Archive of Our Own ^beta

What the fuck was that? Sure, Steve is allowed to be happy, but what the fuck? What happened to ‘not without you’? What happened to ‘until the end of the line’? They still had so much left to live. But he left, it didn’t feel like a real send off, but Steve left him standing there– well, not really, an older Steve, one a past version of himself never thought he would get to see came by. They had talked for a little, but it wasn’t about them. Steve and Bucky, Bucky and Steve. It was more about the shield, about Sam– and good on him for taking up that mantle, Captain America was big shoes to fill and if anyone could it was Sam. Or maybe he was just telling himself that.

He wanted that talk so badly and it felt like his fault that it never came up. He didn’t have to go into cryo in Wakanda, he didn’t have to choose until it was all said and done with the stones.

Maybe he was just a coward with his heart. It wasn’t a conversation that could come up naturally in the mess they had been dealing with. And now he’s gone and now Bucky can’t talk to him about how he doesn’t think they can be those two kids from Brooklyn anymore but God does he want to try. He needed his best– friend isn’t the word people nowadays would use, but challenging that decades old status quo was terrifying.

But now Steve is gone, and he couldn’t tell him that he wanted to try.

Sam had invited him to get a couple of drinks that day. Any other day and he would have said no, but that day he didn’t.

They had chosen to just sit at the bar, Sam was buying and Bucky had decided to just have whatever he was having. The worst part about the serum running through him was Bucky couldn’t get drunk off this. He missed being able to do that, but it was probably good that he couldn’t, with all he’d been through.

“Why didn’t you talk to him?” Sam asked, looking expectantly, like he fully believed that he was going to spill his guts over a couple of beers.

“He deserved a retirement that people couldn’t pull him out of.” He replied, he did believe every word of it, as much as he wished Steve didn’t. Bucky spoke like he knew saying anything would get his friend to stay.

“Did you want him to?”

“No.” It came out too bitter, he wanted to be happy for his friend, but it felt so out of character for Steve. He went to hell and back for him, risked throwing away his career with the military, risked his freedom and team, all for him. It didn’t feel like that Steve would choose to leave him. “He did deserve to retire when he was ready. I just didn’t think he would leave.”

Sam could see he was backtracking, but he didn’t say anything. He just nodded. The rest of their night wasn’t a forced conversation, but Bucky was avoiding talking about Steve and Sam could tell. Neither were really sure if the other wanted to be closer, even understand each other.

-
-

Bucky slept on the floor of his apartment for the first time in a while. Barely a blanket separated him from the floor, it was uncomfortable. He didn’t care, he was angry and didn’t know how to vent it. It’s not like Steve could feel affected by this. He deserved to give himself a happy ending.

It went on like that for a week or so, he wasn’t really sure.

Sleep on the floor, despite having a bed, despite that bed being more comfortable than the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror until he was comfortable with what he saw.
Go to therapy and forget to mention what he felt about Steve leaving.
Get a drink with Sam, despite it not doing much of anything for him.
Repeat.

Sleep on the floor, despite having a bed, despite that bed being more comfortable than the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror until he was comfortable with what he saw.
Go to therapy and forget to mention what he felt about Steve leaving.
Get a drink, despite it not doing much of anything for him.
Repeat.

Sleep on the floor, despite having a bed, despite that bed being more comfortable than the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror until he was comfortable with what he saw.
Go to therapy and forget to mention what he felt about Steve leaving.
Get some drinks.
Repeat.

Sleep on the floor, despite having a bed, despite that bed being more comfortable than the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror.
Go to therapy and forget to mention what he felt about Steve leaving.
Get some drinks.
Repeat.

Sleep on the floor, despite having a bed, despite that bed being more comfortable than the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror.
Go to therapy.
Get some drinks.
Repeat.

Lay on the floor, he deserved the floor.
Stare at himself in the mirror.
Go to therapy.
Get some drinks.
Repeat.
Floor.
Mirror.
Therapy.
Drinks.
Repeat.

Floor.
Therapy.
Repeat.

Floor.
Sam. Sam called. He checked in. He called out that Bucky’s hair was getting long again. They got lunch, talked, Sam invited him to stay at his place. He declined. Sam offered to come stay with him. He said no to that too. That felt like over stepping, an invasion of his privacy- what the hell was he talking about? It wasn’t privacy, he wanted to save face, make sure no one thought that Steven Fucking I’m-with-you-till-the-end-of-the-line Grant Rogers left him for a dame he kissed once.

It made Bucky realize something, that little tidbit, it didn’t matter how much care he showed for him. It didn’t matter how many times he’d touched his forehead to the other’s, how many lumps he’d taken keeping Steve out of trouble, how many times he’d stayed up all night because Steve was so sick he thought he wouldn’t make it.

It. Did. Not. Matter.

Steve would leave. And he did leave. Sometimes he wished that scrawny little kid from Brooklyn stayed there. It wouldn’t have changed his turnout in life, but he wouldn’t be here like this.

Bucky found himself at a bar again. Alcohol didn’t do much for him, what with the serum running through him, but the burn was still nice. He was sipping, well, he didn’t know what it was but it made his throat feel like it was on fire, so that was good enough. Someone who looked like he was having a worse week than him sat beside him. He ordered “the strongest you’ve got”, so he was quite a bit younger, that’s what he figured at least. Maybe he just wasn’t much of a drinker, Bucky didn’t know. Either stress had aged the man beside him, or he just was that old.

Bucky couldn’t stop staring. He looked kinda like Steve, before the serum, when he was only somebody to him. Blue eyes, a sharpish chin, and a nose with a bit of a bump in it, kinda lean but not sickly like Steve was. The only real difference was that he didn’t have that perfect blond, it was more brown and looked much darker at the roots. The bartender gave the man a drink, no ID asked for. This guy was a regular, and Bucky had never seen him before? He had to be making things up now. Was it that bad? This longing for his- friend back. God, maybe he was hallucinating, but it felt too real. And this guy noticed the staring, looking his way.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He grumbled, jerking his head in a way that was probably meant to be a shake but didn’t really translate that way. He’d been through the ringer, that was for sure. The messy, almost torn clothes, mussed hair and tired eyes. The whole vibe the guy gave off. Bucky felt bad.

“Not staring to be rude, just, you look like an old friend of mine.” He replied, somehow smug about it, but he made a placating gesture with his hands. “There a story behind all that or is it normal for you to be walkin’ round like that?”

“It’s not normal. I’m having a rough week.” Thank god he didn’t sound like Steve. That would have been the final nail in the coffin. Steve had a rougher voice, a lot of fry from being sick so much and a deeper pitch from the serum. This guy was smoother, more midrange, maybe even high.

“Rough life it looks like.”

“Yeah… well-”

They talked, for a while, until the bar closed. Bucky let the kid complain and he listened, giving tidbits and such without giving too much of himself away. The kid hadn’t realized who he was yet, so it was best to keep that ball rolling, people were less scared of him and took what he said with a grain of salt that way.

Bucky saw him the next day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

It wasn’t long before they were having drinks at his apartment, and Bucky had to make it look like he ate real food and actually slept in his bed. He told him who he was, showed him the arm. He didn’t run or marvel at him, just treated him like a person.

They never went to the other guy’s place, never even spoke about it. It was funny, somewhere along the way of pretending he had good habits so he wouldn’t be asked about his bad ones, the ruse became good habits. He started eating real food, though mostly takeout, he started sleeping in his own bed out of habit instead of sticking to the living room floor, started… living, almost. His therapist had pointed out that he seemed to be doing better, that alone was a good sign.

One night he asked if he could stay over, and for some reason, Bucky let him. He wasn’t sure why he did, helping Steve- not Steve. Mason. He was helping Mason set up on the living room floor. Something about not feeling comfortable trying to get home. No one really believed that Bucky had agreed. Whatever had possessed him to say yes was also telling him to just let Mason share his bed. He couldn’t give into that. This was just some guy, he wasn’t meant to get attached.

-
-

He got attached, Mason had essentially moved in. He lived with him, the kid had gotten a job, they got closer, as much as Bucky hated to admit it. Then, Mason mentioned getting off the couch, and Bucky was against bringing new furniture into the apartment, it was crowded as it was and he’ll be damned if he gave up his couch for one with a hide-a-bed. Mason wasn’t supposed to stay here anyways. But he was, and now they were sharing a bed. How did he let it come to this?

It was Bucky’s best sleep in a very long time, this guy sprawled on his chest. Oh, that was why. He’d used Mason like a weighted blanket. He looked peaceful, comfortable even, a bit of drool was pooling on his shirt, hair in front of his eyes. Bucky brushed it away, the fingers of his right hand brushing his forehead, gentle against the warm skin. Mason stirred, he wasn’t supposed to stir.

“Hi,” he mumbled like he’d forgotten that this crossed a line.

“Hey.”

He started to come around more, finally remembering what was and wasn’t okay. The scrawny guy started mumbling apologies and shifted, putting his hands in a way to get off of him.

“No,” Bucky mumbled back, arms coming to wrap around him, gentle, warm, “you can stay like this.”

It wasn’t an offer- or a request- he was telling him that he was staying. “Oh. Okay.”

He let him get settled, then spoke again. Soft, like he was trying to whisper but didn’t really know how. “My therapist said I need to start letting people in. And I guess the first person I’m really doing that with is you.”

“Not Sam?”

“I can barely tell if he tolerates me, our first meeting… it wasn’t that great.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

-
-

Every night started being like that, Bucky using this guy like a weighted blanket. They were closer than ever it felt. But Bucky remained closed off despite it. And every morning he’d wake up to Mason sprawled out over top of him.

He didn’t want to name this- thing they had. The longer he was around him the less he wanted to say anything at all. There wasn’t really a better way to describe the kisses and touches that had started between them other than half hearted. Absent maybe. It was to ignore the differences he’d started to notice, but it's hard to ignore the mamelons on someone's teeth when your tongue is running over them.

Sometimes it feels like they’re getting somewhere or they’re going to. And then Mason stops it, and Bucky’s glad actually, if he didn’t take that control, he’d probably end up doing something he regrets. Like someone who laughs at the same jokes as Sam. He was so much like Sam when Bucky actually looked at him. He had the kindness and charity that Steve did, but he went about it the way Sam did. He was painfully aware of how much like Sam he was and despite not getting along well with the new Cap, that part was starting to grow on him.

It felt like Mason could feel Bucky trying to create distance, despite being in the same bed all the time. They argued quite a bit, had mostly wordless interactions, stopped laying on each other. He actually watched him scroll through apartment listings. Good riddance. This was supposed to be temporary anyways, no matter how much it had began to irk him at the thought of him leaving too. It shouldn’t, that wasn’t Steve. His face was too round and his voice too high, his eyes too dark and his hair was closer to curls than waves. It had never been Steve, Bucky had just been grieving.

Mason was starting to make him think of Sam, made him want to reach out. But the last time he got a call, Sam had mentioned that Bucky never called. He didn’t sound upset, he was just stating the truth, but if made him anxious. Bucky never was good at fixing things, or initiating. Perhaps some of his old programming was just force of habit now. Or maybe he just didn’t want to bother people.

But time passed and distance grew and the calls from Sam got fewer and farther between. Then one day he was helping Mason box up his stuff. Finally. It should have felt like a finally, but it didn’t. Bucky was going to be alone again. And it was his own damn fault, it’s always his fault.

It was probably the very next day he said hi to his neighbor for the first time. It was… nice, talking to somebody. And even though he hated every second of knowing he spoke to another stranger, he finally had it in him to be the one to call Sam.

Ring.

“Whats’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, just thought I’d check on you.”