeper—because it came from Bucky.
His fists tighten until the veins stand out against his skin. “Damn it,” he mutters, but the sound comes out cracked and unsteady. He raps his knuckles against his temples as the scenes play out over and over—the image of Yelena falling, the sound of Alexei’s roar as he carried her off, the look on Bucky’s face when he said ‘ you ignored me’ —carving him open.
John tips his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He tells himself it wasn’t his fault, but it feels hollow. He tells himself that he heard the order, that Bucky said Yelena was clear.
But now… the doubts creep in.
And he can’t shake it.
You keep fucking up. You’re not good enough. You never were. That’s what they all think. That’s what Bucky thinks.
His breath hitches. “You’re screwing it up again,” John mutters at the empty room, his voice cracking. “You’re losing it. He’s halfway out the door—”
An uglier fear: Out the door and back to Steve.
Steve, standing quietly in the corner. Steve, with his calm eyes, and the way the others look at him like he’s gravity itself, pulling them into his orbit. Steve, slipping into the team as if he’d been there all along, like John was only ever a placeholder for him. For the team. For Bucky.
John rubs his hands over his face, trying to hold himself together. His breath comes fast and shallow as panic bubbles under his ribs. What if Bucky doesn’t trust him anymore? What if Bucky looks at Steve and realizes John was only just a piss poor substitute all along?
“Stop it,” John mutters to himself, forcing his eyes shut. His nails dig crescents into his palms. But the more he tries to shut it out, the louder it gets: You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough. Not for the team, and not for him.
John chokes on a bitter laugh that breaks into something closer to a sob. His throat burns as he presses his hands to his face, ashamed of the hot sting at the corners of his eyes.
He’s going to leave you. He’s going to leave you for him.
The dangerous, restless energy burns through his limbs. But there’s nowhere for it to go. There’s nothing to fight. No enemy to attack. Only the four walls of the room and himself.
And then—a knock at the door cuts through his spiraling thoughts.
John stiffens and wipes at his face quickly with the heel of his hand. The knock comes again, still soft, but maybe a bit impatient now.
He thinks for a second that it’s Bucky, he hopes that it’s Bucky—
“It’s me,” a voice calls through the door.
Bob.
John draws a shaky breath and drags himself up to open the door. Bob stands behind it, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. He’s dressed in sweats, like usual.
Bob is the one who always stays behind. The one who makes sure there’s hot food waiting when they get back, usually a delivery order from their steady rotation of places. He’s the one who patches up whatever minor cuts and bruises Yelena picks up out there.
This time, the injuries are not so minor.
Now, Bob shifts uncomfortably outside his door. “Hi,” he says with an awkward wave.
“Hi,” John grumbles in response.
“Bucky… may have suggested that I check on you.” Bob’s voice is quiet, careful.
John swallows hard, the words hitting him like a balm and a bruise. A small kindness from Bucky. Proof that he hasn’t written him off completely. But the thought twists in his chest anyway.
“He should have done it himself then,” John mutters, his voice low and rough.
Bob studies him for a beat, not flinching at the edge in his tone. He just shrugs. “Maybe he figured you needed someone who hasn’t yelled at you in the last twenty-four hours.”
John scoffs. His throat tightens, and his anger wobbles into something more fragile. Then he sighs and steps back, suddenly exhausted and thankful for the company.
So Bob steps inside and closes the door behind him. He carefully follows John into the living room.
“I don’t really know the details of what happened,” Bob says to start. “They didn’t tell me. I just kind of figured you shouldn’t be sitting here alone in it.”
John leans back against the couch cushions and stares at the ceiling, unable to meet his eyes. Softly, hesitantly, he asks, “How is she?”
“She’ll be alright. They’re already patching her up in the healing pod. And you know Yelena’s stubborn as hell. I’m sure she’s gonna have some choice words for you when she wakes up though.”
John squeezes his eyes shut, his chest tightening. “Yeah. I guess I can’t blame her.”
“Yelena’s not as scary as she seems,” Bob says. And then he adds dryly, “I mean, it only really sucks this much when you get in trouble and you’re sleeping with the boss.”
John’s head snaps up and he pulls a face. “Bucky’s not my boss.”
“Sure, pal. Keep telling yourself that.”
For a moment, the tension breaks. But the levity dies quick, and the panic and self-doubt creep in again. He drags his hands through his hair right as it all spills out of him.
“It just feels like Bucky doesn’t even want me here right now. Like I’m just… screwing everything up again. And Steve—” John cuts himself off, his jaw clenching tight. “Steve’s perfect. It feels like he’s always watching me, waiting for me to fall on my face. Waiting for me to fuck up, so he can swoop in like the perfect hero he is.”
He buries his face in both palms, drowning in his own self-pity.
Bob watches him spin out without interrupting. Then he simply says, “You’re still here though, aren’t you?”
John stops. He pauses, and blinks at him.
“Yelena will be fine. Bucky will cool off. You’ll get another shot. Just don’t tear yourself apart before then.”
“You think they’ll give me another chance?” John says quietly.
“Of course. You’re part of the team.” Bob says easily. Then he adds, “Bucky trusts you. He trusts you with his life.”
John frowns, not really knowing how to answer the nonchalance. “Thanks, Bob.”
Bob leans back in his chair as he ponders. “You know, when Steve first showed up, I was kind of taken with him, living legend and all that. But he’s kind of… standoffish.”
John’s brows pull together.
“He doesn’t really say much to me,” Bob continues casually. “Not like he does with the others, you know? It’s almost like… he goes out of his way to keep his distance.”
John frowns, suddenly unsettled. “He does? From you?”
“Yeah. Like whenever we’re alone, he makes some excuse to leave the room.” Bob shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I guess I’m too boring for Captain America.”
John shifts in his seat, suddenly uneasy. Something about that doesn’t sit right with him, though he can’t put his finger on it. Bob isn’t exactly hard to get along with. Hell, he’s the chillest guy in the building. If Steve is keeping his distance from him, it’s not because Bob is boring.
He tells himself it shouldn’t matter, that he doesn’t care what Steve does or doesn’t do. But suspicion burrows under his skin. There is one reason that someone would want to avoid Bob. A big one.
And if that’s it, then what the hell is Steve hiding?
*
Bucky sits alone in the dim light of the ops room.
“CLOC, pull the mission logs from today. Video and audio. Ten minutes before exfiltration.”
The AI’s calm voice answers immediately: Compiling requested data, Sergeant Barnes.
The screens flicker to life. Footage queues up across the displays. Bucky leans forward in his chair, eyes fixed on the footage, watching the mission unfold in cold, time-stamped clarity.
He sees Yelena sprinting across the catwalk. Hears the crackle of gunfire below. On another screen, he catches John’s side, crouched behind a pillar. The detonator in his hands.
Bucky’s jaw works, muscles tightening, waiting for the moment he remembers.
He hears his own voice over the comms, sharp and unambiguous: “Hold position, Walker. We’re not in the clear.”
A beat of silence.
Then John’s voice, low and hard: “Got it. Moving on target.”
The footage jolts—boots pounding on metal, and the camera jerks as an explosion ripples through the air. Yelena’s sharp cry cuts through the noise as she’s thrown hard, followed by the panicked shouts that follow.
Bucky flinches.
He jabs a finger on the console and the feed sputters to a stop, frozen on Yelena’s fall. Silence swallows the room, broken only by his slow, steady breathing.
He drags a hand down his face, eyes closing. His chest aches, not just with anger, but with something heavier and far more tired.
The evidence is there, clear and undeniable.
He gave an order. And John had ignored him.
Bucky leans back in his chair as he exhales slowly, the sound weighted like a sigh. His shoulders sag, all the fire and fury drained, leaving only a dull heaviness. And disappointment.
“Damn it, John,” he mutters to the empty room.
He wanted to believe him.
But the logs don’t lie.
Bucky returns to an empty apartment.
The place is dim, washed in the faint glow of the city through the wide windows in his living room. He drifts towards them, pressing his forehead to the cool glass. Below, New York churns with life, but it feels distant.
The anger has long burned out, leaving behind only a quiet, hollow ache. He doesn’t know what to say to John anymore. And he doesn’t want to yell anymore. So he stands by the window, bathed in the light of the city. He’s resigned to being alone tonight.
A knock breaks the silence. Bucky frowns, turning away from the city. John wouldn’t usually knock. But tonight is not a usual night.
When he opens the door, Steve stands behind it. No uniform, just a plain shirt and jeans, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s nervous.
“Hey,” Steve says quietly. “Can I come in?”
Bucky studies him for a beat. “I don’t think I’ll be great company tonight.” But he steps back anyway, letting Steve follow him inside.
Steve’s presence fills the space immediately, too big for the room, too familiar in ways that unsettle Bucky more than he’d like.
“You okay?”
Bucky shrugs and silently retreats back to the window as Steve settles somewhere behind him. The silence stretches until Steve breaks it, his voice softer than Bucky expects.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For not being here.” The words come out simple, but heavy. Steve’s gaze doesn’t waver. “For letting you down when you needed me. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, I tried to do the right thing, but… I kept letting you down.”
Bucky exhales, long and slow. He shakes his head, too tired for this talk. “You made your choice. You don’t need to—”
“I do,” Steve cuts in. He steps closer. In the glass, his reflection looks raw, stripped of the easy steadiness he usually wears. “I regret it, Buck. Every day. I should’ve been here, by your side. Instead, you had to fight your demons alone. And I don’t want to fail you again. I just want to be here for you. With you.”
Bucky looks down at his metal hand, flexing the fingers, the faint whir of servos the only sound for a moment. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. Not when his mind is still on John. “You’re here now, Steve,” he mutters. “It’s fine.”
Steve takes the answer quietly, then steps forward like it’s not enough. “I want a chance to do better this time. To be what I should’ve been. If you’ll let me.”
The apartment goes still, the hum of the city muffled through glass and walls. Bucky’s throat tightens, though he keeps his expression carefully blank.
Something in him softens, just for a beat. He finally turns away from the window to look his oldest friend in the eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you and me never had the chance we deserved. We never got to see if we could’ve been something more. When I lost you, I—” Steve abruptly stops. Then tries again. “This is why I came back. To give us another shot. A real one.”
Bucky stares at him, chest aching with a familiar pull that’s both comforting and so very dangerous. He knows that look in Steve’s eyes—the steady, unshakable kind of devotion that once anchored him through hell.
When Steve made his choice to stay back in time, Bucky was in no condition to offer himself as an option. And when the dust settled, and Steve was gone, Bucky spent years wondering, doubting, never certain if what he felt was ever returned. Now, he finally has his answer. It’s a comfort, a relief… tangled with the cruel weight of it coming too late.
John’s face flickers in his mind. John’s messy, imperfect brand of loyalty. The stubbornness that makes Bucky furious, yet makes him feel so humanly alive beside him. The man who, against all odds, he’s chosen.
Bucky’s voice is rough when it comes out. “You can’t just walk back in after five years and expect me to drop everything for you. I’m—I’m with John, you know that.”
Steve’s jaw tenses. “I love you. I’ve loved you my whole life. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, torn between the weight of history and the fragile, imperfect future he’s building now.
When he doesn’t answer, Steve’s expression falters. “I told you I’d have your back, and I meant it,” he says carefully. “Which is why I need to say this, even if you don’t want to hear it.”
Bucky frowns, wary now. “Say what?”
Steve’s gaze holds steady. “John’s not good for you.”
Bucky straightens, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“I know how it sounds,” Steve says, hands open in a show of peace. “But I’ve seen the way he acts. He’s reckless. He’s defensive. He doesn’t listen. And now Yelena’s in the med bay because of it.”
Bucky scoffs. “You think I don’t know all that? I was the one giving the damn order. But you don’t know him like I do, and you’re not writing him off after one bad mission—”
“I’m not writing him off.” Steve’s voice sharpens. “I’m just saying… Someone’s already gotten hurt. Next time, it could be you. And I can’t just sit back and watch that happen.”
He takes another step closer. “It’s not just this mission. It’s who he is. He doesn’t know how to put the team first. And you…” His voice drops, almost pleading. “You’re the one cleaning up the mess.”
“Don’t.” The word cuts like steel. “Don’t talk like you know him. John’s got his faults, but he’s trying. He’s learning. He’s here.”
“So am I.” Steve’s voice hardens. “He’s dragging you down. Putting you in danger because he can’t get out of his own way.” He lets the words hang in the air, before adding, “He threatened me, Buck. Did you know that?”
Bucky’s brow pulls together. “What?”
“He said he didn’t trust me. Told me to stay away from you. Said that if I made a move, he’d make me regret it. That’s not a partner, that’s paranoia. He sees enemies everywhere. Even in me.”
Bucky shakes his head. “John’s… intense. He’s got his flaws, yeah. But he wouldn’t…” He stops. That kind of rash, impulsive behavior kind of does sound like John.
“He wouldn’t hurt you,” Bucky mutters. Then a beat… “Not badly.”
“No,” Steve says quietly. “Maybe not. But he’s going to get you killed one day. Because he doesn’t think before he acts. Because he doesn’t listen. And because you’ll follow him down with blind loyalty.”
Bucky meets Steve’s eyes with hard steel in his glare. “You don’t know him like I do. You haven’t seen him fight for this team. For me. He’s not perfect, but he doesn’t quit. And I’ll take that over perfect any day.”
The apartment is thick with silence. The low hum of the tower’s systems feels deafening.
Slowly, Steve tilts his head, the angle sharp and unnatural. Like a mask slipping out of place. “I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. Not after we finally found our way back to each other.”
Bucky stiffens. He looks away first, uncomfortable. “Not your call to make.”
The words land like a wall between them. Steve doesn’t push further. He just wears that calm, steady look that feels more predatory than comforting.
Bucky’s chest tightens, wanting to break the silence. “I love him, Steve.”
“That’s the problem.” Steve’s voice has dropped to a low growl. “And you’ll forgive him anything. Even when he doesn’t deserve it.”
Bucky doesn’t meet his eyes.
“And what about me?”
“What about you?” Bucky echoes.
“I love you, too. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
For a moment, Bucky just stares, blank, unable to reconcile how a profession of love could sound so cold and empty all at once. His throat works. “I—I appreciate that, Steve. But I—”
Bucky breaks off, shutting his eyes, turning away. Too tired to keep fighting. He doesn’t want to argue anymore—not about John, not with Steve. His skull pounds from the mission’s aftermath, with worry for Yelena, and the weight of the mess with John.
And now Steve. Another weight on his chest when he can barely breathe. All he wants in this moment is space—room enough to think.
“I can’t do this right now,” he finally says softly. “I think you should go.”
Steve’s gaze flickers, something unreadable behind it. “Bucky—”
“No.” Bucky’s tone leaves no room. He forces himself to meet Steve’s eyes. “I appreciate you coming by. And thank you for your… concern. But you should really go.”
For a long moment, Steve doesn’t move. Something in his eyes hardens, cold and unexpected. A beat later, his expression smooths into reluctant acceptance. He gives a single, quiet nod and turns, stepping toward the door.
“Alright,” Steve says softly, his hand lingering on the door handle. “You know I just want you safe.”
“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. “I’ll handle it.”
“Buck. I love you.”
Bucky hesitates. “I love you, too.”
It tastes wrong on his tongue, a chill bleeding into his veins the moment the words leave his mouth. A nameless dread coils in him, and he doesn’t know why the words feel so wrong spoken to this man.
When the door clicks shut behind Steve, Bucky exhales hard, his shoulders sagging. He takes a breath. His head clears, just slightly, enough to remind him of what matters.
He can’t drown in Steve’s words, replaying them over and over until they hollow him out. John isn’t perfect, and right now things between them are strained and broken. But Bucky loves him. And that love still matters, even if there’s a mess to fix before they can find their footing again.
John’s insecurities about Steve had driven a wedge between them long before the man walked back into their lives. And now, with Steve’s confession hanging in the air… Bucky doesn’t even know where to begin.
*
In the darkness of the room, the laptop’s glow is the only light that shines. CLOC’s feed flashes across the screen, showing Bucky alone in his apartment, moving methodically, unaware he’s being watched. Every motion is magnified in Steve’s eyes—the flick of his wrist as he places dirty mugs in the sink, the dip of his head as he picks up a discarded hoodie from a chair—like a map he can memorize and own.
Steve doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe properly. His chest hitches, tight and shallow, in a caged rhythm. Bucky’s movements look ordinary, yet every mundane gesture sends a spike of adrenaline through him—anger, frustration, and obsession tangled into one.
A strangled sound tears itself from Steve’s throat. His fist lashes out before he even realizes it, smashing through the side table next to him in a splintering crash, scattering everything to the floor.
The laptop wobbles, still showing Bucky’s movements in cold, muted light.
“Wrong,” Steve whispers to the room. “You’re wrong. He’s wrong for you.”
His hands tremble on the desk. His movements are jagged, exaggerated, as though the walls are closing in, conspiring against him. He mutters under his breath—snatches of accusations and fevered promises—but always circling back to the same thought.
“He’s not good enough for you. He’ll never be good enough. Why can’t you see that, Buck?”
Steve shakes, but forces his gaze to stay on the screen, burning into Bucky’s image as the man walks into the bedroom. CLOC’s feed automatically switches to the other camera for him, so not a single moment is missed.
The glow of the screen casts his face in a mix of light and shadow that makes him look unhinged as he continues to shake his head furiously. “You’ll thank me when he’s gone. You’ll thank me when I fix this for you, I swear.”
The words come quicker now, tumbling out in a broken rhythm.
“I came back for you. I came back, and you’re wasting yourself on him.” His lips curl into a snarl, dripping with feverish conviction as he mutters, “But I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything. You’ll see… You’ll see.”
He nods, and then, like a switch has been flipped, Steve goes perfectly still. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, his face lost to the shadows. Each breath returns to a slow, carefully measured rhythm. Every second that passes is spent waiting and planning.
His thoughts drift to Bucky, to John, and to the space between them that he planted in the cracks and carefully nurtured. He knows what he has to do now. And when the time comes, the obstacle will be gone, leaving only a hollow space behind. That’s where Steve will step in. The partner who understands Bucky better than anyone. He’ll remind him of their bond that never truly broke. Piece by piece, he’ll rebuild what John never could.
In the end, no one will question it. Not the team. Not Bucky. Especially not Bucky. Because when the dust settles, he’ll make sure he’s the only one standing at Bucky’s side.
He can be patient until then.
Steve sits unmoving, the laptop’s pale glow carving his face into something sharp and unnatural. The feed plays on, soundless now. He watches Bucky strip down to boxer briefs and climb into bed. His movements are heavy, shoulders bowed. He watches him curl onto his side. He watches him toss and turn, restless into the night.
Steve doesn’t blink. He watches every shift, every sigh, every falter in the man’s breathing as he stares blankly at the ceiling.
Hours stretch into the night, and still, Steve watches.
When he finally rises, it’s with a steady calm. He crosses the room, kneels in the back of his closet, and draws out a metal case hidden behind a panel of the wall. He flips open the clasps. Inside, nestled in foam, lies a photostatic mask, its hexagonal surface glimmering faintly in the dark.
Steve changes the settings on the device, moving on from the last identity—the voice that had fooled John in the field. When he lifts the mask carefully, he watches as the new image shimmers across the honeycomb surface. Then he straightens, and with the mask in hand, he turns to leave.
The lock disengages with a quiet click before he even reaches for it. Steve slips into Bucky’s apartment like a shadow. He pauses just outside the bedroom door. Bucky’s breathing is uneven. He’s still awake. Still restless. Steve’s lips press thin, something dark and haunting flashing in his eyes.
He slides the mask into place, feels it hum against his skin as it reshapes around him.
The door opens, and Steve slips inside.
Bucky lies curled on the bed, his back to the door. His body tenses when the mattress dips under Steve’s weight. Slowly, carefully, Steve climbs in behind him, fitting himself into the shape of John’s absence.
An arm slips around Bucky’s waist. The other man stiffens at first, then turns to look behind him. “John?”
Steve lowers his mouth close to Bucky’s ear and answers in John’s voice, soft and steady. “I couldn’t sleep.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then finally, Bucky exhales. His body eases back into the embrace. He pulls the arm tighter around him, the tension bleeding away as sleep creeps in at last.
Steve holds him close, eyes unblinking. The mask hums faint and warm against his skin, but he doesn’t notice. All that matters is the weight in his arms. The man who has always been his—the man he fought worlds to get back to—even if he doesn’t know it yet.
*
Daylight filters through the window. Bucky stirs, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He rolls onto his back and finds the spot beside him empty. His brow creases. His hand drifts across the sheets. Still warm.
John must’ve slipped away early again. Probably couldn’t sleep either, not with everything going on between them.
The thought settles something in Bucky’s chest. John was here last night. He’s trying.
With a slow breath, Bucky lets himself believe that everything will be alright.