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Chapter Text

The Heart of My Own (burn it down low)

A modern fable.

Part I: The Roots

There is a house in the middle of the woods.  It sits at the end of an impossibly long driveway, the dirt road tightly lined with shrubs and dense foliage that twist up into the thick of an impenetrable forest.  The house has no letterbox, and other than the half-concealed driveway – which is too easy to miss – there are no other signs of its presence from the road.  Not even a telegraph pole or a coil of electrical cable cutting through the trees.

It could easily be the abode of an evil witch, one whose survival relies on consuming the souls of children, or maybe a woodsman prone to cutting the hearts out of wayward travellers.

The man who lives out in the woods does so for a reason.  He has his fair share of secrets, even if he isn’t a sinister witch.  Those reasons are ones that run deep and old as the roots of the tallest tree, and they entwine completely with a force not yet come.  

And so, in the darkness of night, the man keeps his head turned to the west, always watching and always waiting for the coming of a storm he cannot predict.

Bucky glanced at the next address on his schedule and felt his morale tear in two.  Somehow his final course for the day had skipped his mind, and given that he was already running behind schedule, it foretold of even more hours on the road.  On the other hand, he liked the client – maybe a little too much – and that often made the extended delivery route well worth the overtime.

Either way, there was nothing that could be done; the order wasn’t going to deliver itself, and Bucky had no intention of standing up a long-running client.  His schedule for tomorrow was already fully packed anyway, so it was now or never.

Bucky didn’t have the most glamourous job in the world, but he didn’t mind.  Mostly, it paid the bills, and there was no arguing the validity of that in this day and age, even if he did impose long hours on himself.  But it came with its perks as well, and ones that weren’t just discounts on Pepper’s Pantry supplies.  He generally had very little social interaction during his day, which was always a plus to Bucky, and then he got to spend hours on the road.  He put his music on and no one – not a single damn soul – got to criticise his choice of playlists.  Bucky could sing until his heart was content and his throat was hoarse, and it didn’t matter at all if he was tone-deaf and sounded like a dying cat.

Bucky also got to roll the windows down and feel the breeze against his skin, and breathe in the fresh scent of pine and wood and, in the early hours of the morning and late hours of the evening, the comforting smell of wood fires.  If anyone ever asked – which they did not – then he’d openly admit that that reason, that single moment of joy from a simple scent, was why he came to work each day.

It reminded Bucky of home, though he wasn’t too sure why.  As a hard knocks kid raised on the streets of Brooklyn – and a second-generation Russkiy at that – Bucky couldn’t ever remember having a fireplace.  Maybe it was something his imagination had drummed up; an idyllic fairy-tale sprouted from the seed of an idea that had twisted and grown around his soul, trapping it in.  Home and hearth and heart and the smell of fresh herbs in the flames; that all sounded wonderful to Bucky.  A life that he’d never experienced and yet craved all the same.

Slowly, the road disappeared under his wheels, the woods becoming thicker and, in the distance, Bucky could see the peak of what he’d nicknamed The Lonely Mountain cutting through the tree-lined horizon.  

It was beautiful out here, and Bucky breathed in that fresh air smell while turning the old car stereo up.  Unable to stop himself, and with no one to judge the waiver of his voice and off-kilter pitch, Bucky gave himself over to the music, alternating between singing the words he knew and humming the tune over those he didn’t.

“Burn it down low.  The light in your verse and the shadow between…” Hands tapping the steering wheel to the acoustic guitar and shoulders moving to the unique twang of the banjo, Bucky flicked the indicator despite being the only car on the road.  The driveway was there, coming up around the bend in a blind corner that would have been dangerous if the lonely road was prone to traffic.  The tick-tick-tick seemed to blend with the music, adding another layer to the smoky vocals and intoxicating instruments of the folk song.

“The way that I was when I used to know,” Bucky turned the wheel one-handed, his eyes roaming over the impressive oak trees that stood like guardians, bookending the private road.  The front tyres bumped up over the sizable speed deterrent, jostling Bucky in the cabin of the small ute, but even that couldn’t dampen his mood.  Not when the already paling sun of the late afternoon disappeared behind the high branches of the trees, its light now dappled and gently glistening in the woodland gloom.

“If I go, what do I hold?” Bucky’s voice broke on the last note.  There was no one out here to hear him; no one but the birds and the occasional lizard that dashed out in front of his truck.  They were always more prevalent when the road curled past the lake he’d once spotted in-between a thicket of wild berries and lush ferns.  Bucky kept his eyes on the road, and his foot light on the accelerator, ready to stop should any animal try to make a mad sprint in front of him.

It was a little strange how well he knew the dirt road, but then, Bucky reasoned, he made frequent deliveries up here, and he’d always been an observant person.

“There are roses that come without seeking.  There are the ones that I have to sow.”

The song came to an end, the old CD player skipping as the truck laboured up a steep incline, and the song started up again from the beginning.  Bucky shrugged and went with the flow, humming out loud as fern fronds tapped and scraped against the side of the vehicle.

Once over the steep bank, Bucky knew that there was a small stream to ford, and then another hill to climb.  It was a taxing drive, and how the hell anyone had managed to find – or even choose – a place so far secluded from the world was beside Bucky.  He secretly loved it and was jealous, but damn, it was a drive and a real strain on his handbrake and suspension.  

“I wrote on these walls a simple charm to keep the wolves at bay.  Gave all my heart; the strength of my arms to hold you close and safe,” Bucky sang along, not at all caring that he’d belted this part out only minutes before on the first playthrough.  It was one of his favourite parts of the song, though he wasn’t sure why.  Sometimes he had fuzzy thoughts that might have been memories of howling in the night and the warm press of a nose, so maybe it was some lingering childhood fantasy that made the lyrics hit home.

Another turn of the wheel and Bucky saw the warm light of the house flooding through the trees.

“But I kept my eyes closed, I’ll never know where the shadows are these days.  I stood in the room—” The song died when Bucky cut the engine.  He knew from experience that his truck didn’t like sitting up on the slope that led to the garage, and it was also a bitch to pull a full turn that far up.  So, Bucky parked down at the mouth of the road, where the trees parted and marched like soldiers around the open field of the houses’ lawn.   

Bucky could live in that house. He’d decided that the first time he’d turned the final curve of the winding driveway, and the modern homestead had come into view. He’d been expecting a swamp hovel or a trailer park disaster owned by a man with a collection of chainsaws and a ski mask for a face.  When Bucky wasn’t being dramatic – which wasn’t often – then he knew he also would have accepted the typical log cabin that looked like it had time travelled from the colonial days.

Unlike what he’d been expecting, it was a seemingly perfect blend of the old and the new.  It was the sort of place that made Bucky want to whistle and lean back, his arms crossed against his chest and just nod his admiration, and every time Bucky caught glimpses of it, that appreciation returned tenfold.

Bucky had never seen a place so harmonious with nature.  Redwood and sided in black and grey, the two-storey affair sat carved into a gentle slope, its massive deck propped up by carved pillars.  A colossal tree grew through the middle of the deck, further adding to the living, breathing feel that house seemed to extrude.   

But it wasn’t all-natural and reclaimed material.  The house boasted entire walls of windows, and a high, crazily angled roof topped with solar panels.  They were responsible for the inviting glow of the lighting that seemed to make the whole area radiate with warmth, even just at dusk.  Bucky longed for the day that his deliveries would take so long that he’d be forced to come here at night and see the house in its full glory.

He could only imagine what the stars would be like up here.  The clearing made for a perfect viewing space, and even with the house lights down low, Bucky was sure that the whole forest would glow even with the light of the stars and moon alone.

It reminded him of a brochure for an exclusive ski lodge or the top shot in the feed of some preppy ‘Instagram Influencer’ who only showcased images that fell under the #autumnfeels tag.  The solar fairy lights that crisscrossed through the trees and dangled from the balustrades only heightened that cosy, magical feel.

Honestly though, the house had to be worth a mint.  Bucky was no real estate man, but when he looked at this place, he saw six zeros and a high fronting number, if not two.  Bucky had chalked it up to old money.  A family with a name that was printed on the front of shops and spoken of during gift-giving seasons.  That or a tech mogul; new cash and a Silicon Valley expat who’d sold something important to someone wealthy and was now intent to live out here and do nothing but drink expensive wine while watching the trees grow.

Which was why Bucky had been so surprised the first time he’d met the owner.  It was another perk of Bucky’s delivery route.  He got to see some of the stunning, secluded homes of the wealthy and socially removed, in some sporadic cases, he also got to gawk at the people who owned them.

Like the tall drink of a man who called this place home; Bucky tended to deal more with valets and butlers, but that wasn’t the case here.  Not this homeowner.

Steve; his name was Steve.

Bucky knew that for two reasons.  The first and decidedly semi-stalkerish one came from the fact that Bucky had memorised Steve’s name.  Steven Grant Rogers.  That was how he signed for his deliveries, like some tails-wearing gentlemen of old; a character in an Austen novel prone to wining and dining with the upper echelons while pondering over the arts and the town gossip.

The second reason was a lot more regular and came with a lot less fanfare in Bucky’s head.  Steve – Steven – had introduced himself the first day Bucky had pulled into the driveway and asked for a signature.

Bucky wasn’t the greatest people person, but he’d been around the proverbial block too many times to count, so he was able to fake social pleasantries with the best of them.  Yet when Steve had said hello and smiled, and done this thing where his arms flexed unintentionally, Bucky had dropped his damn clipboard.  Matters had only become worse when Steve had bounded over like an over-excited Labrador and bent in half to retrieve the clipboard himself – Bucky had been positive he was about to pass out when the man handed it back.

First impressions tended to last, but thankfully Steve hadn’t seemed to hold Bucky’s lack of grace or social skills against him.  Bucky, however, would never forget that smile, or the slight furrowing of Steve’s eyebrows as the man had looked him over.

The owner of the house and, in Bucky’s humble opinion, the definition of a lumberjack sexual fantasy, was always a welcome sight at the end of a tiring day.  Even if it was an unusually long drive to reach him.

The guy was sinfully attractive.  It seemed like a waste if you asked Bucky.  Someone like that out here, living on his own where no one got to appreciate the rusty colour of his beard or the near impossible shoulder to waist ratio.  It was a loss, that was for sure.

Jumping down from the cab, Bucky took a moment to fiddle with his paperwork, making sure he had everything in order before heading up to ring the bell.  He didn’t make it even halfway up the path before Steve himself came bounding – it was the only way Bucky could describe the energetic spring in Steve’s step – around from the back of the house.

“Hi, Bucky,” Steve called out.  It was as friendly as it was attention-grabbing, pulling Bucky to a clear stop.

He could still remember the way Steve had looked at the first lot of paperwork that Bucky had given to him – by way of dropping it in the dirt – and frowned.

“You just don’t seem like a ‘James’,” Steve had said, all bashful and shy, but with the sense of conviction that had startled Bucky into answering truthfully. He’d told Steve that he did actually prefer Bucky, and then, totally unprompted, he’d proceeded to tell Steve exactly where the nickname had come from, and why he used it.     

It was amazing that Bucky hadn’t told the guy his whole damn family history, and honestly, Bucky was still a little embarrassed by how clearly uncool he’d been on that first meeting.  Steve had been warm and charming though and had been each time since, so Bucky guessed that the Adonis of a man was used to being swooned over.

“Hey,” Bucky greeted.  He did his best to look at Steve’s face and not the way the muscles in his forearms seemed to stretch out the pushed-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. “I’ve got a package for you.”

“And here I was hoping it was a social call,” Steve quipped back as he came closer.  If he’d caught on to Bucky’s unintentional innuendo, then he had the grace to not let it show.

Bucky sure as hell wanted to fiddle with Steve’s package, but that wasn’t strictly professional.

That was another thing about Steve; he liked to stand close.  Really close.  Bucky was yet to fully decide if it was innately creepy, or if it was more on the endearing, and hot as hell side of things.  He liked to think that it was the latter and given that he himself had never even thought of taking a step back, then he guessed his assumption was right.

Blushing a little, Bucky shook his head as he handed the paperwork over to Steve.  He wished he had something to say, something charming and funny and witty, but Steve seemed to suck sense and all function clear out of him.

“Only a small order this time,” Bucky mused, for lack of anything better or more adept to say.

“Just needed a top-up of some supplies,” Steve reasoned. He’d already signed on the dotted line and was handing the clipboard back to Bucky.  Bucky took it, his body jolting slightly when their fingers brushed on the underside.

“You know, you could bulk order and save yourself some delivery fees.”  Bucky led the way back to the ute.  Some people – most people – generally signed the paperwork, told him where to leave the boxes, and then left him to his own devices.  Not Steve.  Steve wasn’t like that.  He was hands-on, often climbing up into the back of the truck himself instead of Bucky and helping to unload his order.

“Where’s the fun in being that rational?” Steve laughed.  “I’m also just not that organised.  Besides,” he grinned as he all but jumped up into the tray of the vehicle, “You’re my weekly social call.”

“Oh,” Bucky said.  That was surprising.  And also slightly sad.  He found himself laughing lightly as Steve passed him down one of the boxes and managed to say as much.  “If I’m your idea of social interaction, then I’m sorry.”

Bucky stacked the boxes at the side of the driveway.  It struck him as an odd place to leave them, but Steve had insisted, saying that he liked the physicality of getting them all up the slope on his own.  Bucky wondered if maybe there was something else hidden behind that reasoning; maybe Steve had a dungeon in his garage or something.

“People are overrated,” Steve replied while jumping down and taking the last box out of Bucky’s hands.  He stacked it on top of the others and turned back to Bucky, his smile wide and open and inviting.

Bucky chuckled again, shaking his head slightly as his eyes swept from Steve to the house and then to the woods around them.  “Not that I don’t agree, but I gathered you thought as much.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Without any reason to stay, Bucky offered Steve a smile and nod before heading back to the driver’s side door and climbing in.  He started the ute up again and guided it into a rumbling, ungraceful five-point turn.  He always felt terrible for the gravel of Steve’s driveway; Bucky was sure the wheels kicked it up something shocking, but he was sure it was better than overextending and churning up the lawn.

It took a minute before he was pointing in the right direction and ready to go and then, for reasons Bucky couldn’t explain, he glanced in the rear-view mirror.  Steve was still there, boxes at his feet.  One hand lifted to wave, and Bucky felt his heart skipping a beat when it seemed that their eyes locked, even at such a long distance.

Bucky let one arm flick out of the window, waving back even as he struggled to pull his gaze back to the road ahead.

“The way that I was when I used to know…” the stereo played as Bucky flicked on his high beams and retraced the route through the forest.

When Bucky was twelve, he died.

It had been quick and sudden and as permanent as the passing of day into night.  He’d been too adventurous, too reckless and foolhardy, believing himself untouchable like only those with a childlike heart ever could.

His mother had needed some space; she’d been sad.  Bucky knew that at the time, but he didn’t understand why until later in life.  But she’d kissed him on the cheek and held him close before packing him off to summer camp.  It hadn’t seemed all that bad to young Bucky.  In fact, Bucky was elated.  A whole summer spent in the wilderness with other kids to play with, and no parents in sight!

Bucky had loved every minute of it, his energetic self taking to the outdoors and the open spaces with unbridled enthusiasm.  There was so much room!  So much freedom to play and run and watch the clouds float past the treetops.  It was nothing like Brooklyn, nothing like the crowded streets and the smoggy air and the sound of car horns beeping in the night.  He’d never smelled pinecones before, or the way autumn lingered on the air. 

This, out here, was freedom, and Bucky had been determined to make the most of every moment.

He’d never been afraid of the dark.  It wasn’t one of those childish things he’d ever experienced.  So he had little care as he’d slipped his bunk and room, and taken the moonlit path through the woods to the lake.   

It was in those blue-black waters that Bucky met his fate.

Later, when asked – and pressed, and drilled and interrogated – Bucky would swear black and blue that he’d been alone.  That no one had hurt him, that he hadn’t seen anyone, and that a grey dog had pulled him out of the lake.  That it had waded in after him and dived down low to gnaw at the fishing line that tangled around Bucky’s ankles, dragging him down like clutching hands.  There had been sharp teeth in his skin, tearing the flesh of his left shoulder painfully and staining the dark waters an inky red.  But somehow, despite his panic and his agony and the floating sensation of no longer being bound to his body, Bucky understood.

Later in life, he’d read that drowning was said to be a peaceful way to go.  Bucky believed in that – at least as much as he could imagine.  He hadn’t felt any real fear in that water.  Sure, there had been the initial panic, the inability to get free, and the feeling of becoming even more entangled in the coarse, tight lines as he flailed, but when the reality of dying had set in, Bucky had been calm.

The air was gone, his lungs were empty, and the water around him shimmered in the moonlight.  It was, as they said, peaceful.

At least until the animal had come.

Bucky wasn’t sure when life had returned to him.  It wasn’t while he was floating there in the blackness of his own vision, and yet he somehow remembered the pain of being dragged free.  The wolf – for that’s what it really was – hauled him to the shore in the only way it knew how; teeth and claws and powerful shakes of its head that came dangerously close to tearing limbs from body.

Bucky had sunk down into the mud of the bank, limbs heavy and flopping about without control as he simultaneously tried to breathe, move and clutch at the pain in his left shoulder.  The wolf had been there, nuzzling at him and turning him over, paws on Bucky’s chest and snout in the crook of his neck.  If Bucky had been capable of conscious thought, he would have assumed that the wolf was about to tear his throat out.  Later, in his early adulthood, he’d come to realise that the animal was scenting him.  No doubt checking for a pulse and probably deciding if Bucky was still fresh enough to eat.

Clearly, he’d been found wanting, as the moment he heaved a ragged breath and finally managed to control his movements, the wolf had bolted, leaving Bucky to listen to the sounds of the forest.  The way the leaves swayed in the wind, and the gentle lapping of the water against the reedy bank, and the song of a night bird that Bucky would never be able to identify.

He’d returned to camp, waterlogged and confused and bleeding.  As a young man with an overactive imagination, he’d been fast to jump to what he considered logical conclusions.  He was clearly a ghost, and no one would see or hear him, and he’d be doomed to haunt the lake for the rest of eternity.  When those he woke started to panic at his appearance, Bucky’s mind helpfully supplied, zombie.  He had been dead.  Now undead cursed to roam the land while forever craving blood and brains and other gooey delicacies.

Later, and in overpriced therapy, he’d been told that he was in shock and that he’d let his imagination get the best of him.  He’d also be pressed once again to recount the happenings of that night.  Why did he go out there?  Who had he seen?  There’d been footprints in the mud, they’d said—the size owing to a fully grown man.

Someone had been out there with him, and Bucky’s mother, and the camp instructors and the police and every damn newspaper in town wanted to know who.

Bucky remembered no man – no human – that night, and as therapy and convoluted hearsay took a toll on the clarity of Bucky’s memories, there was always one thing that stuck true.

All Bucky had heard, other than the wind rustling the trees, was a wolf baying towards a moon not yet risen, the rueful wails ending only with the coming of dawn.

Chapter Text

The Heart of My Own (burn it down low)

A modern fable.

Part II: The Body

The first time Bucky stayed longer than the time needed to hand over the order and have a ‘service with a smile’ chat, was the night that his ute had mysteriously stalled.

There was no rhyme nor reason to it.  One minute it was running fine – it had gotten Bucky all the way up the driveway, after all – and then the next it stopped.  The tank was half full, and the service light hadn’t been flashing for months.  Bucky assumed that he’d stalled it on the hill and left it at that, going about getting his paperwork ready, and when Steve had appeared, offloading the boxes.

They had gone about their usual routine, Steve helping and Bucky leaving the order on the side of the drive.  Like always, Bucky had blushed a little at the attention, and then made his excuses and said his goodbyes before climbing into the drivers’ seat.  Only this time, the damn thing wouldn’t start.  Bucky turned the key, again and again, each time the engine choked and spluttered and rattled, but never passed the threshold of rumbling into life.

“Shit,” Bucky had cursed, and he’ found himself repeating that when Steve’s head popped into the opened window of the passenger side.

They’d talked back and forth, and Steve had even tried rocking the ute.  He’d given it his all, successfully moving it back and forth, but even that wasn’t enough to get the blasted thing to start.

“Look, I know this is probably going to sound creepy and weird,” Steve had eventually said.  Bucky had been sure he was saying ‘yes’ before Steve even had the chance to carry on, his brain not registering anything creepy or weird about Steve.  “But I have spare bedrooms, and I have some cold beers in the fridge, and I cook a mean steak.  You’re welcome to stay until the morning.  We’ll be able to view it in the light then or get a mechanic out if needed.”

Bucky had tried again to articulate his answer, swallowing the wetness that had threatened to choke him.

“Yes,” he said.  “I mean.  That would be amazingly helpful.”

And that was how Bucky found himself here, in the sizable living room, and gawking at Steve’s impressive and secluded house from the inside for the very first time.  Not that Bucky really felt like he was inside.  He’d seen the windows on the driveway side of the home, but he’d never realised just how far and high they went.  The entire living room was floor to ceiling glass, as was the open plan kitchen that stretched around the side.  Even the roof had transparent skylights, opening the whole living space up to the light of the moon and the twinkle of the stars.

Bucky had never seen anything like it, and the awe and wonder only extended when his eyes fell on what was clearly the focal feature of the space.

There, right in the middle of the living room, between the sizable suede couch and the dark wood breakfast bar, stood a tree.  It wasn’t growing there, not potted and sized down to match the space.  No, it was growing through there, its base and roots unseen under the floorboards, and all but one branch up above the ceiling; Bucky could see its outline against the sky and outside of the glass panes of the roof.  The single branch inside the room twisted and grew, stretching out over the living space, bringing the warm colours of autumn and the smell of leaves into the house.

Bucky’s fingers itched to touch it, and his hand stretched out before he could think better of it.

It was a part of the house that gave it soul and life and breathed with the rhythm of the forest.

“Do you like it?”

Bucky jumped at the sound of Steve’s voice, his hand falling back to his side as a sheepish blush coloured his features.

“It’s alright to touch,” Steve laughed, clearly catching on to Bucky’s shame over his social faux pas.  The taller man handed Bucky a cold beer, and he clutched it tightly, finding the wet chill to be a welcome distraction.

“It’s beautiful.”  Bucky sighed the words out wistfully, his eyes unable to stop themselves from returning to the impressive trunk.  It was a feat that the tree should be proud of; it wasn’t easy to look away from Steve.

“It was the only tree on the hill,” Steve said before taking a draught, “and it just wasn’t in me to cut it down.  So, I got creative.”

Bucky followed suit, taking a drink and then nodded his appreciation at the taste.  “Don’t you get wild animals and bugs and stuff in here?”  It was, after all, a live tree growing through large holes in the floor and ceiling of a house.

“They don’t bother me too much,” Steve said with a chuckle.  Bucky obviously gave his surprise away; he could tell from the way that Steve’s eyebrow arched and the secretive grin that spread across his lips.  “But I have fibre mesh at the top and base to keep the big things out,” Steve added.  “I just check it every few months to make sure it’s not strangling the tree as it grows.”

Bucky peered upwards, seeing nothing in the darkness of the high ceiling, but it was a sound explanation.

“And I’ve always been a fan of the cold, so while it messes with the insulation, I don’t really mind it.”  Bucky also assumed that the fireplace had a lot to do with keeping Steve warm.  Fireplaces, he corrected himself, because this was Steve’s house, and the man didn’t seem the type to do anything by halves.  There was the typical, impressive, brick fireplace built into the side of the room, the mantle showcasing a set of antlers and a collection of drying herbs.  Then there was the hanging, cast iron fire pit that dominated the balcony.  That one was lit now, the flames a soft glow in the giant basin and dancing across the panes of glass.

“Come on,” Steve offered.  Maybe he had picked up on the fact that Bucky was too busy being wide-eyed and house-nervous to really formulate sentences.  The words came paired with a casual sweep of the hand holding the beer and a soft, barely-there touch to Bucky’s lower back.  It still shot through Bucky like lightning, his blood flaring in response and his heart quickening.

“Let’s get you settled, then I can find us something to eat.”  It was all Bucky could do to smile and nod and not trip over his feet as Steve led him out to the deck.  The fire had warmed the open space amazingly, and Bucky wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something earthy and fresh and herby crackling in the flames.  Rosemary and mountain balm, maybe, and mugwort with a hint of lavender and the sticky undertones of mint.  The latter two repelled mosquitoes – Bucky knew that, though he wasn’t sure why.  A home remedy long lost to his blurry childhood, no doubt.

Bucky found himself herded towards a luxurious patio set, where Steve guided him into a throne-like wicker chair before a blanket of fur was draped over his lap.  It was all very surreal to Bucky, and he had to take another sip of his beer to stop his throat from drying out and closing up at all the pampering attention.

“I’ll rustle up something for dinner,” Steve said with a grin.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he said it, or how he was able to get such lies out of his mouth, but he found himself replying.  “I’m a pretty good cook.  I can help.”  Half protest, half plea, and complete lie, Bucky somehow wasn’t surprised when Steve laughed at him and shook his head.  It was like the man knew that Bucky was well acquainted with his smoke alarm.

“You’ve had a big day,” Steve countered.  “Besides, all I’m going to do is grab some salad from the fridge and fire up that BBQ,” he pointed to an impressive outdoor cooking station just off to Bucky’s right, “so I’ll only be a moment, and then I’ll be sitting back with you.”

Well.  When Steve put it like that there was extraordinarily little that Bucky could think of to dissuade him.

As it turned out, Steve hadn’t been lying when he said he cooked a decent steak, nor had he been lying about the time it would take.  Sitting in the large chair, warm and cosy and calm, Bucky had watched Steve work around the cooking space and listened to him talk, and when the meal was served, Bucky had found himself to be ravenously hungry.  He gobbled it up like he hadn’t eaten in days, which was totally untrue, but he had been surviving on chicken wraps and toast for the most part.

After dinner was squared away, and Steve had brought out a fresh round of drinks, the conversation continued to flow easily.  And, of course, the main thing that Bucky wanted to know was how the hell a guy like Steve had ended up out in a place like this, totally alone.  Not that he’d worded it in such a lecherous, borderline creepy way, obviously, but there was no hiding his fascination.

“The city just wasn’t for me,” Steve said simply.  It came with a soft shrug and a small smile that could have been interpreted as sad.

“You know, that’s why there are the suburbs,” Bucky offered.  Little boxes on the hillside that all looked the same.  Bucky always got that song from that TV show stuck in his head every time he thought about the idea of moving into residential purgatory.

“That sounds even worse,” Steve laughed.  Bucky had to agree.  He was in the weird state of in-between now.  He wasn’t in the city – that was for sure – but he wasn’t in some TV-style house out in the burbs either. Half the reason he’d spent so long in his in-between, city-fringe shoebox apartment was because he couldn’t decide what was worse; returning back to the densely packed city he’d grown up in, or retreating into a neighbourhood watch nightmare.

“And how did,” Bucky let a hand flap out to indicate all that the house was, “this come to be?  Are you an architect?”

“Not by trade,” Steve said with a shake of his head.  “But I like design and lurk in the art scene.  Then I just… I had time to kill, and I wanted a nice house.”

Bucky stole a quick glance in Steve’s direction.  The man couldn’t have been much older than him – Bucky guessed there were a few years between them, but nothing that would trigger age gap concepts – but Bucky sure as hell hadn’t had the time in life to learn to build anything more than an IKEA bookshelf.  And even then, that was sketchy at best, and the last one he’d made was still lopsided. 

But a house like this, and the money it would take seemed insane to Bucky, so he sure as hell didn’t understand where Steve got all the apparent time.  Bucky’s mind filtered back to old money; it would explain a lot, though Steve seemed honestly too nice to have been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth.

“It started small, and then one thing led to another, and one room left the space for another and,” Steve laughed at something Bucky didn’t understand while rubbing at the back of his neck.  It was clearly the beer that made Bucky want to be the one to do that.  To massage the tension out of those shoulders.  “Well.  I just kept building.”

“It’s beautiful.”  That was an understatement and a half.  “You should be so proud of it.  I’ve never seen anything like this place, not that that means much, but, well.”  Bucky was at a loss for words, so he simply patted the blanket in his lap and looked out over the balcony.  A wistful sigh left his lips as his gaze settled on the hanging fire pit.  “It’s amazing.  A true work of art.”   

“It’s weird,” Steve said with a shake of his head.  His hand moved up to scratch at his beard; it was an action that Bucky had already associated with the man teetering on the edge of drowning in his thoughts.  “Ah, ignore that.”

“I’m from Brooklyn,” Bucky shrugged, “I can do weird.”

Steve gave him a cursory glance over, as if he were weighing Bucky up for his ability to tolerate the strange.  Clearly, Bucky had been found acceptable, as Steve nodded ever so slightly and started up once more.

“Ever since I was a kid, I just felt like-” he paused again, his lips pressing and rubbing together as his eyes flicked up towards the night sky.  Steve was clearly struggling and trying to choose his words carefully, and for a moment, Bucky thought that he may have been pushing Steve over a painful topic.  He was about to say as much, and to let Steve know that it was alright; they didn’t need to talk about whatever this was.  But Steve pressed on, his eyebrows furrowed together in a way that somehow managed to not look worried.  Pensive, thoughtful was more like it.

“I felt like I had to do this.  Had to,” Steve stressed.  “Like it was my purpose in life, and that it was important because it was for someone.”

“Anything you do for yourself should be important,” Bucky reasoned.

“No,” Steve was shaking his head, and his eyes flashed back down, leaving the stars behind and setting on Bucky again.  It made Bucky shiver despite the balmy night.  “Not for me.  I had to do this for someone.  Someone I’m waiting for.”

Bucky could do weird.  He’d seen a lot as a kid, and even more as a young adult.  He had the therapy bills to prove it, and an old babushka whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to tell Bucky weird things.  But that?  What Steve had said?  That was pretty strange.  Or, Bucky reasoned, the way Steve said it was weird.  Building something as a legacy wasn’t odd, nor was wanting to have something to share, but the way Steve stressed his point made it seem like he was about to give the whole place away at the drop of a hat.

If there was one thing that Bucky had learned over the years, it was not to question people’s rationality.  Not when you weren’t the picture-perfect example of mental health yourself.  And so, he took a sip of his beer, looked out over the deck and into the thicket of the trees, and played the devil’s advocate.

“A future wife and the two-point-five kids?”  God, Bucky had never hoped for anything to be less accurate in his life, but it was the safe play.  It wasn’t dismissing Steve’s thoughts, but it wasn’t buying into them in the way Bucky’s overactive imagination wanted to.  Fate and destiny weren’t the sorts of things one casually tossed into a conversation.  “Because I’m pretty sure they’d love it.”

“Not quite like that,” Steve grinned.  “Never was the wife marrying type.”  Bucky knew he shouldn’t take that so close to heart and hang too many hopes on it, but he couldn’t help himself.  “And kids are cool and all, but they kinda freak me out.  I like to be able to give them back to their parents when I’m sick of the taxing questions and constant noise.”

Bucky had to laugh at that.  He nodded, knowing full well what Steve meant.  Kids were a pain in the ass, and they were there forever—a lifelong commitment.  Bucky couldn’t even commit to plans a few days in advance, let alone dedicate himself – and his whole life – to growing a mini-him up into a functioning adult.  Hell, Bucky wasn’t even sure if he should consider himself one of those, especially after hearing all that Steve had achieved with his life.

“So, I guess that means you don’t have kids?”  The way Steve worded the question, his head dipping slightly and his eyes narrowing, showed that it was clearly more than a casual conversation point.  Steve was trying to get to know him, sussing Bucky out in the same way that Bucky was doing to him.

“No,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his beer.  Not wanting to leave it at that, and simultaneously wanting to drop a subtle hint, Bucky elaborated.  “No kids.  And definitely no wife.  Or husband, for that matter.  Which would be my preference, I guess.”  None of that had come out as graceful and elegant as Bucky had intended, but he’d never really been all that vocally smooth.

If the revelation meant anything to Steve, then it wasn’t obvious.  While part of Bucky would have loved for Steve to drop everything and rejoice in shared orientational preferences, he was enough of a realist to know that life didn’t play out like movies and Wattpad stories.  Besides, Bucky wouldn’t have been able to take it if Steve had said something cringy and tried to be overly supportive or instantly get in his pants.

At least Bucky wasn’t promptly shown the door, and Steve just gave him another one of his broad, warm and friendly smiles.

That, for now, was enough for Bucky.

For now.

Conversation carried on easily, which was another welcome surprise, and by the time they’d finished their fifth beers, Steve excused himself for a moment under the excuse of checking the spare room was fit for use.  Bucky, of course, offered to help, but Steve had refused, insisting that he stayed by the fire and enjoyed the night; he’d bring back another drink with him too, he’d said.

It left Bucky alone once again, and he took the opportunity to breathe in the scent of the forest and the crackling herbs in the fire and the crisp, clean smell of fresh air.  He was hard-pressed to remember the last time he’d experienced anything like this.  Strangely though, his heart felt weighted in his chest, pressed down by an unknown burden that his mind struggled to understand.

Lost in his own thoughts, it took both movement and sound for Bucky to realise that something had come out of the woods.  A few somethings, in fact, and Bucky’s eyebrows rose as he made out the shape of a stag and several deer.  He’d never seen anything like it.

“Oh,” Bucky breathed out softly once his shock had subsided.

Bucky had thought he’d been quiet in his revere, but the stag lifted its head, its dark, reflective eyes turning towards the balcony.  The rest of the herd did the same, heads raising from the grass.

The moment stretched, and Bucky felt like the wild creature was looking right into the dark parts of his soul.

Carefully – slowly – Bucky uncurled his legs from the large chair and shifted the blanket aside.  The small herd watched him quietly, eyes glinting in the moonlight as they tracked his movement.

Bucky stood, and they didn’t run, and when Bucky moved to the side of the deck, his hands pressing down on the balustrade and his fingers curling and hooking the wood, the stag did something Bucky never would have expected.

With the light of the stars and the moon glistening off the smooth curves of its antlers, the creature came closer.  One hoof after the other, it seemed to glide over the forest floor, it’s head high and its eyes locked onto Bucky’s so intently that it made him shiver.

Bucky had never been so enchanted by anything in his life.

“I’ve never seen them this close to the house,” Steve said, his voice a startling reminder that Bucky wasn’t alone.  Bucky honestly hadn’t heard Steve approach, but his voice brought warmth with it; the heat of Steve’s body and a soft, casual press of a shoulder as Steve joined in his viewing.

Down below, the stag and his herd startled, their long legs carrying them back towards the thicket of the forest, but not before the stag paused for one more look.  This time, Bucky could have sworn that it looked at him, and Steve, and then back to him before lowering its head and disappearing into the shadows.

“That was magical,” Bucky sighed.  His city-kid mentality was no doubt showing, but he was too enchanted to care.  That had been one of the most impressive moments of his life.

“Well, maybe there’s a little magic in you,” Steve gently teased, his shoulder jostling against Bucky’s.

Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes, his back turning to the woods as he leaned against the railing.  If anyone around here was magical, it was Steve.  Steve up here in this house in the middle of nowhere, thriving away from the rat-race and vast consumerism of the cities.

The city is a plague, his babushka had always said, and it was one of the few things she’d said that had stuck with Bucky.  Idly, Bucky mused that she would have liked Steve.  Kindred spirits tended to flock together.

“So, the good news is that the guest room is all ready to go,” Steve said with an easy smile.  He hadn’t moved far, choosing to linger at Bucky’s side then go back to his seat.

“And the bad?”

Steve chuckled and nodded slightly.  “You picked up on that.  The bad news is I’m actually out of beer.”  He looked oddly sheepish, like his inability to produce another bottle was some sort of grave insult.  “I have a few bottles of whiskey, though.  Depending on how late you want to stay up…”

He left the offer hanging and Bucky – for some unknown reason – turned his head to the sky instead of looking at his watch.  The sliver of the moon was almost above them, and Bucky didn’t know enough about their location to tell if it was coming or going.  Either way, it had to be around midnight, and while he’d sit and talk to Steve all night if he could, the reality of the situation reminded him it would be a hard day tomorrow.  He’d have to sort out the truck, and get back to the warehouse, and be on the road into the early evening finishing off tomorrow's deliveries.

“I think sleep is the smart option here,” Steve answered for him, and in a way that made Bucky smile.  Nothing was controlling about it; if anything, Steve was shouldering the burden of decision.

Bucky found himself agreeing readily.  “Most likely; otherwise, I’ll totally hate myself in the morning.”

“And we can’t have that.”

Thankfully, Steve took that moment to usher him into the house, successfully saving Bucky from being seen blushing like a kid with a crush.

While the living tree in the main space was clearly the feature, the rest of the house was just as impressive.  Steve had windows everywhere, using as much of the outside light as he could, and the wooden details and features were just as beautiful and elaborate as the carved pillars that kept the balcony standing.

Steve showed him into a well-appointed guest room that was, in all honesty, about the size of Bucky’s apartment.  Maybe even bigger.

“Bathroom is through that door there,” Steve said, pointing to one side of the room.  “Towels are on the basin.  There’s a walk-through closet and study area that way, but… I guess you won’t need that.  And if I’m freaking you out and you want to run, then there’s a private exit over there,” Steve finished.  Bucky couldn’t help but laugh, his head shaking even as his fingers trailed over the very first four-poster bed he’d ever seen.  It was exquisitely beautiful, carved out of a dark stained wood that made it look like something stately.  An antique right out of a Bavarian castle, trimmed in forest green drapes and full of bronze and beige pillows and cushions.

Somehow, it seemed to match Steve’s personality while clashing with the bashful, shy way he kept his head low and his shoulders gently curled in.

It was all becoming too much for Bucky; his poor heart was racing – the beat steady but fast – and he was finding it easier and easier to get lost in Steve’s eyes.  Bucky licked his lips and did his best not to look like he was fantasising about climbing Steve like a tree.

“Thank you again.  For this,” Bucky said.  They were words.  Good words; formed correctly and without any significant stuttering.  Bucky was proud of himself.

Kiss him.  Kiss him!

Bucky’s brain was not being all that helpful right now, and clearly, it didn’t understand that people only went around pouncing on each other after a shared smile in bad Hallmark movies.

“You’re more than welcome.”  There was a pause and just when Bucky was sure that his resolve had crumbled and that he was about to give in and shove his fingers into Steve’s hair and pull their faces together, Steve moved back to the door.  “My bedroom is just up the stairs,” Steve said, his head indicating the rough wooden staircase that, for all intents and purposes, seemed to grow out of the wall.  “If you need anything, I’ll be there.  If not,” and with that, Steve stood back, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

Lost between being devastated and annoyed at himself for letting the chance slip through his fingers, and thankful that he hadn’t made a fool of himself, Bucky simply nodded.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Steve.” 

The cities.  They are the plague.  Horsemen that march over earth like locust.  Sickness and death; killing all they touch.  Уничтожающий, you understand?  … Destroy all.

Brick and mortar.  It comes first.  Cobblestones go deep into the Mother.  Pressing.  Covering.  They break her.  Stop магия.  You believe, Yakov?  да?  магия.  The — the feel of all.  Magic.  Beat of heart.

Баланс.

Взятие.  Take, Yakov.  All take.  Some give.  But not city.  City take.  Взятие.  Humans take.  Более.  More .  Всегда бери больше.  Взять магию.

Yakov not same.  Yakov, good boy.  Will not Взятие.

Яков - это волшебство.

There was a flash of light in the dark, a burst of fire on an impossible match.  A relic from days past, silver and brass and taken from a time of trenches and bloodshed that Bucky’s mind was far too young to comprehend.

You understand story of волка, да?  Fear.  остерегайтесь волка.  Not the teeth, not the claws.  For the намерение.  The doing.

Волк связано, Yakov.  Bound.  Loyal.  жестокий и опасный.   Волк.  Wolf.  Will kill by thought of мастер.  For master.  The леший that owns soul and heart of beast.  And man.  Оба, Джеймс, оба.  Магия.

One day, Yakov.  однажды ты узнаешь.

As a boy of seven, Bucky sat at his babushka’s feet, listening to her croaky old voice talk of fairy tales and prophesies while her lips curled around a lit Laika, the smoke trickling from her nostrils like a tsmok from one of her tales.  

She told her stories while sipping rakı and vodka, the more her frail wrist tipped, the further she slipped into her native tongue.  But Bucky understood.  Яков, she called him; but Яков понял.

His babushka was horror, and she was memory; a lingering link between a world his mother hated and one he saw as fantastical and strange.  She was the storyteller, the soothsayer and the bringer of Bucky’s dreams.

She also heralded his nightmares.

The moon was high in the sky, full and heavy and highlighting the places the beams of Bucky’s headlights didn’t touch.  It was just as eerie as it was beautiful.  The forest looked alive; the trees moving and swaying to a song of their own, the branches seemingly reaching for the open windows of Bucky’s ute.  Every now and then an extra-long leaf would find its way past the half-open threshold of his window to caress his cheek.  Even Bucky couldn’t bring himself to wind the window all the way down; he was already wearing fingerless gloves and supporting a woollen scarf around his neck.  

The days were getting colder now, and there had been a snowy cap on the peaks of The Lonely Mountain when Bucky had glimpsed it through both the trees and the mist.

With that chill also came the extended night.  The sun dropped down behind the horizon earlier and was slower to crawl its way up into the sky of a morning.  Bucky didn’t mind that.  Sure, it was hard to get up in the dark, and his toes always curled at that first press of cold fake timber, but he liked the briskness in the air and the way it tingled his nose when he breathed.

Soon there’d be frost on the roads, and the drive up here would be even longer.  Again, not that Bucky minded.  It was part of the job, and when it came down to it, he enjoyed Steve’s company.  While he’d never had his van break down again, their chats had become longer since then, and Bucky had lingered more than he should, often staying for a warm drink or to share a quick ploughman’s supper.  Steve always seemed to have something new and exciting laid out, and Bucky?  Well, he was sure that no one could deny such an offer.

When the warm glow of the house finally started filtering through the trees, Bucky felt himself exhale thankfully.  Steve was home.  Not that Bucky had expected him not to be, but Bucky’s deliveries had taken an upheaval over the week, and, very reluctantly, Bucky had had to push Steve’s run back a day.  The office had tried to call Steve – or at least they said they had and honestly, Bucky wasn’t too sure how much he trusted perky ‘Brietnay’ to do anything other than Instagram – and confirm the late delivery, but no one had answered.

Of course, nothing about today had run according to plan either, and so Bucky was finally getting his wish.  He was going to get to see the house in all its night-time glory, the golden light shining through the dense forest.

It was just as beautiful as he’d imagined.  Being inside, and on that deck, and watching the moon through the skylight above the guest bed had been magical and completely irreplaceable.  But seeing the home glow into existence through the gently swaying trees was something else entirely.

Bucky knew the road well enough by now that he even risked turning off his lights for the last bend just so he could soak in the full glory of the sprawling home and the image that it painted.

Cutting the engine and jumping down from the cab was the most natural thing ever now.  Bucky knew the driveway, knew how far he could push the handbrake and the crunching sound of the gravel under the soles of his boots.  It was calming and relaxing, and Bucky prepared the paperwork and then rummaged for a pen in the glovebox; his last delivery had kept his pen and god, he hated when people did that.

“What are you doing here?”

Bucky almost jumped out of his skin at the sound.  Steve had an uncanny knack for being quiet and sneaking up on him, but that wasn’t what had startled Bucky.  Not this time, at least.  It was the clipped, harsh tones in his voice.  Anger and malice growled from the back of the throat and rolled over the tongue like a threat.

If Bucky didn’t hear Steve’s voice in his dreams, and if he wasn’t able to see him with his very eyes, coming towards the van, then Bucky never would have believed it was Steve who had spoken.  Not quiet Steve, who was prone to blushing and running his fingers through his hair or scratching his beard when struggling for words.

“I have your—”

Steve was there, pushing up into Bucky’s space in a way that should have been exciting – should have been thrilling and playing into every dirty fantasy that Bucky had – but was, instead, intimidating.  It made Bucky feel small.  Startled and caught, he flinched backwards only to hit the side of his truck and find himself cornered in with nowhere to go.

“Steve?”

“Leave.”

Bucky swallowed thickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bone-dry lips.

“Okay, I’ll just—” Bucky didn’t know what he was ‘just’ going to do.  He could leave, as told.  Should leave.  But what about the delivery?  Maybe if he just dumped the boxes on the side of the drive and left, then that would be good; Steve would be happy.  Or perhaps he should fuck the delivery, get in his ute and drive and never, ever come back.

He was spared the struggle of decision by another outburst.

“Fuck!” Steve swore, and it was the blend of anger and fear that made Bucky shrink back, not the volume of the curse.  Steve was looking up to the sky as if it held some sort of answer, and then his eyes were locked on Bucky’s again.  They’d never seemed so icy and cold before, but now instead of river and sky blue, Bucky saw frozen waters and the glint of something sharp.

“Fuck,” the man cursed again, and then – almost impossibly – he pressed into Bucky’s space even more.  “It’s too late,” Steve grunted.  Bucky flinched as Steve reached for him, his hands rough and his fingertips digging bruises into Bucky’s skin.  The clipboard was lost somewhere under Bucky’s feet, and his heart sank at the sound of his keys being snagged out of his hands.  Steve let them fall to the ground as well, and then Steve’s other hand closed around Bucky’s forearm and tugged.

“Move,” Steve demanded.

Bucky was a lot of things, and most of those things made him believe he was damaged, but he wasn’t a pushover, and he wasn’t someone who’d cower and hide.  He dug his heels into the gravel and shook his head while trying to wrench his arm free.  Steve had a grip like hardened steel, and it only seemed to tighten the more Bucky pulled back.

It did him no good.  Steve yanked, and Bucky’s feet were forced to scurry after him, else he’d fall flat on his face.  Bucky pulled back again, or at least he tried, but Steve was stronger than Bucky had given him credit for.  There wasn’t a day that went by where Bucky wasn’t hauling boxes to and fro, but even that conditioning and strength paled in comparison to Steve.

“Steve, please.  What—” Bucky didn’t know how to finish that.  Everything seemed redundant.  It was obvious what Steve was doing; he was forcing Bucky towards the house in a way that hurt and terrified him.  Asking what was wrong with Steve also seemed pointless, and sounded far too naive even to Bucky’s ears.  Steve clearly wasn’t in a talking mood, and with the way that his head kept turning towards the sky and how his fingers kept tightening their strangle grip on Bucky’s arm, that wasn’t about to change any time soon.

Instead, Bucky tried to go with something more pronounced and something that might appeal to Steve’s decency.

“You’re hurting me.  Stop.”  Bucky demanded simply.  Steve let out a dry, unimpressed chortle that made Bucky’s blood run cold.  “If you ever felt anything for… if we were ever friends, then cut this out.”

Bucky’s answer came with the opening of the front door.  What did surprise him was the fact that Steve chose not to drag him through.  Instead, the man yanked him forward by the arm, grabbed his waist and then gave him an almighty and ungraceful shove through the door.  Which, strangely enough, Steve pulled close afterwards, putting the heavy wood and glass between them.   

“Lock the fucking door!”  The command came paired with Steve’s hands slapping violently against the thing in question, and his voice a growled-out snarl that chilled Bucky to the bone.

Clearly, Bucky was scared out of his mind, as, for one crazy minute, he thought that Steve’s eyes glowed red and that his teeth were too long for his mouth.

Bucky’s fingers fumbled with the catch, sliding it into place before his fingers searched for an extra safety chain.  There was none, of course.  This wasn’t a dangerous neighbourhood or even a place like Bucky’s apartment where locks came in more than just pairs, and his keychain rattled when he walked.

“Do not come outside,” Steve continued.  His hands were patting at the door, his fingers alternating between squeaky catching of his skin and nails scratching at the wood.  Steve’s voice fogged the glass when he breathed and spoke.  “Not the balcony; don’t open a window.  Nothing.  Do you understand?”

Bucky didn’t understand.  He didn’t.  This was insane, and he was honestly still reeling from the feel of Steve’s hands clawing bruises into his skin.  Steve was meant to be one of the good ones; that one in a million catch that was too kind to hurt a fly and impossibly perfect.

“Answer me!”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Steve sighed, the bark gone from his tone.  “I’m so, so sorry.”  The whisper was that soft that if it wasn’t for the puff of air against the glass, then Bucky would have missed it entirely.  

Steve’s forehead pressed against the door and despite all the fear, and the throbbing in his arm and the insanity of the entire situation, Bucky had the undeniable urge to reach out and run his fingers through Steve’s hair.  To comfort him, and tell him everything would be alright.  That was messed up, and Bucky knew that, but his hand moved to trail fingers over the glass between them, and while Steve’s eyes were closed, he still seemed to sigh contently the minute Bucky did.

It was a peaceful moment, and for an instant, Bucky felt his heartbeat stabilise as a hopeful, irrational part of his mind told him that everything was alright.  This was a huge misunderstanding, and Steve wasn’t a murderous creep living out in the middle of nowhere for a reason, and they’d get through this.

They’d be okay.

But then in the pale moonlight, Steve became something else.

It started simply.  A shiver and a sigh and a reluctant, almost melting movement that took Steve away from the door.  His head turned up, his eyes still closed, and as the soft light of the moon stretched out across the walkway, Steve breathed in deep.

And then his back jolted and his right shoulder hunched and then – then everything went to hell.

Steve twisted and bent, his spine going ramrod straight before curling in and hunching him over so much his hands almost touched the ground.  He breathed in deep, shaking gasps, his whole body vibrating with the effort and Bucky almost screamed at the first sign of blood.  It came from Steve’s knuckles, his fingers curling under the first joint as the skin split and cracked open.  Bucky watched in abject terror as dark nails started to sprout forth, even as Steve’s thumbs cracked and folded in on themselves.

Blood dripped to the decking floor, pooling and seeping between the slats to disappear, and still, Steve convulsed.

His neck cracked from side to side, his shoulders hunching up and knees inverting with a sickening snap that made Bucky retreat further back and retch.

Bucky covered his mouth with his left hand and then, not trusting just that, pressed his right over it.  He flinched at the sound of bone cracking and popping, and the twang of sinews and tendons stretching to the point of snapping.

It was violent and twisted and gory, and Bucky felt tears gathering against his hands long before he’d even realised he was crying.

Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours, and by the time the horror was done, Bucky hardly even knew what way was up.  At some stage he’d ended up on the floor, his back to the couch and his knees pulled up in front him and his face hidden in his shoulder as the horrible sounds continued.

The wolf at the door – for that was what it was in the end – shook itself determinedly, spraying blood from its fur and across the side of the house, and then it lifted its head and howled.  The sound was harrowing; loud and primal and speaking to the moon in a way that felt like something out of Bucky’s childhood nightmares.

When the baying stopped, Bucky cracked his eyes open and froze.  The wolf was looking at Bucky.  Right at him.  Haunting yellow eyes locked with his, paired with a baring of teeth that made Bucky sob out loud and shake his head in disbelief as if that action alone could make this whole mess disappear.

The creature lowered its head, seemingly at the sound Bucky made, but its nose started going.  It twitched and flared as it sniffed around the door, and then, right in the sea of its own gore, the wolf lowered its front half and shimmied across the slats.  The thing wiggled its way up to the front step, nudging it with his head a few times before huffing and sitting back down.

Bucky tasted blood as he worried at the corner of his bottom lip with his teeth.

Steve, wolf Steve, spent the night stretched out by the door, his head on his paws, and his paws pressed against the glass.  And Bucky’s legs and back went stiff as he sat on the floor and watched the animal sleep, too scared to move or look away.

Dawn took a long time.

Chapter Text

The Heart of My Own (burn it down low)

A modern fable.

Part III: The Sky

“It is good to be creative, James,” the woman said.  She had one of those voices that was soothing and warm, and that rolled thickly off her tongue.  It made Bucky think of honey, and for a moment, he saw it.  A flash across her face, eyes yellow and liquid gold dripping from her mouth; bees against the side of her face, their little wings flapping at an imperceivable rate.

Bucky closed his eyes and silently begged for the visions to stop.

“But it’s also important to understand the difference between truth and fiction,” the woman finished.  When Bucky looked back at her, the bees were gone, and her lips were that dulled matte pink.  It made Bucky think of frost-bitten roses and wilting flowers in the paleness of dawn.   

“James,” the woman had continued, “can you tell me again what happened.”

Bucky had already told her.  He’d already told his mother and his friends and the police afterwards.  He knew what had happened, and he hadn’t lied, and he wasn’t covering for anyone.  He wasn’t even covering for himself; he’d told them the truth.

But they didn’t believe him.  It was just like when he was twelve when he’d drowned in a lonely lake and been brought back by a wolf.  He had the marks to prove it; they lacerated his left shoulder and back, a mess of teeth and claw marks that ached when the weather got cold.  He was too young to have those sorts of pains and to be so hideously disfigured, and while he cursed them every day, Bucky still knew them for what they were.  Without them, he would have stayed dead.  Would have been lost and drowned for good in a sea of fishing line and a murky lake.

Sometimes, in his darker moments, Bucky wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to let the water take him. 

The thing that had always bothered Bucky was that no one believed him.  There were footprints in the mud, they had said, and no wolves in this part of the forest.  They’d checked over Bucky time and time again, asking who’d cut him, who had hurt him.  They’d checked him for other things, too, signs of abuse that, at the time, Bucky had been too young to understand.  Hands explored, and photos were taken, and reports filled in and Bucky talked of wolves and the feeling of being almost torn in half, and they had shaken their heads and asked him again.

Who?  Who?  Who?  Who was there, James?

Life had never been the same after that.  Bucky was marked in more ways than just the physical scars, and even those paid to care about him looked at Bucky like he was something out of one of his babushka’s fairy tales.

But now two kids were dead.  Two kids who bullied him – everyone knew that – and two kids who Bucky had sworn bloody vengeance on.

Bucky didn’t understand why they hadn’t taken him away; why the police hadn’t cuffed him like they did in the TV shows and taken him to some dark place where they could throw away the key.  He’d admitted it, after all.  Told them that he’d done it.  The blood might not have been on his hands, but the deed was done, and in the depth of the night, he’d heard that sound.  That baying howl of a wolf echoing off the brownstones of Brooklyn.

Bucky might not have personally torn their throats out, but sure as hell, somehow, he’d been the catalyst for it to happen.

His babushka had made that clear, way back when Bucky was in a sling and fighting the memories of the cold water in his throat.  Smoke had trickled from her nose as she’d told him he was touched; that the bond was made and he’d never escape it.

“Будь осторожен с желаниями,” she’d hissed, the words more of a warning than a curse.  “время пришло.”  The time has come, she’d said that night, and in her dementia, she’d repeated those words to Bucky every time she saw him, right up until the day she died, two weeks later.

“James.  Let’s just run through this one more time,” the woman in front of him repeated.  Bucky blinked again, and this time the bees were butterflies, colourful and wild and free as they scattered away from her cheeks.

Bucky had looked to the side, his head shaking as a silent answer.  

“I don’t know what happened,” he lied.  It was easier that way.  “I made it up.”

The woman had sighed and, unbeknownst to her, the potted fern behind her wilted and died.

It had only taken two days for his mother to decide that the prescription pills were the right answer.

 

Some time just before the dawn, the wolf that had been Steve lifted its head and blinked at Bucky.  Those paws dropped from the glass as the canine stood on all four legs and shook its head and spine in a way that made Bucky shiver.

Locked inside the house, Bucky had curled into a ball and watched as the wolf paced back and forth, its tail lashing from side to side and its tongue occasionally lolling out between its sharp teeth.

Steve’s sharp teeth, Bucky reminded himself.  That wolf was somehow – impossibly – Steve.  Bucky had seen the man twist and pop and morph into the creature right in front of his very eyes.

Somehow, the pale light of forest dawn didn’t make that truth any easier to swallow.

Still, there was a startling intelligence in the eyes that looked back at him.  That set as a solemn reminder right down in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, and as the wolf’s head tilted to the side, and its nose clearly sniffed at the rubber trimmed seal at the bottom of the door, it only became even more terrifying.

Bucky hugged his knees tighter to himself, as if his shins and arms could create a shield against the impossible, and when the wolf finally turned and walked away, Bucky’s fear simply spiked tenfold.  He scrambled to his feet and tried to peer out the door, but the path the wolf had taken snaked around the house, back towards where Bucky’s ute sat just out of sight.

The vehicle and thus his freedom was so damn close and yet felt so far away all the same.

The idea of making a run for the ute occurred to him, and he wanted nothing more than to be in the safety of the cab and to be far away from here.  But Bucky knew his van.  It was unreliable at times, especially on a cold morning, and the idea of being outside with… that, while trying to heat an engine that refused to tick over was nightmarish.  Bucky had seen enough horror movies to know that was a bad option.

The choice was made for him though, and Bucky jumped back from the door when footsteps rattled against the wooden decking.

He didn’t know what he was expecting; maybe, somewhere down in the irrational part of his heart, Bucky had hoped for a kindly stranger to come to rescue him.  That didn’t match the sort of luck that Bucky lived by.

It was Steve; human Steve, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, and he had a frown between his eyebrows that created deep rivets in his skin.  Steve, who was walking towards the door that Bucky had locked and Steve who had something in his hands.

Bucky felt his heart sink when he saw the key, and when Steve’s gaze locked with his through the door and he slipped the key into the lock and turned it easily, Bucky was sure that his life flashed before his eyes.

It was sad how truly unremarkable that life had been.

The door opened, heralding both Steve and the frosty cold of morning.  Bucky retreated further, his head shaking slightly as he held his arms up defensively.

“I won’t tell anyone… just—” Bucky started hastily pleading, only to have Steve cut him off abruptly.

“What are you?”

Bucky frowned as he scooted further back.  Steve closed the door behind him and remained blocking the exit.

“What am I?”  Bucky asked in shock.  Steve had been the one to get all fours and go furry over the full moon.  “I think I should be asking that.”

Steve shook his head, his hair flopping down in front of his eyes.  It was the first time he’d ever looked dishevelled to Bucky, and the only time that Steve’s beard wasn’t perfectly groomed.

It was so fucking stupid, and Bucky’s mind was his personal cross to bear, because even now, here, in the height of this nightmare, he couldn’t help but think that it was a good look on Steve.  Bucky wanted to run his fingers through that hair, and lovingly smooth that beard back down into place.

“I didn’t eat you.”  Steve honestly sounded like that was meant to be a good thing.  A surprising turn of events that Bucky should be thankful for.  Of course, Bucky was, but that didn’t seem to be the point.  “I didn’t want to.”

“Well, I’m glad I wasn’t on your menu.”  How Bucky had the sense and fortitude to be snarky was beyond even him, but he snapped the words out with an intensity that he hoped hid the steps he took backwards.

“No.  It’s just—”

“Just what?  Couldn’t get in your own front door?”

Up until now, Steve had left an adequate space between them, a healthy few metres.  But now he was creeping closer, edging forward like a kicked puppy still desperate for attention.   

It made Bucky’s heart pick up the pace, and a cold sweat break out across his skin.

“Oh my god, why are we talking about this like rational people?” Bucky gushed out, all in one rushed, breath.  “You turned into a fucking wolf!”

“Yes, but—”

Bucky shook his head furiously.  There were no ‘buts’ in this situation.  None at all.  Steve had been human, and he’d been scary, and then he’d been a fucking wolf, and now he was downright terrifying.

“I want to leave,” Bucky said the words clearly and firmly; a statement without any quiver of question to the tone.  “Just let me leave.”

Because that was the kicker here.  Steve was between Bucky and the door, and while there were windows everywhere, Bucky didn’t fancy himself to be a superhero or action man.  He wasn’t about to jump through one of them and vault off the hillside balcony.  The chances of surviving something like that – outside of a spy movie – were pretty slim, and, if anything, he’d just end up breaking a leg and being entirely at Steve’s mercy.

“It has to be you.”  Steve was shaking his head, his bare feet shuffling closer, and Bucky found himself glancing around for anything he could use to defend himself.  The living room, once so modern and clean and perfectly styled, was devoid of anything that could be useful.

Bucky did his best to look demure and innocent when he looked back to Steve, hoping that the ploy would help convince Steve to just let him go.

That expression faltered when Bucky saw it.

Bucky wasn’t sure where the knife had come from, but once he noticed it in Steve’s hand, it became the only thing he could see.

“Jesus Christ, Steve,” Bucky swore, his arms shooting up defensively in front of himself.  “Please.  Just… put that down.”

Steve was closing him in, and Bucky felt his panic rise.  The man was shaking his head, the knife held out in a way that drew a small sob from Bucky’s lips.

“Please?” he tried again.

This wasn’t how he’d thought it would all go.  Not out here, not in a place like this.  Bucky had been through enough in his life to assume that he’d never have that perfectly calm, old-age death in a bed in a comfortable room.  That wasn’t for him.  But he’d liked Steve, and he’d trusted him, and he’d wanted him.  And this house!  It was something that should be beautiful and remembered with love, not tarnished with fear and blood and death.

It all seemed so unfair.

Bucky was fast.  He always had been.  He’d spent years running; fleeing bullies and those that teased him for his differences and scars.  And, once older and stronger and wiser, he’d spent his days chasing after those that dare try.  After that, he’d run from home and run from himself.

So, when Steve launched, Bucky dashed to the side.  He was nimble on his feet, too, and not as bulky as Steve was.  It should have been an easy escape, but Steve was fast.  Impossibly so, his body moving with the grace and strength of the thing he’d transformed into during the night.  An arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist, snagging him and jolting him to a stop.  Before Bucky had the chance to push or pull – or even raise his arms to try and defend from a blade slice – he was pulled near off his feet and shoved back the way he’d come.

“No!  No!!”  Bucky kicked up a fight, his feet scuffling the floor and tears starting to prickle his eyes.  Steve didn’t let go.

Bucky’s back hit the tree that had once been so beautiful in the lounge room.  Now, Bucky saw it as a traitor; betrayal in his plan to escape, and an accomplice in his demise.

Steve crossed that imaginary boundary of safe personal space and closed Bucky in.  His head dipped, his face pressing in against Bucky’s throat in a way that made his skin break out into bumps.  Steve was doing something, sniffing.  Smelling him.  Scenting him like an animal.  And then—

And then Steve swung the knife violently, and Bucky swore that it was the end.  That this was it.  He’d die up here, in a house so far removed from society that no one would ever miss him.  His truck would disappear, his presence would be scrubbed away, and if anyone ever came all the way out here looking for him, all they’d find was a charming bachelor living an eco-friendly lifestyle.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing, and just the memory of the way Steve’s joints had popped and cracked in the moonlight flooded what would be Bucky’s final memories with horror. 

The knife hit home hard, burying in deep and splashing Bucky’s face with warm wetness.  He cried out, fear and anxiety and the sheer terror of his imagination focusing on the knife driving deep into his throat.

Only.  That wasn’t real.  It wasn’t really there, just like so many other parts of Bucky’s life, and so many fragments of his memory.

Gasping in deep, and heaving with the effort of breathing, Bucky’s eyes travelled to the side, his mind able to track the trajectory of the knife.  It was buried to the hilt in the living room tree, and while Steve’s hand was still around the handle, his other was skimming across Bucky’s face, patting and stroking and pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“It’s alright.  It’s okay.  I won’t hurt you; breathe, Bucky.  Oh god, it is you.”

Bucky thought that was all well and good, but given that Steve was some sort of shapeshifting nightmare, and he was still holding onto a knife, Bucky found it all to be quite the cold comfort.  When that hand shifted from Bucky’s face and moved to encircle his waist, that fear only intensified.

“Let me go!” Bucky finally moved, finally starting to flail again, his arms flying up to push at Steve’s chest.  Distantly, he recognised the sound of metal falling to the floor though it never occurred to him to question the sound.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve cooed.  His voice was like molten liquid in Bucky’s ears, hot and smooth and rolling like molasses consuming his senses.  Bucky was choking on it; it filled his lungs and stole his air and left him gasping.

“Then let me go,” he pleaded.  The words felt like fire in the back of his throat, burning and blistering his skin, and making the sound croak and crack painfully.

“Not until you do this.  Not until you see.”

“Please.  Steve.”

The man was unyielding.  He was in Bucky’s space, looming in his presence and commanding in his actions, and yet… Bucky didn’t feel threatened.  He was scared, and he was unsure, and he didn’t understand what was going on, or how any of this was happening, but Steve wasn’t physically hurting him.  Not even when he grabbed Bucky’s right wrist and forcibly pressed his hand against the jagged cut in the tree.

Bucky flinched back, the sap feeling like blood against his hand, and the knife mark throbbing like a wound, but Steve caught the action, pushing Bucky’s hand back and holding it there.  The sap oozed between Bucky’s fingers, hot and sticky and flowing over the back of his knuckles.

It reminded Bucky of something.  Of pain in his shoulder and a hand clutching at it, and a calming voice telling him that he was going to be alright.  That no further harm would come to him.  That everything would be different now.

It was a voice that sounded like Steve’s.

“You have to see,” Steve crooned, his voice floating into the panicked state of Bucky’s consciousness.  “You have to remember.”

There was such earnest hope in Steve’s voice, a naivety that Bucky hardly remembered ever having.  The man – wolf – whatever the fuck Steve was, pleaded with him, desperate to be heard and understood.  It thrummed right down into the base of Bucky’s being, sparking a flash of memory and fear, and cold, cold water, and the ring of his babushka’s croaking voice whispering in his ear at night.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky all but sobbed.

“They’ve caged you,” Steve whispered.  His tone had dropped again, hitting that point of soothing calmness.  “All this time.  Stifled you.  Probably told you that you’re delusional.  Crazy.  You’re not.”

It wasn’t until Steve’s hand moved from Bucky’s hair and cupped his cheek that Bucky really took stock of the situation.  Steve wasn’t holding him against the tree anymore; he didn’t have that many arms.  One was around Bucky’s waist, curling him in close and pressing them together, while the other cradled his jaw, his thumb skimming back and forth over the top of Bucky’s cheek tenderly.

So what was keeping Bucky to the tree?  The sticky sap or a force that Bucky didn’t understand, but one that he felt thrumming through his veins and pulsating at his temples.  It hurt.  The idea of pulling back made his heart skip a beat, and not in a heady, exciting way.  He felt it like a knife to his chest; as if Steve had stabbed him and not the tree.

“I tried so hard to find you.”

It wasn’t until Steve leaned in and kissed him that Bucky stopped trying to understand the unknown, and it wasn’t until Steve’s tongue licked a demanding path between Bucky’s lips, prying them apart and opening him up for exploration, that Bucky allowed himself to feel.

There was cold and fear; the feeling of rope tightening around his skin and the rush of water drowning his cries.  Pain and confusion and flashes of a woman with bees on her face and a tongue that melted from her face and dripped down her chin.  Pills taken while shaking, and a mirror that reflected twisted bones and eyes as black as night.  Antlers that bloodily split his skin and caused his head to ache.

But there was also acceptance and warmth.  The feel of fur against Bucky’s skin, and the soft cooing of an unknown voice, assuring him that he was safe and that everything would be alright.

Steve’s tongue swiped against his, and Bucky remembered howls in the night, and the feeling of eyes watching him as he’d stumbled, cold and bleeding, through the trees.

Bucky thought of home, and the happy times he’d spent as a child sitting at his babushka’s feet and listening to her talk.  He remembered the way she’d looked at him, and the sadness in her eyes as she’d told him that he had a difficult path and an unknown end.  And then that happiness faded, replaced by the shouts of his mother, and the curses in a language that he understood but shouldn’t have, and the threats of not cursing the only grandchild that she’d ever have.

Even so, all of that paled when Steve’s fingers roamed through his hair, gentle and searching and then curling once they found that right place to hold.  When Steve’s tongue danced with Bucky’s own, nothing else existed.  Not Bucky’s convoluted memories, or his fears or even his rationality and cynicism.

It was just Steve and him; him and Steve, and the press of their lips and the growing warmth in Bucky’s palm.

Bucky’s hand heated, the skin of his palm scorching and the gasp that came with the unexpected pain broke the kiss.  Steve didn’t seek more, but he didn’t move back either.  His head tipped down slightly just enough so he could nuzzle at Bucky’s temple even as Bucky’s attention wavered.

Starved for breath and flushed, Bucky’s left arm had – at some stage – wrapped up around Steve’s shoulders.  But the right, the one that felt the twinges of pain, was still pressed to the tree.  Bucky’s eyes, wide and shocked and disbelieving, turned at the pressure under his right palm.  Pulling it back, Bucky watched as a sprig, green as the summer forest, unfurled.  It covered the deep hole Steve had cut, the bleeding sap a dried-up tear against the tree, replaced by the new life that had formed within the cup of Bucky’s hand.  As he watched, it bloomed, strong and true and fast as the spread of dawn’s light across the treetops.

“What the fuck?” Bucky breathed.  His head was shaking from side to side, the motion slow and languid, like rolling molasses. 

The new shoot of the tree continued to grow, and when Steve reached out and took Bucky’s hand in his again, Bucky didn’t resist.  Not this time.  He let Steve guide him, let the man manipulate Bucky’s fingers, dancing them over the new growth.  As they watched, the sprig moved and stretched, leaves growing to curl around Bucky’s fingers and tendrils reaching out for Bucky’s wrist.  They wrapped and wound around, moving down Bucky’s arm, and engulfing his skin up to his elbow.

“Don’t be like that,” Steve said, clearly talking to the tree.  Just when Bucky started to worry, when he frowned at the tight feeling of the plant winding its way around him like a rope and squeezing, Steve’s hand came into play.  His eyes – so startlingly blue – flicked over to settle on Bucky again.

“Never give yourself over fully to the forest,” he warned gently.  “But I’ll be there.  Always.  To keep you safe.”

Steve didn’t force anything, didn’t break the stems, or make the tree bleed again.  Instead, he just touched and pressed, guided, and slipped his fingers under the tightening coils.  The sprig retreated on its own, and maybe it was Bucky’s imagination, or maybe he was hearing the world around him clearly for the first time, but he was sure that the tree hissed and sighed at the gentle reproach.

“You’ve had enough,” Steve said.  Once again, the words weren’t meant for Bucky, and Steve moved Bucky’s right arm up and in, tucking it in between their chests and away from the lively tree.

“Do you see, now?”  Steve was still there, still close and pressed against him, and now his hands held Bucky with reverence.  Bucky wasn’t scared of him anymore; he didn’t see flashing knives and canine teeth made to hurt or kill, and he didn’t want to shudder at the idea of joints cracking and bones splintering as Steve changed into another part of himself.

Somehow, it all just made sense.

Steve was warmth, and he was comfort.  He smelled of the earth and autumn foliage, of lazy nights under the stars wrapped in fur pelts and herbs burning in a crackling fire.  Of bourbon and malt and vanilla and the wooden barrel used in a fresh spring harvest.  Steve carried the scent of home, and his voice was there, rumbling in the back of Bucky’s consciousness and touching the parts of his soul Bucky had struggled so hard to suppress.  It was soothing and calming as Bucky had twisted and convulsed in the mud all those years ago, and those hands had been gentle and guiding against his face as he’d come back to the world of the living.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”  The words were whispered against Bucky’s temple.  They sat there, warm and soothing and speaking of a world that Bucky had only ever seen in his childhood dreams.

There was so much that Bucky didn’t understand.  So much that pulled his heart and his head in different directions.  Childhood stories and deep-set fantasies, pills to dull his mind, and the way smoke had trailed from his babushka’s nostrils as she spoke of the gods of her homeland.  Of vodyanoy and the kikimora, and the leshi that guarded the forests with the vukodlak, wild and fierce and brave, who prowled by their side.

And Steve.

Steve.

“I tried so hard to find you,” Steve kept talking, his voice hushed, low and guttural and reserved only for them.  “After that night.”

That night.  Bucky knew.  He’d known from the moment Steve had first spoken to him.  That voice, so familiar and so ingrained in his memory, and yet simultaneously so lost to him, the sound breaking down in a haze of medications and pushed out through counselling.

“But the city…” Steve carried on.  Both arms were now around Bucky’s waist, pulling him in close.  Flush against his body, and so Steve’s nose could nuzzle in against Bucky’s throat.  Nothing about it was frightening, not anymore, and Bucky sighed and wrapped both arms up around Steve’s shoulders.

“I couldn’t find you.  I could hear you, and.  And your pain.  But you never… you didn’t lead me home,” Steve carried on, his words a confession pressed against the tender skin of Bucky’s throat.  “You didn’t be who you were always meant to be.”

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded.  There was so much he wanted to say, so many confessions to make and so many questions to ask, but there were a time and a place for them, and thrumming with the energy that he’d denied himself for years, Bucky just knew that they’d have time.  There’d be lazy days and endless nights, and time that spanned well beyond the comprehension of humans.  So many moments and endless years where they could come to grips with everything that they were.

So when Steve spoke again, Bucky stopped questioning everything that he didn’t understand, and he gave himself over to the words, trusting instincts that he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

“Добро пожаловать домой,” Steve finally said, and Bucky, his Russian a hazy, forgotten part of his early upbringing, smiled as he somehow clearly understood.

“Спасибо.”

And when Steve kissed him again, pressing Bucky’s back to the tree, blossoms formed on that indoor branch, the colours vivid and beautiful despite the autumn chill of the early morning.

There is a house in the middle of the woods.  It sits at the end of an impossibly long driveway, the dirt road tightly lined with shrubs and dense foliage that twist up into the thick of an impenetrable forest.  The house has no letterbox, and other than the half-concealed driveway – which is too easy to miss – there are no other signs of its presence from the road.  Not even a telegraph pole or a coil of electrical cable cutting through the trees.

It could easily be the abode of an evil witch, one whose survival relies on consuming the souls of children, or maybe a woodsman prone to cutting the hearts out of wayward travellers.

The lovers who live in the woods are neither of those things, but they reside there for a reason.  They have their fair share of secrets; ones that run deep and old as the roots of the tallest tree, and destiny entwines them together, their love stretching back across starlight and time.

While one answers to the moon, bound to the crystalline skies, and governed by the stillness of the night, the other radiates the warmth of the earth and the timelessness of nature.   

And when the night is dark, and the moon is full and high, a man can be seen walking through the woods, his body tall and strong like the trees that surround him.  They lean in, branches reaching; stretching; seeking to be close, and in a show of adoration and thankfulness, they bloom as he passes – even in the depths of winter.  Sometimes, when starlight and the glow of the moon trickle through the trees, antlers of pure light crown his forehead, ghostly and ethereal.

Always together, a large, grey wolf runs loops around the mysterious man.  It sings songs of passion and love to the protector of the forest, and to the moon that guides them both, and in the darkness, the wolf’s eyes are a yellow fire.  Eternally watchful and forever safeguarding the man the wolf spent a lifetime waiting for.

The End