Chapter Text
“How did you know to come back?” Bucky glanced behind them, where a couple was arguing furiously on the sidewalk.
They had just left the supermarket after saying their goodbyes to Sam and were lugging around their groceries, praying to God that the clouds wouldn’t release the frigid water they were holding.
“I’ve been having these dreams of fighting some guy in a mask–” Steve began.
“Doctor Doom?” Bucky asked.
“Yeah, but I didn’t know what he was called until you told me about that team– Something 4?”
Bucky barked out a laugh, “The Fantastic 4.”
“Fantastic 4,” Steve repeated, “anyway, I just kept on having this dream of being murdered by Doom, and it wouldn’t go away.”
“Aren’t dreams just snippets of your life in a parallel universe?” Bucky told him.
Steve raised an eyebrow as they crossed the street, “Where’d you hear that?”
“Some bogus theoretical book I read–”
“Nerd,” Steve butted in.
Bucky glared at him, “-- and something that happened between Maximoff and Strange.”
Steve’s smile dropped, and his heart faltered a bit. “Is Wanda okay?”
“I–” Bucky looked up at the sky when he felt a few heavy droplets land on his head. “A body was never found. I’m not sure what happened exactly. I’m not really friends with Strange.” He said vaguely. “Aw shit, it’s about to pour.”
Steve tried to ignore the heaviness in his chest at the news (or lack thereof) of Wanda. They sped up their walking, and when they got onto their block, all hell unleashed, and thunder boomed in the distance as rain fell in big, fat drops.
Steve almost slipped and ate shit, which caused maniacal laughter to come from Bucky as they continued to race down the sidewalk– as a matter of fact, everyone was trying to run to their destination, apart from the smart ones that actually brought their umbrellas.
They stumbled up the soaked concrete stairs that led to the apartment complex, and Steve’s hand shot out when Bucky nearly slipped as well. Bucky latched onto it, and they made it inside, pausing for a moment to drip uselessly in the common era.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” Bucky shuddered, shaking his head to dispel some water.
Steve glanced at the stairs, then at the puddle underneath them, and told Bucky, “Maybe we should take the elevator.”
When they made it to Bucky’s apartment, they split ways to change into dry clothes– Steve in the bathroom and Bucky in his room. Steve finished drying his hair with a towel he found lying on the counter and sighed heavily.
With his new, warm clothes on, he padded into the living room and got the new sketchbook they had bought at the store and plopped down on the couch.
Before Steve knew it, a couple of hours had passed while he was absorbed in his drawing, and his mind began to wander about where Bucky was.
He paused the art history documentary playing in the background and looked around the living room. “Buck?” he called. No one responded.
He set down his sketchpad and pencil before he got off the couch, jostling Alpine, who was sleeping against him. He apologized and scratched her chin. He went down the dark hallway, flipped on the lamp on the console table, and knocked on the last door, “Hey, you in there?”
He leaned his forehead on the door to listen for any sounds, but he didn’t hear anything. Steve lingered for a moment longer until he sighed, and he went to push open the cracked bathroom door a little ways down the hall, but didn’t see any evidence of Bucky except for the few hair ties lying on the counter. He tapped a finger on the doorknob, thinking for a moment, before he went back to Bucky’s door.
He knocked once more, not really wanting to barge in because he knew how much Bucky clung to his personal space, but he hadn’t heard from him in hours, and he still doesn’t have a damn phone, so he couldn’t call him.
Steve waited for one more beat before he cracked the door open. It was dark, save for the lamp on his right bedside table. The room smelled like Bucky — smoke and something warmer underneath — and it pulled Steve back to nights he’d spent over at Bucky’s apartment long ago. The bed was unmade, a sweatshirt abandoned on the floor, and the space lived-in in a way that felt familiar.
He glanced around to see if he could find Bucky, but he didn’t see him. He crept into the room as quietly as possible and picked up the sweatshirt and hung it on the back of the desk chair.
Then he noticed the glass sliding door in the left corner of the room, which led to a balcony, and he went towards it, knocking on the glass before peaking outside.
Bucky was leaning his elbows on the balcony railing and looked back at him when he opened the door, a cigarette hanging idly between his fingers. “Hey,” Buck said, voice rough from misuse.
“There you are,” Steve stepped out onto the porch into the brisk air, and his breath immediately fogged in front of him. “It’s chilly out here,” he said lamely, rubbing his arms as he leaned against the railing as well.
The porch was fairly empty, save for a glass table with a very healthy potted ivy upon it and a rickety old chair. Cars were honking below them, the streets still bustling even at 10 p.m., the street and car lights making the ground level of the city glow. Most of the looming brownstone apartments around them had their lights off, but a few didn’t, and Steve could see two people slow dancing in a third-floor apartment across the street.
He thought of Peggy briefly, but he soon forgot about her when he turned to Bucky.
“I was looking for you,” Steve laughed a little, “I think I lost you for a moment there.”
Bucky had a soft look on his face. Steve would have thought he looked peaceful if it weren’t for the small line between his brows. Bucky took another drag of the nubby cigarette, and Steve tilted his head as he watched him.
“What's up?” Steve finally asked.
There was shouting below them, and they looked over the railing to see a woman in the middle of the crosswalk, yelling at the cab before her. She finally stopped shouting, and she flipped off the driver before finishing crossing the street.
Bucky snorted at the sight and turned his attention back towards Steve, “Just thinking.” He offered the cigarette, and Steve took it gently, “It’s weird, you being back. Nothing really feels real at the moment.”
“I’m sorry—”
Buck waved him off, “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. I know I yelled at you a lot last night, and I shouldn’t have; I don’t really blame you. You just wanted happiness, and so did I, but we had different means of getting there.”
Steve exhaled the smoke building up in his lungs and studied Buck’s face. He had lost count of how many times he had drawn this exact face over the duration of his stay in the past. So long was he sick with want and discontent. He had missed his friends— Bucky— so much. There was still an awful, gaping hole in his heart for all the people he had genuinely lost — like Natasha, whose laugh that still echoed in his ears, or Tony, whose stupid quips always filled the silence, his mother with her cold hands that would bandage up his wounds, the Howling Commandos and their rowdy yet incredibly caring personalities— He had lost so much, over and over again, but being with those who were still with him somehow still managed to sooth the old ache. He’s not sure how he ever concluded that he should leave.
Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s and squeezed. For a moment, Bucky didn’t do anything, and Steve’s mind halted. Thoughts of him having overstepped made Steve begin to retract his hand, but Bucky threaded their fingers together before he could. Steve’s breath hitched slightly as Bucky leaned closer, their shoulders pressing against one another. With a slight smile, Steve offered up the cigarette, and Bucky took it with his free hand.
Steve and Bucky have been best friends since almost before he could remember; they knew each other more intimately than anyone else. Steve never thought that they could get any closer; he didn’t think it was possible. But standing here with Bucky, on this balcony above a bustling city, he now felt like he had never experienced loneliness in his ungodly long life.
Steve refocused on the soft look that Bucky still had on his face, a look that he hadn’t seen in decades. It was a brutal far cry from the haunted look of the Winter Soldier. He seemed more at peace now, more than he was before Steve left.
A few moments of silence went by, and Steve finally pulled his eyes away. “You seem different. Not in a bad way, you just… seem different,” he finished lamely.
“Before and after you left were not good times,” He took a drag of the cigarette and looked down at the traffic jam below. “It took me forever to be okay again. But I still have bad days—a lot of them. I’m glad you didn’t see how I was after you left. It was…” he shook his head, “No one knew what to do with me, not the courts, not the therapists, not the public. I was alone. Well, I had Sam, but we weren’t exactly on talking terms for a while,”
He sighed and flexed his vibranium hand, staring at it with a pensive look. He compressed his lips and looked up at the sky before continuing, “And then I… Started to get better. I just needed to get out of the woods first. I stopped hurting myself, I adopted Alpine… I made a friend in Sam, one of my neighbors, now on my team. I’m eating more, I’ve gained weight, I shower more-” he smiled slightly in amusement, “But there are still those days, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Steve was well aware that there would always be bad days, no matter how much he wished there wasn’t, “I’m glad you survived,” Steve said gently, holding Bucky’s gaze, who nodded jerkily.
“How did you survive?” Bucky gestured at him loosely with the cigarette hanging between his fingers.
Steve paused, thinking, “I didn’t for a while, I just hid. But when I found out you were still alive, I knew I could continue, but when you- when everyone- disappeared, it was Natasha that kept me going. She was my anchor, and I was hers.” He felt his eyes start to water, and Bucky handed him the cigarette. Steve thanked him quietly and continued, “And then Tony died- though we weren’t always on good terms. I just thought-” he cleared his throat, “- I thought that if I left everything behind, that it would be okay- that I would be okay. I was a wreck for the first year after going back to Peggy, and I don’t think I ever really recovered.” He turned towards Bucky with an earnest look, “Buck, I-”
Bucky put a hand on his shoulder and shook him slightly, “I know. Don’t apologize.”
Steve tried to slow down his breathing as he rubbed his stubble with his calloused palm. “Right.” He said, resigned.
“We’ve said we’re sorry until we’re blue in the face. I think one more apology will make us asphyxiate. No more apologies for past issues, okay?”
“No more apologies,” Steve affirmed, passing back the cigarette.
They watched as a firetruck wailed down the street, honking furiously at the traffic jam.
“Oh, jeez, are they gonna be able to get out?” Steve asked no one in particular. Luckily, the firetruck eventually broke through.
“So,” Bucky tapped the excess ash on the cig and sighed, “Do you think we’ll sleep better tonight?”
Steve chuckled, “Now that we’re on the same page, maybe,”
“We can still down a bottle of melatonin just in case.”
Steve chuckled and looked at the stars above them. The light pollution obscured many of them, but the visible ones flickered softly, “You know, I think what kept me up, along with our fight, was actually sleeping alone. It’s strange. I never thought about it, but I’ve been sharing a bed every single night for years.”
“You can buddy up with Alpine; she likes warm bodies.” Bucky took in a breath, “Or we can share a bed. Like when we were younger.”
Steve smiled and squeezed Buck’s hand, “You always complained about sharing a bed.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault, you and your bony joints would jab me all through the night,” He paused. Then, “Or your snoring if you were congested. Jesus, you sounded like a chainsaw. Oh! And when you choke on your breath and wake yourself up!”
Steve released his hand and shoved him, “Oh, my bad,” he said with a kidding, sarcastic tone, “I’m sorry my illnesses were an inconvenience to you!”
They both laughed as Bucky grabbed him by the waist of his shirt and pulled him back so they were leaning shoulder to shoulder again, and Bucky took another drag of the cigarette afterwards. “It’s a miracle you made it past 7.”
Steve nodded in agreement, “I think it’s a miracle that either of us is still alive.”
“That too.” Bucky yawned suddenly and rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired as hell,” he stubbed the cigarette out on the metal railing.
Steve tried not to let it show on his face that he was disappointed; foolishly, he hoped they could talk all night, which was something he didn’t realize he missed until he stepped out onto the porch. Even though they were now just a feet away instead of decades apart, he still didn’t want to be by himself.
Steve patted him on the back, “Alright, I’ll let you get to bed.” Steve slid open the balcony door and went inside, followed by Bucky. Before he left the room, he turned around and gave him a hug, “‘Night, Buck.”
Bucky squeezed him back, “Goodnight.”
Reluctantly, Steve left Bucky to get ready for bed. He went into the living room and sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the wall blankly. He spent a few minutes just thinking, thinking, thinking until he felt pain pulse behind his eyes. He rubbed them and sighed before situating himself on the couch and picking up the sketchbook. He looked at the drawing on the page- the drawing of Bucky- and the smell of his smoke-tainted breath, his calloused hand, the sound of his laugh swam through his head, and he put his head in his hands.
Suddenly, Alpine appeared beside him, and she staked out a spot on his sketch pad before lying down. Steve raised an eyebrow, “What are you doing?” She blinked at him slowly. He blinked back. “I need that,” he poked at the journal underneath her fur and then began scratching her belly.
She flipped over to allow him more room, but then suddenly hissed at him and flew off the couch, as if she only then realized what he was doing. Steve snatched his hand back and looked at her sheepishly as she whipped her tail around from across the living room.
“Do you not like belly rubs?” he asked as she walked away. “Okay then.”
“Hey,” Steve’s head snapped up, and Bucky was leaning against the hallway frame with his arms crossed, “You wanna share the bed? Unless you want to sleep on the couch again.”
Steve paused and studied Bucky’s face, looking for any uncertainty, just in case he was asking it out of obligation. “I know you like your own space-”
Bucky shrugged, “I can share my space with you,” he stooped down to scoop up Alpine. She put two front paws on his shoulder as she twisted back to look at Steve, mocking him.
“Can I draw for a while in bed?”
“‘Course,” He peppered Alpine’s furry head with kisses as he left to go back to his room. “Just join me whenever you’re ready.”
Steve nodded and hurriedly gathered his drawing supplies before going back into Bucky’s room. He cracked the door and turned around, locking eyes with Alpine once again, who was now sitting on Bucky.
He watched Bucky scratch her head as Steve told him, “I don’t think Alpine likes belly rubs.”
Bucky snorted. “Most cats don’t.”
“That’s news to me.” Steve turned on the bedside lamp and sat down on top of the comforter. “Is it too bright?”
“Nah.”
As Steve started drawing again, Bucky gathered Alpine in his arms and rolled over, holding her against his chest. She rested her head on his arm, and Steve felt his chest warm as though he was having another cigarette. He flipped to a new page and began composing a rough sketch of the pair, the graphite pencil stretching softly across the surface.
Bucky cracked open an eye from where he was burrowed under the thick blankets. He asked, “whatcha drawin’?”
Steve felt his ears burn as he looked back at the sketch, “Uh, you and Alpine.”
Bucky didn’t say anything for a moment until he wrapped Alpine up in his arms and rolled over on his side to face Steve, who tilted the sketchbook in such a way that Bucky could see it.
He looked at the rough sketch and then frowned, “I don’t remember the last time I saw you draw something. It had to have been before the war.”
Steve nodded, “Never really had much time to draw in this century.” He defined Alpine’s ears a bit, “But I’ll make up for it.”
Bucky looked sleepy as he gazed up at him, “I’m glad you’re staying.” It was the second time he stated that, but it still hit him just as hard.
His heart stumbled a bit as he watched Bucky’s face. He seemed so calm. It was such a far cry from the shaky, disturbed man he met in Bucharest. Alpine sighed heavily in his arms, and Steve smiled. He put the sketchbook on the nightstand and lay his head down on the pillow so that he was on the same level as Buck.
He felt like he was ten again, talking late into the night with Bucky during one of their many sleepovers. Even though those days were long gone, there were still similarities wherever he looked; one of them, of course, being Bucky. His presence has endured growing up, dying, and even being in separate timelines. It was almost like it didn’t really matter, because no matter what, the Universe would find a way to keep them together. Maybe there was some Greater Being who knew how much they needed each other.
Bucky had kept him going for so long to the point where it was impossible to live without him. His hardest days were the ones when he didn’t have Bucky, when he didn’t hold on. That was all Steve had to do, really; just hold onto him.
“Me too.”