fossilised | For Steve

For Steve

[It's been fourteen months, six weeks, and four days since the Soldier pulled Steve from the Potomac and ran from everything he had ever known. Since he had begun to realise which parts of the world he'd been fed were lies, but hadn't quite managed to pin down which were truths. He knows that Steve has been looking for him. Not just him, but his friends too, most of the Avengers have been roped into Steve's unceasing search.

They never find anything.

He's too good, he knows how to hide. He's seen them - Iron Man once, Falcon four times, Steve twice - but they've never seen him. He's a ghost, just rumours that dry up on the wind. He's not too sure if he wants to remain this way for the rest of his life, he knows he's not ready for anything else, and this feels almost comforting. Anonymous. But something in him has pulled him back to America. He hears on the news what's been happening with the Avengers, he sees that there's a new 'compound' that they're using as a base, though none of the news channels know where it is.

It doesn't matter, he finds it.

There's security systems, of course, but he bypasses them all. He slips close enough past Falcon that he can smell the aftershave he used, but he isn't noticed. He finds Steve's room, easy to tell it's his because of the shield inside the door and the way that the whole place is military precision. Not a habit easy to break even once the army is done with you. He isn't even sure why he's here, just that he's following the instincts of his mind at the moment.

He takes a seat on Steve's bed, cross legged, and he waits.]

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Never.

[Steve scratches the back of his neck as he thinks about that. Yeah, maybe he should have considered that.]

It was more than just looks. I just... knew.

[He glances sideways, a slightly strange look on his face.

Was there something more to their friendship in the past? He doesn't know, he keeps remembering odd feelings, but nothing that would support them.]

What you did was stupid.

Oh, absolutely.

[He actually laughs at that. People have been telling him that... Bucky has been telling him that his whole life.]

But it worked.

[He contents himself with a glare to his side, pretty much killing himself is not the right definition of 'it worked'. But he doesn't say anything else as they finally get to the front of the queue and the attendant directs them into one of the cars.

Bucky fastens his safety bar in place and waits, feeling oddly nervous. He's not done something like this in a long time, just for fun.]

You ready?

[Steve's also kind of nervous as they get seated. After all, the last time he was on this thing, he weighed a hundred pounds less and threw up after.

But hey. It'll be fun. Right?

He looks over at Bucky and smiles, trying to focus on the excitement of the ride and the people around him, not the idea that there's a distinct possibility that this is the last time he'll ever see Bucky.]

Yeah, I think so. You?

Doesn't matter if I'm not, it's too late to get off now.

[The car jerks into motion.

It's such a strange sensation, being boxed into a little rollercoaster car with the man he tried to kill, surrounded by strangers who have no idea how dangerous the man in their mix is.

The ride itself isn't as exhilarating as he remembers it being, maybe because he's done things far more deserving of adrenaline since the last time he rode it, but it's still oddly enjoyable. It's over too fast, they're rolling back to the platform in what seems like moments.

He glances over at Steve, for just a moment the hint of a regretful smile on his face.]

This is my stop, Steve, it's time to go.

[It really is almost a letdown, after everything Steve's been through. But it's entertaining enough, and he doesn't get at all nauseous. He takes the opportunities to look at Bucky when he can, and when it's all over, Steve wishes it could've lasted forever, if only so he doesn't have to say goodbye now.

He feels tears pushing at his eyes, and he can't bring himself to fight them.

He turns to face Bucky and shakes his head.]

It doesn't have to be like this, Buck. It doesn't have to be goodbye.

Yeah, it does.

[His voice is slightly softer, but it's the only indication that this might be even a little hard for him too.]

It's the end of the line, Steve, it's time to accept that.

[Steve shakes his head again, and before he can stop himself he puts his hands on Bucky's shoulders, then pulls him in to hug him.]

That's the thing, Buck. There's never been an end of the line. Not for me. And there never will be.

[He tenses up completely in the hug, but he doesn't actively pull away or try to get Steve to let him go. Neither does he return it, his arms remaining limp by his sides.]

You're wrong.

[There's an edge of desperation to his voice.]

You have to let me go, it's over.

You can say that as much as you want but it won't change how I feel. God knows I tried a million times but you always stuck in my head and my heart anyway. You can leave, you can go... kill yourself, if that's what you're planning, but I'll never be able to let you go. So if you were hoping for a clean break, you're not getting it from me, pal.

[He lets go, steps back.]

But you get to make your own choices now. So if this is really what you want, I'm not going to stop you. All I can do is beg you to reconsider.

[It's just like it was on the helicarrier, Steve keeps talking and Bucky can feel a well of terror and anger rise inside him like a tsunami that he can't keep at bay. It's not fair that Steve won't let him go, not without making it so that he could never have peace in the decision that he wants to make.]

I told you to shut up!

[He shouts it, suddenly throwing a punch at Steve's face viciously. Whether he's stopped or blocked, he'll keep throwing punches all the same, making the bystanders start to scream or shout for security now that a fight has broken out.]

[And just like on the helicarrier, Steve lets the punch fly, feels the burst of pain as it connects and snaps his head to the side.

But this isn't the helicarrier. They're on Coney Island, if they do this in public, they're going to cause serious problems. So instead of just letting Bucky pummel him (as if that would help anything), Steve does his best to duck and dodge and try to catch Bucky's hands to get him to still.]

Bucky! Bucky, stop, please, not here! They're gonna see you!

You couldn't just let me go?!

[He's so angry that it feels like his chest might explode with it, and he's not going to stop unless Steve actively restrains him properly or fights back. If even one of his hands gets caught, he's going to surge forwards to try and headbutt him viciously.]

I hate you.

[That's not true, but it comes out all the same.]

You selfish asshole.

[The words sting, because they're true, but Steve has to focus on stopping Bucky. And dodging the headbutt. They're drawing way too much attention.

Steve starts to fight back, enough to try to really restrain Bucky this time.]

Yeah, Buck, I'm a selfish asshole. Always have been. But Buck, they're gonna call the cops if we keep this up. You want to kick the shit out of me that's fine but let's do it in private maybe?

[The words come out breathless and disjointed because trying to fight and converse at the same time is very difficult. Steve finds a tiny opening in Bucky's relentless onslaught and goes for a headlock.]

[He feels Steve's arms lock onto him and that flicks him into overdrive, no longer holding back at all. A knife is suddenly in his hands and is flashing towards Steve's ribs, not aiming for a blow that would kill him, but definitely one that would make him let go if it hit.

He won't be trapped again, he won't.

People all around are screaming, some are even filming it in the morbid way that people always holding their cell phones do these days. Bucky doesn't care, just like he doesn't care about the cops right now.]

[Steve's pretty much screaming internally now. He's fucked this up so badly. The knife hits him, and he lets go, and realizes the only way to contain this situation is to lead Bucky out of it.

So he takes a deep breath.]

God, Buck, I'm so sorry.

[He hates how things have turned out, and it's all his fault.

But there's no time for that. He turns and runs. If Bucky is angry enough, he'll chase Steve out of there, maybe to safety. If he has even a modicum of a clear head, he'll get himself out of there and disappear out of Steve's life again, probably forever.

But Steve can't be responsible for Bucky being taken back in, he can't.

So he runs.]

[He sees the blood welling up from where he struck Steve and it sends a pit of ice into his stomach. This is what he means... he's dangerous. Even without the Soldier in his head, even when he knows who he is, he's on a hair trigger. He doesn't know enough about this time to know that it has a name now, PTSD, or that there's help to be got for it. All he knows is that he gets trapped, or cornered, or-- any number of things, and it's like the panic is a tsunami that he's helpless against.

He sees Steve run and, for a moment, he nearly follows.

But he doesn't.

He runs the other way and disappears, a ghost long before the police cars first show up. Some of them hunt down Steve later, he was recognised from the video footage, but he's an Avenger and a national hero, so they don't question him too much. Natasha and Sam give him knowing and sympathetic looks, but nobody says anything. Nobody says 'I told you so'.

And once more, silence becomes the norm.

It's nearly four months later that Steve gets a letter through the post, addressed in old-style neat handwriting of the sort that kids these days just don't seem to learn in school. The letter isn't long and the return address is some villa in Austria.]

I taught you to shave because your Dad was dead. You didn't need to, you never really grew any hair, but I taught you anyway. You near skinned your face, we stopped the blood with your Ma's best towels. She nearly killed us both.

This is for you.

[In with the letter is a small package containing a proper straight razor and some shaving cream.]

[No one tells Steve "I told you so," but he hears it anyway. His own judgment of himself rings in his head. What could he have done better? How could he have kept things from going that far?

He doesn't go looking for Bucky, doesn't even consider it. Steve knows better. He's done enough damage already.

When he's not working, Steve goes through the journal he wrote, and, after a month, starts writing in it again, though he doubts Bucky will ever see it.

The package arrives later, and he nearly has a breakdown in his room over it. Bucky's alive, he's still remembering, and he doesn't hate Steve. It's... not an ideal situation, but it's much better than Steve had even dared to hope.

He doesn't know if Bucky's still at the address listed, but he write to it anyway, trusting that Bucky left the address for a reason.]

Thank you for the gift. It feels good to be shaving the way I remember. You were a good teacher, even if the first time didn't end so well.

I'm sorry I pushed you. I have never ever wanted to hurt you, but I know I do it regardless. I hope you're well.

Sam insisted I start seeing a therapist, someone to talk to about my problems. Apparently they've been obvious to everyone, as much as I try to ignore them. It's been going better than I thought it would. I didn't think anyone could possibly understand my perspective, but the doctor says it's actually very similar to that of refugees--being forced out of their home by conflict to settle in a strange new place, never to go back.

It helps to talk. More than I thought it would.

I hope you're well.

[Included is a drawing of the two of them, as they are now, sitting on the beach and watching the sunset.]

[He waits for a week at that address, unsure whether he wants Steve to show up looking for him or not. Nobody comes. But a letter does come back, the same loopy handwriting that he recognises from his youth, and he does recognise it now. Spending that afternoon with Steve on Coney Island had triggered a release of memories, and he's becoming more and more Bucky.

He's not sure that's a good thing.

The more he remembers, the more sure he is that he's never going to be that man again. Just because he remembers dancing and smiling, it doesn't mean he feels any more capable of it now. It doesn't erase the fear, it doesn't stop him from checking every safe house he stops in for traps, it doesn't make him less of a murderer.

It's another two months before the next letter arrives, this one addressed to a place out in Sydney, Australia.]

The first year I thought you were going to die, you were eleven. I remember watching you wheeze and I thought that I was about to lose my best friend, I promised God that he could have my life if he spared yours. Do you think that's what all of this was? I've been paying back a debt I accrued years ago?

The year your Mom died you got pneumonia again. I never told you, but that friend who was a doctor who treated you for free because he was my pal - I never met him before. I just told you that so you'd see him, because you'd never take my help if it was charity. I picked up three months of extra work at the docks to pay for him. It was worth it.

I was glad when you were rejected from the army. I didn't want you to die.

[He doesn't hold his breath waiting for the next letter, knowing that it was possible Bucky didn't even get his letter. He's able to breathe more easily, actually, knowing that Bucky is out there and remembering.

He keeps working, keeps writing in his journal, keeps seeing his therapist.

When the next letter arrives, he opens it with shaking hands.]

It's been a long time since I've been to church but if that was God asking you to pay off a debt, then you have more than earned a quiet life.

Back when I kept trying to enlist, I knew it was hurting you. But I couldn't let you go and risk your life without me. I always used general terms talking about it, but when I said guys were risking their lives, I meant you.

You absolutely helped me survive, I know that. But I think you needed me just as much, in a more subtle way. Everyone always thought you were a golden boy, you could do whatever you wanted and hang out with whoever you chose, but that was just your public face. Yeah, you were funny and kind and charming, but when it was just us I could see how you'd get stuck in your own head, stuck in dark thoughts.

I knew because it happened to me, too. And we kept each other out of it, as much as we could.

You got drafted, and the first thing I thought wasn't that I was scared you'd die, but that I was scared whatever it was that ate at you would get you, and you'd have no one to get you out again.

After I pulled you off Zola's table, I should have paid more attention. I tried, but there was more to focus on than I thought possible, and I took it on faith that when you said you were okay, that you were telling the truth. That you'd twll me if something was wrong.

Well, I was wrong. And I'm so sorry. I wonder, sometimes, how things would have been different if I'd sat you down and had a good talk once in a while. If maybe we could have figured out what had happened and been more careful trying to get Zola.

I have a lot of regrets. When I told you I couldn't let you go, that was why. I'm selfish. I'm always making it about me, and forgetting to listen. I'm doing that right now.

I hope you're well.

[Steve can't know it, but Bucky reads and rereads his letters so often that they get worn and crumpled, they start to fall apart at the edges and the ink smudges from being handled too often. It doesn't matter, he knows them off by heart. So strange to think of Steve feeling like he's responsible for any of this.

This time the return letter only takes two weeks, and it's marked from the Ukraine.]

Don't regret it. I wouldn't have talked to you even if you had asked.

I don't talk much now. It's better that way, there's too much that's better left unsaid. This is going to be my last letter, I have things I need to do. But I have to ask you something first.

Were we in love?

I remember wanting to kiss you, but I don't remember kissing you. Only dames. Am I remembering things wrong?

[It was a short letter, but it said all it needed to. Bucky would never have asked if he truly did remember, because men weren't supposed to like men that way back then, and he would never have wanted the inevitable rejection. But it wouldn't matter now, he'd probably never see Steve again anyway.]

[The letter shakes him.

It's a question he's never asked himself, because he never thought to ask it. Men weren't allowed to be in love with men, and Steve was Catholic, and...

Steve ends up thinking about it all day. Now that it's in his head, he can't stop thinking about it.

He writes maybe five drafts of his letters, all stream of consciousness, all abandoned partway through, until he finally finishes one.]

It wasn't allowed. It wasn't allowed, so I never let myself think it. Were we in love? I can't speak for you. You never told me, if you were. And I never let myself go down that line of thought.

But I was, even if I never admitted it to myself until today.

Maybe that's why I couldn't let you go, because I never admitted to myself what you really meant to me then.

You were everything. I loved you.

It feels strange to be realizing it now, after so long, but it's true.

And that love never went away, either. We've both changed, so much, and I'm sure that back in Brooklyn, even if I knew I still wouldn't say it. I would've thought you were too good to be dragged down by me. But I know better now. You aren't better, or worse, you're just you, and always have been, even through all the changes.

But now I can say it, and I need to say it.

I love you.

You survived a hell I can never imagine. You survived it, and are reclaiming yourself, and I love you. You are haunted by demons I may never understand, but you face them every day, and that takes a strength and courage I can only pretend to have, and I love you.

You will never be the same man as the kid from Brooklyn again. I know that. I love you.

I love you, whoever you decide to be, and whatever you decide to do.

I love you.

I'm taking time off from being Captain America for a while. Sam's going to give it a shot. If you want to find me, when you're done, I'll be taking a tour of Europe, to see all the art that was hidden away during the war, and everything new since then. Maybe I'll take some art classes. I don't know, I haven't really planned it out yet.

I hope I get to see you again.

Please, don't feel like you have to reciprocate. I know everything is hard right now. Whatever you feel, I want to see you, because whatever you feel, I love you anyway.

Maybe I'll see you in Paris. Or Rome. Or wherever.

Good luck.

I love you.

[He sends it off before he can chicken out and crumble this one up too.]

[In this one way, it was perhaps easier for Bucky to face his feelings. Losing his memories of what had been acceptable and what hadn't had left him without the prejudices against homosexuality. He had spent so long being denied any part of himself, that he no longer had the luxury of asking if the few parts he rediscovered were allowed or not. They were him, so they were allowed.

He had remembered loving Steve, he remembered wanting to kiss him, but he hadn't remembered doing more. It's why he had to ask. The outpouring in the letter he gets back isn't something that he's expecting at all and it takes the wind from his sails pretty effectively. He has to reread it several times over the span of a week to even take it in.

It thrills him.

It makes him furious. He can't go and do what he planned now, he can't walk away from that sort of message. He feels chained again, forced into a different path, one not of his choosing. It means that he doesn't go to Steve, not for a long time, he rages with himself again.

It's nearly four months later, while Steve is in Paris, that Bucky suddenly falls into step next to him as though he had been there all along. He's dressed in ratty jeans and an even rattier hoodie, hair unkempt and stubble almost becoming a beard.]

I guess you were right, it's not the end of the line after all.

[It is extremely difficult to go on vacation and really concentrate on it after sending a letter like that and not know how it was received. But Steve says his goodbyes and leaves, and after a couple of weeks he's able to reach a comfortable place inhis head. Whatever happens now, he got the words out there. He knows how he feels, and Bucky knows now too. Whatever happens next is up to Bucky, and Steve wants to leave that choice to him, so he just... lets it go.

With no idea how he's affected Bucky, Steve buries himself in art.

He takes more classes than he thought he would, just because he finds more than he thought he would. When he gets to Paris, he actually enrolls in art school, and he spends his days creating, and speaking French, and making friends, and living a totally different life.

It's wonderful, but he misses Bucky like a constant ache in his chest.

So when Bucky shows up on one of Steve's walks around the city, his heart swells and he beams, giddy in a way he never thought he could feel.]

I'm glad to hear that.

[A part of him is bursting with the question, wants to know what Bucky thinks, but Steve holds it back.]

It's good to see you.

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