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Bucky had tried, in the beginning. He had tried to listen to the words in his maâs letters, telling him to keep faith, that Hashem would guide him to greater and better things. He had kept the Star of David tucked under his shirt, had flipped off those that commented on it, had pretended that the feeling of it pressing against the back of his dogtags and into his chest wasnât suffocating him. The things that he did, the things he saw, they ruined it all for him. He had walked through fields that stunk of poppies, and he had seen the red of blood seeping through the ground, had seen the faces of men whose lives had been cut dramatically short. He had walked through the valleys of death a thousand times over with a gun slung over his shoulder, and he had known, then, that if Hashem was there, he had forsaken them long ago. Given up hope while he still could. Bucky wasnât sure he could blame him.
After all, Bucky knew more than enough himself. He was an angel of death, the ones that were forbidden from the kingdom. During the day he fought with honour, followed the Howliesâ code, never shot a man in the back. During the night, though, that was something different. During the night he got a telegraph from Colonel Philips, or even from Carter - something he wasnât much in the mind for revealing to Steve then, and definitely not now - and he would get a knife and go into enemy territory, put it across the throat of their leader.
He had done it, so he said, for the reason that anybody did anything in that war - to stop someone doing the same thing to their countrymen, to their blood, to their family. Truth be told, though, Bucky had always found his home in war. He hated it, but it suited him, sat well on his shoulders in a way it never had with even Steve. âYou were too trusting, that was all,â Bucky said. âProbably heard your Ma in the back of your head telling you gambling was the Devilâs pastime, too.â Bucky had heard it as well, his own maâs voice, but he was well adept at ignoring it even before he shipped out.
Perhaps it was pathetic, racing for scraps, trying to get anything that fell off the table, but that was all Bucky had to receive now. It was all that would make him a person again, all that would make him capable of existing in a world where he didnât have continuous orders, where his path wasnât laid out right in front of him, and his focus could be entirely on a target. He needed something to live for, and right now, Steve was promising that. It wasnât fair, asking him to do that when Bucky knew he would still take a bullet in an instant, and for a ghost at that. It wasnât fair, it was selfish, and if Bucky was a better person he wouldâve never come back to New York.
âGuess we werenât joking when we said that,â Bucky said, remembering how the words had come through him easily. At Steveâs maâs funeral, the pastor had said something that Bucky had turned over in his head for an hour or more. Sarah had fought well, had helped so many people, but she had reached the end of the line, and now she would ascend. Bucky hadnât known even then about ascending, but he had known that he was gonna be there for his best friend until the time came when they were separated by the big guy himself. âNever really pictured it extending to 2018, but I guess we were thoroughbreds. Mightâve lived this long even if we hadnât died.â
Bucky had aimed for the joker during the war. He knew that often, the guy that was cracking jokes and laughing the loudest was the guy that was shitting himself the most, and it was clear as day. That wasnât the case with him. He did it because for a long time, especially after Zola put whatever he did into him, war came natural. The bitterness didnât resurface. Violence felt almost like a release. Steve had said that good became better, bad became worse, and that was true. Of course, at the time, Steve hadnât known that Bucky was the same thing, or a bastardisation of it. He thought he was telling a story that affected nobody else, a story that he could be self-deprecating in as always.
Bad definitely became worse for Bucky. It kept getting worse, too. He wasnât sure how much was him, how much was the serum running through his veins. âYeah, like a red book. Maybe black, I donât know. Had a star on it like this one. The star - it was silver. I think.â The colours blurred in his mind, but he remembered something about Vasily Karpov, as well. That name, though, wasnât uttered out loud. He would take the risk of forgetting it again if it meant Steve never had to hear it. âIâve already been hunting down Hydra,â he admitted. âBeing a bartender only got me so far. Always find myself called back to it, you know? Every dickhead Iâve taken out had nothing. Just money and connections. Canât take either of those to the grave.â You could, though, take secrets. Books. Who knew where the hell it was now? âYeah. Yeah, whatâs the worst that could happen?â
Father. It still seemed strange, somehow, to picture it. Strange to think that Howard had grown and aged. Bucky still remembered him in a vintage car, sunglasses on, models in the backseat. âWhat way different?â Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow. Then Steve kept talking, and Buckyâs gaze darkened. âYeah,â he said. âHoward always had that kinda thing in him, you know? Something that wasnât quite wired right. Used to think it was his eccentricities, you know how rich folks are.â War changed people, Hashem knew it had changed Bucky, but a part of him wondered whether it just brought out your true self, or a paradox of it.
âThereâs going out in a blaze of glory, and then thereâs what you did.â Bucky had listened to the tapes. Of course he had. He had frequented every Captain America exhibit this side of Manhattan, and the ones over the water in Europe, where they worshipped him with less of a reverence, even before the Civil War. Heâd heard Peggyâs desperation, her heartbreak. âThe cold mustâve got to your head,â Bucky said, voice laden, ââcause no deity would ever put you and me in the same place. You saw the things I did. You didnât see the others.â That had been the whole point, after all. The Howlies needed someone who was willing to do the dirty jobs. Philips had always trusted that Bucky would never refuse.
That was why he was reluctant to say that everything he had done with the Winter Soldier had been entirely Hydraâs doing. Bucky had always been good at following orders, at doing the things no one else wanted to know, no one elseâs soul could bare having on it. âI wouldâve been happy going out that day,â Bucky said, looking at him seriously. âI made a stupid mistake, let them get the best of me, but I still wouldâve been good to go. Think we both knew there was no going home for me.â
The idea that the conversations they had at night over a smouldering campfire, or in a tent that definitely stunk out the entire forest, had some kind of impact on Steve almost made Bucky burst out laughing. He had progressed well in the army, he knew his opinion was worth something, but the idea of Steve following him rather than the other way about seemed impossible. âYou know, before I knew Captain America was you, I used to hate the guy.â It seemed like a confession that didnât need to be made, but it was a memory. A vivid one. âUsed to stand out in front of the stage watching these newsreels, wondering whether the poor son of a bitch they put in that getup had any clue what it was like to be out here. You proved me wrong, Steve. You proved the whole damn world wrong.â
Steve had to know that trusting Bucky, that putting this much weight in him, was a dangerous thing to do. âTheyâre still looking for me,â Bucky said finally. âI got some friends, people I can trust, but the government still wants to see me in cuffs, wants to see me pay for what Iâve done - and I did do it, Steve, no two ways about it.â Bringing up everything that he had been through, everything that he had put other people through, and everything that he couldnât remember while people stood and judged him, that was nothing other than a nightmare, but maybe that needed to happen. Maybe he needed to spend the rest of however long his life was in a cell. âI know. I â I saw in the news. I wanted to see her before, you know, but it didnât work out that way.â Probably for the best. Peggy wouldâve shot him, all likelihood. He had been instrumental in destroying her lifeâs work, even if it was corrupted. âThatâs why I came back,â he admitted. âTo get those memories back. To â reaffirm them, I guess. Make sure I wasnât creating them in my head. They took a lot of things out of there, Steve. A lot of whoever you knew before.â
His mother, and Bucky. That was all Steve had gone to war with, all heâd had his entire life. Even after the serum, after everything changed, when he had the Howlies, and Peggy, and Howard -- it still felt the foundations were the part that mattered. Bucky, and his mother. When he couldnât remember a prayer on the battle field, he could still picture his mother bent over in church, hands clasped tight together, lips murmuring words Steve couldnât understand, but wanted to. He held onto that image, held onto the sound of Buckyâs laugh distant in the camp, and that kept him going another day, no matter how bleak the night.Â
âToo trusting,â he repeated, a strange smile on his face now. âYeah, Iâd say that was probably true. Still is.â Some things never changed, even seventy years in the future. âYour ma said the same thing,â he said, shaking away the pain, as if it were that simple. As if he could just banish the tragedy and sorrow that clung to them in those days. Just as often on the battle field, heâd remembered his mother, curled up and sickly thin, coughing so hard her entire body trembled with the aftershocks. That image still came back to him sometimes, in the same nightmares where he saw Bucky falling over and over and over again. Even in his dreams, Steve couldnât save him.Â
They were soldiers. They would always be soldiers, even if they stopped following orders, even if their country turned on them. Because they were loyal to something much more important than any of that. They were loyal to each other, and that -- that was the dream Steve believed in. That was the dream he held onto. Bucky, Bucky was the dream. Rising from the dead, coming out on the other side of war and pain and horror -- broken, but not defeated. Dreams didnât die. There was some comfort in that. A reliability in it, that soldiers like them desperately needed.
âCourse we did,â Steve said. Itâd never been in doubt for him, but he had super-soldier serum in his veins. Healing factors that made bullet wounds minor inconveniences. Even plunging into the ice, heâd wondered -- will this actually kill me? Just a brief flicker of doubt, one thatâd proven true. Maybe it was easier to believe in walking to the end of the line when you couldnât imagine the actual end of it. âMight have,â he agreed. âAnd if we didnât, we wouldâve been together, Buck. I believe that.â If theyâd both gotten to go home, if theyâd gotten to live after the war -- they wouldâve done it together. He knew that much without even thinking about it. He could barely picture what that timeline wouldâve looked like, but he knew it was a possibility out there, somewhere.Â
It was supposed to be a joke, and somewhere, Steve knew that. But it was serious to him, it meant too much to him to joke about. Heâd let Bucky tell his jokes during the war, let him get the Howlies roaring with laughter, because they needed it. But Steve didnât join in so much. He was too focused, too intent on the mission to see what was happening in front of his eyes. To see the real fears and doubts creeping through his best friend. He wasnât sure he could ever forgive himself for that. All the things he could see, and he was still blind in so many ways.
But his eyes were open now. And he was ready for whatever he saw, no matter what was there. Because he refused to accept, to believe that Hydra had taken everything from Bucky. He refused to believe there was nothing left of his best friend but a weapon -- why else would he be here now? At the admission, Steve found himself smirking. âOnce a soldier, always a soldier,â he said, nodding once. âBut from now on, we do it together. No more lone wolf,â he said, softly, almost a joke, but falling just a little short. âWeâll get the bastards, Buck. Weâll get them.âÂ
Steve shrugged, the idea of Howard so uncomfortable now. Once upon a time, heâd relied on him, believed in his work, needed the man. Now... now he was starting to think that Howard liked that. Being needed. A little too much. âWas he always like that?â he asked, looking to Bucky to affirm the memories this time. He bit his lip, then continued.âRead this book once, because Hawkeyeâs protege said I had to,â he murmured. âThere was this line, about grief. How it doesnât change you, it reveals you. Wonder if warâs the same way, or if itâs... itâs different.â War was grief times a thousand, it was indescribable until youâd actually stood on those front lines, stared down the bullets raining towards you, heard the explosions and the screams, and smelled the thick, wet smell of blood mixing with mud. âI think war could change any man, you know?â Wars were different these days, even Sam didnât fully understand. But Bucky -- Bucky was always different. Bucky always got it, even now.Â
âWasnât about the glory,â he agreed, shaking his head slowly. âThink a part of me was just... done, Buck. I was tired,â he admitted, speaking words aloud that heâd never admitted even to himself. âThere was no end in sight. You cut off one head, two more...â He trailed off, sighing lightly. Neither of them needed to hear the end of that ever again. âWhat others?â he asked, brows furrowing in concern. âWhat do you mean? What happened with Hydra -- Buck, that doesnât count. Theyâre the sinners, not you.â He said the words firmly, but the desperation broke through anyway. He couldnât keep the dam up forever. Not when it was this important.Â
He shook his head again, more fervently this time, and he stood up, crossing to the window. âWe grew up ten blocks that way,â he said, pointing to it. âAnd every day we were out there, I thought of it. I thought of home, and I thought about getting you back there, Buck. I wanted to get you back there, so bad.â He stopped because the emotion was too thick in his throat, it was choking everything else off. He felt the stinging in his eyes, glad he wasnât facing Bucky right now, so he could blink it away without the look. âI shouldâve gotten you back. There was a home waiting for you, there were people waiting for you.â Now he glanced back over his shoulder. âDot, for one. She wouldâve loved to kiss you on the docks,â he said, a twisted, bittersweet smile on his lips, equal measures pain and happiness.Â
He laughed, strangled and weak, and shrugged. âDidnât like him much myself, until Azzano,â he said. âI proved the world wrong, but thatâs not why I did it. I wouldâve gone back to being a dancing monkey if they asked, Buck. I didnât do it to prove myself. I did it for you, because I knew we needed you.â The country, the war, his family, Steve. All of them, they all needed Bucky in a way no one really knew until it was gone. But that was life, too often. Missing out on what you oughta be cherishing, until it was too late.Â
But it wasnât too late. Not anymore. And Steve felt the emotion click inside him, change from sorrow about the past, to determination about the future. âI wonât let them,â he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. âI donât care what anyone says, not even you. Iâm not letting anyone throw you in a cage. No one takes your freedom again, you understand me?â His eyes were steel, his jaw clenched, but it was all sprung from desperation, a desire to make the impossible reality. âDonât let them take you down, okay? Whatever it takes, you fight, you run, you keep going. Youâve paid your debts, paid âem every day Hydra had you, and then some. Youâre free now, Buck. You got nothing left to pay back.â He crossed back over, sat down beside Bucky now. Only a few feet between them on the couch, but it still felt like miles to go. âYou shoulda said something in your letters,â he said quietly. âI wouldâve taken you. If you wanted.â He sighed softly, glanced up at his best friend. He clasped a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tight, like he was afraid Bucky would turn to smoke and slip away. âAnd thereâs still a lot left,â he promised. âWhateverâs left in there, Buck, itâs worth it. So we find it, simple as that.âÂ









