Thank you @scribbbbbles for beta reading
It’s been a week since Bucky had come to live with him. A week since he got out of cryo, since the Wakandans removed the Soldier's triggers.
Steve’s so grateful to have him back. His biggest support, his unconditional love, his best friend.
Bucky still has gaps in his memory. Some of the good got removed with the bad while he was deconditioned. Steve doesn’t know what remains. He isn’t even sure if Bucky fully knows.
So he waits. He isn’t sure if Bucky remembers them. Their love, the extent of their unconditionality. And if he does, Steve isn’t sure if Bucky wants that anymore; if he’s ready for that now.
Even if he doesn’t want to resume their relationship, Steve will stay. It’s what friends do. And his friend has been through unspeakable pain. He needs Steve as a friend more than Steve needs him as a lover.
It reminds Steve of when he was young and frail. His body couldn’t sustain a relationship, and the circumstances of their times made it futile to yearn. Yet Bucky waited for him. He waited until he was comfortable, let him have his friendship until he wanted more. Patience was a virtue Steve had never quite grasped.
It made sense as to why Steve was always on the front lines and Bucky was a sniper, hidden in the back ever waiting. Maybe this was the Lord’s way of teaching him, although Steve isn’t sure if he’s a believer anymore.
So he shows his love by being there for Bucky, much like how he felt the Lord was there for him. Or maybe he never was. Bucky was the only person besides his Ma that had ever been there for him, made him feel better. The Lord hasn’t answered his prayers, Steve had made them come true himself. Or rather, Erskine did.
He takes Bucky to and from his therapy sessions; he even attends some when asked. He holds his hand through his medical appointments and through maintenance on the arm. He cooks for Bucky, comforts him when he wakes screaming from nightmares of faceless hands touching him. He cuts Bucky’s hair when the feeling of it being washed triggers flashbacks. He bathes him when the feeling of water falling on his head feels too familiar.
Unconditionally, Steve is there. Steve almost never wants anything in return for this. Bucky would have done the same, did the same. In sickness and in health, until death do them part. And death has not parted them yet.
They may not have been ripped apart by death, but 70 years and Hydra certainly had. In many ways, Bucky is still Bucky. He looks the same, his voice is the same, some of his memories are even the same.
But the Bucky he knew wasn’t quiet. He loved listening to music. The cadence of his voice was different. The Bucky he knew danced.
Steve supposes he’d changed quite a bit too. His breath is different, as was the cadence of his step. His height, weight, body shape had all changed. His state of mind has changed, too. His naïveté had been stomped out long before he got Bucky back.
32557038, Bucky whispers in his sleep– when he does sleep. The same number is stamped into Steve’s chest, its weight around his neck. It’s guilt, he realizes one night staring at that one spot on their ceiling. He’d left Bucky behind. He could have gone back, they could have been frozen together under turbulent waves. They could have woken up together, had each other, could have grieved together. Alas, pondering what could have been doesn’t do either of them any good, the past was cruel, cold, and lonely. Instead, they move forward.
Now night time is for building new memories. Steve shows him his favorite things about this strange new world they now live in. Movies, TV shows, food. Bucky tries sushi for the first time and hasn’t stopped ordering it since. He loves strawberry ice cream and canned whipped cream. Steve bought him a Kinder egg once, and now the window sill in their bathroom is lined with little plastic toys.
At his next therapy session, Bucky’s therapist suggests he get an emotional support animal. Initially, they go looking for a dog. They realize quickly that a dog is too loud for either of them. They want peace in their old age, although neither of them would ever admit to that.
They go to a cat rescue. Steve must have hundreds of pictures on his phone of Bucky holding kittens, but only one of the kittens makes his eyes sparkle in a way that matches the young soldier in Steve’s memory.
They name her Alpine. Well, Bucky names her Alpine. Bucky vehemently rejected Steve’s name suggestions, calling them too “basic”, saying that you’d never know Steve was an artist with his lack of creativity. Steve can’t blame him, a white cat named Snowy would be redundant.
When Bucky sleeps through the night for the first time, it’s with Alpine curled up on his chest.
It’s the first night that Steve actually sleeps too. They’ve been sharing a bed since Bucky’s first nightmare. Call it convenience, call it yearning for a lost time, but it’s been easier to console him without breaking down a door and inflicting further trauma.
Alpine’s presence has been a great help to both of them. Steve read a study about how purring lowers blood pressure, and he swears he can feel the effects. Bucky called him an old man for it.
But he can see the effects on Bucky. The permanent, purple rings around his eyes lighten. His mood is less erratic. His reactions to triggers have become less intense. Alpine being within arm’s reach has a calming effect on Bucky.
Steve buys a cat carrier backpack. Natasha had sent him a video of a cat in one, and he knew immediately he had to get one for Bucky. Being in public was nothing short of terrifying for Bucky. Too many people, too many sounds, too much.
Armed with a pair of ear plugs and Alpine in her backpack, Bucky steps outside for the first time since being with Steve without the hairs on the back of his neck being permanently raised. Steve nearly cries watching Bucky buy fruit at the farmers market.
Steve cooks them dinner with the things Bucky chose from the market. He makes plum pudding for dessert. They laugh and joke with each other. They toast to four months of their reunited friendship with a shot of Thor’s mead. They end up squished together on the couch, Alpine stretched out across their laps.
Neither of them have said anything in a while. Steve is scared that anything he says will break the spell cast around them, the peace and warmth practically visible in the air. Bucky giggles and sways into his chest at one point. He stays there. Steve’s hands end up in his hair, stroking soft, short strands.
“When are you going to say it?” Bucky’s voice comes out in a near whisper, barely audible.
“Say what, Buck?” Steve can hear his heart in his ears.
“That you love me. That you still love me, even after everything. That you love me the same way you did back then.”
Steve says nothing for too many moments.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to love you anymore,” he whispers, ashamed. He knew his chest up to his ears was flushed a deep red. He wished Bucky would tease him about it.
Bucky looks up at him, tears welling in his eyes instead.
“When I said ‘‘till the end of the line’, I meant it, Steve. Did you not?” Steve’s heart breaks at Bucky’s wavering voice. Steve takes Bucky’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together.
“Of course I meant it. It’s you, Buck. It’ll always be you.”
It’s only when Bucky’s lips meet his own that he understands. The Lord is love, and love is Bucky. His whole life finally falls back into place with this one kiss. Every ounce of resentment towards Him is gone. Resentment to Him is resentment to Bucky. Bucky can’t do magic, he can’t perform miracles. But he can love Steve.
(And Steve thinks that’s a miracle enough in itself.)
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