Work Text:
“Everything will be all right
If you keep me next to you
You don't know about me
But I'll bet you want to
Everything will be all right
If we just keep dancing like we're
Twenty-two – ”
The Taylor Swift song blasted out of the car speakers as Bucky drove them across the Mojave Desert. Steve gripped the door handle, trying not to worry about the fact that Bucky seemed more interested in singing along than paying attention to the road.
But then Taylor Swift sang twenty-twoooooooo, and Bucky lifted both hands off the steering wheel to make victory Vs with his fingers.
Steve slammed the off button on the CD player.
“Hey!” Bucky protested.
“Keep your hands on the wheel!”
“I’m only going 120, jeez. You’re such a control freak.”
Steve’s heart felt like it was going 120, too. “No one’s on our tail, there’s no reason to go that fast!”
“There is too a reason!” Bucky said, irrepressible as always on his post-mission high. “It’s fun!”
“I don’t want to spin off the road and get impaled on a cactus. Or roast to death after the engine blows up and strands us here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Simmons could rehydrate us,” Bucky said. “She hasn’t had a really challenging project for a while, bet she’d be happy to get something fun. Do you think the heat would preserve us as well as the ice did?”
Steve was already so hot that he wished he could peel out of his own skin. How was Bucky not dying in his stupid sweatshirt? “I don’t want to find out.”
“Where’s your sense of curiosity, Steve?” asked Bucky, ghoulishly cheerful. “Where’s your inquiring mind?”
“It doesn’t stretch to being mummified.”
Steve hadn’t meant to be funny, but Bucky laughed. “Remember when we went to the mummy exhibit at the Met?” Bucky asked. “With Miss Knowles’ class. You forgot your lunch.”
Steve hadn’t forgotten his lunch. It had been Friday, payday, and they wouldn’t have any food in the apartment till his mother got her check. Bucky gave Steve his apple and one of his molasses cookies and, when Steve wolfed them down like he hadn’t eaten all day (because he hadn’t), contrived to ask Steve over for dinner. “’Cause my grandma is coming, and since Dad’s out of town she’ll get Mama to light candles for Sabbath. I bet you’ve never seen that before, huh, Steve?”
Even when they were nine, Bucky had an odd combination of forthrightness and tact that made it easier to accept help from him than anyone else.
Bucky was driving slowly enough that Steve could count the telephone poles. He wore a wicked grin. “And then we sneaked off to the Renaissance room to see the naked ladies.”
“Different field trip,” said Steve.
“Yeah? Well, shoot. I guess we would’ve been a little young for that in Miss Knowles’ class.”
Steve wanted to keep the conversation going, to keep reminiscing about happier times, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. That was happening more and more these days: he wanted to speak, had so many things to say, but when he had the chance his mind seemed to go blank.
Bucky turned the music back on. It blasted out of the speakers, pounding in Steve’s skull. Steve smacked the off button again.
“Or you could just turn the volume down,” Bucky said, annoyed. “What’s wrong with you? We just set off a fucking amazing explosion, and I’m pretty sure no one even died, so chillax.”
Another Skye term. She gave Bucky computer lessons when she was on the Bus, although right now she was still back in England, staying with Simmons’ parents for a few weeks. Lucky her. Though doubtless Coulson had bugged the Simmons’ house, too…
“Drink some water,” Bucky suggested. “It’ll cool you off.”
Steve drank. The water was heading out of tepid territory into straight-up warm.
Bucky turned the music back on and turned down the volume himself. Steve hit the off button so hard that he nearly cracked the plastic. “We’ve listened to this CD three fucking times today, Bucky. What the fuck is so great about Taylor Swift?”
“She’s a blazing inferno of rage,” Bucky said.
Both the words and the relish in Bucky’s voice surprised Steve. He had expected something much more America’s-sweetheart. “Seriously?”
“She’s got like ten songs where someone hurt her and now she’s going to burn their whole world down for vengeance. It’s beautiful. Plus, I’ve always had this thing for angry blondes.” He glanced briefly at Steve.
Steve clutched at the seat again, trying not to panic. “Keep your eyes on the road!”
“I’m only going ninety!” Bucky protested. “Jesus, you’re jumpy lately.”
Steve’s heart was galloping. He took another swig of water, trying to calm down. “Sorry. I guess I’m just…”
He wasn’t sure what he was. He drained the bottle and got another out of the backseat.
Bucky glanced at him again. Steve dug his fingers into the seat so hard that one of his fingers punctured the fabric. “You’re probably just hungry,” Bucky suggested.
Steve shook his head.
“Of course you’re hungry. You’ll realize how hungry you are when you start eating.”
This was often true, so Steve didn’t protest.
They came to a gas station soon after: a little dusty place with two pumps and a tiny box of a store. The air conditioner produced more noise than cool, and the place felt so stuffy that Steve found it hard to breathe. He fanned himself with his hat, but it didn’t help very much.
Bucky picked out their supplies: six jugs of water, a handful of Butterfingers, a couple sorry-looking Red Delicious apples, a loaf of Wonder Bread, a jar of peanut butter and another of strawberry jam. Bucky considered the strawberry jam for a moment, then said, “Do you still like grape best?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The hot still stuffiness made Steve feel a little sick. He didn’t think he was going to be able to eat anything.
Bucky put the strawberry jam back and grabbed a jar of grape jelly.
Steve reached for his credit card, but Bucky said, “I’m buying.”
Steve usually paid for everything. Not that they’d ever discussed the question; Bucky had always assumed that Steve would pay, and anyway, Steve made more money than Bucky did. As well as his SHIELD salary, Steve had his army back pay – which James Buchanan Barnes, still officially dead, could not collect – as well as occasional fees from interviews and speaking engagements.
He was giving commencement addresses at Princeton and Georgetown in May; he had scheduled them back when he was still thinking about leaving SHIELD, when they might need an alternative source of income, and it was too much effort to cancel them now. He’d be letting so many people down if he did. It made him tired just thinking about it.
Bucky extracted a wad of dollar bills from one of the pockets on his cargo pants. It looked like something a mobster would carry, and Bucky counted them out like a mobster too, swift but subtly ostentatious. Showing off for Steve.
Once they were safely back in the car, Steve asked, “You always carry around that much money?”
“Dollars, euros, pounds,” said Bucky. “Just in case.”
Natasha carried a lot of cash, too. It had been damn useful when she and Steve were fugitives from SHIELD: they couldn’t track cash like a credit card. Impulsively Steve said, “Let’s just drive somewhere, Bucky.”
“Huh? Like where?”
“I don’t care. California. Go to Hollywood maybe. You always wanted to go.”
Bucky laughed. “Rita Hayworth’s not there anymore,” he said easily. “And anyway they’re expecting us at the Cave.”
“Of course.” It wasn’t like Steve had forgotten. What had he been thinking, anyway?
Bucky wasn’t driving nearly as fast now, and the desert no longer looked like a taupe blur as they passed. Cacti, sagebrush, Joshua trees. Very Wild West.
Bucky ripped a Butterfinger wrapper open with his teeth. The half-melted chocolate smeared on his cheek. “Make yourself a sandwich,” Bucky suggested, and ripped open a second wrapper.
The bread pressed down to nothingness under Steve’s fingers as he tried to spread the peanut butter with one of the throwing knives Natasha gave him for his last birthday. The peanut butter smelled cloying and vaguely chemical. The grape jelly quivered unpleasantly as he scooped it out of the jar. A blot fell onto his pants.
He ate the sandwich anyway. It clung to the roof of his mouth and stuck in his throat.
“You feel better?”
Steve didn’t particularly, but he washed the peanut butter out of his mouth with a drink of water, and said, “Yes.”
“So I can turn the music back on?”
“Bucky!”
Bucky sulked for about three seconds. Then he said, “I bet Taylor Swift has a secret identity.”
“Oh? How do you figure?”
“All that rage has to go somewhere, right? So she’s a pop star by day, and a jewel thief by night.”
Steve laughed.
Bucky grinned. “Wearing a black leather catsuit, with little cat ears poking out of her hair, and a black domino mask to hide her face. Bet we’ll run into her on a mission sometime.”
“Oh? Coulson’s going to send us to steal some jewels?”
“We’ve gotta get funding from somewhere.”
Steve’s heart jumped unpleasantly. “But Tony Stark…” Was Tony going to back out of providing their funding? And General Talbot siphoned some military money to them, never mind that SHIELD was still technically a terrorist organization.
“I’m kidding, Steve,” Bucky said, and he gave Steve a quick little glance. “It’s just a story. Maybe it’s not funding at all, maybe the jewels are Asgardian artifacts. Have another sandwich.”
Steve’s stomach revolted. “I can’t.”
“Have a candy bar, then. Drink some water. Are you sleeping okay?”
“Yes.”
“The nightmares just stopped all of a sudden?” Bucky sounded a little sarcastic.
“They’re better,” Steve said, his voice clipped. He had figured out how to program the Bus to wake him up when his heart rate got too high while he was asleep. It usually caught him before he started screaming.
“’Cause you can always wake me up if they’re a problem,” Bucky said.
“I’m fine, Buck! Don’t pester me! You never used to pester me,” Steve snapped.
“Well, you never – ” Bucky snapped, and then shut his mouth so hard that Steve heard his teeth click. Bucky grabbed another Butterfinger and ripped it open with his teeth, leaving a second smudge of chocolate overlapping the first.
Steve felt terrible. He never compared the new Bucky to the old one, not out loud, at least, and he couldn’t think how to apologize without making it worse or giving Bucky an excuse to pester him more. Sorry I’m an irritable wreck with no self-control who snaps at you all the time.
He made Bucky a sandwich instead.
Bucky shoved most of it in his mouth at one time. He chewed about twice, grimaced, swallowed it nearly whole, and said, “Fuck, this is terrible.”
Steve bristled, offended; but then Bucky started to laugh, and Steve did too, just because it was good to hear Bucky laughing like that.
“I guess you’re okay, after all,” Bucky said, and slugged Steve lightly in the shoulder. “If you can laugh like that.”
“Yeah. I’m just – I guess I’m tired. I’ll take a nap.”
“Trying to make sure I never get to listen to Taylor Swift again. I see how it is.”
“No.” Steve was distressed. “I wouldn’t – ”
“I’m joking,” Bucky said, and too late, Steve registered the bantering note that had been in Bucky’s voice. It was gone now. Bucky’s voice was quiet, his hands tight on the steering wheel. “Steve, I was joking. Steve, you’ve got to be okay.”
“I am,” Steve said. “I just need some sleep. Everything looks better in the morning, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, go to sleep.”
So Steve leaned back his chair till it was close to horizontal. Bucky reached over, not taking his eyes off the road, and poked Steve in the cheek before adjusting his angle to grab Steve’s hat and pull it over his eyes.
The brief touch of Bucky’s hand and the sudden darkness soothed Steve. He closed his eyes and drifted on the rumbling hum of the road beneath the wheels.
It was dark when he woke up. He lifted his hat off his face and blinked groggily. “We there?” he asked. They should have been back in a SHIELD hangar, with big fluorescent lights overhead. But it was dark, or darkish; dark with a thousand stars.
He squinted his eyes almost shut as the overhead light came on: Bucky had opened his door. A rush of cool air came in.
“Car break down?” Steve asked, confused.
“I got tired of driving,” Bucky said. He sounded hoarse and tired, and he was leaning forward, his arms around the steering wheel and his head bowed.
Steve sat up, concerned. “You okay?” Steve asked. “I can drive for a bit.”
“I’m fine,” Bucky said. He had his forehead pressed against the steering wheel. “Just needed some fresh air.” Steve reached to put his hand on the back of Bucky’s neck. “Don’t touch me!” Bucky exploded, and shoved Steve’s hand down against the gearshift. Then he got out of the car, slamming the door behind him and going to lean against the hood. His bulk blocked out a good swathe of stars.
Steve waited maybe thirty seconds before he followed. “Sorry,” Bucky said, at the sound of Steve’s closing door.
“I should have asked,” Steve said.
They both stood leaning against the bumper for a while, heads tilted back to look at the stars. Bucky lay down on the hood eventually, and Steve lay down beside him. Bucky rolled his head so his cheek lay against the car, looking at Steve. His eyes looked dark and liquid in the moonlight. “Steve,” he said. “Is it helping any?”
“Hmm?”
“All this. Pestering. Is it…?”
“Yeah, Buck, it is.”
Bucky leaned his head back to look at the stars. Steve looked at his profile in the moonlight. He licked his thumb and reached out to brush the chocolate off Bucky’s cheek.
Bucky shied away, of course. “Hold still,” said Steve. “You’ve got chocolate all over your face.”
“Saving it for a snack,” Bucky protested. But he did hold still, his hand flexed like a claw above the car hood, and let Steve brush the chocolate away.
The hood was warm under Steve’s back, a pleasant contrast to the cool night. He stretched out his arms to feel the warm metal under his bare skin, and felt a pleasant sense of déjà vu. They had done the same thing on Bucky’s parents’ Studebaker. Steve had gone along for an outing, somewhere out in the countryside, and one of the tires had blown in the middle of nowhere just as the sun started to go down. The grown-ups had been very worried, but Steve and Bucky and Rebecca all lay down on the car hood, still warm from the trip, and made up constellation stories and were completely happy…
“We’d better get going,” Bucky said, sliding off the hood to stand. “SHIELD’s expecting us back.”
Steve crashed back out of his memories, his stomach clenching. The hood was still warm, but the night air was chilly enough to raise goose bumps on his arms. “Please not yet,” he said.
“Steve – ”
“Please! Just a few more minutes.”
Bucky didn’t reply. But he didn’t get back in the car, so Steve decided that was probably a tacit yes. “We used to do this at the orphanage, didn’t we?” Steve said, and was surprised by the wistfulness in his voice. He had never expected to miss the orphanage stories, but Bucky didn’t tell them on the Bus.
“Yeah,” said Bucky. “Stargazing.”
“I guess they didn’t have floodlights or anything to blot the stars out.”
“Nah. The director was a skinflint. The place wasn’t even wired for electricity, except for his apartment and maybe the warden’s rooms. We’d wake up in the winter and find frost on the inside of the windows. He liked it that way, ‘cause then we couldn’t see out. We weren’t supposed to look outside anyway.”
“Jesus. Why didn’t he just board the windows up?”
“’Cause then he couldn’t have punished us for looking out. And it wouldn’t have looked right outside, anyway, an orphanage with all the windows boarded up.” Bucky hoisted himself back on the hood, swinging his legs against the bumper. “We weren’t supposed to be sneaking out at night either, but we were always getting in trouble whether we did anything wrong or not, so there was really no point to following the rules. So we’d climb up on the roof in the summertime.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Yeah. ‘Cept it rained a lot, and the ladder wasn’t safe when it was wet so we’d get stuck up there. But when it didn’t rain, it was great.”
Steve closed his eyes. “What’d we do when it rained?”
“There was an old pigeon coop up there, so we’d shelter in that. It was our clubhouse, sort of. We hid there after I broke the director’s Tiffany lamp, and he beat me bloody and said he’d skin me alive if he saw me again. You had to sneak down to the kitchens and steal food for us, ‘cause after my back stiffened up I couldn’t get down the ladder again for two days.”
Steve stared. Bucky never got hurt in the orphanage stories. “You never told me that one before.”
“Oh.” Bucky’s shoulders curved forward. “Well, it’s a dumb story. I don’t tell you those.”
“Are there a lot of orphanage stories you haven’t told me?”
Bucky shrugged. He was staring off into the desert, not looking at Steve at all, and Steve had the sense that Bucky felt he was prying.
“I guess mostly you’re working on stories about Taylor Swift’s secret career as a jewel thief now,” Steve said.
Bucky’s lips twitched into a grin. “Not just a jewel thief,” he said. “She’s actually a werecat, that’s why she wears that costume. I should draw you a picture.”
“Yeah? Would you?”
Bucky had never drawn as seriously as Steve had, but he sketched on and off – caricatures of the Howling Commandos in letters home, things like that. He’d drawn some pictures during his interrogation – Hydra operatives, safe house interiors – but otherwise he hadn’t drawn anything since coming back to SHIELD.
Maybe he remembered that now, because he backtracked. “I’ll never have the time. But she looks a lot like – shit, I can’t remember which name Skye gave the ginger tabby. Ron or Hermione?”
Steve shrugged. He didn’t remember Skye’s birthday party very well, except that Simmons had showed him her battered Agent Carter paperbacks. Someone had written an entire ridiculous series about Peggy’s considerably embellished adventures. “I thought they were a memoir,” Simmons told him. “I was, in my defense, four – and of course when I realized years later that they were entirely fictional I was mortified. But when I brought them to her lecture to sign, she was terribly kind. Never even hinted they were an odd thing to ask her to sign, and talked to me entirely seriously, like I was an adult. Oh, dear. I thought that would please you, I hope – I do hope I haven’t upset you.”
Steve might have been tearing up a little looking at Peggy’s firm dark signature on the title page. “No,” he said. “These are great. Thank you for showing me.”
The memory steadied him a little. He pushed himself to sit. His stomach clenched. “We should probably get going,” he said.
Bucky’s relief was painfully obvious. He leaped off the hood of the car. “I’ll make you French toast when we get back,” he said. “Coulson showed me how. He makes it with honey, it’s great.”
Steve slid off the hood, took two steps, and vomited into the sand.
“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was high.
“I’m okay,” Steve said. He grabbed his water bottle, swirled some water in his mouth, and spit it out. “I’m okay.”
He expected Bucky to say something – maybe wanted Bucky to say something, to point out Steve was not okay. But Bucky was staring at Steve with wide spooked eyes, or staring through Steve, rather, because he wasn’t quite focusing. He didn’t say anything as Steve got back into the car, or as they peeled back onto the highway. He didn’t speak at all until Steve, oppressed by the silence in the car, turned on the Taylor Swift CD again.
“She’s growing on you already,” Bucky said. “Now that you’ve gotten used to her. Next thing you know, you’ll be singing along.”