Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are feet pounding up the stone steps, a soft patter that grows louder and louder into a cacophony of noise. He knows that the queen is afraid, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t flinch. Her ladies huddle in one corner, clutching their hands together, heads drawn close like chicks nestling together for warmth. Bucky takes a deep breath.

“Don’t allow any harm to come to them,” the queen says, her head inclining towards the women. They raise their heads momentarily, as if to find out who she could have possibly have meant. One of them is crying, her pale cheeks stained with tears. They glance away quickly.

“I won’t,” Bucky assures her, his voice strong. It’s a promise. This is what he trained for — to do anything and everything to protect her. “Nor to you, my queen,” he adds, turning to look at her majesty. She lifts her chin a little higher in the air.

“I’d like to see anyone try,” she replies coolly. “Let them come.”

Bucky knows this is an inside job. They have a perfect view of the river from the castle’s seat high on the hill and the surrounding town as well. There are no armies, no outside forces come to overthrow the queen. And yet the footsteps of dozens of men, perhaps more, continue their climb.

Bucky is proud he isn’t one of them.

The door handle rattles. Someone begins to pound on it. The ladies whimper, huddling close together. In one graceful movement the queen stands, brushes off her skirt, and clasps her hands in front of her.

“Let them in,” she says, voice like steel, and Bucky gives a single nod before he unsheathes his sword and moves toward the door.

He turns the key in the lock and the door is slammed back on its hinges. He jumps out of the way as men begin to pour in, lords and earls and barons, regulars of the court, so quick in their betrayal. They swarm into the room, their faces like thunder, and at the centre of them, of course—

“Lord Pierce,” the queen says, her jaw working just a little, a momentary tell. “An appointment is quite necessary if you wish to speak to your sovereign.”

“That’s very true, Queen Carol, but I’m afraid you are no longer our sovereign,” Pierce says, grinning like a serpent as he steps through the crowd. “We’ve let a woman rule for too long. It can’t go on.”

“The kingdom is happy,” Bucky spits, shaking his head. “It’s thriving. We haven’t known peace like it in years.”

“Precisely,” Pierce says. “The kingdom is… idle. We need to grow. Expand.”

“You mean invade,” Bucky corrects him, glaring. “Conquer. You want war.”

Pierce inclines his head. “If needs must.”

“You’ll get your war, Advisor, but it won’t end well for you,” Queen Carol says. Bucky shifts his grip on his sword, just a little. He makes sure it’s sitting right in his palm. She doesn’t need to say a word, but he knows. Without as much as a glance behind him Bucky lunges for Pierce, sword swinging.

The battle that ensues isn’t pretty. Bucky parries, dodges, blocks, but it’s only him against twenty, thirty men. None of them particularly want to get their hands dirty; none of them wish to die either.

It ends as it was always going to for Bucky. Pain blossoms in his abdomen and his vision whites out. He feels his knees hit the floor, followed by the rest of him. His head thunks dully against the cold stone floor as the life drains out of him, painting the stones red.

The last thing he sees is the queen, her own sword in hand, teeth bared. Bucky can only hope he gave her a chance, can only hope he did his duty. His eyelids feel so heavy; he can’t keep them open. His fingers twitch, looking for his sword, but he doesn’t find it. His eyes close and the world goes dark and cold around him.

~*~

For a while Bucky is lost. Floating in the space between two places, two worlds. Everything is blurry and out of reach. Slightly out of sync.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually he comes back into his body. Or, what was his body. He can look down and see that he’s there, and he’s solid under his own touch, but his body is as cold as the stone tiles of the castle. He breathes, but when he holds his hand in front of his nose and mouth, he feels no air flowing. He doesn’t sleep. He can pick things up and knock them over, but walls, doors, and even people are nothing but air to him. He knows what he’s done to deserve this fate, but it hurts all the same when the realization hits him. He’s a ghost.

He’s come back to the castle somehow, but by now the people in it have changed: their clothes, their attitudes. Nothing is the same. They speak differently, they move differently, but they don’t seem out of place.

Bucky watches them come and go; watches their lives as they pass him by. He marks the time with events: the birth of a baby, the visit of a foreign politician, a war. Those have changed too. War is still fought on battlefields, but not as he fought, sword in hand and steed beneath him, charging into the fray. Now war is fought with guns. It’s fought from the sky and the sea and the land. Bucky has to be careful, has to listen, because there is so much to learn.

Bucky watches and drifts in and out, but he doesn't go back to that strange fuzzy place, the space between the castle and whatever lies beyond. He explores. He tests the boundaries of where he can roam, walking through the castle grounds til he reaches their ends, til he reaches the slope of the hill that leads down into the village — the village that might now be a town after all these years. He wants to see it. He grew up in that village; it was home to him for a time. But as he goes to take a step over the castle wall he finds that the world begins to blur and whiten. The same happens when he walks in the opposite direction, down toward the river. And so he determines that he's tied to the castle grounds. It seems fitting, really. The castle had been the centre of his life; it makes sense that it would be the centre of his afterlife, too.

Time passes. Bucky watches. He watches the castle fall to ruin during the war, and then, in the years after, watches people come to piece it back together again. He studies them intently. He had been helpless to do anything during the second war, had watched the walls crumble above ground whilst prisoners were marched into the dungeons and cavern below. But these people, the new people, with their strange clothes and their strange speech, they come and they're careful as they begin to build the castle back to what it was, what it had been when Bucky had lived.

There is no family to live in the castle anymore. Either the royals have moved elsewhere or the kingdom is no longer a kingdom, because once the people are done putting the castle back together they open it to the public. Bucky watches as visitors come from all over the land, speaking in foreign tongues and documenting the castle, his castle, and it settles him. He feels at peace.

Yet he remains tied to the castle, to the shadows where he can only watch, with the feeling that he’s waiting for something to happen.

Chapter Text

Steve smoothes his hands over the jacket he has been given; sensible, black, and waterproof with the Shield logo embroidered onto it. It feels very official and he's glad he has it — it's freezing and blowing a gale and the majority of the tour is outside.

His first ever tour. He stands in the breakroom and looks into the mirror, takes a deep breath, and sweeps his too-long hair out of his eyes.

There's a whistle behind him. The slamming door announces Sam’s arrival and Steve glances at him in the mirror. Sam moves across the room, grabs Steve by the shoulders, and turns him around.

"Well look at that! You look smart, man. Like there’s actually a couple of brain cells bouncing around up in that thick skull of yours. You ready to go out there?" Sam reaches for the zipper of Steve’s jacket, trying to pull it shut. "You're gonna freeze your skinny ass off, it's like 30 degrees out in that wind—"

Steve bats at Sam's hand, knocking his hair back into his eyes. "Who're you, my ma?" he scowls. But he can't hold out against Sam's infectious grin and smiles back at him, begrudgingly. "I'm gonna be fine. Got my snazzy new jacket."

"Steve?" another voice calls. Steve turns to the door to see a smiling Pepper. "The tour's starting in five minutes. They're going to be waiting for you just at the bottom of the steps."

"Thanks, Miss Potts," Steve says, and she gives him another warm smile and a thumbs up.

"You'll be great," she says, ducking out of the breakroom.

Steve looks at Sam and then back at the mirror. He huffs softly.

"She's right, man," Sam says. "You know your stuff. And I've seen you lecturing people on public transport. You’re a great public speaker."

"That was one time," Steve grumbles. "And he was littering. He needed a lecture."

Sam grins. "Sure he did. Go on then. Your public awaits."

Steve rolls his eyes and tugs the collar of his jacket up against his neck. He leaves the breakroom to find the group of thirty-something people assembled at the bottom of the steps leading up to the castle.

Steve doesn't know why he's so nervous, because Sam's right. He really does know his stuff. Steve had been fascinated with the castle since a field trip in his freshman year of high school. In college he majored in history with a focus on the medieval period and wrote his dissertation about the castle’s influence on the town and surrounding area. He'd always assumed he’d work in the archives or restoration and was more than happy to do so, but when Wanda was transferred to another castle managed by Shield in London they needed someone new to give the tours.

Steve put his name up for it, even though he knew that someone more experienced with that sort of thing would probably snap up the position before he was ever considered.

But apparently someone at Shield had been happy to see his name on the list. Pepper called the same day and offered him the job.

He still gets to work behind the scenes in the archives. But now every two hours he takes a group of around thirty people on a half-hour tour of some of the castle's most exciting features. (All of it is exciting to Steve, which he's said before. Sam had laughed and called him a nerd). He gets a little extra pay and, hopefully, makes someone else just as excited about castles and knights and kings and queens as he is.

He can see the crowd of people assembled, looking at their maps, chattering amongst themselves, and bracing against the cold. As Steve hops up onto the bottom step he spots Sam over the crowd, walking toward the castle mews. He gives Steve a thumbs up. Steve takes a deep breath.

"Okay! Is everyone here who wants to be? Not missing anyone?" The crowd looks around at each other and shakes their heads. "Great. Well then, we'll get started."

Steve knows the speech — a retelling of the castle's history, boiled down to its most important points. And if there is one thing Steve knows, it’s the castle's history. Given that it’s his first tour he’s lucky that the group isn’t too bothered about asking him any questions, listening quite contently as he leads them up the steps and into the castle courtyard.

"The castle was built in the early 12th century by King Mar, the first King of the House of Vel," Steve explains. "The castle remained in the hands of the Vel family for centuries, so you'll be seeing their emblem, the Hala Star, around here a lot." There’s a murmur of general agreement from the crowd as they glance around. Everyone seems happy, so Steve launches into the rest of the Castle’s history, the words coming easily to him now.

~*~

There’s a new voice ringing through the courtyard.

Voices in the courtyard are not a surprise to Bucky. Over the last six hundred years he’s listened to them passing through. But the tours had been unexpected. When they first started Bucky watched in fascination as groups of people huddled together and trooped through his castle, looking around in awe.

After a while he’d gotten bored of them.

But this voice is new, and isn’t that something. A lot of people have walked through the castle at the head of the group, their voices ringing off the stone walls as they spin their various stories. He has never heard this one before.

"In the 15th century, the number of residents in the castle grew. In the time of Queen Carol there were over 150 people living and working in the castle and we suspect even more were being kept in the prison below."

Bucky frowns from his spot on the roof. That’s not right. The large, cavernous room directly beneath the courtyard was never used as a prison in the 15th century, and Bucky knows this because he was there. It had been a store room, filled floor to ceiling with meats and dried herbs and all kinds of things. Bucky had only ever been in it a few times, but if you moved the wooden lid off of the grate that opened up in the centre of the courtyard, you could look down into the chamber below. He remembers one year around Christmas when he and a few of the queen’s ladies had snuck out at first light, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the cook had in store for the Christmas Day banquet. In the end they couldn’t see a thing, but the smell that wafted up was enough to satiate them until the banquet itself.

This man seems so confidant, like his word is gospel. No one in the crowd has questioned him, and no one seems ready to, or even like they know that they can.

So it’s up to Bucky then. He sighs, pushing off the wall and dropping down into the courtyard below.

~*~

Steve is moving on to the castle in the 16th century when a voice speaks over him, interrupting his flow.

"That's not true." 

It's a man's voice, and if it had been saying anything else, Steve's toes might have curled. It’s deep and drips like honey, the accent hard to place. Steve's eyes scan the crowd for who it might belong to. He isn't surprised to find that the man's face is equally as gorgeous, sharp jaw and sharper cheekbones, his steel grey eyes piercing beneath his mop of dark hair. Steve can’t see much of the rest of him, hidden as he is behind a middle-aged man with a chunky camera around his neck, but for some reason he thinks his clothes seem a little odd.

Steve's mouth goes dry at the sight of him, but then remembers what he just said. His brow furrows, hackles rising almost immediately. What’s he trying to say? That Steve doesn't know the history of the castle he's spent almost his entire life studying?

"What, exactly, isn't true?" Steve asks, his eyes never shifting from the strangely beautiful tourist.

He seems to jump a little, like he wasn’t expecting Steve to speak to him. The other people in the group look surprised too, looking around amongst themselves and murmuring. But Steve is still focused on the asshole who interrupted him, whose eyes widen with shock and then narrow again almost immediately, no doubt rising to Steve's challenge.

"The chamber in the lower level,” he says. "It wasn't a prison — at first."

Steve snorts. Nowhere has it ever been suggested that it wasn't a prison. He knows; he’s done the reading.

"Alright." He nods, folding his arms over his chest. People are still looking around, but Steve pays them no mind. "What was it, then?"

"It was a store room,” the man says simply, shoulders rising in a shrug. His nonchalance irritates Steve more than it should, the cockiness of it. "For food, mostly."

Steve's eyes narrow just a little more behind his thick-rimmed glasses. They might as well be closed at this point, but his mind is working, trying to think. The prison — or potential store room — is right in the middle of the lower level, the entire size of the courtyard. There are only two exits: one that opens into a spiral staircase leading up to the castle gate, and another that leads into a narrow hallway — a narrow hallway that connects to the south wing where the kitchen had once been. 

But still, there’s no evidence. There’s evidence of it being a prison and no one has ever mentioned it being used for anything else. They know that there were prisoners in the castle in the 15th century — that was very well documented. 

"And where are you getting that from?" Steve asks the man, head tilting a little. The lady next to him looks very confused. The man in front of him looks sort of frightened, as if he's the one bearing the brunt of Steve's questioning and evil glare. Still, Steve pays them no mind. "Because I've studied almost the entire written history of this castle, and that chamber being built as a prison is the logical conclusion." The guy rolls his eyes. Steve glares harder. "What're your sources?"

The guy smiles, a small, secretive smile, as if he's in on a joke and Steve isn't. It only gets Steve angrier . "I just know,” he answers, and Steve bristles. 

But then his eyes catch the rest of the crowd, looking at him as if he's grown two heads. Admittedly, arguing with a tourist isn't exactly what he should be doing on his first day as a tour guide, or on any day as a tour guide. So he decides, for once in his life, to be the bigger person.

"We can talk more at the end of the tour,” he says. The man watches him, smug, and the muscles in Steve's jaw twitch as he tries to get his temper under control. He clears his throat and tries to pick up from where he left off. "The castle remained in the house of Vel throughout the 16th and 17th centuries until the marriage of Queen Sharon in 1778 when the House of Vel became the House of Vel-Stark. A lot of the former staff were dismissed when the House of Stark brought in their own and the castle underwent many internal changes. If you'd like to follow me inside, we'll see what those changes were."

Steve turns, leading the group through the doors to the north wing of the castle where the royal chambers had been. He looks for Tall, Dark, and Interrupting as they file into the lady's solar, but he seems to have vanished. Shame — Steve was looking forward to arguing with his stupid pretty face again.

~*~

Bucky sits down hard on an old wooden bench in the guest chapel, one of the few parts of the castle closed off to visitors, and breathes a long, hard sigh. If he were alive his heart would be beating a mile a minute.

That guy, the tour guide, had seen him. He’d seen him, heard him — he’d interacted with him. Like Bucky was really there. Like he was a person, still, after all this time.

No one has ever been able to see Bucky before. No one has spoken to him, directly to him, in hundreds of years.

Bucky throws his head into his hands and screws his eyes shut tight.

Before he can take a moment to gather himself, to wonder what the hell it all means, the door to the chapel is being open and discreetly closed, a hand pressing the wood gently back into the frame and turning the key in the door to lock it. Whoever it is doesn’t want to be seen. Bucky looks up at the stranger, blinking through the murky darkness of the chapel, and inhales sharply.

The tour guide.

“God damn visitors thinking they know everything — I’m the tour guide!” he says to the door, throwing his hands up as he begins to turn. “Spent ten years of my life studying this place, and now—”

In the few seconds between Bucky realising that it’s the tour guide, and the tour guide spotting him, Bucky doesn’t think to move. People don’t see him. He is, quite literally, a ghost. When someone enters a room he doesn’t worry about making himself scarce.

But the tour guide looks across the room and catches sight of Bucky through the dim light emanating from the stained-glass windows. His eyes narrow, a muscle twitching in his jaw as his hands ball into fists. For a moment Bucky wonders if the blond is going to try to hit him; he certainly looks ready for a fight, and despite his stature (and the fact that Bucky is a literal ghost ), Bucky finds himself genuinely intimidated.

“ You ,” the tour guide hisses. Bucky holds his hands up in surrender. “What are you doing here? This is off limits. Can’t you read?”

“I—"

“Was the door not locked? Or did you pick the lock?” Blondie, or — Bucky glances at the name stitched into his winter coat — Steve, continues to glare at him and Bucky feels himself shrinking a little, trying to make himself smaller under the smoulder of his gaze. “Well?”

Bucky blinks at him. He isn’t used to being seen. This is too much — being talked to, interacted with, like he‘s a real person, like he’s really here.

This is real. The tour guide is real.

“I…. I know a way in,” he says weakly, because I walk through the walls would never work. 

“What?” Steve snaps. “No way. There is no other way in. It was built that way.” Yes, Bucky knows this. Bucky knows all of it but he simply looks at the tour guide, wide-eyed. “What’s your name?”

Bucky stares at him. His name. He hasn’t given anyone his name in a long time. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he says, barely above a whisper, the words sitting strangely in his mouth, sounding even stranger in the almost empty chapel.

Steve huffs harshly, blowing air out of his nose before he reaches for the chapel door, opening it. “Get out,” he commands. “If I see you hanging around here again I’m calling security.”

Bucky feels thoroughly scolded and hangs his head low, hair falling into his face as he walks out of the room. He hasn’t walked through the chapel doorway for years, decades maybe, since it was closed off to the public. He looks behind him, watching Steve as he slips out and locks the door. The sunlight from down the hall catches his cheekbones, his pale skin almost glittering, and for a second Bucky is transfixed looking at the sharp beauty of him.

And then Steve whirls on him and Bucky almost jumps back a step.

“Go on,” Steve says, shooing him before he folds his arms over his chest. “You know where to join the rest of the group?”

Bucky nods dumbly. He’s seen the scores of people trooping through his castle. He knows where to go. Steve stands with his back to the chapel door, watching Bucky as he moves through the castle as if he’s a person and not the shadow of one, mingling with the tourists as they marvel at the closest thing he has ever had to a home.

He doesn’t stay amongst them for long. These people can’t see him and they pass through him without realising it, a feeling that Bucky has never enjoyed. In the end, when he’s sure that Steve is gone, he heads up to the roof. The pigeons flutter their wings at him, puffing out their chests, but are otherwise silent as Bucky sits with his feet over the edge of the parapet, an unsettled feeling somewhere deep in his core.

~*~

Bucky finds himself paying attention now as the groups of visitors shuffle past.

Steve. He’s looking for Steve, every time.

It isn’t always Steve leading the groups. In fact, most of the time it isn’t Steve. There’s a red-headed woman who never has to remind anyone not to touch the furnishings, and a man with long, sandy hair, braided back away from his face. He sees them in the courtyard and tries to convince himself that it isn’t disappointment swooping through his chest, and then goes back to whatever it was he was doing: wandering the disused halls, watching the sky, talking to the pigeons as if they might one day answer him back.

When Steve is around, though, Bucky pays attention. He does his best not to be seen, because if Steve sees him around… well, Bucky doesn’t want to find out what’ll happen if Steve sees him around. Steve hates him. So he keeps to the shadows. He hangs around in the rafters. He pushes into crowds, even though he hates the feeling. He watches Steve, even though it feels a little wrong to do so, and even if it makes his chest feel funny, something tickling at his ribcage from the inside.

If Steve sees him, he doesn’t let on. Maybe he doesn’t see Bucky at all. Bucky’s used to that by now.

~*~

If Steve sees James Buchanan Barnes one more time, he might have to check himself into the loony bin.

Steve is a professional; or he wants to be, anyway. He hates how he handled that whole experience, but what can he do about it? So he got stressed and argued a little bit with a visitor. On his very first tour. He knows he isn’t the only one who’s gotten into it with a tourist. He once watched Sam almost lose it arguing with a guy about proper bird care. And anyway, Steve was totally justified in what he did after, when he caught him sneaking around in the staff-only area. What if he had broken something? What if he had stolen something? And how did he get in there anyway?

Steve doesn’t know, but it niggles at the back of his mind.

It certainly doesn’t help that he keeps seeing James. Although to be honest, he doesn’t know if he’s really seeing him or if his brain is playing tricks on him. He sees flashes of him everywhere: a glimpse in the dining hall, lurking by the coat of arms on the wall, sitting in the corner of the queen’s sitting room.

Steve takes to spending his breaks milling around the castle in the hopes of running into him. There’s no rule to say he can’t, even if Natasha thinks he’s a basketcase for essentially spending his break doing more work. (Steve can’t stand around in his uniform jacket without being asked at least ten questions, but he doesn’t mind answering them.)

After a week of breaks spent milling around the castle, Steve spots James in the dining hall, hanging around in the corner like some kind of phantom. He takes a deep breath before he charges over to him, the crowds parting when they see the look in his eyes.

“You,” he says, and James’ eyes blow wide, his expression reading puppy caught in the act of chewing up a slipper . “Follow me.”

He turns, expecting James to follow as he walks out of the dining hall and up the service staircase into a room with STAFF ONLY stamped on the door. James walks dutifully behind him, head hung low, and stands awkwardly in the centre of the room whilst Steve closes the door.

“I googled you,” Steve says, his eyes narrowing. “ James Buchanan Barnes. You don’t exist. The only James Buchanan Barnes to ever exist died almost 600 years ago.”

A shadow crosses over Barnes’s face, his kicked-puppy expression morphing into something entirely blank, like Steve’s words are causing him to shut down. It makes the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up and his heart skips a beat. He hasn’t seen this side of Barnes before. He’s only seen pretty, innocent-looking Barnes. But the lack of expression twists his features into something strange.

“Did you see his portrait?” Barnes asks. 

“There is no portrait,” Steve says, shaking his head. The question intrigues him. Why would he want to know? Why would the portrait — if there were a portrait — even matter? “He was the Queen’s Guard, not nobility. Why would he have a portrait?”

Barnes looks sullenly down at the cold stone floor. “Follow me.”

Steve doesn't know why, but when Barnes walks past him, he follows. Something in his bones, in that primeval hind-brain, tells him to keep his mouth shut, just this once. They end up in the closed-off southern wing, an area that the staff don’t even visit, and still Steve doesn’t think to question him. Barnes leads them down the hallway into a dark, musty room, the shutters closed and years of dust caking everything in sight. A four-poster bedframe stands against the right wall, bereft of curtains or a mattress and there’s a desk against the right wall, hidden by dust but otherwise intact. It’s a shame, Steve thinks as he enters, looking at the state of the place. This room would have been so lovely once, he’s sure, the bedroom of some bright eyed princess, or an overnight stop for a passing duke.

Barnes goes to the right wall and runs his fingers along it until he stops in front of a particular stone. He scrabbles at it until it gives and he pulls it out of the way, revealing a small key hidden in the wall. Steve watches in awe as Bucky crosses the room and kneels in front of a chest. It’s as dusty as everything else, sitting under the boarded up windows. Barnes opens it and digs around inside. With a measured breath he pulls out a small canvas, and looks at it for only a moment before he holds it out face down to Steve, averting his eyes.

Steve takes it with a curious glint in his eye. The canvas is old, but it’s been protected inside of the chest because it doesn’t seem too worn. He looks at the back. The words James Buchanan Barnes, Knight of the Queen’s Guard are written in looping script along one side of the canvas. He turns it over and blinks, his mind stalling.

“It’s you,” he says, incredulous.

Barnes looks away, his eyes firmly on the floor.

Barnes is silent, but Steve isn’t. He can’t complete a sentence but he also can’t stop forming them, his brows knit together. “How did you— are you really— but what—.” He stops and shakes his head. “How old are you?”

Barnes sighs. “I was twenty seven,” he answers, still not looking at Steve. “When I died.” 

Steve gulps. “And now?”

“What year is it?” Barnes asks. He looks tired. Although Steve is normally quite irritated with him, annoyed just by the sight of him, right now he actually wants to give the man a hug.

“Twenty-nineteen,” Steve says softly. Barnes winces, quietly and inwardly. Steve would have missed it if he weren’t staring so intently at Barnes’ pale face.

“Then… nearly 600? Five hundred and… something.” He trails off, frown set deeply in his face as his eyes linger on the cold stone floor. Barnes stands, blinking quickly. “I need to— I have to—.” He shakes his head, his hair falling into his face. Steve’s fingers itch to brush it away. Barnes gives an abrupt start forward and stumbles to the open door. His hand catches on the frame as if to steady himself, and then he’s gone. Steve follows after him, looking left and right down the corridor, but there’s no one there.

Steve doesn’t believe in ghosts, but maybe now he doesn’t have a choice. He walks back to the visitor centre in stunned silence. His chest feels heavy and his mind is singularly focused, blank of anything but the man with the face of James Buchanan Barnes.

~*~

It’s all too much for Bucky.

Being seen, being known, having someone else to talk to for the first time in centuries. It had all seemed like a good thing up until a few moments ago, until Steve had looked at him and asked him how old he was, reminding Bucky of his own horrific immortality.

No, not immortality. He’s dead. Steve had reminded him of that too, of a day Bucky has tried not to think about for years. A day he had succeeded in not thinking about for years. 

Bucky knows he’s dead, he doesn’t need a reminder. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s been resigned to limbo. He can only assume that it’s because he failed. He let down queen and country. And so whatever god is up there has decided to punish him for it. If that’s the case, then it’s cruel but effective, as all punishments should be.

Bucky sighs. He doesn’t want to think about it. His body aches all over as he lies down in the chapel, his back pressed to the floor. He doesn’t feel the cold; the cold that would seep into Steve’s bones were he to collapse the way Bucky has. Because Steve is flesh and blood and not whatever Bucky is, because he’s living, breathing—

Bucky closes his eyes.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could fall asleep.

~*~

Steve hasn’t seen Barnes in a week. 

Eight days ago he would have been pleased by that. He would have been glad not to see Barnes’ stupid face, a reminder of how foolish he looked on his first day. Steve thinks back and wonders how the hell he could’ve known. Now, of course, it makes more sense.

He keeps waiting for Barnes to come back, to show up in the middle of a crowded room like he always does, but he never appears. Steve finds himself searching constantly, his eyes shifting across the crowd assembled in front of him during tours, waiting for that familiar mop of dark hair. When he’s in the office he looks out across the grassy bank to the castle, wondering if Barnes is looking back at him, if he can see his face through the window.

Steve just can’t leave it alone. He has to know more. He does as much research as he can on Barnes, switching tabs quickly when his supervisor walks past, giving her a smile that he knows looks more nervous than it should. There isn’t much to find, if he’s being honest. Barnes was a guard, and not a particularly high ranking one. Unless he was in the castle during a conflict, something big and dramatic and worth being written about, there was never going to be an account of him.

Steve needs to figure this out, and he needs information from the source. His mother had believed in spirits, in guardian angels and otherworldly beings, and Steve had dismissed most of it. He finds himself imagining however, suspending disbelief, and realizes that he can believe it. He can believe that Barnes really is a ghost, a lost spirit, stuck in the castle, never having found peace. Trapped on earth with unfinished business.

He’s going to figure out what Barnes’ business is and then he’s going to help him finish it. It’s what his mother would have wanted, what she would have done . He’s sure of that.

But Steve can’t help him if he can’t find him. His mind wanders as he releases another tour group, waving to one young, excitable girl as her mother leads her into the lady’s solar and out of sight.

If Steve were a ghost trapped in a castle, where would he go? His eyes dart immediately to the roof but it’s empty save for a handful of pigeons. He scans the windows on their way down, expecting Barnes to act like he’s in a god damn horror movie, but nothing.

And then Steve has an idea. The light bulb above his head could light the whole castle, he’s sure of it. He walks inside, skirting the walls to stay away from unsuspecting tourists, and fumbles for the key to the chapel.

He slips inside like it’s against the rules (and maybe it is — he should be working and there’s no reason for him to be here), closing the door and locking it behind him. He turns around slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. Steve exhales in a gust, his gaze settling on Barnes.

He’s sitting on one of the pews, his head down. He doesn’t acknowledge Steve, or maybe hasn’t noticed him come in. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn to look. Steve gets a proper look at him — not just his face, which Steve knows very well, but his entire body. The first time he’d seen him Barnes was stood behind someone else, hiding just slightly from view. The last few times Steve had been too preoccupied studying his face that he hadn’t exactly noticed the rest of him.

He doesn’t look like a ghost. He looks solid, made of flesh and blood like anyone else, if a little pale. His hands, gripping the pew in front of him, are almost paper white. For the first time Steve realises that he’s wearing some sort of tabard. Maybe he had assumed it was a sweater before, but now Steve sees the tabard for what it is. The fabric is deep blue, the colour of the House of Vel, and he’s certain that when Barnes stands up he’ll be able to see the House of Vel family crest stitched in gold on the front. His pants are plain black, not even a little dirty despite the thick layer of dust that coats the place, tucked into sturdy boots. There’s a belt around his middle, but no swords hanging from it. Steve feels like he’s seeing him for the first time. Maybe he is. All Steve has done until now is glare at his infuriatingly handsome face.

Barnes still hasn’t moved or uttered a word, so Steve moves to sit next to him, leaving a space between them on the pew.

“I tried researching you,” he says softly; anything above a whisper feels far too loud in the chapel. “But I couldn’t…. there wasn’t much information.”

“I was part of the Queen’s Guard,” Barnes says, and up close Steve can see his face through his curtain of hair. Barnes smiles sadly, his eyes cast down. “No one important.”

Steve winces. “You’re important to me,” he says softly. He means it too. Steve knows everything about this castle, has studied its history in detail, and Barnes is a part of that history. Steve wants to know more. “And I want to try to… help you. Help you move on.”

Barnes looks up at him then, his eyes slate grey in the darkness of the room. He studies Steve for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he’s genuine. Steve gives him a small smile. “You might’a made a mug of me before, Barnes, but you seem like a nice guy. And even if you weren’t… no one deserves to be stuck in limbo.”

Barnes takes a deep breath. “Bucky,” he murmurs. “My friends used to call me Bucky, before.”

Steve smiles with a little more intensity than he means to. “Bucky,” he answers. “I’m—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts. “I— sorry. You wear a name badge.”

Steve grins. “Very observant of you.”

Bucky raises one shoulder in a shrug and there’s a smile curling on his lips. He falls silent. Steve doesn’t want to push too much too soon, so he keeps his mouth shut. Bucky shifts a little, his mouth twitching into a frown, as though he’s read Steve’s thoughts. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it, yet,” he admits. “About… that night.”

Steve nods. “Okay.” He knows exactly which night Bucky is talking about. “We can work up to it. If you like.”

Bucky nods jerkily, his head dipping so that his hair hides his face again. Steve watches him. Maybe this is already too much for him. How many people have had a conversation with him in the last 500 years?

“Well, I’ll… I’ll leave you to it,” Steve says, standing up quickly. Bucky doesn’t move, so maybe he was right. Maybe he should go. “But I’ll come back here? Tomorrow? And we can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you wanna do.”

He stands there for a moment, waiting for a reply, but when none comes he decides to go, turning on his heel and walking quickly to the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Steve,” Bucky says, just as Steve is about to slip out, his back to Bucky and the dimly lit chapel.

Steve smiles softly. “See you tomorrow,” he says, turning to look over his shoulder. As he moves through the crack in the door he can’t help but think that Bucky looks handsome in the light from the stained glass windows, his pale skin dappled in a kaleidoscope of colours. He hopes he gets to see more of it soon.

Chapter Text

“Where are you going?” 

Steve looks up from his locker and sets his satchel — complete with a lunchbox full of pasta salad, an orange, and a bottle of water — down on the bench in front of him. Sam is looking at him with his arms folded over his chest, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Steve blinks owlishly and goes to close up the clasps on his bag. He slings it over his shoulder.

“I’m going for lunch.” He shrugs, tries to act innocent, but Steve is a truly shit liar. “It’s lunchtime. Gonna eat my lunch.”

“Okaaay,” Sam says, drawing it out. “And you’re not eating with me and Nat?”

“Noooo,” Steve says, equally as slowly. “I, uh— I have some work to do. So. Gonna go elsewhere. Don’t want to be disturbed.”

It isn’t untrue, he figures. That’s why it works, slips past his lips so quickly. He nudges past Sam and heads for the door.

“You’re doing work. On your lunch break,” Sam deadpans as he watches Steve leave the room. Sam’s eyes follow him like a haunted painting. Steve, knowing that he can’t lie to Sam at all, decides to go for the hasty exit.

“Yep don’t want to be disturbed see you later!” he says, all in one breath, as he hurries out to the castle.

~*~

Bucky still can’t believe this is happening. 

Steve comes and sits with him every day. Sometimes more than once! Sometimes before he starts work, or after, he sits and talks to Bucky like he’s a person. Like he’s alive .

And maybe he isn’t entirely dead, but this is certainly the most alive he’s felt in a long time.

Steve slips into the chapel in the same way that he always does, like he’s not supposed to be there (maybe he isn’t — Bucky never thought to ask). Bucky smiles as soon as he enters the room and Steve smiles back as if he’s genuinely happy to see him. His first friend in five hundred years. It makes Bucky’s chest feel too warm. He hopes that isn’t a bad thing.

“Hey,” Steve says. He grabs a cushion and settles in on one of the pews. “How are you?”

The same as every day , Bucky wants to say. But better now that you’re here . “Good,” he says instead and nods. “I’m good. How are you?”

“Good.” Steve nods back. He starts unpacking his lunch and Bucky watches curiously. He’d wondered if Steve weren’t some sort of spirit himself; no living person had been able to see him in six centuries of haunting the castle. Maybe Steve is some kind of phantom too, just one with a little more… substance. But Steve eats and drinks, stretches when his back aches and scrubs his eyes when they’re tired. Things that Bucky hasn’t done, has had no need to do, since he died. Things that are so uniquely alive that Bucky can’t bring himself to be wary of Steve. How could he be anything but a living being? 

Bucky snaps out of his thinking when Steve looks at him sheepishly and says, “I actually, uh — I wanted to ask you something.”

Bucky leans forward where he’s perched on one of the benches, oblivious to how cold and hard the wood is beneath him. Everything is cold now. It isn’t something he’d thought about until he saw Steve in that black jacket every day. (And it wasn’t until he realised that Steve wore that jacket every day that he began to wonder, guiltily, just what exactly was beneath it.) “You can ask me anything,” he says, a bit too honestly. He never wants to be anything but honest with Steve. Steve who can see him. Talk to him. Steve who treats him like a real person.

Steve’s answering smile is the softest thing Bucky has ever seen. “I just wanted to ask about who was ruling here. When you…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. When he died. When Bucky died. Even though Steve doesn’t say it, he flinches just the same. 

Steve licks his lips, pink tongue darting out for just a second, and Bucky watches. A nervous tic, Bucky thinks. It isn’t the first time he’s seen him do it. “It’s just that… there are no dates. For you. I can’t find any record and I’m not exactly a historical fashion expert like Nat is, so I can’t really date you just from your clothes…”

Steve trails off and his ears turn pink; he must have realised he was still talking. Bucky smiles but it feels wrong, fake and forced. It’s an imitation of a smile and a bad one at that. “Fourteen-eighty,” he answers. Steve hadn’t asked him for the date. Steve never pushes about that night; he barely ever mentions it, for which Bucky is infinitely grateful. But still, not what Steve had asked, so he gives a tiny shake of his head. “It was—”

“Queen Carol,” Steve interrupts. He looks at Bucky a little sheepishly, embarrassed by his own knowledge, but Bucky only nods.

“She was—” He swallows. His throat suddenly feels dry. Can a ghost’s throat feel dry? “She was my friend.”

The sadness comes back to him almost immediately, the guilt and the loneliness gnawing at his ribcage. Carol was his friend and he let her down. She had picked Bucky out of the stables, convinced her father to let him train with the guard because she had a feeling he’d be a good fit. She’d been right. Within a year Bucky had gone from a stablehand to the best trainee in the guard, and it had all been thanks to Carol.

And in the end he let her down.

Bucky turns away, not ready to face Steve in his failure. His hair falls into his face, a shield that blocks both Steve and the light filtering through the thick stained glass, shuttering him in darkness. “She trusted me. She was wrong to.”

Bucky had been one man against twenty, maybe more. But that shouldn’t have mattered. None of those men had his training, and really, he didn’t have to fight them. He could have settled for getting the queen and her ladies out of the room, away from the danger. They would have had to flee the castle, no doubt the kingdom too, but Carol would have survived, the ladies would have survived. Wouldn’t that have been enough?

“What do you mean?” Steve asks softly.

Bucky blinks. Can a ghost cry? He doesn’t think so. There have been many times he’s wanted to in the last few centuries, but he never has.

Steve’s question feels like a knife twisting in his chest. Why would he ask? He knows everything about this castle, more than enough to put the pieces together and realize that Bucky had failed, that he should have been left in the stable, tending to the horses and avoiding the stablemaster.

Steve is still quiet. He must want to hear Bucky say it. Bucky's throat feels like sandpaper. “That night. The night I… I was meant to protect the queen. That was my job. And when they came for her I couldn’t do it. She paid for it with her life.”

Bucky stares at the stone floor, feeling hollow. These are truths he acknowledged a long time ago, but speaking them into the universe, giving them up to someone else, makes him ache. And to Steve — to the first person to see him in hundreds of years. Steve will want nothing to do with him after this, once he’s learned that Bucky is a failure. He’s certain.

“Bucky, she didn’t die.”

~*~

Steve says it because he knows it’s true. He knows everything about the castle after all. 

Bucky’s being vague and Steve doesn’t want to push, but he knows about that night. The night Lord Pierce charged the queen with dozens of men, all of them tired of watching a woman rule, and rule well. There was a guard mentioned in the account, but the name was lost over time as the story passed on orally.

Bucky looks up then, staring at Steve like he’s grown two heads. If he were real, if he were solid flesh and blood, Steve would worry he might faint, with his skin so suddenly pale.

“What?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“She survived,” Steve says, with a small shake of his head. He wants to walk over to Bucky and grip him by the shoulders. He wants to shake him, to make the information sink in faster. Steve knows the look in his eyes, the saplings of new hope growing there. Bucky’s spent six hundred years thinking that he failed — that people died because of his failure.

But Steve knows the truth. Steve knows what he did. And he knows that Bucky’s a hero.

“How?” Bucky breathes, looking at Steve with a deep furrow between his brow.

“It was you,” Steve replies, his voice steady and strong. “The story of what you did that night — it was passed down. I guess eventually someone thought to write it down, too. They said that what you did, your sacrifice, gave Queen Carol the opportunity to disarm Pierce. She killed him right there, and once he went down the rest of the men fell into line. She didn’t die.”

“And the girls?”

Steve frowns softly. “The girls?”

“The ladies in waiting. Carol’s ladies. Rambeau, Minerva, Hill—”

“The only casualty was you, Bucky,” Steve says gently. Bucky’s shoulders heave and his gaze falls to the floor. Once again Steve feels the urge to reach out for him, to wrap him up and protect him. “Well,” Steve adds, clearing his throat, “you and a dozen assholes.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into something like a smile, but it fades fast. “Did she — what happened to her? After? Can you tell me?”

“I can tell you whatever you want to know, Buck,” Steve says, confidently. This castle and its history are Steve’s speciality. Not just his speciality — his life. “Get over here, c’mon,” he says, shifting along the pew to make room for Bucky to settle in closer.

Once Bucky has tentatively moved closer, Steve tells him everything he knows about Queen Carol. How after that night, no one thought to question the rule of the queen, no one thought to question if a woman was strong enough to hold the throne. The kingdom was just as peaceful as it had been before, continuing to flourish under her watchful eye. When her time came, her daughter Kamala took the throne—

“She had a daughter ?” Bucky interrupts, steel grey eyes blown wide.

Steve smiles softly, trying not to laugh at his reaction. “Yeah. Just the one, but yeah. She had a daughter. Kamala inherited the throne when Carol died, and—“

“Who was the father?” Bucky asks, equal parts scandalised and disbelieving. It makes Steve laugh; he likes it when he gets to see some of Bucky's personality peeking through.

“Colonel Rhodes. Once he came back from his travels outside of the kingdom they got married. He was never king, but their baby was still a princess, so Kamala ascended the throne when it was her time.”

“That son of a bitch,” Bucky says in a whisper, his gaze a thousand yards away and a small, bemused smile on his lips. Steve wonders if he knew Rhodes — he must have — and that idea opens up a whole new crate of questions from Steve who has long been interested in one of the most successful military men of all time. Maybe they could come back to that another day.

Bucky is still looking off into the distance, his smile fading a little with each passing second, and so Steve does the only thing he can think to do — he reaches out for him, laying his hand over Bucky’s. The other man looks up at him, obviously startled, but he doesn’t say a word as he looks between Steve’s face and their joined hands.

Steve expects him to pull away, to flinch at the touch, but he doesn’t. He’s surprised that it worked at all; Bucky looks so real and so solid, but that doesn’t mean he’s actually there . It could all be an illusion. But no, he’s real and solid in Steve’s hand, if perhaps a little cold. Steve doesn’t mind much. His hands are cold too.

“Did she—” Bucky clears his throat mid-sentence, interrupting himself. He looks up, his gaze shifting slowly to Steve’s. There’s a blush high on his cheeks, colouring the tips of his ears. Steve doesn’t know how that works, but it’s hardly the most surprising thing in this entire situation. “Did she ever talk about me? Queen Carol?”

Steve swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “She — the story about the knight that gave his life — that lived on.” Steve nods. “But your name… Your name was…”

“You didn’t know who I was,” Bucky finishes for him, when Steve can’t find the words. Bucky’s hand tightens around his, reassuring him. “It’s okay, Steve. I didn’t do it for fame and glory.”

“Why did you do it?” Steve asks softly, looking at Bucky’s sad smile.

“Because she was my friend,” Bucky replies simply, shrugging. “Because I… loved her. She was my queen. I guess you wouldn’t understand, not really.”

“No,” Steve agrees. There hasn’t been a monarch in the castle for years. The only monarchs around now rule in far off lands that Steve could only hope to visit on holiday. “No, I guess I wouldn’t.”

Bucky shrugs. “I did it because she needed me to. And because it was the right thing to do.”

Steve wishes he could be that brave. He wishes he could be as selfless as Bucky. He gives Bucky’s hand another squeeze, poised to ask him another question, but then his phone buzzes.

“Ah, shit,” Steve sighs, glancing at Pepper’s name as it lights up his screen. He shouldn’t keep her waiting. “I need to call my boss back. I’m sorry,” he says, looking at Bucky.

Bucky’s smiling, but it’s sad at the edges and Steve doesn’t know how to fix it. Well, he does. He could stay. Stay here with Bucky, who has so many stories to tell. Steve could listen to all of them, he could listen for hours.

If only he wasn’t technically at work.

“Go,” Bucky says, his hand slipping from Steve’s. He tentatively pushes at him, urging him up. “It’s probably not good for you to spend all your time in here anyway. You’ll get bandy legs.”

“Rickets,” Steve says as he stands, shoving his half-eaten lunch back into his bag and slinging it onto his shoulder. “They called it rickets— I don’t know when.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. He looks Steve up and down and Steve tries not to blush. He must fail because Bucky breaks into a sunny grin when he meets Steve’s gaze. “You sure you haven’t got it already?”

Steve sticks his tongue out and Bucky laughs. It’s short and sweet but it’s a laugh all the same and Steve grins along with him. “You’re rude, anyone ever told you that?”

“I’ve been dead for half a millennia. My people skills are deteriorating.” He shrugs but seems to settle, as if the reminder has brought back the sadness that haunts him. “Will you come back?”

“As soon as I can,” Steve promises. Carefully, he reaches out to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder, and if Bucky leans into the contact a little Steve doesn’t dare comment on it. “See you soon, Buck.”

“See you,” Bucky says, unmoving as Steve slips out the door and back into the hordes of tourists.

~*~

Bucky might be able to walk through walls but he can’t see through them. Before Steve, his (after)life was pretty simple. He would hole himself up in part of the castle far away from visitors, up on the roof or down in one of the dark, musty cellars when he was feeling melancholy, and he would pretend that he was alone.

Now, though, he finds himself traipsing through the castle more often than not, looking for Steve. He knows that Steve is working most of the time. When he isn’t in one of the buildings outside the castle or taking a small group of people on a tour, he’s sitting on one of the chairs — there’s one in every room — watching as people walk through, making sure they’re not about to break anything. Bucky can’t go over and talk to him, even though the urge itches under his skin. He can’t have anyone thinking that Steve is crazy, so he always hangs back.

Unless Steve needs a little help, of course.

Today, for example, Steve is trying to rebuke some teenagers in the King’s Cabinet, but the three boys (who stand easily a head or so taller than Steve) don’t seem bothered in the slightest. Bucky hangs around in a corner of the room, though he’s quite sure Steve wouldn’t like him to see, and it makes him so angry . Those boys could have broken something, and they don’t have any respect for the castle, or Steve either. So Bucky decides if he can’t make them have a little respect, he’s going to scare the shit out of them.

He can see Steve’s eyes flick to him as he crosses the room. Steve is still monologuing, halfway through his lecture, but the boys aren’t exactly paying attention. That is, until Bucky reaches out to the ornate writing desk, opens one of the cupboard doors, and promptly slams it shut.

“What the hell was that?” one of the boys cries, all three of them nearly jumping out of their skins as they turn to look at the desk.

Steve pauses and looks at Bucky, a slow smile stretching across his face. “Well, this castle is old, you know.” He shrugs and folds his arms over his chest. “You might piss off someone you don’t want to, acting like idiots the way you were.”

“Are you allowed to say that?” one of the boys asks, whilst another snorts. “Ghosts? Really?”

“Are you doubting them?” Steve asks, leaning towards the boys. “Because that’ll really piss them off.”

Steve’s eyes flick to Bucky, and Bucky knows what he has to do. He starts rapidly opening and slamming all of the cupboard doors. As a final flourish he sends a stack of paper fluttering to the floor. The boys look at each other, look at Steve, and then almost fall over each other trying to get out of the room, yelling all the while.

Steve is laughing when Bucky comes over to help him pick up the pieces of paper. Bucky isn’t sure he’s seen Steve look so joyful, so playful, and it draws him in, leaves him spellbound.

“That was so funny,” Steve snorts, shaking his head. “That should teach ‘em.”

“With any luck,” Bucky agrees, handing Steve the little pile he’s collected. Their fingers brush and Bucky blushes. Steve shifts and leans back. Bucky doesn’t dare follow.

“Thank you,” Steve says, genuinely this time. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“This place is my home.” Bucky shrugs. “I want people to respect it. I’ll make sure that they do.”

Steve looks at him for one long, quiet moment. Bucky is sure his heart would have stopped had it still been beating. “You’re a good guy, Bucky,” he says after a moment, still staring at him intensely. “I’ll speak to you later?” he asks, and Bucky nods, feeling like his tongue has turned to lead. Steve sets the papers on the desk, gives Bucky a little wave, and disappears out the door.

Bucky goes back to the roof and sits next to one of his favourite pigeons. He hasn’t named them but he knows this one — it seems to look at him. He wonders if it can really see him like Steve can.

“He’s something else, you know,” Bucky tells it. The pigeon doesn’t react; it pecks at a lump of moss on the roof, looks at him once more, and then flutters away to perch on one of the spires. Bucky doesn’t begrudge it. He lies down on his back and directs his eyes to the clouds drifting past and tries to clear his mind.

~*~

Steve is lying on the floor. He should probably be more careful, given the back problems he had as a kid and the fact that his muscles are still occasionally prone to aching, but he doesn’t care. He’s had a hard shift. With one of the other guides out sick, Steve had volunteered to pick up their tours. Instead of working in the archive after his regular tours, or sitting in sentry duty, he’s been walking constantly. It’s caused a dull pain in his spine and he figured lying on the floor might help straighten it out a little.

Bucky is glaring at him with amusement, though he has no right to. He is perched on the back of one of the pews, feet on the seat, and if there’s a god somewhere up there he’s probably damning them both to hell for acting like the chapel is a living room and not a place of worship.

Although, Steve supposes, only one of them can be damned, seeing as the other already has been — to limbo, at least.

And that raises a question. Steve feels like all he does is ask Bucky questions, but Bucky is unwaveringly, almost unnervingly, patient, and so Steve is beginning to feel less guilty about asking.

“Are there like, conditions? To… this?”

“To what?” Bucky asks, his hair falling loose and framing his face as he leans forward. It’s cute. It makes Steve want to reach out and tuck it back into place, not for the first time.

“To…” Steve raises one arm to wave his hand and Bucky huffs a laugh. “You know. Being a…”

“Ghost,” Bucky finishes. Steve’s cheeks are pink, but he nods.

Bucky hops to his feet. He’s graceful as he walks around the room, gloved fingertips brushing over the back of the pews, and after a moment he stops and looks at Steve.

“I can’t leave the grounds,” he says. “And I can’t be seen. I can touch things, but people can’t touch me.”

Steve sits up slowly. Bucky’s ended up standing at his feet and after a moment he sits down cross-legged, arms wrapped around his knees. Steve crosses his legs too, leaving a few feet between them, and scratches at the stone with one fingernail, distractedly.

“When you say you can’t leave the grounds… do you mean the castle, or the whole thing?”

“The whole thing,” Bucky answers, his voice sounding steady and sure. “I can go as far as the moat — or what used to be the moat, at least, and the river on the other side. After that…” He fades off, his eyes unfocusing, and a weight drops in Steve’s stomach. He waits a moment, but Bucky doesn’t seem to come back, so Steve reaches out and touches his fingertips to Bucky’s arm. His eyes flick to Steve, pierce him, before his lips twitch into a sad smile.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Steve offers.

“No, it’s just — it’s a strange feeling to describe,” Bucky admits. He looks to the ground, slowly unfurling until his hands are in the well of his lap, his hair falling into his face again as he looks at them. “It’s like… I’m made of wool. Everything goes white, and strange, like I’m fading into nothing. Into dust.”

Steve doesn’t like the sound of that. His fingers itch to touch Bucky again, but he doesn’t do it. It would be a little gratuitous, he thinks.

“Well then, maybe don’t do that,” he teases instead, glad when he can get a laugh out of Bucky. “That second part isn’t true, though,” he adds, Bucky’s wide grin fading to a small smile. He looks at Steve, unwavering, his expression beckoning him to continue. “I can see you,” he elaborates. “I can touch you.”

And with that he reaches out one cold finger and touches it to the tip of Bucky’s nose, smiling playfully as he pulls his hand back. Bucky’s wrinkles his nose and rubs at it, his smile bemused when he looks at Steve again.

“You’re the first,” Bucky tells him. “The first there’s ever been.”

The weight of it hits Steve like a freight train. Bucky has been alone for how long? For half a millenium? And out of nowhere here comes Steve, cussing him out and stumbling into the place he’s called home for centuries. Has he talked Bucky’s ear off yet? He must be used to the quiet. No, not the quiet he thinks. The castle has never been quiet. But at least to not having anyone to talk with.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Bucky whispers. “I can hear the cogs turning.”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans, managing a soft laugh. “Is it nice? Having someone to talk to?”

He wants to be sure. He has to know that he isn’t bothering Bucky all the livelong day. Would Bucky be happier if he’d never interrupted Steve that day? Or is he glad that he did it, that he has a companion after all this time?

Bucky reaches out and grabs Steve’s hand, and he instantly feels better. “It’s the best thing in the world.”

And Steve certainly can’t argue with that.

~*~

Bucky doesn’t tend to wander the grounds. He spooks the horses down in the stable. He knocks things over in the gift shop, scaring everyone half to death and making a mess for someone else to deal with. So he sticks within the castle more often than not.

At least until Steve came along.

Bucky is just so curious about Steve. They never talk about him, only ever about Bucky. Bucky knows that Steve has an entire life outside of the castle grounds that he can’t see and that he has no hope of interacting with. Steve has a house somewhere. He went to school somewhere. He has family and friends. He might have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. Bucky’s mind trips clumsily over the idea.

He almost doesn’t want to ask. He knows that isn’t why Steve comes to see him. Steve comes to listen, to discover, to learn. He’s so invested in the castle and he’s a bit of a history nerd. Bucky can’t blame him. History is interesting and he would know — he’s seen a lot of it.

Maybe it’s a little creepy, but Bucky is a ghost, so he swallows the swirling mixture of shame and guilt that creeps up his throat as he watches Steve come out of one of the drab administrative buildings. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and begins to walk away from the castle, down a winding path, until he hits the aviary. There’s a man there, the man with the gap-toothed smile that Bucky sees occasionally from the roof tending to the birds. He greets Steve with an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him into a one-armed hug. Bucky watches as Steve laughs, shoving at him.

Bucky doesn’t know who gap-tooth smile guy is, but he knows he hates him.

Bucky is careful to hang back, well out of Steve’s line of sight as he watches the two of them. He’s too far away to really hear them, but they’re obviously friends, and good friends at that. Bucky doesn’t know who he’s most jealous of. Both of them, maybe, for having friends like that. Gap-tooth, probably, for being friends with Steve like that.

After about five minutes of talking, Steve gives his friend another smile and walks away, hands still tucked neatly into his pockets. Bucky watches him go, watches until he's just a speck in the distance, disappearing over the castle boundaries where Bucky cannot follow.

Bucky should go back inside, or up onto the roof, but instead he lingers. The man must be Steve's friend, after all, and Bucky wants to know everything and anything about Steve. That includes his friends.

Now that Steve isn't around to catch him in the act, Bucky can venture closer. Just like the pigeons up on the roof, the birds of prey that the man tends to pay him absolutely no mind. The sparrowhawk — Redwing, if the little plaque is to be believed — shifts on its perch and fixes him with dark eyes, but then it ruffles its feathers and goes back to whatever it was doing.

"Hey Sam," a voice calls, ringing like bells, as Redhead walks over. Her hands are in her pockets too, but she isn't wearing a big, thick coat like Steve was. Either she's more used to the cold than he is or Steve is more prone to it. Maybe they should stop meeting in the old, draughty chapel.

Bucky has seen Redhead before. She leads tours every once in a while and she's often present in one room or another, surveying the tourists as they come and go. Everyone tends to be on their best behaviour when she's in the room; her stare is enough to get them to shuffle through, looking with their eyes rather than their hands.

"Hey, Nat," Sam returns, giving her that gap-toothed grin. Bucky probably could've just asked Steve what their names were, could've just asked if he had friends, but he was here now.

"Is that Steve off at last?" Nat asks. Weird name, Bucky thinks, but he's one to talk. It must be short for something. Her eyes track over to the gate where Steve had disappeared just moments ago.

"Yeah,” Sam nods. He throws a chunk of meat at one of the birds and the kestrel jumps up to grab it out of the air, scoffing it down with ease but no grace. "Said he wanted to go back in for something but Pepper put Helen at the portcullis and warned him he'd get his ass whooped if he tried going back in there again."

Nat smirks, amusement in her tone when she replies, "Pepper said that?"

Bucky doesn't know who Pepper is, but she sounds like she must be in charge — and she must be a friend too, looking out for Steve like that. Bucky decides that he likes her, even if it means he gets to spend just a little less time with Steve. 

"In not so many words,” Sam admits. "I just made it sound cool,” he adds with a grin, throwing another chunk at a harrier named Dummie who reacts much the same as the kestrel had. 

Nat pauses, her eyes on a merlin perched not too far away. "You wanna hold her?" Sam asks, to which Nat shrugs one shoulder, utters a tentative “Sure,” and produces one hand from her pockets so she can slip on the raptor glove.

Sam transfers the little blue merlin from her perch to his gloved hand and onto Nat's. The bird settles with an indignant cry and Sam instructs Nat on how to give her a few gentle pets, index finger crooked to stroke her chest.

Neither of them says anything for a moment, both of them admiring the bird, until Natasha says, "Have you noticed him spending more time here?"

"This is his place,” Sam shrugs. Natasha arches one eyebrow at him, still smoothing her finger over the bird's chest. "I don't know what it's about either, but he likes spending every waking moment here."

Natasha shakes her head. She passes the bird back to Sam and pulls the glove from her hand. "It seems different now,” she says. "He disappears."

"He disappears," Sam deadpans, head tilting as he fixes her with a flat look. Bucky swallows around the lump forming in this throat. He knows exactly where Steve goes.

"I know how it sounds," Nat begins slowly, the curve of a smile to her lips as she watches Sam replace the bird on her perch. "But it's true. He goes somewhere off-limits and he disappears for an hour. It's weird."

"He's probably working, Nat. You know Steve. This castle is—"

"It's everything to him, I know, and I know how caught up he can get in a project—"

"So you know this is his normal," Sam says, his tone final. Bucky takes a tiny step forward. "C'mon, Nat. Could be worse. I'd rather he was working a little too hard than getting his face punched after starting a fight with the wrong guy in a fit of righteous fury." Nat rolls her eyes, but it seems she knows what he's talking about. 

"I don't know. Seems like swapping one bad habit for the other,” she replies.

"Well, Pepper's noticed it too, by the sounds of things," Sam says. "She'll keep an eye out."

Nat hums, but it sounds non-committal. Bucky wishes they'd keep talking. What does Sam mean about Steve starting fights? For a second he thinks that doesn't sound very much like Steve, but then he remembers exactly how he and Steve met and he corrects himself; that sounds a hell of a lot like Steve.

They move on to talk about other things and Bucky loses interest. He returns to the castle and paces a little in the staff-only corridor. He could go further into the castle, walk around a little, explore, but his eyes linger on the chapel door. He doesn’t think, just feels the pull in his gut as he looks at the door. He decides to pass through it. He can watch the river meander past through the warped stained glass for a little while and pretend he isn't waiting for Steve.

Chapter Text

The castle is devoid of tourists. Steve told his boss that he was just going to make sure that no one was lingering, and that everything was secure, before he left the place to the night watchman. His boss — Steve hasn’t said as much, but Bucky surmises that he means Pepper — must have a lot of faith in him. She doesn’t seem bothered to keep an eye on him. Steve’s been sitting in the chapel for a while now and he hasn’t once glanced at the watch on his wrist; he’s in no hurry at all.

“So how come I can see you and no one else can?” he asks, eyeing Bucky from across the room. 

Bucky shrugs his shoulders. In truth, he doesn’t know. He can’t go further than the castle moat, where wildflowers have replaced the murky water that filled it centuries ago, and no one can see him or hear him. 

Except for Steve.

 “Maybe you’re a long lost son of the house Vel,” he says, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind.

Steve snorts, a good impression of the horses down at the castle stables. “Yeah, right. Cause I seem like the type to be descended from royalty.”

Bucky just stares at him. He doesn’t see any reason why Steve couldn’t be descended from royalty. He’s a good protector; he looks after everything within the castle as if it’s his own home. Bucky knows he’s getting paid to do it, but he’s seen others who don’t police the place half as well as Steve does. He’s honest. As far as Bucky is concerned, Steve has always kept his word. He comes to see him when he says he will and he never pushes Bucky farther than he wants to go, just as he promised weeks ago now. Most importantly, he cares . He cares about the castle and he cares about Bucky. No one has cared about Bucky in centuries, and yet Steve is there, a light in the darkness, reaching out for him.

Bucky thinks he’d make a good king, if they still had them. Bucky would give his life for him all over again if he could.

He hasn’t said anything for a long time and he’s been staring. Steve blinks at him and Bucky ducks his head, trying to appear normal. “You’re serious.”

Bucky scuffs his boot against the cold stone floor, his leg dangling down over the edge of the windowsill he sits on. “Why not?”

“Because—” Steve begins, but he stops himself, trailing off and frowning into space. He stares hard at one corner of the room for a moment before he looks at Bucky again, his head shaking. “Because it’s, it’s just—”

“Still waiting for an answer, Steve.”

“It’s— Bucky, I’m not—”

“Do you keep the House of Vel birth records here?” Bucky asks, crossing the room slowly, his steps making no sound as he does so. 

“In the archive room,” Steve says softly. “Yeah.”

“That’s on castle grounds?”

Steve nods. “Not too far from the stables. But Bucky—”

“Then let’s go."

Steve thinks the idea is ludicrous; he just hasn’t managed to say it out loud yet. Bucky can see it in the way he stares at that corner for a second longer, heaves a sigh, and then pulls himself up to his feet. 

Bucky doesn’t see why that couldn’t be the reason. He knows that royal family trees branch off further than anyone could imagine; that the likelihood of a commoner carrying royal blood isn’t out of the question. And Steve — Steve is as good a candidate as any. If anyone deserves royal blood, it’s definitely him.

The archive room is different from the castle. Bucky has never found cause to visit the little square building behind the stables. It has never interested him and he still doesn’t know what’s inside. The walls are painted off-white and the lights feel too bright, stinging the backs of his eyes in a way that he hadn’t even thought was possible. Steve just carries on, evidently used to it, and walks down seemingly endless and identical corridors until he stops at one of the doors, presses a small fob against an equally small circle, and pushes it open.

Watching Steve operate in this modern environment brings harsh reality crashing down on Bucky: they’re not of the same world. Steve is a child compared to him, so new, so fresh. The way he navigates this place, not even squinting under the artificial light, makes Bucky feel momentarily inadequate. Enough to cause him to hang back a few feet behind Steve as he opens the door. Steve’s back is to him, so he’s oblivious to the minor crisis Bucky passes through in a matter of seconds, and the ghost is grateful for it.

“We keep all of the royal accounts in here,” Steve says, turning the light on inside the room. He heads to the table in the centre of it, pulling on a pair of white gloves. “You’ll need a pair of gloves if you want to touch anything so that the oil and dirt from your fingers don’t damage—”

Steve looks over his shoulder at Bucky who’s looking at Steve with one eyebrow raised. The tips of Steve’s ears turn pink. “Right. Not a problem for you, huh?”

“I’ll still be careful,” Bucky promises, and Steve gives him a gentle, grateful smile.

Bucky watches as Steve produces a scroll, leans over the table, and carefully unrolls it. His sickly feeling turns into one of awe; Steve doesn’t just look comfortable here, he looks… accomplished. Bucky knew he was smart, but now he really looks it, taking charge of the situation. He would have made a great king.

“When is this?” Bucky asks, looming behind Steve to peer at the scroll over his shoulder. He could’ve gone to stand by Steve’s side, or leaned over the other side of the table, but he relishes the closeness for just a moment. His hair brushes against Steve’s neck, and from the way Steve flinches, slender fingers coming up to rub, Bucky assumes that it tickles. His smile is small and private as he looks back at the paper.

On the scroll is a map of lines and a mess of names, all written in the same looping cursive and gold ink. There are small portraits next to each one; portraits that Bucky knows must have taken time because the detail in them is incredible considering how small they are. They are works of art in their own right. He understands why Steve wants to be careful.

“This is from King Joseph,” Steve says, gloved fingertip tapping the name written in curled golden script. “And there’s Queen Carol,” he continues, his finger tracing just next to the line that carries down from father to daughter, from King to heir. Bucky looks at the portrait of the queen, of his queen, and his heart aches. She had been his sovereign, yes, but she’d been his friend as well. He would have done anything for her. He gave his life for her.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks softly.

Bucky looks down into the clear blue of his eyes. “I’m alright,” he says. Steve stares at him like he’s a particularly difficult puzzle waiting to be solved. Bucky gives him a small smile. “Her daughter?”

“Queen Kamala,” Steve says, looking down at the scroll, his finger following the line again.

Again, Bucky stares at the portrait. The Carol he had known had always said she would never marry — she had been adamant that she didn’t need anyone to help her rule, that she was going to do it on her own. But she must have been happy. She must have loved Rhodes. She would never have agreed to any of it otherwise.

“So what are we looking for?” Bucky asks, once he’s sure his voice won’t waver.

“It was your idea, genius,” Steve snarks, but when Bucky frowns at him, he sighs. “I suppose we look for anything… not right. Anything that could imply that someone left the royal family.”

Bucky looks at the scrolls assembled on the table and huffs softly. “We better get started then.”

They work separately so they can get through the scrolls faster, each of them planted on opposite sides of the table, their work spread out between them. Despite the fastidious record-keeping, the work is hampered by small inconsistencies. Some of the records aren’t dated on the outside so they end up skipping forward and backward a century or so while they try their hardest to work chronologically.

Bucky unfurls a roll of paper carefully, eyes scanning the neatly drawn lines and portraits, and pauses. “Steve?” he asks. “What’s this?”

There’s a big red X over one of the portraits, scratched over a woman with dark hair and curious-looking eyes. Steve shifts closer to him and follows Bucky's gaze, and then gives an excited, “Oh! Princess Margaret. I remember her. They painted her out of the portrait in the King’s drawing room because she ran away to…” His voice trails off and Steve blinks into the distance.

Bucky nudges him gently. “To what?”

“To marry a commoner,” Steve answers after a moment, looking up at Bucky with an unfathomable look in his eyes.

Bucky has a good feeling about this. He can feel it in his gut — this is it. This is the explanation. Steve has to be related to this Princess Margaret — and thus related to Queen Carol.

And then, because apparently Bucky is having a good night tonight, another idea comes to him.

“Are the censuses kept here?” Bucky asks.

“No.” Steve shakes his head and frowns. The twist of his lips as he thinks creates a dimple in his cheek that Bucky briefly considers reaching out to touch. “No, the census records are kept at the town hall. But we can access them online. Come with me.”

Where else would Bucky go? Where else would he want to go? He goes to say as much as to Steve, but the smaller man has already turned away to start cleaning up. Bucky doesn’t hesitate; he starts rolling the scrolls carefully back up, handing them to Steve so he can put them in their boxes, back onto the shelves.

~*~

The computer they sit in front of is ancient. Not as old as Bucky, but Bucky has seen the laptop Steve works on and the tiny computer in his pocket; he knows that this computer is old. It’s big and clunky and the keyboard is about the same size as a small dog, but Steve doesn’t seem perturbed as he sits down in front of it and starts clicking. 

His fingers move swiftly over the keys, the soft clack-clack-clack filling the room before he reaches for the mouse. Bucky watches him with fascination. The computer is so alien to him, a strange, foreign technology, and yet to Steve, using it is as easy as breathing.

Suddenly, the clicking stops.

“We don’t know her surname.” Steve is frowning again. Bucky stares at that dimple before he looks up to meet Steve’s eyes. “How are we gonna find her? There could be hundreds of Margarets.”

“Do you know the year?”

Steve blows a breath. “Not off the top of my head.” Bucky glances at Steve’s crop of golden hair and then back down at his face. “Hold on.”

More clicking, more clacking of keys. Bucky watches as Steve opens up a new page, and there’s the portrait of Margaret from the scroll on the screen, her name in big letters at the top of the article. Steve’s eyes scan the text quickly, and then he reaches out, fingernail tapping against the glass of the screen.

“Seventeen seventy-seven,” he says, fingertip following the sentence. “She was 26.”

Bucky is quiet.

Steve knows what he needs to do now. He clicks through, digging through the articles and gives more than a few soft, annoyed huffs before he finally lands on one entry in particular. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He looks tired when he directs his gaze back to the screen. It’s getting late; they’ve been here for longer than they realised. 

“Is that her?” Bucky asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken in a while and Steve jumps a little, looking over his shoulder at Bucky.

“I think so,” he says. “I can’t know for sure, obviously. Could be a big waste of time, but—“

“Let me take over for a bit,” Bucky requests. “You’re getting cranky.”

“I’m not a toddler,” Steve grouches. “Only toddlers get cranky.”

“You're cranky,” Bucky insists. “Scoot over.”

Steve scowls at Bucky, but he shifts his seat over so Bucky can pull up a chair and sit down. Bucky reaches hesitantly for the mouse. He’s been watching Steve do it for long enough now. He should have a handle on it.

It’s a long process to look through record after record, following generation after generation, but Bucky doesn’t even notice the time passing. He wants an answer. He wants to know why Steve can see him and touch him when most people only notice him as a tingle down their spine or a cold breeze on their neck. He believes that his hunch is right, and he has the means in front of him to find out.

And on top of that, he’s dead. Bucky's eyes don’t tire, his body doesn’t ache from sitting hunched over the desk. He keeps scrolling, clicking, typing with one clumsy finger.

And then he finds it. Sarah Rogers, born 1968, and her husband, deceased. Her son, Steven Grant Rogers, just ten years old at the time of the census.

“Steve,” Bucky says softly. Steve has fallen asleep, hunched over the desk in a position that doesn’t look comfortable. Bucky misses sleep. “Steve, wake up.”

Bucky reaches out to touch his shoulder and Steve startles, looking like he’s ready for a fight, before he blinks, clearing the sleep from his eyes. He meets Bucky's gaze and gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he says. “What is it?”

“I found your mom.”

Steve’s eyes move to the screen and then they blow wide. “How did you—?”

“I followed Margaret Carter’s family,” Bucky says. “Took a few wrong turns and halfway through I started wondering why we didn’t just work backwards from you, but— I suppose it worked out.”

He had, in fact, taken about fifty wrong turns. He’d wasted an hour on a family of seven before he’d gotten back on track. It’s taken all night; the clock on the computer says it's almost morning.

“You— so I’m—“ Steve stammers and then stops. He looks at Bucky, vibrant blue eyes blown wide like saucers, searching Bucky's face.

“You’re royalty,” Bucky grins. “My liege.”

“Stop that,” Steve says, but he’s smiling even as he does — until he looks at the ancient clock on the wall and groans. “I have to go home before the morning staff come in or they’re gonna know I was here all night.”

“And you need to rest,” Bucky says. He reaches out to pat some of Steve’s hair back into place where it sticks up from his little nap earlier and smiles to himself when it won’t settle. 

Steve yawns, like Bucky had prompted him into it. “That too.”

Bucky smiles softly, looking at Steve. He’s different when he’s sleepy like this — not so prickly and sharp like he normally is (though he isn’t usually too sharp around Bucky these days). When would Bucky have gotten the opportunity to see him like this, if not for tonight? Maybe keeping Steve up all night trying to find an answer to fit an impossible question wasn't good for him, but Bucky can’t bring himself to regret it.

"Quit looking at me like that," Steve says through another yawn, turning off the computer and rubbing his eyes. "I'm not actually her."

"What?" Bucky frowns. Steve either isn't making sense in his fatigue, or Bucky has missed the point. 

"Carol," Steve says. He stands slowly, like it takes every ounce of energy in his body to do so. "Your queen. I'm not her."

Bucky isn't so sure. Steve is just as stubborn, just as quick witted. He has a feeling that if he gets to know him more he'll find even more similarities, more than just the shining blonde hair, but he doesn't say it. "I know, punk," he says instead, reaching out to push at Steve lightly. He sways on his feet, jaw shifting like he's fighting yet another yawn. "You just look funny when you're about to fall asleep. Now go home, before you yawn your jaw off."

Steve nods, running a hand through his already mussed-up hair, and begins to leave. Bucky doesn't follow; mostly because he's never seen this building before and exploring will give him something to do until Steve comes back. But the fact that Bucky isn't right behind him makes Steve pause. He turns, brow furrowing as he looks at Bucky. "What are you gonna do?"

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe I'll haunt the gift shop when it opens. Hang out on the parapets with the pigeons. Ghost stuff."

Steve flinches, not laughing like Bucky expects. He looks at Bucky for a long moment before he says, "Sometimes I forget." There's a pause. Bucky wonders if he should say something, but Steve continues, "You're so—"

He stops again and ducks his head. When he looks back up he's smiling at Bucky, tired, and forced maybe, but still warm. "I gotta get going or I'll fall asleep right here," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow, Buck."

Bucky watches him go, stood under the fluorescent lights. Once Steve is gone he goes to turn off the lights. Steve left them on — probably just forgot — but it’s better if there’s less evidence pointing to him having stayed behind.

Bucky goes and sits on the northern parapet, his legs dangling over the edge of the brick wall, a pair of pigeons cooing not too far away from him. What was Steve going to say? Why had he stopped himself?

Bucky watches the sun rise over the horizon.

~*~

Finding out about Steve’s heritage changes something in Bucky. He knows it shouldn’t, because Steve is just Steve and Bucky likes him regardless of who his great-great-great-great grandma is, but it’s just…

He can’t stop seeing little bits of Carol in him: the roll of his eyes when someone does something annoying but unsurprising, the upward tick of his lips when something does surprise him, in a good way. Maybe he’s imagining it. It’s been so long since Bucky has seen Carol, and maybe his memories are wrong, but he doesn’t think so. He remembers her so well, and there’s no mistaking the strength in Steve for the strength she had too, in a time when not many people had wanted to see it.

Bucky wants to be strong. He wants to finish the story for Steve. He wants to tell him about that night.

“You know you don’t have to, Buck,” Steve reminds him gently when Bucky admits it to him one day. He’s sitting on the very edge of one of the pews as though he can’t bear to bring his weight down onto it, as if he’ll need to spring up at any moment. “You don’t ever have to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“No,” Bucky murmurs. “No, I know.” He does know, but it doesn’t feel true. He feels like he owes Steve the entire world, but he doesn’t know what for. Steve is looking at him, bright blue eyes never wavering, and Bucky has to catch his breath as it sticks in his throat. “I want to.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers after a moment. He’s leaning into Bucky, looking at him like he’s trying to lift the story from his skin, learn all his secrets from reading the constellations of freckles and scars across his skin. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

Bucky finds it a strange request and isn’t quite sure how to answer. He clears his throat. “Just listen,” he manages, giving Steve a weak smile before he begins.

"It was... It was a normal night, I guess. It didn't stand out to me, exactly," Bucky begins, swallowing thickly. "But Carol— Carol knew that something was up. She wouldn't come down for dinner, said she and her ladies would take it in her chambers. She asked me and another guard to stand watch—"

"Another guard?" Steve asks, leaning forward where he sits. When he realises his interruption he sits up bolt upright, blushing a little. It doesn't soothe Bucky's aching heart. It sets a new fire, burning a little brighter. "Sorry," he adds sheepishly. "I won't interrupt."

"No, it's — I don't mind," Bucky says. It would be easier to just do this, tell the story quickly and get it over with, but he can’t begrudge Steve his inquisitive nature. It’s one of the things he liked about Steve to begin with.

"Sitwell," he answers, after a moment. "Jasper Sitwell. But he was acting... fidgety. Sweating. Carol put him on the door and asked me to come inside."

"She knew," Steve surmises.

"I think so," Bucky nods.

Steve opens his mouth, ready to ask another question, but he thinks better of it. He sits quietly, an apologetic look on his face. Bucky continues.

"We were inside and we heard them coming up the steps. Carol moved the royal chambers into the North tower a few weeks before. She must have thought that with it being so narrow up there it might've stopped them—" Bucky swallows thickly, his mouth feeling incredibly dry. He's done this before. He's spent unknown lengths of time thinking about why Carol did what she did, why Pierce did what he did, and what he could have done to stop it all. He looks to Steve, expecting him to question it too, but his face is carefully neutral; he's just listening, waiting for Bucky to continue, and so he does. "It didn't. They came pounding up the steps and banged on the door. Carol told me to let them in, and it was— it was Pierce. Lord Pierce. He was leading them."

Bucky moves to sit down, settling on the end of the pew Steve is perched on. He feels as though his legs could give out. It wouldn’t matter anyway; it’s not like he can hurt himself.

He can't look at Steve now and isn't entirely sure why. Maybe it’s easier for the words to fight free if he can pretend that he's reliving this on his own, where the words can never upset Steve, who he so badly wants to protect.

"He said they wanted to overthrow her. That things had been too peaceful for too long and they wanted to expand. They wanted to invade , violently , and Carol, she wouldn't let them. So they had come to kill her." There it was again— residual rage, simmering in his chest, still there after all those years. "When the fighting started it was just me against all those people, and I know I managed to..."

He managed to take out a few of them. That was what he was going to say. He was going to admit that he was a killer, that killing was in the job description if it meant keeping the queen safe. But does he want Steve to know? Bucky isn't proud of it — the best soldiers aren't, this he knows. The best soldiers are ashamed of themselves for doing it even if they had no other choice. He hopes that makes him one of the good ones. He hopes Steve can understand.

"I managed to fend a few of them off," he continues. "But then there was this— pain. A sharp pain, in my stomach." Bucky's voice wavers and shakes, fingertips pressing against his abdomen where the phantom pain still lingers with the memory. "And that was it. I watched Carol as I fell, fighting them off, and I just kept thinking about how I had failed her." His voice wobbled even more, tears brimming in his eyes. He would never be ready for this, he thought. Not ever. "I spent the next five hundred years thinking about how I had failed her, and—"

Suddenly there are long, slender fingers pushing the hair back from his eyes, hands framing his face on either side. There’s Steve, blocking everything from view. Bucky could kiss him for it, a realisation that doesn’t shock him in the slightest, but does make his chest feel too warm and his heart feel too big. He looks into Steve's big, blue eyes and happily drowns in them. He can feel the warmth from Steve's hands sinking into his skin as he gently holds his face, though it doesn't warm him any; Bucky is still ice cold. But that little feeling of warmth gives him something to anchor on to.

"You didn't fail anyone," Steve says, his voice steady and sure. "You didn't fail a single person, Buck— you know that now. You sacrificed your life and that sacrifice might have been the only thing that helped those people survive. You did good . You did a good thing."

Steve's deep voice washes over him and Bucky tries to nod, to let him know that he understands, but it's a jerky motion and quickly aborted. He's been believing that he let his queen die for half a millenium. But maybe Steve is right. Maybe he didn't fail. He made a sacrifice, the biggest sacrifice anyone could make. Maybe, in the end, it did make a difference.

"You can't change what happened," Steve continues, "but you know the truth now. You can move forward ."

"I can move on," he murmurs, and immediately regrets it. Steve smiles but it's bittersweet, like the words have wounded him and he doesn't want to admit it. It's the smile of someone trying not to hurt. Bucky hates it.

"Yeah," Steve agrees. His thumb swipes slowly back and forth over Bucky's cheekbone. "You can move on," he nods. His hands fall away from Bucky's cheeks, taking their delicious warmth with them, and Bucky silently mourns their loss. "I said I'd help you, didn't I?" Bucky nods. Steve had said that, all those weeks ago when they had first met. "And I'm a man of my word."

~*~

“She must have written something down,” Steve says, pacing back and forth across the length of the small chapel. He needs to think. He needs to be productive in his thinking. He had taken the whole of the previous day to sit at home and think, sitting in front of his computer, tapping away, trying to find anything. He had come back to work still thinking about it. There’s no way Bucky could have just been lost to history. Not after what he’s learned. “You died for her,” he says, more to himself than to Bucky. “She must have talked about you.”

“Carol kept a lot of her writing secret,” Bucky admits. He’s sitting against the window, out of the way of Steve’s pacing. “She was worried. She suspected that Pierce was up to something and she didn’t want any of her writing to fall into the wrong hands where it could be used against her.”

That makes sense. Carol comes across as an astute lady; if she had known something was about to happen she would never have carelessly left a journal lying around.

Steve comes to an abrupt halt in his pacing, turning on his heels and snapping his fingers. His eyes light up. “You knew where those portraits were kept,” Steve says. “You knew where the key was. You must have some idea where she could have hidden the rest. Right?”

He stares at Bucky and watches his brow crease. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb, and his fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t dare move closer. Bucky stares at the floor, his eyes flicking one way and then the other, mouth moving as if he's having a conversation with the old stone flooring. After a moment he looks up, fixing Steve with his slate grey gaze.

"I might know a place. A few places. But there's no guarantee."

"I don't need a guarantee," Steve assures him, smiling a touch too brightly. "I just need a place to start."

Bucky leads them back to the southern wing. It’s just as musty and damp as it was weeks ago when Steve had still resented Bucky for being a smartass. He hadn't known Bucky then. He hadn't known how sweet he was, how intriguing, how kind. He watches Bucky's back, little more than a silhouette, as he follows along behind him. He’s glad Bucky interrupted him that day.

They end up back in the same bedroom. Steve hadn't asked before, but he asks now, his fingers itching to pull the shutters from the window and let in light. "Was this Carol's room?"

"No," Bucky laughs, shaking his head. "Look at it. You think this was a queen's room?"

He asks it with a teasing smile, but Steve still feels a little rebuked, because Bucky is right and he should have known. The room is fairly small, and while furnished, it isn't particularly well furnished. None of the pieces match and the bed isn't big. "I don't know," Steve responds, trying to save a little of his dignity. "It's been six hundred years, Buck. They could've used this room for anything since the 15th century."

Bucky just smiles at him, small and fond, and it warms Steve from the inside out. "True," He allows. "It could have been. But this was Lady Hill's room. She was sort of… second fiddle, I guess. Lady Rambeau had the room adjoining Carol's. They were... closer." Bucky says the word slowly, sounding it out, and Steve knows exactly what he means. "When she was younger."

Steve gives a little nod. He had read rumours of it. The two of them slipping off to the garden at the end of a particularly tiresome ball, when Carol was still just a princess. It makes sense that she would be next door.

"But wouldn't Lady Rambeau have her writings?" he asks, watching Bucky retrieve the key for the chest, a feeling of deja vu overtaking him. He takes the key once it's offered, tapping it against his palm. "If she were Carol's most trusted lady, it'd make the most sense."

"Yeah. And you can bet that's what Pierce and his goons would have thought too," Bucky hums. It dawns on Steve slowly, and then all at once. They would have searched Maria Rambeau's room just as they would have Carol’s, assuming she was stupid enough to leave it with her most trusted lady.

Bucky smirks as Steve realises. It’s a good look for him, Steve thinks. He likes when Bucky smiles, however he does it. "Carol would never trust a lady like Hill with something so important, not when Hill might feel scorned, and give everything over to her enemies."

"But Hill never felt scorned," Steve continues. 

"No," Bucky agrees. He pauses, the smirk fading away, his eyes softening. "No, Carol trusted all of her ladies. She loved them all."

Steve smiles, soft and crooked. He can't imagine how much of Queen Carol's DNA rests in his cells, how many ancestors have come and gone in between them, but he hopes he could be as kind. Movies and television always make queens stone-hearted, cold, and unfeeling. Carol didn't seem that way. She seemed like a good person. Steve hopes that he's the same.

"So where do we look?" Steve asks, casting his gaze around. There are a few places he might expect to find some documents, but if the chests and drawers are locked they'll have no way of getting into them unless they destroy them. Steve couldn't even begin to imagine destroying anything in this room — it goes against his historian's urge to protect and restore. Bucky casts a glance around, looks back at Steve and says, "Check everywhere. Check the floor, under the bed. I'll see if I can get these chests open."

Steve nods, and though he knows his back and his knees will hate him for it, he settles down on the floor and begins to look. There's nothing but thick cobwebs and layers of dust under there. Steve pulls back and his hand hits a wobbly stone, throwing him off balance.

"Hey," he murmurs, curling his fingers around the edge of the stone in question. It’s ever so slightly raised and, once Steve can get his nails around it, he pulls it up and out of the floor, revealing a small hollow below.

"Bucky," he breathes, reaching up with his free hand, holding it out to beckon him forward. He feels Bucky's fingertips ghost over his upturned palm and then he crouches beside Steve, leaning over his shoulder, his hair tickling Steve's ear. "Look."

With the brick moved to one side they take in what’s been hiding beneath: letters and piles of paper tied together with string or sealed with red wax, yellowed by time and fraying around the edges, but still intact. There are books bound in red leather and tied with golden cord. Whether the ink is still legible is a mystery, but one Steve is more than willing to unravel. He reaches out to grab them but Bucky catches his hand, holding it for a moment.

"Let me," he says, meeting Steve's eyes with a gentle smile. "Can't damage them, remember?" He releases Steve’s hand and grins at him, waggling his fingers.

Steve’s blushes at the gesture, remembering the long night they had spent researching in the archives, and flattered that Bucky would remember so fondly.

Bucky pulls all of the letters out of the hole in the floor and spreads them out, the two of them surveying their hidden treasure. 

"There has to be something here," Steve nods. "I know it— there has to be."

Bucky looks at him, scared and excited, and nods. "I hope so too."

Steve smiles. He wants to grab Bucky and hold him. To tell him to let himself hope. He doesn't. He looks at his watch and realises that his lunch break is almost over. He still hasn't eaten.

"I have to go," he says, knowing he sounds as disappointed as Bucky looks. "I'll keep the letters, okay? I'll come back tonight and we can read them together."

He reaches for Bucky's hands and pulls himself up. "We're gonna do this, Buck," he assures him. "Carol knew something, and if she did, it will be here."

Bucky swallows thickly, ducking his head. "I hope you're right," he murmurs, giving Steve a timid smile. Steve releases their hands. "I'll see you tonight, Stevie."

The nickname makes him blush, but Steve nods. "Tonight," he agrees. "Come on— I need you to lead me out of here."

Bucky nods, turning to lead the way, and his smile darkens a little. Steve has to wonder why.

Chapter Text

Bucky is waiting for Steve when he arrives at the chapel. The candles Bucky had lit flicker, their light bouncing off the walls and making the stained glass windows shimmer. Steve has a torch in his hand. Bucky prefers the candles, he thinks— the torch detracts from the peaceful atmosphere.

"Okay— so," Steve says, pulling the letters out of his satchel as he sits down, beckoning for Bucky to come closer. "I haven't read any of the sealed ones, or the diaries, but these letters, the loose ones... I had a little peek." Bucky arches his eyebrow; he thought Steve would wait for him. "I know!" Steve whines. "I know, but they were right there! And they were looking at me! And they were open, anyway—"

"Do they say anything good?" Bucky interrupts. He doesn't really blame Steve; he knows how curious he can be.

"Well, I mean, nothing relevant to you ," Steve says, handing them to Bucky. The ink is a little faded, almost gone in some places, but the looping script is still mostly legible. Bucky looks up at Steve. His eyes are sparkling with sheer delight. "But those letters— they're from Rhodes. Love letters ," Steve adds with boyish glee, and Bucky laughs, looking at them incredulously. "Rhodes did a lot of writing. Carol's replies must be elsewhere, if they're anywhere at all. I think she might've played hard to get, judging by what he's written."

Bucky arches his eyebrows and reads the first few lines of the letter six times before he stops and puts it down. It feels like he's invading their privacy. They’ve been dead for centuries of course, but he knew them both. Carol was his queen, and his friend, and Rhodes was a close acquaintance. It feels wrong to read something that wasn't meant for his eyes — something that was meant to be kept private, between lovers.

"Can I see the diaries?" Bucky asks. Steve hands them over, running his thumb over a wax seal. 

"I should hand these in, you know," he says, looking up at Bucky. "This could be very important to the castle's history. There's still so much we can learn." He looks at the letter in his hand, his face serious, as if it’s taking every fibre of his being to open it. He looks at it like it's the most important thing in the room. But then he looks up at Bucky, the blue of his eyes shifting from azure to royal as the candlelight catches them. His expression never changes.

Steve rips open the wax without a drop of hesitation.

For a long time after that, neither of them speak. They read, opening letters and diaries and scanning the pages as fast as they can. They can’t tell the time in the chapel. Steve's phone sits abandoned in the bottom of his satchel. After what feels like hours, Steve suddenly sits up, back ramrod straight, and holds out one of the diaries at an open page.

"Look," he says.

Bucky’s eye swim as he looks at the page; before now, he's never had cause to read so much and he’s not accustomed to. "Can you read it to me?"

" ‘Course," Steve says, his smile indulgent as he looks down at the page. He clears his throat, and begins to read, fingertip hovering just over the page. " Tis a week since the most loyal and the most brave of knights has perished, and still my ladies weep. I weep alone, in the safety of my chambers for I daren't show my tears to the court. In these turbulent times, a Queen must remain strong.

"I have never considered it before, but the thought haunts me in depths of our sorrows; the book of my ancestors could resurrect the man who gave his life for mine, but I fear too much may be different. No thing in that book may live without a price, and I fear the price for a life brought back may be too high. "

Steve looks up, and Bucky frowns. "A book?" he asks.

"I was going to ask you ," Steve replies gravely, looking down at the diary. His eyes flicker over the words quickly, skimming them at a speed that mystifies Bucky. "She talks about trying to find a new guard... about the lords that she banished... oh! ‘ And again my mind returns to the book, so neatly hidden beneath the store, but I shall not touch it. Magic is a treacherous thing, as my ancestors well know — it shall remain in dust and darkness, and I shall remain in my grief, til I meet my guard again’. That must be it!"

Bucky's eyes sting with tears. Carol missed him. Carol had wept for him. It makes Bucky feel raw, knowing that he had been missed; that he had been worth missing in the first place.

"Beneath the store, so that's—"

"Under the prison." Steve hurriedly packs, shuffling papers into careful piles. He's all but buzzing with excitement. When he looks up, Bucky is arching an eyebrow at him.

"Under the store ," he says.

"But it was mostly used as a— alright, alright you're the expert, I know." Steve rolls his eyes, but he's smiling a little as he pushes himself to his feet and holds a hand out for Bucky. "Lead the way?"

"Steve," Bucky says, looking at his outstretched hand. He wants to take it, he does, but... "This is all— it's—"

"It's weird. I know that. A book that resurrects people. Magic. But there are stories from when the castle was built of there being wizards in court, and rumours way way back that King Mar practiced magic—"

"I know the stories, Steve. I was around when people told them. I was around when people accused Queen Carol of being a witch." He looks up at Steve and takes a deep breath. "But what if it's just— even if it is real, what if it doesn't work?"

"I'm a descendant of the House of Vel," Steve says, very matter-of-factly for someone who has only gained such information very recently. "If it's gonna work for anyone..."

Bucky looks down. Steve has a point; if it was going to work for anyone it would be him, but isn't that just the thing? Bucky isn't sure he wants it to work. He might've liked moving on a few months ago, a year ago, hell, even a few decades ago, but now...

Now he has Steve. Someone to talk to, someone to spend time with. Life isn't so bad as long as he can see Steve and be with him as often as he can. He doesn't know what lies there, in that white, fuzzy place beyond the castle walls. What if he doesn't like it?

"You don't want to," Steve says softly. 

Bucky looks up at him and his smile is answer enough.

"Oh, Buck," Steve murmurs, crouching down in front of him. Up close Bucky struggles to meet his gaze, but Steve holds steady as he reaches a hand out and cups Bucky's cheek. "I thought that this was... the goal. The endgame. I thought that was what you wanted."

"I don't—" His throat, his mouth, they're dry as a desert. He swallows, shaking his head just a little. "I don't know what I want. I haven't made a lot of choices in the last few centuries, Steve."

"I know that," Steve murmurs. "I'm sorry. We can stop all of this, if you want. We can stop right now, Buck, we don't have to go any further than this."

Bucky considers it. He knows Steve is excited to be making all of these discoveries. And no, Bucky doesn't want to go, but he does love the way Steve's eyes shine with unbridled glee. He likes the way his cheeks turn pink with new information and the way he can't seem to help himself from smiling. He wants to make Steve happy — he can take it that far, at least.

"There's no telling if we'll find the book, is there?" Bucky questions, though it's more of a statement. The book could have gone anywhere in the last few hundred years; the chamber it’s been kept in could be completely impassable. Any number of things could hinder their investigation. "But— we should try. Even if we don't use it."

Bucky isn't sure what he expects of Steve, but the hug that follows isn’t it. Steve rocks forward until his knees hit the floor and his arms wind around Bucky's shoulder, pulling him in close. Bucky's brain goes blank for a good couple of seconds before he hastily wraps his arms around him in turn, fingertips digging into Steve's back.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs, his lips so close to Bucky's ear that he can feel them move, his warm breath ghosting over his earlobe. He pulls back, and he gives Bucky a bright smile before he gets to his feet. This time, when Steve holds out his hand, Bucky doesn't hesitate to take it. He hauls himself up, brushes off his uniform, and takes a deep breath.

"So — to the store."

~*~

Electric lights line the halls of the castle, but Steve knows they can't use them. Instead, the hallways that lead to the old prison are lit by the eery red lights that switch on at night as some kind of power-saving scheme. It doesn't make the hallways that much brighter, but it does set Steve's nerves on edge.

It’s funny because he knows these hallways well, but for some reason the shadows cast by that red light have him clinging close to Bucky's side, trusting his friend to guide him. For his part, Bucky doesn't seem put off by it. He lets Steve hurry along beside him, keeping up with the long strides he takes.

The store room is lit with the same sinister glow, and Steve casts his gaze around the room, waiting for something to jump out. Nothing does, of course. Why would it? There's nothing there but the two of them.

"Carol said beneath the store," Steve says, looking up at Bucky. "But I don't know any way underneath here. We all thought that the prison — the store room — was as deep as the castle went."

"Who knows how deep it was when King Mar built it,” Bucky shrugs. "There was a lot of talk, back in—"  He stumbles over his words, blinking down at his feet. "Back in my day, about ghosts and tunnels and things like that. The ladies used to scare themselves every All Hallows' Eve with it."

Steve frowns, trying to think. So there had been rumours of tunnels back in the 15th century. But just that — rumours. The tunnels, if they had ever existed, had fallen into disuse long before then.

Steve's making a lot of discoveries though, lately.  A ghost, his ancestry, long lost letters from a queen of the House of Vel. He might as well discover some old tunnels leading to an ancient magic book, right?

"Well, the running theme here has been things hidden behind stones in the walls  and floors," he adds. "So lets check there."

Bucky nods and the two of them separate, combing the cobble-stoned walls. The floor is all but completely smooth, cemented over at some point, so there's little point of looking there. But the walls of the store room are tall, twelve feet at least, and brick right up to the ceiling. Steve doesn't know how they're ever going to find it, especially by morning. Maybe they'll have to come back, he thinks. Try again tomorrow night.

But as he turns to continue along another wall, he gets a feeling. His eyes are drawn to a brick about shin height, long and thin and protruding ever so slightly. He walks over to it slowly, crouches down, and reaches out with careful hands to press his fingertips to the brick. It doesn't feel different from any of the others, but when he presses it the stone sinks back and an opening appears, about an inch wide. Air whistles through the gap, musty smelling and cold, even colder than the air in the old store room, and Steve shivers as he takes an involuntary step back.

"You found it."

Steve jumps; he hadn't heard Bucky come up behind him. He turns to look at him, tilting his head up so he can meet his eyes and he nods once. He turns back and peers into the inky blackness behind the thick stone door.

For a second neither of them move. Steve feels like his feet have turned to lead, every fibre of his being telling him not to go down that corridor, lessons learned from bad horror movies. But there's something there, the same niggling feeling that had led him to the key-stone, telling him to keep going, keep walking, go further. There's something down there and Steve knows it. He just doesn't know if he wants to find out what it is.

"Want me to go first?" Bucky asks. "I'm dead. If there's anything in there, it can't hurt me."

Steve knows it's meant to be a joke but he frowns at Bucky regardless, nudging him in the ribs with one bony elbow. "Don't talk like that," he scolds, reaching out to push the door open farther. He hates the red light they stand in now, but he prefers it to the absolute blackness behind the door. "Let's just go together." He swallows thickly and fumbles for his phone. He shines the light down the corridor and reaches for Bucky's hand, gripping it tightly. "C'mon."

Steve steps first into the tunnel, but quickly lets Bucky take the lead, following just a step behind. He doesn’t know which he prefers. With Bucky being a little bit ahead he could protect Steve from from anything that might jump out at them. But if something sneaks up from behind…

Steve clutches tightly at Bucky’s cold fingers.

The tunnel goes on and seemingly down, the incline not steep but definitely there. Every so often his feet will hit a particularly damp patch of ground and he’ll grab even more tightly at Bucky's hand in an attempt not to fall. Bucky holds him up every time, catching him before Steve can begin to panic. Steve couldn't be more glad that Bucky is by his side.

They continue down, and Steve begins to worry that they will have to hike their way back up and out when the tunnel suddenly opens up into a wide, low-ceiilinged room. Realistically they can’t have gone far. They must still be on castle grounds because Bucky is still here, solid and real beside him, holding tightly to his hand.

"You wanted a prison?" Bucky says, casting his grey gaze around the room. He looks... Steve doesn't know. He can't place it. Scared, maybe. And yet he's still so calm. "I think we found one."

Steve looks around, shining his light around the room, and his mouth goes dry. There are shackles on the wall and chains littering the floor. Muddy puddles pool in the corners of the room, dripping from the ceiling; the river must run close by. No one knew this place was here. Everyone had assumed this fabled dungeon was the store room.

Dead ahead of them, in the centre of the room, stands a podium. It’s carved from stone, old and sturdy-looking, and on top of it sits a thick, red, leather-bound book. Steve steps up to it cautiously, his hands shaking as he reaches out and opens the cover, the spine creaking as he moves it to the side.

"This must be the book," he breathes, looking at Bucky over his shoulder. Bucky has stopped just inside the entryway, his chest unmoving and his eyes darting around the room like he’s looking for something.

"But why they put it down here..." Steve continues. "Why they hid it..." He shakes his head and huffs a sigh.

"Maybe they wanted to get rid of it," Bucky mutters, his jaw clenching as his eyes fall on the book. "We should get out of here, Steve. It... it isn't good."

Steve isn't sure he's ever seen Bucky look like this. He looks like the Queen's Guard that Steve knows he was. He fits his uniform. With whatever danger he's perceived he's stood up straight, his jaw clenched so hard that Steve can see the muscle twitch, his chest puffed out. Steve would've hated to be an enemy of the Queen. If he'd had this Bucky coming at him, he would've turned tail and ran.

Steve doesn't like it. As interesting as it is to see him like this, as strangely attractive as he finds it, Steve hates what this place is doing to him. He doesn't want Bucky to be uncomfortable. He'll leave.

Once they have the book.

"Okay," he nods. "Okay, we'll go. Let me just grab the book—" He reaches for it, but before he can tough it a vice-like grip circles his wrist, holding him back. Steve whips his head around and his eyes meet Bucky's chest. He looks up and searches his face. Bucky shakes his head tersly, never loosening his grip on Steve's arm.

"No," he says forcefully, leaving no room for argument. "That... that thing has to stay here." His eyes tracking to the book, flitting away again as though looking at it for longer than a second might cause him to burst into flames.

"Bucky," Steve says gently. He reaches up with his free hand, cupping Bucky's cheek with his palm in an attempt to to soothe him. "Buck, it's okay. It's just a book."

"It isn't." He shakes his head again, a small, tight movement. "It's dangerous. There's a reason it's down here, Steve."

"Carol was going to use it," Steve reasons. "She was going to use it on you, for you. It can't be that bad." Before Bucky can speak, Steve pulls his hand from his cheek and reaches out to touch the book. Bucky lets out a strangled No ! as Steve's palm presses against the leather of the front cover. The two of them wait for something to happen. Steve is expecting smoke, maybe some kind of horrible plague. But nothing.

"See?" Steve says, looking to Bucky. Bucky glares back at him, folding his arms over his chest. "It’s fine. I'm okay." Bucky fidgets, looking back to the tunnel that brought them here. "I won't take it," he says, hoping it might do something to clear the thunder from Bucky's face. "But can I just... look at it? Maybe take some photos?"

Bucky huffs. "Fine," he allows, lips pressed into a thin line as he watches Steve turn towards the podium completely.

Steve handles the book with care. He knows it must be old but it appears to be in good condition. None of the pages are torn, the spine is still strong, no cracks along it. Not bad for a book that's been sitting in a literal dungeon for centuries.

What Steve finds inside is... well, at first it seems to be poetry, lines of text written in neat, deep red script, looping and curling over the page. But then he looks at the titles and realises that it really is a book of magic: a book of spells. A spell for good luck, a curse to ruin someone’s day, a spell to convince someone of a lie. Steve carefully turns the pages until suddenly they begin to flip past, fluttering back at an unnatural speed before stopping abruptly three quarters of the way through the book.

Steve looks at Bucky with wide blue eyes. "Did you see that?" he asks.

Bucky looks at the book like it just personally insulted his mother, and then looks to Steve. "Where did it stop?"

" A spell for the deceased ,” Steve reads, looking back at Bucky with wide eyes. 

Bucky’s irritated face turns anxious. He quickly steps back from the book, almost tripping over the uneven ground in his haste to get away from it. He gives a tiny shake of his head. "I don't, I—“

"I'm not going to read it." Steve turns to him again, reaching out for him. "Bucky, hey." Bucky is staring at the book like it will jump up and bite him, so Steve decides to put himself in Bucky's line of sight, breaking his trance. Eyes like slate flick to Steve and Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not going to read it,” Steve repeats, holding his arms out to Bucky.

Bucky doesn't hesitate to fall into them. He wraps his arms tightly around Steve, face tucked into his neck. "I don't know... I don't know if I'm ready. I never— I know this was what you wanted, why you— why we— "

"Easy, Buck, it's okay," Steve soothes, rubbing his hand in circles over Bucky's broad back. 

"I just never thought we would get to it," Bucky admits. "Now that I'm here, now that we're here, I— I don't know if I want it."

Steve doesn't understand. Bucky has been in this castle, trapped, for hundreds of years. He can't leave the grounds, he has to walk the same halls day in and day out. And yes, Steve supposes that things change. The castle changes as history rolls by, but he can't imagine that it's a fulfilling way to exist. Steve loves the castle with every fibre of his being, he does, but he knows he couldn't stay here infinitely, cursed to walk the grounds forever. Why would Bucky want to go on? He's told Steve how listless he was before he came along. Doesn't he want to see what's beyond? Leave all of this behind, knowing that he didn't fail, that he died a hero.

"What's stopping you?" Steve asks softly, frowning when Bucky pulls away from him.

"You," Bucky replies, returning Steve's frown.

Steve doesn't know what to say to that.

He doesn't know what to do at all, in fact, so he just rocks forward onto the tips of his toes and slots his mouth against Bucky's in a kiss that's a little more intense than he'd intended. Steve slips one hand around to the back of Bucky's neck, the other on his shoulder, and moves his lips against Bucky’s. When Steve pulls back, Bucky blinks at him in surprise, then reaches out, twitching his hands in Steve's direction. Steve takes them and holds on tightly.

"Buck, I— I don't want to be the thing that stops you," he says, shaking his head as he steps into Bucky's space. "I don't want to be what holds you back from something better. From peace ." Bucky searches his face and Steve smiles softly, hoping that Bucky will understand what he means. "You've been here for so long, Buck, but me— I won't be here forever. And, fuck, I don't want you to go, but... if it's to a better place..."

Steve means it. He doesn't want Bucky to go. He'd miss him — miss spending his breaks together, chatting about anything. Uncovering all the secrets of the castle with him, history that no one knew was there until Bucky was able to tell him. He'd miss Bucky, but knows he can’t be selfish now, even if he badly wants to be. He wants Bucky to be happy and to finally know peace after centuries of lingering. If that's not what Bucky wants, then fine, but sometimes... Steve is sure, sometimes, he sees in his eyes just how exhausted he is. Steve doesn't want that for Bucky, a good man with a good heart. He deserves rest at last.

"I've— I've been here for so long, Steve," Bucky murmurs. He moves his hands to Steve's hips, his head tilting down so that Steve can't see his face. He speaks his words into Steve's neck, next to his pulse. That’s alright with Steve. "I don't know what else there is. I don't know what I'd do..." He trails off and lifts his head until his eyes land on the book. He takes a deep breath that Steve feels more than he sees, pressed as he is to Bucky's chest, and then stands up straight and hardens his jaw in resolve. "Do it," he says. "Read the spell."

Steve nods and inches his way towards the book, grabbing Bucky’s hand on his way. He uses his phone’s light to illuminate the pages. The writing is etched in thick red ink. It’s in Latin, a language Steve had once attempted to learn and had quickly given up on. He looks up at Bucky, but Bucky looks just as perplexed. They have no idea what spell could mean.

"Okay," Steve whispers, mostly to himself. He's still holding Bucky's hand tightly, clinging to cold fingers. He clears his throat and leans over the podium. He looks up at Bucky and smiles gently. "I just— I want you to know that... knowing you, it's... well, it might have been the weirdest thing to ever happen to me. But it was the best thing, too."

Bucky looks at him, a smile that's warm and soft and resigned all at the same time. So many emotions, good and bad, swirling together on his face. He leans down to press his temple to Steve's. Steve doesn't move an inch, looking instead to the book.

Maybe it won't work, Steve tells himself. Maybe this is just some old fashioned nonsense, or maybe he's too far of a descendant. Magic is always a funny, fickle thing in all the old stories. 

He won't know until he tries. So Steve takes a breath, and reads:

"certiorem navita,

et non habent, quod non est eius,

reversusque statim amissa vita, quod deducere

Intende, qui tollit amorem reddere non auferetur"

The words echo around the dungeon, bouncing off the walls. Suddenly Bucky falls away and his hand slips from Steve's.

~*~

Bucky's head pounds. He tries to sit up but hands on his shoulders grip him tightly and hold him down.

"Stay still, Buck— you might have hurt yourself, just, just stay still—"

Steve his mind sings, and Bucky blinks both eyes open until he can see his face.

It didn't work. The spell didn't work. He’s still here, sitting on the cold, hard ground, damp soaking through his trousers. Steve is still right there in front of him. Bucky had thought maybe it was his time. Maybe he wanted to go. But looking at Steve he realises just how wrong he was.

He grips Steve's upper arms tightly, like he's afraid Steve will slip away if he doesn't. Maybe he will — maybe the spell is just taking its time, dawdling, about to pull him away from this world and Steve too—

"Ow, Bucky, ow," Steve says on a laugh, but it sounds tight, like he's crying. Bucky looks at him, properly focuses on him, and sees the strange mixture of emotion on Steve's face. Joy, awe, worry, it's all there swirling in the lagoon of his blue eyes. Bucky shifts one hand, cupping Steve's cheek with it. Steve leans into the touch and closes his eyes. He gives another surprised, strained, laugh.

"You're warm," Steve says. "You're warm, Buck."

And that's when Bucky realises that he feels so incredibly cold. The ground beneath him is damp, soaking through clothes that feel heavy but soft and well worn. He remembers when he'd first gotten his guard’s tunic, how cloying it had felt, how long it had taken it to get comfortable.

He can feel again. He can feel himself . He could always feel Steve and the lively warmth that came off of him, but now he can feel it from himself. He takes a breath, gasping for air, and then presses his hand over his chest. It feels ready to burst, like his ribs are too full. When he settles his palm over his heart he can feel it thudding beneath his skin, pounding just beneath his palm.

"I'm..." He looks up at Steve, helpless with his surprise. "It's..."

"You're alive, Buck," Steve says, and he laughs again, overjoyed. He crashes forward on his knees, kissing Bucky hard and brash. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him closer. "You're alive," Steve says between kisses, repeating the words like he's trying to make Bucky believe it himself. "You're here. You're still here."

Bucky pulls back, feeling like he can't breathe, remembering that he has to take a break for air at some point, now that he's alive . Now that he's a living, breathing person again, after so many years. He's alive; he can have a life .

A life with Steve.

"We need to get you out of here," Steve says, struggling to his feet and holding his hands out to Bucky. Bucky looks at them, blinking for a moment before he reaches out and hauls himself to his feet. "We should probably get you to a hospital, or something, get someone to check you over—"

Bucky opens his mouth to protest — and to ask for another rest. Sucdenly his limbs feel so heavy, were they always this heavy? But another voice echoes around the dungeon, interrupting him.

"I don't think there'll be any need for that, gentlemen."

A shiver runs up Bucky's spine, the hairs on his arms standing on end, the back of his neck prickling. "Pierce," he hisses, turning on his heel. It makes no sense. He doesn't know how Pierce could be here, but there he is, stood ten feet away from Bucky, looking just as alive as he does now. He's still wearing those old clothes, the ones Bucky remembers watching walk towards his queen as he died. He’s holding a sword, Bucky's sword, and he grins wickedly when Bucky's eyes fall to it.

"Lord Pierce?" Steve breathes. Pierce smirks, eyebrows arching.

"The boy evidently has better breeding than you, Barnes," he chuckles. "Though we know that now, don't we?"

"Fuck you."

Bucky turns around, blinking in surprise at Steve. He's got his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling in swoops. "Fuck you," he continues, spitting at Pierce. "You killed him, fuck you!"

Pierce shrugs and twirls Bucky's sword in his hand like it's some kind of toy. "I didn't kill him. His own stupidity and blind loyalty to a idiot woman is what killed him."

"Fuck you!" Steve repeats, picking up a stone from the dungeon and hurling it at Pierce. "That's my 19th great grandma, asshole!"

The stone flies through the air and connects just above Pierce's eyebrow, causing him to stumble back a step. When he raises one gloved hand to the wound it comes away bloody, and Bucky can't help but feel smug. He reaches out to grab Steve's hand and give it a squeeze, but Steve begins trying to launch himself at Pierce, fists flying. Bucky has to grab him around the middle to hold him back.

"Just for that," Pierce hisses, looking at Steve. "You'll die too."

"You leave him out of this," Bucky scowls, still holding Steve back. "He's done nothing wrong."

"He's her offspring," Pierce returns. "That's crime enough."

They're going to have to run. Bucky doesn't know how good his new legs will be at running, but it's their only choice. He doesn't have a weapon, and as much as Steve is raring for a fight, Bucky knows how fast Pierce would cut him down. They have to leave — now — if they want any chance of making it out alive.

"Every crime deserves a trial, doesn't it?" Pierce continues, causing Bucky's head to whip round from where he was looking for the tunnel back to the castle. Pierce smiles a slimey, evil smile. Bucky doesn't like where this is going, not one bit.

"What are you even talking about?" Steve asks, sounding more annoyed than anything else. "How are you even here, we haven't seen you—"

That's a good point, Bucky things. How is Pierce here? The castle is a big place, that's true, but wouldn't Steve have seen him at some point? Wouldn't they have crossed paths somehow? Unless... Pierce didn't want to be seen.

"Oh, foolish boy, you think it's so hard to hide?" Pierce asks, his voice sticky like honey. "Unlike your dear, sweet James, I wasn't desperate for a friend. I kept to my shadows. I—"

"Plotted, like some kind of budget movie villain, I get it," Steve spits. Oh, he's gonna get himself killed, Bucky can see it now. He's almost tempted to roll his eyes but he's staring hard at Pierce, trying to make sure he doesn't move.

Pierce's lip curls, but he continues the monologue he had evidently been planning for a while. "I thought I'd need to lead you along your journey, but in the end you managed to get here all on your own. It’s amazing what two idiots can do when they put their heads together." Steve bristles, but Bucky holds him tight. "All I needed to do was direct you to the right spell and let you finish the work for me."

"So your plan was... exactly what we did?" Steve squints. "Sounds convenient."

"Now," Pierce continues, nostrils flaring. "I can kill you both— I was only really after Barnes, but it'll be a pleasure to send you both to hell."

He throws Bucky's sword at him, but before it can clatter to the ground Bucky reaches out and catches it, swiping it from the air. He urges Steve backwards, even as he stands with his fists clenched and ready to fight. Bucky can't let him. He needs to do this on his own.

"Go on," Pierce chuckles, unsheathing the sword from his belt. "I'm a generous man. Take a moment to say your goodbyes."

"Steve," he whispers, free hand holding Steve's chin steady. "Steve, I need you to— I need you to go. Run. I'll come and find you, when this is over, just please—"

"Bucky." Steve looks at him with wide eyes, and Bucky could fall into them, drown in them, but he needs to hold himself together right now.

"This is what I do, Steve. This is what I was trained for. I saved Carol, once," he says in hushed tones, leaning forward so he can bump his forehead against Steve's. "I'm going to save you too."

With his eyes closed, Bucky doesn't see Steve move until he feels Steve's lips on his. He melts against him, kissing him desperately. He doesn't think it'll be the last time, but how can he know? If he dies — dies again — he might not get a second chance. 

"Save us both," Steve murmurs, holding Bucky's gaze as he steps backwards into the shadows.

Bucky takes a deep breath and turns to face Pierce. "Let's end this," he hisses, settling his sword in his hand and surging forward.

Bucky raises his sword and swings but Pierce blocks him, and for a moment they dance, backwards and forwards as they parry. Pierce kicks as Bucky raises his sword again, catching him in the stomach and sending him flying backwards. He pushes himself to one knee, winded, and blocks another swipe from Pierce before he gets to his feet.

He doesn't know where Steve has gone; he tries not to let himself get too distracted by that thought as he and Pierce spar. Even though he hasn't fought for centuries , it comes back to him easily. When Pierce gets too close Bucky falls to his knees and rolls backwards, kicking out with his foot so he catches Pierce's ankle and pulls him to the ground as well. Before he can get too close, Pierce slowly gets to his feet and Bucky follows suit, sword raised, pointed at Pierce, lest he try anything—

Out of nowhere there’s a blur. No, out of the shadows at the side of the dungeon, a blur of milky white skin and golden hair. It's Steve , barreling towards Pierce, throwing his entire weight againt him so that the two of them roll to the ground. Bucky blinks, nearly dropping his sword out of sheer shock. He watches Steve and Pierce grapple for a moment, Pierce's sword gone, having skittered a few feet away. Pierce pushes up with his knees, forcing a strangled grunt from Steve's throat and sends him tumbling across the stone floor. It’s then that Bucky finally remembers — he can move. He gets to his feet, running and kicking Pierce's sword further away before he throws himself on top of him, pinning him down with his sword pressed to Pierce's throat. 

"Didn't you know—" Pierce rasps, looking up at Bucky with anger in his eyes. Terror too, Bucky realises. He's afraid. Just as the ladies had been afraid that night, when Pierce and his men had come thundering up the stairs. Just as Bucky had been, when he'd felt his life bleed out on the cold stone floor, the light slipping further and further away. "It's unfair— to kill a man without his sword."

"I really don't care," Bucky spits, ending Pierce's new life before he can dare to say anything else. 

He drops his sword to the floor, listening to the metal clatter on the ground. It’s loud in his ears, ringing harshly. This is what Bucky trained for, sure, but that doesn't mean he likes it, especially not like this. He looks to Steve and lunges forward, grabbing his face with both hands and directing his gaze up before his eyes, so perfect and so pure, can fall to Pierce's body.

"Look at me," he instructs. "Are you okay? Steve?" he prompts as Steve's eyes stray. "Steve. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he whispers. 

"Why didn't you leave?" Bucky runs his hand through Steve's hair, head shaking just a little. "Steve, I told you to go."

"Would you have left me?" Steve asks, blinking up at Bucky. "If it were the other way around?"

It’s true. Bucky never would have left Steve, not in a million years, not in this lifetime or the next. He takes a deep breath and glances back at Pierce, wincing softly. "We need to go," he says. He can't even imagine what time it is, or how long they've been down here. It feels like hours and minutes all at once. 

"Yeah," Steve agrees. The two stumble to their feet, pausing for a moment. "What should we do about..."

"Leave him." Bucky looks coldly down at the body and he knows it's the right thing. He doesn't know if Pierce's spirit still lingers, but maybe being here, away from the castle, even by a little... maybe it'll keep him at bay for a while. "Let's just go."

Steve nods, tucked under Bucky's arm as they make their way to the entrance of the tunnel. Suddenly Steve stops and runs back to the centre of the room. Bucky watches as Steve picks up the book, sighs deeply, and then carries it back with him.

"We need to get rid of this," Steve explains to Bucky's questioning expression. "If he's still here... well, we just need to get rid of it."

Bucky knows better than to argue. In fact, he thinks it's a brilliant idea. If he never has to see that book again, he'll be thrilled. He wraps his arm around Steve's shoulders again, pulling him close as the two of them stumble through the tunnel into the store. The door swings shut and Bucky pries the stone back into position with numb fingertips. They continue on. Bucky knows that it isn't far, but it feels like some sort of epic journey, a pilgrimage back to a safe place. They walk up the stairs to the castle, out into the courtyard, through the gate and down the path, towards the edge of the grounds. Suddenly Bucky stops, his feet coming to a halt as they reach the very end of the grounds. Steve keeps going. When he realises Bucky isn't following anymore, he pauses, turning to look at him. 

"Buck?" he asks. The sun is rising behind Bucky, lighting Steve up in orange and pink and yellow, making his hair shine and his eyes seem even bluer than usual. He clutches the book to his chest and shifts his weight. He probably just wants to be rid of it, but Bucky can't seem to move. He's breathing too fast, he thinks. He needs to calm down.

"I don't know if I can do it," Bucky says, looking down at the ground. There's no line there, nothing keeping him in. Normally by now his viison would be whiting out but it's... normal. He's normal. He feels fine, even if his heart is beating too quickly. 

Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky interrupts him. "What're you gonna do with it?" he asks, his eyes falling to the book. He needs to think about something else for just a second. 

"I'm gonna throw it in the moat," Steve says, his voice steady and sure. "And hopefully it'll wash away, or disintegrate to nothing, or both." Bucky nods. That sounds like a good plan. But why is his mouth so dry? "Are you going to help me?" Steve asks, holding his free hand out to Bucky. 

Bucky looks at it, and his heart aches. He wants to take it. He wants to take Steve's hand and go wherever Steve takes him. But what if he can't? Or what if something horrible happens just as soon as he does?

Then again... what's to say anything will happen at all? He's alive now. Maybe...

Maybe everything will be okay, just this once.

Bucky takes a deep breath and then takes Steve's hand. For the first time in nearly six hundred years, Bucky steps over the castle boundaries, and into the world beyond it.

Steve smiles at him and grips his hand tight. "I don't..." Bucky begins, but then interrupts himself with a laugh. He's not sure he's felt like this for a while; at least, not before he had met Steve. It's joy, plain and simple. Happiness, overwhelming him. "I don't have anywhere to live. Or clothes. Or money. Or... anything."

Steve laughs with him, smile so wide it's like his face might split in two. "It doesn't matter," he says. "It doesn't matter, you're with me. We can sort it all out together."

Bucky laughs again, overjoyed, and leans down to kiss Steve, catching his lips in the sweetest kiss he's ever had, buoyed by his new-found freedom and the knowledge that there are more kisses to come. He’s going to get to be a part of Steve's life, for the rest of his life. Steve tugs at his hand as Bucky pulls away, leading him towards the bridge that crosses the river into town.

"Come on," Steve urges, tugging on his hand. "Help me throw this book into the river?"

"With pleasure," Bucky grins, and follows Steve over the bridge and towards the rest of his life.