Chapter Text
Life after Thanos, the Blip, and everything was… strange. Like an ill-fitting shirt. Bucky wore it awkwardly, constantly aware of the seams. Even without turning to dust and coming back, and all the other shit, he was still learning the shape of being Bucky. Not the Asset, not a soldier, just a man. A century-old man constantly haunted by his own past, trying to remember how to be a person.
He wasn't alone in his dislocation - sort of - the Blip had left a universal scar. The returned walked through a world that had moved on without them, and those who stayed navigated a world suddenly crowded with ghosts they had already mourned. A year later, people were still getting used to it again, and trying to mourn those who were really gone.
But through it all, the one fixed point in Bucky's swirling hurricane was Steve. A solid, steady presence in the too-quiet Avengers compound.
In these quiet afternoons, Bucky indulged in the simple act of watching him. He was curled into the corner of the large sofa in the common room, some forgotten documentary murmuring on the TV, his focus entirely on Steve bathed in the afternoon light by the window. He was sketching, his brow furrowed in that familiar, endearing knot of concentration, his hand moving with a certainty that Bucky envied. Just the sight of him, the quiet scratch of pencil on paper, could sometimes still that faint, persistent tremor in Bucky's fingers. A calm would settle deep in his bones, a peace so encompassing it was almost painful.
It was this feeling that terrified him most of all. It was a vast, silent ocean inside his chest. The relationship he had with Steve now felt like the one pure, unspoiled thing he'd managed to salvage from the wreckage of his past. To give this thing he had for him a name - to call it love, to want more than what was given - felt like pressing a dirty thumb to a clean page. Steve had already given him everything: his freedom, pulled him from the jaws of HYDRA; his friendship, a lifeline throwing across seventy years; his unwavering, infuriating faith, a conviction that Bucky was still good, still worth saving. To want his heart too? To crave the warmth of his skin not as a comfort, but as a claim? It was the height of greed, and Bucky had already taken so much.
Steve glanced up from his drawing and the world snapped back into focus. The adorable, frustrated pout that meant the lines weren't capturing the image in his mind vanished the instant his eyes met Bucky's across the room, replaced by a soft, easy grin that was like a physical warmth in Bucky's chest. It was a look meant only for him, a silent language they'd spoken since back alleys in Brooklyn. Bucky blinked, suddenly aware of the dry ache in his eyes. Sam's voice echoed in his head, teasing him about his 'staring problem'. He'd always brushed it off, but now he was forced to admit that maybe Sam might have a point.
With a sigh that seemed to signal the official end of his artistic battle, Steve abandoned his sketch book on the armchair. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders shifting under his thin cotton shirt. Bucky pretended not to watch the stretch that followed; his arms reaching for the ceiling, his spine arched, and a series of quiet pops sounding from his joints. Bucky quickly averted his gaze to a nondescript spot on the wall when Steve's shirt began to ride up, feigning a sudden interest in the texture of the paint.
Steve's footfall was quiet as he walked, it always was. For a man of his size, he moved like a dancer, light on his feet, almost silent. But Bucky remembered a smaller Steve, all sharp angles and defiant energy in a too-big coat, deliberately stomping through the streets, making his presence known. He'd try to make himself bigger, louder, a sparrow puffing up his chest to scare off the crows. He missed that little guy sometimes, even as he loved the man he became.
The path to the kitchen took Steve directly past the sofa. As he walked by, his hand came up with a casual familiarity. The weight of Steve's palm settled on Bucky's shoulder, a solid, grounding pressure of a bond so old and deep it didn't require permission. Bucky refused to bask in the warmth of the touch, consciously stopping himself from leaning into it like a flower seeking the sun.
"I'm getting food," Steve said, his voice a low rumble, "You want anything?"
"I'm good," Bucky's words came out rougher than intended. He shook his head and turned his face back to the TV, where colours and shapes moved meaninglessly. He didn't breathe again until the weight lifted from his shoulder and Steve's footsteps receded.
The breath Bucky had been holding in his lungs escaped in a rush, triggering a shallow cough. He stifled it into his fist, the sound dry and rasping. He cleared his throat, annoyed. It was happening a lot recently, this little tickle, this inconvenient catch in his lungs. Probably just a cold, he told himself, a mundane annoyance his enhanced immune system was being strangely slow to fight off. Nothing more.
When Steve returned he carried two protein shakes, chilled from the fridge. Steve held one out in a silent, stubborn challenge.
Bucky made a face, the last time he'd had a shake made by Steve it had been too chalky. "I said I was good, Steve,"
Steve just shrugged, his lips quirking up into that infuriating, knowing smirk. Without breaking eye contact he took a long, deliberate sip of his own shake.
Defeated by the sheer force of Steve's care, Bucky sighed, a long-suffering sound that was mostly for show. He mumbled a thanks that was a half grumble and took the drink. The first swallow had the same grim determination of a man taking medicine, but the second was more considered. The flavour was chocolate, rich and surprisingly smooth, lacking the chemical aftertaste he'd braced for. It was… actually pretty good. He couldn't be too mad, though he'd never give Steve the satisfaction of admitting it aloud.
The next couple of hours passed in a comfortable quiet - not silence, never silence. The compound was never truly silent; the low hum of its advanced systems was a constant. But this was different. This was their quiet. Steve reclaimed his spot by the window and the familiar, rhythmic scratch of graphite on paper began again. It was punctuated by Steve's occasional soft mutters - a frustrated "no," a satisfied "there," the faint tap of the pencil against his teeth as he thought.
And Bucky, as ever, pretended to watch TV. But his gaze would always drift away from the glowing screen, pulled by a gravitational force he no longer bothered to fight. It would land on the curve of Steve's neck as he bent over his work, on the way his brow furrowed in concentration, on the unconscious tap of his foot. Bucky didn't even mean to do it anymore; his eyes would just naturally wander back to him, always to him, tracing the lines of the only map that had ever truly led him home.
But - of course - their fragile quiet had to be broken by the arrival of Sam Wilson. The man wandered into the common room, still half dressed in his Falcon gear. The distinct, sharp scent of ozone mixed with the honest smell of sweat and earth clung to his skin, cutting through the sterile, filtered air pumped through the building.
"Hey, Sam," Steve called out, his voice warm and automatic. He didn't even need to look up; he recognised the footfall, the presence. Bucky made a low, non-committal noise in the back of his throat. It might have been a greeting. It might have been a hum of pure annoyance. Even he wasn't entirely sure. It was a well-practised skill, keeping the meaning of his grunts ambiguous.
Sam collapsed onto the couch between them with a dramatic, bone-deep groan, the cushions sighing under his weight. "I'm telling you man," Sam began, tipping his head back against the cushions to stare at the ceiling. "The new wings are faster, I'll give 'em that. But the stabilizers are a nightmare. Felt like I was fighting a shopping cart in a hurricane out there. A very expensive, very explosive shopping cart."
And just like that, Steve looked up from his sketchbook, his pencil going still. His full attention was now laser-locked onto Sam. The gentle artist was gone, replaced by Captain America, tactician and engineer.
"They need recalibrating again?" Steve asked, his voice taking on a specific, focused tenor. It was his 'mission voice'. "I told you we should've used the titanium alloy for it. It's more responsive."
"And I told you," Sam retorted, pointing a finger without lifting his head, "That would just throw off the whole weight distribution on the whole thing. My back's sore just thinking about it. You try lugging that extra half-pound around at five Gs."
And just like that, Bucky was on the outside. The conversation was conducted in a language of thrust vectors, stabiliser algorithms, and mission debriefs - a language that Bucky couldn't quite speak. He understood the words, but the music behind them was foreign. Steve was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, his entire body oriented towards Sam who had sat up just enough to look at Steve.
Bucky mostly zoned out of it all, retreating into the world of the deep blue sea on the screen, actually paying attention to the documentary for the first time today. The narrator droned on about ecosystems, hunting patterns, and whatever else fish had to worry about - topics that felt far more familiar and honest than the technical debate happening beside him.
Somewhere along the way, the conversation shifted. The technical jargon faded, replaced by the more relaxed pitch of a casual conversation, of inside jokes and shared history that happened while Bucky was trapped in his own mind.
Sam pulled his phone from one of the compartments of his suit and thumbed it awake, scrolling for a second before leaning over to invade Steve's space. "Hey, you remember that guy from the bank heist last month, the one with the moustache? Look at this mugshot."
Steve took the phone, his eyes scanning the screen. His face instantly lit up, a loud, surprised snort escaping him, followed by his head thrown back in a laugh that honestly sounded more like a cackle.
It was a sound Bucky loved, but right now, it felt like a blade of ice being twisted between his ribs. Because the laugh was for Sam, because of Sam.
Something tightened in Bucky's chest. He knew it was stupid. He knew he was being irrational, a child sulking over a stolen toy. His friend was happy, this should be a good thing. But the logical thought did little to soothe the raw, primal sting of being an outsider looking in. His lungs tightened, his body rebelled.
A cough ripped out of him, loud, harsh. It was an unhealthy sound, torn from the depths of his lungs with a violence that shook his frame. It wasn't the dry tickle from before. He tried to stifle it, clenching his fist against his mouth, but he only succeeded in choking himself, cutting off his own air as his body convulsed, trying to get rid of a pressure settled deep in his chest.
The raw, hacking sound cut the laughter clean in half. Steve and Sam both jerked their heads towards him, identical looks of startled concern on their faces.
"Whoa, Buck," Steve's voice rose in alarm, he half reached out a hand towards him. "You okay?"
Bucky couldn't answer. His lungs were burning, his eyes watering from the strain. He just raised a trembling hand, stop, wait, I'm fine. He didn't wait for a response, Pushing himself up from the couch, he stumbled towards the hallway, one arm wrapped around his ribs, his vision spotting at the edges. He needed to be away from their worried eyes.
He barely made it to the bathroom, fumbling with the door handle and only just managing to get it open before his knees buckled. He pitched forward over the cool porcelain of the sink. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the coughing fit stopped.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by his ragged, wheezing gasps for air. The coppery, unmistakable taste of blood bloomed thick on his tongue. He hunched over the sink and spat, a dark red streak of saliva hitting the basin.
And there, lying in the centre of the crimson smear, was a single, perfect petal. It was a pale, creamy white, now tinged red at its edges from his blood. It looked impossibly delicate.
"What the fuck…" Bucky breathed, the words a raw scrape against his throat. He stared at the petal. The petal that just came out of him. The petal that had been growing in his chest.
His vibranium fingers, usually impossibly steady, trembled as he reached out, picking it up. And he knew. The memory surfaced from the depths of his mind, a piece of folklore heard in another lifetime, in a world before war and ice and pain. A fairy tale for the tragically lovesick. He knew, with a cold, sinking certainty exactly what it meant.
"Fuck."