#kellsficlet

Bucky stops short right there in the middle of the hallway. Taped to his locker is a yellow flower. With it, an envelope--his name scrawled across it in messy handwriting. 

People are staring at him. Some giggling. Some impatiently. Some shocked. Probably because Bucky Barnes, their resident charity case and outcast has a flower and a note on his locker. It’s probably some sick joke. Just another asshole in this insufferable school trying to fuck with him.

With all those eyes on him, Bucky plucks the flower off, gives it a sniff, and then opens the envelope. Inside, is a folded up piece of paper. Written on it, is the name of the flower and what it means. 

Yellow Chrysanthemum = Secret admirer.  Meet me behind the locker room after 9th.

Not that many people know about that room. An old weight room, Bucky thinks. Shield Preparatory School’s own secret passageway. Bucky’s gone back there to get high when he just needs to get away from all these snobs.

When the two buddies he does have in school--Natasha and Clint--get wind of it, neither of them are willing to let him miss this opportunity. 

“You gotta go,” Clint urges. “Maybe someone’s gonna ask you to prom!”

Bucky scoffs. “Doubtful. I’m gay. Which fucking guy here is gonna ask me to the prom?”

“What about Sam Wilson?” Natasha suggests. “He’s a cool guy.”

Captain of the baseball team, student body president, and member of the LGBTQ Alliance Club. 

He is a cool guy. For all the complaining Bucky does about most of the student population, there are a few exceptions and he’s one of them. Bucky had quite the crush on him last year. There’s only one problem.

“He’s already going with Maria Hill,” Bucky says. “Besides, what would Sam Wilson want with a guy like me?”

Both of them punch him in the arm, and since they’re on either side of him, it means both arms get punched. 

“Ow!” he exclaims, even though that really didn’t hurt. “Totally unnecessary.”

“You’re going,” Clint says. “You’re not talking your way out of it.”

Flower in hand, Bucky sighs. He doesn’t really want to admit it, not out loud anyway, but there’s a part of him that really does want to go. He’s sort of dying to find out who’s behind this. But there’s an even bigger part that’s dreading it. Because it wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s fucked with him.

He’s been a target in this damn school since the first day he came to it. He’s a nobody. Just a kid from a public school who wrote an essay that was good enough to earn a scholarship. Which meant assholes like Brock Rumlow and Helmut Zemo, kids of very powerful alumni, decided to make him their personal victim. Whether that meant punching bag or verbal harassment, they’ve been on his case for the past three years. 

If this flower came from one of them or one of their friends, and they make a laughing stock out of him, Bucky’s not so sure he’ll get over it.

“What if...” His voice cracks. “What if it’s a joke?” Bucky keeps his eyes on their lunch table. “What if it’s one of--”

“If it’s one of those assholes,” Natasha says, “I’ll rip off their dicks and make them choke on it.” 

“If it’s big enough,” Clint adds.

The remark, while so totally absurd, makes Bucky laugh so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. Neither of them is actually capable of such a thing, but they truly mean they’ll kick some ass if someone is fucking with him. 

Which is the only reason he says, “Okay. I’ll go.”

By the time 9th period is over and Bucky’s on the way to the locker room, he’s starting to wish he just stayed home in his pajamas today. His heart is in his throat. Pounding. So hard he can hear his pulse thudding in his ears. 

Just in case, Natasha and Clint are waiting for him right by the door--his backup. His bodyguards, he likes to think of them as, even though he’s very capable of throwing a few good punches if need be. More than capable. Just because he’s in drama and writes for the literary magazine instead of making touchdowns or three-pointers doesn’t mean he’s out of shape.

Bucky sucks in a deep breath and goes into the room.

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anyone there and he’s sure he’s been had. Then someone stands.

“B-Bucky?”

Bucky nearly falls over when he sees who’s there. For a second, he actually thinks it is a joke because there’s no way that Steve “All American” Rogers, quarterback and captain of the football team and artist and going to Yale next year and homecoming king and probably soon-to-be prom king, left him a flower that means secret admirer. 

Not only is the idea of Steve being his secret admirer just crazy, there’s no way Bucky’s that lucky. He’s had a crush on Steve since he met him when he tutored him in history. 

Out of all the people he’s met that aren’t Natasha and Clint, Steve is his favorite. He’s most decidedly not an asshole. In fact, he’s the opposite. He’s kind and sweet and both shy and social at the same time. Everyone likes Steve and those who don’t are total assholes who Steve hates right back. 

“Steve?” he questions. “Did you--” He lifts the flower. Remembers that Peggy Carter’s locker is right next to his and this is probably meant for her. “Sorry I, uh, I thought this was for me.” Bucky hands it back to him. “I guess you want this back.”

“What?” Steve shakes his head. “No, I...” A blush fills his entire face. “It’s for you. From me. I’m...” He scratches the back of his head. Shifts from foot to foot. “I’m sorry. This looked a lot romantic in my head.”

“Wait, I’m...confused.”

“Well, when I pictured asking you to prom, I thought this would be super cute, having you come to the secret room and now I’m looking around and it looks creepy as fuck and, Jesus, Steve, you suck at this. I’m sorry. Sorry, just forget about it, I’m such an asshole.”

Bucky lets out laugh that echos through the room. “Steve Rogers, are you asking me to the prom?”

“I, uh...that was the idea.” Steve sighs. “I...would you want to go with me? I understand if you don’t, I can’t imagine why someone as awesome as you would want to go with me.” 

“What?!” Bucky shrieks. “I’ve had a crush on you since day one!” Face flushing, Bucky can’t believe he just said that out loud. 

“You...really?” Steve blinks a few times and then his jaw drops. “I’ve had a crush on you, too! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He laughs and drops a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “If you’re really asking me to the prom, my answer is yes!”

“Y-yes?” Steve's mouth tugs itself in this adorable smile. “You wanna go with me? Really? Like, not just as friends, as...maybe more? If you’d...maybe wanna go get some pizza beforehand? I mean, like, this weekend?”

“You mean, a date?”

“Uh...yeah.” Steve nibbles his lip and, seriously, how is it fair that everything this guy does is adorable?

“I’d love to, Steve.”

Steve, stepping closer, gently cups Bucky’s cheek in his big, athletic and artistic hand. He looks like he wants to kiss him. 

“I hope you know,” Steve murmurs, leaning in closer, “I’m gonna get you more flowers.”

Bucky wakes with a groan in the back of his throat and a sandpaper tongue and a person inside his head that has the nerve to jackhammer against his skull. It takes Herculean effort just to get his eyes opened and when he does, he just shuts them again. Too bright. Much too bright. 

Ugh, why he let Natasha convince him to do shots of Jager is beyond him, but he’s certainly paying for it now. Thank god he doesn’t have work today. No way could he drag himself all the way to Stark Industry-NYC and do any sort of advertisement.  

All Bucky plans on doing today is eating breakfast--if he can stomach it--and popping some aspirin and curling up in a Bucky Burrito on the couch to binge Netflix. Sounds like a good idea. It’d be even better if he had someone to hold him through it. Guess breakfast will have to do.

In fact, from the smell of it, Clint is already up cooking breakfast. Pancakes. Eggs. And...bacon, oh dear god, thank you. Coffee, too, and since this is Clint making it, it’s gotta be perfect. 

Rolling out of bed in just his boxers, Bucky barely even opens his eyes as he ambles into the kitchen. He smacks his lips and moans and plops into the nearest seat at the end of the table. Bucky drops his head down and pillows them in his arms.

“Mornin’, sleepyhead.” 

Okay, well, now his eyes go wide because that’s definitely not Clint’s voice. Bucky lifts his head just enough to look up and realizes that there’s some blond guy in his kitchen. In a pair of pajama pants and T-shirt that’s probably a size-too-small, he’s at the stove cooking the bacon. 

“Wh-who’re you?” Bucky asks. “And why’re you in my kitchen?”

Frying pan in hand, he chuckles and turns to scoop some scrambled eggs on a plate next to a stack of pancakes. When Bucky gets a good look at him, he realizes that he’s the hot guy who lives down the hall. Steve Rogers. The guy that Bucky’s attempted to ask him out several times only to sputter over words and manage, at most, a hi, how are you or nice weather we’re having, huh. Majorly embarrassing. Even worse since when he’s not trying to ask him out, he’s perfectly capable of having a conversation with him.

They’re always fun, too. They like the same movies. Music. Shows. They spent over an hour hanging out on the rooftop during random get-togethers. 

Steve does graphic design for SHIELD, an LGBTQ Organization and volunteers as a counselor for LGBTQ youth and paints and apparently makes breakfast for his neighbors when they’re having one of the most horrible hangovers of their life.  

“I think the better question is what you’re doing in my kitchen.” Steve places the full plate in front of Bucky. “And to answer it, I awoke last night...” He pauses and snickers. “Well, more like this morning since it was after four, to someone desperately attempting to get into my apartment. And when I opened the door to see what was going on, someone called me a waste of a door and shoved me out of the way and then stumbled into my bedroom, stripping as they did, and then passed out in my bed.” 

Face burning red, and by extension making his stomach turn and his head hurt even more, Bucky doesn’t even know how to respond to this. He’s not sure if there’s a stronger word than humiliated but if there is, that’s him right about now. 

“I...I’m so sorry, Steve, I...” Bucky sighs. “I...”

Realizing that he’s literally sitting there in his underwear, Bucky blushes even more, and even if he figures out something to say, he won’t be able to say it. This has got to be the worst morning ever. 

“Here’s some water,” Steve says, placing a glass next to the plate. “I have aspirin, too, if you want.”

For someone who got woken up at four in the morning by his asshole neighbor drunkenly mistaking the wrong apartment for his and then passing out half-naked in his bed, this guy is awfully generous. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispers. “I’m...I’m really sorry about this.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Who hasn’t forced their way into a neighbor’s place when they were drunk?”

“You’ve done this?”

“No. Never.” He laughs at his joke and just it makes his baby blues twinkle. Bucky’s belly twists again. Nothing to do with the hangover this time. “But, really, it’s okay. I have done some crazy things when drunk.”

Appreciative of the sympathy--while somehow not sounding like he pities Bucky either--Bucky grins, sheepishly. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Once, my first year of college, I was walking back to my dorm with some buddies and decided it would be a great idea to moon a bunch of cops.”

Bucky, having just taken a sip of water, nearly spits it out. He needs to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from doing so. 

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “So, I kinda have a record. Hope that doesn’t ruin your breakfast.” 

“Not at all,” Bucky laughs. “Makes me feel a little bit better. A little bit.”

This gets him a soft smile and Bucky scoops up some of the eggs, awkward and unsure. Steve made them for him, so no matter how embarrassed he feels, it’d probably be rude not to eat them. Plus, he’s starving. Plus, it’s a really sweet gesture. Plus, wow, these’re really good.

But he still feels totally ridiculous, so maybe it’d be better if he just left. Although, he really wants to finish the food. 

“Um, these are really good,” Bucky murmurs. “But, if you want me to leave, I totally understand.”

“No, no!” Steve shakes his head very quickly. As though the idea of Bucky leaving right now is the very last thing he wants. “That’s fine. Finish your food.”

Steve sorta blinks like he’s suddenly shy and after clearing his throat, he gets up from the table and starts washing the dishes. Shit, Steve is hot. Even standing by the sink washing dishes in pajamas with water splashing onto his shirt and suds dripping onto the floor.

“Th-thanks. Um.” Bucky pushes some food around on the plate. “I can’t believe you’re being so cool about this.”

This time, Steve blushes. He blushes so hard that it reaches the tips of his ears and he folds in a smile.

“Well, I just figured I could hold it over your head forever.” 

"Oh, gee,” Bucky scoffs a laugh. “Thanks a lot. And here I thought you were just awesome.”

Eyes squeezed closed, Steve pinches between them and laughs to himself with a shake of his head. 

“There is also that other thing.”

“Which is?”

“I...kinda wanted to ask you out on a...date...” Steve laughs again, this time, Bucky thinks, a bundle of nerves. “But I chickened out every time I tried. So...”

Still reeling in that pretty smile of his, Steve lets it out and turns it on Bucky, and hot damn, that’s a smile that’ll make Bucky go weak at the knees whenever he sees it.

Heart skipping a beat, Bucky nibbles on his lip and almost can’t believe his ears. Given the hangover, he really wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hallucinating that the hot guy that he’s had a crush on for months just told him he’s been trying to ask him out on a date. 

“So you made me breakfast after I practically broke into your apartment and demanded I sleep here?”

Steve chuckles and sits down again, this time with a cup of coffee. He scoops some sugar into it and shrugs. 

“I mean...” He giggles. Outright giggles and Bucky didn’t think he could be more smitten with the guy. “I, uh, yeah. I figured, why not?”

“Um, maybe...” Bucky holds in a delighted chuckle. “Maybe, later, I can make you some lunch? When I’m not in my underwear.”

“I dunno.” Steve shrugs. “I kinda like you in your underwear oh my god, I’m sorry!” He hides his face in his hands. “I’m sorry! That was horrible, I shouldn’t’ve--”

“It’s okay, Steve.” Oh, Bucky really likes to say his name already. “That’s was...awesome. And not at all embarrassing.”

Looking over the tips of his fingers, Steve is clearly trying not to burst out laughing.

“Am I uninvited to lunch?”

“Not at all. In fact.” Bucky bats his eyes. “I think lunch’ll be an even better way to get rid of my hangover.” 

Steve smiles some more, and yes, that smile’ll pierce Bucky’s heart every time. Without a doubt. 

“I could...maybe wrap you in a blanket?” he offers. “Hold a cold compress over your head. Get you water. Stop me anytime.” 

“Actually, I’d really like that.” 

They smile at each other. The last thing Bucky expected to do when he first woke up this morning was going out on a date with Steve Rogers, the guy he’s been crushing on for months. 

Thunder claps overhead. Off in the distance, lightning scatters through the clouds. Steve walks along the shoreline, kicking up sand with each step. Under his arms, he carries a few more lightning rods. He’s already shoved a few into the ground. He wonders briefly about the wedding and immediately tries to push the thought out of his mind. The love of his life is marrying someone else tonight and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Well, no. There is one thing he can do. He can be happy for Bucky. Steve loves him and has loved him since they were a couple’ve kids running around the streets of Brooklyn getting into trouble. All he wants is Bucky’s happiness. Even if that means he’s found it with another person. Steve can be happy for him. 

And he will be. He just...needs a little time.

It’s just hard when he remembers everything. Every kiss. Every fight. Every time they said they’d love each other to the end of the line. Steve even remembers when they were ten-years-old and walked along this very same beach to watch the storm clouds roll in and Steve first proposed the idea of marriage. 

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk?” Bucky had laughed. “I’m only ten-years-old. I’m gonna see the world! Travel! Learn about everything! I can’t do that with a husband.”

“Why not, jerk?” Steve asked. “What’s so wrong with bein’ married?”

“Nothin’.” Bucky shrugged. “But you want roots and I want wings!”

Bucky held his arms out and his head back, and just as he started spinning around in a circle, it began to pour. Big, thick drops of water dropping down on them in an instant. 

They shrieked and laughed and opened their mouths to catch the rain with their tongues. They held hands to dance and tumbled all over each other. They let loose a blood-curling scream when lightning struck just a few yards away from them. 

Steve turned to run back the way they came, but Bucky grabbed onto his wrist to pull him where the sand had been hit.

“Not that way! This way!” 

“Why?!”

“Because lightning never strikes the same place twice!” he yelled back. “Everyone knows that!”

When they reached the smoking spot on the beach, they were shocked to discover what the lightning left behind. It looked like glass. Smooth and iridescent. 

Without thinking, Steve reached out to touch it, but Bucky made sure that he didn’t.

“Don’t touch it, dummy, it’s hot.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno.” Bucky looked at him with a smile. “Why would you wanna marry me anyway?” 

Steve glanced into those steel-blue eyes. Like glaciers. Not cold, but sparking and filled with hidden depths. And he only had one answer.

“So I can kiss you any time I want.”

Those eyes widened and brightened with a smile, and Steve, smaller than him then, wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips.

They found out later that the lightning hitting the sand just right caused fulgurite. Steve’s made a living out of collecting it and turning it into glass sculptures while Bucky found his calling across the country as an author. 

Steve has all of his books. Romances mostly. Space adventures and magic and love in all its beautiful forms. 

Steve had been heartbroken when Bucky left for California ten years ago to pursue an education in creative writing. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault even though Steve tried like hell to blame him. Bucky asked Steve to go with him after he’d been offered a coveted writer’s fellowship to the University of Southern California. Steve, stubborn to the core, told him New York was their home.

He knew immediately that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life when he came home to an empty apartment. Steve even went out there once about a month after he left to try to win him back. To convince him to come home with him. 

When Steve got there with flowers and ready to declare his love for him, he happened to see Bucky coming out of his new building, he stumbled to a halt. Bucky looked amazing. Brilliant and beautiful as his eyes fell closed and he smiled up at the bright, sunny sky.  

There Bucky was. Wings spread and soaring. And Steve couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to try to clip those amazing wings and have him crash to the ground just because Steve wanted to be his husband. Bucky deserved better.

So Steve went back home to New York, signed the divorce papers so that Bucky could fly without him, and started his art studio. Wanted to make something of himself so maybe he could win Bucky’s love again. 

What he hadn’t expected was Bucky showing up about thirty days ago engaged to someone else. Almost as though he was seeking his permission. Or blessing. Or...Steve’s not sure. 

But seeing him after all these years, after the initial awkwardness, felt as though not a day had gone by. They laughed. They teased each other. They caught up. All the while Bucky and his family here in New York made the final plans for his wedding. 

Bucky even stopped by the other day with an invitation. A part of Steve wants to follow his mother’s advice and go to the wedding. But Steve thought the ex-husband at the new wedding would be a little weird. Not to mention heartbreaking. Sure, their marriage right out of high school didn’t even last the full summer, but still. Weird. 

Those dark clouds are rolling in faster now and the next thunderclap brings with it a downpour. Well, at least the world can cry with him. 

Steve chuckles darkly at his ridiculous thoughts and wipes those few tears away with the back of his arm as he works another lightning rod into the sand. He made his biggest mistake. Now he has to live with his biggest regret. 

“Hey!”

The shout from behind him, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain and rumbling skies, startles Steve. He turns. Sees Bucky standing there, wearing a tux, no shoes, and sopping wet. Water drips off the ends of his hair, which, up until a few moments ago was probably styled beautifully. Doesn’t matter that he’s soaked to the bone and in a ruined tuxedo. He still looks gorgeous. 

For a moment, Steve just stares. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure he’s not imagining this. 

“Bucky?”

“I got somethin’ to say to you, punk.”

“What’re you doin’ here?!” Steve calls back over all the noise. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a wedding?” 

“Yes! Yes, I was!” Bucky sounds angry. He looks angry, too, but Steve isn’t sure what he did this time. “I was supposed to get married!”

“Did...did you...not get married?”

“No! No, I didn’t get married!” He huffs and shakes his head. “I didn’t get married because the person I’m in love with wasn’t there!”

Steve’s heart skips a beat. He knows he fucked up, but he can’t imagine someone else making the same mistake he did. How could anyone ever let him go?

“Were you...left at the altar?”

“Oh, no. No, they were there. But you weren’t! You weren’t there, Steve!” He stomps his foot and growls through his teeth. “Why didn’t you come after me?” Bucky steps up and punches Steve once in the arm. Hard. And then does it again and again. “I waited for you, Steve! I waited ten years and you never came!”

“I...I did...” Steve tries to say as he cringes away from Bucky’s anger which hurts a hell of a lot more than any of his punches. “I came after you, Bucky, I swear!” 

Bucky takes a breath, a step back, and wipes his face of some of the water dripping down it.

“You...you did?”

Steve nods. “I did. About a month after you left. But I saw how happy you looked and I...I couldn’t ask you to give that up. A-and, I thought that if you flew, then you’d fly away from me. But I also didn’t want to be a stone around your neck. Bucky, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I let you go without a fight. I”m sorry I didn’t go with you. I--” 

“Steve...” Bucky reaches out and touches Steve’s cheek. “You were never a stone around my neck. I thought spreading my wings meant that I couldn’t keep my roots. But when I saw you here again and...I realized that I can have my wings and my roots. I want you to be there when I land. Just like I wanted you to be there when I flew. Because I love you, Steve.” 

The glands in Steve’s throat swell. He thinks he might burst into tears. If Bucky’s really saying what he thinks is... 

“I...I love you, too, Bucky. But...what if we had our shot already?” he asks. “You said it yourself, lightning never strikes the same place twice.” 

This makes Bucky smiles with a shake of his head. 

“You silly punk,” he says. “It already struck. I wanna marry you and spend the rest of my life with you.”

Heart growing beneath his ribs, Steve can’t help but grin wildly at that. At Bucky saying he left his own wedding, tracked Steve down to their spot on the beach, and came out in the pouring rain just to tell him he loves him. 

“Why would you wanna be married to me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s smile makes his eyes sparkle brighter than any stars hiding behind the storm clouds.

“So I can kiss you anytime I want.” 

The answer, of course, is yes. Even if Steve did have plans, which he doesn’t, he’d cancel them. He hasn’t seen Bucky in six weeks. Not since their last trip upstate to the flea market. 

They have a complicated relationship. Complicated in every sense and meaning of the word. All because Brock Rumlow aka Crossbones, a higher-up in the Hydra biker gang, walked into Steve’s garage with his bike last year, and thought Steve did such a good job, that he offered him a bonus--a night with his boyfriend. 

Steve hadn’t wanted to take that job. He’d spent the past few years building up a decent reputation, converting the garage of his family home into a business after the sudden death of his mother. The last thing he wanted or needed was for the local biker gangs thinking he was readily available for their use. 

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Even if it did, Steve wouldn’t change a thing. Without that job, he’d’ve never met Bucky. 

Steve is fairly sure he fell in love with Bucky that night. A few hours. That’s all it took to fall head over heels for the kind, gentle, witty, beautiful boyfriend of that lowlife creep, Crossbones. If there’s anyone less deserving to have Bucky by their side, it’s him. To be honest, Steve isn’t quite sure he’s all that deserving either--what with the way he’s closed himself off from his closest friends after the accident--but, at the very least, he’d never mistreat him the way Brock Rumlow does.

He’s controlling and manipulative and cruel, and even though Bucky won’t admit it, Steve is sure that he gets physical with him. He’s seen the evidence--fading bruises, the way Bucky sometimes flinches if Steve lifts his hand too quickly, the excuses he makes for his behavior. 

This past year, Steve has tried everything he could think of to get Bucky to leave him. It won’t be easy, he knows that. Leaving Hydra isn’t as simple as walking out the door but Steve is very willing to risk everything to help Bucky do it. Because, yes, he’s that worth it. 

Only Bucky doesn’t see it. Or, rather, he’s too afraid to. 

So they’ve kept their relationship a secret. Completely. Brock Rumlow has no idea about their clandestine meetings. Stolen moments once a month where they ride upstate together to go to that flea market. A night hidden in heat and passion, and few others snuck in here or there when they can manage. 

But then, two weeks ago, on the Sunday they were meant to meet for their monthly ride upstate, Bucky didn’t show.

Sure something horrible had happened, Steve sent message after message, panicked and terrified. After two days of worrying, he finally got a response. Just one thing.

Don’t ever contact me again.

Then, nothing. 

Not until this text this morning, and Steve doesn’t know if he should be worried or excited. 

Midnight can’t get here fast enough.

Which, of course, only means that the entire day drags. Seconds tick by like minutes. Hours go by like days. 

Steve doesn’t hear from Bucky again and he’s actually too nervous to try texting him first. He tries throwing himself into his work. He’s got a few quickies today. One bike here for an oil change. One for an inspection. Another that needs some more attention since it’s sputtering. It’s hot today. Humid. The air conditioner in the wall cools his garage off a little, but since he keeps the door open during business hours, it’s not exactly refreshing. 

Sweat drips down Steve’s face as he works. Dirt and grease stick to him more today because of it. When he gets a little dizzy, Steve realizes that it’s well past noon and he’s had nothing to eat other two slices of toast with strawberry jam right after he woke up. Dehydrating and ending up in the hospital instead of meeting with Bucky is not what he as planned for today, so he takes a lunch break and sits inside to cool off a bit.

Of course, cooling off just makes all that sweat and filth and grime stick to him even more. Steve doesn’t really mind. He never really did. There’s something almost comforting in his work getting him so dirty. Like physical proof of what he’s done. 

Before going back to work, Steve checks his phone. He pretends that he’s checking for any work calls or one of his friends--since he’s been trying hard to reconnect with them this year--but he’s really hoping for another message from Bucky. When he sees none, he sighs and heads back to work.

Once he’s finished with the business side of his garage, it’s still only four o’clock so he focuses on his own project. Fixing up a Harley Davidson-WLA, the very same they used during World War Two.

Not that that holds his attention for very long since all he can think of is those amazing moments he’s shared with Bucky sitting here next to him. Them working on their bikes together. There’s something intimate and sensual about that. The way Bucky’ll let him work on his, handing him tools and getting his hands dirty right along with him. Working on another person’s bike, Steve knows, is a very personal and private thing. He’s honored that other avid bikers trust him with theirs, but Bucky’s trust makes him glow. 

Before Steve knows it, he’s sitting on his couch staring at an off television screen. Nerves tap dance through his belly, fast and offbeat. He’s already showered--scrubbed off the grease and grime as best he could. At least he doesn’t smell. Well, maybe of motor oil but he doesn’t think Bucky’ll mind very much. 

By the time it’s eleven, Steve can take it anymore. It’ll only take about twenty minutes at the most to reach their usual meeting spot under the bridge, but he’d rather be on his bike, be outside, watch the stars while waiting for Bucky than pacing back and forth in his living room. 

The fresh air actually does do him some good. The feel of the wind rushing by him, the world nothing but a blur of colors. Clears his senses, so instead of heading straight to the bridge, Steve decides on just taking a ride to keep his mind focused on the world from the view of his bike. 

When he finally does get to the bridge, it’s just a few minutes past minutes and Bucky’s already there. He’s leaning on the guard rail, looking out across the Hudson River. He doesn’t turn when Steve gets there. Not even after he dismounts next to Bucky’s bike and goes over to him.

“Hey,” Steve greets as he approaches. “Bucky.”

Bucky sort of turns a little more away from him. He’s wearing his leather jacket and his hair is actually down instead of pulled back in his normal, messy bun. From what Steve can see of his face, he’s chewing on one of his toothpicks.

“Hey, Steve.”

“I was, uh, I was worried,” he admits, not moving any closer to Bucky though he sure as hell wants to. “When you didn’t show and then...”

“Yeah.” Bucky sniffs. “Sorry ‘bout that. Things got...a little hectic.”  

“You don’t have to--” Steve clears his throat which is suddenly too thick with emotion. “Are you all right?”

Only answering that with a nod, Bucky, who’s been holding himself tense and rigid, allows his hand to slide on the railing toward Steve’s. They touch, just barely, but it’s enough to burn.

“Thanks for meeting me,” Bucky murmurs just over the soft blow of the wind.”I just...needed to get out for a bit but I didn’t wanna be alone.” 

“Okay,” Steve answers, growing more concerned with each passing second. “You’re not alone. I’m here. If you need to...to talk--Bucky, why won’t you look at me?”

Yanking his hand back as though worried Steve might force him to turn his way--he wouldn’t, of course--Bucky wraps his arms around himself like he’s desperate to keep from falling apart. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers, mostly to himself but Steve can clearly hear. “If he finds out...he’ll kill you.”

“Who?” Steve asks. “Brock? Is that what you’re worried about? Did something happen with him?”

Head lowering with a shake and a dark chuckle, Bucky lets out a disgruntled sigh and fully turns his back to Steve.

“He doesn’t know,” Bucky murmurs. “About us, I mean. That Sunday I was supposed to meet you, he ended up...wanting me...elsewhere.”

That could mean a lot of things. For all Steve knows, it just means that Rumlow wanted to spend the day with him. It could also mean that Rumlow sent him to someone the same way he sent him to Steve that first time. Either way, whatever Bucky had done that day made it impossible for him to answer any of Steve’s texts. 

“I was so worried,” Bucky continues, “that he’d notice all the texts I was getting that day. He didn’t but...”

“That’s why you told me not to contact you again.”

It’s an assumption, but Bucky sighs again and nods, so Steve takes that as meaning he’s right.  

“I’m sorry, Steve, I just didn’t know what else to do. If he hurts you--”

“I don’t care if he hurts me,” Steve interrupts. “I care about you, Bucky.” He might not respond well to Steve saying how much he loves him, not now, maybe not ever, but Steve needs to make him see how much he means to him. “If anything ever happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

This time, Bucky scoffs as though morbidly amused by what Steve’s said. Like he can’t imagine that could ever possibly be true. As if too tired and exhausted to keep arguing about this with him, Bucky spins around and tries something else.

“I can’t possibly be worth that to you, Steve.” 

Steve knows that Bucky’s just said something to him. Something about lack of knowing self-worth and Steve’s feelings for him, and that’s important. It’s all important. But at the moment, all that Steve hears are the bruises screaming at him across Bucky’s face. 

His right eye is swollen. His lips are busted. His forehead is dotted with bruising as well. 

“Jesus, Bucky!” Steve exclaims, and he knows it’s too rough...it’s too loud... too much...and Bucky flinches from the words and volume. “What happened?!”

All the color drains from Bucky’s face. It’s almost like he’d forgotten, just for a moment in his doubt of Steve’s feelings for him, that he’d intended to keep this hidden. 

He takes a hurried step back--maybe out of fear, maybe out of something else--and shakes his head.

“It’s nothing!” he cries. “It was my fault, I know better than to mouth off to him, I should’t’ve...” He stops there like he’s his words’ve hit a brick wall and bursts into tears. “He’s never...”Bucky heaves in a big gulp of air and staggers on the exhale. “Not like this...”

Steve, not sure if it’s better to reach out and hold Bucky or not even try to touch him, is ready to tear across the entire world if he has to so he can rip apart Brock Rumlow piece by piece. But, right now, Bucky’s more important. 

“Bucky, it’s...” How to comfort him? With big, strong arms? Soft words? Steve doesn’t know what might make this better and what might make this worse. It’s a fine line between the two. “It’s not your fault. No matter what happened, it’s not your fault. It’s his. A-and...and you’re safe. Right now, you’re safe. He can’t hurt you. Not when you’re here with me.”

Hoping to offer more reassurance than that, Steve opens his arms. He stays where he is, though. Wants this to be Bucky’s choice. 

Bucky, sniffling and still teary-eyed, dives into his embrace and holds onto him so tightly that Steve can feel him trembling. 

“I was gonna leave,” he weeps into Steve’s shirt. “I had a bag packed. Hidden in the back of the closet. He found it. And he...” Did what he did. Steve gets it. “He said if I ever tried again he’d break both my legs. Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry, he’ll kill you if he finds me with you but I’ve been so scared and I needed to get out for a little bit so when he left tonight I just...I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers over and over. “It’s okay, Bucky, you’re okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I’m here, baby, I’m here.”  

They stand there together, with Bucky tucked in Steve’s arm, for an unmeasurable amount of time. The world goes on around them. Cars moving over the bridge. Clouds passing overhead. People out for a late night stroll. Here, with Bucky, times stands still. 

Eventually, Bucky’s tears dry and his breaths even and even his trembling comes to a stop. He doesn’t move, though, so Steve keeps him in his arms, gently petting a hand over him every now and then. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers a long while later, “Bucky, please, let me help you.” Already rejecting the idea with fevered shakes of his head, Bucky starts to pull away. “Please, Bucky,” Steve implores, “please. I have...I have friends who can help get you away. Get you somewhere safe. I promise, he’ll never hurt you again.”

Though he’s pulled away, Bucky remains holding onto Steve’s arms, as though not willing to part from him. He still shakes his head. 

“N-no. No, Steve, I can’t. I...” He looks across the river. “Just...ride with me? Tonight? Please, we can go to that little bed and breakfast we stayed at right after Christmas, remember?” Bucky, eyes filling again with tears, gives him a weak, unconvincing smile and a nod. “Please? I...I know I can’t leave him, but I can’t go back there tonight and he’s gone for the rest of the week. Please, say you’ll come with me.” 

“Bucky...”

“Please.” His voice is so soft. So pleading, and it rips Steve’s heart in two. “Just a late night bike ride under the stars and a good night’s sleep. That’s all I need. Please, Steve.” 

“O-okay,” Steve agrees. He’ll agree to absolutely anything to comfort Bucky right now. “Okay, we’ll go. We’ll go right now, baby.”

The way Bucky smiles at him now, so hopeful and desperate, it makes Steve want to drop to his knees and beg him to let him help. That won’t do now. He’s not going to listen to any of Steve’s good-intentioned begging. Not his offers to help him. Right now, the only thing Steve can do to help is bringing him some place to rest. A place to feel safe. 

That, Steve’ll do.

A late night bike ride under the stars. The world fading to just the two of them as they ride separately but together. Last-minute check-ins at a quaint, little bed and breakfast that, fortunately, still had a vacancy. 

“Thank you, Steve,” Bucky whispers when Steve locks the door behind them. “I know you didn’t really wanna come here. I’m sorry I made you.”

“You didn’t make me do anything, Bucky,” Steve murmurs, approaching slowly, cautiously, so that he doesn’t startle him. “I wanted to come with you.”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “You didn’t. But thanks for comin’ anyway. I’m...” He points over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m gonna take a shower. You won’t...go anywhere, will you?”

“Mm-mm.” Steve sits down on the king-sized bed. “I’ll be right here.”  

When Steve hears the water turn on and the shower curtain pull closed, he grabs his phone and, despite the late hour, calls his oldest friend in the world, Peggy Carter.

She works with victims of domestic abuse. Both counseling and trying to help them escape toxic relationships. Maybe she can give Steve some advice. 

Amazingly, after only three rings, she answers.

“Hello? Steven? Is everything all right?”

“Uh. hey, Peg, I’m so sorry for calling so late,” he says. “I’m okay. But...”

After listening to Steve hurry and tell her everything he knows and making her aware of the current situation, Peggy’s first piece of advice is plain and simple.

“Okay, first of all, you need to keep calm. That’s most important right now.”

Because they have a limited amount of time to talk before Bucky gets out of the shower, Peggy does her best to help. She tells him to remain supportive and be friendly but not preachy and not to blame him for anything that’s happened. 

“Be open to just listening to him,” she says. “He needs to know that you’re a safe person to talk to. Don’t criticize. You can offer him my number or any other abuse hotlines this way he can talk to a professional anonymously. You have to remember, Steve.” The way her voice changes slightly is proof that this part is important. “You can’t make him do anything. This needs to be his choice. If he’s not ready and you try to force him, you run the risk of him closing off from you altogether.” 

“Right,” Steve whispers just as the water turns off. If he’s going to help Bucky, he needs to listen to Peggy and do what she says no matter how difficult it might be. “I...I gotta go, Peg. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, my darling,” she says. “I hope to hear from either of you soon.”

Steve would give a better farewell, but the door to the bathroom starts to open, so he quickly ends the call. Not quite quick enough, though. Towel around his waist and locks of wet hair hanging down to his chin, Bucky glances at the phone in Steve’s hand and then up to his face. Twice. 

“Who...” His lips set in a line. “Who were you on the phone with?”

“Just a friend,” Steve tells him honestly. “Peggy. Don’t worry. She doesn’t know where we are or who you are or anything like that, I promise.”

At first, Steve’s not sure if Bucky believes him. Looks as though, for a moment at least, that he’s considering making a run for it. He doesn’t. Instead, he heaves a sigh and, after plucking a toothpick from his jacket’s pocket, sits down next to Steve. 

He turns that toothpick over in his hands for a moment or two before finally sticking it in his mouth. 

They’re quiet as they sit together. After a few minutes of silence, Steve slowly reaches up and sweeps some of Bucky’s hair away from his face. He leans in and presses a tender kiss to his shoulder. Over soft skin covered in beautiful tattoos. Gently, he coaxes Bucky’s chin from side to side so that he could get a better look at him to make sure those bruises haven’t gotten any worse. He might wanna get him some ice for that eye. 

Steve cups Bucky’s cheek and when he does, Bucky’s eyes softly fall shut. He hums and leans into the touch. 

“Do you wanna talk about it, baby?”

Eyes opening again, Bucky, placing his own hand over the top of Steve’s to keep it there, shakes his head.

“No. Please, don’t make me.”

“Oh, no,” Steve whispers and breathes a kiss to Bucky’s brow. “Never. I just wanted to offer.”

“I’m just...real tired, Steve. I wanna go to sleep.”  

Steve nods and peels back the covers. Bucky, still only in that towel, crawls beneath them, tugging on the sleeve of Steve’s T-shirt to bring him along. Steve obliges and gets into the bed with him. 

As soon as he’s settled, Bucky curls against him with his head practically in his lap. Steve pets a hand over his head. Whispers soft words. Things about how he’s safe. He’s here with him. No one can hurt him now. 

And Bucky, Steve thinks, falls asleep within minutes. 

Steve, on the other hand, stays awake. Just in case Bucky wakes and needs him. He’ll stay awake all night if he has to. 

And he’ll still be here in the morning. 

Whatever the sun might bring with it, Steve will see this through until Bucky’s away and safe from Brock Rumlow. 

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, slayer.” 

Steve glances up from his beer, his heartbeat picking up at the sudden company. All the noise in the bar probably isn’t enough to cover the sound of it either so no doubt Bucky can hear it with those perfect ears of his. 

He tries to avert his gaze but can’t. He never can. Bucky is just so striking in every way. Five years ago, when Steve first laid eyes on him, he thought he’d been carved out of his own dreams. He’d never seen anyone like him. Long, lean limbs. Those lips the color of sin against his smooth, alabaster skin. Fluffy hair the color of a fawn and twice as soft. And his eyes. Good God, his eyes.

Steve had tried to dismiss them as gray. Just the color of a dreary day before it storms. But the more Steve’s seen them, the more he looks into them, the more he needs to acknowledge how wrong he’d been.

They aren’t gray. They’re silver, though, really, neither word does them justice. They are so solid, so bright, the exact lustrous color of a polished shard of a precious gem, and when Steve looks closer like he does just now, he sees the swirls of glittering onyx black and tinges of blue at the edges.

“You always keep me waiting,” Steve says, hoping to keep his voice even. “What else is new?”

Bucky’s mouth curves up in an amused grin as he helps himself to the seat across from Steve. 

“Is that a turn of phrase,” he asks, “or are you really asking?”

He wasn’t asking, but now that Bucky brought it to his attention, Steve does want to know. 

“It’s been two months,” Steve says. “What’ve you been up to?” 

Before responding, Bucky pulls a flask out from beneath the folds of his overcoat, adjusting his silk cravat so that he doesn’t suffer the horror of having anything out of place. Always so impeccably dressed no matter how outdated some of it might be. 

A touch of a more romantic time in history, Bucky always says. I can’t blame the world for losing its taste, but that doesn’t mean I have to.

Steve can’t help watching as Bucky takes a sip. A hard lump lodges itself in his throat when a bright red sheen left itself on Bucky’s lips. As if knowing Steve’s watching, Bucky makes a slow, sensual show of licking away the remnants.

“Want some then, slayer?”

Steve forces himself to look away. He tries to clear that lump but catching himself locked in Bucky’s gaze again doesn’t help with that. Bucky smirks. 

“I’ve kept busy,” Bucky finally answers the question at hand. “Teaching, actually.”

“Teaching?”

“Mhm.” Bucky nods. “Artistic Representation of the Underworld, The Bible as Literature, and War, Lit, and Politics of the Italian Renaissance. Took over for a few professors at the university when they suddenly needed some…time off.”

Time off. That probably means Bucky made a very convincing suggestion. A simple whisper in their ear that now would be a perfect time for a vacation. Very hard to resist the suggestive power of a vampire, especially when unaware of it. 

Taking a handful of peanuts, Steve chuckles with a shake of his head. He unshells one of the nuts and pops it into his mouth.

“All things you have personal experience with.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m not that old, slayer. I was not around for anything written in the Bible.” 

Steve doesn’t know Bucky’s exact age. In fact, he’s not even sure Bucky knows his exact age anymore. He does know that he was around for the Renaissance and shows up in a few, more obscure, paintings from the era. 

“And you, Steven?” Bucky asks. “What sort of trouble have you been getting yourself into lately?”

“None.”

Eyebrows arching, Bucky clicks his tongue in that knowing sort of way and Steve shrinks into his shoulders. He knows that look. Knows he’s done something that’s about to get him scolded.

“No?” Bucky says, and waits for Steve to amend his answer but, for the life of him, Steve can’t think of what answer he’s looking for. “Then what’s this I hear about you jumping out of a glass elevator?” 

“You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.” When Steve doesn’t say anything else, Bucky huffs. “Would you care to share why you jumped from forty stories?”

This accusation makes Steve wince. Yes, he did jump out of a glass elevator, and from a very high height, but he did have a good reason.

“I was surrounded,” Steve argues, “by vampires. What’d you want me to do, let them–”

The growl in the back of Bucky’s throat cuts him off and Steve snaps his mouth shut. 

“Are you being a smartass, Steven?”

“N-no, Bucky.”

“Good,” Bucky grumbles. “Why were you there in the first place?”

Steve scoffs. The answer to that is obvious and Bucky already knows it. It’s painted beneath the skin of Steve’s forearm. 

It is in our blood, to slay every last one

“You know why I was there,” Steve whispers. “I had to be there.”

“Killing more of my brethren?” Bucky asks. “More monsters like me?”

Eyes dropping to the table, Steve’s brow furrows and he slowly shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you’re a monster, you know that.” Steve looks through his lashes to see that Bucky’s crossed his arms. Still waiting for an answer to his more pressing question. “I wasn’t there hunting. I was there doing research.” 

Bucky’s head tilts slightly to the side. “Research at a public building?”

“That’s right. I got wind that there was a Hydra Coven there.”

This makes Bucky fall back against his seat with a more understanding, if not surprised, look on his face. He drums his fingers across the table, those manicured nails tap, tap, tapping as he does. 

“I see.” He’s dropped his gaze. Seeing things Steve can’t. A time before all this. Before he knew Steve. Before they were a them. “And did you find him?”

“No. But his War Dog was there. Gives me reason to think he’s in town, too.” Steve twists his lips. “I guess you still won’t tell me where he is.”

“You guessed correctly.” 

“You’re impossible.”

Bucky sighs and peers up through thick lashes. That look makes Steve’s heart pound even harder. So innocent and anything but at the same time. 

“Steve,” he says, softly, “you’ve got to stop this. You’re going to get hurt.”  

“I’m a slayer,” Steve mutters. “It’s my job.”

Slayers have been around almost as long as the vampires they hunt. People born with the innate ability, the strength, the speed, to hunt the hunters. They joined forces to hunt together under one banner they called the Black Rose for the same sole purpose, pursuit, calling.

Generations have continued their sacred mission: kill all vampires. They’ve handed down one message: despise all vampires. They valued one truth above all others: all vampires are evil. 

Each new generation is taught the arduous and painstaking art of slaying at a young age. Steve, like all slayers before him, had these three absolutes instilled in him ever since a vampire killed his mother when he was just three-years-old. 

But Sarah Rogers, a slayer like him, hadn’t been part of the Roses, he learned later. Sarah Rogers, like Steve after her, defected. Became a traitor. Wanted to raise her son full of tolerance and acceptance. And would have, had she not been killed. 

Of course, the Roses took him in after her death and never spoke a word of this, indoctrinating him into their way of life. 

Vampires, he believed, were vicious bullies who preyed on the weak. They murdered and maimed for the thrill of it. They were mindless animals that didn’t care about the pain and grief they left behind. 

A belief that changed drastically ten years ago when Steve had been sent to Romania–how so very cliché–in search of a particularly nasty coven. Only when he surprised them in a predawn attack, Steve didn’t find a coven of monsters. He found a family, the matriarch and sire willing to die if Steve promised to spare the others. 

Steve couldn’t bring himself to kill them. Any of them. It wouldn’t’ve been right. He hadn’t gone back to the Black Rose after that. If he did, and if he told them when he’d found and done and now believed--that maybe not all vampires were the monsters they thought--they’d just brand him a traitor. Which they did anyway, eventually. When they found out what he’d been doing.

The inner workings of the underground vampire world are just as convoluted and corrupt as any human governing force, including the Black Rose. Steve had been raised and taught to fight injustice. He didn’t like bullies. To him, it didn’t matter what they were or where they came from.

Vampire or human, they all deserve someone to fight for them against oppression and persecution. 

For the Roses, however, life is black and white. Good versus evil. Right and wrong. Vampires, to them, are a blight on humanity. Something unnatural. They refuse to see what Steve had come to discover that night all those years ago. Steve isn’t so sure they weren’t the ones actually responsible for his mother’s death.

Plenty of vampires are content to just live their lives. They hold jobs. Go to school. Have homes. Families. Friends. They don’t all kill those they fed from. In fact, most don’t.

Other slayers have joined Steve and his cause. So have vampires. Enough that they could officially call themselves a team. People who know of their existence like to call them the Avengers. A bit much, in Steve’s opinion, but who is he to argue on such matters.

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, reaching across the table to place his hand over Steve’s wrist. His skin is slightly cold to the touch. “You don’t have to keep doing this. I’m okay.” 

Jaw tightening, Steve turns his hand enough to lace their fingers. Across from him, Bucky’s gaze lifts to meet his. 

“I do have to,” Steve replies. “He needs to pay for what he did to you.”

That last part is just a slip of the tongue. Steve doesn’t mean to say it. He does mean it. With all his heart. But his dedication isn’t meant to be reserved only for Bucky. In this, though, he can’t help it. Not after what’s happened.

Taking his hand back, Bucky drops his gaze to the table and sighs, his countenance vastly different than when he first sat with Steve.

“But he’s my sire.” 

Bucky says this softly. Almost to himself even though Steve knows he’s meant to hear it. There’s a part of him--albeit a very small part--that sympathizes. He doesn’t understand, and unless he’s ever turned himself, he won’t ever. 

It’s a strange relationship, the one between a sire and their vampires. The bond between them is said to be unbreakable except by death. Steve’s seen just how wonderful that bond can be. The protectiveness and companionship and love. 

But he’s also seen the abuse it can lead to as well. The mistreatment. The manipulation. The loss of free will. Steve has witnessed vampires forced to do horrible things they’d never do all because their sire took control of their mind. 

The same way Bucky’s did last year.

And many times before they met. 

“I don’t care,” Steve mutters through clenched teeth. “He hurt you.” 

As if this means absolutely nothing to Bucky, he shrugs and takes another swig from his flask with a shake of his head.

“He’s my sire, Steve,” he says in a way that makes Steve’s stomach turn, a way that suggests it’s simply okay to be hurt by his sire based solely on the fact that he’s his sire. “It wasn’t the first time. It probably won’t be the last. Definitely not a reason for you to be throwing yourself out of an elevator.”

“Bucky--”

“Because you do realize that you’re neither immortal nor invincible,” he reprimands. “My blood gives you strength but you still have limits.”

He did have limits. Not many, but some. Bucky’s blood gave him strength. It gave him speed. It gave him heightened abilities altogether. But, just as Bucky said, it neither made him immortal nor invincible. 

The only reason Steve ever consumed vampire blood in the first place was out of pure necessity. Without it, he’d’ve died. Bucky saved his life the day they met. 

Steve clears his throat and tugs on the neck of his sweater. He knows what Bucky’s doing. That he wants to change the subject. 

“You saved me once,” Steve says. “Why won’t you let me do the same for you?”

“By allowing you to kill my sire?” 

“He’s cruel, Bucky. He is manipulative and vindictive.” Steve’s jaw stiffens. “He’s the monster.”

Bucky blinks. A smirk curves up one side of his mouth. “Do you expect an argument?”

 “Then why do you always defend him?” 

“He’s my sire,” Bucky says again. “I don’t expect you to understand.” 

It’s unusual, the way Bucky both hates and loves his sire. He’s never physically tried to stop Steve from killing him yet he still defends him. 

“I wish I did.” 

Steve shakes his head. He’s not exactly lying. He does wish he could understand. If he did, maybe it would make this easier.  

“Why don’t we just get down to business, shall we?” Bucky asks. “You did have your reasons for wanting to meet with me tonight, I assume.”

Of course, he has a reason. He always does. One more than any other. Steve wants to see Bucky, always. If he ever decides to join him by his side, to stay with him and the Avengers, it’ll be the happiest day of Steve’s life.

Until then, Steve can only remain satisfied with the small doses a year he gets. When Bucky agrees to meet with him. Sometimes overnight. Sometimes a little longer. And Steve knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s safe. 

 ~~

Bucky believes Steve when he says he wishes he understood. To be honest, Bucky wishes he understood the bond between him and his sire as well. It’s a physical presence. A constant reminder that he feels all the time. His heart may not actually beat any longer but that tie he feels to his sire is close. It gets weaker when they’re apart. When they’ve not seen each other in some time, but it’s still there. Just…dulled.  

It’s always there, though. 

A tether that binds them together. 

Or a chain that Bucky is incapable of breaking. 

It’s warped, the way he feels about his sire, and he knows it, but he also knows it’s the same for most vampires. He has no love for the man. He won’t particularly care if Steve does kill him. In fact, he’s sort of hoping he will. Bucky just can’t bring himself to take an active part in seeing it happen. 

“What is it you’d like to know?” Bucky asks. “Aside from where my sire is.” 

Without another word on the subject of sires, Steve sets a manila folder down on the table and pushes it in Bucky’s direction. Bucky opens it. Finds pictures of a vampire in a prominent role of the human’s government. He smirks. 

“Senator Stern, huh?”

“Did you know?”

“Only that he was a vampire.” Which Steve undoubtedly knew as well. “Is he Hydra?”  

“According to new intell, yeah.”

This presents something of a problem. While the Black Rose wants to eliminate all vampires, Hydra wants to enslave humanity. With an agent of the Hydra Coven so high in the government, there’s no telling how far they’ve infiltrated. 

“Okay, well.” Bucky slides the folder back to Steve. “I’ll find out what I can. In the meantime, have you had any luck with the Roses?”

The first time Bucky Barnes ever saw Steve Rogers, Steve had been lying in a pool of his own blood. The scent of it had caught Bucky’s attention when he’d been walking down the midnight streets of London. He followed it. Found the infamous slayer that had defected from the Black Rose. Bucky knew him on sight. Most vampires did. 

Steve had already lost too much blood to be turned that night, so Bucky did the next best thing he could think of short of trying to get him to a hospital before he died. He probably could have gotten him to a doctor, but if he survived that way then questions would have been asked. Suspicions raised. Police called. A world of trouble for both of them. 

So Bucky cradled the slayer in his arms, hoped he didn’t cause him too much extra pain--by the way he tensed and gasped and cried out, Bucky’s hope was for naught--and bit his own wrist. He held it to Steve’s lips. Steve shook his head and mustered up enough strength to push the offer away.

“N-no…” he groaned. Dangerously pale and trembling all over and dripping in perspiration. “I don’t wanna be--”

“Relax, slayer,” Bucky said. “This won’t turn you, only save your life.” 

That was Bucky’s first brush with Steve’s stubbornness. When he brought his wrist, blood dripping out of the bite, back to Steve’s mouth, he shoved it away again. Bucky scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, slayer,” he scolded. “Just drink.” Eyes drifting up to meet his, Steve whimpered when he tried to move. “C’mon, now, you’re in pain and you’re going to die. Let me save you. You’ll be no worse for wear when you come to next, I promise.” 

Bucky could see the conflict that waged through him then. Steve didn’t want to die. He also wasn’t sure about accepting help from a stranger vampire and in such a manner. No doubt he heard all sorts of rumors about what it meant to drink a vampire’s blood. 

Some were completely convinced that consuming vampire blood would turn them. Which was wrong. Without their venom to complete the process, it wouldn’t happen. Some thought it would make a human their slave. If that’s ever happened in the history of ever, Bucky wasn’t aware of it. Some said it would kill a human outright. That one made no sense. There didn’t seem to be any point in killing a human by having one drink blood when feeding from one would do the job a lot quicker. 

This time, when Bucky lifted his wrist again, Steve took it and drank. 

And drank.

And drank.

He drank until he moaned against Bucky’s cold skin and shivered pleasantly in his arms and finally collapsed. Not out of fatigue or weakness. From the rush. The adrenaline and overwhelming sensitivity caused by Bucky’s blood spilling into his veins. Something similar to when Bucky was turned, though not nearly as intense. 

The next time Steve opened his eyes, he stared up at Bucky with lust and hunger in his eyes. Another feeling Bucky knew. When he first woke up in his sire’s bed, all he wanted to do was fuck. Then fuck again. And fuck some more. 

Steve wanted to as well. Even begged him. They did fuck, eventually. Not that first day. Not when Steve only wanted it because of the rush of endorphins and increased hormones. 

They will again, Bucky hopes. 

“No more than you have,” Steve replies. “It’s black or white with them. They don’t see any of the gray.”

“But they leave you alone?”

Steve shrugs. “For the most part.”

He’s unconcerned with them, Bucky knows, except for when they might do harm to a coven simply minding their own business. Because according to the Black Rose, they’re all monsters. 

When Steve doesn’t say anything else and doesn’t indicate that he has any other news he needs to share, Bucky taps his hands at the edge of the table and pushes away. He can’t just sit around waiting for the slayer he’s in love with all day.  

“You’re leaving?” Steve asks when he stands. “Already?”

“Did you have more business to discuss?”

Years of practice make it easy to keep the sacrifice out of Bucky’s voice. It sits there, though. Right in his throat. But he knows better. Knows better than to want what he can’t truly have. He’s a vampire. Steve is a slayer. They are eternal enemies no matter what shifts between them. It’s natural. The natural order of things. 

How they feel about each other--or how Bucky feels about Steve, anyway--doesn’t change generations of beliefs. Even if Steve does love him, which Bucky suspects he might in his own way, they don’t work. Bucky’s life is eternal. Steve’s life, while prolonged by his slayer blood, is finite. Steve has no desire to be turned. Bucky has no desire to be without a mate his entire existence. 

Together, they make two halves that will never be a whole. 

“N-no,” Steve says, just above a whisper. “Not really. But…when will I see you again?”

“Sooner I suppose,” Bucky tells him, “rather than later. I’ll be around.” He walks away from the table then, about to disappear in the crowded bar. Bucky waves over his shoulder just before he’s swallowed by the throng of humans. “Au revoir, slayer.” 

People part for him. An instinct. A chill that runs up their spine. A shiver that runs down their limbs. A sinking feeling that runs through their bellies. 

As an apex predator, however, one right look--a smile, a beckon, a reach--his prey would follow him almost every time. Bucky hasn’t fed on warm blood for quite a while, choosing, instead, to buy it from those who collected and bottled it.

So as not to give in to temptation--too many bodies in one place made the scent of blood hard to resist--Bucky hurries outside. The second he’s out the door, he lights a cigarette. He isn’t exactly sure why he still smokes. It gets nothing out of it other than the comforting and familiar rise and fall of his chest as he breathes it in. Then again, it won’t harm him either, so he reckons there’s no point in giving it up either. 

It’s snowing tonight. Soft, gentle flakes that glide out of the thick clouds above and glisten in the moonlight. Bucky’s feet don’t make prints in the bit of snow that’s settled softly on the ground. Other prints are there. People. Together. All sharing their loneliness in the company of others. Not like Bucky, who walks alone, not even able to leave his mark behind. 

Unlike his sire, Bucky misses Steve when they’re apart. This has nothing to do with any physical link between them. Despite the bit of Bucky’s blood that runs through Steve’s veins, it’s just an ache within him. If Steve chose to walk away and never meet again, Bucky’s unbeating heart would break, but there’d be nothing he could do about it. He wouldn’t either, even if he could. 

Bucky knows all too well what it means to have his mind wiped and new images placed within it. To be at the total mercy and control of another. It’s one sin he’d rather not tick off. If there truly is some sort of afterlife for him, he’d rather not be totally corrupted.

Still, he wants to be near Steve, but knows it’s a fool’s errand to chase such a desire so he doesn’t. Regardless of Steve’s beliefs, Bucky knows what he is. He’s a monster. And monsters don’t get happy endings.

Cigarette between his lips, Bucky sighs, and heads for the end of the block. Before he gets there, he can hear the unmistakable sound snow crunching under the snow. An instant after his ears make out the sound, his nose recognizes the scent. He can’t help the way his mouth tugs itself into a smile.

“What are you doing, slayer?” he asks, turning as he does. “I thought you said--”

“I lied.” 

Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t hesitate. He captures Bucky’s face between those strong, slayer hands, and kisses him. He kisses him like this kiss will have the passion and love to drown out all the voices that try to destroy them.  

Eyes still closed when Steve inches away--leaving his brow against Bucky’s--Bucky breathes him in. That sweet, sunshine that radiates from his every being. The warmth of his touch. The sound of his heart beating...thump thump thump. 

Steve is breathless and panting. Bucky is not, though, he remembers such a sensation. The way the world could so easily take his breath away when he was alive. Alive in an entirely different way. 

“Stay with me,” Steve whispers. “Please. Please, don’t leave me, Bucky.”

If Bucky’s heart could beat, it’d be trying to break free from its prison he’s locked it in beneath his ribs. Bursting from his chest to declare to the entire world how much he loves this man and the world would kneel before them in wonder and awe. 

But Bucky lives in a world rooted in reality, while Steve--Steve and his dizzying optimism and ideals and warmth--lives in one rooted in fantasy. They don’t belong together. They are nothing but two hearts forever out of beat. 

Over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky can see the trail of footprints he left in the snow.

One set of footprints. 

“I can’t.”

Bucky remembers crying. He can feel it deep within his gut--a hurricane rushing through his chest and up his throat, even though no rain can no longer fall. 

“You can.” Steve, forehead still against Bucky’s nods. “All you have to do is say yes.” 

A tear does slide down Steve’s cheek. He understands the enormity of such a request. The sacrifice. The struggle. The risk. 

“Please, don’t, Steve,” Bucky says. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do. I do know. I’m asking for forever with you.” 

Gaze lifting to meet his, Bucky brushes a thumb at the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve, eyes closing, kisses the finger before Bucky takes it away. 

“Forever is a long time, slayer.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “And I want to spend it with you.” 

Bucky breaks away from Steve and all his kindness and tenderness and all the peace he holds out in offering. He shakes his head and begins to walk away, leaving Steve and his confession hanging in the air to crystalize and crash to the ground. Before any shattering can happen, he pauses. Catches his breath which does not really catch for he has no real need to breathe. But he pauses and catches his breath nonetheless. 

He goes no further. He doesn’t go back. Instead, Bucky stands there, holds his hand out, and waits. Steve’s fingers slide between his and they walk hand-in-hand. To where, Bucky’s not sure. Toward forever, maybe. Whatever that may be. If it can be at all.

As they do, Bucky glances over his shoulder. Sees in the snow only one set of footprints beside the empty spot where his should be. 

“What is it?” Steve asks. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Bucky whispers as he turns to face forward again. “Nothing at all.”