Chapter Text
Steve can’t tell whether it’s his empty stomach or the noises Bucky is making that wake him up. It may well be a combination of both. Whatever it is, he opens his eyes to find that he’s sitting in the same position from last night - propped up, his back against the headboard, his neck with an awful crick in it from falling asleep that way. His stomach growls at him, and Steve remembers his forgotten dinner - probably sitting on the dining table, now long past edible.
But Bucky’s not in bed with him, and that more than the hunger is what concerns Steve.
It doesn’t take him long to spot Bucky. He’s sitting on the floorboards, the Christmas tree - which is very much past its used by date but Steve hasn’t been able to get it out on his own - pushed up to one side of the room.
In front of him, Bucky holds the bag he’d dropped off his shoulder the previous night. That must be what made the noise that jarred Steve into wakefulness, especially since Bucky is typically so quiet. Steve blinks sleepily at him - Bucky returns his look. There’s something distant about his gaze, but beneath that there is a shuttered emotion, something Bucky wants to keep protected. It peeks through the cultivated neutrality, like a strong and vivid red bleeding through a single coat of white paint.
Bucky doesn’t say or do anything. He pulls things out of his bag, one hand pinky flesh, the other a glittering gold galaxy.
The first thing to be removed is a manila file, packed to bursting, without any labels on the front or spine that Steve can see. Not that he can see very much from that distance. Even with his glasses on, he hasn’t got super vision. Bucky places that file by his left, slightly behind his body - safely out of the way.
Next, Bucky pulls out clothes. He dumps them rather unceremoniously in a pile to the right of him. Laundry, Steve assumes. Some shoes follow, laid out in their matching pairs, ready to be returned to the wardrobe. They don’t look like the sort of shoes you wear for day-to-day activities. One is a pair of boots, well-worn - scuffed and stained in places, but functional. Next to them rest a pair of black sneakers, similarly roughened up.
Then Bucky pulls out a gun.
Followed by another.
And then a sheathed hunting knife.
Steve just stares, eyes wide. He’s seen guns before, sure, but never this close. Never like this, being handled as casually as if they are as dangerous as a pile of unwashed clothing. And Steve certainly never expected to see someone like Bucky with not just one, but two of them - and a knife as big as his head. It makes his heart rate stutter up a level, and a sudden stab of cold fear runs through him. Bucky was always capable of killing him, just with his bare hands. Now he’s surrounded by weapons, and Steve’s own helplessness is starting to sink in.
The urge to do something draws Steve upright, but Bucky doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. He’s pulling more things out of his bag - some rags, a bottle of something, a clatter of ammunition.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve begins, and for the first time he wonders if this should be where he draws the line. He’s taken all of Bucky’s other oddities in stride (maybe he hasn’t taken them in the best way, but he’s certainly tried), but this? This is - getting out of hand. Bucky could kill him three or four times over, at least.
Bucky glances up when Steve comes to a stop before him, and he tries to blink away the fog over his eyes but it doesn’t quite dissipate. “Did I wake you?” He asks, in a hoarse voice.
“Uh, kinda,” Steve answers, still using his best calm voice - the sort Steve would use to talk a dangerous, cornered animal out of tearing his organs from his body. He doesn’t want to consider how terrifyingly accurate that mental image is right now. “Are you - what’s all this?”
“Maintenance,” Bucky recites simply, mechanically, and Steve gets the horrible, sinking feeling that Bucky’s done this before.
Having no sense of self-preservation is working in Steve’s favour today, as he sits down carefully on the floor beside Steve. Sam would be proud of the fact that Steve briefly considered running away, if he planned on sharing that information. Bucky’s eyes watch him but his head doesn’t turn. He only moves once, to collect the folder and move it out of Steve’s reach. The guns, he doesn’t bother with. Is that an offering? A suggestion that the scales can be levelled out, at least a little?
Steve sits down cross-legged, picking a position where his knee will brush against Bucky’s side. He hopes that the touch will do something - will ground him, or bring him back from wherever it is he’s gone. But Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice him, besides a fleeting frown.
No, Bucky’s hands go straight back to the objects in front of him. Steve watches as Bucky picks up the first weapon, and starts to disassemble it. Steve is almost horrified at the ease with which Bucky works. He barely makes a sound as he lays the pieces of the gun out in careful order on a flat rag, and checks each part. Bucky isn’t even looking at what he’s doing, his body taut, movements jerky and robotic. He’s staring at a blank spot on the floorboards as the firearm comes apart and then back together in his hands.
When the first one is done, Bucky moves onto the second. The ritual continues in much the same way. Steve’s no gun expert, not by a long shot, but he can see the patterns - Bucky’s putting each piece in a very specific place on the rag, which likely explains how he’s able to perform his maintenance without shifting his focus once.
The knife is different, obviously - not much to take apart there. Bucky pulls it from the sheath and collects another rag, drawing it across the blade. Up where the hilt meets the metal he digs his nail in through the old fabric, and Steve’s sure he’s drawing out dried blood from that nook.
“Is that blood?” Steve asks - and he’s been trying to be quiet and good and perhaps not get murdered by his heavily-armed romantic interest, but he can’t help himself. The words are out before he’s even thought of saying anything.
That startles Bucky back to himself enough that the distanced look disappears entirely. His eyes widen and his hands freeze - he looks at Steve, then lifts the rag, and there it is: several dark reddish-brown smears. Horror processes on his face, and Steve wishes he hadn’t said anything - wishes he didn’t have to watch Bucky’s already drawn face go several shades lighter, a sickly cast beneath all that.
The knife falls to the floor with a surprisingly loud thud, and Bucky disappears into the bathroom - so abrupt and dynamic compared to his practised movements from before.
Steve tries not to listen to the sounds of Bucky vomiting up whatever food he’s had recently, but there’s no other sounds in the small, thin-walled apartment to distract from it.
—
Even after he finishes, Bucky remains in the bathroom. There isn’t a single sound coming from the room, and - if not for the locked door - Steve would easily assume it was empty. Steve spends most of that time hovering awkwardly by the door, trying to find something - anything - to say to help. When it becomes clear that he’s going to keep coming up empty-handed, Steve settles for doing something useful: cooking.
Steve clears the plates from the previous night, and tosses the stew he didn’t finish. He pulls the oatmeal from the cupboard and triples the recipe he uses for himself - then stops partway through adding the milk and quadruples it, to be sure. Bucky, when he’s feeling it, eats a lot. Steve doesn’t think he’ll be in the mood for much when he emerges, but he knows that Bucky really should eat after whatever he’s been through.
The oatmeal can’t be left on the stove alone, so Steve is unable to move when the bathroom door opens, nearly half an hour after it closed. It might be better that way. He’s not sure he can look at Bucky without wanting to wrap the man up in a blanket and never let him leave again. It doesn’t sound like a bad thing in theory, but Steve can identify that his thought is more for his own peace of mind than Bucky’s.
Without trying to alert Bucky to it, Steve attempts to surreptitiously peek over his shoulder. He’s sure Bucky’s noticed, but because it doesn’t get acknowledged Steve continues to watch. Bucky’s not being quiet and delicate any more: he re-sheaths the knife in a hurry and takes the three weapons over to the wardrobe. Bucky’s large enough that when he crouches, Steve can’t see what he does, but there’s a sound of buttons being pressed, then a door opening and closing. A safe? It must be. Steve’s never seen one in the closet, but he’s also never looked. Steve’s not sure whether he’s glad the weapons are out of reach at most times, or concerned that only Bucky has access to them.
Steve, rather than putting his foot in it again, opts to say nothing.
Bucky then picks up the pile of clothes on the floor and drops them into the laundry hamper. The shoes go back onto the shoe rack. The manila folder is the one thing Steve doesn’t see the destination of - he’s busy pulling the oatmeal from the heat and dividing it between two bowls. Bucky’s nearly overflows, while Steve’s is about a third of the size.
In the space of time it takes him to dig out the brown sugar from the cupboard, Bucky appears behind Steve. Quite literally behind - like, Steve is in motion, turning to walk to the counter, and he runs directly into Bucky’s chest.
“Shit, sorry,” Steve says, just catching the plastic container of sugar before it winds up on the floor.
“Will you hug me?” Bucky asks, and he’s not even trying to hide the desperation, the pure need of it. He sounds on the verge of tears. Steve doesn’t want to look at Bucky’s face, because if he does - if he sees the sadness from his voice projected in his eyes - Steve will start to cry too.
Steve doesn’t even bother answering verbally, he just wraps his arms as best he can around Bucky’s larger frame. Bucky doesn’t cry - Steve knows what it’s like to feel him cry now, the way his shoulders twitch and he snuffles just a little, the sensation of Bucky’s warm tears against the side of his neck. Bucky just clings back to Steve, harder perhaps than he ever has before. Steve knows he’s aware of his prosthetic still, because the metal fingers fist in his shirt while his flesh hand grabs at Steve’s body. It doesn’t matter. Steve would take the bruises, if it’s what Bucky needs.
They stand in front of the open pantry so long that the oatmeal goes thick and gluggy. By the time they get around to it, Bucky seems even less than before. Before there’d been something behind his eyes, some kind of restrained emotion. Now, he’s just a body. When Steve says, “you should eat, Buck,” in his softest, kindest tone, Bucky just nods jerkily and does so. It doesn’t seem to bother him that his oatmeal is completely plain and cold. Bucky doesn’t even really care when Steve offers to reheat it, just lets Steve take it from his hands and put it in the microwave.
The only thing that seems to bring any kind of emotion back to him is when Steve guides him over to their bed, pulls Bucky’s head into his lap, and runs his fingers through his hair. Even then, the emotion isn’t anything positive - tiredness overtakes the nothing, and then Bucky’s sound asleep.
—
The weeks after Bucky’s return follow that some sort of pattern. Bucky is listless and lost, appearing at Steve’s side to quietly ask for some physical contact on the rare times they separate. Steve makes sure Bucky eats, and he even gets Bucky to take a shower after three days without. Steve tries not to listen in as Bucky cleans himself. He plays music through his laptop speakers as soon as he hears the sound of Bucky throwing up again.
Steve’s sent Sam a message saying Bucky’s back, but not that he’s back - like this. It doesn’t feel like Steve’s place to share Bucky’s trauma. It’s not like Steve knows enough to share.
Steve emails each of his professors to apologise for his absence, but he can’t bear to leave Bucky alone in a house that has two guns and a knife at easy reach. He just can’t.
He uses that time, away from class and study and his friends, to do what he can. Fulfilling Bucky’s basic needs isn’t helping, that’s just maintaining him. There were things that bought him so much joy before, and those are what Bucky needs to return to. Steve asks if Bucky will help him water the plants, and he agrees to do it, but only because Steve’s asked. Bucky doesn’t work with his old passion. He takes a cup of water around and splashes it onto the soil without discrimination, then returns to Steve when he’s done as if he expects a follow-up order.
Then, Steve asks Bucky if he wants to do some studying. Bucky, once again, answers with an apathetic positive. Steve suspects that the only reason he’s getting that kind of response is because Bucky simply can’t be bothered with saying no. And it’s not like they actually study - Bucky sits next to Steve and looks past the pages of the book and just makes indifferent noises when Steve tells him something, or says, “I don’t know,” when asked a question.
Steve’s not the sort of person to admit that he needs help, and is even less likely to take it, but there comes a time when he can set aside his own pride and admit defeat. Whatever he’s doing isn’t working. Bucky is still quietly following him around, eating only when told to, staring into space more often than not. Steve’s offers for physical contact have helped in that Bucky has been drawn into them, but they haven’t given back any of the life that used to steadily glow from within him.
So Steve waits until they’re eating dinner, picking absently at the pasta bake he made, to ask, “what can I do to help?” It doesn’t come out as intended. Even though Steve’s accepting that now is the time to ask for help, he doesn’t expect to sound so - hopeless. He’d aimed for casual, like he was asking about tomorrow’s weather, but clearly failed.
Bucky looks up from where his fork has been moving at a constant, even pace from bowl to mouth. He pauses, and blinks a little - the same way he always does when he’s gotten lost in his own mind, within whatever horrible things hide away in there. “What?”
Steve glares at his dinner, as if it’s the thing making him have to say this. For making him have to have this discussion. Is it so much to ask that some time and love is all Bucky needs to bounce right back? And by some time, Steve means a few days, because he’s terrified that their time will run out sooner than expected. “Help you. I don’t - I don’t know what to do. And I’m worried,” Steve admits, still talking to his food, eyes flickering up only when he’s done to gauge Bucky’s reaction.
The slight frown is the first semi-sincere expression Steve’s seen on Bucky’s face for too long. “Worried?” Bucky asks. Steve nods. “About me?”
“Who else would I be worried about?” Steve asks, defaulting to sarcasm to avoid discomfort, and then immediately regrets it. Instead, he places his foot against Bucky’s and knocks it under the table. “I’m really worried, Buck, and I’m not sure what will help. Do you - should I get a doctor? Or, I can get a psychologist? Someone?”
Bucky finally places his fork back down into his bowl, and lifts his hands to scrub at his eyes. He presses hard - Steve watches as Bucky then has to blink to refocus. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says, at last, and he’s looking a little more present just from that. Whatever he’s feeling is still hidden away somewhere, underneath the layers of detachment, but Steve can get a glimpse of him again. It’s like, for the first time, Bucky’s trying to force himself through whatever’s holding him down.
“You don’t have to be sorry, that’s not what I was asking. I just… I don’t know what happened to you, and I don’t know if I can help make you feel better. That’s all.” Steve knows what it’s like to feel removed from your own body. He knows what it’s like to need help, but refuse to take it. He knows what it’s like to think you’re stronger than you are. It’s almost pathetic to compare his struggles to Bucky, who’s clearly had it a thousand times worse, but Steve can only relate on that level.
Steve can only hope that Bucky isn’t as ridiculously stubborn as he is. That he can see the extended offer and take it, not push Steve away.
“I’m just… thinking,” Bucky answers, still slowly, like there’s a lag between him hearing Steve’s voice and cobbling together a response. “You don’t need to do anything.”
Steve sighs, because Bucky is so placid that there isn’t even a chance to weasel his way in and argue that Bucky do something. Steve both hates and loves that about Bucky - his pacifism. It doesn’t give Steve the chance to express his hopelessness in a familiar way. “What are you thinking about?” Steve asks, and part of him is hoping that Bucky won’t actually tell him because if it’s something to do with the gun - or why there was blood on that knife - Steve’s not sure he can handle it.
Bucky continues to sit perfectly still for so long that Steve wonders if he heard, or if he’s retreated back into his own head again. Steve tries to pick up his fork and keep eating, in hopes that it will distract him from thinking about whatever Bucky’s thinking about.
(It doesn’t work. He ends up thinking about the bloody knife again and then Steve can’t face the red of the tomato sauce any more.)
“Do you think,” Bucky begins, out of nowhere, and he’s looking right at Steve. “Do you think you can - be someone different? If you didn’t like who you were before, or if - if things happened to you. Things you didn’t ask for. Do you think you can change?”
Steve, first of all, doesn’t think he’s even remotely qualified to answer that question. There’s more to it than what Bucky’s asking - it’s not as simple as dying your hair or getting a tattoo or moving from New York to LA because it seems like it might be the one thing to get rid of all those bad feelings. Steve’s seen Bucky cry at skin-to-skin contact. He’s seen him disassemble and reassemble a gun within a minute without even looking. It’s not just someone trying to move away from some shit from their youth. This is a question about redefining your entire existence.
“I don’t know,” Steve says, honestly, and he tries not to wince when Bucky’s face falls a fraction. “I just - I don’t know any other you. And I know that… things have happened. You’ve told me that they have, but not what they are. And I think that even with those things, whatever they were, I think that you’re different. I think you could do a lot of dangerous things, if you wanted to, and you don’t. Or… I think you don’t.” Bucky just stares at Steve, as if waiting for him to continue. He’s not too sure what else there is to say. “I guess, to me, you are a different person than whoever you think you are, because I don’t know all that other stuff. And if you’re the person you want to be, that’s who you are.”
Steve’s not even sure that he’s made sense, but Bucky’s shoulders creep down a fraction. Steve hadn’t noticed how high they’d been, wound up with so many things unsaid - perhaps, also, things undone.
“They’re all dead,” Bucky announces a moment later, and Steve tries not to choke on his own spit. At least Bucky didn’t say I killed them, whoever they are. It doesn’t make the sentence much more palatable. “The people who hurt me.”
“That’s good,” Steve says, and at least he can put 100% faith in that statement. Everything else in the conversation thus far has been unsteady, but Steve knows that the only mercy people like that might earn is a quick death. Even then, he hopes they didn’t get it. He hopes they suffered at least a fraction of the amount Bucky has. “That’s what they deserve.”
Bucky hums in agreement, then picks up his fork again and starts eating.
He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the night.
—
Steve stirs in the middle of the night when he feels Bucky navigating out from their connected position on the bed. Steve’s exhausted - being on edge every waking second will do that to you - but he still considers this important enough that he should be fully conscious. Picking up his glasses and dragging them on over his prickling eyes, Steve blinks to focus on the blob moving from the bed and into the room itself. “Buck?” He whispers, even though there’s no need. It’s just the two of them. He doesn’t need to be quiet.
“It’s okay,” Bucky says, and his voice sounds reassuringly normal.
Steve doesn’t buy his words at face value, and he draws himself partway up the pillows so he can keep an eye on Bucky. He doesn’t head into the bathroom as Steve expects, but walks over to the bookshelf and moves some things around. Steve watches as Bucky withdraws the manila folder Steve had seen the other day, taking it and placing it on the dining table. There’s not enough light to read by - even with the moon outside, it’s barely light enough for Steve to make out Bucky’s entire body across the room.
“What’re you doing?” Steve asks, words slurring together with sleep.
Bucky just sits down at the table, the folder in front of him. “Still thinking,” Bucky answers, hands folded across the cardboard file.
“You’re okay?”
“Fine,” Bucky replies, and Steve knows it’s a lie but he’s too tired to argue. “I’m not going anywhere. You can sleep.”
Steve’s been burned before. He doesn’t imagine that Bucky wanted to leave the first time, and he certainly doesn’t believe Bucky wants to leave again, but he still can’t help the pang of fear that his words inspire. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
—
Steve falls asleep, despite his best intentions. He wakes up again with a start, body noticing first Bucky’s absence before his mind catches up.
When Steve’s body jolts upright, his glasses - which were sitting askew on his face - clatter off the bed and onto the floorboards. Alpine indignantly leaps away from where she’d been approaching him, presumably for her breakfast. She still hasn’t gone back to asking Bucky for it, yet. Steve’s always thought pets know things that humans don’t. He can’t tell whether her giving Bucky space is a good or a bad thing.
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice comes from across the room, and Steve makes out his blurry image at the dining table, exactly where it had been last night when Steve fell asleep.
He retrieves his glasses from the floor, secretly amazed that they’re still in one piece (the odd scratches and permanent smudges aside), and pulls them onto his face. Bucky looks back at him, a tired smile on his face. It makes Steve’s heart jump up to see something on his face, some indication that he feels more than he can - or wants to - repress.
“Huh?” Steve answer intelligibly, running a hand through his hair as he tries to wake up properly. He’s not like Bucky, who goes from sound asleep to wide awake in one second. He takes a lot longer, and there’s usually a lot more instant coffee involved in the whole process.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, then stops to yawn, rubbing his face. “Are you - have you been reading all night?”
It wouldn’t surprise Steve if Bucky had. The file is thick. Steve can’t even begin to estimate how many pages are in there - their crinkly, mismatched edges poking out, unable to be contained by the cheap folder. Now that he considers it, Steve can’t imagine anyone could finish such a hefty stack of documents in a few hours. It looks like a two-day endeavour, at the least.
Bucky shakes his head. “I haven’t read any of it,” Bucky says, and before Steve can consider a response to that, continues: “Are you hungry?”
Steve is, but he’s hungrier for the sense of normalcy that Bucky making breakfast brings. He nods his head, because if Bucky’s offering, he’ll take it.
While Bucky sets about making toast - and he apologises for not making something better, which is even more reassurance that Bucky’s starting to feel better - Steve goes to have a shower. He’s put his own needs on hold while he’s been keeping an eye on Bucky, and is coming to the point where he’s probably starting to smell pretty ripe. He knows it’s not the best decision to make, letting your whole life revolve around someone, but Steve owed it to Bucky. Bucky had spent almost a week caring for his stupid, sick self over the Christmas break. Besides, Steve’s not sure he could’ve left Bucky, even if he wanted to. Even if he knew it was what was best, for either or both of them. Whatever Bucky’s gone through, Steve can’t imagine a world where them being separated is for the best. Sam would have a field day unpacking that one.
Steve emerges, feeling like a completely different person. Clean, fresh, and with Bucky over there laying out every single possible topping for toast on the table, Steve feels at home. He smiles as he approaches the table, telegraphing his movement before he does it - brushing against Bucky’s side to take his seat. Bucky just stands still and lets it happen, then returns to unscrewing the lid on the peanut butter so Steve can get to it.
The only sounds for a while are the two of them eating - three if you count the sound of Alpine crunching her way through her dry food.
“Today’s my birthday,” Bucky announces as Steve is partway through a mouthful of toast.
He doesn’t choke on it, but it’s a near thing.
Steve manages to swallow, and then puts all his energy into the half-serious accusatory glare he levels of Bucky across the dining table. “It’s your what?”
Bucky’s eyes widen a little, as if Steve’s surprise is, in turn, surprising him. “My birthday,” he repeats, picking up his own piece of toast and biting off the corner.
Of course Bucky has a birthday. Everyone has a birthday. But since Bucky’s return, he hasn’t shared any further information about his past. To be fair, Bucky hasn’t shared anything since his return, really.
But this. This is a lot. His birthday.
“How old are you?” Steve asks. Bucky offering a tidbit of information is a good sign, and Steve wants to nurture the conversation, regardless of the actual topic. And perhaps, if Bucky’s feeling comfortable and being generous, he’ll divulge that information.
Bucky shrugs his right shoulder.
Steve looks at him, scrutinising. It would be out of character for Bucky to make a joke, especially after so long with barely a smile, but Steve’s hoping that’s the case. “You - don’t know?” Steve asks, trying to keep the shock from his voice. Not knowing his age wouldn’t necessarily be out of character for Bucky - he doesn’t even go by his real first name, that Steve knows, and he can still hear the way James dropped from Nat’s lips like it was their little secret.
Bucky frowns in thought. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything, reconsidering his words. Finally, he says, “my licence says I was born in 1985.”
There’s a few questions there. First, Bucky has a licence? Because he sure as hell doesn’t carry it when he’s driving, which Steve kinda thought the point of them was. It’s not in his wallet, which begs the question of where it is, too. Second, his licence says? Steve’s not a master at reading between the lines - he can actually be pretty obtuse at times, he knows that - but Bucky’s clearly phrased his statement in such a way to imply that that’s not his actual birth date.
“You’re not born in 1985?” Steve asks, but he’s not really asking. He’s confirming.
Bucky taps the top of the folder, which Steve hadn’t even noticed. It’s been pushed to the side of the dining table, but it’s still present. “No.”
It feels like a dangerous conversation. Steve’s just gotten Bucky back from wherever he went, that place where he protected himself from anything else that might hurt his tender heart. Steve doesn’t want to chase him away, back down where he can’t reach. If Bucky’s bringing up the folder and its mystery contents, that’s fine, but Steve doesn’t want him to feel pressured into divulging more than he wants to.
“Well, we can just celebrate today. You don’t have to be - however old you are.” If Bucky hadn’t been so explicit about that year being incorrect, Steve would’ve bought 1985 as his legitimate birthdate. His own estimate was a few years younger, but guessing people’s age is always a tough one.
Bucky says, “hm,” as indifferently as possible. Steve returns to his toast, though he watches Bucky through his eyelashes. He’s not eating, and Steve can see his jaw working as he searches for the words. Steve and Alpine both continue to eat noisily, giving Bucky ample time to think.
“This file has all the information about me,” Bucky states, at last. His hand remains over the blank cover of it - though Steve can’t tell whether he’s protecting the information from them, or them from it. “What they did.”
“Oh,” Steve answers, not sure what else to say. He pulls his hand back from where he’d been going to grab a second piece of toast. It’s probably not a wise idea. Toast, Steve knows for a fact, does not taste better the second time around - and if Bucky’s talking about what’s happened to him, Steve can’t see his stomach staying settled for long. “Why do you have it?”
“Nat thought I might like to know,” Bucky says, and flicks one edge up - not enough to reveal any words, just a sliver of an old, sepia-toned photo.
Steve still can’t help his reflexive flinch at her name, at a reminder of the night that both promised him hope and tore him apart. “And do you want to know?”
Bucky shakes his head once, and then again, decisively. “But do you want to?”
There’s a great difference between what Steve wants to know and what the file contains. Steve wants to know Bucky’s full name and his actual, real birthday. He wants to know about Bucky’s family and what dumb shit he did as a kid and what he wanted to be when he grew up, if he’d grown up according to some childishly ambitious plan. What Steve doesn’t want to know is whatever torture Bucky suffered through, let alone details of the torture as written by the people who enacted it.
The thought of opening - of even touching - the file makes bile rise in the back of Steve’s throat, and he has to swallow it down. “When I said I wanted to know about you, I meant - your name, or something. Not - not what’s in that.” His words come out unsteady, wavering, because he still wants to support Bucky but - Steve can’t. He just can’t hear it.
That answer seems to satisfy Bucky, who picks up his toast with one hand and takes another, thoughtful bite from it. Steve can’t tell if the conversation is over - Bucky doesn’t appear to be waiting for something, so Steve just sits and pushes the crumbs around on his plate, making a tiny hill out of them.
When Bucky finishes his breakfast, he stands and collects the plates. Steve knows trying to take them from Bucky is a futile effort, so he instead sets about returning the lids to all the open jars Bucky placed on the table, ferrying them back into the pantry. He wants to say something helpful, but Steve can’t think of anything. The file sits there like a looming presence, and he may have once thought himself to be a curious man, but not any more. Not with what’s inside of it. He takes a wide berth around it, as if the file might grow teeth and bite.
Instead he closes the pantry door and leans against it, watching Bucky clean the plates and stack them on the drying rack. He looks more himself today, moving again with the calm grace Steve’s come to associate with him. The lines of pain still hover there, a few odd wrinkles on skin that’s normally soft and smooth, but that feels more manageable than when he’d completely shut down.
Steve thinks about his mother, and her last months of life. Of her reclamation and enjoyment. Bucky didn’t leave for that. It certainly wasn’t enjoyable, if the hollow, dead-eyed look that still lingers in his eyes is any indication. If the blood on the knife tells a story, and it does, loud and clear. Steve can’t project into Bucky’s life, because he can’t imagine it - the suffering that took an entire limb from him, that reduces him to a shaking mess whenever someone touches him without the protective layer of clothing there. He doesn’t want to imagine Bucky’s words - they’re dead - as what he’s likely not saying - I’m the reason they’re dead - but perhaps there’s a reclamation in that, too. Steve had never thought of Bucky as hunted, and if he was he did a commendable job hiding it, but in hindsight he must have been.
There’s a lot still to ask, but none more important right now than, “what do you want to do for your birthday?” Because if Bucky’s come back from Hell, or somewhere even worse, he shouldn’t have to keep going through it. Steve can ask about the knife and the guns later, about Nat and his age no matter how obscure it is, when they’re both feeling up to it.
For now, Steve wants to make Bucky smile. He wants to help him remember that this, here, is his, that he’s safe.
Bucky turns, drying his hands off on a towel. “Can we go to the beach?”
—
The drive takes an hour, and by the time they arrive the sun has long since set. The stars glitter in the sky above them, almost a mirror of Bucky’s arm - but somehow, they’re just not as beautiful, not as breathtaking as his.
Bucky carries the blanket down the stairs from the parking lot. Steve follows and concentrates on not tripping on the way down, holding onto the guard rail as the cold wind whips up from the ocean and through the many layers Bucky insisted he wear.
When they finally make it down to the coast, the sand glows white under the moon. The rocks stand up, etched in sharp relief: glowing on one side, darker than black on the other. The water is an inky swirl, its edges undefined, and Steve wishes he had thought to bring something to draw with. They can come again, though - they can come again when it’s not Bucky’s special night, when their trip isn’t his one and only birthday wish.
Bucky lays the blanket out on the sand, up high enough that the tide hasn’t dampened the sand yet. Steve’s glad for the Californian weather - even though it’s still somewhat miserable during the day, spring not quite settled in yet, it’s stopped raining. He knows he’s probably going to freeze soon, but he’s got Bucky whose body doubles nicely as a heater to take advantage of.
Steve sits down, trying to keep the sand from tracking off his shoes onto the blanket, but it’s a rather hopeless endeavour. He sits expectantly in the middle of the blanket, watching Bucky. He’s not sure what Bucky’s doing - he’s crouched down with his hands in the sand, and appears to be digging a hole. Steve wonders if Bucky’s making a sandcastle in the dark of night when it’s freezing cold, but then he notices that Bucky’s placed the manila folder by his side. He must have carried it down to the shore beneath the blanket, hidden from Steve’s view.
Bucky stands up and surveys the hole, as Steve wraps his arm around his body, having severely misestimated the temperature. Even with Bucky’s overprotectiveness, which involved demands of a shirt, sweater, and a jacket, Steve’s still cold. He doesn’t what to imagine the damage if he’d been allowed to dress himself.
Seemingly satisfied with his handiwork, which makes Steve smile because it’s strange but kinda sweet just because it’s Bucky, he grabs the file. Then, without any fanfare, Bucky drops it into the hole and lights it on fire. It doesn’t make much of a flame until Bucky tugs one glove off with his teeth, and then uses his prosthetic to crush the lighter and drop that into the hole too. That certainly moves things along a bit.
Bucky stands and watches it burn for about a minute, and he’s lit up on both sides: gold on one from the fire, silver on the other from the night sky.
Then he turns away from it and comes to sit behind Steve on the blanket. He positions himself with his legs on either side of Steve’s body, and shifts them both so they’re facing the ocean, not the fire burning off to their right.
Steve is hesitant to let himself relax back into Bucky’s hold, wary of putting too much pressure on him so soon, but Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and tugs him back against his chest. Bucky lets his chin settle into its usual spot atop Steve’s head, and he sighs.
“My name’s James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky begins, his voice a soft rumble as the fire crackles to their side - burning its fuel up and already starting to die down. “My birthday’s March 10th, and I know I always liked the stars.”
As the fire fades into nothing, as the moon moves across the sky and the tide keeps rolling in and out, Steve thinks that something quite monumental is taking place.
Or maybe not. Maybe they’re just two insignificant people in love, staring at the stars like so many others. Maybe that’s the truly monumental part.