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They don’t talk about August 3rd 1938.
Bucky had dragged Steve out dancing and drinking and they got sloshed enough to have to pool their nickels together for a cab ride home. It was a warm night and Steve’s face was flushed and they made it inside stumbling and laughing and then Bucky mumbled something, slurring with a giggle as he leaned forward and kissed him.
It was Steve’s first kiss since he was nine years old; since tight lips pressed awkwardly into another mouth counted as kissing; and Georgia Wilkis grabbed his hand and pulled him behind a tree at the edge of the schoolyard to plant one on him and run away. It was the first kiss that counted, hands on his face and lips falling open. It was the first kiss that mattered, leaving him warm and dizzy by the time Bucky pulled away.
The next morning, Bucky’s hangover left him standoffish and quiet. Steve never dared to bring it up first, and Bucky never brought it up at all. As hungover as he was, it was possible he didn’t even remember in the first place. Eventually, Steve pretended to forget, too.
It’s six years later and Bucky’s alive. He’s babbling and can’t seem to stand on his own but he’s alive, and Steve wants to cry. Thank God, he wants to say, I thought I lost you. Instead, all that comes out is a relieved, “I thought you were dead.”
“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky says dazedly, and Steve wants to carry him, but Bucky won’t allow it, planting his feet firmly on the ground and leaning on Steve like that’s good enough. As they hobble forward Bucky asks, no regards to his own health, “What happened to you?”
As they march back to camp, Steve does his best not to hover, keeping Bucky always in his line of sight but making sure not to touch him or worry over him in front of the other men. He remembers August 3rd 1938 clearer than he’ll remember any other day of his life, but even more than that, he remembers that he shouldn’t and that Bucky most likely doesn’t.
He doesn’t crowd Bucky, and when Bucky wanders next to him, Steve gives him room to breathe, and tries not to stare too much. He still ends up staring. Bucky stares back, but Steve assumes it’s mostly out of disbelief.
When they make it to camp, Steve doesn’t let Bucky out of his sight. He trusts the doctors, but Bucky doesn’t, so Steve stands next to him while they make sure he’s all right. Steve sits next to Bucky as he eats and helps him to the showers, but only stays as close as Bucky wants him.
The other men all tease him, call him a mother hen, but they don’t seem to think anything of it, which is a relief. Nobody questions it when they share a tent. Not even Bucky. There are only so many, and if anyone is going to take a place as Captain America’s second-in-command, it’s going to be his childhood best friend.
But then it’s dark, and they’re alone, and Steve can’t help himself. “I thought you were dead,” Steve says again, touching his face. He’s surprised when Bucky doesn’t pull away from it as he’s done with anyone else who’s touched him since they made it out of the Hydra base. He leans into it, looking shaken.
“I - yeah, I thought you would be, too.”
Steve shakes his head, his throat tight. “I - what?”
Bucky rolls over until he’s pressed tight into Steve’s side, letting Steve’s hand slide to his throat. “You’re so fucking stupid, Stevie,” he says, his voice hoarse, clipped, and Steve frowns. “You could’ve died doing - whatever the hell it is you did to get like this. What were you - fuck, you obviously weren’t thinking, and I -”
Silence settles for a few seconds that feel like an eon as Bucky’s voice catches in his throat. “I didn’t know,” Bucky says finally, “I didn’t know and all I could think was how much trouble you were gonna get into if I didn’t come back.”
“You’re an idiot,” Steve says with a watery sort of laugh. Bucky laughs, too, a quiet little scoff, a shadow of the laugh he used to have, and Steve wonders if he’ll ever really find it in him to laugh the same way again. Then they’re quiet, pressed close together in the tiny tent, and all Steve can think of is August 3rd six years ago.
Bucky falls asleep, curled in Steve’s arms, and Steve wakes up in the night several times to make sure he’s still breathing. When morning comes, Bucky untangles himself from Steve without a word, and they don’t speak of it again.
The army wants to discharge Bucky, saying he’s no longer fit for duty, but Bucky refuses to leave Steve’s side. “If he’s going,” he tells Colonel Phillips, “Then so am I. Final word.” Steve even argues, telling Bucky he’d rather he be home safe, but Bucky only laughs him off. “If you think you can get me to stop watching your back just ‘cause you’re bigger now, Rogers, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Bucky’s quieter now than he used to be. Steve figures that to be true for most of the men here, but he knew Bucky before, and can’t help but worry over him. He tries hard to keep the fretting minimal when they’re around the other men, but while sharing a tent in south of Paris, Steve asks gently, “Bucky, are you gonna be okay?”
There’s no answer for what feels like too long, and just as Steve assumes he must’ve fallen asleep, Bucky’s voice, low and gravelly, answers, “Sure I am. I got Captain America lookin’ after me.”
Steve snorts, but shifts up on his elbow. “Buck, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Bucky answers, rolling over on his back. They’re pressed against each other, barely inches apart, and Steve clenches his jaw. Bucky runs a finger over the dogtags falling out from the collar of his shirt.
Steve watches his face break into a smirk as he reads them. “At least all that’s still the same,” he says before letting them fall, landing with a soft click on Bucky’s chest. He smiles a little and throws his hand up to rest on Steve’s neck. “I’m proud of you, pal,” he says quietly. “Always knew you could be a hero.”
With a scoff, Steve drops his forehead to Bucky’s. It’s probably too forward, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He looks somewhere between being about to cry and he has been, and Steve lets out a sigh. “I’m proud of you, too.”
Bucky laughs, an edge of hysteria to it. Steve shushes him gently, sensing the tears a split second before they come, loud and heaving as Bucky buries his face into Steve’s shoulder. Steve strokes his back, shifting them so that Bucky can fall lax against Steve’s chest as he sobs. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck,” Steve whispers into his hair, “I’m here, it’s okay.”
He wants to say more. That he’s safe now, that it’s over. He wants to tell Bucky that he can take care of him now, and no one will ever touch him again. But none of that is true. Not yet. It will be soon, he’ll make sure of it, but he knows Bucky won’t believe him until it is.
It’s several minutes when the sobs finally start to taper off, and Steve lifts Bucky’s head from nestled in his shoulder to wipe tears from his face. “Okay,” Steve tells him, voice gentle, “It’s okay, Buck. You’re all right.”
Bucky watches him stiffly for a moment, and then sniffs, licks his lips, and drops his head forward.
Steve jolts so hard when Bucky’s mouth slides against his that he’s surprised it doesn’t dislodge him. He feels one of Bucky’s hands twisted tight in his shirt, pulling him close, and Steve wraps an arm around him, holding him tight against his chest. Bucky sighs against his mouth, and Steve just wants him to feel safe. To feel okay.
Bucky’s fingers curl around Steve’s dogtags and tug them sharply. He pulls out of the kiss to take a breath, but before Steve can say anything, Bucky is on him again, the hand not tangled in Steve’s dogtags pressed hard against his face. “Steve,” he says as he draws away again. His voice is taunt, quiet, and Steve can tell he’s either crying again or that he never stopped. “Steve, fuck.”
“I was never gonna see you again,” Steve realizes aloud. He feels tears in his own eyes as Bucky breathes heavy against his chest. “If I’d - if I hadn’t - I wouldn’t -” Bucky shakes his head, silencing him with another kiss.
“It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky tells him, and it sounds ridiculous for him to be comforting Steve now, his voice wrecked and cracking against Steve’s lips, “It’s okay, I’m here, I’m okay.” The irony of it doesn’t escape either of them, and they both laugh, soft and humorless into each other’s mouths.
Bucky is shivering, and Steve can taste tears as they pull closer. They’re both whispering, muffled it’s okays quietly pressed into each other’s skin. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says suddenly, his hands shaking in Steve’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Steve blinks, pushing him back to look him in the face. “You’re sorry?”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, voice quiet, “I shouldn’t have - I should’ve tried harder to stay home with you, you could’ve - died.”
Bucky’s trembling and Steve is holding him tight, trying to breathe. “You couldn’t stay, Buck. You were drafted. You would’ve gotten -”
“Should’ve run. Could’ve run away with you, we could’ve -” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I should’ve protected you.”
Smiling, Steve holds either side of his head, trying to keep him calm. “It’s okay,” he says quickly, “It’s okay, though, Bucky, because it’s my turn, okay? I’ll protect you, now.” Bucky shakes his head, but Steve kisses him again, soft and quick.
He doesn’t really expect Bucky to push him down, slamming his head back hard against the cot. For a second, he thinks he simply crossed a line, that Bucky realizes what they’re doing and doesn’t want to do it, but then Bucky’s mouth is on him, hard and warm and wet and Steve just wants to protect him.
“Steve,” Bucky hisses against his mouth, and Steve jerks back slightly as Bucky presses his hips into Steve’s. Steve’s mouth falls open, and Bucky deepens the kiss, whimpering when Steve kisses back.
It’s the middle of winter but the inside of the tent is getting warm, the air hard to breathe. Bucky makes another sound, pleading and low, and pushes back against Steve. Steve’s breathless, dizzy. He holds Bucky’s hips still and thrusts back against them. The attention causes Bucky to drag Steve closer, meeting each roll of Steve’s hips with a gasp.
“Steve,” Bucky says again, and this time Steve nods, at a loss for what else to do. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, but his grip is too strong and clenches tight when their hips move again. Bucky whines, and Steve rips his hand away, terrified of hurting him.
“No,” Bucky says quickly, “It’s okay, it feels -” he doesn’t finish right away, trailing off and dropping his head to kiss Steve’s neck. Steve melts, and Bucky nips the skin, just barely. He has to remember, Steve realizes. He did that six years ago, to keep him quiet.
Steve is trying to be gentle, but Bucky only bites down harder on his neck, and the confession comes spilling out before he can stop it. “I kissed a girl back in London.” Bucky freezes and pulls away to look Steve curiously in the eye, and Steve feels himself go red. He can’t even tell if Bucky understood him, the words coming out in so quick a rush.
“I mean I - she kissed me first,” he says, slower. “It just - kind of happened.”
Bucky still hasn’t said a word, staring blankly at Steve as he rambles. After a silence that probably only feels like it stretches longer than it does, Bucky snorts.
It isn’t the reaction Steve is expecting. Even less so when the snort becomes a giggle, quickly building in volume until he’s draped over Steve, shaking with laughter. Steve blinks at him, and Bucky slaps his chest as he regains composure. “Oh my God,” he says finally. “You may have all those others fooled, but you haven’t changed a Goddamn bit, have you?”
“I…” Steve starts, but Bucky’s laughing, and it makes him smile. “Not on the inside, no.”
Slapping his chest one more time for good measure, Bucky asks, “So. A girl in London. Do I get a name?”
“I didn’t,” Steve says with a frown, and Bucky’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.
“Think I spoke too soon there, Rogers,” he says teasingly. “Neckin’ with dames you don’t even know the names of, huh? You dog.”
“She kissed me,” Steve repeats, pouting, but Bucky is grinning at him.
“Well she’s gonna have to get in line,” Bucky says after a moment, “Because I kissed you first.”
Steve isn’t expecting that. “You...you did,” he says, trying not to sound too confused or shocked. “Well, I mean, after Georgia Wilkis.”
“Georgia Wilkis is a little harlot,” Bucky answers without the slightest inflection to his voice.
“We were nine,” Steve says, aghast, and Bucky laughs again. Steve can tell he means it to be louder, more amused, but now that his hysteria has died down, he can barely manage a chuckle. Steve frowns, his hand running gently over Bucky’s face. “You’re gonna be okay, Buck,” he says quietly, and the mood shifts back, quiet and serious.
“Yeah, I know, I told you as much.” Bucky smirks, but Steve just stares back at him.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” Steve says after a moment.
Bucky’s smile wavers. “Told you that, too.”
At a loss for what else to do, Steve pulls Bucky back into a kiss, wrapping an arm tight around him and cradling the back of his head with his free hand. Bucky had always cared so much about his hair, keeping it neat and clean and stylish, but it’s shaggy and damp under Steve’s fingers now, and Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice.
Steve kisses with force, pouring into it everything he has, and Bucky doesn’t pull away until he’s panting. “Steve,” he says in a voice that sounds too timid to be Bucky, “Please.”
It shouldn’t be clear what he means. Steve has no idea how he can tell what Bucky’s asking for when he couldn’t even tell he was joking a moment ago, but he does. He nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, almost soundless against Bucky’s mouth. “Yeah.”
He twists them around as gently as he can, the cot can barely hold Steve alone, but he’s able to maneuver them until Bucky’s back is flat against the cot and Steve is pressed into his side. He’s afraid to be on top of him. Bucky seems slightly claustrophobic lately, and easily panicked, and Steve just wants to be gentle.
When he leans the barest amount of his weight into Bucky, he unexpectedly laughs. “Last time we shared a bed wasn’t nearly this complicated,” he says at Steve’s perplexed face, reaching up to tug Steve by his hair into a kiss again. Steve can tell he’s starting to feel frantic again, trying to hedge off crying as long as he can.
Awkwardly, Steve tries to develop a rhythm, working his hips softly against Bucky’s, until he hears a quiet whimper at the back of Bucky’s throat. Encouraged, he presses harder, moving a little faster until Bucky’s hips shift to meet Steve’s.
Bucky’s left hand is tangled in Steve’s dogtags, deliberate and needy, and the other stays clenched in his hair, keeping him close when they break apart for air. Steve watches his face, tears leaving tracks in the dirt on his face, and Steve kisses him again. Light and careful, just under his jaw.
“Fuck -” Bucky’s voice sounds tight, helpless, and in the same instant Steve feels Bucky come against him, he watches him break apart, bursting into sobs that wrack his body hard against Steve, tucking his face into Steve’s neck as he starts to cry freely again.
Steve feels tears hot against his neck and can’t even tell if they’re Bucky’s or his own anymore. Bucky’s crying hard enough that he’s gasping for breath, the way he had when he’d broken his arm as a kid. Steve’s heart is clenched hard in his chest and he holds Bucky close, murmuring in his ear as comfortingly as he can.
“It’s okay, Bucky,” he whispers, combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair, “It’s okay, I’m here, I’m right here.”
Bucky twists his hips against Steve again, making Steve jerk in surprise. He’s probably closer than he should be. He tries to hold Bucky still, but he only shudders loudly and pushes against Steve again. Steve’s hips thrust back before he can help himself, and Bucky shivers, fingers dragging over the nape of Steve’s neck.
There’s a lump in Steve’s throat as he thrusts again, and Bucky lets out a shuddering sigh through his tears. He sounds oddly relieved, and Steve takes a moment to understand. He holds Bucky close to him with one hand while the other holds down Bucky’s hips, keeping him still as Steve ruts against him until he comes. Bucky’s tears are still soaking through Steve’s shirt, and his own orgasm leaves him feeling wrecked and needy, dropping the hold on Bucky’s hip to drag him as close as he can.
Bucky never lets go of Steve’s dogtags, his fist curled tight around them even as his tears die back down again. Steve has to let the chain cut into his throat slightly as he straightens up to get the blanket at the foot of the cot without disturbing Bucky too much, pulling it over the two of them. Bucky lets out a quiet grumble, but otherwise lets his hand follow after Steve until he lies back down.
“You’re so warm now,” Bucky says quietly. Steve doesn’t answer. He can’t even tell if Bucky knows he said it aloud. He pets hair back from Bucky’s face in silence, watching him fall asleep. When he finally nods off, his hand falls limp, fingers still tangled in the chain of Steve’s dogtags.
Steve tries to pry his hand away, but his fingers only tighten back around the chain, and Bucky pulls in tighter against Steve’s chest. “Okay,” Steve says, pulling the blanket closer over them, “You’re okay.” It’s hard to tell, since he’s the only one listening, if he’s talking to Bucky or himself.