Chapter Text
There’s a light dusting of snow outside the window when Bucky wakes up. For the first time in a long time, he contemplates ignoring the light of day and hunkering back down under the warm covers. The warm body he’s curled around makes the idea even more tempting.
Unfortunately, today is Saturday, and Bucky knows that no matter how much he coaxes, John won’t want to stay in bed. He won’t let Bucky touch him either, like he’s afraid of carrying the stink of another man on him when he goes to meet his kid.
No, that was unfair. He rolls onto his back and rubs at his forehead with his right hand. John had explained before that he isn’t ashamed of being with a man; it’s that even if it were another woman, he’d have the same issue. All of his thoughts for the day are focused on his son, he doesn’t have the headspace for anything else.
The real issue, Bucky knows, is his jealousy.
It’s stupid to be jealous of a kid and an ex-wife, but it’s not so much Daniel and Olivia themselves he harbors mild resentment towards, but what they represent- family. Something he didn’t have with John no matter how much he cared for the other man. It isn’t something John wants from him, so Bucky takes his jealousy, stuffs it into the box he has mentally labeled ‘Emotional Damage: DO NOT OPEN’ and tamps it down with the rest of his trauma.
John makes them breakfast, then gets ready to meet Olivia and his kid an hour away. “At least there probably won’t be snow once I’m off the mountain,” John remarks as he loads himself and a present he’d spent hours agonizing over for Daniel into his truck.
“You want me to drive?” Bucky immediately offers; the jealousy trying to wriggle free once more. Maybe if he sees them together, sees that there really is nothing more there than a father getting to know his son again, it will be soothed.
And maybe Bucky will magically get his left arm back.
“I’ve driven in the snow before,” John says wryly. “I’m not completely useless with it.”
Bucky holds up his hands. “Alright, just offering.” He grins. “Have a good trip. Drive safe.”
“Thanks.” John stares at him a moment through the open door of his truck before darting out to press a quick kiss to Bucky’s lips, then jumping back in and slamming the door shut. He drives off a moment later, leaving Bucky staring after him, stunned.
They’ve never done a goodbye kiss before.
Bucky’s heart feels lighter as he steps back into the warm house.
He’s reading his book- fifth in the series he’s been slowly working his way through- when his phone starts buzzing at him insistently. Frowning in confusion, he puts down the book and picks it up. He and John don’t call each other, only texting occasionally, seeing as they pretty much live in each other’s pockets. No one else has called him since Bucky left New York.
It’s Sam.
Bucky stares at the name on the screen, one he hasn’t seen in over four months. He contemplates answering- Sam wouldn’t call him for no reason- but before he can, the call redirects to voicemail.
Well, guess that answers that.
A minute later, his phone buzzes with a new voicemail and Bucky taps on it to listen.
“Hey, man, it’s Sam… you probably already realized that. Look, something has come up, something that you might be interested in, but I can’t talk about it over the phone. Call me back as soon as you can, and we can figure out where to meet up. And Bucky, don’t ignore this. It’s important.”
Despite Sam’s warning, Bucky does consider pretending he never heard the message. It’s been four months, and the other man never bothered to reach out before, so why now? Then again, neither has he, Bucky admits grudgingly in his own mind.
From the crypticness of the message, Bucky could guess why Sam is calling: another battle to be fought, another enemy to kill, another pursuit to be run- things Bucky excels at. Things he’s long become tired of doing.
Three months of living in near-total isolation, with one of the only other people living that could understand at least some of what Bucky has gone through, had given Bucky a new perspective on what he is capable of and Bucky is beginning to like this version of himself. Steady, dependable, patient. Someone who fixes things, but not in the euphemistic way of the Winter Soldier.
He makes furniture now. Sure it’s still rough, obviously carved by an inexperienced hand, but Bucky can tell he’s getting better with every piece he does. His gaze flickers to the covered porch, where underneath some cloths that Bucky has told John he uses for staining and cleaning up messes, sits a nearly-finished chessboard. He doesn’t know if John even likes chess- if he has ever even played- but Bucky has been with the man long enough now to know that it’s the thought that counts with him. John will just be happy that Bucky put the time into it, that Bucky was thinking of him as he carved, stained, and assembled each piece.
This is who Bucky is now, who Sam’s message threatens. Bucky doesn’t want to go back to that miserable, lonely existence where all he had was the next fight. Not when he knows he can have so much more.
That he can be more.
Still, Sam’s call is like a siren. Bucky has always felt a sense of duty, not just to his country, but to his friends first. Maybe Sam hasn’t reached out in months, but neither has Bucky, and before everything went down with the Flag Smashers, Sam had tried to call him at least once a week to check in. Bucky owes it to him to at least return the call, meet up, and see what he has to say.
Sighing, he presses the call button.
Sam picks up on the second ring. “You screening your calls now, or something?” he says by way of greeting.
“Something like that,” Bucky agrees, not wanting to explain his inner turmoil at the idea of returning the call of someone who is supposed to be his friend. “Why did you call?”
“Right down to business, huh?”
“You called me,” Bucky snarks back.
Sam sighs from the other end of the line. “Fair. Look, I can’t talk about it over the phone. Where are you at these days?”
“Like you don’t know?”
“I’m trying to do you the courtesy of pretending like I couldn’t have someone follow your credit card purchases,” Sam returns, infuriatingly calm.
Well, alright, that is actually somewhat considerate of him. “Georgia,” he says, like someone whose teeth are being pulled.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Oh, Bucky, don’t tell me you went to go see him,” Sam admonishes.
“I didn’t- it’s not like that.” Bucky stumbles over his explanation. “Things are different now.” There’s a judging silence from over the phone. “Really.” He’s not ready to tell Sam the extent of how different things are from what Sam is probably thinking.
“If you say so man,” Sam finally says after a long bout of silence. “Look, just give me a location near you, and I can meet you in say… two hours? I’m in DC, but I have permission to requisition a jet, if need be.”
“It’s that serious, huh?” Bucky gazes thoughtfully out the window, where the thin layer of white is already disappearing. He sighs. “I’m about an hour north of Atlanta. I’ll text you a local address- the place I’m staying at is hard to find.”
“Thanks, Bucky. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah, see you,” Bucky replies, then hangs up. He can’t help feeling like he’s betraying John somehow.
Two hours later sees him waiting outside the public library in a hoodie and jacket stolen from John, jeans, and his boots. The cold doesn’t really bother him too much, not with the serum to keep him warm, but he figures he should attempt to keep up appearances. Sam strolls up the walk a few minutes later, casual to the untrained eye, but Bucky can see the tension in the line of his shoulders.
Still, it’s good to see him, and Bucky feels an answering grin tug at his mouth at Sam’s opening greeting and hug. “There somewhere private we can go?” Sam asks when they pull apart.
Bucky hooks a thumb back over his shoulder. “The library not quiet enough for you?”
Sam gives him a brief smile. “I’m just here to make an introduction.”
At Sam’s admittance, Bucky knows the situation is a whole lot more complicated than he was hoping. “There’s a little cafe two blocks over. It looks small, but they do have an indoor seating area that's partially blocked off.”
“Perfect.” Sam claps him on the back, and takes out his phone, making a brief call and relaying the information that Bucky had just given him. “So, how have you been?” he asks after he ends the call, falling into step beside him.
Bucky contemplates his answer for a moment. “Good,” he finally says.
The look Sam gives him is exaggeratedly skeptical. “Really? Mr. Scowls, Sir Stares-a-lot, the White Panther-” “Wolf,” Bucky interjects in protest. “Wolf,” Sam corrects good-naturedly. “You’re doing ‘good’?” He says it like there should be air quotes around the word.
“Yeah, I really am,” Bucky says with a genuine smile.
Sam nods. “I can see it. You look less tense. More… stable. Like you’ve found something that grounds you,” he adds.
“That’s… not far off from the truth,” Bucky admits.
They spend the rest of the short walk catching up on Sam's life. Bucky asks about Sarah just to see him scowl, and then they're at the little café. He's only been here a few times, when he feels like being out of the house and John isn't home. There's a black SUV parked down the street, and someone he doesn't recognize talking on the phone at the corner. “What is this, Sam?” He mutters under his breath, already tensing.
“Just give her a chance to explain,” Sam says, and pulls open the door. They go to the counter and order; the girl behind the register smiles at him shyly, and Bucky really hopes he doesn't have to kill anyone today.
In the little dining area, a woman waits at a table, clearly there for business. Sam sits across from her, and Bucky takes the seat next to Sam, sipping at his coffee.
“Sergeant Barnes, I'm deputy director Mendez. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she says as soon as they're settled. Her demeanor screams no-nonsense, but her tone is polite.
“I wasn't aware I had a choice.”
Mendez frowns at him, but it doesn't feel hostile, more like commiserate. “This meeting, no. After this… well, we'll see.” She leans over, pulling some files out of an unseen case at her side. “I'm here solely to ask for your expertise in helping to identify an individual. Someone you might have run into as your former alias.” She carefully doesn't say ‘Winter Soldier.’
“We were set to take down a facility made known to us for possibly conducting illegal experiments.” She slides a file across. Most of it is redacted, but a few things stand out. “Before we could assemble a task force to infiltrate the building, one man entered under the cover of night, and we believe, helped key members escape, then blew the place to smithereens.”
Before him, she lays out a few grainy photos. “These are the only pictures we could get. Does anything about him seem familiar?”
Bucky picks up one of the photos. It really is atrocious, obviously taken at night, and from a distance. However, there's something about the set of the man's shoulders that feels familiar. “I don't know,” he answers truthfully.
Sam shifts next to him. “Bucky, one of the scouts said they think he was using a shield.”
Bucky feels his blood run cold. “No.” He lays the picture down. “No way. Not possible.”
Mendez leans forward. “What isn't possible?”
“He wouldn't do this.” Bucky turns to Sam, silently begging him to understand.
Sam holds his hands up. “Hey, normally I'd agree. Walker's not the type of person to harm innocent people, but I guess the question is: can any of these people truly be considered innocent?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Even so, I don't know how he'd have the time.” That garners him a confused look. “I've been living with him for the last three months,” he confesses. “There’s no way he could have snuck out to do… this.”
“Even if the facility was nearby?” Mendez asks, leaning forward slightly.
He hates himself for it, but for one moment, Bucky hesitates. John isn't this person. Bucky knows that. All the man wants is to do good; help people, spend time with his son, make sure Bucky eats more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He shakes his head. “He wouldn't murder a building full of people, even if they were doing what you said they are.” Abruptly, he stands.
“Whoa, Bucky-”
“Sergeant Barnes, where are you going? We aren't finished here.” There's steel in Mendez's voice now. “Sit down. Please.” Bucky glances at Sam, sees the confusion and concern, and sits. “Thank you.” She sips her drink. “No one said he killed everyone in the building. From what we can tell, his primary mission was extraction.”
Bucky breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
“Now, as for the other reason we've asked you to meet.”
“This wasn't enough?” Bucky mutters petulantly.
She ignores him. “The information we obtained to be able to find this facility took months of work by a very small team.” Mendez pulls out another file, but keeps it closed in front of her. “We believe the person behind it all is someone very high up in the government. Someone we can't touch through normal channels.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Bucky scowls.
“We need someone who doesn't scare easily.” Mendez traces a thumb over the ‘Top Secret’ stamped into the folder. “Someone that our potential suspect would be too afraid to touch and to put pressure on them.”
“Okay?” Bucky says warily.
“We'd like you to run for congress.”
There's a bare second of silence before Bucky throws his head back and laughs, startling the other two people at the table. “You want me to-” he huffs again. “You want me to run for congress?” He looks between the two of them. “You have to be joking.”
“I'm afraid not.’
Bucky shakes his head. “Who would even vote for me?” He's not really considering it, but he is curious how they think anyone would vote for an ex-assassin, even one that had been exonerated of his crimes. Well, the ones he'd committed under brain-washing. “Surely there's someone else.”
“Not anyone with enough public presence to pull this off in such a short time.”
“I was never an infil operative.”
“We're not asking you to infiltrate exactly,” Mendez explains. “Or even be undercover- you're too recognizable for that. We're asking you to run for office- with some help- and see what you can see from the inside. Help add pressure to our suspect in hopes that they make a mistake.”
Bucky swallows around the lump in his throat. This was sounding a lot like he was being asked to be an operative, though. And just when he had thought he'd put all that behind him. He glances over at Sam, who's been strangely quiet during the whole conversation.
Sam spreads his hands out, placating. “I only came to make the introduction. What decision you make is up to you.” He pauses for a second, contemplating his next words. “I think it could be good for you though. Getting back out there. Having a purpose.”
And there is the magic word: Purpose. Something Bucky craves, something Bucky had been slowly finding again with John. Something that Bucky is afraid to lose if he does this. But there are people being hurt, people he might be able to help, and stop others from suffering the same fate.
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
Mendez nods. “I can give you forty-eight hours.” She starts to gather her things, putting away the folder she had taken out, but not shown him. “Just contact Sam once you've made your decision.” They all stand, and Mendez holds out her hand. “Whatever you decide,” she says when he takes her palm in his, “it was a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Likewise,” he returns, a habit that had been drilled into him from an early age taking over.
She shakes Sam’s hand, too. “Sam. Always a pleasure.” With that, she takes her leave, a woman in dark gray leggings and maroon earmuffs trailing after her.
They both sit back down. Mendez had left him a copy of the photos and the thin, heavily-redacted file. Bucky traces a finger over the curve of a shoulder. “You really think it could be him?” he asks absently.
Sam shrugs. “You know him better than I do.”
Bucky stares down at the photo. “Yeah.”
They talk for a little longer, and then an employee comes around saying they're getting ready to close, and Bucky and Sam take the rather obvious hint to get their things and get out. Sam walks with him back to his motorcycle.
“You know where you're going from here?”
Sam grins. “I got it.” Then he reaches out, pulling Bucky into a hug- a real one, not the awkward back pats popular among modern men. “It was good to see you, Bucky. Don't be a stranger.” He lets him go.
“You, too,” Bucky says, and is surprised to find he means it.
They part ways, and Bucky makes his way out of town and up the mountain back towards home. John isn't back yet, but it shouldn't be long. They time the visits to be around lunchtime, so that John gets to have a meal with his son, spend some time with him, and then Daniel naps on his way back home with his mother.
Bucky sits at the kitchen table, photos spread out in front of him, along with the file. There's a date on it, for the day after John had returned home from his custody hearing with Olivia and visiting his son. He stares at it like an accusation.
Things that Bucky doesn't want to think about start to line up. The lengthy time away, mysterious bruises, hushed phone conversations, the reluctance to be naked in front of Bucky when John had never cared before- not after they started sleeping together, at least.
It could be a coincidence, Bucky’s mind tries to insist.
A coincidence that happened twice? Bucky remembers when John said he had an emergency last week, taking several days off of work to deal with it.
“They took Lemar's dad to the hospital,” John had said, frantically gathering clothes into a bag. “I have to be there for his mom. I'm the closest family they have.”
Bucky had nodded his understanding. “You sure you don't want me to drive you?”
John shook his head. “I'll be fine.” He'd paused in his frantic packing, taking Bucky by the shoulders. “But thank you for offering. It means a lot.”
He'd left with a grateful smile. Mr. Hoskins had been fine, in the end, but John had spent several days after he'd come back avoiding Bucky’s gaze and touch, and now Bucky is remembering all the things that weren't there when John had left.
No shaking hands, no tremble in his voice, heartbeat steady. The longer Bucky sits there, the more things fall into place, creating a damning picture.
A short time later, he hears the engine of John's truck pull into the driveway. He stays seated in the dimly lit kitchen- he hadn't thought to turn the lights on when he came home, and at this time of the year, the sun is already on its way down. A few minutes later, the door opens. “Bucky?” John calls out, and flips the light on. “Jesus,” he exclaims when he catches sight of Bucky. “Were you just sitting here the entire time I was gone?” he jokes.
In response, Bucky slides one of the pictures over. “Please tell me this isn't you.”
John's brow wrinkles. “What?”
Bucky stabs his finger at the photo. “Tell me that this is not you taking out an entire facility of people when you were supposed to be with your family.”
John stares down at the photo for a long moment. “Where did you get this?”
Bucky’s chest constricts. “I asked you a question first.” He uses his finger to push the picture a little closer to John. “Is this you?”
“No! Of course not!” John says explosively. “After everything, how could you think that of me? You know me, Bucky.”
Bucky wants to believe him, with all his heart he really does, but he's seen this before. The anger, the denial, the passing of blame. As much as Bucky wishes he could, he has never been in the habit of pretending. He stands. “Whatever you're involved in, you need to get out now.”
“What? Bucky, I'm not involved in anything!” John insists, but Bucky can see the lie in the way he takes a half-step back, one arm flung too wide, voice too loud and coated in desperation.
He grabs John by his upper arms. “Stop lying!” he shouts, giving the other man a little shake, frustration and heartache taking over. “Sam came to see me today,” he adds like he's stacking evidence. “You wanna know who he brought along with him?” John shakes his head, but Bucky tells him anyway. “The deputy director of the fucking FBI.”
“No.” John shakes his head. “No, Bucky, I swear. It's not like that.” There it is; the crack. The slide into admittance that Bucky is looking for. Sighing in disgust, Bucky lets go of the other man, but John clings to him instead. “Please, just listen to me. I need you to listen to me, Bucky. Please.”
Bucky shakes him off, but he doesn't go anywhere, just crosses his arms and stares at John.
Taking it for a sign that Bucky is willing to hear him out, John breathes in deep, some of the panic receding from his gaze. “It really isn't what you think.”
“Then what is it?” Bucky doesn't know what to think at this point. He trusts Sam, the man who had been entrusted by Steve to be the next Captain America, but he's gotten to know John pretty well over the last few months. Or at least, he thought he had.
John deflates in a sigh. “Okay, yeah, so maybe it is kind of black ops stuff.” Bucky tenses again, ready to yell. John holds his hands up, forestalling him. “But! But I did one job for her, just one, and it didn't feel right, so I said never again.”
“Obviously, something changed.” Bucky doesn't mean to sound accusatory, but it comes out that way.”
“Daniel,” John says, like it explains everything. Bucky supposes it does. “After I said no, she blacklisted my record; made it harder for me than it already was to get a regular job. I was lucky the factory here has such a high turnover rate. The pay is shit, though.” John wraps his arms around his torso, and Bucky hates the way he shrinks in on himself.
“So she tried the stick first.” Bucky isn't liking the picture that's being painted.
“Yeah,” John breathes. “But I was making it work. Olivia understood, but I still couldn't see Daniel, and then…”
“And then?”
John offers him a half-smile. “And then you showed up on my doorstep, forced your way in, and then refused to leave.” Bucky huffs at the simplified description of those first few days. “I was pretty annoyed at first.”
“I remember,” Bucky murmurs.
“But you did make things a little easier.” John shuffles forward a step.
The corners of Bucky’s mouth tilt up briefly, but John's story isn't done. “What happened next?” His voice is softer than he can remember it being in recent memory.
A muscle in John's jaw twitches. “I guess she decided to switch to the carrot, with the threat of a stick. Somehow she got Olivia's lawyer to convince her to let me have visitation rights.” He hangs his head. “I didn't know until she showed up again that she was involved.”
Weariness hangs over the other man, tension seeping out of him. He slides carefully around Bucky to sit in one of the kitchen chairs. Bucky sits opposite of him.
“She said she had another job for me, this one more suited to my skillset.” He hangs his head, burying his fingers in his hair. “That I'd be saving people this time.”
Bile rises in the back of Bucky’s throat. If that time was about saving people, he didn't want to know what John's first job had been.
John lets out a mirthless laugh. “Well, I guess I did save a few- the ones she deemed important, at least. She told me I was rescuing kidnapped scientists.” He drags a hand down his face. “Hostage rescue. Right up my alley.”
Bucky doesn't want to ask the next question. He doesn't anyway. “The other week, you went away for a few days,” he starts slowly. “Was that…?”
“Yeah,” John says, voice wet. He doesn't elaborate.
Gently, as gently as Bucky knows how, he detangles the fingers of John's other hand from his hair, guiding it down onto the table. He doesn't let it go. “You gotta get away from her.” Whoever ‘her’ is. John still hasn't given him a name.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
John tugs his hands away. “Don't you understand?” His voice rises again. “I can't. She has her eye on my son. On Olivia, Lemar's parents- everyone I ever cared about. If I step out of line, they'll be the ones that pay the price.”
“If we go to Sam-” An ugly laugh cuts him off.
“You think Sam is the answer to this?” Bucky can practically hear John grind his teeth. “You think Sam wants anything to do with me?”
Bucky stares at him helplessly. “He'd try. You know he'd never let innocent people get hurt. All you have to do is talk to him.”
John goes unnaturally still. “You mean talk to the FBI.”
Bucky reaches for him again, but John avoids his grasp. “John-”
“No, Bucky. I can't risk it.” He pushes up from the table. “This conversation is over.”
“John, wait, just listen to me for a second.” Bucky stands as well.
“No!” John spins around. “You listen! You think just because I let you stay here that you have a say in what I do with my life?” He jabs a finger into Bucky’s chest. “Unlike you, I have people that I care about.”
Bucky swallows around his suddenly dry throat. “You think I don't care about anyone? About you?” The words hang in guilty silence.
As quickly as John's anger had come, it leaves him in a heaving sigh. “I don't know, Bucky. I have no idea what you're doing here.”
“I love you, you idiot.” The confession flows out of him without his consent, the knowledge he'd tried to keep even from himself breaking free.
John looks stunned for a moment, then his gaze hardens. “That still doesn't give you the right to interfere in my life.”
For a moment, Bucky is devastated. He doesn't know what he expected; hadn't actually let himself think about it for this reason- that after all the glances, touches, teasing and laughter, he'd deluded himself into thinking that maybe John did return his feelings after all.
Bucky lifts his chin, disappointment turning to anger. “Fine. If I'm interfering, I'll leave.”
John blinks at him. “What?”
He stomps past John, heading to the bedroom where his bag and clothes had finally settled only a few short weeks ago. “I'm not going to stay here and watch you get dragged deeper and deeper into something that could break you.” He starts pulling clothes out of the drawer John had cleared for him. Bucky had only ever needed the one.
“You don't know that,” John says from the doorway. His glacial blue eyes follow Bucky’s movements, but he makes no attempt to stop him. “And great way to show your love, leaving as soon as I do something you don't like,” he scoffs.
Bucky throws the bag down on the bed. “I love you enough to not want to watch you drown while you could have done something to save yourself. When you have people willing to help you.” He finishes stuffing his last few clothing items in the bag. It's fuller than it had been when he'd arrived three months ago.
“You don't love me, Bucky.” John's voice trembles over the word. “You just love the idea of me- the fallen soldier that you can save. Like you couldn't save yourself.”
The words hit Bucky hard. It's an idea he's already struggled with himself, but to hear John say his darkest thoughts out loud is jarring. He gathers his bag and pushes past John, heading for the covered porch where his tools are kept. “Maybe you're right,” Bucky mutters as he gathers his chisel and other tools. “If that's the case, then I have no reason to stay.”
From underneath a cloth, the corner of the chessboard beckons. Bucky pulls it out, thrusting it into John’s chest, causing the other man to fumble for it. “Happy Christmas, John.”
For a moment, time stops for them. Bucky stares at John, willing him to take his words back, reach out for Bucky, but all John does is stare back at him. On impulse, Bucky lets go of the chessboard and reaches for John's face. John flinches minutely, but remains still enough for Bucky to cup the back of his head and pull him forward into a heated kiss. He licks his way into John’s mouth, pouring all of his emotion- his love- into it before ripping himself away just as abruptly.
John's lips are berry red, and Bucky unconsciously licks his bottom lip at the sight of him, bleary-eyed and panting.
“Take care of yourself, John.” And with that, he walks out the back porch door to his motorcycle, loads his things, taking his time to make sure it's all secure, subconsciously delaying and hoping John will come after him. He never does.
Long after the roar of Bucky’s motorcycle has faded away, John leans against the open door frame, then slowly crumples his way to the floor. “I love you, too,” he whispers to the sharp, uncaring air, and weeps silent bitter tears.
PART ONE END