fossilised | For Steve

“No?!”

Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He just couldn’t. Bucky didn’t look the same or sound the same from the person he had seen off a few months back, but he couldn’t believe that his friend would ever want anyone to die. Especially himself. Steve was stunned enough no to move for a moment, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t about to throw his scant ‘95lbs’ around in a moment.

He didn’t like being told he couldn’t or shouldn’t do something when he knew it was the right thing.

“I am not going to let you die. I don’t know what happened to you after all of this, Bucky, but you can’t… You have to remember me well enough to know that I would never leave you.” It didn’t matter if he stood a scant five and less than a half feet tall. Or that he could barely fight his way out of a paper bag.

Steve Rogers had and has always had heart.

And more love for Bucky Barnes than anyone else in his life.

“You don’t have to help, I can to this myself.”

"Til the end of the line."

It came out softly, but with more feeling behind it than anything else he had said yet. Steve saying he would never leave him, it made Bucky recall those words said over and over, the blood of a dying man on the helicarrier, stubborn and too proud to back down even when the man he thought was a friend was the one trying to kill him.

Could he deny the world Captain America?

He scrubbed a hand over his face and moved to stand beside Steve, utterly dwarfing him now.

"It's not the right thing to do. Better for the world if I'm dead now, before I have the chance to hurt anyone."

Besides, maybe Steve had already missed his chance with Erskine. Hadn't that been when he saw Bucky off to his overseas deployment? One last chance of enlisting at the fair? Maybe these timelines were already different somehow.

Bucky always dwarfed him and had always been intimidating. That didn’t mean at all that Steve was intimidated, however. He lifted his head appropriately to make sure he kept Bucky’s gaze with his own, though his eyes softened immensely when he nodded. “This isn’t the end of the line for everyone.”

The truth was, the time at the fair had passed. Once he’d seen Bucky off, the first of the disturbances happened and the fair had been closed. Every time Steve had been since to the recruitment office, there had been some sort of anomaly causing the city to blast air raid sirens in the street.

Neither Steve nor Bucky could know that this might have been a plot to keep there from ever being a Captain America.

Bucky had just been a piece of the puzzle that they had forgotten about.

“Will-- Will you talk to me? I’m here for you. Always been.”

At least Steve wasn't insisting that he immediately go and enlist, or go to the aid of a dead man walking. Maybe Bucky Barnes of this time would be grateful to be rescued, but if he knew what his future held then he would likely put a gun in his own mouth happily. Not that he had even been that stable after being rescued, nightmares and fear that didn't seem to fade. Better than what he had become, though.

So he nodded and followed Steve through to his meagre front room where there was a chill in the air without any heating for the room. The little threadbare sofa and wireless set, carefully maintained since it had been passed down from his father, it was all so familiar.

"I don't know what to say. I know that I'm-- I think I was Bucky Barnes once. I have some memories, not a lot."

But it had been Steve, future Steve, who had given him even that opportunity to question and find the start of the truth at all. Didn't he owe past Steve something?

“What made you forget?” Steve was used to the cold. The alleyway his building backed up against just happened to be a wind tunnel and the wind did it’s best to escape through the casement of the window or the front door. In winter, he shoved newspaper under the door and around the window sill but it’s was getting to be spring and sometimes the air during the day really helped to circulate everything.

So he sat on the couch, shivering and trying not to look like he was shivering, eyes intense and curiosity flared.

He felt almost as if he was being prideful, like he should probably take himself to church tomorrow and ask God to forgive him for being tempted by the future that may or may not happen. He didn’t want an ego, he just wanted to help, but sometimes good men turned evil when they gained power.

Look at all of the union bosses.

“Was it whatever you were saved from?” He was careful to separate the current and the potential. Both in his mind and in his words.

It bothered him, seeing Steve shivering and trying to disguise it. He had no idea why it bothered him so much, but it sent hooks into his brain and tugged as if demanding him to do something about it. Like it was only natural that he should care for and protect this scrawny thing who had way more guts than physical ability.

He took off his hoodie without further hesitation and draped it over Steve's shoulders. It was thick and warm, he'd bought it from the Smithsonian gift shop on the way out to make him blend in with the tourists. Deep blue with NYC emblazoned across the front. He still had a long sleeved shirt on underneath, and the cold barely touched him anyway.

"James Buchanan Barnes joined the Howling Commandos, Captain America's personal squadron, after his return from capture. He was the only member of that elite team to give his life in the service of his country, falling from a train during a combat mission in 1944."

His eyes lost some of the neutrality they had when he recited what he read in the museum, something softer and more real poking through when he got to his own memories. Voice still quiet, but now a bit more hesitant.

"I didn't die. Everyone thought-- but I didn't. HYDRA found me, gave me to the Soviets. Trained me."

"HYDRA...?" Steve had never heard of them. He wasn't sure about the Soviet and German connection either or the training or-- His mind was just too rattled, but he put the pieces together quickly. Captain America saved Bucky just to lose him to the enemy. Bucky was afraid he would hurt someone again because he had already hurt someone. Or many people. Steve heard all about brainwashing over there in Europe, and the thought terrified him.

He pulled himself together, rubbing at his arms through the thick wool of the hoodie. He didn't know what sort of jacket this was, but it was soft and it really took the chill out. Even if it was so big. Again, Steve was reminded of the 240 pound version of himself in that article.

"Bucky, whatever it... You're home now. You're home and we can maybe get word to you... The other you... Maybe to the army. No train mission. I just can't let you die all right? I'm so sorry-- I'm so sorry Captain America let you down."

It was as Steve suspected. Too much power made good men evil.

"He never let me down," said Bucky, instant and almost angry. "Never."

He would not have anyone, not even a past version of the man himself, cast any doubt on Steve Rogers as a person. He was a hero, no matter what happened, and he had always come through for Bucky. He had been there when he was needed, and somehow he had achieved the impossible to set him free from a prison he had been bound to for decades.

"He saved me."

Was that true? Was he saved now? Sometimes he wasn't sure, for the Soldier had at least been consistent, had made sense, had come without fear. He glanced down, suddenly aware that people might be able to find him here. It was obvious, wasn't it, that this was one of the places he would come?

"Will you come with me? Hotel. Somewhere not here, people could be following."

"Hotel-- Gee, Bucky. I don't think I can swing a hotel," Steve said, not really that embarrassed. The color from his cheeks and the color on his ears were not from embarrassment so much as a sudden flush from the way Bucky defended him. The other him. Maybe there ws nothing Captain America could have done. Maybe he wasn't even on the mission. Steve decided not to push his luck here.

He pressed his tongue between his lips, moving from the couch towards the cupboard where he stored his money and his ration cards. He was swimming in his pajamas and his robe and the hoodie, threading his arms through the sleeves of the latter so he could get his hands to work better. They were finely boned. Delicate. Made for holding charcoals. Not for war.

"Are you sure it isn't safe here?" he asked, holding up some change in the palm of his hand.

He hummed a response in the affirmative. It wasn't safe anywhere, but it was especially not safe in places that he had a prior connection where people could easily look him up. And now that he had made contact with Steve, that made Steve a target too. Strangely, that bothered him a hell of a lot more than being a target himself.

"Get clothes, a bag. I have money."

He had no idea how much a hotel room would cost here and in this time, that sort of knowledge had gone, but he had a few hundred bucks in his bag for emergencies. He was sure even a good hotel surely wouldn't be more than maybe a hundred bucks a night.

"Buck, I can't let you--" But he was already being shooed away and was left to pack a bag with some clothes and his medicine, worrying how they would manage a room in a hotel for even a single night let alone a few. All of his possessions fit into one bag and he sheepishly returned, dressed and in his coat, less than ten minutes later. He handed back the hoodie with a thanks.

Bucky would have to slow down his gait for Steve to keep up as they walked. He needed to stop twice to cough into a handkerchief but he never complained, going as fast as he could until they were at the edge of the neighborhood. There was a single late night ferry that could take them towards the only hotel that Steve knew about downtown, one he remembered Bucky fantasizing taking one of his girlfriends to if any ever agreed. It had big red letters on the marquee visible across the river.

The ferry cost ten cents, and Steve was nearly frozen solid by the time they hit Manhattan. The city was still jumping even during wartime, even though it was after midnight by that point.

There was a woman in her twenties behind the desk, looking bored, until she saw Bucky. Her red lips parted in a smile. "Normally we charge six dollars for such a late night request, but for you? I'll give you the five and a half dollar rate."

This would be the point where the Bucky of the past would have smiled right back at her, leaned on the desk, and given her some line about how her smile alone was worth more than six bucks. But that man was a long time ago, and this Bucky just watched her as if she might be some sort of threat without registering that she found him attractive.

"Three nights," he said, voice at least polite as he dug out a twenty dollar bill from a full sheaf of them in his pocket and laid it on the counter. Six dollars seemed cheap, he could stay here for about a decade and still have change, but he wasn't going to complain. "Need a room that's well heated, ventilated for asthma."

He gestured to Steve, who had become almost invisible to the girl as she registered the huge amount of money. Who was this? Some kind of politician? A movie star? She smiled even wider and grabbed a room key for him.

"Room nine, sir. You want anything, you just call for Bernice, okay?"

How did Bucky get a twenty?

It was a good thing that he had the old bills, not that Steve would know the difference, since the new art on the redesigned bills a decade or so ago in Bucky's time looked very little like the bill he handed over. As long as the girl didn't notice that the year of production on the back was from several decades in the future, they'd be all right.

But who would really check that the bills were from 2005 anyway?

Room nine was on the first floor and was large and warm and so impressive that Steve was completely boggled. "This is... Bucky, how do you have so much-- This is amazing!"

The room wasn't anything special to Bucky, but he had stayed everywhere from a corrugated iron shack to a five star luxury penthouse depending on what his missions had demanded. Most of the time now he stayed in run down little apartments or abandoned buildings, much easier to keep himself off the grid that way.

"I have more."

He hesitated before he laid down a scruffy backpack at Steve's feet with a silent invitation for him to look if he wanted. Though he was ready to tackle Steve if he did something he didn't like with what was inside. There was the book he had brought out earlier, wads of money in about seven different currencies totally upwards of six or seven thousand dollars, three combat knives of different sizes, two changes of clothes, and two very modern guns.

"I pawned some stuff, then exchanged some of the money."

Steve laid his coat over the chair by the window, the view wasn't great on the bottom floor but he didn't need a view at all, and then crouched to look through the bag. Some of the money he didn't recognize. Other money looked fake and he pointed that point before he lifted one of the large, sheathed knives.

It was almost too heavy for him, and he put it back right away before Bucky could tackle him.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," Steve recommended. "I've already had a few hours and it looks like you might not have slept in a few days." He went over to the hotel door to lock it, and throw the latch and chain across the ornate wood without waiting for a reply, more eager to poke into the bathroom and the linen closet. "I can take the couch," he called back, head under the sink. "I'll fit just fine."

With room to spare. And it looked more comfortable than any furniture he'd ever sat on too.

That made sense, even to the Soldier. Split shifts on keeping watch was sensible, not all sleeping in the same position in case of ambush was sensible, all of what Steve suggested was sensible. So he just nodded and crawled onto the bed fully clothed, it was necessary in case they had to make a quick getaway, and clothes his eyes.

It wasn't long before Bucky was fast asleep.

Even before his time in HYDRA, he had been an active soldier on the front lines, that taught a man how to sleep in any condition and at any time because you never knew when the next scrap of rest would come. Which was why his breathing evened out so quickly.

The sleep would help his mind find buried memories of Steve, too. Slowly, piece by piece, he would find out who he was and what it meant to be here.

Steve watched all of this once he made it back to the main room of the hotel and settled on the couch. He hadn't had time to really think just yet and now he could do that with Bucky asleep. He pulled his small bag to his side and dug around for his sketch pad and some pencils with his sharpener. He didn't want to make a mess and charcoals were messy. Steve did his best thinking while he was drawing and though, lately, he drew the things he was feeling more than what he saw, he couldn't help but sketch this new version of his friend.

It took hours, almost five, for Steve to have his sketch done, and he sat back gazing at the image of a man out of time, of a man broken. He had probably seen it before, but now he couldn't look away from it.

Uncurling his aching legs from where they had been stationary for hours, Steve moved to try to take off Bucky's boots and to cover him up, nimble fingers trying to pull at knotted laces.

The second that Steve's fingers touched on Bucky's boot, he shot awake with the speed and reactions of a man who knew that death could come for him at any moment. He maintained silence through it all, but his left hand closed around Steve's wrist with a far tighter grip than he ever had before the way, and the way his palm felt through the glove would be rigid.

His other hand grabbed for a knife, a different one, kept in the waistband of his pants in order to bring it up towards Steve's throat. Not to cut, just to hold it there in warning. All of this happened in the space of a few seconds.

Bucky's eyes were hard, so dark they almost didn't seem blue any longer, and utterly without mercy. In that moment, he was a man ready to kill.

Edited 2017-02-02 16:47 (UTC)

Steve was left gasping and afraid, mostly because he hadn't followed the action at all and found his back against the cold window with a force the made him feel as if the glass might break any moment. He lifted his free hand up in silent yielding, not because he couldn't fight back (he couldn't, but it never stopped him from trying), but because this was Bucky. Breathing hard and aware of the metal at his throat, Steve tried to swallow as delicately as possible. It was lucky that he was a delicate sort of guy.

"Hey... Bucky. I'm sorry. I was just trying to make you more comfortable," Steve said, eyes focused on such cold and barren ones gazing back at him. He brought that carefully held hand towards Bucky's knife, wanting only to offer a little protection for himself. The fear had drained from him as soon as he had gotten his barings and while he was still wary, he didn't look as apt to piss himself at any second.

His bravery was remarkably extensive, even now, a breath away from having his throat slit.

"It's me, pal. You know me," he whispered. "It's Steve Rogers. You're my best friend, Buck. It's me."

It was good that Steve didn't move too quickly, for any sudden movements would likely have ended his life in short shrift. Whether he was Bucky or the Soldier, or some strange amalgamation of them both, he did not deal well with people making sudden and potentially aggressive movements in his general direction.

It was the voice more than the man himself which snapped him back into the present. He swallowed hard and stepped back, releasing Steve and replacing the knife in his waistband in one fluid movement, obviously well practised over many years. This was a man for whom boxing was no longer his primary way of causing another pain.

"You shouldn't touch me when I'm sleeping, I could kill you." He paused, voice growing quieter. "I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anyone any more."

Whoever he turned out to be in the end, that was something he had decided on in the Smithsonian. He didn't want to be a killer, he wanted to be something more than that.

"You could have but you didn't," Steve said, having to stumble because he was on his toes when Bucky let him go. "You didn't hurt me... Just wrinkled up my clothes." Steve's heart was breaking as he tried to suck it all up. What was he suppose to say? He couldn't hug Bucky, he couldn't say that he understood. Men didn't express their feelings. They didn't talk. At all. Maybe about girls, maybe about smokes or drinking, maybe about fights or politics, but they didn't discuss what was going on in their lives in any emotional way.

Steve let his eyes drop. He and Bucky had been different. They had been attached at the hip for years now. Bucky was his best friend. His brother. He was all the family he had left.

That he couldn't do anything for him now that he had been so hurt by war left him feeling empty inside. And that was nothing he could express either.

"I'll be more careful, pal. I promise. From now oh--" That was supposed to be 'on,' but the coughing fit started up almost immediately after the long o sound and Steve had to double over until it passed.

The coughing fit did more to jog residual memory than words had. It tickled at the back of his mind in the part where he was still Bucky, and had him moving with pure muscle memory. One arm held Steve up with a gentle but firm grip around his hips and the other rubbed slow circles on his back to try and ease the tension in his lungs.

If the coughing fit didn't pass quickly, he would start to guide Steve to the bathroom. Steam would help, so he would set the bath running as hot as he could make it.

"Can you get undressed?"

There was no thought of modesty. Not that Bucky had ever had any where Steve was concerned, but the Soldier had all modest beaten completely out of him a long time ago.

Pitiful. Steve hated these attacks. He could have had it hours ago when Bucky was asleep, but no...no, he's putting his poor friend out. "Sorry," he wheezed, being ushered to the bathroom. He sat almost demurely on the closed toilet seat, hunched over to try to keep from another bad round of coughing. Five hours of sketching, nothing. A little bit of cold on his back from the window and--

He didn't even get the thought out before his entire body shook again with a deep, mucousy cough. He did his best to unbutton his shirt with more apologies but in the end, Bucky would be getting him into the bathtub in whatever state of undress he termed it necissary to let the hot water run over skin that turned from pale to bright pink instantly.

At least the coughing stopped by then, but Bucky was as soaked as he was (did he remember how often they use to make a game of standing in the shower half dressed?) and that meant that the shirt around his arm was plastered down.

It was hard to hide it that was, and Steve made a little bit of a tug on his elbow to pull up the edge of the cuff.

The sort of prosthetic that the Soviet branch of HYDRA had given him had been far ahead of its time, when prosthetic limbs were still more often made of wood and barely resembled the actual missing appendage at all. But they had not been the deep science division for nothing, and they had made sure only the best had been crafted for their new pet project. So Steve would be forgiven for not realising the flash of bright metal that revealed itself when he tugged up the cuff was actually his arm and not some kind of armour.

Bucky knocked Steve's hand away, though not roughly, and concentrated on getting him in a position which would alleviate the most pressure on his lungs.

"Deep breaths, don't speak."

Somehow he could remember giving that order a thousand times in the past, and he had a vague memory that Steve never obeyed. The one time he had obeyed, he had been so bad he almost died.

There were more important things to do than breathe. Well, breathing was how he was going to be able to form words but other than that, he'd rather work on forming those words instead of getting air into his lungs. "Buck... Bucky are you.. Is that armor?" He couldn't help himself, his hand again finding that solid piece of metal. "Are you like a knight now?"

His laughter triggered another cough and Steve tried to turn his face far away, huddling into the corner of the ornate bath tub as the shower sprayed down on them both. He hated looking so weak. He hated being so weak.

Especially because this didn't really feel exactly like he was with Bucky. There were no soft jokes or singing and conversation of any real sort. And up close like this, in better light, Bucky looked older. A few years...maybe five? Steve's critical eye hadn't changed even if he was battling an attack.

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