Archive of Our Own ^beta

Day 37

He scratches it into the wall with his nails. Partly because he has no knife, but mostly out of a defiant refusal to use the foreign metal they’ve welded to his skin and called an ‘arm’ for anything.

His shoulder still stings and burns, and it’s made worse by the fact that his latest attempt to rip the prosthetic monstrosity off of himself was only yesterday.

He hears the door to his cell scrape the stone floor, and he turns around with a scowl on his face. He’s ready to spit in the face of any soldier or try to bite the invading hands that touched him just yesterday. He shudders at the memory.

Zola enters and scribbles something down on his notebook. He pulls in a chair and sets it against the opposite wall that Bucky’s arms have been chained to.

Bucky wishes the chains were long enough to let him throttle Zola. To let him slice his skin and shock him and dump ice water on him and call it giving him a wash. To make him lick up his own vomit off the floor like a fucking dog because how dare he waste the food so graciously given to him.

“Hello, Asset.” Zola says, deceptively pleasant, watching Bucky carefully.

“Eat my ass.” Bucky replies flatly. He’s gonna keep insulting this piece of shit till his dying day.

Zola gives a disapproving hum and scratches something off in his notebook. “No solid food today, then.” He says casually. Bucky wonders about how easy it would be to remove the man’s head from his shoulders. “There's only two words you need to say to get actual food. It would be so simple, wouldn't it?”

Heil HYDRA.

“It’d be simple for you to put a bullet in your own ugly fucking face but here we are.” Is what Bucky says instead.

Zola rolls his eyes, making another note in that stupid red book with the little black star on the front.

Bucky dreams about setting that book on fire.

Maybe eating it and shitting it out on Zola or Karpov’s face.

God, he desperately wants to have something to actually eat. A guy can only get fed so much gray nutrition sludge through a feeding tube that was forcefully shoved down his throat before he starts praying to god for something solid. 

He spends a lot of time biting shit in his vacinity in an attempt to mimic the feeling of actually eating.

Anyway, he doesn't like that notebook.

“Perhaps you require more disciplinary action. I think Karpov would like a conversation with you anyway.” Zola says calmly, standing up.

Fuck. Bucky really fucking hates it when Karpov wants to talk.

“Short visit from you, huh? Got tired of talking to someone who visibly has a dick five times your size?” Bucky asks. Not his best, he’ll admit. A bit of a reach just to tell Zola he has a small cock, but if they're gonna force him to sit in here naked all the time, they can deal with his insults in relation to dick size.

Zola doesn't rise to the bait and simply scribbles down another note. Bucky wonders if he's got a section dedicated to his precious soldier’s different cock jokes.

Fuck, Steve, you better be really proud of me for all the shit I'm coming up with here. Talking worse than you did when you were still skinny.

He thinks about Steve in the brief, blissful moments of silence he's provided while Zola fucks off, and he feels his chapped lips cracking into a smile. Tiny, skinny little 5 foot nothing Steve Rodgers.

Oh how he misses his stupid little Brooklyn shithead.

He's probably buying a ring to propose to Peggy by now. Do people marry each other in a month? He can't really remember what time is like in normal life anymore. 

Ah, well, good for you, Stevie, if that's what's happening . Never thought you'd get hitched before me, but I'm proud of you.

The made up scenario of Steve getting married to Peggy is actually ridiculous. Even if a month was a normal amount of time, Steve wouldn't get over Bucky that quick. He wouldn't let himself move on.

Maybe Bucky’s just hoping Steve hasn't moved on yet. That he hasn't forgotten the nights they spent curled up in that one shitty mattress in their tiny one bedroom apartment. That he hasn't forgotten the way they held each other. The way their lips felt locked together.

He's dragged out of his memories when the bars of his cell swing open and about five armored men enter.

Really, it's pathetic that they need this much fire power to get him around. Yeah, whatever, he's a super soldier now. But he's also refusing to use the crazy metal arm they gave him and he moves so little on his own that his legs basically can't hold him up.

Well, unless they force him to stand for several days on end, which they have done before. A few times. Once it was on broken feet. That was a week he'd rather forget.

They unlock the shackles on his wrists only after several people have taken hold of his arms, and he doesn’t fight it when they start dragging him out of his cell. He used to in the first few weeks, but he’s smarter now. He knows there’s no point in such a batshit escape attempt. That’s not him giving up. That’s him being realistic. He knows to wait for an opening. He knows not to give them more excuses to beat him senseless because that helps no one. 

He can wait. He can wait for someone to let their guard down. He can wait for this stupid place to get raided. He can wait for Steve to come busting in here with the other Howlies and start ripping people apart. He can be patient. He can wait.

They strap him into the chair they always strap him to when they want to give his arm maintenance, which is also always when Karpov elects to speak with him.

He scowls at Karpov when the man takes a seat in front of him, sucking on the cigarette between his fingers and blowing the smoke out in Bucky’s face. He huffs out a laugh at the glare he receives because of it, as he always does. Bucky makes a point not to cough, though his eyes do water a bit. “I have some exciting news for you today, boy.” He says, holding up a rolled up newspaper.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Have you finally decided to kill yourself?” He asks, and braces himself for a slap that never comes.

Odd. Karpov never lets him get away with blatant disrespect like that.

“It’s about your dear friend, Captain Rogers.” Karpov continues, and Bucky immediately looks up, eyes widening in spite of himself. “Yes, yes. You were very close to him, weren’t you? When did you meet again?” He asks.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, Jamie, what have I told you about getting yourself into fights? You mustn't start rough housing, it won’t end well for anybody.” His mother tells him as she gives him a cold rag to press against his black eye. 

James huffs as he holds the cloth to his swollen, aching face. “But, ma! They were beating on little Steve Rogers! There were four of them and he was tryna fight ‘em off, but they were all so much bigger than him! What was I s’posed to do? Let him get hurt?” He defends himself.

Winnifred looks at James for a moment, taking her eyes off of his split lip and ripped up trousers to cradle the side of his face in her palm. “Of course you had to do something. I know…You should’ve told me it was the Rogers boy. Lord knows that poor family’s been through enough already.” She sighs, picking up her sewing needle and thread and getting to work on James’ pants.

James tilts his head. “Because he lost his pa?” He guesses.

Winnifred frowns at James. “You shouldn’t bring such things up, Jamie. You might upset him.”

James nods, feeling a little guilty. “...I like Steve. He’s nice. And fun. And he’s super good at art! We were drawing today and he made this really pretty flower on his paper!” He says.

Winnifred gives James a smile. “I like Steve too. Sarah Rogers is a good woman. I like her.” She regards James thoughtfully for a moment. “Are you friends with that boy?”

James thinks for a moment, remembering the events of the day. Complimenting Steve’s flower, passing notes in class, walking him home after they’d both been thoroughly beaten up. He nods, at his mother, beaming. “Yeah! I am! Stevie and I are friends!” He declares proudly.

Winnifred cocks her head to one side. “Stevie, is it?” She asks.

James nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! He said we should have nicknames, so I’m gonna call him Stevie, and he’s calling me Bucky! Because of Buchanan! I like being Bucky!”

Winnifred laughs to herself, looking back down to James’ pant leg as she continues to sew. “Well, you can be Bucky to whoever you like. You’ll always be my little Jamie.”

~ ~ ~

Bucky stares at Karpov for a few seconds before he answers. “Second grade.” 

Karpov tuts, starting to unroll the newspaper. “Oh, such a strong bond for such a long time. This news may be quite upsetting to you, then.” He hums as he drops the paper onto Bucky’s lap.

THE SEARCH IS OVER: CAPTAIN AMERICA OFFICIALLY DECLARED DEAD

Bucky stares at the headline for what feels like years. Maybe he’s just feeling all of his years drain out of him. All those years he spent with Steve.

But this isn’t true. This can’t be true. Of course it isn’t true.

Howard Stark’s search party uncovered nothing, even after a full month of relentless searching. It is with a heavy heart that he declares the American hero, Steve Rogers, Captain America, as dead. Killed in action.

“...Fake.” Is all Bucky is able to spit out. “Lies. lies. Lying. Liar. LIAR!” He shouts, trying to jump to his feet and launch himself at Karpov. The straps around his ankles and wrists keep him firmly locked into the chair, but he struggles nonetheless. “YOU’RE A LIAR! YOU’RE LYING! LYING! LIES LIES LIES LIES !” He screams.

Karpov is grinning at him. His metal arm is creaking and groaning as he uses it in a vain attempt to free himself and kill the man in front of him. No, the roach in front of him.

~ ~ ~

The floor boards creak and groan as Bucky carries Steve back to his bed, frowning at him. “No! You’re stayin’ in bed! That’s what your mom said, so that’s what’s happening!” He says firmly, practically wrestling with Steve’s sick body in his attempts to swaddle him.

“No! I’m not sick! I’m fine, Buck!” Steve protests, for probably the 12th time this afternoon. 

Bucky glares at him and finishes wrapping his friend up in blankets. “Mrs. Rogers said you’ve gotta stay in bed. You got the flu, Stevie. That’s serious! I’m taking care of you till your mom gets back. I don’t care what you say to try and convince me otherwise.”

Steve scowls at him for a few seconds before he sinks into his mattress with a loud sigh. “Fine. Gosh, we’re only 12 and you’re making me feel old.” He mutters angrily.

Bucky frowns at him and reaches over to gently pat his shoulder. “Sorry, Stevie. You gotta get better. And sleep’s the best thing for that. So go to sleep and I’ll see if my Ma can make you some pie for when you next visit, yeah?” He asks.

Steve yawns and nods, almost immediately starting to succumb to sleep like he needs to. “Yeah…sounds good, Buck.”

Bucky smiles at him and sinks down into the chair beside the bed, watching him sleep. So peaceful. So beautiful.

~ ~ ~

Eventually, someone sticks a cattle prod into Bucky’s ribs. And someone else into his stomach. And into his ribs on the other side. And into wherever else they can reach, he can’t tell. He doesn’t pass out, though. He just sits in the chair as they tinker on his arm. He tunes out what Karpov’s saying. And he stares at the newspaper on the ground.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

~ ~ ~

“Steve, are you crazy!? You could have died!” Bucky says as he pulls Steve into their apartment and slams the door shut behind him. “What were you thinking? You’ve done some dumb shit before, but this might honestly take the cake.”

Steve says nothing for a bit, just wipes the blood off of the cut on his face and rubs his broken nose.

Bucky sighs, realizing yelling isn’t gonna do anything for anyone. “Just- come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He says, walking with Steve to their bathroom.

“You need to get cleaned up too. You took more hits than me.” Steve argues.

“I was getting you outta there! I’ll clean up once you’re done.” Bucky asserts. He sits Steve on the closed toilet seat and starts pulling out their first aid kit, only to find that Steve’s already trying to open it, snatch bandages, and press them on Bucky.

“Hey! Stop that! Steve!” Bucky wrenches the box away from Steve, who’s glowering at him. “You’re getting patched up first, I don’t care what you say about it.” He says firmly, kneeling down and dabbing cotton swabs carefully at the cuts on his face. “...What were you thinking, Steve?” He asks eventually.

Steve sighs. “They were harassing a girl. I told them to leave her alone. She got out before you got there.” He murmurs.

Bucky sighs as he starts to bandage up the cuts across Steve’s frail little body. “Figured it was something like that.” The image of checking in that alleyway only to find Steve, crumbled up while two huge guys, bigger than Bucky, kicked at him. It was unpleasant, to say the very least. “I’ve given you the ‘be careful’ speech a million times. I know it’s never gonna stick. Could you at least try to get out once in a while? Run away? For once?”

Steve gives him a look that Bucky knows already, and Bucky sighs. “Wanna go to the cinema this weekend?” Steve asks in lieu of an answer.

Bucky gives him a grin. “So long as you promise not to die on me.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Eye eye, cap’n.”

~ ~ ~

Karpov’s hand is in his hair, but Bucky can’t even bring himself to throw it off. “I wonder if he thought about you in his final moments. I doubt it. He’d probably already moved on. After all, Captain America must have had quite some luck with women.”

Bucky feels tears sliding down his face.

~ ~ ~

Bucky feels tears sliding down his face. It’s so fucking embarrassing. He shouldn’t be crying. It’s even worse because nothing even happened. He’d just been sitting there on the couch with Steve, talking to him about how he should try going out with girls from time to time.

And now he’s crying. Him. James Barnes. Crying. For no god damned reason.

“Hey, hey, Buck, what’s going on?” And leave it to Steve to still be kind about it. Fuck this.

Bucky looks at the floor, determined to avert his gaze from Steve’s. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” He insists disingenuously. “Spec of dust in my eye, that’s all. Promise, it’s all fine. Nothing to worry about.” 

Steve’s small hands move to rest on top of Bucky’s, clasped in his lap. 

Bucky’s breath hitches.

Fuck.

“Please look at me, Buck.” Steve says quietly.

Bucky turns his gaze up to him, and immediately, he’s lost. Those large, earnest blue eyes take him by storm, and he finds he can’t look anywhere else. 

“I don’t want any girl. I want you. Just you.” Steve tells him.

Fuck.

Not in the way Bucky wants him.

“I- I’m just a guy.” Bucky says stupidly, unsure of what to say.

“You’re more than just anything. I love you, Buck.” The words are like a prayer, falling from Steve’s lips without remorse and without shame. Falling from lips that are pressing into Bucky’s, gentle and soft.

They don’t pull away for a long time, holding each other on their little couch in their little apartment.

Bucky stares at him, breathing shallowly. “...Shut the curtains.” He says breathlessly.

Steve tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because I love you too.” Bucky answers.

Bucky’s the one who shuts the curtains that night. Steve was too busy pouncing on him.

~ ~ ~

“After all, what do you have that someone else couldn’t simply replace, hm? Why would he think of someone like you in his final moments? A mangey dog like yourself.”

~ ~ ~

Bucky carefully leads Steve around their tiny kitchen, smiling at him as the smaller man trips and staggers a bit. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Don’t get frustrated. It’s slow dancing, Stevie. Don’t rush it.” He instructs admonishingly.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling at Bucky playfully. “Yeah yeah. Whatever. Just teach me to dance already, jerk.” He snaps.

“What do you think I’m doing right now, punk?” Bucky shoots back.

The day and the lesson turn out to be enough of a success that Steve is no longer trying to go quicker than the music, and isn’t stepping on Bucky’s toes anymore. It’s not as if it hurt when he did, though. 

Steve’s leaning his head on Bucky’s chest, one hand on Bucky’s back and the other intertwined with his fingers while Bucky keeps a hold on Steve’s hips. 

“I'll never smile again
Until I smile at you
I'll never laugh again
What good would it do?”

“I like this song.” Steve hums as they dance. “Till the end of the line.”

“Till the end of the line.” Bucky agrees, and leans down to capture his lips in a kiss.
~ ~ ~

Karpov leaves after another hour of gloating. Bucky stays still and silent while they work on his arm for the next two hours. When they drag him back to his cell, he doesn’t crawl into the corner where he usually goes. He just sits on the floor in the middle of it.

Slowly, he lifts his head up, throwing it back and staring up at the ceiling. He sees the stars in the sky, illuminating Steve’s smiling face before the concrete replaces it. Dark and dirty and cold.

Bucky rises and staggers on his feet a bit as he stands there in the middle of his cell. “...You wanna dance with me, Stevie?” He asks the ceiling. “I’ll sing. Just for you…” His voice is raspy and rough now from dehydration and lack of use. But Steve won’t mind. Steve always loves him just as he is. He wraps his arms around himself and sways side to side, slowly dancing around his cell. Alone.

Around his little kitchen with his Steve in his arms.

“I'll never smile again
Until I smile at you
I'll never laugh again
What good would it do?
For tears would fill my eyes
My heart would realize
That our romance is through
I'll never love again
I'm so in love with you
I'll never thrill again
To somebody new
Within my heart
I know I will never start
To smile again
Until I smile at you
Within my heart
I know I will never start
To smile again
Until I smile at you
Until I smile at you”