
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6756670.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Captain_America_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers
  Character:
      Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Sam_Wilson_(Marvel), Natasha_Romanov,
      Clint_Barton, Alexander_Pierce, Brock_Rumlow, Jack_Rollins, Nick_Fury,
      Sharon_Carter_(Marvel), Wade_Wilson, Scott_Lang
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Rock_Band, Drug_Use, Alcohol, Tattoos, Sexual
      Content, Canon-Typical_Violence, Bandom_-_Freeform, Implied/Referenced
      Child_Abuse
  Series:
      Part 1 of Ride_The_Lightning
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-05 Completed: 2017-04-08 Chapters: 33/33 Words: 67886
****** Goddamn Electric ******
by GoodGollyMissYollie_(Yollie183)
Summary
     Steve Rogers works for a discreet private security company and gets
     assigned to James Barnes, a musician who takes the idea of 'sex,
     drugs & rock 'n roll' just a little too seriously.
     ***Complete***
Notes
     Work and chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Your Trust is in Whiskey and Weed and Black Sabbath *****
I'm feeling miles away
You think I've got it made
I don't belong here
I'm feeling like a candle burning at both ends
I don't belong here
 
Now I hide myself away
I never wanna feel again
Cause I faced this all alone
I let it seep and wash away now
It's all the same
And what I have I have in mind
And I think about you all the time
 
- Got It Made, Seether
~
 
“Are you sure you gave me the right assignment?” Steve pinched his phone
between his ear and shoulder, frowning down at the folder in his hand.
“Yes, Captain Rogers,” the voice of Nick Fury – head of Shield, the private
security firm Steve worked for – said over the line.
“I’m not a captain anymore,” Steve said for the umpteenth time, “I’m just Steve
now.”
“Well, Just Steve,” Fury said in exasperation, “I am sure I gave you the right
assignment. Now get to work.”
“Alright, thanks, Nick,” Steve said and ended the call.
 
He stared at the file. Being ex-special forces meant that Steve usually got
assigned as bodyguard to politicians and dignitaries. This time though, his
client was James Barnes. And honest-to-god rock star.Even Steve, who was
utterly ignorant of rock music, knew who James Barnes was. He was notorious for
living the clichéd ‘sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll’ lifestyle that was better
suited to the eighties. James Barnes was a wreck, and Steve wasn’t sure he felt
good about being his bodyguard. Steve wasn’t even sure why he would need a
bodyguard. The few pictures Steve had seen of him showed a man who was nearly
as tall as Steve and in just as good physical shape.
Steve, however, knew he had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted to keep
his job. And Nick had never yet made a bad call when selecting clients, so
there was no reason for Steve to go against him.
 
Instead, Steve called his housemate and friend.
 
“Sam,” Steve said seriously when Sam answered his phone. “I’ve been assigned to
James Barnes.”
“Who?”
“James Barnes, man. The guy from Siberia, the band? You’re always going on to
Nat about how she thinks he’s hot and she threatens to dismember you?”
“Oh! That guy. But you don’t even like rock music.”
 
Steve did not like rock music, that much was true. He thought it was noisy and
messy and belonged in dive bars. Which was why, in the days leading up to him
being shipped off to Holland to stand guard outside a door while James Barnes
enjoyed his drug-fuelled orgies during their European tour, Steve played Mario
Kart with Sam and Nat and Clint, instead of listening to the get-to-know-your-
client package that Shield had sent over.
 
“You cheating asshole!” Clint screamed at Natasha, throwing down his
controller.
“Blue Shells are not cheating,” Natasha said serenely, a small smile tugging at
the corners of her mouth.
“They damn well should be,” Clint muttered angrily as he stomped to Steve and
Sam’s kitchen. He was still muttering when he came back laden with cold beer
and Doritos. Steve grinned happily, content with second place, and watched Sam
and Clint strategize on how to take Nat out in the next round. He was going to
miss this. It was easily the worst part of his job, having to be away from home
for long periods of time. Still, he got to see the world, so it wasn’t all bad.
He tried not to think about his packed suitcases or his early morning flight as
he played video games with his friends. He was so determined to have a good
time while he still could, he even let Clint win a couple of races.
 
Sam woke Steve up at half-past-too-damn-early and drove him to the airport.
“Get their autographs for me!” Sam squealed as they said goodbye. “They’re my
very favourite band and I want their babies!” His voice reached an octave that
made Steve’s ears hurt – and made everyone in a two-mile radius look at them
like they were crazy.
In retaliation, Steve grabbed Sam around the waist and peppered his face with
kisses. “Oh, I’m gonna miss you soooo much my wittle boo-boo baby!”
“Ugh, get off me man, that is not cool!” Sam pushed Steve away, but he was
laughing and Steve counted that as a victory.
 
The flight was uneventful, if a little uncomfortable (airplanes just weren’t
designed for people as big as Steve) and so was the car ride through the
darkened streets of Rotterdam. The hotel they stopped at was classy, all glass
and metal architecture and Steve was met in the lobby by a blonde with a warm
smile who introduced herself as Sharon.
“How was your flight?” she asked as they stepped into the elevator. She pressed
the button for the penthouse.
“Fine, thanks,” Steve mumbled. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets,
wishing that the hotel staff hadn’t taken all his luggage and left him
awkwardly empty handed.
“That’s good. Do you get carsick?”
The question took Steve a little by surprise. “No, ma’am.”
Sharon smiled. “That’s good. You’ll be travelling with Mr Barnes on his bus for
the European dates.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And please call me Sharon, I’m not a million years old.”
Steve gave a chuckle at that, just as the elevator doors slid open to reveal a
small luxurious living room and kitchenette, with a short hallway leading to a
couple of closed doors.
“I daresay you’ll find Mr Barnes through that door,” Sharon’s smile widened as
she stepped back to the elevator. “Your luggage will be brought up momentarily.
Have fun.”
The elevator doors closed, leaving Steve alone in the penthouse of a fancy
hotel with a rock star.
Okay, Steve, you can do this.Steve took a deep breath. He would just pop his
head in, introduce himself and get out of Barnes’ way.
So Steve walked toward the door and knocked quietly. There was no answer, but
from the muffled sound of music from within the room, Steve assumed his knock
went unheard. So he turned the knob and entered the room, then stopped dead in
his tracks at the sight before him.
James Barnes, wearing nothing but tight black leather pants, was leaning over a
very naked man on the bed. Dark hair obscured his features as he snorted a line
of cocaine off the other man’s chest. He sat back on his haunches, wiping his
nose with the back of his hand, and his eyes fell on Steve, frozen in the
doorway.
“Well, hey there, good looking,” Barnes smirked. “Come to join the party?”
“I… uhm,” Steve stuttered, then abortively whispered; “no.”
“No?” Barnes leaned forward again, to do the next white line, a hand running up
his back alerting Steve to the fact that there was a woman on the bed as well,
her figure obscured by Barnes.
“No,” Steve said, more empathetically. “Mr Barnes, my name is Steve Rogers, I
work for Shield. I’ve been assigned to act as private security for you.”
Barnes frowned. “Private security? I didn’t hire a bodyguard.”
“I did,” said a voice behind Steve. A man entered the bedroom, casting a
disapproving glance over the scene in front of him.
“No way, Pierce. I’m not having a fucking boy scout running after me all day.”
“Yes, you are.” The man’s face remained coolly expressionless, but Barnes
seemed to shrink under his gaze. He looked to Steve again, blue eyes narrowed,
not saying a word as the man named Pierce called in a member of hotel staff to
get rid of Barnes’ guests.
Pierce motioned for Barnes and Steve to follow him to the living room, and
under the much brighter lights Steve could make out some of the tattoos
covering Barnes’s skin, including one covering his arm from shoulder to
fingertips that looked like interlocking metal plates, done in shades of grey.
Steve could also make out a large white bandage covering a section of Barnes’
stomach.
“Mr Rogers, my name is Alexander Pierce, I am Siberia’s manager.”
Steve shook Pierce’s hand.
“And you’ve met James, albeit a little unconventionally.”
Barnes snorted and sauntered over to the minibar.
Pierce’s eyes followed him, disapproval written clearly on his face, but he
didn’t say anything as Barnes pulled a bottle of vodka from the fridge and took
a swig.
“So, Mr Rogers, I assume you’ve read the file we sent over?”
“I looked it over. Bias doesn’t help me do my job.”
Pierce frowned, but Steve did not back away. The information in the file was
thin and painted Barnes as a tortured artist, when he was clearly a junkie.
“Very well, Steve,”Pierce said as the elevator opened behind him to reveal a
member of the hotel staff with Steve’s luggage. Pierce moved to the elevator,
saying over his shoulder, “James’ safety is our first priority. He is our
greatest asset.”
Steve looked to Barnes and noticed the other man had blanched at Pierce’s
words, the bottle of vodka gripped in his white-knuckled hand.
There was an awkward silence as Steve’s luggage was taken to the penthouse’s
second bedroom. Finally, when he and Barnes were alone, Steve ventured to
speak.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. I thought you knew about me.”
Barnes, who’d been staring into space, met Steve’s eyes with a steely blue
gaze.
“Yeah, whatever. Just stay out of my way, okay, Fido?”
Steve bristled at that.
“Maybe you should try being a bit less rude.”
This got a bark of laughter from Barnes and he stepped closer to Steve.
“You were the one who interrupted my threesome, and I’m rude?”
Steve swallowed, and tried to take a step backward, only to find his way
blocked by the back of the couch. Barnes was very close to him, close enough
for Steve to notice the one of his front teeth was slightly crooked when he
smirked.
“So,” Barnes continued, quirking an eyebrow, “how are you going to make that up
to me?”
***** One Hand On The Bottle, The Other A Shaking Fist *****
Chapter Summary
     In which we meet the band...
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.
     The song Bucky sings is Blue Study by Stone Sour
Something takes a part of me.
Something lost and never seen.
Every time I start to believe,
Something's raped and taken from me... from me.
Life's got to always be messing with me. 
Can't they chill and let me be free? 
Can't I take away all this pain. 
I try to every night, all in vain... 
Sometimes I cannot take this place.
Sometimes it's my life I can't taste.
Sometimes I cannot feel my face.
You'll never see me fall from grace
Something takes a part of me.
You and I were meant to be.
A cheap fuck for me to lay
Something takes a part of me.
Feeling like a freak on a leash. 
Feeling like I have no release. 
How many times have I felt diseased? 
Nothing in my life is free... 
 
- Freak On A Leash, Korn
~
 
“So,” Barnes continued, quirking an eyebrow, “how are you going to make that up
to me?”
 
Steve squared his shoulders and sidestepped Barnes, putting some distance
between them.
“Nice try,” Steve’s lip curled.
Barnes pouted, but raised his shoulder in a shrug before lifting the bottle to
his lips.
 
Yeah,Steve thought sourly to himself later, while he was unpacking in his room,
this assignment was going to be so much fun.
Babysitting a petulant man-child junkie rock star was definitely not the reason
Steve had gone into private security after the military. Steve made sure his
alarm clock was set so he wouldn’t oversleep and miss the band’s early morning
rehearsal, then called Sam.
It was midnight local time, but not too late in New York and Sam was still
awake.
“He made a pass at me,” Steve said without preamble when Sam answered.
“Did you take him up on it?”
“No,” Steve scoffed. “He’s not my type.”
“Tall, dark and handsome,” Sam sounded amused, “he’s exactly your type, man.”
“I don’t go for junkies.”
“According to Wikipedia, it’s never been more than a recreational habit.”
“I walked in on him doing lines off a guy’s chest.”
Sam guffawed.
“It’s not funny, Sam!” Steve whined.
“Maybe you’d find it funnier with his cock in your –“
“Sam!” Steve exclaimed in a scandalized tone.
“Oh, come on,” Sam said, “like you haven’t thought about it.”
“I don’t want his cock anywhere near me,” Steve said with distaste.
“Whose cock?” a voice asked behind him.
Steve jumped and dropped his phone, swinging around to face James Barnes
lounging in his doorway.
“Justin Bieber’s,” Steve lied, stooping to pick up his phone. He gestured to
it, saying, “do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Barnes smirked and stepped into the room to sit on the end of
Steve’s bed.
Steve glowered as he put his phone to his ear.
“Sorry, Sam, I gotta go.”
“Have fun!” Sam chortled as he hung up.
“Was that your girlfriend?” Barnes asked, toying with the pyjama bottoms Steve
had put on the bed to sleep in.
“No,” Steve said.
“Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
Barnes huffed. “Who even wears pyjamas anymore?”
Steve bit back a retort, instead asking, “why are you in my room?”
Barnes rolled his eyes. “I’m bored. Y’know, you ain’t acting very
professionally toward me.”
“I apologise, Mr Barnes,” Steve said with as much bland sarcasm as he could
muster.
Barnes snorted. He stopped toying with Steve’s pyjamas, instead leaning back on
the bed, supported by his outstretched arms.
Steve motioned toward the bandage on Barnes’ stomach.
“What happened?”
Barnes looked down at it. “I got into a fight. Guy pulled a knife outta
nowhere. Which is probably the reason for you being here.”
Steve nodded. He was suddenly having a hard time not looking at the tattoos
covering Barnes’ skin.
He noticed a red star on the bicep of Barnes’ left arm, over the metal-plate
design. There was something written in Cyrillic across his chest, from
collarbone to collarbone, and a large flower and thorn design running across
his ribcage and down to one protruding hipbone. Steve’s eyes lingered on a
pattern of dark birds peeking over Barnes’ right shoulder, before dropping to
the indecipherable writing below his bellybutton. Barnes noticed him looking.
“What?” Barnes demanded, “do you have some self-righteous opposition to
tattoos?”
“No,” Steve said, forcing his eyes up to meet Barnes’ gaze. “I have a couple
myself.”
Barnes raised his eyebrows, his gaze dropping quickly to Steve’s waist and
roaming back up to his face.
“Show me.”
Steve scoffed and shook his head.
“Oh, come on!” Barnes expressive lips turned down in a moue. “You’ve seen
mine!”
It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Everyone with an internet connection has
seen yours.”
“Do you Google me often, Rogers?”
“Only when I’m paid to,” Steve shot back.
Barnes gave another petulant little huff. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m not supposed to be fun,” Steve said, with all the patience of someone
explaining quantum physics to a three-year-old.
Barnes narrowed his eyes. “Did Pierce tell you to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Be standoffish. Disapproving.”
“No,” Steve said, genuinely surprised, “why would he do that?”
But Barnes didn’t answer, instead he got up off Steve’s bed and stalked to the
door, slamming it behind him.
Steve stared at the closed door for a few confused seconds. Barnes seemed to
have major issues with Pierce. Maybe he resented his manager’s attempts to get
him in line. Steve supposed that a spoilt rock star would hate any constraints
placed on his freedom, even if it was done with the best intentions.
Deciding that trying to figure out the politics surrounding his latest client
was way too much effort, Steve got ready for bed.
 
~
 
The next morning, Steve dressed in a dark blue button-down and jeans to
maintain discretion, then tailed a very grumpy and hungover Barnes (all in
black) to the hotel lobby to meet the rest of Siberia.
They were grouped near the reception desk, along with Alexander Pierce, who
looked slightly out of place in his grey business suit among the black-clad,
tattooed and pierced band members.
Pierce did the introductions.
There was Brock Rumlow, lead guitarist, a dark-haired man only a few inches
shorter than Steve, who had an arrogant grin and gripped Steve’s hand a little
tighter than necessary.
Then Jack Rollins, bassist, who didn’t say much, but didn’t smile either.
Scott Lang, who did turntables, grinned and poked Steve’s bicep, joking about
his workout schedule, before being pushed aside by a man wearing a red and
black mask.
“Wade, for the love of God, take that thing off. We haven’t even had breakfast
yet,” Barnes said, reaching for the mask.
The man named Wade ducked out of his way, but pulled off the mask as he shook
Steve’s hand.
“Name’s Wade W. Wilson, nice to meet ya, Captain America!” he said as his face
was revealed. His skin, from his left temple, down below the collar of his
shirt was covered in mottled pink and white scar-tissue.
“Captain America?” Steve questioned with a raised eyebrow.
“You look like the American wet dream,” Wade said, then added (at Pierce’s
glare), “not that I’d know. I’m Canadian.”
“Can we get some breakfast now?” Barnes interjected before Steve or Pierce
could say anything.
“Yes, we can,” Pierce nodded, herding them into the hotel’s restaurant.
 
Breakfast was a slightly noisy affair, what with Scott and Wade getting into a
raucous discussion over the best album from a band Steve had never heard of.
“What do you think, Steve?” Wade called across the table to Steve who was
sandwiched between Barnes and Scott.
“About what?” Steve asked, pausing with a forkful of omelette halfway to his
mouth.
“About Pantera’s best album,” Wade didn’t add the ‘duh’, but it was implied in
his tone.
“No idea who that is,” Steve admitted.
Five pairs of eyes turned on Steve with expressions ranging from incredulity to
outright horror.
“You’re joking, right?” Barnes uttered.
“Uhm, no.” Steve felt his face turn red. “I don’t really listen to rock music.”
“Metal!” Wade nearly shouted. “It’s called metal! Rock is what the Rolling
Stones did.” The anguish in Wade’s voice made Steve want to smile, but he
realized in time that that would be a bad move.
“Do you know who the Rolling Stones are?” Scott asked carefully.
“Of course,” Steve said quickly, neglecting to mention he only knew a grand
total of three of their songs.
“Do you listen to our music?” Wade put his hand dramatically over his heart.
“Not really,” Steve said quietly.
“Mr Rogers has the right to his own taste in music,” Pierce stated as Barnes,
Scott and Rumlow seemed to be about to start shouting.
Wade was staring fixedly at Steve, a heartbroken expression on his face.
The rest of breakfast was tense and Steve felt like he’d made a major tactical
error in not listening to the Siberia albums Shield had put in the info packet
for this assignment.
 
They drove to the venue of that night’s concert in a large van, Steve
manoeuvred by Pierce to sit next to Barnes, with Wade on his other side. The
scarred man talked a mile a minute at Barnes over Steve’s head, with Barnes
giving a lot of eye rolls and ‘you can’t physically play drums underwater,
Wade’s.
This was going to be a very long assignment,Steve thought to himself.
 
The venue was a large club in a warehouse, right on the water. Steve scanned
the area, noting exits and entrances as the trooped through the front door into
the brightly lit club. Steve made sure he knew every nook and cranny while the
band started sound check and whatever else technical things band did.
When he had the place cased, Steve stood to the side of the stage, leaning
against the wall. He watched Barnes fiddle with a microphone, before picking up
a guitar and playing a couple of chords. The man stepped up to the mic stand,
strumming the guitar, then began singing the Animaniacs theme is a deafening
falsetto, with Wade joining in gleefully from behind his drum kit.
“God, James, shut the fuck up!” Rumlow growled.
Barnes made a face, but stopped singing and stepped back from the mic stand to
plop down on the stage, the guitar cradled in his lap. He began strumming
again, then started singing in a gravelly baritone.
 
“Somewhere between my tongue and cheek
I can feel the hands on me
Pulls me in so we are face to face
I don’t wanna see it… I don’t wanna see
Hold my head up, can’t avert my eyes
Spots and rats on me, I don’t wanna see
Claw the ground up, get me out of this
Never wanted this…”
 
“Okay, can we just get sound check over with, please?” Rumlow cut across
Barnes, who fell silent.
Steve shifted, feeling irrationally annoyed with Rumlow for interrupting
Barnes’ singing. He had a good voice, rough but deep and warm. Maybe it
wouldn’t hurt to listen to Siberia’s music after all, Steve mused.
“Yeah,” Barnes got to his feet again.
The band made sure all their equipment was in working order, then trooped back
to the van with Steve and Pierce in tow.
“Do you stay with the band all the time?” Steve asked Pierce, who shook his
head.
“Sharon has some time off this morning, and since it’s your first day, I
thought I’d stick around. But I’m flying back to New York tomorrow.”
Steve nodded and allowed himself to be squashed between Barnes and Wade again.
Back at the hotel, Barnes and Steve got into the elevator while the rest of the
band went their separate ways. Barnes stayed quiet until they reached the
penthouse. Once there, he rounded on Steve.
“Okay, Rogers, take off your clothes.”
 
***** They Put It In Your Head, Then Put You In Your Bed *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Fucking Hostile by Pantera.
     Also, I know only a bare minimum of Dutch, and I've only ever driven
     through the outskirts of Rotterdam, so please excuse any mistakes.
     (Also, I chose Rotterdam instead of Amsterdam because it has a more
     industrial feel.)
Frail, the skin is dry and pale, the pain will never fail
And so we go back to the remedy
Clip the wings that get you high, just leave them where they lie
And tell yourself, "You'll be the death of me"
 
I don't need a friend, I need to mend so far away
So come sit by the fire and play a while, but you can't stay too long
It aches in every bone, I'll die alone, but not for pleasure
I see my heart explode, it's been eroded by the weather here
If you want me hold me back
 
- Remedy, Seether
~
 
“Okay, Rogers, take off your clothes.”
 
“I… What, no? Excuse me?” Steve felt himself blush and cursed his Irish blood.
Barnes grinned. “Your clothes, Rogers. We’re going out and you can’t be dressed
like that.”
“Out where?” Steve asked.
“Somewhere fun,” Barnes replied, “now go change.”
Steve looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You look like a cop. Just wear something a bit more…” Barnes waved his hand
impatiently.
“Black?” Steve suggested.
“Yeah,” Barnes nodded, “like me.”
“Yeah, no can do,” Steve said with a shrug.
“Why not?” Barnes whined in exasperation.
“Because I only own two articles of black clothing, both of which are currently
on a different continent,” Steve grudgingly explained.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Barnes threw his hands up. “Come on!”
He turned, stalking to his room, with Steve on his heels.
Barnes started pulling clothes out of the suitcase that was dumped
unceremoniously on the floor by the bed. He held up a black shirt, one eye
closed to gauge if it would fit Steve, then tossed it aside and picked up
another.
“Here,” he said, throwing the shirt at Steve, and turned back to the suitcase.
Steve looked at the picture on the black fabric. “What am I advertising here?”
Barnes lifted his head, a pair of black jeans held out to Steve.
“Cannibal Corpse. Put these on.” He gave the jeans a little shake and Steve
took them, still staring at the shirt.
“Cannibal Corpse? That’s disgusting,” Steve grimaced in distaste.
“They make good music. Do you need help getting dressed, or something?” Barnes
made little ‘hurry up’ motions with his hands.
Steve sighed and turned to the door, holding the jeans and shirt gingerly.
“Where are you going?” Barnes called after him.
Steve paused, halfway out the door. “To my room to get dressed.”
Barnes rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to jump you in a fugue of lust the
moment you show your nipples.”
“I don’t know about that,” Steve threw over his shoulder as the crossed the
hallway, “I do have pretty sexy nipples.”
Steve turned to enjoy the dumbfounded expression on Barnes’ face, before
closing the door of his room.
He got dressed quickly. The jeans fit okay, but the shirt was at least a size
too small. Steve stuck his tongue out at his reflection in the mirror, before
pulling his black Converse All-Stars from the bottom of his suitcase. He
silently thanked Natasha for making him buy them.
Fully dressed, Steve opened his door to find Barnes leaning against the wall
opposite his room.
Barnes looked him up and down appraisingly for a moment, then nodded and said,
“That’ll do, Pig.”
Steve snorted as he took the black hoodie Barnes was holding out to him, but
didn’t put it on.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Steve said as he pushed the
button to summon the elevator, but Barnes grabbed his outstretched arm.
“What’s that?” he tugged Steve’s arm closer, to inspect the dark shape on the
inside of his bicep.
“It’s a tattoo,” Steve stated the obvious.
“No shit,” Barnes ran his fingers over the inked lines and Steve felt his
cheeks grow warm as goose bumps erupted over his skin. “But what is it?”
Steve looked at Barnes closely inspecting the eagle-and-crest design with the
Latin inscription.
“It was my unit’s insignia, in the military.”
“Semper Fi,” Barnes said under his breath, then added, louder, “I should’ve
known your tat would be something like this.”
Steve shrugged, grateful that the elevator doors chose that moment to open and
Barnes let go of his arm.
“Special forces?” Barnes questioned on the way down.
“Yeah,” Steve nodded, feeling the familiar heaviness come to rest on his
shoulders as he thought about his military days.
Barnes stayed quiet, chewing on his bottom lip, his gaze drifting.
The elevator let them out in the hotel lobby and Barnes led the way outside and
up the street.
“Mr Barnes, you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Steve reminded him.
“We’re going to see a friend of mine,” Barnes answered impatiently, “and for
the love of God, don’t call me ‘Mr Barnes’.”
“What should I call you, then?”
Barnes turned a corner and headed for a bus stop, pulling his hood up when a
young woman looked at him a beat too long.
“My name is Bucky,” he said, sitting down on the bench.
“Bucky?” Steve raised an eyebrow, taking a seat next to him. “Thought your name
was James?”
“My middle name is Buchanan.”
“Okay. Bucky it is, then,” Steve replied.
Barnes- no, Bucky. Bucky was fidgeting beside him, scratching at his forearm.
When he saw Steve looking, he tucked his hands beneath his thighs. Before Steve
could comment, a bus pulled up to the curb and Bucky got to his feet. He pulled
his wallet from his back pocket as he boarded.
“Mag ik twee kaartjes, alstublieft?” he asked the driver, handing over money.
“You speak Dutch?” Steve asked in surprise as they sat down next to each other
near the back of the bus.
“Not very well,” Bucky replied.
Steve nodded. Languages had never been his strong suit.
Bucky pulled out his phone, but only checked the time before shoving it back in
his pocket.
Steve couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Are you okay?” he asked Bucky.
“Yeah,” the other man said, pasting on a smile that definitely didn’t fool
Steve. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“You’re twitchy, distracted. Is it withdrawal?”
“No,” Bucky answered.
Steve narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not withdrawal,” Bucky insisted.
“What then?”
“Nothing,” Bucky was scowling now, “just drop it.”
“You know what? Fine.”
“Fine.”
The bus turned a corner and pulled into a large bus and train hub. They got off
and Bucky led the way to another bus terminal and onto a second bus that took
them to the inner city, all in stony silence.
They got off the bus and walked half a block, coming to a halt outside an
apartment building.
Bucky turned on Steve.
“If they ask, I picked you up in a bar last night, okay?”
“No, not okay!” Steve exclaimed.
“If you tell them you’re my bodyguard, we’ll both end up on the bottom of a
grachtin Amsterdam.”
“Right,” Steve said incredulously.
“Bodyguards to them are synonymous with cops. They have effective ways of
keeping the cops away.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
Bucky huffed out a sigh.
“They are people who work with my dealer.”
Steve was aghast. “No. Absolutely not. We are going back to the hotel right
now.”
“No!” Bucky grabbed Steve’s wrist, his fingers icy. “If you don’t come with me,
or you rat me out, I will make damn sure you lose your job.”
There was a gleam in Bucky’s eyes that made Steve take him seriously. Still, he
did not approve of drugs.
“I’m not breaking the law for you, Barnes,” he hissed.
Bucky’s expression changed. “Look, I just need enough to get me through
tonight. For the rest of the tour I’ll be fine.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“I never use on tour.”
“What makes tonight so special then?” Steve questioned.
“Pierce leaves tomorrow,” Bucky said the words unwillingly.
“You’re blaming Pierce for yourdrug habit?” Steve all but sneered.
“I don’t expect you to understand things this far above your paygrade,” Bucky
said sarcastically.
“You know what, Mr Barnes,you are just a lying junkie.”
This seemed to move Bucky to real anger. His features twisted as he spat out
the words. “Don’t ever, ever call me a liar!”
Bucky’s face had drained of colour, his breathing heavy.
“But you are an addict,” Steve stated.
Bucky seemed ready to punch him. “I need this.”
Steve ran his hands through his hair. “Why?”
“It’s only for tonight,” Bucky repeated, instead of answering the question.
“I’ll be clean for the rest of the tour.”
“And after the tour?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know.” Beneath the anger, Bucky was clearly miserable.
“Okay,” Steve started, already hating himself for what he was about to say, “I
play along now, but if I catch you using even once during this tour, I turn you
in.”
Bucky stared at him for a moment, then nodded.
“Also,” Steve added, “I’m not pretending to be your hook-up.”
“Fine,” Bucky conceded, “old friend, then?”
Steve nodded, wondering what the hell he’s let himself in for.
 
They entered the building, taking the stairs to the sixth floor. Bucky walked
ahead of Steve to apartment number sixty-eight, where he stopped to knock.
He turned back to Steve, lightly tugging at the hem of the Cannibal Corpse
shirt.
“It suits you, you know.”
“Black’s not really my colour,” Steve muttered just as the door opened to
reveal a young man with shoulder-length red hair.
“James!” he exclaimed, face breaking open in a smile. His outstretched arms
were black and blue and covered in track marks.
Bucky greeted him in Dutch, stepping into the apartment, with Steve following
close behind. There was a short conversation, where Steve could make out his
name, while Bucky motioned to him. Steve raised his hand in a half-wave.
They were ushered through to the living room. A girl, gaunt and ill-looking sat
on the couch. Bucky walked over to her, saying something in a low voice that
made her smile. He kissed her bony hand before straightening and turning back
to the red-haired man.
Bucky pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and the man handed him a small
canvas bag. Bucky smiled.
“Dank je wel,” he said, then he and Steve were leaving.
 
They took the same two buses back to the hotel in tense silence.
Bucky deposited the canvas bag in his room, then they went back downstairs to
have lunch with the band and Pierce.
Scott and Wade exclaimed over Steve’s wardrobe change, while Rumlow sneered and
Rollins remained stoic as ever.
At the end of the meal, Pierce leaned over to say something in Bucky’s ear and
the dark-haired man nodded, looking unhappy. Steve caught his eye, but Bucky
just glowered and looked away again.
***** Come Meet Your Maker, Boy, Some Things You Can't Enjoy *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Fucking Hostile by Pantera.
     The song Steve recognizes is Sweet Child O' Mine by Guns 'n Roses
     (and I apologize for changing the lyrics, I had a good reason).
     The lyrics Bucky sings were written by me when I was 16, so I
     thoroughly ask for your forgiveness for their horribleness.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Woke up and I feel like shit
I don't remember last night, I'm getting sick of this
I hit the bottle when I got off stage
And got piss drunk stupid and went in a rage
I think I mighta got into a fight
Because my knuckles were bloody and I don't feel alright
I hit the bottom and I don't even care
Some say I'm going to hell but I'm already there
 
Sick and tired of being sick and tired
 
I wanna be free from this ball and chain and
Be free from this life of pain and
Be free from this ball and chain
I wanna be free from you
 
- Be Free, Papa Roach
~
 
The club was packed, dark figures moving under the strobe lights to the music
pumping from the speakers, as the band waited to go on stage.
Bucky fiddled with his guitar strap, dressed in black leather pants and a
sleeveless black shirt. He didn’t seem nervous, but Steve watched him carefully
just the same. Pierce had stayed behind at the hotel and Steve was rather glad
that he wasn’t looking over his shoulder the entire time.
“Three minutes, guys!” a girl called in a heavily accented voice, just as the
music stopped and the club DJ started speaking to the crowd in rapid Dutch.
“You should have kept the t-shirt on,” Bucky told Steve as the band lined up to
step out on stage. He had been annoyed at Steve’s choice to change back into
his own clothes, but Steve had been adamant.
“It’s not really me,you know,” Steve replied.
“You’re no fun!” Bucky called as he walked onto the stage behind the rest of
the band.
Steve stayed in the wings, since the club’s own security were stationed at the
sides of the stage and by all the exits. He leaned against a support beam and
watched as Bucky stepped up to the mic stand, guitar swung carelessly across
his back.
“Goedenavond, Rotterdam!” he shouted to deafening reaction. “Hoe gaat het met
jullie vanavond?” He spoke more Dutch, before swinging his guitar around to
start their first song.
The instrumentals were a heavy thud in the darkened club, but then Bucky
started singing and Steve found it difficult to look away. His voice was
something between a growl and a shout, the words hard to make out. It sounded
painful to Steve, but at the same time the music wasn’t unpleasant. For all its
heaviness, there was a melody underneath and when the song slowed, Bucky’s
cleaner vocals rose out of the din better than some mainstream singers’.
 
“My demons playing hide-and-seek
With confusion in my mind
Running circles, going crazy
Lost in places I can’t find…”
 
Bucky’s body was moving in time with the bass line, his skin already shining
with sweat under the glare of the lights. It was only after three more songs,
when Bucky was talking to the audience between sips of water and the music has
died down for a bit, that Steve realized he’d been neglecting his duties to
stare at the man onstage. Mentally berating himself, Steve did a quick
walkthrough of the backstage area, then a check of all the exits and the office
the band were using as a dressing room for the night. He dodged techies and
club employees as he went, grabbing a bottle of water, and returned to his spot
backstage.
Bucky said something to the crowd that elicited an ear-splitting reaction, then
Rumlow started playing a riff Steve actually recognised.
 
“He’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as
The bright blue sky
 
Now and then, when I see his face
He takes me away to that special place
And if I stared too long
I’d probably break down and cry
 
Oh, oh, oh… sweet child o’ mine
 
He’s got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain…”
 
Steve’s breath caught in his throat. Bucky had turned toward where he was
standing for a moment, and Steve had imagined that he’d sung that line to him.
Then he shook his head, because that was just stupid. He did not miss Bucky’s
use of male pronouns though.
The band’s performance ended just after midnight. They trooped to the back
door, signing autographs and taking selfies on the way with the lucky fans who
had access, while Steve shadowed Bucky at an unobtrusive distance.
One fan, a young woman who spoke English with a strong Irish accent, showed
Bucky a tattoo on her arm. She’d gotten Siberia’s lyrics inked over her self-
harm scars, she told him. For a moment Bucky seemed utterly speechless, then he
pulled her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear for long seconds before
letting go and suggesting a selfie. She nodded, her eyes shining with tears.
Bucky made a beeline for the van after that and Steve stayed close behind him,
sliding into the seat next to his. The other man had his head bowed, his sweat-
soaked hair falling forward, obscuring his face, but the set of his shoulders
and the way he clenched and unclenched his fists made it obvious that he was
upset.
“You okay?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky nodded.
“It’s strange, that people sometimes tell me our music helped them.” His voice
was hoarse.
“That’s good, though,” Steve said.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
The band piled into the van, all seeming energized by the show.
“After party?” Scott asked.
Everyone agreed but Bucky, who claimed he was feeling the onset of laryngitis.
Since his voice was nearly gone, they didn’t argue, but Wade did shoot him a
worried glance over the back of his seat.
Back in the penthouse, Bucky shut himself in his room, music blaring.
Steve sat on the couch and texted Sam.
 
You: How’s Brooklyn?
 
Sam: Better now you’re gone
 
You: Thanks, pal. You make me feel so appreciated
 
Sam: How’s Europe?

You: Very continental.
 
Sam: How’s the rockstar?
 
You: Honestly, kind of troubling.
 
Steve’s phone buzzed with Sam’s reply at the same time the elevator dinged
open, revealing Pierce. Steve got to his feet.
“Where’s James?” he asked without preamble.
“In his room, sir,” Steve said, “I’ll go get him.”
He walked over and knocked on Bucky’s door. The music stopped at once, but the
door didn’t open. Steve knocked again.
“Mr Barnes,” he called, “Mr Pierce is here to see you.”
Steve heard footsteps, then the door opened. Bucky was wearing sweat pants and
a soft grey t-shirt, his eyes a little too bright, the pupils dilated into
miniature black holes. He was obviously high. He didn’t say anything, merely
brushed past Steve.
“I’ll be borrowing James for a couple of hours, we have some scheduling to
figure out, calls to other time zones to make.”
Steve nodded.
Bucky was already in the elevator, and Pierce moved to follow.
“Get some room service, Mr Rogers,” he said genially as the doors slid closed,
“have a little fun.”
Left alone, Steve stood for a long minute, frowning at nothing. The way Pierce
had told Steve to have fun reminded him of Bucky saying ‘you’re no fun’, but
for some reason it made Steve’s skin crawl. Finally deciding, again, that
putting too much thought into the politics surrounding this assignment would do
no one any good, Steve picked up the phone on the side table and ordered room
service.
While he waited, he opened Sam’s text.
 
Sam: Is he in trouble, or trouble for you?
 
You: Both.
 
Steve sighed. Trouble was a very apt word for Bucky Barnes.
 
Steve was in bed, drifting somewhere between sleeping and waking, when he heard
Bucky return to the penthouse. He listened to the other man’s slow footsteps,
then the loud click as the door to Bucky’s room was closed. Steve was almost
asleep again when a loud thudfrom across the hall forced him back to awareness.
A second thud had him on his feet, and he was halfway across the hall when the
third came.
“Bucky?!” he called, already turning the doorknob. It swung open to reveal
Bucky slumped in a heap against the wall, a bottle of whiskey next to him,
half-empty. At Steve’s entrance he gave a lopsided smile.
“Hey, Stevie,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, almost gone. “I hurt my hand.”
He held out his left hand, the knuckles raw, from where he must have punched
the wall.
“Yeah, you did,” Steve said gently, “sit tight, I’ll be right back, okay?”
Steve got the small first-aid kit from the bathroom, then returned to where
Bucky was still sitting. He had his eyes closed, dark hair pushed back behind
his ears, and for the first time Steve noticed the two metal rings adorning
each earlobe. Steve knelt in front of him, rummaging in the kit for rubbing
alcohol and gauze, then took Bucky’s hand. The other man’s eyes opened,
watching Steve intently, his pupils still blown wide, hiding the blue of his
irises.
“This is gonna sting,” Steve warned, before touching the gauze to the abrasions
across Bucky’s knuckles. There was a sleepy kind of silence while Steve dabbed
antibiotic ointment on Bucky’s skin, then checked his right hand, which seemed
fine, aside from several tiny scars covering his fingers.
“They’re from playing guitar,” Bucky answered Steve’s unspoken question, his
voice slurring a little.
Steve suddenly realized he was in fact holding James Barnes’ hand, blushed and
moved away, gathering up the first-aid supplies. He stood up, then reached down
and helped Bucky to his feet.
“Come on, Buck, let’s get you into bed,” he huffed as Bucky leaned nearly all
his weight on him.
“Gee, Stevie, you’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?”
Steve gave a little chuckle, depositing Bucky on the bed.
“Maybe some other time,” Steve told him as he tucked the duvet around him. “Now
get some sleep.”
Bucky’s eyes were closed, already drifting off. “Thanks, Stevie.”
Steve smiled, watching Bucky sleep for a minute until he realized he was being
super creepy, and went back to his own bed.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I want Siberia to do a cover of a song in every show, so unless you
     want it to be Guns 'n Roses every chapter, I'm begging you to leave
     suggestions in the comments! (Any rock or metal song will do)
***** Well I Guess You Took My Youth, I Gave It All Away *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Cemetery Gates by Pantera.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
This disease is getting worse.
I counted my blessings, now I'll count this curse.
The only thing I really know: I can't sleep at night.
I'm buried and breathing in regret.
 
I've got a secret.
It's on the tip of my tongue, it's on the back of my lungs.
And I'm gonna keep it.
I know something you don't know.
 
I may look happy, but honestly dear,
the only way I'll really smile is if you cut me ear to ear.
I see the vultures, they watch me bleed.
They lick their lips, as all the shame spills out of me.
 
Repent! Repent! The end is nigh!
Repent! Repent! We're all gonna die!
Repent! Repent! These secrets will kill us!
So get on your knees, and pray for forgiveness!
 
We all carry these things inside that no one else can see.
They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea.
I look up to the sky, there may be nothing there to see.
But if I don't believe in him, why would he believe in me?
 
- Chelsea Smile, Bring Me The Horizon
 
The next morning Pierce left before breakfast to catch his flight to New York
and Sharon joined them for the meal. She was wearing a white shirt with
Siberia’s tree logo, which was more or less her uniform, she told Steve.
Bucky seemed to be in a much better mood than the previous day.
 
“Are you serious?” he’d asked Steve, gesturing to his light blue button up and
tan slacks, as they’d left the penthouse that morning.
“Very,” Steve had replied flippantly.
“You’re no fun,” Bucky had complained yet again, and coming from him it was
sort of endearing, instead of leaving Steve cold the way Pierce had done the
previous night.
 
After breakfast, Bucky led Steve outside into the sunshine.
“Where are we going today?” Steve asked apprehensively.
“Sightseeing,” Bucky replied, “we’re just waiting for Wade.”
“Right here!” Wade crowed, exiting the hotel. He was wearing a black and red t-
shirt that showed off his muscled arms as well as the scar tissue that covered
his left bicep and forearm.
They started walking down the sidewalk, Wade giving a little skip every now and
then, because he was apparently the foul-mouthed embodiment of Tigger.
“Hey, Bucky,” Wade said suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks. His eyes had
gone comically wide. It was the first time Steve had heard one of the band call
him Bucky instead of James.
“Yes, Wade?” Bucky said, rather cautiously.
“I won our bet!” Wade exclaimed.
“No, you didn’t,” Bucky said, but he didn’t seem too sure.
“Yes, I did!” Wade said triumphantly. “Last night made two weeks!”
“Okay, fine,” Bucky grumbled, then, at Steve’s uncomprehending look, added, “I
bet Wade he couldn’t go two weeks without doing something nasty to a unicorn.”
“A unicorn?” Steve questioned.
“He has a fetish,” Bucky said offhandedly.
“Unicorns are majestic creatures,” Wade defended, “they deserve to be
erotically worshipped.”
“Of course they do,” Steve said weakly, blushing.
Bucky laughed and clapped Steve on the shoulder.
“So, Bucky,” Wade started, but Bucky cut him off.
“Nothing below the waist, Wade,” he said sternly and Wade sagged.
“But you’d look so hot with a Jacob’s Ladder!”
Bucky shrugged, but said, “still, above the waist only.”
“But, Bucky! A Jacob’s Ladder!”
“A Jacob’s Ladder?” Steve knew he was going to regret asking.
“Our Mr Rogers is an innocent, it seems,” Wade said, while Bucky typed
something into his phone.
“It’s a piercing,” Bucky said, turning his phone to show Steve an image that
forced all the air from his lungs.
“Oh,” Steve said, “I knew I shouldn’t have asked.” Because now he was suddenly
imagining Bucky with that piercing, and Bucky fucking him with that piercing
and he needed to stop that right now, because Bucky was his employer and an
addict, the two things that Steve definitely avoided having sexual thoughts
about.
“Come on,” Bucky said, laughing again, and started walking.
Wade Googled a good place to get piercings and they took a bus there.
It was a small, brightly lit tattoo parlour. The girl behind the counter had
skin the colour of dark chocolate and greeted them with a brilliant smile.
Wade told her his friend would like a nipple ring.
“No, Wade, come on! Those hurt like a bitch!” Bucky protested, but started
filling out the consent form anyway, while the girl went to call the piercer.
He was a skinny guy, covered in colourful tattoos and multiple piercings, as
well as large gauges in his ears. He introduced himself as Levi, and spoke
English with barely an accent, since he’d spent a couple of years in America,
he informed them as he readied his workstation.
“I still miss the apple pie,” Levi said, shooting Steve a blatantly flirtatious
grin, which made Steve blush (yet again), but Bucky gave a frown.
“Steve?” Wade questioned as he pulled out his wallet to pay for Bucky’s
piercing, watching the little interaction between Steve and the piercer. “Which
side of the rainbow are you on, exactly?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Steve admitted.
“He’s asking if you think all non-heterosexual people are vile sinners,” Bucky
filled in, signing the form and putting down the pen.
“Oh,” Steve lifted one shoulder and, figuring the openly bisexual James Barnes
wouldn’t beat him up like the kids in high school, said, “I’m gay, so, no.”
“Captain America is gay?!” Wade exclaimed. “This is the best day ever!”
But Bucky was taking off his shirt to reveal an abstract black and red tattoo
covering his back that Steve hadn’t noticed previously, and Steve was a little
distracted, barely feeling Wade clapping him on the back.
He pulled himself together before anyone noticed, and looked away as Bucky sat
down on the chair Levi had pulled closer.
Steve couldn’t, however, keep his eyes away as Levi did the piercing. Bucky
seemed not to mind all that much as the thick needle was forced through the
delicate, light brown flesh of his nipple, although he let out a frankly sexual
groan.
Wade was staring intently at Steve when they left the tattoo shop fifteen
minutes later.
“Do I have something in my teeth, Wade?” he asked.
“No,” Wade said, “but… as much as that colour brings out the blue of your eyes…
if you’re gonna work for Bucky, you need a wardrobe change.”
“I really don’t,” Steve sighed.
“You really do,” Wade insisted, then added, “pretty please let us give you a
makeover?”
“Why?!”
“Because firstly, this is a rock star AU, and secondly, everyone is staring at
us because we look like two Satan-worshippers who are kidnapping a wholesome
virgin to sacrifice.”
“If you were Satanists, you’d be out of luck, I’m not a virgin,” Steve said.
“Nevertheless, you are getting a makeover,” Wade asserted.
“Just go with it, pal,” Bucky said, gingerly holding his shirt away from his
chest. “He’ll never stop.”
“Let’s go!” Wade called, already half a block away.
“C’mon,” Bucky nudged Steve and they followed Wade into a store that looked
like the European version of Hot Topic.
Wade tossed Steve a bundle of black fabric, and Steve checked the tag. “Wade,
this is two sizes too small!” he called to the man half-hidden behind a
mannequin.
“It’s to show off your muscles, duh!” Wade yelled back.
“Oh, no. No,” Steve said, “if you’re gonna make me wear this, it has to fit
properly.”
“Fine,” Wade groused, replacing the shirt Steve was holding with another one
bearing a picture of a weird white mask, before hurrying off again.
“What band is this?” Steve asked Bucky.
“Very funny, Rogers.”
Steve looked at the shirt, frowning. “What?”
Now Bucky was frowning, too. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” Steve said, puzzled.
“It’s a Stormtrooper.”
“A what?” Steve felt like he was missing something very obvious.
“Oh God,” Bucky’s expression was one of dawning horror, “please don’t tell me
you’ve never seen Star Wars.”
For what felt like the millionth time that day, Steve went red. “I haven’t. My
roommate keeps telling me to, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
Bucky shook his head in disbelief. “Wade’s going to kill you. He loves Star
Wars.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve offered.
Bucky was smiling a bit now. “Just take the shirt and don’t say anything
compromising. We’ll watch it on the bus tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Steve said, a little surprised at Bucky coming to his rescue.
Nearly an hour later, Wade and Bucky had assembled a pile of clothes (not all
black, thankfully) that would surely not fit in Steve’s suitcase, but Wade had
pulled out his wallet, handed the cashier his card, and was pointedly ignoring
Steve’s protests.
“I’ll pay, Wade,” Steve contended, but it was Bucky who replied.
“Wade’s richer than God, just say ‘thank you’.”
“Listen to Bucky,” Wade said when Steve opened his mouth to argue.
“Thanks, Wade.”
After their shopping trip, they went back to the hotel and Steve was coerced
into changing into the Stormtrooper shirt and black jeans, before they went out
again to get lunch and finally go sightseeing.
 
That night, Bucky helped Steve fit all his new clothes into his suitcase.
Amused, he watched Steve try to compress the neatly folded shirts into the
small space.
“What did they teach you in the army, Stevie?” he asked, gently shoving Steve
away. He started rolling up the shirts, placing them one by one into the
suitcase. “Because you need to ask for a refund.”
Steve huffed out a laugh.
Somehow, miraculously, Bucky managed to get all Steve’s clothes to fit in the
case.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Bucky told him.
Steve nodded. So far he’d studiously made sure his and Bucky’s bathroom
schedules didn’t clash, since the penthouse only had one and Steve did not
think he could handle walking in on Bucky in such a delicate situation.
Steve sat on his bed, lost in thoughts about the tour and exactly how weird it
was going to be living on a bus with five other guys and Sharon for more than a
month. He had been used to living in close quarters in the military, but there
had been a code of strict discipline and neatness, which Steve was sure didn’t
apply to the band.
A voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he realized it was Bucky, singing
in the shower. Steve listened in surprise for a second, before pulling out his
phone and typing the words of the song into Google. ‘Inhale’ by a band called
Stone Sour. Steve bit his lip, telling himself he was only adding the song to
his Siberia related playlist as research for the assignment.
Before he could listen to it, Bucky’s head – hair still wet and hanging in his
face – popped around the door.
“Have you ever watched Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey?”
“No,” Steve said, feeling idiotic again.
Bucky sighed. “Well, come on then, Gramps.”
“Gramps?” Steve said incredulously. “I’m younger than you!”
“You are?” Bucky questioned as Steve followed him to the living area.
“Yup,” Steve popped his lips on the ‘p’. “By sixteen months.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed, what with you being from the Stone Age and never
having seen Star Wars and all.”
“What’s so special about it, anyway?” Steve asked defensively, as he sat down.
“You’ll see when we watch it,” Bucky said, flopping down on the couch next to
Steve and flicking through Netflix, while saying; “okay, so Bogus Journey is
the sequel to Excellent Adventure, but that’s just a run-of-the-mill ‘time
travelling to do your history homework’ movie, and Journey is just so much
better and it has literally everything, the Grim Reaper and aliens and robots
and why are you looking at me like that?”
Steve had been staring at him, a slow smile on his lips.
“You are a dork!” Steve declared, a little triumphantly. “James Barnes, the
infamous and notorious rock star… is a gigantic nerd!” He crowed with laughter.
“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, hitting him with a throw pillow, his cheeks going
pink, but he seemed to take it as a compliment anyway.
Bucky had somehow procured popcorn and soda, which impressed Steve, who had
struggled getting room service the previous night.
They watched the movie and Steve had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing
every time Bucky played air guitar.
 
After the movie, Bucky sang ‘God Gave Rock & Roll to You’ at the top of his
voice while he made them coffee in the kitchenette.
Steve leaned back on the couch, listening to Bucky and pulled out his phone.
There were several texts, two from Sam, one from Clint and one from Natasha.
 
Sam: Hey, man, how’s it going?
Sam: Clint misses you. He’s hanging out here and eating all our food
 
Clint had sent six bird emoji’s followed by a thumbs-up emoji.
 
Nat: You better call me
 
Steve sat up, dialling Nat’s number.
“Good, you’re still alive,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
“Maybe not,” Steve said, “I could be an evil robot version of myself sent from
the future to kill the human me.”
“Did someone finally get you to watch Terminator?” Nat asked.
“Nope,” Steve said, as Bucky returned, two mugs in his hands.
“You suck,” she told him.
“You sound just like Mr Barnes,” Steve replied, accepting his mug with a smile,
mouthing ‘thank you’ at Bucky.
“Mr Barnes, huh?” Natasha said, her tone teasing. “Does he ask you to call him
that in bed, too?”
Beside Steve, Bucky let out a snort. He’d obviously heard Nat over Steve’s too-
loud phone speaker.
“Now, Nat, jealousy isn’t a good look for you,” Steve said sagely.
“Fuck you, Rogers,” she told him.
“Language!” Steve admonished and Natasha hissed something in Russian that Steve
didn’t understand, but made Bucky’s eyes widen.
 
“You speak Russian, too?” Steve asked after he had ended the call a few minutes
later.
Bucky nodded, looking at Steve through his lashes as he sipped his coffee.
“How many languages do you speak?” Steve probed, angling his body toward Bucky.
“Uhh…” Bucky counted on his fingers, “English, Russian, Romanian, German,
French, Serbian and a little Dutch, Spanish, Japanese, a little of each
Scandinavian language and Hungarian. Oh, and like two phrases in Mandarin.”
Steve stared at him in awe for a moment, and Bucky looked away, fidgeting with
his mug.
“That’s pretty awesome,” Steve told him when he finally found his voice. “Is it
a hobby?”
“Not really,” Bucky said, “I lived and worked in Russia for a few years before
I joined the band. It was kind of required for the job I had.”
“Were you a spy, or something?” Steve joked.
“Now, Stevie, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Chapter End Notes
     This is to give you an idea of Bucky's back tattoo
     And this is a Jacob's Ladder, although Steve was picturing it with
     barbells, instead of rings.
     Lastly, I wrote this before that idiotic
     #givecaptainamericaaboyfriend thing, and seriously considered
     changing Wade's 'Captain America is gay?" line because of it.
     Canonically, Cap is hetero, and that SHOULDN'T change just because
     teenagers on Tumblr want it to.
***** Crucified For No Sins, An Image Beneath Me *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Cemetery Gates by Pantera.
     The lyrics sung by Bucky were written by me when I was 16, please
     excuse their awfulness.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Cast the calming apple
Up and over satellites
To draw out the timid wild one
To convince you it's alright
And I listen for the whisper
Of your sweet insanity while I formulate
Denials of your effect on me
 
You're a stranger
So what do I care
You vanish today
Not the first time I hear
All the lies
 
What am I to do with all this silence
Shy away, shy away phantom
Run away terrified child
Won't you move away you fucking tornado
I'm better off without you
Tearing my will down
 
- The Stranger, A Perfect Circle
 
~
 
The bus was more of a tiny house on wheels. It had eight bunks, a bathroom with
a shower, two couches, a large flat screen TV and a kitchenette with a fully
stocked fridge. Steve got the bunk above Bucky’s, already made up with black
sheets and a fluffy red blanket, which Bucky immediately swapped for the blue
one on his bunk.
“Blue is your color, after all,” Bucky teased.
“Right you are, Mr Barnes,” Steve said in his best bored-butler voice.
Bucky laughed. “Come along then, Alfred.”
Steve grinned and followed Bucky to the couch, where he was subjected to four
Star Wars movies back to back – “we’re not wasting time on the prequels, but
you should watch Episode VII,” asserted Bucky – which lasted them most of the
way to Prague.
For most of the movie marathon, Steve was distracted by watching Bucky, who
seemed absolutely engrossed in the story, eyes wide.
He was treading dangerous ground, Steve knew, becoming this friendly with a
client, this… attached. It would only cause problems down the line, but Steve
was damned if he wasn’t enjoying this, whatever it was.
The rest of the band and Sharon joined them intermittently. Scott and Wade made
lightsaber noises and imitated Darth Vader’s voice (and spoiled the big reveal
for Steve), while Rumlow made a vulgar comment about Leia’s slave outfit and
Jabba the Hut, at which Rollins chuckled.
Through this, Steve hugged a little throw-pillow to his chest and tried to
ignore the heat of Bucky’s thigh pressed against his.
 
They checked into a large, ancient looking hotel in Prague, Steve and Bucky got
a suite.
(“Not the penthouse again, thank God,” Bucky muttered.)
They didn’t linger too long before heading off to bed, since they had an early
morning meetup with fans.
 
The next morning, Steve heard Bucky sing in the shower again, and halted his
steps to listen (and Google). Steve added Hypnotize by System Of A Down to his
playlist before opening the door for room service.
 
“Oh, coffee, how I love thee,” Bucky said through a yawn as he sat at the
little table opposite Steve, his dark hair dripping onto his t-shirt. Steve
glanced at him through his lashes as he sipped coffee.
Scarce a week into this assignment, and the domesticity of the situation was
screaming ‘trouble’ at Steve, who’d never experienced any sort of attraction to
his clients. It was disconcerting and Steve mentally gave himself a little
shake. He refused to be attracted to Bucky. He utterly refused.
Then Bucky bit into a cherry Danish and made an indecent sound of enjoyment and
Steve’s resolve crumbled right along with the pastry.
So maybe he was a bit attracted to Bucky? He could deal with it, and in a few
months’ time their paths would diverge. Steve would go back to standing
unobtrusively behind powerful men and Bucky would remain here, in his little
bubble of fame and decadence. And if the thought of that clenched painfully in
Steve’s chest, well, he’d deal with that too.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky said suddenly, eyebrow quirked, a tiny spot of
red cherry at the corner of his smiling mouth that made Steve want to lick it
off. Maybe finally admitting his attraction to himself had made it worse?
“I’m not that cheap,” Steve scoffed, “my thoughts are worth at least a dime,
maybe even a quarter.”
“Do you take American Express?”
Steve cracked up. Yup, Bucky was definitely trouble.
 
Siberia were playing that evening in a huge theatre that seemed ready to
fracture at the onslaught of music from the amplifiers.
Again, Steve found it hard to look away from Bucky. Especially as they started
a slow song, all the lights dimming aside from an icy blue beam that
illuminated Bucky, his figure unnaturally still except for the hands strumming
his guitar.
 
“Locked inside my cage
Where I can’t see sun
Locked inside my cage
And I’m the only one
Locked inside my cage
I feel it inside me
Locked inside my cage
I don’t want it, set it free
And I pray and I wait
And I pray for something more than fate
I can’t see the sun, cannot feel the rain
I can’t see the sun, left with all this pain
Locked inside the cage they call my mind
And I pray and I pray and I pray… this time…”
 
All eyes were on Bucky, the crown singing his words right back to him and Steve
realized why they loved Siberia, loved Bucky, so much. How could they not? How
could anyone not love someone who bared their souls – their humanity – like
this? Made themselves so incredibly vulnerable and did it so fearlessly.
After the slow song, the band broke into Welcome To The Jungle by Guns ‘n
Roses, a karaoke favourite of Clint’s. Sharon had showed Steve how they used
Twitter polls so the fans could choose the covers the band performed. He’d
expressed interest in the more technical aspects of the music industry on this
side of pop, since it did seem to function differently here, where looks,
charts, Grammys and singles mattered less and touring became a band’s best bet
on long-term survival.
The show ended just after midnight, and this time when Wade suggested going to
a club Bucky agreed.
True to his word, it seemed Bucky didn’t do drugs on tour, flatly refusing when
Rumlow offered him a bump. Rumlow rolled his eyes, mumbling something about
hypocrisy and ‘being a good boy’ which earned him glares from both Bucky and
Wade.
The drugs thing, however, did not stretch to alcohol. Steve had a high
tolerance for alcohol, something much revered among his friends, but Steve was
sure Bucky could drink him under the table and still remain standing.
Seeing Bucky drink, now, put that night in Rotterdam into sharp relief for
Steve. Bucky had been high, but otherwise coherent, when Pierce had come for
him, but utterly wasted when he got back. Steve was sure Pierce wouldn’t have
let Bucky drink that much while discussing business. Had Bucky taken something
else? Had he left the hotel without Steve knowing? The thought pulled Steve’s
brows together.
“Hey, come on!” Bucky’s voice suddenly sounded in his ear, too loud, too close.
Steve could feel his warm breath. “Have a drink, it’ll wipe that frown off your
face.”
“I can’t drink, I’m working,” Steve reminded him, but with a smile.
“You’re no fun!” Bucky complained, lifting yet another shot to his lips.
Steve just turned his blandest expression on Bucky, earning him a groan and a
light shove, which in turn made Steve grin.
At the end of the night (which was four o’clock the next morning), Steve
trailed Bucky into the elevator in the hotel.
Bucky smiled lazily at him. “Do you ever let your hair down, Steve?”
“Sure,” Steve gave a half-shrug, “but not when I’m working.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the
hallway. Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders as they weaved their way
toward their room. Steve stayed quiet as Bucky hummed a tune. For several lazy
seconds, Steve could almost see them, at another time, in another place, being
old friends making their way home after a night out on the town. The thought
made Steve nostalgic and he shot a glance at Bucky, whose blue eyes were half-
lidded, his shapely lips almost pouting around the hummed tune, his dark hair
curling slightly over his shoulders. The picture in Steve’s mind changed, no
longer just old friends, but lovers, looking forward to an evening together.
Steve shook himself out of the little daydream as he swiped the key card for
their room and Bucky’s arm slipped off his shoulders.
“Sweet dreams, Stevie,” Bucky said with a sleepy smile as he headed to his
room.
“Night, Buck,” Steve said quietly after him.
 
The next two stops on the tour – “it’s not really a tour, you know,” Wade said,
“just a few shows” – were Warsaw and Kiev, with no hotel stay, and Steve was
truly impressed that the close quarters on the bus hadn’t resulted in any
murdered rock stars yet.
Bucky and Rumlow had almost come to blows over the last can of Cherry Coke in
the fridge, and Steve had stepped neatly in front of Rumlow’s fist as it arched
toward Bucky’s jaw. Steve took the blow and the taunts from Rumlow, but
withered under Bucky’s glare as he rounded on him at the rest stop where the
band got lunch.
“What the fuck was that, Rogers?!” Bucky shouted at him as soon as they were
out of earshot of the rest of the band.
“I was doing my job,” Steve said calmly, which seemed to anger Bucky even more.
“You think I’m too much of a pussy to handle Brock, huh? You’re not my goddamn
babysitter!”
“I’m your bodyguard, Bucky, it’s my job,” Steve repeated.
For a second, it seemed like Bucky would throw a punch at Steve. “Fuck you,
Rogers!”
Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle as Bucky glowered at him.
Finally, after a few tense moments, Bucky’s shoulders sagged.
“Where’d he get you?” Bucky asked, stepping closer.
Steve shook his head. “He hardly touched me.”
Anger flared in Bucky’s eyes again. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
Steve opened his mouth to deny it, but Bucky was suddenly right there, much too
close, his right hand curling around the back of Steve’s neck. Steve froze, his
breath catching in his throat. The fingers of Bucky’s left hand ghosted over
his cheek, the tender skin soothed by Bucky’s cool touch.
“That’s gonna bruise,” Bucky said, his eyes – blue and green and grey this
close up – roaming over Steve’s face.
“Doesn’t matter,” Steve breathed. He could feel the heat of Bucky’s body
washing over him and he stepped back as if the other man was an open flame.
Bucky stared at him, an intensity in his gaze that Steve usually only saw while
he was playing guitar. It made Steve look away, then instantly back at Bucky,
words failing him.
The silence stretched between them, until Steve couldn’t stand it any longer
and cleared his throat.
“We should go… lunch. Go have lunch,” he stammered over his words a little,
looking away from Bucky again.
“Yeah,” Bucky turned on his heel and walked toward the rest stop, not looking
back at Steve until they were seated at a table with the rest of the band.
After lunch, which was stilted and slightly awkward, the band trooped back onto
the bus, and Rumlow clapped Steve on the shoulder.
“No hard feelings, Rogers,” he said, “it’s just a little cabin fever, ya know?”
Steve gave his best ‘aw shucks’ shrug.
“It’s fine,” he told Rumlow.
“Were you in the army?” Rumlow asked.
“Marines.”
“Wow,” Rumlow raised his eyebrow, “big tough soldier man, huh?”
Next to him, Steve actually heard Bucky’s teeth snap together as he clenched
his jaw.
“Not anymore,” Steve said levelly.
“Nah, you’re a babysitter now.”
Steve gave a cold little smile. “Something like that, yeah.”
Rumlow grunted and turned away, toward his bunk.
Steve let Bucky pull him toward the couch, sitting down at Bucky’s tug on his
sleeve.
“He’s not gonna let that go,” Bucky told him.
“That’s his problem,” Steve said calmly, “not mine.”
“Maybe you should think about carrying a gun.”
Steve smiled at him. “I really don’t need to.”
Chapter End Notes
     This is the last fairly calm chapter, things are all downhill from
     here. Sorry.
     Huge amounts of gratitude to everyone who's left kudos and comments,
     you guys are all awesome!!!
***** Out Of Pride I'll Isolate My Fears *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from We'll Grind That Axe For A Long Time by Pantera.
     The lyrics Bucky sings are mine, I apologize that they suck.
     In case anyone was wondering, the song I quote at the beginning of
     each chapter is meant to convey Bucky's thoughts and feelings, not
     Steve's.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Welcome to where time stands still
No one leaves and no one will
Moon is full, never seems to change
Just labelled mentally deranged
Dream the same thing every night
I see our freedom in my sight
No locked doors, no windows barred
No things to make my brain seem scarred
 
Sleep my friend and you will see
That dream is my reality
They keep me locked up in this cage
Can't they see it's why my brain says Rage
 
Sanitarium, leave me be
Sanitarium, just leave me alone
 
Build my fear of what's out there
Cannot breathe the open air
Whisper things into my brain
Assuring me that I'm insane
They think our heads are in their hands
But violent use brings violent plans
Keep him tied, it makes him well
He's getting better, can't you tell?
 
- Welcome Home (Sanitarium), Metallica
 
The next stop was Moscow, where the band were playing two shows and had TV and
radio appearances over the course of three days.
They had an entire guesthouse to themselves for a week, and the band eagerly
brought out a stack of board games to while away their one free day. Bucky won
all three bouts of Scrabble and Sharon kicked all their asses at Cluedo, while
Rollins quietly bankrupted everyone during a lengthy game of Monopoly. It was a
nice day, thought Steve. There was more laughter than arguments and even Rumlow
cracked jokes that had everyone in stitches.
As the afternoon wore on, they moved in front of the television with popcorn to
watch Empire Records and Airheads. Bucky threw his feet into Steve’s lap, his
arms folded behind his head. Steve toyed with the leg of his jeans and tried to
ignore how comfortable this was, how cosy and nice.
 
Of course, the good times never last.
The first show went smoothly enough, but afterwards, at a large industrial-
looking club, Steve had to get between Bucky and a blond man covered in the
kind of tattoos you got in gangs and prisons. Bucky left the club, pale and
shaken, with Steve in tow. He refused to tell Steve what the man had snarled at
him in Russian, and locked himself in his room with a bottle of vodka.
The next morning, they had an early interview at a radio station, and Bucky
kept a cocky smirk on his lips throughout, though that did nothing to hide the
dark circles beneath his eyes.
After the interview, they did a quick acoustic performance. Bucky’s voice was
slightly rougher than usual, but it suited the song.
“I sometimes wait and look
To see the signs I missed
All the time it took
And dreams that don’t exist
 
Are left behind on burning bridges
Wasting time I thought I’d need
Before the broken seams found stitches
And the wounds refused to bleed.”
 
After the performance, Bucky and Brock had a quick appearance on a TV talk
show. Before being called on, Bucky turned to Steve, tugging at the hem of his
black button-down.
“How do I look?” Bucky seemed a little nervous, and Steve gave a little smile
that he hoped was reassuring as he looked Bucky up and down. He was wearing
skin-tight black jeans, black shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal a section
on the tattoo on his left arm and had his hair up in a bun that might’ve looked
dickish on anyone else.
“You look fine,” Steve told him, and Bucky gave a snort.
“Fine? Really? You can’t be more creative than that?”
“Apparently not,” Steve said drily. It wasn’t like he could tell Bucky he
looked like sex and bad decisions. “I’m a bodyguard, not a stylist.”
“You’re no fun,” Bucky complained, turning away and walking onto the soundstage
just behind Brock.
After the show, they stopped at the studio door to sign autographs and take
selfies, and Steve stood to one side, slightly anxious of a repeat of the
previous evening’s altercation, but nothing happened.
Bucky kept the smirk on his lips until they reached the guesthouse. Once
inside, he bypassed the rest of the band and shut himself in his room again,
this time with a bottle of whisky for company. Steve excused himself and went
to his own room to check in with Nick Fury via email and to call Sam, who
promised to eat half his weight in Gramma Wilson’s rhubarb crumble in Steve’s
absence and Steve groaned.
“Lucky bastard,” he told Sam, who laughed and promised to send Steve’s love to
his grandmother.
Steve slept fitfully that night, his dreams filled with harsh sunlight and
burning sand. At two A.M. he padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, his
mouth dry and a phantom ache of dehydration in his kidneys, and stopped dead in
his tracks when he realized Bucky was there, bundled in a sweatshirt with a
steaming mug in his hands.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured. His hair was dishevelled, his socked feet folded over
each other. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Yeah,” Steve forced out, flinching at the scratch in his throat. He moved to
get a glass and filled it with ice water.
“Would you like tea instead?” Bucky asked, lifting his mug.
Steve shook his head, gulping down half the water before speaking.
“Water’s good, but thanks anyway.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow, watching as Steve finished his water. He knew he must
look a mess, t-shirt damp with drying sweat, flushed and bleary-eyed.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Steve turned to the sink to rinse his glass, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “Talk about
what?”
“Whatever has you stumbling into the kitchen, looking like hell, at two in the
morning.”
Steve stilled, then shrugged. How was he supposed to admit to still having
nightmares about the desert years after leaving service? He hated the weakness
the nightmares betrayed. He wasn’t weak anymore. He wasn’t.
The silence stretched on, and Steve put his glass on the draining rack and
turned to leave.
“Steve?” Bucky set his mug down, taking a step toward him.
“It’s nothing. Drop it,” Steve snapped, then fled the kitchen without looking
back.
 
The next morning Sharon realized there hadn’t been a Twitter poll to decide on
a song for the band to cover in that night’s show. They congregated in the
living room to figure it out. Scott and Rollins played a game of Go-Fish while
Rumlow, Wade and Bucky threw ideas around.
Wade vehemently argued for Wham!’s Careless Whisper.
“None of us know it well enough, Wade. Sorry,” Bucky said, annoyed.
Rumlow scoffed. “I’ve got one you definitely know, James. What’s the name
again? That Korn song, you know the one. Think it was called –.”
“Fuck you, Brock,” Bucky hissed. All the colour had drained from his face.
Wade looked between them, frowning.
Rumlow gave an ugly grin as Bucky stalked out, not stopping until he hit the
sidewalk outside the guesthouse. Once there, he turned on Steve.
“Fuck off!”
“Not gonna do that, Buck,” Steve replied coolly.
“Yes, you are! You take orders from me.”
“I don’t take orders from anyone,” Steve said. “What happened in there?”
Bucky turned his back and started walking down the street, hands shoved into
the pockets of his jeans. Steve stayed half a step behind him.
He finally turned a corner into a street lined with shops and cafés, going into
a bookstore. He wandered through the shelves, lifting a book here and there,
ignoring Steve completely. A shop assistant, a pretty girl with large dark
eyes, approached him, a smile on her face.
Bucky spoke to her in fluent Russian, saying something that made her giggle as
she led them through the store. She stopped in a corner and handed Bucky a
large boxset of books which he promptly shoved into Steve’s arms. Steve raised
an eyebrow at him, but Bucky’s attention was fixed fully on the girl, asking
her for something else. After several minutes of this, Steve’s arms were filled
with a wonky tower of books. Some he recognised despite the Cyrillic titles.
The boxset was the A Song of Ice and Fire series, there were a few Jules Verne
and Stephen King books and 1984 by George Orwell, as well as an English picture
book called The Bumper Book of Bunny Suicides. Bucky picked up two more books
from the English section, then led Steve to the checkout.
Steve dumped Bucky’s books on the counter, turning away from Bucky and spotted
a display of art supplies.
Steve hadn’t drawn anything in years, not since before he enlisted, but he
couldn’t seem to resist picking up a hardcover sketchbook and a pack of
pencils. He dithered for a second, then selected a pack of sketching pens as
well.
He paid, lifting the paper bag with his purchases by its string handle, just as
Bucky turned toward the exit, laden with two large bags of his own.
“Need a hand?” Steve asked and Bucky handed him one bag.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, bad mood seemingly lifted by the retail therapy. He
motioned toward a café. “Wanna get coffee?”
“I…” Steve knew he should remind Bucky that he worked for him, and therefore
had to go wherever he went, and that asking him like that blurred lines that
Steve preferred remain clear. Instead he said, “yeah, sure.”
They went inside, and Bucky handed his other bag to Steve. “Grab us a table,
I’ll order.”
Steve nodded, hefting the bags.
“Black coffee, right?” Bucky asked.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I do pay attention sometimes.”
Steve gave a little smile as he turned to secure a corner table and sat down
facing the door to keep his sightlines clear.
He rummaged in his bag, pulling out his purchases. Now that he had pencils
again, his fingers itched to draw. He had just selected one when Bucky returned
to the table, moving the bags off the chair next to Steve and sitting down,
leaning back against the wall. He raised an eyebrow at Steve’s sketchbook, but
Steve ignored him in favour of doing a quick line sketch of an old woman
sitting alone by the door. Steve looked at the drawing critically. He was out
of practice, the line work a little stilted. He set the book down when a
waitress brought over their coffee and large slices of cake consisting of
chocolate and something that looked like marshmallow, and Bucky immediately
grabbed at it.
He studied the sketch, his eyes widening.
“Why have I never seen you draw before?”
“I haven’t drawn anything in years,” Steve admitted. There was no need to tell
Bucky that he was itching to draw him, stretched out on the hotel bed in
Rotterdam, tattoos and skin displayed in equal measure.
Bucky put down the sketchbook. He didn’t say anything, instead devouring his
cake, his eyes flicking back and forth across the café.
“So…” Steve started, “that song that Rumlow mentioned…”
Bucky went still.
“It’s not…” He trailed off, then started again. “It’s just Brock being a dick.
He knows there are songs I’d never perform. He likes taunting me.”
Steve frowned. “I don’t get it. You obviously don’t get along. Why not just…”
“Replace him?” Bucky asked.
“Well, yeah.”
Bucky snorted. “You’ve heard him play, right? Where are we ever gonna find
anyone as talented again? Nah. Besides, the friction works when we’re writing.
Adds fuel to the ‘creative fire’ and all that.” He made air-quotes with his
fingers.
Steve smiled a little. “I’ve seen you play, too. You’re easily as good as him.”
“Gee, thanks, Mr I-don’t-know-what-Pantera-is.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“Look,” Bucky said, licking at the prongs of his cake-fork (and making Steve’s
mouth go dry), “I’m not bad, but I can’t play lead.”
“Because?” Steve pressed, grabbing his slice of cake as Bucky reached for it.
Bucky seemed to waver for a second, before saying quietly, “Because I have
nerve damage in my left arm.”
“Oh,” Steve felt like an ass. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”
“Spare me the fucking pity,” Bucky snapped.
“Fine,” Steve retorted sharply.
They glared at each other for a moment, then Bucky swiped Steve’s cake off his
plate and took a large bite.
Steve pouted and Bucky grinned, taking another bite before putting it back.
Steve finished it without any of his normal quirks about sharing food.
Steve did his best to ignore all these little ways in which Bucky has crept
under his skin.
“Steve?” Bucky asked, “until when, exactly, are you gonna be babysitting me?”
“End of September. Why?”
Bucky bit his lip. “Thought it might be longer.”
“Don’t worry,” Steve said, draining his coffee and dumping his sketchbook and
pencils back in their bag, “you’ll be rid of me before you know it.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, but he wasn’t looking at Steve. Steve looked at him, trying
to figure out what had captured his attention and realized his gaze was fixed
on a man standing outside of the café’s large front window.
“Come on, Rogers, time to earn your pay check.”
Chapter End Notes
     Immense gratitude to everyone who's left kudos and comments, you guys
     are beyond amazing!!! <3
     I wanted to do a few of drabbles from Bucky's POV of certain scenes.
     Would you guys prefer them being chapters of the main fic, or should
     I post them separately, like a mini-series?????? Please give your
     opinions!?!?!?
***** Through The Worst We Still Marched Into Hell *****
Chapter Summary
     Bucky and Steve have a chat.
Chapter Notes
     Hey, a real chapter this time! Sorry that I had to delete all your
     lovely comments with the non-chapter, I feel really bad about it :(
     Anyway, the SVR RF is the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian
     Federation, and along with the FSB and GRU, it is in the place of the
     KGB, which obviously no longer exists.
     Chapter title from We'll Grind That Axe For a Long Time by Pantera
     Please also check outPretty_Hate_Machine which is chapter 1 and a bit
     of chapter 2 from Bucky's POV!
     I will be posting more Bucky chapters separately as part of the Ride
     the_Lightning series, so subscribe to that if you don't wanna miss
     out! (please)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's been years since anyone could be a friend
It's the fear that kills the feeling in the end
Can we face it? Can we shape it? Can we really die?
If rain is what you want... All you have to do is close your eyes
Just close your eyes...
 
I am watching resurrection start to crawl
Is there any chance in hell? Any chance at all?
Do we need it? Do we see it? Is it really there?
If rain is what you want... Then take your seats, enjoy the fall
Enjoy the fall...
 
The only thing deeper than my last breath
The only thing darker than my last death
Is the panic - the static - I've come back
From the dead
But my cities... Will never sleep again
 
In these diamonds, we're left with coloured glass
As pressure takes its toll, we learn to last
But you can't break my heart
As long as I can be myself, I'll never fall apart
And you can't take me in
If I'm not broken, break me down
So I will never feel alone again
 
- If Rain Is What You Want, Slipknot
 ~
 
“Come on, Rogers, time to earn your pay check.”
Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm as he rose from his seat, and felt him go utterly,
unnaturally still, only his eyes turning to Steve.
“Who is he?” Steve asked, not letting go.
“Does it matter?” Bucky countered.
“Yes, it does.” Steve was already shifting into work mode, assessing and
strategizing.
“His name is Ilya. I used to be… employedby his family,” Bucky said in a rush.
“Now get up.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on. Or else I’m doing this my way.”
Bucky made a frustrated noise. “Fine. But I’ll tell you after we go say ‘hi’,
and only if you shut up and don’t get us killed.”
“Killed?” Steve raised an eyebrow, but he was already on his feet, gathering
their bags.
Bucky didn’t reply as he led the way outside.
Steve stayed half a step behind Bucky as he approached the man.
“Ilya,” Bucky said. The lanky man smiled, his blonde hair turned white by the
afternoon sun.
“Yasha,” the man – Ilya – said, as if he was delighted at seeing Bucky, though
his eyes remained cold. He said something else in Russian.
Steve glanced at Bucky, whose shoulders were hunched forward slightly, his
posture somewhere between cowering and defensive.
“Ilya,” Bucky interrupted, “we should speak English. My bodyguard here is
American; you know how useless they are at languages.”
“Bodyguard? You’re thatfamous and important now?”
Bucky shrugged. “Not really. What do you want?”
“To say hello, Yasha. You didn’t think we missed your TV appearance, did you?”
“Of course not,” Bucky replied, a little resignedly.
“And Dmitri would love to see you,” Ilya said with a stony little smile.
“I doubt that,” Bucky responded tightly, “he can’t stand me.”
“Nonsense. Besides, lately you’ve grownin our esteem.”
“Meaning?”
“You’re famous. A rock star. Rich, talented. We weren’t sure it was really you
at first. But as it is, it seems we had made a mistake in letting you go so
cheaply.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed and he squared his shoulders. “My debt was paid in full,
and you know very well by whom, Ilya.”
The man’s smile melted off his face. He snarled something in Russian that made
Bucky flinch, before turning on his heel and stalking away.
 
Bucky was reticent until they got back to the guesthouse. Sharon intercepted
them in the doorway to ask if Bucky was okay with doing cover of ‘Dude Looks
Like a Lady’ by Aerosmith.
“Yeah, Shar, that’s fine,” Bucky nodded.
“Also, we’re leaving in ninety minutes.”
“Okay,” Bucky nodded again, “I’ll remember my pants, I promise.”
Dodging Sharon, he led the way to Steve’s room, where he sank down onto the
bed, tucking one leg beneath him. Steve dumped their shopping near his feet and
stood facing him.
“Explain.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then I call it in to Shield, and theyexplain it.”
Bucky reached for the bags. He pulled out two books and handed them to Steve.
One was Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, the other, Harry Potter and the
Philosopher’s Stone.
“You haven’t read them yet, right?” Bucky asked. “I’m sure we could exchange
them if you have.”
“You bought me books?” Steve was a little incredulous.
“Yeah.”
Steve was pretty sure Bucky just kept himself from adding ‘duh’.
“Why?”
“They’re good. Read them, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, I suppose.”
“And I assume you’re welcome.” Bucky gave a little smile, and it took every
effort for Steve to keep his expression serious. He put the books on his
bedside table.
“So start talking, Buck.”
Bucky sighed. “Okay, okay. So, I told you I lived and worked here, right? Well,
Ilya’s old man gave me my first job.”
He paused, glanced at Steve, and sighed again when Steve made a little motion
for him to continue.
“I was a kid, barely sixteen, and I didn’t realize who they even were at first.
I was a dumb American, I didn’t even recognize the tattoos until someone told
me. ‘They’re the mafia, Yasha. Bratva’.” Bucky paused again and looked away
from Steve, focusing his gaze on the wall above Steve’s left shoulder.
“It worked like this; you owe them a debt, for protection, for your life. If
you ever manage to pay it off, you walk. Except that the debt grows
exponentially, the longer you stay, so unless someone buys you out, they own
you until your ass is rotting in a shallow grave.”
“But someone bought you out?”
“Yep. Nice guy, middle aged. Works for the SVR.”
“The… what?”
Bucky raised his eyebrows, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You were special forces and you don’t know what the SVR is? American standards
have really taken a nosedive.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. I know what the SVR is. Why would
they pay your debt to the Bratva?”
“Because I was an American teenager who could already speak four languages? I
didn’t ask questions. They bought me, I didn’t get a say.”
Steve winced at the phrasing Bucky used. Like he had been a slave.
“So what happened then?”
Bucky hesitated. “He took me to HQ, and they started doing tests.”
“Tests?” Steve’s chest felt a little too tight.
Bucky scoffed. “Not those kinds of tests, jerk. They did an IQ test, a
physical, scenario tests, personality tests. I’m an INTJ by the way.” He
actually winked, and Steve really wanted to hit him with a pillow.
“After the tests?”
“They offered me a job as a translator. I was smart enough, I suppose. They
never would tell me what my IQ was, sadly. But I was good with languages, and I
could give them lots of info on the Bratva.”
“Okay,” Steve was reeling a little. He sat down on the corner of the bed
farthest from Bucky. “So how did you get from there to here?”
“I sort of got fired, I guess you could say. I fucked up on an assignment, and
they don’t exactly give second chances. I’m out, you know. This isn’t the
eighties, I’m not a sleeper agent or something.”
“I never thought you were,” Steve said honestly.
“Uh-huh,” Bucky tilted his head to the side. “Anyway, that’s it. You happy
now?”
“What did you do for the Bratva?”
“Drugs, mostly,” Bucky said with a snort of laughter. “I haven’t changed that
much.”
“That’s not funny, Buck,” Steve admonished. He got the feeling that for Bucky
was omitting something, but he knew if he pressed Bucky would shut him out.
“Why was none of this in your Shield file?”
“Because the SVR is good at confidentiality. And redacting names out of
documents. Besides, I wasn’t that important in the scheme of things. I only
worked for them for three years.”
Steve bit his lip. This was a lot to process. He looked at Bucky, who was
opening the A Song of Ice and Fire boxset.
“Hey, look, it has a map of Westeros!”
Bucky folded out a large piece of paper, holding it out for Steve to see.
“Cool,” Steve said, a little hollowly.
“It’s very cool.”
“You’re a nerd,” Steve told him.
“And I’m fucking proud of it,” Bucky said with a grin.
“That story you told me,” Steve started, and Bucky’s smile faded, “it’s not
entirely true, is it?”
“I don’t lie,” Bucky said icily.
“But you didn’t tell me everything.”
“So what?”
“Buck, I just -.”
“Oh, no. We’re not actually friends, Steve, right? You’re an employee. I told
you what you wanted to know, so drop it.”
Steve felt like he’d been punched. He didn’t know what to say and he half
expected Bucky to storm away and lock himself in his room with a bottle of
liquor, but Bucky didn’t budge from Steve’s bed. After a long, uncomfortable
silence, Steve found his voice.
“I’m sorry. I know we’re not friends. But it is my job to keep you safe, and I
can’t do that if I can’t anticipate the threat.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Bucky said quietly. “But the stuff I didn’t tell you isn’t
important. I didn’t kill anyone for the Bratva and I never did black ops for
the SVR. Okay?”
“Okay,” Steve acquiesced. There was another beat of silence, then he said; “you
know, not all Americans only speak English. I speak French. And a little
German.”
“Okay,” Bucky smirked and nudged Steve with his foot. “Hey, can you draw me a
picture?”
“Of what?”
Bucky pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, then held it out
to Steve. On the screen was a picture of an immensely fluffy grey kitten.
“That’s Fred, she’s my cat.”
“You have a cat?” Steve said in surprise.
“Yeah,” Bucky was smiling again. “She’s a Siberian cat and she’s awesome. Lazy,
but awesome.”
“And sheis named Fred?”
“Yeah, like Fred Weasly.”
“Fred is a boy’s name.”
“Fuck your heteronormativity.”
Steve laughed and reached for his sketchbook. He did a quick sketch while Bucky
held his phone up and tried to sneak looks.
“You know what they say about curiosity and cats, don’t you?” Steve said as he
pushed Bucky back for the umpteenth time. “Hold still, or I won’t be finished
in time for the show.”
Bucky pouted and frowned and gave puppy eyes until Steve had finished. He
carefully tore the sketch out of the book.
“It’s not that great, I’m really out of practice,” he excused as he handed it
to Bucky.
“Shut up,” Bucky said with a smile. “It’s great, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go get dressed or you’ll be late.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky got to his feet and stretched, and Steve looked away from
the lines of his body. “Can’t keep the rabid fans waiting, can I?”
He disappeared into the bathroom that he and Steve shared, and Steve heard him
singing over the sound of the water. Steve smiled as he added ‘Hysteria’ by
Muse to his playlist. When had someone singing in the shower become endearing
to him? Steve was in so much trouble.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you all so incredibly much for all the love I've received for
     this fic, you guys mean the world to me!!! <3
***** It's Digging Time Again, You're Nurturing The Weakest Trend *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from The Great Southern Trendkill by Pantera.
     The lyrics sung by Bucky are mine. As usual, apologies that they are
     awful.
     Remember to check out Pretty_Hate_Machine and subscribe to Ride_The
     Lightning since a new Bucky POV chapter is in the works and will be
     posted as a separate work within the series.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's all the same, only the names will change
Every day it seems we're wasting away
Another place where the faces are so cold
I'd drive all night just to get back home
 
I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride
I'm wanted dead or alive
Wanted dead or alive
 
Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it's not for days
And the people I meet always go their separate ways
Sometimes you tell the day
By the bottle that you drink
And times when you're alone all you do is think
 
And I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back
I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back
I've been everywhere, and still I'm standing tall
I've seen a million faces and I've rocked them all
 
- Wanted Dead or Alive, Bon Jovi
 
After Moscow, the band were playing Rock Am Ring in Germany, and therefore
spent almost four days straight on the bus. It made for grumpy rock stars and a
harried Sharon, and Steve tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, to
take up as little of the cramped space as he could. Bucky and Rumlow seemed to
be constantly snapping at each other, so much so that Scott finally intervened,
after they had interrupted a Skype call to his young daughter. The resulting
shouting match seemed to sap everyone of whatever energy they had left, and
Bucky came to find Steve, where he was hiding in his bunk, sketchbook open on
his knees.
“What are you drawing?” Bucky asked, ducking his head and crawling into the
confined space after nudging Steve’s feet out of his way.
“Nothing, just practising some line work.” Steve hoped Bucky couldn’t sound out
the lie. He had been drawing Bucky, the way he remembered him on stage in
Prague, with that icy spotlight outlining his silhouette, but there was way he
was admitting that to anyone.
Bucky leaned against the wall opposite Steve, their legs getting tangled in the
middle of the bunk. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at Steve, just sat,
motionless, until Steve started fidgeting.
“What music do you actually like?”
The question took Steve by surprise. He raised one shoulder in a lopsided
shrug.
“I don’t know, really. I listen to whatever’s on the radio, mostly.”
Bucky frowned. “That’s no way to live.”
“I’ve gotten this far.”
“Barely.” Bucky bit his lip, looking down at his hands, laying limp in his lap.
“So the only Siberia you’ve heard is what we play during shows?”
“Uh…” Steve hesitated. “Not quite. I started listening to your music after
Rotterdam.”
Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I honestly didn’t think it would matter, one way or the other.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Do you dislike it?”
“Surprisingly, no.”
Bucky smiled at that, a small quirk of his lips that made his eyes crinkle at
the corners.
“Give me that,” he said, pointing to Steve’s rarely-used work tablet,
carelessly placed beside his pillow.
Steve complied, watching as Bucky opened the YouTube app and pulled up a music
video. Lateralus by a band called Tool
“I have a tattoo of a quote from this song. The band is amazing; just listen.”
He played the song, and it sounded unlike anything Steve had ever heard, even
over the crappy tablet speaker. Steve watched Bucky while he listened, watching
the way his eyes fell shut, his lips soundlessly forming the words. When it was
over, Steve couldn’t help but ask.
“What quote do you have tattooed?”
Instead of answering, Bucky pulled up his shirt to show the black ink below his
belly button. Steve leaned forward to get a better look.
I'm reaching for the random or whatever will bewilder me.
It was inked in a style that made it barely legible, like a letter folded over
too many times so the writing cracks and fades.
“Does it mean anything specific?” Steve asked, sitting back. Bucky tugged his
shirt back down.
“I suppose it means that there’s always more than you already know. That if you
reach out, you’ll grab onto something better, reach somewhere better. But
that’s just me. I’ve talked to lots of people who interpret it totally
differently, and that’s kinda cool to me.”
Steve smiled at that, giving a little nod.
Bucky bit his lip, like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
Steve let him dither, using the silence to look up Tool’s albums.
Bucky seemed to decide silence was the better option and let his head fall back
with a thunkthat made Steve wince, but didn’t seem to bother him too much, his
eyes closed, looking sleepy and comfortable, one of his feet settled over one
of Steve’s.
It was peaceful for a while, and Steve opened the Harry Potter book Bucky had
gotten him and started reading.
Maybe he had misjudged Bucky after all. Let tabloid articles and an awkward
first encounter colour his opinion of a man who was much too mercurial to be
defined through second-hand first impressions.
It felt like the rock star persona that supplied so much click-bait was just a
figment of the collective public’s imagination. Since joining the band, Bucky
hadn’t had a single sexual encounter, and aside from the drinking, he was
always level. Steve felt bad for how harshly he had judged Bucky before getting
to know him. He was exceedingly happy to have been wrong about James Barnes,
though.
 
They finally arrived in Nuremburg on a warm, cloudy Friday afternoon. The bus
parked among a dozen others just like it, and the band seemed to get back their
verve as they got off and approached a large tent, where small groups of
tattooed and pierced people were standing around, talking animatedly in several
languages and being interviewed by reporters and bloggers who were only
distinguishable by the laminates around their necks.
In the tent, Sharon went to a table to sign in, and came back with laminates
for herself, the band and Steve. Bucky and Wade set off for a group of men
standing in a tiny spot of sunlight where the clouds had parted slightly. Steve
followed, looking around, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone
threatening. Bucky shook hands with a tall, muscled man with friendly hazel
eyes.
“Steve,” Bucky started, looking around until he spotted Steve a few paces away
and motioned him over. “Steve, this is Matt, Matt, meet my bodyguard.”
“Yourbodyguard?” he said dubiously as he shook Steve’s hand. “You can take care
of yourself, if I recall. Remember that creep at Download a few years back? You
broke his arm!”
Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky, who was laughing and shaking his head. “I
sprained his elbow, and he got a few good punches in.”
“Because you were falling down drunk!” Matt was laughing too.
“Speaking of, where is the bar in this place?” Bucky asked, and Matt rolled his
eyes while pointing out another tent pitched a short distance away.  
“Take it easy, James,” the other man said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder.
“You too, Shadz,” Bucky grinned as he walked away.
Steve bit his lip, following Bucky. “You know I have no idea who that was,
right?”
Bucky chuckled. “Matt Sanders, from Avenged Sevenfold. The other guys were
Zacky and Brian, also from Avenged.”
Steve looked back at them over his shoulder, the shorter guy with blue eyes was
standing close to the other man, who had truly impressive bone-structure. “Are
they… together?”
Bucky laughed openly at that. “They’re both married. To women.”
“Huh,” Steve shrugged.
“James!” a voice called, and Bucky turned, his face breaking into a grin as he
saw the man approaching them.
“Jonathan,” Bucky greeted the dreadlocked man, “how are you, man?”
“Good, good,” the man called Jonathan said, “you doin’ alright?”
“Yeah, you know it, living the dream.”
Jonathan nodded, his gaze wandering to Steve. “You finally fire that asshole
and get a new guitarist?”
“Nope, Brock’s still sticking around. This is Steve, my babysitter.”
“Hi,” Steve said, a little feebly.
“Jonathan Davis,” the man said.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Steve replied, looking back to Bucky.
“Steve listens to Top 40 hits only, he’s never even heard of Pantera,” Bucky
told Jonathan, who sighed.
“Well, that’s too bad I suppose,” he said, then turned toward a German girl
with a press badge who was trying silently to get his attention.
Bucky left them to it, and he and Steve made their way to the refreshment tent.
“Jonathan is in a band called Korn, he’s a genius.”
“Corn?” Steve questioned.
“Korn, with a K,” Bucky corrected him. “You should give them a listen. They
have a song called ‘Blind’ that’s pure awesome.”
“Okay,” Steve agreed.
“I suppose you won’thave a beer with me?”
“I’m working, Bucky.”
Bucky snorted and pressed an icy bottle of water into Steve’s hand, while he
himself got a beer.
“Come on, let’s go out front, see who’s playing.”
Steve nodded and followed Bucky, who luckily stopped at the fringes of the
crowd in front of the main stage. The crowd were moving in a great wave in time
to the heavy bass and half-rapped-half-screamed rapid-fire German emitting from
the speakers.
“They’re good!” Bucky shouted to Steve over the music.
“I guess so, but I think my ears are bleeding,” Steve retorted, making Bucky
laugh.
“You’re no fun!”
 
The evening was spent in a melee of music, people, interviews, and drinking on
Bucky’s part, and Steve was relieved when he finally decided to call it a night
just before dawn, and clung to Steve’s side all the way back onto the bus. Once
there, Bucky collapsed onto his bunk, but kept a death-grip on Steve’s wrist,
trying to tug him down beside him.
“Let go, Buck,” Steve whispered gently, aware of the band and Sharon sleeping
in their own bunks. He tugged, trying to free his arm, and Bucky pouted.
“Don’t,” he muttered, his lips turning down, and Steve felt a tug behind his
ribs, like Bucky was holding his heart, not his arm. “I don’t…” Bucky trailed
off, his brows drawing together.
“Don’t what, Buck?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to, don’t make me, I’ll be good, I
promise.”
Steve went cold. “What don’t you want to do?”
“I… I’ll be good,” Bucky’s grip on Steve’s wrist tightened painfully, his eyes
fixed somewhere in the middle distance, then he lapsed into Russian, speaking
fast, but almost inaudibly.
Steve suddenly felt scared. He knew this behaviour, had seen it in Clint and
Sam and himself. Bucky was having a flashback. One he was too drunk to get
himself out of.
Steve leaned down, pressing the palm of his free hand to Bucky’s cheek.
“Bucky, hey, look at me. Bucky.”
Bucky stopped the litany of Russian, his eyes slowly focusing on Steve’s face,
his hold on Steve’s wrist going slack.
“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled, blinking slowly.
Steve gave a relieved little sigh. “You should get some sleep, Buck. Okay?”
“M’kay,” Bucky agreed, groggily, letting go of Steve and turning to press his
cheek to his pillow.
Steve waited until his breathing evened out before kicking off his shoes and
laying down on his own bunk.
What was the flashback Bucky had had? Steve worried over it, over what bad
experience Bucky had relived, until he fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with
shouts in Arabic and whispers in Russian.
Chapter End Notes
     So I wrote enough for two chapters in the last few days, so the next
     chapter will be posted tomorrow, and, if you're really really good, a
     new Bucky POV work will be posted here on Sunday!
     As always, much love and gratitude to all the wonderful people who
     read, kudo and comment!
***** You Look Just Like A Star, It's Proof You Don't Know Who You Are *****
Chapter Notes
     Yay, a new chapter so soon!
     Chapter title from The Great Southern Trendkill by Pantera
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I can't stand to let you win
I'm just watching you
And I don't know what to do
Feeling like a fool inside
Feeling all the hurt you hide
Thought you were my friend
Seems it never ends
I need somebody someone
Can't somebody help me
All I need is to be
Loved just for me
 
Giving you this and that
Giving gave nothing back
It's all related to
All the things I do
Feeling like a fool inside
Seeing all the things you tried
I am nothing
 
I look I sign
I need someone
Inside to help me out
With what I'm trying
I'm crying, I'm frying
In a pile of shit
I'm dying
I'm dying
I'm dying
 
-  Somebody Someone, Korn
 
~
 
Saturday was sunny and hot, and Bucky seemed to be in a particularly bad mood,
skipping breakfast in favour of a bottle of Jim Beam.
The day was chaotic, with Bucky snapping at Steve to keep up and not bothering
to introduce the many people who stopped to talk to him the way he’d done the
previous day. Then, suddenly, in the late afternoon, Bucky vanished. He’d
walked ahead of Steve, talking to a British girl who ran a music blog, and
Steve had lost sight of him for a few seconds while he scanned the crowd of
fans leaning over the barricades with their phones out, and when he looked
back, Bucky was nowhere to be seen. Steve turned in a full circle, mentally
cataloguing what Bucky had been wearing. Black shirt, black jeans, hair pulled
up in a bun. Steve couldn’t see any trace of him, and felt his heartrate kick
up a notch. It wouldn’t do to panic, Steve told himself, he couldn’t have gone
far. He pulled out his phone and dialled Bucky’s number. Voicemail. Of course.
“Fuck,” Steve cursed under his breath, still scanning the crowd, his breath
hitching as he saw dark hair pulled up in a bun, but it was only a tall girl,
laughing with her friends.
He dialled Wade’s number, still slowly turning on the spot.
“Hey, Captain,”Wade answered on the third ring.
“Wade, is Bucky with you?”
“No. Thought he was with you?”
“I lost him,” Steve admitted.
“Oh. I’m sure he’s fine, Steve, he probably needed a moment alone. He gets
nervous before big gigs like this.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, distractedly. “Could you just let me know if you see him?”
Wade agreed, and Steve ended the call. He went toward the refreshment tent,
which was the main direction Bucky and the blogger had been heading in. There
was no sign of them, and Steve’s pulse increased a little more. He could feel a
flow of adrenaline spread through his body, making everything a little clearer,
brought the world into sharper focus. He left the tent and started moving
around the people scattered across the field, heading in the vague direction of
the bus lot.
The adrenaline had pulled Steve back into mission mode, and he tuned out
everything but his current objective. Locate James Barnes. Confirm that he was
safe and uninjured. Steve threaded his way between several buses, still
swivelling his head to keep his field of vision as wide as possible, and heard
a groan, followed by a bit-off curse, the voice unmistakably Bucky’s.
Steve rounded the tail end of a bus and stopped in his tracks, Bucky’s name
dying on his lips as he took in the sight before him. Bucky with his back
against the side of a bus emblazoned with a winged skull, the blogger on her
knees in front of him. Before Steve could turn away, Bucky’s eyes opened and
his gaze froze him on the spot. Steve’s chest seemed to catch fire, jealousy
pushing up into his throat, burning like acid on the back of his tongue. Bucky
pulled away from the girl, and Steve found his legs again. He turned on his
heel and walked away, aware of Bucky’s footsteps closing in on him.
“Steve!” Bucky’s voice was angry, furious even.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Steve bit out, not turning, not slowing. “I was
only doing my job.”
“Goddamnit, Steve,” Bucky’s voice was right behind him now.
“Go finish up,” Steve told him, as calmly as he could manage, “I won’t barge in
on you again.”
Bucky grabbed Steve’s bicep, tugging hard to bring him to a standstill.
Steve pulled away from him. “What?!” he demanded, but now he was close up,
Steve saw how far Bucky’s pupils were dilated, the soft, unfocused way his gaze
flitted around, and he felt his own anger burning through the acid sting of
seeing Bucky with that girl.
“Damnit, Bucky, are you high?” he demanded.
Bucky hesitated, looking guilty for a moment. “I only did a couple of lines.
She offered, how could I refuse?”
“Easily,” Steve snapped.
Bucky gave a hollow little laugh. “Saying no, wouldn’t that be nice, huh?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothin’,” Bucky mumbled. “Are you mad that I’m high, or that I got a blowjob
and you didn’t.”
“I’m mad because you gave me the slip! It’s my job to make sure you’re safe,
Bucky! I can’t do that if you disappear in a place filled with thousands of
people. Fuck, Bucky, I was worried out of my mind. I looked for you for half an
hour!”
Bucky bit his lip, his shoulders curled forward, almost cowering in the face of
Steve’s anger.
“Sorry, Stevie,” he mumbled, looking down, his hands fidgeting in front of him.
Steve took a sharp breath through his nose, exhaling in a long gust.
“And I’m sorry for interrupting your little moment back there.”
Bucky shrugged. “It’s okay, really.”
“Why? She use teeth?”
Bucky let out a breath of laughter. He seemed to be coming down a little, and
Steve felt relieved.
“No. It’s just the thing to do.”
“The thing to do?”
“Sex,” Bucky said, waving his hand in a vague gesture.
Steve reconsidered how high Bucky actually was.
“I don’t understand,” he admitted.
Bucky frowned at him. “I do it ‘cause it’s expected. It’s not like I should
enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what, exactly?” Steve was frowning now, too.
Bucky started to speak, but was interrupted by Steve’s phone ringing.
It was Sharon, reminding them that the band needed to be onstage soon, and
Bucky changed the subject to as they made their way backstage.
 
Siberia took the stage just as the sun started to reach the western horizon,
ahead of Korn, who were headlining, to thunderous cheers and applause.
Bucky spoke to the crowd in a mix of English and German. Steve stood in the
wings and marvelled at how Bucky could command thousands of people’s attention
and respect so effortlessly. At the same time, standing so high above everyone
else, he was also the most grounded. Instead of the spotlight making him into
an otherworldly being, it bared his utter humanity. The crowd sang every word
to each song, and the experience shook Steve to his very core.
The last song opened with a riff that started several circular movements in the
crowd that made Steve dizzy.
Bucky’s vocals were cleaner, even over the heavier bass and drums, and Steve
took in every word he sang.
 
“Tired of one night stands
Tired of strangers’ hands
Tired of getting drunk, getting laid
I’m getting pissed, I need to get saved
So can you give me your hand
Pull me outta this black-hole lifestyle, baby?
 
‘Cause I’m sick!
I’ve been numb for way too long
Drowning in the bottle
Choking on the pills
A way to get through, get me all my thrills
So pour me another, take me home
Your place, honey, I’m too wasted
To spend tonight alone
 
Another shot, another line
Another hit, one more time
Got so high that I lost my mind
Do you wanna help me find…?”
 
The song ended with Bucky walking off stage, shoving his guitar into the hands
of a technician, and striding straight past Steve who followed close behind,
determined not to lose him again, while Rumlow stepped up to the mike and
thanked the crowd. Steve stayed on Bucky’s heels all the way to the edge of the
bus lot, empty of people with everyone gathered closer to the stage, where
Bucky turned on him.
“Do you have to follow me around like a fucking puppy all the goddamn time?!”
Steve flinched at Bucky’s shout, but before he could answer, Bucky continued,
his voice hoarse. “Everywhere I fucking turn, you’re right there. I can’t take
it anymore. Just go away!”
Steve was shocked into silence as Bucky turned away and trudged toward
Siberia’s bus. He debated just letting the other man go, but he’d been uneasy
the whole time they’d been here, and he’d had enough experience to heed his
instincts when it came to danger. Trying not to let it show that Bucky’s words
had hurt him, Steve followed him into the gathering darkness. He found Bucky
sitting on the couch in the bus, his head in his hands.
“Buck,” Steve murmured.
“I knew you wouldn’t go away.”
“It’s my job,Bucky.”
“Yeah, so you’ve said a million times. You sound like a broken record.”
Steve stayed quiet, leaning against the little kitchenette counter.
Bucky rubbed his temples, keeping his head down.
“Why’d you choose this, after the military?”
Steve hesitated. Bucky’s mood swings were wearing him down. It was exhausting
having to play catch up all the time, always be half a step behind. For a
spiteful second Steve considered telling Bucky that he was an insufferable
asshole, then realised it wouldn’t be entirely true, and answered the question
instead.
“My friend Natasha suggested it. Civilian life was… hard to get back into, and
this is something good, something that helps people.”
“Why not be a doctor, then?”
Steve gave a rueful smile that Bucky didn’t see. “I didn’t do too well in
school, definitely not good enough for something like that.”
Bucky glanced up at him, then away again, his brow knitted. “You’re really
smart, though.”
Steve shrugged. “It wasn’t that. I missed most of high school.”
“Why?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed.
Steve felt the muscles along his spine spasm, his chest tightening like the
beginning of an asthma attack. He wasn’t sure why he would tell Bucky how frail
he’d been. How weak. But he spoke anyway.
“I was sick a lot as a kid, and then, when I was fifteen, my asthma got a lot
worse, and my kidneys started acting up. I was pretty sure I’d never see
eighteen, but I had my mom, and a great doctor, Dr Erskine, and I pulled
through. I graduated high school, just barely, but with 9/11, all thought of
college was pushed aside. So I joined the army.”
Bucky nodded slowly. “You were what, eighteen? When 9/11 happened?”
“Yeah,” Steve said quietly.
“Why not go for a military career?”
“That was my plan, at first.”
“What changed?”
Steve just shook his head. He was weak, always had been. It wasn’t something
that had changed, it was the one thing that hadn’t.
Bucky bit his lip. “How ‘bout this? You tell me what happened, and I tell you
what I really did for the SVR.”
Chapter End Notes
     I'll try to get the new Bucky POV work up tomorrow, otherwise it'll
     be on Wednesday.
***** Cheap Cocaine, A Dry Inhale, The Pills That Kill And Take The Pain Away
*****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Suicide Note pt I by Pantera.
     If you wanna know a little more about the inner working of Bucky's
     mind, give Black_Gives_Way_to_Blue a read, you won't regret it.
     I just realized how British the English in this fic is, sorry! I'm
     South African, and we use British English, because of the whole
     colonization thing way back when. Whoops. I'll try to be more
     'Murican in future. (Apologies if that offends anyone).
     Also, I've had a few comments solely asking when the smut's coming,
     without saying anything else or giving constructive criticism. I
     seriously considered removing any sexual interaction between Steve
     and Bucky that I have in my outline, then realized it would unbalance
     certain plot elements to keep their relationship platonic, and
     instead cut all but the most necessary interactions between them. I'm
     sorry to do it, since I really wanted to keep the spirit of SEX,
     drugs and rock 'n roll in coming chapters, but I also feel a bit icky
     about getting comments like that.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
If I gave you the truth, would it keep you alive?
Though I'm closer to wrong
I'm no further from right
And now I'm convinced on the inside that something's wrong with me
Convinced on the inside, you're so much more than me, yeah
No there's nothing you say that can salvage the lie
But I'm trying to keep my intentions disguised
And now I'm deprived of my conscience and something's got to give
Deprived of my conscience
This all belongs to me, yeah
 
I'm beaten down again, I belong to them
Beaten down again, I've failed you
I'm weaker now my friend, I belong to them
Beaten down again, I've failed you
 
- Truth, Seether
 
~
 
Steve blinked in mute surprise for a long moment, while he considered if he
wanted to know more about Bucky’s past badly enough that he would willingly
divulge something he’d never even told Sam.
“Come on,” Bucky’s bad mood had apparently given way to curiosity. “You know
about the Bratva, and whatever else was in my file, and I know fuck-all about
you.”
Steve had to concede the point. He’d been pressing Bucky for details about his
life all this time, without telling him anything about himself in return.
“Okay,” Steve threw up his hands, then ran them through his hair. He wasn’t
sure where to start, but sighed and spoke anyway.
“Okay… so stuff like dates and locations are classified, and for good reason.”
Bucky nodded and Steve continued.
“My unit was sent on a mission to rescue a doctor, this brilliant scientist,
from a hostile facility in the middle of… a desert. It should have been easy.
In and out. Clean.”
Steve took a breath.
“But I got arrogant, thought we could take down the entire operation while we
were there. Turned out we were outmanned, outgunned. By the time we realized,
it was too late to get out.”
Steve paused again, fixing his gaze on his scuffed Converse. He could taste
bile, bitter and acidic, on the back of his tongue.
“I ordered one of my men to find the doctor, and get away, but they never did.
It was chaos, bullets everywhere. You couldn’t take two steps without slipping
in blood. Finally, finally there were only three hostiles left. Those of us
left rallied, we thought we’d won. Then the missile hit. Somewhere in the fray,
one of the hostiles must’ve radioed in that they were under attack, and their
command decided to cut the losses. I was going after one of them, halfway down
a corridor going to a fire escape. I remember this sound, this whoosh, and hot
wind, then nothing. I was thrown clear of the blast, scraped and bruised, with
a concussion and a broken leg, but alive. No one else was that lucky.”
Steve cleared his throat, his eyes scratchy. He hadn’t cried, not once, since
they found him, half-raving from heatstroke and dehydration in the sand, and he
refused to do so now.
“Dugan, Jones, Falsworth, Morita, Dernier.” Steve said the names like a prayer,
barely audible, then added, “It took the extraction team almost four days to
find me. I still…” He cut himself off, swallowing heavily, and shook his head.
He’d said enough.
“I’m sorry about your men,” Bucky said gently.
“So am I.”
“You should stop blaming yourself.”
“Who says I blame myself?” Steve’s head snapped up, suddenly defensive.
“You don’t need to say it,” Bucky shifted restlessly, then got to his feet and
stepped closer to Steve.
For a wild second, Steve thought Bucky was moving to hug him, and tensed, but
the other man merely opened the cabinet beside his head and took out two mugs.
In the tense quiet, he made tea.
“Thanks,” Steve murmured, accepting the steaming mug of Earl Grey.
Bucky moved back to the couch, but didn’t sit down, his movements restive and
agitated.
Steve kept quiet, until his tea – a little too sweet – was finished, and he
couldn’t take Bucky’s fidgeting anymore.
“So tell me what you really did for the SVR.”
Bucky stopped moving immediately, his body going entirely still in that
unnatural way he sometimes had.
“I gathered intel.”
“How?”
Bucky had frozen with his back half-turned, but he moved around to face Steve,
though without looking at him.
“I have a certain… skill set, I suppose you could call it. Sometimes, people
were suspected of doing things that weren’t in Russia’s best interest, and I’d
find out what, and how and when.”
“How?” Steve repeated.
Bucky shrugged. “Discreetly. Mostly the people suspected were innocent, with
rumors started by other people who wanted money or power or revenge. When the
suspicions were legit, though, I’d get out before they realized anything was
amiss, and call in the taskforce to handle it.”
“And that’s it?”
Bucky nodded. “It doesn’t even fall under the umbrella of counter-intelligence.
I was basically a paid informant.”
“What’s your skillset?”
Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to his feet before meeting Steve’s.
“I speak a lot of languages,” he hedged, a blatant half-truth.
“And?” Steve pressed.
Bucky looked uncomfortable, turning his empty mug around in his hands.
“What’s your favorite color?”
The question caught Steve by surprise, and he frowned at Bucky, who looked
guiltysuddenly. Steve sighed. He couldn’t press Bucky for more, knew he’d clam
up and turn surly and moody again, so he answered the question.
“Blue. Yours?”
“Red. What’s your Hogwarts House?”
Steve shrugged. “Not a clue.”
“What do you do for fun? If you ever have fun, that is.”
Steve ignored the barb. “I go out with my friends, play basketball at the
courts near my apartment, or go to the gym. When I’m home I like to go to
football games. I volunteer at the youth center when I’ve got time.”
“You’re a goody two-shoes. And a jock.”
“And you’re a nerd.”
Bucky pursed his lips, the action unnecessarily sexy.
“So no boyfriend?”
“Nope. Thought you knew that already.”
Bucky shrugged. “What about your family?”
“I don’t really have any. Mom died just after I enlisted, my dad died when I
was really little, and I don’t have siblings.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. What about you? The file never mentioned your family.”
“My mom and my baby sister died when I was four. I don’t really remember them
much.”
“And your dad?”
Steve could swear Bucky flinched at his question.
“Haven’t seen him in almost twenty years.” Bucky’s tone was even, but the
expression in his eyes was icy.
Steve just nodded.
“The last assignment I was on for the SVR,” Bucky started, “the one that got me
‘fired’, I fucked up. Something I said or did tipped the guy off who I was,
what I was doing. I thought he’d kill me, you know. But he was smarter than
that, knew I might have info hecould use. He got pretty creative about it too.
I never said a damn thing though. I kept reciting Metallica lyrics in every
language I know. It was up in this little village in Siberia, guy owned this
big house that he used for parties.”
Bucky set down his mug and held out his left arm, pushing the short sleeve up
over his shoulder.
“I nearly lost my arm. He thought he was Ramsay Bolton or something, but he
didn’t realize how fast infection could set in with open wounds.”
He traced across the tattoo of overlapping metal plates, and Steve leaned
closer to get a better look and noticed for the first time that the ink covered
scar-tissue, running from Bucky’s deltoid, down to his forearm.
“I broke my elbow getting out of the restraints, it hurt like a motherfucker,
but the cold helped, numbed the pain, halted the bleeding. When I got out of
the hospital, I got called in by my handler. They didn’t give second chances.
It was a good thing, though. I got out completely, a clean break.”
Steve balled his hands into fist to keep from running his fingers along Bucky’s
skin, to trace the patterns of the scars. Bucky pulled away, righting his
sleeve.
“Is that why the band’s named Siberia?”
“Yeah. The guys don’t know; they just think it’s cause I like Russia. And I do,
I still do, even after all the shit.”
Steve was at a loss for what to say. Every time he thought he had Bucky figured
out, the man revealed something that altered Steve’s perception of him, threw
him off balance. He bit his lip, watching as Bucky sagged back onto the couch,
folding his legs in beneath him. Bucky looked up at him, his expression
guarded, unsure.
“So…” Steve started, casting around for something, anything to say. “What’s
your Hogwarts House?”
Bucky let out a startled laugh. “Ravenclaw.”
Steve nodded. “That’s the uh… not the evil House, right?”
That got him an eye-roll. “None of the Houses are evil. Ravenclaw values
intelligence and individuality.”
Steve nodded. That sounded pretty spot-on for Bucky, he supposed.
“So what’s mine?” he asked.
“Get your tablet, we’ll make you a Pottermore account.”
“You are such a nerd,” Steve threw over his shoulder as he did what Bucky said,
then came to sit beside him.
Bucky leaned closer, typing on the tablet as Steve held it out and told him his
email address.
“Password?” Bucky asked.
“Just make something up,” Steve told him, which earned him another eye-roll,
but Bucky tapped out a rather long series of little dots in the password bar.
“Okay, first you gotta get a wand.”
Steve snorted, and Bucky elbowed him. “Don’t be such a jock.”
“Okay, sorry,” Steve said as soberly as he could manage. “Isn’t this for kids,
though?”
“Of course not. Harry Potter transcends age, gender and race. Now answer
these.”
Steve got his wand, cedar with unicorn hair, and Bucky grinned at him.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
“Willow and phoenix feather,” Bucky said, a little proudly. “Now, your house
quiz, and try to put some thought into it.”
“Yes, Professor Barnes,” Steve said drily, and Bucky’s smile widened even more.
He did the quiz and got…
“Gryffindor,” Steve said, looking up at Bucky.
“Congratulations!” Bucky said. “That’s the house of renowned witches and
wizards such as Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall and Neville Longbottom.”
Steve’s mouth turned up at the corners. “And it’s not the evil house either?”
“Oh for Merlin’s sake. It’s the brave house.”
Steve’s smile faded a little. “I’m not all that brave.”
“Neville thought the same thing, and look at what he did.”
Steve looked at Bucky, sitting so close that Steve could feel the warmth
radiating from him. He was breathtaking, so close, with his hair falling into
his eyes, his lips curling at the corners in that Cheshire Cat way, stumble
shadowing his jaw. Steve wondered what would happen if he just kissed Bucky,
just to feel those lips, just to taste him.
It was Bucky who broke the moment, shifting away, his expression uncomfortable,
but before Steve could apologize, the bus door banged open and the rest of the
band stumbled inside, laughing and talking in loud bursts. Bucky got up and
went to his bunk, leaving Steve on the couch without a word.
Chapter End Notes
     As always, thanks for reading, and enormous gratitude for all the
     kudos and comments!
     Also, did y'all read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child yet? What did
     you think? What's your Hogwarts House?
     I'm Ravenclaw, and I loved Cursed Child so so so much! Scorpius is
     just amazing, imo.
***** Diet Of Life, Shelter Without, The Face That Cannot See Inside Yours And
Mine *****
Chapter Notes
     What's this? A new chapter? So soon? Well, ain't ya lucky, folks?
     Chapter title from Suicide Note pt I by Pantera.
     Ps. Please pretend the Marilyn Manson song has male pronouns. I felt
     weird about changing them. But imagine this: 'little boy, little boy,
     you should close your eyes, that blue is getting me high'. Also,
     quick reminder that the songs I quote at the start of each chapter
     portrays Bucky's thoughts and feelings, not Steve's.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
She reminds me of the one in school
When I was cuttin'
She was dressed in white
And I couldn't take my eyes off her
But that's not what I took off that night
 
She'll never cover up what we did with her dress, no
She said kiss me
It'll heal
But it won't forget
Kiss me
It'll heal
But it won't forget
 
And I don't mind you keepin' me
On pins and needles
If I could stick to you
And you stick me too
 
Don't break
Don't break my heart
And I won't break your heart-shaped glasses
Little girl, little girl
You should close your eyes
That blue is getting me high
 
She reminds me of the one I knew
That cut up the negatives of my life
I couldn't take my hands off her
She wouldn't let me be anywhere but inside
 
- Heart-Shaped Glasses, Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
They boarded a plane for London early on Monday morning. Bucky offered Steve
the window seat, and sank down next to him, looking worn and tired after a
Sunday spent surrounded by crowds and press. Steve was just happy that Bucky
hadn’t turned cold and surly again. Bucky opened one of the Cyrillic books he’d
bought, and pulled a foot up onto the business class seat, the action pressing
his left shoulder against Steve’s right, and Steve tried to ignore the warmth
as he pulled up Shield emails and tapped out a report on his tablet. The flight
wasn’t long, and they took a van up to Leicestershire, where they were staying
in a quaint little inn for the week until the Download Festival started.
 
Only Sharon got her own room, the band and Steve were two to a room, Steve
sharing with Bucky, Scott with Wade and Rumlow with Rollins. The rooms were
spacious, though with twin beds, and a shared bathroom. Bucky sank down on the
bed closest to the windows, and lay back, closing his eyes with a little sigh.
Steve dumped his bags on the bed, and began unpacking the necessities. Bucky
was snoring softly by the time he was done, and Steve took a moment to smile
over at him, his body stretched out on the bed, totally relaxed, his shirt
riding up past his navel, revealing a stretch of smooth, tattooed skin that
made Steve’s mouth go dry. A cold shower seemed a good idea, and Steve grabbed
his shower bag and one of the inn’s large green towels.
Even under the cool spray in the shower, Steve had a hard time keeping his
thoughts away from Bucky, with those blue eyes and miles of tattoos covering
the skin Steve wanted badly to taste. He’d spent most of the time on the bus in
a state of frustrated half-arousal, cursing Bucky for the effect he had on him.
Steve groaned quietly, and slid a hand down his abdomen, to curl his fingers
around his hard length. It felt good, and Steve let another soft sound escape
his lips as his thought turned in circles around Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…
He was close, bracing with one hand against the tiled wall of the shower, when
the bathroom door banged open and Bucky’s voice registered in his thoughts.
“Steve, I know you’re in here, but I really, really need to… oh.”
Steve straightened, his hand jerking away from his erection, a soft curse on
his lips as he realized that even with the frosted glass of the shower’s door,
it was painfully obvious what he’d been doing. Steve felt his skin suffuse with
heat. Bucky had frozen in the doorway, his lips half-parted with an unasked
question.
“I should…” Bucky started, but Steve interrupted quickly, trying not to make
things even more awkward.
“It’s fine, Bucky. You wanted to pee, go ahead.”
Bucky seemed to vacillate for a second before his bladder won out. Steve turned
away, sure he must be blushing scarlet from the roots of his hair down to his
toes, upended a shampoo bottle and started washing his hair.
Bucky emptied his bladder and washed his hands, pausing in the doorway for a
second.
“Thanks, and sorry,” he said, a little awkwardly.
“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve told him again and Bucky made his escape.
 
When Steve got out of the bathroom fully dressed (and still half-hard) ten
minutes later, Bucky was gone. Steve panicked for a moment, before spotting the
note on his pillow, written in a slightly messy scrawl.
 
Gone to lunch downstairs, hurry up or Wade will eat your food.
    * Bucky
 
Steve hurriedly put on his shoes and went downstairs to join Sharon and the
band for a buffet lunch. He filled his plate and sat in the only open place at
their table, between Scott and Sharon, with Bucky opposite him, engaged in
conversation with Wade about Game of Thrones.
“I suppose you’ve never watched that either,” Wade threw at Steve.
Steve swallowed a bite of potato, and gave a little smirk.
“You suppose incorrectly Wade. I’ve even read the books.”
Wade’s jaw dropped a little. “You have?”
“Yup,” Steve took a bite of chicken.
“Wow! You’re not that much of a heathen after all.”
Steve gave a little half-shrug and continued eating. Through lunch he noticed
Bucky giving him strange looks and cornered him as everyone got up after
dessert.
“Buck, should we talk? About earlier, I mean?”
Bucky looked wildly uncomfortable for a second before smirking, back to the man
who’d propositioned Steve in that penthouse in Rotterdam.
“Whatever you want, good looking,” Bucky said, his voice lowering an octave,
his eyes going wide, tongue flicking out to touch his top lip. It was a perfect
seduction technique, implemented with the ease of long practice. Steve went
cold, and stepped away from Bucky.
“Don’t do that, Buck.”
Bucky’s face changed again, uncertainty painting his features.
“What should I do then?”
Steve lifted a shoulder. “Tell me if I made you uncomfortable. If I should
apologize?”
Had he made Bucky uncomfortable? In his time living with Sam, they’d walked in
on each other jerking off occasionally, and always laughed it off.
“I don’t…” Bucky started, “I didn’t realize – I mean, I don’t get it.”
Steve’s brows pulled together. “Get what?”
Bucky sighed, and tried to move past Steve, but he blocked the other man’s way.
“No, come on, Buck, just say it.”
“I don’t get that. Why you’d do… that.”
“Masturbate?” Steve asked in confusion.
Bucky looked down, his cheeks staining pink. It was the first time Steve had
ever seen him blush, and it left him rather flummoxed.
“I don’t get it,” Bucky repeated, much quieter.
Steve’s mind reeled a little, and he picked gingerly through his next words.
“It’s… normal. Healthy, even.”
Bucky frowned, his expression making it clear that he did not see it that way.
“Buck, it’s… don’t you?”
Bucky made a noise of disgust and shook his head.
“Ever?” Steve raised an eyebrow.
“No.”
For a second Steve felt almost winded. James Barnes was notorious for his sex-
life, his endless list of one-night stands. Something about his denial rang
sour for Steve.
“Why?” he asked, unable to let this go.
“Why would I?” Bucky returned.
“Because it feels good. Because it’s a… release.” Never in his wildest dreams
about this assignment did Steve ever expect to be having this conversation.
Bucky shook his head again. “It’s not… sex isn’t…” Bucky huffed out a breath.
“Can we stop talking about this? Please?”
Steve nodded, even though the curiosity was burning up in him. “Okay. Sure.”
The exchange replayed itself in Steve’s mind all afternoon, and he missed most
of the movie they were all watching in Wade’s room, only registering it had
ended when Sharon nudged his shoulder.
“Tired?” she asked as the credits rolled across the screen.
“I… yeah, I guess I am, a little,” he told her and she smiled in sympathy.
“It gets rough, being out here, away from home so long. The first few tours
nearly had me locked in a psych ward.”
Steve gave a little smile. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Yeah, especially with James and Pierce…” she trailed off, looking slightly
guilty, like she’d said too much.
“What do you mean?” Steve pressed.
Sharon bit her lip, before continuing in a hushed voice. “They don’t do well
together. I don’t know why, because Pierce has always treated James like a son,
but James… he goes out of his way to get into trouble when Pierce is with the
band. Drinks more, does more drugs. He even staged an orgy once. The PR cleanup
on that one was a mess. Like he wants to show Pierce he won’t be controlled,
even if it’s in his best interest.”
“Why hasn’t he been to rehab, or tried to get help?” Steve asked, glancing at
Bucky, who was dozing at the foot of Wade’s bed.
“He refuses to go. I think he’s scared the band will fail, or he’ll be replaced
if he takes a break. Like that’ll ever happen. James is Siberia.”
Steve nodded slowly. “It seems a little… dangerous… to let him continue this
way.”
Sharon shrugged. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
 
Steve mulled over Sharon’s words as he and Bucky made their way back to their
room after two more movies Steve hadn’t paid attention to and Bucky had slept
through. Of everything he’d learned about Bucky, one thing was starting to
become clear: Bucky’s every action was a cry for help.
Bucky tumbled face first into his bed, but tossed and turned well into the
night, while Steve lay awake, thinking. Near dawn, Bucky suddenly sat up with a
gasp, his eyes wild, terrified. Steve was on his feet immediately.
“Buck, you okay?”
Bucky looked at Steve, blinking in confusion for a second before letting out a
pent up breath.
“I’m fine, go back to sleep.”
Except that Steve could see his trembling, how pale his face was, even in the
dark.
“Nightmare?” Steve asked as Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest. “I get them
too. PTSD and shit. Sometimes I dream I’m counting grains of sand and I can’t
stop, ever.”
Steve sat down on the end of Bucky’s bed as he spoke.
Bucky looked at him, then down at his own hands. “I dream of that house in
Siberia. Or about the Bratva and Moscow.”
Steve inclined his head. “Can I do anything? Get you some water maybe?”
Bucky shook his head. “’M okay, thanks, Stevie.”
Steve gave a little smile at the name. They sat in comfortable silence for a
while, until Bucky spoke again.
“When I was a kid, about twelve or so, I knew this girl, Mallory. She was
really my only friend, and we’d go to her house after school to hang out and
her mom would make us lunch, and give us cookies and lemonade. We’d just sit on
the carpet in their living room, playing video games or watching stupid
cartoons or Power Rangers.” Bucky smiled a little at that. “You remind me of
her, sometimes. She didn’t know a thing about comic books or science fiction.
It annoyed me to no end when I’d try to tell her about Wonder Woman and all she
could care about was Amelia Earhart. She was a lot like you, good and sorta…
pure.”
Steve felt his cheeks go a little red. “Wow. Thanks, Buck, but I can’t say I’m
especially good or pure. I saw too much, did too much during the war.”
Bucky just shrugged. “You’re still clueless about things like Star Trek,
though.”
“But we watched that on the bus! I’m all caught up now.”
Bucky kicked Steve’s thigh. “That was Star Wars, punk.”
Steve laughed. “I knew that. Jerk.”
Bucky yawned through his smile, and Steve got up to move back to his own bed,
suddenly aware he hadn’t slept a wink all night.
“Go back to sleep, Buck,” he said softly.
“Yeah, yeah. Night, Stevie.”
“Sleep well, Bucky.”
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Wow, sexual content all up in this bitch!
     Gratitude and love, as always, to everyone who reads, kudos and
     comments <3
***** Tortured History, Addict Of Misery, This Exposes Me *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Suicide Note pt II by Pantera.
     Oh God, I'm using Stinkfist, I've gone over the edge people. Please
     don't hate me.
     Also, a note on Bucky and sex: He is NOT asexual. Just, for future
     reference, and stuff.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Something has to change.
Undeniable dilemma.
Boredom's not a burden
Anyone should bear.
 
Constant over stimulation numbs me
but I would not want you
any other way.
 
It's not enough.
I need more.
Nothing seems to satisfy.
I said
I don't want it.
I just need it.
To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive.
 
Finger deep within the borderline.
Show me that you love me and that we belong together.
Relax, turn around and take my hand.
 
I can help you change
Tired moments into pleasure.
Say the word and we'll be
Well upon our way.
 
Blend and balance
Pain and comfort
Deep within you
Till you will not want me any other way.
 
Knuckle deep inside the borderline.
This may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to.
Relax. Slip away.
 
Something kinda sad about
the way that things have come to be.
Desensitized to everything.
What became of subtlety?
 
How can this mean anything to me
If I really don't feel anything at all?
 
I'll keep digging
Till I feel something.
 
Elbow deep inside the borderline.
Show me that you love me and that we belong together.
Shoulder deep within the borderline.
Relax. Turn around and take my hand.
 
- Stinkfist, Tool
 
~
 
Steve woke up to a loud bangand an angry shout and was on his feet halfway to
Bucky’s bed before colliding with another body and finally forcing his eyes
open to see –
“Wade?”
Steve was aware of an arm around his waist and realized the body he’d collided
with was a messy-haired Bucky.
Wade stood in the doorway holding a cast iron pan in each hand, laughing so
hard tears were streaming down his cheeks. Steve and Bucky stood in the center
of their room, awkwardly embracing with Steve’s attempt to force Bucky into
cover behind his body resulting in an off-balance rock star clinging to him to
stay upright while blinking sleep out of his eyes.
Steve disentangled his limbs from Bucky’s warmth and took a threatening step
closer to Wade.
“Wade, that is not cool, ever,” he admonished as Wade wiped tears from his eyes
with the back of one hand.
“Cap, that was very cool. Bucky shouted in Russian, which is always a bonus.”
“Fuck you, Wilson,” Bucky snarled, his voice gravelly from sleep.
“Come on, guys,” Wade said, motioning with a pan, “it’s much too lovely a day
to stay in bed. Alone, anyway. Let’s go do something.”
Bucky grumbled what sounded like curses in half a dozen languages (Steve
recognized a few choice French insults aimed at Wade’s manhood) and stumbled
into the bathroom.
“Chop, chop!” Wade called out, before leaving the room, banging his pans as he
went. There was an angry shout from Rumlow and an exasperated admonishment from
Sharon before the inn settled back into quiet. Steve wasn’t sure the other
guests staying there were too happy, either.
He heard the toilet flush, then running water, before a slightly more awake
Bucky emerged from the bathroom, pulling the t-shirt he’d slept in over his
head. Steve looked away from the sight of Bucky, warm and tousled, in just his
boxers, and instead started making his bed.
“You wanna shower?” Bucky asked him.
“You go ahead, I need to check in with Shield,” Steve answered without looking
at Bucky, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a cool finger poked him in the
ribs.
“Hey!” he complained, turning to face a grinning Bucky. “Between you and Wade
my poor heart’s gonna give out.”
“Aww,” Bucky pouted, “you want some peace and quiet, Grandpa?”
Steve resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Bucky. “I’m still younger
than you.”
“You sure about that? I swear I see a few grey hairs – hey!” Bucky dodged as
Steve aimed to grab at him, laughing.
Steve took Bucky’s amusement as opportunity and pulled his head down, running
his knuckles over Bucky’s scalp while the other man squirmed, chortling
helplessly and trying to step on Steve’s toes.
“Not so old now, am I?”
“Okay, okay, uncle,” Bucky was breathless with laughter, his cheeks pink when
Steve let him go. “I’m gonna get you for that!”
“Yeah? Bring it, Bieber,” Steve taunted.
Bucky’s smile turned suddenly dangerous, and Steve had only a second to process
that he was in trouble, before Bucky was on him, tackling him to the ground.
Straddling Steve, Bucky started tickling him, and Steve howled in laughter,
writhing futilely trying to get away. For several moments Steve marveled at how
two thirty-something men could be roughhousing like kids, before he registered
Bucky’s body on top of his. Warm and heavy, all hard planes and smooth muscle
beneath all that tattooed skin and so goddamn close that Steve could smell him,
musky and sweet.
The laughter died on Steve’s lips and Bucky stilled, his eyes wide and so
incredibly blue that Steve thought he’d drown, then the weight lifted off him
and Bucky was across the room in a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, voice husky, and grabbed his shower bag, disappearing
into the bathroom before Steve could get to his feet.
Steve cursed under his breath, and looking down to where his pajama bottoms
were tented over his erection, the word ‘trouble’ looping through his mind.
By the time Bucky was done with his shower, everything was back to normal. Or
as normal as anything with them ever was, as if they’d silently agreed to put
that morning behind them and pretend it never happened.
They went into town with Wade, then had lunch back at the inn with everyone
else.
At dinner, it was Wade who help up a pink flyer with an air of triumph.
“Karaoke?”
“Karaoke!”
 
The club was dimly lit, with a little too much pink glitter, but there wasn’t a
large crowd and the band didn’t draw too much attention as they made themselves
at home around a table, Steve sandwiched between Sharon and Bucky.
“Okay,” Brock held up his hands, “band rules apply to Rogers too, or not?”
“Yes!” Wade and Bucky said at the same time.
“Band rules?” Steve asked.
“We each haveto do a song,” Sharon explained, “and we’re not allowed to choose
our own song.”
“And I suppose I can’t just sit this one out?”
“Nope,” Bucky said, smirking.
Steve gave a long suffering sigh. “Fine. But no Journey, please.”
Wade laughed and clapped Steve on the back as a waitress approached.
“Steve,” Bucky said, leaning so close his breath tickled Steve’s cheek, “have a
drink with us, come on.”
“Buck, I’m-.”
“Working, I know,” Bucky said, his face falling a little.
Steve mentally cursed himself for his next words and for the effect Bucky had
on him. “One beer.”
Bucky’s smile lit up the entire room as he relayed Steve’s order with his own
to the waitress.
“You know, the whole peer pressure thing isn’t fair,” Steve told him.
Bucky just grinned at him, eyes bright.
Watching the band karaoke was a lot of fun, and Steve slowly sipped his beer,
grateful that one wasn’t enough to get him buzzed.
“You’re up!” Wade yelled to him after his soulful rendition of Careless
Whisper. “Your song’s set, have fun!”
“What song?” Steve asked as Wade passed him on his way to the stage.
“Toxic, by Britney Spears,” Wade said with a smirk.
“What? Wade, no!”
“Nuh-uh, don’t blame me, Bucky chose it.”
Steve made his way onto the stage and sent Bucky a death glare as the music
started, certain he was blushing hard enough to spontaneously combust. Bucky
just smirked and tipped his beer bottle to those expressive lips of his.
Steve steeled himself, and started singing.
 
Baby, can’t you see
I’m calling
A guy like you
Should wear a warning
It’s dangerous
I’m fallin’
 
There’s no escape
I can’t wait
I need a hit
Baby, give me it
You’re dangerous
I’m lovin’ it
 
Through the entire song, Bucky just watched Steve, his face mostly
expressionless, toying with his beer bottle. It was a strange sensation, almost
intimate, and it set Steve’s nerve endings alight, even as he moved in time to
the music, and he was infinitely grateful when it was over. Bucky was up after
him, striding onto the stage with a smirk on his face that quickly faded when
he saw the song Wade had picked out for him.
“Aw, fuck, Wade! You know I can’t rap for shit!” Bucky called from the stage,
but Wade only flipped him off as the music started. Then Bucky was rapping and
Steve was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor.
 
His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs,
But he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down,
The whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out
He's choking how, everybody's joking now
The clock's run out, time's up, over, blaow!
Snap back to reality. Oh, there goes gravity
Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked
He's so mad, but he won't give up that
Easy, no
He won't have it, he knows his whole back's to these ropes
It don't matter, he's dope
He knows that but he's broke
He's so sad that he knows
When he goes back to his mobile home, that's when it's
Back to the lab again, yo
This whole rhapsody
He better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him
 
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime
 
Bucky had the crowd (which had grown as the evening wore on) on their feet
before the second verse, and was met with cheers and shouts of “Encore!” by the
time the song ended.
He seemed a little overwhelmed by the attention, and leaned down to say
something to the technician, then the first unmistakable strains of I Love Rock
& Roll were met by more deafening cheers, and Bucky moved his whole body to the
beat. The sight went straight to Steve’s crotch. He downed his beer, shifting
in the hard seat and trying to keep his gaze on Bucky’s face instead of those
hips swaying so sinfully to the music. He was almost grateful when the song
ended and Bucky jumped off stage to head back to the table. Instead of taking
his seat however, Bucky leaned across the back of Steve’s, his lips inches from
Steve’s ear.
“You have a good voice, Stevie. We should do one together.”
Steve’s brain short-circuited for a second from Bucky’s sweaty proximity.
“I couldn’t, really,” he finally gasped out, and Bucky leaned forward even
more, to pout at him.
“You’re no fun,” he said quietly, his breath tickling Steve’s lips.
“Tragic, isn’t it?” Steve quipped weakly and Bucky chuckled, still too close,
too immediate.
“James!” Rumlow’s voice broke the moment, and Bucky straightened, leaving Steve
a little cold as his body heat was taken away. They ordered more drinks and
Wade and Scott did comedic rendition of Shake It Off, then they were outside
again, in the cool air, heading back to the inn, and Bucky was slowly turning
inward again. His expression turned hard and cold as he and Steve entered their
room. He tugged off all his clothes, save his underwear, with his back to
Steve, and got into bed without a word.
Steve sank down onto his own mattress, suddenly bone tired. Bucky was the most
mercurial person he’d ever met, and everyday left him feeling like he had
severe whiplash. If he could just figure Bucky out, maybe he could find some
way to really help him. Because Steve would be damned if he just left Bucky to
self-destruct on his own. Steve was so lost in thought, it took him several
moments to realize Bucky was mumbling in his sleep.
“No, please don’t make, please, it hurts, it hurts, I don’t wanna, don’t wanna,
please don’t no, please please no…”
 
Chapter End Notes
     I did write a new Bucky chapter, but I decided to post this first
     because I'm lazy. I'll post the Bucky one tomorrow, so keep an eye on
     the series for that.
     Gratitude and pink glitter to everyone who's kudo'd and commented,
     y'all rock!
***** It's Not Worth The Time To Try To Replenish A Rotting Life *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Suicide Note pt II by Pantera.
     'Jimmy' is a diminutive form of the name James, for anyone unfamiliar
     with English names.
     I'm not too happy with this chapter, honestly. It was supposed to be
     a little different at first, then I blinked and it was 200 words too
     long and kinda weird. I figured, if anything here affects the plot in
     the next three chapters, I'll rewrite it and post it again with
     chapter 15.
     Also, I spent yesterday watching Stranger Things and it's like the
     best thing ever, and I can totally see that it would become Bucky's
     favorite show and he'd make Steve watch it with him and they'd argue
     about Alien and E.T. references.
     Have you guys seen Stranger Things? Do you love Eleven and Dustin as
     much as I do? Please fangirl with me in the comments.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stapled shut, inside an outside world and I'm
Sealed in tight, bizarre but right at home
Claustrophobic, closing in and I'm
Catastrophic, not again
I'm smeared across the page, and doused in gasoline
I wear you like a stain, yet I'm the one who's obscene
Catch me up on all your sordid little insurrections,
I've got no time to lose, and I'm just caught up in all the cattle
 
Fray the strings
Throw the shapes
Hold your breath
Listen
 
I am a world before I am a man
I was a creature before I could stand
I will remember before I forget
Before I forget that
 
I'm ripped across the ditch, and settled in the dirt and
I wear you like a stitch, yet I'm the one who's hurt
Pay attention to your twisted little indiscretions
I've got no right to win, I'm just caught up in all the battles
 
Locked in clutch
Pushed in place
Hold your breath
Listen!
 
My end
It justifies my means
All I ever do is delay
My every attempt to evade
The end of the road and my end
It justifies my means
All I ever do is delay
My every attempt to evade
The end of the road.
 
- Before I Forget, Slipknot
 
~
 
Download was chaos. The days leading up to the festival weekend were lazy and
relaxed, and Bucky spent most of the time reading, while Steve texted Nat and
Sam and Clint, feeling slightly homesick, and grateful that he had a weekend
off as soon as the band were back Stateside.
Then Friday arrived and the band were herded to the festival grounds for
interviews and introductions.
Steve remained at an unobtrusive distance during interviews, but found himself
dragged to the forefront by Bucky every time members of another band made an
appearance, as if mere proximity to the musicians could somehow fill Steve with
an appreciation of their music.
“Rammstein, Steve, they’re industrial and scary and so good.”
“Nightwish, Steve, just listen to their new album, you’ll like it. 
“Disturbed, Steve, go Google their cover of The Sound of Silence right now.”
“That’s Dave Mustaine, Steve! Oh my God, he’s a legend, and his guitar playing,
holy shit!”
“Steve, Steve,that’s Ozzy! Fuck, fuck, shit, oh my God…”
“Bucky!” Steve exclaimed. “Calm down, pal.”
Bucky looked at Steve, his cheeks slightly pink, in part from all the bourbon
he’d consumed, but mainly from excitement over the long-haired old man
currently ambling in their direction.
“Calm down?!” Bucky looked disbelieving. “You do know who that is, right?”
“Yes, I do.” And it was true.
“So you know that it’s fucking impossible for me to calm down!”
“You’ve met him before though, what’s the big deal?”
“I haven’t!” Bucky looked offended at Steve just assuming something so major.
“Oh. Well, he’s just a person, Buck,” Steve tried to reason, and immediately
realized he’d said the wrong thing when Bucky’s face twisted.
“His music saved more fucking lives than you ever did, Rogers.” Bucky spat and
turned away, only to find himself face to face with the subject of their
discussion.
Ozzy Osbourne smiled at Bucky, and held out his hand. “Hello, mate. I loved
that last album, can’t wait to have ya at Ozzfest.”
Bucky’s cheeks flushed a frankly spectacular shade of dusky pink, his hand
trembling as he clasped the older man’s.
“I… wow… thank you, Mr Osbourne, Ozzy, I mean.”
Ozzy clapped Bucky on the shoulder and moved on, leaving Bucky frozen and
staring into space.
Steve’s flash of anger at Bucky’s words had faded at the sight of the man
blushing and stammering so adorably.
“Buck?” he asked, gently nudging Bucky’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, still with that faraway look on his face. “I’m an
asshole for saying that to you.”
Steve smiled at that. “It’s okay, Buck.”
“Ozzy Osbourne just told me he liked our last album.”
“I heard him. That’s pretty awesome.”
“Yeah, yeah it is.” Finally, Bucky seemed to snap out of his star struck daze
and turned to Steve with a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Black Sabbath – the song, I mean, not the band – was the first heavy metal
song I’d ever heard, and it made more sense than anything else in my life at
that point. I was about ten, I think, and I never fell out of love with metal.”
 
Saturday was busy, with last minute arrangements for their set that evening and
yet more interviews and a meet and greet with fans.
It was almost painfully sweet when two kids told Bucky his music had saved
their lives. Bucky’s face crumpled slightly as he pulled them in for a long
hug.
After that, Sharon called the band together with a frown. “Our wildcard song
won the Twitter poll,” she told them and Bucky cursed.
“We know the song, though,” Rumlow said, “what’s the issue?”
“I’m not one hundred on the lyrics,” Bucky admitted, eyes down.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Rumlow started but Rollins cut him off.
“You have three hours, James, isn’t that enough to get it down?”
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “I’ll need headphones.”
 
Bucky plopped himself on the grass close to the back of the stage, headphones
on and eyes closed, while Steve stood nearby, watching him. He made an
entrancing sight, all in black, cross-legged, hands moving through the air,
lips forming silent words.
Less than an hour later, Bucky’s flew open and he tugged off the headphones. He
stuck his tongue out at Steve who’d moved closer and held out a hand to help
him to his feet.
“You got it?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, thank God.” Bucky shook his head. “I really thought Paranoid would win
the poll today, though.”
“Uh huh.” Since Steve didn’t know either of the songs, he wasn’t much help with
the reasoning behind the poll results.
Bucky gave a long-suffering sigh.
“James!” Rumlow yelled as Steve and Bucky approached the band outside the beer
tent. “Did you learn the fucking song?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, swiping Wade’s almost-full beer.
“You sure? I don’t remember you being that sharp with new songs, ya know.”
Rumlow’s voice was just loud enough to draw glances from nearby people.
Bucky just shrugged which seemed to make Rumlow angrier.
“Remember that time you fucked up on one of our songs when we opened for
Marilyn Manson?”
Bucky paled a little. “Yeah, Brock, I do. What’s your point?”
“Nothin’, nothin’. Just sayin’, you know.”
Bucky took a gulp of beer and walked away, Steve following after a last glance
at Rumlow’s grin. They didn’t go far, stopping around the same place where
Bucky had sat to learn the song.
“I need a hit,” Bucky grumbled.
“No, you don’t,” Steve told him.
Bucky gave a scathing little laugh. “You’re such a goody two-shoes.”
“Maybe,” Steve shrugged. “But there are better ways of dealing with stuff.”
“You’re so eloquent, Stevie,” Bucky said, his smile a little cruel.
“Why don’t you stand up to Rumlow?” Steve pressed and Bucky snorted, taking
another swig of beer.
“That’ll just make shit worse.”
“So you’d rather just sit back and let him bully you?”
“Fuck you!” Bucky barked. “You don’t know shit about anything, guard dog, so
heel.”
Steve flinched at that, hot anger pressing up into his throat. “You don’t get
to do that, Barnes. I’m here because of your own recklessness, don’t throw this
in front of me like I’m the one to blame.”
“Oh right, I forget, you’re too perfect to be blamed for anything, aren’t you?
I’ve never needed a fucking bodyguard, Steven, everything was fine until you
got here!”
“Yeah, James,” Steve said, “I could tell from the stab wound and the orgies and
the drug habit.”
“Fuck you, Stevie,” Bucky sneered.
“That’s really mature,Jimmy, you can-,” Steve started, but the rest of his
sentence was cut off as pain flared across his jaw and he realized Bucky had
punched him. Bucky, who was suddenly pale as death, shaking, his breath
hitching in his throat as he stared at Steve with wide, shocked eyes.
“Don’t,” he whispered, “don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that. Please.”
“Okay,” Steve said quietly, rubbing his jaw, “okay, I’m sorry.”
Bucky looked down at his clenched fist, his lips pressed into a tight line that
almost seemed to snap when he spoke. “You make me so angry sometimes, Steve.”
“Do you want me to call Shield, get someone else in my place?”
“What? No!” Bucky shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. Unless you’d
prefer that, after…”
Steve was debating how to answer, when Sharon’s voice sounded behind him.
“James! James, you need to be onstage in thirty minutes, you have to go
change!”
She came jogging up to them, slightly out of breath.
“Yeah, okay, let’s go,” Bucky said, still looking expectantly at Steve.
“Go,” Steve told him, “we’ll discuss things after your set.”
Bucky nodded, and turned to sprint toward the band. Steve followed with Sharon,
who pointed to his jaw.
“You should put some ice on that.” Her tone conveyed that her job meant more
than her curiosity and Steve was grateful.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get you some from the beer tent while the guys change.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
 
Sharon came back with an icepack in time to shepherd the band onto the stage
and Steve studiously avoided Bucky’s eyes. Maybe it would be better to go. To
let Natasha or someone else take over, so he could get Bucky out of his head,
out of his system. But then he got a glimpse of Bucky’s face as he greeted the
crowd, slightly more subdued than usual, and all thought of leaving fled.
The first song started with a rolling bass line, building up until Bucky
brought the microphone to his lips and screamed,and sixty thousand people
screamed with him. Steve’s breath caught at the sight. He recognized the song,
thanks to his diligence in catching up with Siberia’s discography, but hearing
that scream through his headphones paled in comparison to the effect of hearing
it live. The song was a fast one, with a melodic chorus, and Bucky’s voice cut
a swathe through the din.
 
“And all the fire, all the flame
Won’t make this broken soul whole again
And all the truth and purity
Won’t save me from the misery.”
 
Steve leaned against a support beam, still pressing the icepack to his jaw,
while Sharon tapped something out on her tablet next to him. He moved his jaw,
wincing. Bucky sure can throw a punch, Steve thought, but with fondness more
than malice.
The set progressed, until they started a song Steve didn’t recognize. He nudged
Sharon.
“Is this the Twitter song?”
“Yeah,” she said, “Metabolic by Slipknot.”
 
“Gone - I couldn't murder your promise
Right before my eyes
The revolutions of my psychosis
Kept me outta the way
 
Once inside all I hold is ash...
 
Fail - suppressing every feeling
I'm in so much pain
I have every fuckin' right to hate you
I can't take it!
 
The hardest part was knowing that I could never be you
Now all I do is sit around and wish I could forget you
 
My demise - I took a life worth living and
Made it worth a mockery
I deny - I fold, but they keep on coming
I'm always ready to die
But you're killing me
 
Who are you to me? Who am I to you?
Is this a lesson in nepotistic negligence?
By default, you are my only link to the outside
Psychosomatic suicide
Where were you when I was down?
Can you show me a way
To face every day with this face - goodbye
 
When I blur my eyes, they make the whole
World breathe - I see you fucking me
And I am absolutely controlling every urge
To mutilate - the one and only answer
So much for memories
I wanna dress in your insecurities
And be the perfect you - I'm through
I'm out-stretched out for all to loathe
Here we go - the ultimate irony.”
 
Bucky ended the song with another protracted scream that Steve was sure hurt
his throat, before launching directly into their closing number.
They ended the set and Bucky walked off stage behind the rest of the band,
looking bone tired. Wade insisted they stay to see Black Sabbath, and they all
remained at the side of the stage for the next two bands. Bucky sat down on a
large black crate, wiping sweat from his face with a towel someone had pressed
into his hand. Steve handed him a bottle of water which he accepted with a
husky thanks, his voice nearly gone.
After the Black Sabbath performance – that had even Bucky on his feet – they
trooped back to the van which would take them back to the inn. The band had
elected not the stay on the festival grounds, though Wade had lamented all the
groupies he’d miss out on.
Back in their own room, with its twin beds – Steve’s neatly made and Bucky’s
looking like a tornado had hit it – Bucky closed the door and leaned back
against it. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat, and looked
at Steve through his ridiculously long eyelashes. His teeth sank into his
bottom lip, emphasizing the cupid’s bow of the upper one. The expression might
have been alluring, sexy, but somehow he looked like a child who’d done
something bad and was waiting for his parents to decide how long he’d be
grounded.
“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky cut him off.
“Stay,” he said, his expression shifting again, to something darker, his voice
gruff. “I don’t want a different bodyguard, Steve.”
“You punched me, Bucky,” Steve said evenly, “you insulted me.”
Bucky stepped away from the door, toward Steve, his movements lithe, graceful,
powerful, his expression altering, lips quirking, eyes becoming heavy-lidded.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you, Steve.”
He raised a hand to Steve’s jaw, fingers ghosting over the bruise forming
there, his whole body flush against Steve.
“Tell me what to do, Stevie,” he whispered, husky and breathy. “Tell me what to
do to make you stay.”
“Bucky,” Steve’s throat clenched against the word. Bucky was too close, too
immediate, too warm and vital against him, and the gears in his mind were
grinding to a halt.
Bucky’s lips were a hairsbreadth from Steve’s, his breath a scorching wind
against Steve’s skin. “Anything you want, Stevie. Take it. Take me.”
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you, as always, to all the wonderful kodu-ers and commenters.
     You guys are really cool.
***** Has Life Played A Trick, Sealed You In Brick By Brick *****
Chapter Notes
     Okay, I know I said the new chapter would be up last Monday, and it's
     more than a week late, I'm sorry. We went on holiday and the place
     where we stayed had no internet, there was barely a phone signal, so
     that wasn't ideal. Then we came home and it was a rough few days here
     and that makes everything difficult, especially focusing on writing.
     So I apologize for the delay.
     Chapter title from Domination by Pantera. The song Bucky sings is
     Sure Feels Right by Sixx:A.M (it's really good, y'all should give it
     a listen.)
     This chapter is a little filler-y, but that's because this is only
     about two thirds of what I wrote, and the rest will make up the
     beginning of the next chapter. I didn't want to post the whole thing,
     since stopping it where I did makes a lot more sense that 500 words
     later where there's no clear cut-off point and I'm rambling, sorry,
     I'll stop now.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I'm becoming less defined as days go by
Fading away
And well you might say
I'm losing focus
Kinda drifting into the abstract in terms of how I see myself
 
Sometimes I think I can see right through myself
Sometimes I can see right through myself
 
Less concerned about fitting into the world
Your world that is
Cause it doesn't really matter anymore
No it doesn't really matter anymore
None of this really matters anymore
 
Yes, I am alone but then again I always was
As far back as I can tell
I think maybe it's because
Because you were never really real to begin with
I just made you up to hurt myself
 
I just made you up to hurt myself, yeah
And I just made you up to hurt myself
 
And it worked.
Yes, it did.
 
There is no you
There is only me
There is no fucking you
There is only me
 
Only
 
Well the tiniest little dot caught my eye and it turned out to be a scab
And I had this funny feeling like I just knew it's something bad
I just couldn't leave it alone, I kept picking at the scab
It was a doorway trying to seal itself shut
But I climbed through
 
Now I am somewhere I am not supposed to be, and I can see things I know I
really shouldn't see
And now I know why, now, now, now I know why
Things aren't as pretty
On the inside
 
- Only, Nine Inch Nails
 
~
 
Bucky’s lips were a hairsbreadth from Steve’s, his breath a scorching wind
against Steve’s skin. “Anything you want, Stevie. Take it. Take me.”
 
Every fiber of Steve’s being wanted to do just that, and it was only through
sheer force of will that he pushed Bucky away, gently, his hands on the other
man’s shoulders.
“No, Buck.”
Something flashed across Bucky’s face, gone too fast for Steve to decipher.
“Steve, just-,” Bucky started, but Steve cut him off.
“No!” The word came out angrier that he meant it to and he mentally cursed
himself when Bucky recoiled. He softened his tone when he spoke again. “Why do
you do that, Buck?”
“Do what?” Bucky was immediately on the defensive, that familiar petulant
attitude rearing its head.
“That. The seduction thing.”
“You’re insane,” Bucky sneered at him. He took a couple of steps backward,
pressing himself against the door again, his arms crossed over his chest.
“That’s the third time you’ve done it with me, Buck. Pull that expression over
your face like a mask, and say the words just right. I’m not an idiot.”
Again, that same fleeting mien crossed Bucky’s face, and this time Steve
recognized it as shame and guilt and something darker, colder. He took a shaky
breath, seemingly lost for words, withering slowly under Steve’s steady gaze.
“I… Steve, I just… I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”
“So trying to seduce me was the only thing you could come up with?”
Bucky’s gaze flashed up to meet Steve’s, then immediately fell back to the
ground. He shook his head, folding his arms tighter around himself, and Steve
realized it was to hide the fact that he was trembling.
“Bucky,” he said, as gently as he could, “just talk to me.”
“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispered.
Steve sighed. A thousand conflicting thoughts and feelings raced through his
mind, each more convoluted than the last, as he looked at Bucky, looking at the
ground, looking miserable and tired and cold.
“Why don’t you have a bath?” Steve suggested at length, “try to wind down a
little?”
Bucky gave a tiny nod, and, stepping past Steve to grab his stuff, locked
himself in the bathroom.
 
It was a long time before he came out, hair wet, wearing sweatpants and a soft
grey t-shirt. Steve was sitting on his bed, sketching, but he put down the
pencil as Bucky sat down on the end of his bed.
“I’m sorry. For insulting you. And for punching you. I didn’t mean to; I swear
to God. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until after it happened. I’m sorry,
I really am.”
“Thank you, Bucky,” Steve said, giving a little smile. “I’m sorry for calling
you – “
“Don’t, please don’t say it again,” Bucky cut in, a little desperately.
“Okay. Sorry.” Steve badly wanted to ask why the name was taboo, but didn’t
dare, not while Bucky looked so tremulous and close to tears. Instead he held
out his sketchbook to show Bucky what he’d been drawing.
It was a sprawling depiction of the Ravenclaw House crest, only one of the
eagle’s wings not yet shaded.
Bucky’s face lit up as he took it in. “This is amazing, Stevie,” his voice was
barely there, all the exertion of the evening finally taking its toll on his
vocal cords.
“It needs some color,” Steve said as Bucky handed the book back after ghosting
his fingertips over the paper.
Bucky gave a little nod. He blinked slowly, and rubbed the back of one hand
over his eye, like a little kid. Steve’s heart clenched painfully.
“Bucky, are you sure you don’t want Shield to send someone else as your
bodyguard?”
“Do you want to go that badly?” Bucky countered, then cleared his throat.
“It’s not my decision to make,” Steve dodged the question, feeling like his
heart was beating at the back of his mouth, simultaneously nauseated and like
he was going to choke on it.
Bucky looked at him for a long moment, and Steve wondered what he was seeing.
“I don’t want a different bodyguard,” he said at last, then moved to his own
bed and crawled under the covers, his back to Steve.
 
Their flight back to New York left on Wednesday evening – after several days
spent doing small shows and radio and TV appearances – the band, Sharon and
Steve taking up most of the business class section of the Airbus A320. Bucky
gave Steve the window seat again, and settled in for the flight with a Cyrillic
copy of a Stephen King book. Firestarter, judging by the cover art. Steve
sketched and messaged Clint and Sam by turns, feeling more and more homesick as
each hour passed, in a way he rarely did during assignments.
 
They landed safely, and trouped wearily into a Hydra Records van, driven by
Sharon, with Scott next to her, Rollins and Rumlow next to each other in the
next row of seats and Steve sandwiched between Bucky and Wade in the back.
Scott fiddled with the radio, switching from station to station.
“Scott, turn that up!” Bucky called to him as the opening chords of a song
began on a station Scott had paused at. Scott did as Bucky asked, and the music
filled the van as they inched forward in the rush-hour city traffic.
Bucky tilted his head back and sang along.
 
“The traffic's backed up on the 405
And the smog's so thick you can cut it with a knife
But it gives me time
To think about my life
I take the 10 to the 5 to the 101
I got a song sitting here on the tip of my tongue
And the more I drive
The more I feel alive
 
Well I don't know what you're doing to me
But it sure feels right
Well I don't know what you're doing to me
But let's do it all night
When the sunlight breaks through the LA sky
For some damn reason it makes me smile
And I don't know what you're doing to me
But it sure feels right
 
I'm driving down Sunset Boulevard
Sex Pistols on the radio in my car
And I must be high
I just saw Jesus walk by…”
 
Because it sure feels right
Just singing to the radio..."
 
In that moment, Steve was blindingly, devastatingly in love. Around Steve,
existence faded and there was only him and Bucky. Bucky with a lopsided grin on
his perfect lips in the watery sunlight filtering through the clouds above
them. The moment ended with the song, but Steve felt shaken for the rest of the
drive to the Hydra Records building, a glass and steel structure in Midtown.
They trooped into the elevator to go up to the 38th floor, tired and jet-
lagged. It was almost a shock to the system to be greeted by Alexander Pierce
in a crisp three-piece suit and tie, sitting behind his dark wood desk, looking
alert and formal. In contrast, the band, Sharon and Steve, all in jeans and
dark shirts, with circles under their eyes and an air of rough living around
them, seemed out of place in the sleek office. Steve mostly zoned out as they
discussed the band’s itinerary for the coming week, mainly centered on them
going into the studio to start work on the new album, though Bucky interjected
– much too quietly – that he already had more than a dozen songs written, which
earned him an approving nod from Pierce.
“Go home, get some rest,” Pierce told them at last, “and enjoy your weekend, Mr
Rogers, we’ll see you again on Monday.”
Steve nodded and gave a low thanks, then realized Bucky was staring at him with
something like betrayal in his eyes.
“You have the weekend off?” Bucky hissed at him as soon as the band had gone
their separate ways outside of the Hydra building, it’s ugly skull and tentacle
logo glaring down on them from above the entrance.
“Yes,” Steve said calmly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bucky was glowering.
“I thought you knew. Didn’t you get a copy of my work schedule when I started?”
“No, I fucking didn’t!”
“Calm down, Buck.” They were attracting attention. People with their iPhone
cameras pointed none-too-subtly at the rock star throwing a tantrum outside his
record label’s building, surrounded by their luggage.
Bucky’s gaze flitted quickly around them, and he grabbed Steve’s short sleeve,
pulling him around and down toward the underground parking lot adjacent to the
Hydra Records building, luggage in tow. He didn’t stop until they were standing
next to a pitch black Mustang.
“Is this your car?” Steve asked, awed at the sleek lines and shine of the
paintjob, the hints of blood red detailing.
“Yeah,” Bucky snapped, popping the trunk. “A little help here?”
Steve helped him load their suitcases into the car, a little surprised that it
all fit, then stepped around to the side of the car again. He ghosted his hand
along the roof, not quite touching.
“She’s gorgeous,” he told Bucky. “What year is she?”
“’68,” Bucky said, his tone still clipped, but slightly warmer, his lips
twitching as he looked at Steve. “Get in.”
Steve slid into the front seat next to Bucky, and couldn’t help but let his
fingertips brush over the genuine leather upholstery.
“God, do you two need a room or something?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow.
Steve grinned at him. “Maybe.”
Bucky let out a groan and started the engine. The powerful roar went through
Steve the same way looking at Bucky on stage did, and he let out a little
whimper. “Oh, baby, that’s good.”
“Ew,” Bucky said drily, as he pulled out of the garage.
“Where are we going?” asked Steve, a few blocks later.
“To pick up Fred,” Bucky replied, like it should be obvious.
“Where is she?”
“At a friend’s place. I don’t like leaving her at my place for longer than a
couple of days at a time.” He reached forward and switched on the radio, and
the car flooded with the choppy guitars of System of a Down.
They drove in silence for a while, and Steve let his head loll back against his
headrest, jet lag tugging at him. He had just fallen into a light doze when a
gentle slap to his shoulder roused him.
“Wake up, punk, we’re here.”
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading, commenting and kudoing, as always. I'll try not
     to make you wait too long for the next chapter.
***** Each Razor A Vice And Each Nail Marks The Demise Of Your Life *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Domination by Pantera.
     According to an interview with Fred van Lente, Steve lived in a
     neighbourhood of Brooklyn called Dumbo in the 30's and 40's, and
     that's where my Steve and Sam lives. Clint lives in Brooklyn Heights
     and Nat lives in Manhattan. Because it will never get mentioned in-
     fic.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Hello baby gimme your hand
Check out the high spots the lay of the land
You don't need a rocket or a big limousine
Come on over baby and I'll make you obscene
 
I feel safe in New York City
 
Movin' all over like a jumpin' bean
Take a look at that thing in the tight ass jeans
Comin' your way now you may be in luck
Don't you fret boy she's ready to buck
 
I feel safe in New York City
New York, New York, New York
I feel safe in a cage in New York City
 
- Safe in New York City, AC/DC
 
*
 
Shattered, shattered
Love and hope and sex and dreams
Are still surviving on the street
Look at me, I'm in tatters!
I'm a shattered
Shattered
Friends are so alarming
And my lover's never charming
Life's just a cocktail party on the street
Big Apple
People dressed in plastic bags
Directing traffic
Some kind of fashion
Shattered
Laughter, joy, and loneliness and sex and sex and sex and sex
Look at me, I'm in tatters
I'm a shattered
Shattered
 
- Shattered, The Rolling Stones
~
 
‘Here’, Steve saw, was a tattoo parlor called Asgard Tattoo and Piercing Realm.
Steve got out of the car and raised his hands above his head to stretch,
hearing something pop in his lower back. 
“Hurry up, Zoolander,” Bucky called from the sidewalk and Steve felt like
flipping him off. He stuck his tongue out instead.
A bell above the door tittered as they entered the tattoo shop, and a young
woman with flowing dark hair and bright red lips jumped up from her seat beside
the large shop windows, dropping the book she’d been reading on the floor.
“Bucky!” she squealed and threw her tattooed arms around his neck, the skirt of
her floral-print sundress flaring out around her calves.
“Hey, Darcy,” Bucky said, smiling and lifting her off her feet in a bear hug.
It took a few moments for the two to separate, then the girl turned her gaze on
Steve.
“Who’s the Adonis, Bucky?”
Steve’s cheeks seemed to catch fire as Bucky let out a little bark of laughter.
“Steve is my bodyguard. Steve, this is Darcy, tattoo artist and cat sitter
extraordinaire.”
Steve gave a little wave and a sheepish smile. “Hi.”
“Hello,” Darcy said, then turned to Bucky. “Why would you need a bodyguard?”
“Pierce hired him.”
“Oh.” Darcy’s gaze was significantly colder when she looked back at Steve, who
shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
Bucky didn’t seem to care too much about Steve’s discomfort, and instead looked
around the empty parlor. “Where’s Thor?”
“He and Jane went to some nerdy space exhibit or something.”
“Sounds fun, for Jane at least.”
“Thor’s into that too, he’s just a lot weirder about it.”
“Yeah, well, what do you expect from a guy who believes Odin is real?”
Darcy smirked at that. “Fred’s upstairs if you wanna get her.”
Bucky nodded, turning to Steve. “I’ll just be a second.”
Steve nodded and turned to look at the artwork splashed across the walls. The
pieces were really good, but definitely done in two distinct styles. One
focused on bold color and defined shapes, like fantasies and fairytales brought
to life. The other was darker, grittier, realistic and sharp, barbed wire and
broken glass.
“So, bodyguard, huh?” Darcy piped up from behind Steve.
“Yeah,” he said, turning to face her.
“You don’t look like one.”
Steve looked down at his Jack Skellington t-shirt and gave a little smile.
“Wade and Bucky insisted on giving me a makeover.”
“Why’s Bucky mad at you?” asked Darcy, and Steve jerked a little with surprise.
She was a lot more perceptive than he’d have thought.
“Because I didn’t know that he didn’t know that I have the weekend off, and I
never mentioned it.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow and Steve gave a little shrug and turned back to the
art on the wall.
“This is really good,” he said, motioning toward a sketch of the New York
skyline that looked like it had been done shortly after the apocalypse. “Did
you draw it?”
“Yeah,” Darcy said, with a little nod. “Thor does the colorful ones. He’s
hooked on Norse mythology and Lord of the Rings in equal measure.”
Steve’s lips quirked in a lopsided smile, just as Bucky came back into the
shop, his arms full of grey fur, a large pet carrier dangling from one index
finger.
“Steve, Fred. Fred, Steve,” he said, unceremoniously shoving the fur, which had
eyes and claws,into Steve’s hands. “Hold her a second.”
Steve looked at the bundle, which stared back with the most adorable little
face he’d ever seen. “Hey, Fred, nice to meet you,” he told the cat, who stuck
her tongue out a bit and closed her eyes.
Bucky opened the carrier, and, as if sensing what was about to happen, Fred
tensed.
“Just gently put her inside,” Bucky told Steve, holding the carrier up.
Gently – after two attempts and several deep scratches across his arms – Steve
got Fred into the carrier and glared at Bucky, who was whispering endearments
through the little bars in the door.
Steve hissed a little as he inspected his arms. The deepest scratch had blood
beading along it.
“Here,” Darcy had appeared with a first-aid kit, “let me clean those.”
“Thank you,” Steve said, playing up the pouty puppy dog face for Bucky, who had
the good grace to look apologetic.
 
They left Asgard with a sleeping Fred in her carrier, and Bucky reverted back
to sulky and petulant so fast it made Steve’s head spin.
They stopped at a Starbucks and Bucky held Fred’s carrier close to him, though
inside most eyes were fixed to screens and no one seemed to notice the animal
that definitely wasn’t allowed in the coffee shop. They stepped into the
preposterously long line in front of the counter, Bucky’s brows pulled together
over his stormy eyes.
“When does your weekend off start?” Bucky demanded, his tone sharp.
“Technically it started the moment the plane landed.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“We’re getting coffee,” Steve said, waving his hand at their surroundings.
“You’re not being paid to babysit me now, so go away.”
Steve clenched his jaw against the sting of Bucky’s words.
“Why are you mad at me? I thought you knew I got free time.”
“I didn’t know.” Bucky seemed angrier than was justified by the situation.
Steve sighed. “I’m sorry for the miscommunication, okay?”
Bucky just scoffed, his eyes on the ground.
“You know what? You’re right, I’m not being paid to be here,” Steve snapped.
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
He stalked out of the Starbucks, got his luggage out of Bucky’s mercifully –
irresponsibly – unlocked car and left, without a backward glance, grinding his
teeth, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. Maybe some time away from the
maelstrom that was Bucky Barnes would do him some good.
 
Steve almost felt like sobbing as he opened the door to his apartment and saw
Sam, Nat and Clint, all grouped around the kitchen island. They enveloped him
in welcoming hugs and questions about the tour and Steve grinned like an idiot,
unutterably happy for their friendship. They ordered pizza, and drank beer and
played Cards Against Humanity and if Steve periodically wished Bucky were
there, it was only a side-effect of his constant proximity over the last few
weeks.
Nat and Clint left just after midnight, both kissing his cheeks and giving him
the kind of hugs that let him know they knew he wasn’t entirely okay and that
that was okay.
He and Sam settled on the couch and Steve let his head fall back, giving the
shaky sigh he’d been holding in since leaving Manhattan.
“So, you wanna wallow some more, or do you want to talk about it?” Sam asked,
and Steve gave him a little smile.
“He’s just so volatile, Sam. I don’t know how to deal with it, how to help
him.”
“It’s not your job to help him, Steve.”
“Like hell it ain’t.” Steve pushed himself to his feet. “Goodnight, Sam.”
“Night,” Sam said after him as he disappeared into his bedroom.
Steve’s bed, with its hard mattress, dark blue sheets and lumpy feather pillow,
enveloped him, as good as any lover’s embrace. Bucky’s arms would feel
better,his traitorous mind whispered, and Steve pressed his face into his
pillow to stifle his frustrated groan.
Most of Friday was taken up by doing laundry, while Sam watched and gave a
running commentary.
“What the hell is this?” Sam asked incredulously that evening while Steve
folded his clean clothes. He held up a black shirt bearing a picture of a man
getting punched in the face.
“It’s a Pantera shirt,” Steve told him.
“Pantera?” Sam’s eyebrows seemed to be planning relocation to his hairline.
“They actually made good music,” Steve said, amused at the distaste on Sam’s
face.
“You’ve gone to the Dark side, man.”
“I understood that reference!” Steve exclaimed, proud of himself.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Good for you.”
 
Friday night was quiet, just Steve and Sam watching How to Get Away with Murder
and eating Ma Wilson’s recipe fried chicken. Steve stayed reticent about
Siberia and Sam didn’t ask, for which Steve was immeasurably grateful.
Saturday evening found Steve, flanked by Sam, Nat and Clint, entering a bar
called Luke’s. It was definitely worth the travel time from Dumbo to Hell’s
Kitchen, since it was one of those places frequented mostly by locals, and
ignored by the steady gentrification of the neighborhood.
Luke himself – a stoic black man a few inches taller than Steve – came out from
behind the bar to greet them, and Steve even got a smile from his girlfriend
Jessica, a rare treat.
They took a table in the corner beside the window after getting drinks, and
Clint leaned forward eagerly, one hand held up.
“Okay, guys, never have I ever!”
There was a collective groan from everyone, but Sam cleared his throat.
“Never have I ever cheated at Mario Kart.”
Both Clint and Natasha drank, and Steve gave his trademark ‘disappointed in
you’ frown.
“Never have I ever,” started Clint, “had a crush on a musician.”
Sam and Nat drank, but Steve kept his hand stubbornly away from his glass.
“Steve,” Clint raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve never had a crush on a musician,” Steve stated. And it was mostly true.
What he felt for Bucky was definitely not a crush.
Clint and Sam looked at him disbelievingly, but Natasha came to the rescue by
stating that she’d never worn the same underwear two days in a row, and all
three men groaned and drank.
The game continued and Steve thanked his high alcohol tolerance that he was
barely tipsy by the time Clint started making pigeon jokes and Nat started
laughing at them.
“Hey, isn’t that…” Sam muttered, staring over Steve’s shoulder.
“Stevie!” An achingly familiar voice spoke from behind Steve at the same
moment.
Steve turned, just in time to be folded into a bear hug by a very intoxicated
Bucky Barnes.
One weekend,Steve griped to whichever deity was inclined to listen, I couldn’t
have just one weekend to get my head on straight?
 
Chapter End Notes
     This chapter was only supposed to contain one scene with Bucky. Well
     done, me. *slow clap for failure*.
     Yes, Luke is Luke Cage and Jessica is Jessica Jones. I couldn't not
     give them cameos.
     And, if anyone was wondering, Buck's car looks a little like this:
      
     [http://www.themustangspecialist.com/uploads/1/4/0/4/14046343/
     606611_orig.jpg]
 
(If that turns you on a little bit, you are not alone - that car is sex with a
V8)
***** Full Of Grief I Scream At The Wind *****
Chapter Notes
     A real chapter, yay!
     There is something Bucky talks about in this chapter that may not
     make much sense if you haven't read his POV chapter, Blood_Sugar_Sex
     Magik so pretty please read that? The whole thing is about his issues
     with Pierce, and I know you guys are hella curious about that.
     Chapter title from Live in a Hole by Pantera.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Withering eyes catch you as you fall
A bitter sigh - no one moves at all
Let me in for one more long disgrace
Just forget the same distractions you refuse to face
We both know that it’s gone… but what if no one knows
No one knows to remember why it’s wrong?
 
This is all the pain a man can take
This is how a broken heart still breaks
 
I don’t need much to show you, only enough to control you
Bury your head inside this and gather the darkness that binds it
I think I’ll die if you deny me, swallowed alive in eternity
Give me a way to be the agony that knew you all along…
 
Push it down and hide me from this waste
Don’t hold back - I’d kill to take your place
Tell me a lie… tell me you don’t care
Just forget a storm is coming - just forget you’re scared
We both know how this ends… but what if no one knows
No one knows how to kill us in the end?
 
This is all you need for who you are
This is how a good man goes too far
 
This is all the pain a man can take
This is how the blackest heart can break
 
I think I’ll die if you deny me, swallowed alive in eternity
Give me a way to be the agony that knew you all along…
 
I’ve known you all along
 
- Sadist, Stone Sour
 
~
 
Steve slid off his chair, while trying to disentangle Bucky’s limbs from his.
He stood up straight and frowned down at the rock star.
“Are you high?”
Bucky made a puppy dog face. “Just a little bit,” he whispered, then grinned
and waved at Steve’s friends. “Your friends are real!”
“More or less,” Steve grumbled. “That’s Sam, Natasha and Clint. Guys, meet
James Barnes.”
His friend smiled and greeted Bucky, while Steve quickly looked around.
“Are you here with anyone?” he asked the dark haired man.
“Here? No. Wade came out with me, but he doesn’t like it when I do drugs.” The
last two words were said in a stage whisper.
“Neither do I,” Steve said in annoyance, “come on, let’s go.”
“Go where? I just got here,” Bucky frowned at him, swaying a little on his
feet.
“You’re wasted,” Steve snapped, “I’m taking you home.” He circled his hand
around Bucky’s bicep when the other man looked about to bolt and leaned down to
speak to Sam.
“Sorry, man. I think I’ll just go back home after I’ve taken care of this.”
“He called you Stevie,” Sam snickered.
“Shut up,” Steve grumped and grabbed his jacket with his free hand.
Once outside, Bucky turned to Steve, his eyebrows pulled together. “You’re
angry,” he observed.
“Damn right,” Steve bit out, putting up his hand to hail a cab.
“At me?” Bucky asked.
“Yes,” Steve said, a little impatiently, tugging Bucky toward the cab that
pulled up at the curb.
“Why?” Bucky asked, his eyes suddenly comically wide.
“Get in the cab, Buck.”
Bucky did what Steve ordered, still looking at him, wide-eyed.
“Why are you angry?” he asked again.
“Because you’re drunk and high, Bucky. What’s your address?”
Bucky gave an address in Brooklyn Heights, his gaze downcast. He gave a little
sigh, which might’ve been adorable if Steve wasn’t mad.
“Stevie?”
“What, Bucky?”
“Were you having fun with your friends?”
“Yeah, I was.”
Bucky gave another little shuddering sigh. “M’sorry,” he mumbled.
Steve didn’t say anything, and minutes later, Bucky was snoozing, his head
against Steve’s shoulder.
They pulled up outside a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights and Steve shook Bucky’s
shoulder.
“Buck, wake up, we’re here.”
Bucky blinked blearily, getting out of the cab and immediately sinking down to
sit on the sidewalk, his chin resting in his hand, eyes closed. Steve paid the
cab fare and nudged Bucky, who let out a little snore.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Steve muttered, bending down to haul Bucky to
his feet.
Bucky grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Don’ wanna,” he mumbled.
“Bucky, your keys!” Steve said, loudly, right next to Bucky’s ear, and was
rewarded when the other man jumped a little. He shoved his hand into his pocket
and pulled out a keychain, which he handed to Steve.
Steve unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark house. Bucky turned on
a light somewhere, closing the door behind him.
“What did you take?” Steve demanded, following him as he stumbled toward the
kitchen.
“Not sure,” Bucky said, quietly. “A few lines of coke, couple of pills, lots of
bourbon.”
“Goddamnit, Bucky.”
“Hey, tour’s over. This is what I do. You want a drink?” Bucky pulled a bottle
of vodka from the freezer, and Steve instantly grabbed it from him.
“No. I’ve had enough and you’ve had way too much.”
Bucky pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“Your kind of fun will kill you, Bucky!” Steve burst out.
Bucky just shrugged, and staggered out of the kitchen, switching on more lights
as he went. Steve stopped dead in his tracks as the room in front of him was
illuminated. The house had an open plan kitchen/dining/living area, large and
airy, but this looked like one third kitchen/living area and two thirds
library. Most of the walls, flaring out from the large picture window, were
covered in floor to ceiling bookcases, overflowing with books. Steve stepped
closer to one bookcase, and realized there was no order to the books. Hardcover
and paperback, fiction and non-fiction, English and a variety of other
languages, all haphazardly shoved into any available space. It made him a
little seasick to look too long.
Bucky had plopped down on a black couch. Most of the other furnishings Steve
could see were also black, with touches of red here and there. Despite the
color scheme, the place was cozy, mostly thanks to the bookcases, but also due
to the exposed brick and the art on the other walls, the hardwood floors and
fireplace. Steve looked a little closer at a black and white drawing of a city
skyline and recognized the work as Darcy’s.
“Okay, you’re home safe, I’ll see on Monday.”
“No!” Bucky was off the couch like a shot. “Wait! Just wait a second.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “What is it, Bucky?”
Bucky bit his lip. “Thank you, for bringing me home.”
“You’re welcome,” Steve told him, and turned to go, but was stopped by Bucky
grabbing his arm and immediately letting go, as if Steve had burned him.
“What, Bucky?” he said in exasperation.
“How… how does the bodyguard thing work now we’re in New York?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… do you commute? In Europe you stayed with us, is it different here?”
Steve sighed. “It depends, I suppose. If a client feels safer having me live
with them, I do that. If not, I commute.”
“Oh.” Bucky bit his lip, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable. “And if I
want you to live here?”
Steve started in surprise. “Do you? I couldn’t help but get the impression that
you don’t really enjoy having me around.”
“It’s…” Bucky was staring resolutely at the floor. “It beats the alternative.”
“The alternative being?” Steve raised a questioning eyebrow.
Bucky looked at him like he was both naïve and dimwitted. “You know…”
“Know what, Bucky?”
“You really didn’t figure it out?”
“Figure what out?” Steve asked, his heart suddenly beating a little too fast.
Did Bucky actually enjoy having him around? Did he like Steve, romantically?
“About Pierce.”
The words felt like a bucket of ice water over Steve’s half-formed fantasy of
Bucky admitting his deep attraction to him.
“Pierce?” Steve tilted his head to the side.
“Never mind,” Bucky said, looking almost… crestfallen. “But I would prefer you
living here. I don’t exactly keep nine to five hours.”
“Are you going to freak out every time I have a day off?”
“Not if you actually tell me about it,” Bucky retorted, a little sharply.
“Fine,” Steve said. “See you on Monday.”
“Okay,” Bucky said, quiet again. He let Steve out, giving him a tiny smile as
he shut the door.
 
Steve started walking, and was lucky enough to get a cab on the corner of
Bucky’s street. He wasn’t sure at all about living with Bucky. Still, he
reasoned, it couldn’t be worse than the time Shield had assigned him to a
paranoid schizophrenic dignitary, who was convinced Steve was a lady called
Marla, sent to kill him by aliens from Neptune.
 
“He calls you Stevie!”
Steve loved his friends, but he didn’t have to like them right now.
“Please stop,” he begged Clint, who was guffawing. Sunday brunch had devolved
into a make-fun-of-Steve exercise and neither Sam nor Nat was coming to his
rescue.
“Stevie!” Sam said in a gruff voice, pretending to flip his hair.
“Do you call him Jimmy?” Nat asked, and Steve shook his head.
“He punched me the one time I tried.”
“He punched his precious Stevie?!” Clint said in mock-horror.
Steve let his head thunk down on the table.
“He has a pet name for you, and you still expect us to believe you didn’t
screw?” Sam’s face had skepticism written all over it.
“I work for him, Sam.”
“That didn’t stop the girl from Fifty Shades,” Clint said.
“Ew,” Steve, Sam and Nat chorused.
“It’s a valid point,” Clint said, stuffing a mushroom into his mouth.
“No, it’s not. And I do not sleep with people I work with, okay?”
“Yeah, right,” Nat said.
“Nat’s just jealous, ‘cause she’s had a crush on him for ages and you’re the
one being called pet names,” Sam said, earning himself a death threat from
Natasha.
“Can we please change the subject now?” Steve begged.
“No!”
“No.”
“Nope.”
Steve thunked his head back down on the table.
 
The ribbing mercifully ended during their second round of Mario Kart that
afternoon. They were all too competitive to let such trivial matters as Steve’s
rock star fantasies get in the way of their precise aiming of green shells.
“Eat my bananas, motherfucker!” Clint whooped as he overtook Sam, and then
instantly groaned as Steve hit him with a red shell.
Steve laughed, overtaking Nat to speed over the finish line in first place. “I
am king of the Kart, people,” he gloated, earning a kick in the ribs from Sam
who was sitting above him on the couch.
“Shut up and start the next race, we’ll see how long you keep that crown.”
 
 Steve managed to put the following day out of his mind until that evening,
when he finally got around to packing. He shoved clothes into his suitcase
indiscriminately, his thoughts on Bucky’s statements about Pierce. What had he
been supposed to figure out? Was it some or other arrangement Pierce had made
regarding him guarding Bucky while in New York that Steve didn’t know about? Or
was Bucky just too high to really make sense? He had been half-asleep, after
all. He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Sharon, about how Bucky
always acted out around Pierce, despite the older man treating him like a son.
Maybe their dynamic was just too convoluted and off-kilter for anyone on the
outside to make real sense of. It frustrated Steve, not knowing what was going
on. At least, here in New York, Pierce would be around more often and Steve
would be able to see for himself what was going on between him and Bucky.
Steve frowned at a Siberia shirt as if it could give him an explanation, then
shoved it roughly into his suitcase when it stayed mute.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks for reading, and much love to everyone who takes the time to
     comment and kudo, y'all are awesome.
***** Imprison Myself And Stay In A Shell, I Won't Let You In To Have A Story
To Tell *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Live in A Hole by Pantera.
     Okay, I know it's been ages since my last update and I'm sorry. I've
     had enough written for three short chapters (or one huge chapter) for
     weeks, and I've just not posted. Life's been... not great for a
     little while, and I'm really ill (booked off work for two weeks), so
     doing anything that requires more than a click of a mouse hasn't been
     too appealing. I'll post what I've written over the next few days,
     but after that, I'm not sure how fast I'll be writing (if at all), so
     I apologize in advance for sloooowww updates for the rest of 2016. I
     do really wanna finish this, though, not only because I'm excited for
     y'all to read it, but also because I've been working on another fic
     that touches on a topic I'm really nervous to even write fanfic
     about.
     Anyway, this is here. Enjoy.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I want to fly into your sun
Need faith to make me numb
Live like a teenage Christ
I’m a saint, got a date with suicide
 
Oh Mary, Mary
To be this young is oh, so scary
Mary, Mary
To be this young I’m oh so scared
I wanna live, I wanna love
But It’s a long hard road out of hell
I wanna live, I wanna love
But It’s a long hard road, out of hell
 
You never said forever could ever hurt like this
You never said forever could ever hurt like this
 
Spin my way out of hell, there’s nothing left this soul to sell
 
Live fast and die fast too
How many times to do this for you?
How many times to do this for you?
 
I wanna live, I wanna love
But it’s a long hard road out of hell
 
Sell my soul for anything, anything but you
Sell my soul for anything, anything but you
 
- Long Hard Road Out of Hell, Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
Monday morning found Steve ascending the steps to the front door of Bucky’s
brownstone. He’d overslept, barely had time to swallow a mouthful of coffee,
let alone eat breakfast, accidently fell on his ass as he was tying his luggage
to his bike, and was entirely sure he’d left his phone charger at home. All in
all, it was not one of Steve Rogers’ better mornings. The streak continued when
the door was opened by a bleary-eyed, clearly hungover, almost naked man, who
was notBucky Barnes.
“Who’re you?” the man mumbled, pushing his auburn hair off his forehead. He was
dressed in nothing but green boxer briefs.
“I’m Mr Barnes’ bodyguard,” Steve stated, using his certified military-grade
death glare.
“Uh, right,” the man stumbled back from the door, shouting over his shoulder,
“Hey, James, there’s a scary Greek god who says he’s your bodyguard!”
If Steve were a god, Mr Auburn with the abs and the hazel eyes would definitely
be number one on his to-smite list, he thought venomously.
“Stevie!”
Bucky appeared around the corner leading to the kitchen, mercifully wearing
sweatpants. “I see you’ve met… uhm… Kyle, right?”
“Yeah,” Kyle said, his face falling a little, and Steve almost, almost,felt a
little sorry for him. “I was just leaving.” He trudged away, presumably to
gather his clothes, while Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve.
“Coffee?”
Steve nodded, dumping his suitcase in the hall to follow Bucky to the kitchen.
Bucky filled two mugs, handing one to Steve before desecrating his own with an
unholy amount of sugar and cream. Kyle came back downstairs and Bucky went to
see him out while Steve stayed seated on his stool by the breakfast bar. There
was only so much he was willing to endure on a Monday morning. A grey lump of
fur pushed herself into the kitchen through the half-open window and trotted
along the counter top to push her head against his hand so he could scratch her
ears.
“Mornin’, Fred,” he said to the cat, running his fingertips over her silky fur.
“You’re a classy dame, climbing through the window like that.”
Fred purred and licked the side of his thumb.
“She likes you,” Bucky’s voice said from behind him.
“I’m surprisingly likeable,” Steve said drily, scratching under Fred’s chin.
Bucky came around to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, picking up his mug
to sip at his coffee.
“You look all prim and proper again,” he remarked.
Steve looked down at his blue button down and tan slacks, and shrugged. His
clothing had nothing to do with Bucky, after all.
After a long pause, Bucky set his cup down and tucked his hair behind his
pierced ears.
“Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not,” Steve said coolly.
“And water isn’t wet.”
Steve huffed out a breath. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just not really up to
putting on my happy face right now.”
“Because you’re mad at me,” Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not too enthusiastic about your lifestyle choices.”
“What, because of Kyle?”
“No,” Steve said, mostly honestly, “not your sex life.”
“Oh,” Bucky looked down at his bare feet. “The drugs.”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
“Why does it matter to you?” Bucky asked, that petulant little pout tugging at
his mouth again.
“That’s a stupid question, Buck.”
“It’s really not.” Bucky’s gaze was fixed somewhere above Steve’s left eyebrow.
“You work for me, remember? You’re not my friend, you barely know me. I’m not
going all Nikki Sixx in ’87, I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Except yourself,” Steve said, none too gently.
Bucky actually laughed. “No, see, I’ve felt hurt, getting high is nothing like
that.”
“It feels that way because you’re an addict.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not listening to your preaching, okay? Just drop it.”
Steve clenched his jaw. “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll…” Bucky cast around for a viable threat, waving his hand through the air.
“If you don’t drop it, you won’t get dessert after dinner!”
For a second Steve’s fingers itched to wrap around Bucky’s neck, then he burst
out laughing. Bucky followed, glancing at Steve from under his lashes, his grin
boyish and mischievous.
“Damnit, Buck,” Steve admonished, but he was still smiling and it felt too nice
not being angry for him to go back to their argument. Instead, he asked,
“What’s Nick six and eighty-seven?”
“Nikki Sixx, the bassist from Mötley Crüe, in the year nineteen eighty-seven.”
“Who did… something?”
Bucky rolled his eyes and motioned for Steve to follow him to the living room.
He walked over to one of the bookcases and pulled out a dog-eared copy of a
book that looked like it was splattered with blood, and handed it to Steve. The
Heroin Diaries, a Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star, by Nikki Sixx.
“It’s good, you should read it,” Bucky told him, and Steve gave a little nod,
already flipping through the first few pages. The book was all but falling
apart, which meant Bucky had read and reread it several times, and Steve felt a
small warmth in his chest that Bucky was sharing this tiny bit of himself with
him.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Bucky nudged Steve’s shoulder as he spoke.
He retrieved his suitcase from the hall and followed Bucky up the hardwood
staircase that opened into a hallway with four doors, three to the sides and
one at the end.
“That’s a bathroom,” Bucky pointed out one door on the left, then motioned to
the other, “that’s my studio.”
He stopped at the door on the right. “Ta-da.”
It was a large bedroom, done in shades of gray and white, with a double bed
made from dark wood, with matching bedside tables, and a large television fixed
to the wall opposite.
“En-suite’s through there,” Bucky pointed, “and the closet’s there.”
“It’s nice,” Steve commented, putting his suitcases beside the bed.
“My room’s at the end of the hall.”
“I figured,” Steve tilted his head.
Bucky gave a little smile. “We have to be at the studio in an hour, so make
yourself at home, I’m gonna shower.”
“Have fun,” Steve told him, turning to start unpacking. It was a quick process,
and he even had time to add the song Bucky was singing in the shower to his
playlist (Black by Pearl Jam) and contemplate exactly how thin the walls were,
before curiosity got the better of him and he decided to explore. His en-suite
bathroom was nice, done in dove grey, with a bath and shower. He wandered out
of his room and down the hall, peeking into the other bathroom – red and copper
– and then stuck his head around the half-open door of Bucky’s studio. It was
much larger than Steve expected, two of the walls lined with shelves containing
yet more books, but also action figures and electronics that all seemed to have
a musical purpose. There was a black leather armchair and several stools,
grouped around a long countertop taking up most of the other two walls, housing
a desktop computer and laptop, a soundboard, and more gadgetry. Most of the
floor space was devoted to instruments. An electronic drum kit, a keyboard on a
stand, several guitars and a bass guitar, as well as a violin. Steve stepped
closer to the instrument on its stand, leaning toward it. It was made from a
wood so dark it was almost black, with a rather impressive maker’s mark on the
neck. His fingers itched to touch it, but he knotted them behind his back
instead. He’d ask Bucky if he could draw it, he decided, straitening up, just
as a voice spoke from behind him, making him jump.
“Hey there.”
He turned to face Bucky, suddenly unsure if he was even allowed in there.
“I was just doing a perimeter check,” he fibbed and Bucky let out a bark of
laughter.
“You’re a terrible liar, Stevie.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“’S fine. The studio’s not off limits, by the way. Just don’t go all psycho
rock star and trash the place, okay?”
“I don’t know how I’ll resist, though. There are just so many breakable things
in there.”
Bucky laughed again, giving him a light kick on the shin. “Watch it, Axl.”
“You play the violin?” Steve couldn’t stifle his curiosity any longer.
“Sort of,” Bucky said, making a face.
“Sort of?”
“I play the wrong way around, because of my left arm,” Bucky said, motioning to
it.
“Why don’t you play guitar the other way around?”
Bucky pointed to an acoustic guitar. “That one’s left-handed.”
“That’s… really impressive, Buck,” Steve said, a little awestruck.
“It’s not. Being able to do something isn’t the same as being good at it,”
Bucky hedged, leading the way down the staircase.
“First the language thing, and now this? Is there anything you can actually
admit to being good at without going all humble and self-deprecating?”
“Sex,” Bucky answered, simply. Except that it wasn’t said cockily, or cheekily,
instead he said it in a too-flat tone of voice, his face going completely
blank. It scared Steve for a moment, and he reached toward Bucky’s shoulder.
“Buck?”
Like flicking a switch, Bucky’s expression changed, that flirty, seductive mask
slipping over his features.
“S-E-X, Stevie,” he purred, biting his lip. “I could show you sometime.”
“Don’t do that,” Steve snapped, and the mask slipped, leaving the real Bucky in
its wake, suddenly vulnerable.
“Why not?” he asked. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but I also work for you,” Steve reminded him, “besides, I don’t…” he
trailed off, realizing he’d almost waded into dangerous territory.
“You don’t?” Bucky questioned.
“Nothing,” Steve said, shaking his head.
“You don’t… want me?” Bucky guessed. “It’s okay, I wouldn’t want me either.”
Before Steve was even sure he’d heard right, Bucky was downstairs, turning into
the kitchen, saying something to Fred. Steve was left with a strangely echoing
afterimage of Bucky, dressed in a black Henley and skintight blue jeans,
looking so goddamn beautiful it hurt behind Steve’s ribs and burned all the way
down to his thighs, saying it’s okay, I wouldn’t want me either and Steve was
too fucking weak to say or do anything other than stand there like an idiot
with his mouth agape.
“Steve,” Bucky called from the front hall, “come on, Pierce has a thing about
punctuality.”
Steve approached him, opened his mouth to say… anything, and Bucky cut him off,
talking a little too fast about a new band someone had suggested to him, the
monologue lasting all the way to his Mustang, where he turned up the music just
too loud for conversation.
Chapter End Notes
     Please remember to check out the Bucky POV chapter Blood_Sugar_Sex
     Magik and the rest of the works in the series for a more immersive
     story and stuff. Thanks.
***** Can't Tell The Strangers From The Friends You Know *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Psycho Holiday by Pantera.
     Lookout for a supernatural cameo in this chapter (wink wink)
     Also, Roland is an amalgamation of Andy Sneap, Rick Ruben, Bob Rock
     and Ross Robinson, all great producers, and yes, I did steal the name
     from Stephen King, and yes, Roland = Idris Elba (because that man is
     freaking gorgeous and I love him and his amazing voice).
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I stand before you as a victim, as the system rots
I couldn't focus, so I staggered when I heard the shots
There are no labels and no rehabilitation here
You are surrounded by the very fucking thoughts you fear
 
All you want is soulless
All you got to break us
Hear me.
 
I watch the hope I had disintegrate before my eyes
I take a minute and reflect on all your fucking lies
Behind the door, you have two choices, but you don't get to choose
You can survive or you can die - either way you lose
 
I can’t betray
I can’t betray myself
 
Choose
 
- Choose, Stone Sour
 
~
 
The recording studio was a maze of corridors, offices and booths, and Bucky
stopped frequently to talk to the various people milling about. One such stop
was punctuated by a tug of the leg of Steve’s pants. He looked down to find a
little girl with dark caramel skin, her curls stuffed into two bunches behind
her ears, and a strangely familiar grin.
“Are you famous, mister?” she asked.
“Nope, sorry,” Steve said with a little smile.
“Aw, that’s okay,” she told him, “I’m not famous either.”
“Ellie!” A voice called down the corridor, and Steve turned to see Wade
approaching them, a frown on his face. “What did I say about staying where I
can see you?”
“’S not my fault your eyes are so bad,” the girl said sulkily. “I was talking
to the not-famous man.”
“Obviously,” Wade said, lifting the girl onto his hip. “Steve, meet Ellie, my
daughter. Ellie, this is Steve, he’s a friend of Uncle Bucky’s”
“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” Steve said, shaking hands with the girl, who
giggled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Wade.”
Wade smiled, the kind of smile that radiated love and beauty and happiness. “I
try to keep her away from the tumult as much as I can.”
Steve nodded in understanding, just as Ellie perked up, yelling, “Uncle Bucky!”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky said, letting Wade deposit the beaming child into his
arms. “I love the hairdo.”
“Daddy can’t do braids,” she informed them, tugging on Bucky’s hair as they
proceeded down the corridor. “You should do braids.”
“I’ll be sure to try it out,” Bucky told her, not seeming bothered by her hands
tugging his hair into a twisted rat’s nest. “How’s school?”
“Good. Stacy did better at English, but I do best at math and Daddy said he’d
take me to go ice-skating ‘cause I did so good.”
“That’s cool,” Bucky told her. “I suck at math, maybe you could teach me
sometime.”
“Sure,” Ellie patted Bucky’s cheek.
The conversation continued all the way to the suite the band was using, and
Steve tried to ignore how Bucky being so at ease and sweet with Ellie tugged at
a delicate place behind his ribcage.
“He’s great with kids,” Wade said quietly, as Steve sat down between him and
Bucky at a long table, where the rest of the band were sitting. Bucky let Ellie
perch on his knee to continue playing with his hair. Wade pulled out his phone,
and turned it to Steve to show a picture of Ellie and another young girl, who
Steve recognized as Scott’s daughter, Cassie, sitting on either side of Bucky,
his hair done up in several tiny ponytails with pink and purple hair ties, with
face slathered in make-up, giving a grin and a thumbs up.
Steve’s choking laughter drew Bucky’s attention and he frowned at Wade.
“I told you to delete that, man!”
“And miss out on embarrassing you? No way, Buck.”
Bucky covered Ellie’s eyes and flipped them both off, just as Alexander Pierce
entered the room, followed by Sharon, who was laden with pastry bags and
coffee.
“Manna from Heaven,” Scott sighed, getting up to help her.
They took their coffee and bear-claws and looked up at Pierce.
“So,” the older man said, “first things first, we have some good news. You’re
wanted for the soundtrack of the movie Ennui.”
“The Darren Aronofsky movie?” Bucky asked from behind his messy hair.
Pierce gave Ellie a cold look she luckily didn’t see, before replying. “Yes,
that one.”
“That’s awesome!” Scott said, grinning. The rest of the band seemed to agree
with him.
“You have two weeks to write and record a song.”
“Two weeks?” Bucky emerged from behind his hair. “That’s not enough time!”
“You’ll make it enough. This is a big opportunity for you,” Pierce said and
Bucky withered under his gaze. “You’ve written songs in less time. Once it’s
done, if they like it, you fly out to the studio to shoot an accompanying music
video.”
“Why the rush?” Rumlow asked.
“The studio and the director had some differences of opinion over the
soundtrack that have kept them deadlocked for several months. The director
finally won out.”
There were nods and murmurs of assent from the band.
“After that,” Pierce continued, “we will begin work on your album in earnest.
For now, a representative will be here any moment to show you some footage of
the movie and explain the general plot. After that, you’ll have Sharon and
Roland for the day.”
He left the room, and excited chatter started up again. As far as Steve could
tell, the movie was a big deal. Ellie, finally tired of playing hairdresser
with Bucky, climbed off his knee and came to stand between Steve and Wade.
“I told you you’d get bored here, Eleanor,” Wade told her, and she gave a
pitiful sigh. “Where’s your backpack?”
As she went off to get her pack, the door opened and a nervous looking guy
peeked inside.
“Hi,” he said, giving a little wave, “I’m Osric, I’m here to talk about Ennui?”
“Yeah, hi, come on in,” Sharon said, standing up to introduce everyone.
“I love your music,” he said, a little shyly after the introductions had been
done and he’d taken a seat.
“Thanks, dude,” Wade grinned at him.
“I’m not supposed to be here, right?” Sharon asked Osric, who nodded.
“Also,” he said, looking at Ellie. “The movie’s most likely getting an R
rating.”
“Eleanor,” Wade poked his daughter gently, “can you go with Sharon for a little
while?”
The girl stopped rummaging in her My Little Pony backpack and smiled at Sharon.
“Okay.”
Osric’s gaze fell on Steve next, who smiled at started to get up, but Bucky
gripped his forearm, hard, and pushed him back in his seat.
“My bodyguard stays,” he told the kid, his tone absolute.
“Uhm, yeah, bodyguard, okay.” The poor kid blushed, looking a little flustered,
and Steve just knew he was asking himself why James Barnes, who could be really
scary when he wanted, would need a bodyguard.
“I’ll go,” Steve told Bucky, quietly, again moving to stand, but Bucky’s grip
on his arm tightened.
“You’re staying,” he said, his eyes cold as he looked at Steve.
“Fine.” Steve slumped back in his chair, and Bucky released his arm.
The kid showed them a DVD of footage from the movie, explaining the plot and
tone in broad strokes, which Steve didn’t bother to really pay attention to.
Not when Bucky was scratching at his arm and tapping his foot in a way that
suggested he was jonesing for a hit.
When Osric left, Bucky immediately excused himself to go to the bathroom, not
meeting Steve’s eyes as he left the room.
Next to Steve, Wade gave a little sigh.
 
The band, Steve, Sharon and Ellie moved on to the studio next, where a man was
sitting on the floor, strumming a guitar. The studio was large, with rugs
thrown haphazardly on the floor and stools, microphones and instruments
littering the space. The man got up to greet them all, smiling.
“Roland, this is Steve,” Bucky – who’d been a lot more relaxed and less fidgety
after his bathroom break – introduced him, “Steve, this is our producer, Roland
Deschain.”
“Nice to meet you,” the man said, his voice deep, gravelly and warm, like dark
chocolate with a British accent.
“You too,” Steve told him, shaking his hand.
Roland turned to pull Bucky into a hug, before leaning back and scrutinizing
him with narrowed eyes. “If you get high in my studio again, I’ll break your
jaw, got it?”
Bucky nodded, dropping his gaze, looking ashamed. “’M sorry.”
“You fucking better be,” Roland said. “You know my rules, James.”
Bucky nodded again. Steve felt like giving both Roland and Bucky hugs, for
vastly different reasons.
For several hours, they all sat around, discussing ideas and playing a cord or
beat here and there, and honestly, Steve was almost bored to tears. Finally,
they broke for lunch, which was eaten around the table in their suite, then
Ellie’s mom came to pick her up. She was a beautiful Latina woman named
Carmelita.  
“You’re not… together anymore?” Steve asked Wade, who shook his head.
“A beauty like that with an ugly old avocado like me? I’d never do that to
her.” His tone clearly stated that the conversation was over and he walked away
before Steve could tell him that he was anything but ugly.
Chapter End Notes
     To my knowledge, Darren Aronofsky is not making a neo-noir sci-fi spy
     movie called Ennui, but wouldn't it be amazing if he was??? He makes
     amazing movies, y'all should give them a watch. (I am aware that
     Sebastian Stan had a small part in Black Swan)
     I have the next chapter written and I'll try (TRY) to write the next
     Bucky POV chapter tomorrow, though I can't make any promises.
     Thank you, as always, for reading, commenting and kudoing :)
***** Shot Down On Sight, You Are The Target Of Attention *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Psycho Holiday by Pantera.
     So, these last three chapters chronicle Steve's first day living with
     Bucky in New York, and was originally written as one huge thing, that
     I decided couldn't be posted like that. This is the last part of
     that, and after this something... big... happens, so don't give up
     outta boredom, please.
     The lyrics Bucky sings were written by me at 2AM, so sorry, they
     suck.
     Also, no offence is meant toward the Catholic Church. Views expressed
     by characters in this fic are not necessarily shared by me or by
     Marvel. (But I do recommend watching the movie Spotlight if you
     haven't yet)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's like a stranger had a key, came inside of my mind
And moved all my things around
But he didn't know snakes can't kneel or prey
Try to break the psyche down
Yeah
 
It's as if my feathers were wax
And your artillery lead
Do you like our bed?
Do you like our bed?
 
Deep six, six, six feet deep
Deep six, six, six feet deep
Yeah
 
Love is evil
Con is confidence
Eros is sore
Sin is sincere
Sin is sincere
 
- Deep Six, Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
The day passed, slowly but surely, and Steve was actually relieved when he and
Bucky got into the Mustang shortly after six that evening.
Bucky, however, was in an awful mood, mostly because of the time constraints on
the song they needed to write for the movie.
Steve cast around for something to say to cheer him up. “So, the director of
this movie, did he make anything I’d have seen?”
Bucky tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Black Swan, Noah, Requiem for
a Dream.”
“I saw Black Swan. It was really, really good.”
Bucky nodded tightly, staring at the road in front of him.
“Is Noah the one that caused all that controversy with the churches?” Steve
asked, and got a grunt of assent in return.
“I’ve never seen Requiem for a Dream, though,” Steve commented.
“It’s about a group of heroin addicts. You can just watch me shoot up and save
yourself two hours.”
“Bucky,” Steve said.
“Stevie,” Bucky mocked.
Steve crossed his arms and stayed quiet until they reached Bucky’s house.
“Wonder whose bike that is?” Bucky muttered, raising an eyebrow at the Harley
Davidson parked across the street.
“It’s mine,” Steve said, and Bucky’s head snapped around to look at him.
“You? You ride a motorcycle?”
“Beats walking,” Steve shrugged and Bucky turned his back, trudging up the
steps to his front door.
Once inside, Bucky put out some fresh food for Fred, then excused himself to go
upstairs. Steve made his way to the living room, picking up the Nikki Sixx book
Bucky had shown him that morning, turning it over in his hands absentmindedly,
until he heard Bucky come back downstairs.
He’d changed into sweatpants and a tattered grey t-shirt, and padded barefoot
into the kitchen.
“Is there anything you don’t eat?” he called to Steve, rummaging in the fridge.
“Shellfish,” Steve told him, leaning against the counter.
“So chicken stir-fry okay?”
“Yup,” Steve popped his lips on the ‘p’. “Can I help with anything?”
“You can make coffee,” Bucky told him, shooing him to the other side of the
kitchen so he could reach the stove.
Steve made coffee while Bucky cut strips of chicken and vegetables, switching
the knife from one hand to the other between cuts, like he couldn’t decide if
he was left or right handed. Now that Steve thought about it, he realized he’d
never seen Bucky favor either hand, and he’d never seen him write anything with
a pen and paper. The sudden, tiny mystery tickled at him, and he bit his lip to
keep from asking. Instead he placed Bucky’s coffee, sweet and creamy, on the
counter near him.
“Thanks, Stevie.”
“Anything else I can do?” Steve asked, but Bucky shook his head, tossing the
chicken into a skillet with a drizzle of olive oil.
Steve stood out of the way and watched Bucky cook, his mouth watering a little
at the aroma that filled the kitchen. It was nice, Steve thought, seeing Bucky
in his own space like this. The other man hummed a little, moving fluidly on
his bare feet.
When the food was done, they filled their plates and Bucky led the way to the
large three-seater sofa.
“We’ll watch Noah,” he decided, flicking through Netflix while he balanced his
plate on his knee.
The food was amazing and Bucky paused the movie to take their empty plates to
the kitchen and came back with two pints of ice cream.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed dessert?” Steve asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I changed my mind,” Bucky said, handing him a spoon, “you were very well
behaved today.”
“Gee, thanks,” Steve rolled his eyes, digging out a spoonful of rocky road.
Bucky sat down closer to him, their thighs almost touching, so they could share
the ice cream and Steve found it ridiculously difficult to concentrate on the
rest of the movie when he could hear Bucky’s little moans of enjoyment every
time he ate a spoonful of cookie dough ice cream.
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said when the credits started rolling across the screen,
“do you go to church?”
Steve shook his head. “I used to go to Mass twice a week, but then, after my
first tour, it just felt… strange.”
“Wait,” Bucky leaned away from him, his eyes wide, “you’re Catholic?”
“Lapsed Catholic,” Steve said, carefully.
“But you still believe in God, though?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
“Huh,” Bucky took another spoonful of ice cream.
“Are you going to sacrifice me to Satan now?” Steve asked, puzzled at Bucky’s
reaction.
“I’m an atheist, Stevie. We don’t do that, on account of not believing and
all.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Steve said, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow.
Bucky chuckled at him, leaning back against the couch, tapping his spoon
against his lips.
After a beat, Bucky got up, gathering the nearly empty ice cream containers and
held out his hand for Steve’s spoon.
“Did a priest ever…” Bucky started, walking toward the kitchen, “you know… when
you were a kid.”
Steve got up and followed him, frowning. “What? Molest me? No, thankfully.
Why?”
“It’s like a thing, isn’t it? With Catholic priests.”
“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “But I didn’t even know about it until I was in my
twenties.”
Bucky nodded. He turned around and started to load the dishwasher. Steve
stepped closer to help.
“Is there a reason you asked about that?”
Bucky snorted. “I was never molested by a Catholic priest; you can get that
kicked-puppy expression off your face.”
“Kicked puppy?” Steve questioned, frowning.
“Yeah, you look like a Labrador puppy sometimes.”
“I do not,” Steve countered, frown deepening.
“You do. It’s cute, really.”
“I am not a cute Labrador puppy, okay? I’ve had enough of you and the dog
insults.”
Bucky looked up, his eyes widening a little. “It wasn’t an insult this time.”
“It usually is, though,” Steve said.
Bucky bit his lip, his hands stilling. “’M sorry,” he muttered, the same way
he’d apologized to Roland that morning. “I’m a dick, I know.”
“No, you’re not. You just say shitty things to me sometimes.”
“I know. I am sorry, Stevie.”
“I know,” Steve said, putting the last cutlery in the dishwasher.
Bucky quickly washed his hands, before pointing to the ceiling. “I’ll be in the
studio if you need me. Feel free to ransack the bookcases, or watch a movie or
play videogames or something if you’re bored.”
Steve nodded, watching Bucky disappear up the stairs. He made himself
comfortable on the couch with the Nikki Sixx book, and started reading.
 
“You’re still awake?”
Steve jumped a mile at Bucky’s voice, turning to see him looking tired and
crumpled, standing at the foot of the stairs. He checked his watch and realized
it was past two in the morning.
“Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late.” He held up the book in his defense and
Bucky smiled.
“Seeing as you’re still up, you wanna give your inexpert advice on the Ennui
song?”
“You finished it?” Steve asked in surprise, putting a slip of paper into the
book to hold his place, and got to his feet
“It’s just a first draft, melody and rough lyrics,” Bucky clarified, leading
the way upstairs and into the studio.
Steve perched on a stool as Bucky picked up an acoustic guitar and sat on the
stool next to him.
“If your ears start bleeding from the awfulness, please tell me,” Bucky said,
but his voice didn’t quite reach a joking tone.
Then he started playing, head down, fingers gliding smoothly over the frets.
The melody was light, almost cheerful, and Steve couldn’t even imagine the way
it would sound on distorted electric guitars. Bucky hummed a little, then
stopped playing, a bark of laughter escaping his lips as he reached for the
notepad and pen lying near Steve’s elbow.
“I forgot the fucking lyrics,” he chuckled, eyes scanning the illegible
scribbles on the page. Steve bit his lip to hide his smile, and Bucky started
playing again.
“I take three steps backward
Running forward
Hiding in every shadow I can
I make three moves this way
Fall down the hard way
Been losing since this began
You’re hounding me
Hot on my heels
And I can’t escape
Cause, darling, this feels…”
Bucky stopped playing with a groan. “That’s wrong.” He frowned at the paper.
“It sounded good to me,” Steve said. And it did. Bucky’s playing, his voice,
the shape of his lips as he formed the words, his sheer proximity, were all
very good things in Steve’s opinion.
“The lyrics go to shit in the chorus,” Bucky was scowling now, as he read them.
“This isn’t supposed to be all touchy-feely and shit.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Firstly, the movie isn’t a romcom, and secondly, I do
not write love songs.”
“Why not?” Steve asked and Bucky looked at him strangely for a moment, and
tossed the notebook aside instead of answering.
“Fucking up lyrics is usually my cue to go to bed,” he said, setting the guitar
on its stand.
Steve followed him out of the studio and Bucky gripped Steve shoulder for a
second.
“Sweet dreams, Stevie.”
“Goodnight, Buck.” Steve watched him disappear into his bedroom before turning
toward his own.
Chapter End Notes
     Thank you all for reading, comments and kudos! I'm working non-stop
     until the second week of October, and after that we start holiday
     hours, so I'm sorry, updates will be very infrequent for a while.
     Also, I'm listening to Marilyn Manson's last three albums on repeat,
     so if the next few chapters are horribly depressing, please kick my
     ass.
***** One Man's Misery Is Another Man's Mystery *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Message in Blood by Pantera.
     Wow, it's been, like, a month since the last update. I know, it
     sucks, and I'm sorry. Life has just been less than great lately.
     Anyway, if all goes well, the next chapter will be up within the next
     week or so. (Hopefully)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Torn apart at the seams and my dreams turn to tears, I'm not feeling this
situation
Run away try to find a safe place you can hide
It's the best place to be when you're feeling like
 
Me.
All these things I hate revolve around
Me.
Just back off before I snap
 
Once more you tell those lies, to me
Why can't you just be straight up with honesty?
When you say those things in my ear, why do you always tell me what you wanna
hear?
 
Wear your heart on your sleeve, make things hard to believe, I'm not feeling
this situation
Run away try to find that safe place you can hide
It's the best place to be when you're feeling like.
Me.
 
- All These Things I Hate (Revolve Around Me), Bullet For My Valentine
 
~
 
Lying all alone and restless
unable to lose this image
sleepless, unable to focus on
anything but your surrender
 
Tugging a rhythm to the vision that's in my head
Tugging a beat to the sight of you lying
So delighted with a new understanding
Something about a little evil that makes that
Unmistakable noise I was hearing
Unmistakable sound that I know so well
Spent and sighing with a look in your eye
Spent and sighing with a look on your face like
 
Sweet revelation sweet surrender
sweet, sweet surrender
Surrender...
 
Thinking of you, thinking
Thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking...
 
- Thinking of You, A Perfect Circle
 
~
 
The next day, Steve was smart enough to take his book with him to the studio to
stave off the boredom of listening to the band debate chord progression and
hooks. He made himself at home on a chair a few paces away from where Sharon
was absorbed in her laptop and continued reading about the highs and lows of
heroin.
Sometime after lunch, Roland came to sit next to him and Steve closed the book
on his finger to look at him.
“So… bodyguard, huh. Shouldn’t you be standing next to the door in a cheap
suit?”
Steve gave a crooked smile. “For some clients, yeah, but Shield is more about
discretion. I’m supposed to blend in. Be one of the guys.” He tugged at his
grey Aquaman shirt. “And dress the part. It would be a lot more effective if
Bucky stopped introducing me as his bodyguard to everyone.”
Roland smiled. “True that.”
 
Bucky made spaghetti for dinner that night, and Steve spilled tomato sauce on
his shirt. He glared at the offending stain obscuring Arthur Curry’s face while
he and Bucky loaded the dishwasher.
“Just throw it in the washer downstairs,” Bucky said, more than a little
impatiently.
“Downstairs?” Steve asked, his head snapping in Bucky’s direction so fast he
cricked his neck.
“The basement,” Bucky replied, setting the timer on the dishwasher.
“You have a basement?”
“And an attic.”
Steve went cold. He spun around until his eyes landed on a narrow door, half
obscured by the fridge. He yanked it opened and hurried down the wooden stairs,
flicking on the light as he went. A single bulb illuminated the small space. A
washing machine and tumble dryer stood against the wall near the foot of the
stairs, a narrow table against the far wall, with a row of cabinets above it,
and a ratty black couch against the third wall. There was one narrow window,
set close to the ceiling, with thin iron bars across it. Steve breath half a
sigh, then spun around, hurrying up the stairs, through the kitchen, past a
confused looking Bucky, and up to the second floor. There, hanging from the
ceiling just outside Bucky’s studio was the cord that opened the trapdoor to
the attic. Steve pulled it, tugging down the ladder that unfolded. The attic
was large, with shelves covering three walls, filled with CD’s, vinyl albums
and even tape cassettes. There was another couch, this one new, shiny leather,
and a professional looking sound system.
Against the wall under the large, round window, gym equipment was neatly
arranged.
Steve stepped closer to the window, looking out on Bucky’s neighbor’s tiny
backyard garden. He breathed deeply, and closed his eyes.
“Steve?”
Steve nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He hadn’t
heard the other man ascend the ladder at all.
“Jesus,” Steve breathed, turning to face Bucky. “Don’t sneak up on people like
that, Buck.”
“Sorry,” Bucky lifted a shoulder. “What’s going on?”
For a moment, Steve deliberated how truthful he could be. There was no way he
could admit to being so enamored by Bucky that he couldn’t even do the basics
of his fucking job. But he couldn’t lie to Bucky either.
“I didn’t do my job properly,” he admitted, trying unsuccessfully to keep the
bitterness from his voice. “I was supposed to check every entrance, exit and
window of this place the moment I got here. I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve swallowed
hard.
“Sorry for what?” Bucky was frowning, clearly not seeing the situation clearly.
“Sorry for putting you in danger,” Steve said, and swallowed again against the
bile rising into his throat. It was happening all over again. He was getting
cocky, becoming weak, and fucking up. He knew he should get out before his
mistakes cost more lives. Bucky’slife.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Bucky said nonchalantly, either ignoring or not
understanding the gravity of the situation. “No one can get in here through
this window, believe me, Wade and I have tried.” He smiled, and Steve felt even
worse.
“That’s not the fucking point!” Steve didn’t even realize how angry he was
until the words tore from his throat, much louder than he’d intended. Bucky
flinched, his eyes clouding over.
“Shit,” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to
yell at you.”
“S’okay,” Bucky said quietly, turning and heading back down the ladder before
Steve could say anything else.
Steve cursed under his breath, pushing the heels of his hands hard against his
eyes. He seemed to be fucking things up more and more the longer he stayed in
Bucky’s proximity, and he mentally berated himself for it as he slowly
descended the ladder and closed the trapdoor. The door to Bucky’s studio was
closed, a guitar riff sounding almost inaudibly through it, thanks to what must
be a fair amount of soundproofing.
Steve turned into his room and tugged the stained shirt off, pulling on a soft
white one in its place before going back downstairs to put it in the wash.
Returning upstairs, Steve shut himself in his room. He looked through his
Shield emails, then texted Sam. His attempts to distract his thoughts failed
miserably, though, and twenty minutes later he found himself lying on the large
bed, staring up at the ceiling. How could he have been so stupid? So distracted
that he didn’t even do the simplest, most basic task that his job required of
him? The answer was simple: he was too immersed in all things Bucky. Steve knew
the best course of action would be to call Nick Fury and ask to be reassigned.
He knew it, but the thought of picking up his phone and thereby probably never
seeing Bucky again made his chest tighten and his breath shorten, like he was
having an asthma attack – something that hadn’t happened to him since his
mother died.
Steve’s phone chimed and he reached for it sluggishly, swiping to open a text
from Sam.
 
Sam: you don’t have to save everyone man. you’re not a superhero.
 
Steve sighed heavily and tossed his phone to the end of the bed, where it
landed rather painfully against his big toe. Sam was convinced that Steve’s
past in the military had left him with some sort of hero or messiah complex,
which Steve found utterly ridiculous. What was wrong with trying to help
people? Sam didn’t get it, Steve thought. He didn’t get his entire unit killed
through a mix of arrogance and weakness.
Steve lay awake for long enough to hear Bucky open the door to the studio and
seconds later close his bedroom door, and spent a moment marveling at how
quietly Bucky could move, before getting up to go take a shower.
Once under the warm spray, Steve’s thoughts took a different turn. He pictured
Bucky silently walking into the bathroom, wearing nothing but a smirk and his
tattoos. Steve made a soft sound in the back of his throat and slid one hand
down his body, lingering a little on his nipples before moving farther down. He
tried to imagine what Bucky’s skin would taste like, what it would feel like to
trace those intricate tattoos with the tip of his tongue, scrape his teeth over
the lightly tanned skin. Steve groaned and gripped his hardening length. Would
Bucky moan? Gasp? Spill soft curses and Steve’s name over his lips? Steve
squeezed his eyes shut, stroking himself slowly, thumb barely ghosting over his
slit. He imagined pushing Bucky back against the wall, sinking to his knees in
front of him. He wanted Bucky against his lips, on his tongue, hot and hard.
Steve tugged faster, reaching his free hand to brace against the wall as his
knees got weak. He was so close, aching and trembling for release. For Bucky.
Steve came hard, biting back Bucky’s name, his legs almost giving out beneath
him.
After getting out of the shower, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, then got
into bed. Sleep eventually tugged him down, and he fell into dreams of sand and
heat and corpses. Corpses with limbs missing or holes torn through their
torsos, spilling viscera onto the scorching golden sand. Corpses all with
Bucky’s face, sightless blue eyes wide in terror. Steve crawled through the
blood, the heat, grains of sand sticking to his skin, burning as the wind blew
against his face, into his eyes. Bucky was dead, he was dead and it was all
Steve’s fault. Steve fumbled for his pistol, tugging it out of its holster,
pushing the barrel between his teeth, but when he pulled the trigger, nothing
but sand exited the barrel, filling his mouth, making it hard to breathe. He
spat out the grains, trying not to choke, tasting the old copper of blood.
A low thud pulled Steve from sleep so fast that his first though was IED!,
before reality caught up with him; there was an intruder in Bucky’s house.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Love and gratitude, as always, to every single person who reads,
     comments and kudos, you guys all deserve a doughnut.
     Unfortunately I don't think this fic will be done before Christmas,
     like I had planned, mainly due to several 60+ hour work weeks over
     December. Being a grown-up is not fun at all.
     Ps. I really need some reader input: Which young actress would you
     like to see in a Siberia music video in an upcoming chapter? Please
     help, I keep picturing Dwayne Johnson, and he just cannot walk
     properly in high heels.
***** All Along I Knew It Has Been With Me, Since I Was Just A Child *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Message in Blood by Pantera.
     There probably won't be another chapter until mid-November, so I'd
     like to wish y'all a most spooky Halloween!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I cannot disguise,
all the stomach pains
and the walking of the cranes
when you, do come out
and you whisper up to me
in your life of tragedy
But I cannot grow
till you eat the last of me
oh when will I be free
and you, a parasite
just find another host
just another fool to roast
cause you
my tapeworm tells me what to do
you
my tapeworm tells me where to go
 
I cannot deny
all the evil traits
and the filling of the crates
when you, do come out
and you slither up to me
in your pimpin’ majesty
but I cannot grow
till you eat the last of me
oh when will I be free
and you, a parasite
just find another host
just another stool to post
cause you
Pull the tapeworm out of your ass, HEY
Pull the tape worm out of me...
 
I'm just sitting in my room
with a needle in my hand
waiting for the tomb
of some old dying man
sitting in my room
with a needle in my hand
waiting for the tomb
of some old dying man
cause you
my tapeworm tells me what to do
you
my tapeworm tells me where to go
 
- Needles, System of a Down
 
~
 
Steve got out of bed, grabbed his Glock and phone from the bedside table and
opened his bedroom door and quietly as possible. To his right, Bucky came out
of his own bedroom, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, a Colt held
loosely in his right hand, pointing down at the floor. Steve held up his free
hand.
“Stay here,” he said under his breath.
Bucky rolled his eyes, but at Steve’s frown he nodded, waving in a ‘go ahead’
gesture.
Steve crept down the stairs, focusing on the whispered voices he could hear
from the direction of the living room, while sending an alert message to Shield
to notify law enforcement. One female, two male, one with a slight lisp, who
seemed to be giving the others instructions. Steve paused on the last stair,
gun held in front of him, both hands steady on the grip, and listened.
“You’re such an idiot,” the male with the lisp said.
“Because I don’t wanna go to jail?” the other guy retorted, his breath a little
too fast. Nervous.
“Can we hurry this up?” the girl asked, sounding both bored and impatient. “I
didn’t pack a fucking overnight bag.”
Steve heard a metallic scratch, followed by the unmistakable sound of a
butterfly knife being flipped in someone’s hand. He glanced upstairs, where
Bucky was still waiting, took a deep breath, and turned the corner into the
living room.
He aimed his gun at the chest of the black-clad guy holding the knife. At the
sight of Steve, armed, all three the intruders recoiled a little. They looked
young, late teens or early twenties, and aside from the knife, seemed to be
unarmed. The guy closest to him fell back several steps and raised his hands.
“Drop the knife,” Steve said calmly, and the kid complied.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, lisp more pronounced now.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Steve said. He inclined his head toward the
couch. “You’ll sit there and wait for the cops.”
The girl and the more nervous of the two guys sank down on the leather, but the
one with the lisp instead made a calculated feint, and tried dodging past
Steve, toward the staircase. Steve had barely started to react when the kid was
intercepted by Bucky, who had descended the stairs noiselessly, and had him in
a half-nelson so fast it was almost comical. Steve turned back to the other two
kids, while Bucky man-handled the third onto the couch with them. All three
looked more than a little shocked to see a mostly naked rock star pull a gun
out of his underwear, which convinced Steve that, while they obviously
recognized Bucky, they had had no idea that it was his house they had broken
into. Steve determinedly kept his gaze away from Bucky’s body until the cops
arrived ten minutes later.
They sat at the kitchen counter while the kids were arrested, and an officer
took their statements.
“Well,” the dark-skinned woman said, tapping her pen against her hand, “from
what the kids say, it looks like some sort of gang-initiation. Break into a
house and steal a trophy.”
She assured them that they’d keep an eye on the house for a few days, in case
whichever gang was involved got ideas about retaliation. Bucky seemed
unconcerned as he leaned back on his elbows, abdominal muscles rippling. The
officer’s eyes flicked down his body, then quickly away. Steve couldn’t blame
her for looking a little hot under the collar as she bade them goodnight.
Once the house was empty again, Steve got to his feet, but his ‘goodnight’ was
cut off as Bucky grabbed his elbow, pulling him closer.
“Buck?”
Bucky leaned forward, eyeing Steve’s chest, then he threw his head back in
laughter.
Steve frowned in disapproval as Bucky snickered, his hand still firmly wrapped
around Steve’s elbow.
“I honestly don’t see what’s so funny,” Steve said.
“You…” Bucky bit back a chuckle, wiping moisture from his eyes with his free
hand, “you have… the lyrics to the… Star...” more breathless laughter,
“Spangled Banner…” he paused to try and catch his breath, letting out ever more
high-pitched giggles, “tattooed… on your chest!”
“Yes, well, I’d just enlisted,” Steve knew getting the quote ‘The land of the
free and the home of the brave’ permanently inked into his skin was not the
smartest thing he’d ever done, “I was drunk and I did it on a dare.”
Bucky let out another howl of laughter, tugging heavily on Steve’s arm to keep
himself from toppling off his stool. “Oh my God, this is the best thing ever.”
Steve gave the most disapproving frown he could manage. “It’s just a tattoo.
Don’t you regret any of yours?”
“Sure,” Bucky said, still fighting chuckles down, “the poop emoji on my ass was
a bad idea.”
“You do not have a poop emoji tattooed on your ass,” Steve stated.
“Well, no, but it would still be better than the words to the national anthem!”
More giggles.
“I’m so happy I amuse you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”
“Aww, Stevie, don’t be mad,” Bucky swallowed his giggles, giving Steve a little
pout. “Have a cup of tea with me.”
“Fine,” Steve sat down, but continued to frown as he watched Bucky drop teabags
into two mugs.
“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asked after a while, as he handed Steve a green Luigi mug.
“Did you have a nightmare earlier?”
Steve froze with the tea halfway to his lips. “Why do you ask?”
Bucky looked down, fiddling with a spoon. “The walls are paper thin.”
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Steve hedged.
“I wasn’t asleep.” Bucky glanced up at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Steve hesitated, taking a sip of tea to give himself time to consider. On one
hand, Bucky was his employer, and spilling his guts to him was unprofessional.
On the other hand, he didn’t consider Bucky just an employer. Not quite a
friend, but something on the way there. Finally, he decided on a half-truth.
“I dreamed about sand.”
Bucky seemed to get it. He nodded, but there was something in the way his lips
curled that told Steve he knew he hadn’t told him everything.
They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea. It was peaceful,
comfortable, and slowly Steve relaxed. He let all the tension of the past few
hours drain from his muscles one by one, staring into his mug to keep his eyes
off Bucky. The other man’s state of undress was becoming more distracting with
each minute that passed, though Bucky hardly seemed aware of it.
The quiet was broken by the shrill ringing of a phone. Bucky groaned and got up
to grab the landline from its cradle on the counter next to the microwave.
“Hello?” After a beat of silence, Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face going
completely blank.
“Yes… yeah… I know that… it’s the middle of the night… no… it’s not like I can
just-… yeah, fine… I said yes… yeah…”
He ended the call, and stood staring at nothing for several long seconds before
Steve couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Buck? Everything okay?”
Bucky jumped a little, twisting around to face Steve. “You have tomorrow night
off.”
Steve blinked in surprise. “No, I don’t, I’m not scheduled for time off until
next week.”
“Pierce fixed it. As reward for a job well done.” Bucky’s face was still empty,
his eyes not quite meeting Steve’s.
“Now? With the threat of gang retaliation in the air? I’d rather not, thank
you.”
“It’s not your choice. Go home, Steve. Hang out with your friends.”
“Bucky, that’s not a good- “
“Stop fucking arguing!” Bucky slammed his fist against the counter, then
flinched, looking more shocked at his little outburst than Steve was.
“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky held up a hand.
“Just stop, okay? In fact, take the whole day tomorrow. I’ll see you Thursday.”
With that, Bucky turned and walked away.
Confusion did not adequately describe what Steve felt as he got into bed a few
minutes later. Why did Pierce decide to give him time off now? And why did
Bucky refuse to go against the decision? It didn’t make sense to Steve, and he
resolved to talk to Bucky about it the next morning. Except when Steve woke up,
the house was empty and Bucky’s car was gone. He tried Bucky’s cell, but got
his voicemail. Finally, he resorted to sending him a text.
 
Steve: I’ll take the day off, but if you need me, for anything, call me
immediately.
 
He got on his bike, and made his way to the VA where Sam worked. He stopped for
coffee and Sam greeted him with a smile and declarations of love for the
caffeine. They spent half an hour talking about Sam’s job and avoiding talking
about Steve’s, then Steve went home. He watched TV, did Sam’s dishes, dusted
his room and vacuumed the whole apartment. He was cooking when Sam came home.
“You’re making shepherd’s pie,” Sam noted the moment he stepped into the
kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve said, a little too lightly.
“You only make shepherd’s pie when something’s wrong,” Sam retorted, “so talk.”
Steve sighed, taking his time making little patterns on the mashed potatoes,
before putting the dish in the oven. “I think there’s something… not quite
right between James and the band’s manager.”
Sam listened patiently as Steve recounted the event of the previous night,
nodding and frowning occasionally, but staying silent until Steve was done.
“I don’t know, man,” he started as Steve got the pie out of the oven, “that
whole dynamic is a lot different than anything you’ve worked with before. Maybe
it all just adds up to music industry quirks.”
Steve sighed again, dishing up generous servings of pie which they took to the
couch to eat.
“Maybe I’m running on too little information, here,” Steve mused as he lifted a
forkful of beef and potato to his mouth.
“Or maybe you’re running on too much imagination,” Sam countered.
They let the discussion drop in favor of watching Bad Boys, but the suspicion
nagged at Steve for the rest of the mostly sleepless night.
 
Steve was in a bad mood the next morning, pushing his Harley to unsafe speeds
to get through morning traffic before Bucky left for the studio without him
again. He turned his bike recklessly around the corner into Bucky’s street,
then skidded to a halt half a block from the brownstone when Pierce exited the
front door. Steve stayed at a distance, watching the other man, who had a small
bag – like an overnight case – in one hand, get into a luxury German sedan.
Suddenly, a vastly different possibility occurred to him. All this time, he’d
thought Bucky was rebelling against Pierce’s control, had begun to wonder if
Pierce was using unsavory means to exert that control. Now, though, Steve
realized he’d never considered the rather obvious alternative – Bucky and
Pierce were having an affair.
Chapter End Notes
     Also, I got a Tumblr thing (it's brand new and stupid) if you wanna
     yell at me about slow updates or stuff - yollie183 (disclaimer - I
     don't actually know how to use Tumblr really, so sorry bout that)
***** I'll Split My Head In Two And See You Twice *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Uplift by Pantera.
     Holy shit, America. I'm still reeling from the election results and I
     don't even live in the same hemisphere. I'm sending thoughts of hope
     and solidarity to all LGBT, disabled, female, Muslim and person of
     color Americans reading this. I know a little of what it's like to be
     a minority in a country where the majority hates your guts for
     something you have no control over, and I'd like to let every single
     person (American or otherwise) know that you are strong enough, that
     you are loved and that there will always be hope, even in the darkest
     of times. I love all of you.
     Also, I want to say that I adore and appreciate every person who has
     left me a supportive comment on this fic (and apologies to all the
     ones I had to delete with the fake chapter, I read and saved each
     one). You can't know how much each letter of those messages meant to
     me, thank you, thank you, thank you.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Do you Believe? Do you Fade like a Dream?
Let me hear you breathe
Let me watch as you sleep
The Sparrow's Eyes... Promises shift into judgments
I cannot deny that you were designed for my punishments
 
The Blood and The Body - Control the cut so it's seamless
Show me your Heart - Show me the way to complete this
Tethered to a scene I
Treasure can you help me?
I sever
God it's perfect,
it's never really perfect
Now... I can finally be myself
‘Cause I don't want to be myself
 
Free my severed heart – give me you (I want it)
I don't want to be myself
 
I cannot maintain a semblance of normal anymore
I'd rather feel pain than try to fit in with you anymore
I'll throw it all away, like everybody else
I can finally be myself
‘Cause I don't want to be myself
 
Free my severed heart – give me you (I want it)
I don't want to be myself
 
- Gehenna, Slipknot
 
~
 
Steve took a long moment to gather himself, halfway up Bucky’s front steps. He
pushed down on the sour jealousy clawing up his throat, refusing to let it
overcome him. Bucky wasn’t his boyfriend, was hardly even his friend. So what
if he was sleeping with Pierce? He wouldn’t be the first musician to have a
relationship with their manager. And Steve knew he had no right to say anything
about it, it was not his place. He pulled in a deep breath before climbing the
last step and turned the key Bucky had given him in the lock. The house was
quiet, dark, and Steve lingered for a second in the hall, senses on high alert.
Something was off.
He moved cautiously forward and froze as he looked into the living room.
Bucky was sitting on the couch, shirtless, leaning forward with his right arm
stretched out, a piece of leather tied tightly around his bicep, a needle
inserted carefully in the crook of his elbow, left hand deftly depressing the
plunger to inject what looked like 10ccs of clear liquid into his vein.
Bucky looked up at Steve, his face, his eyes, utterly blank. Steve shivered,
cold fear running its slimy fingers down his spine.
“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, the words flat and emotionless.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” he whispered, and took a step forward, just as Bucky pulled
the needle from his arm and let it drop to the carpet. Steve watched in
horrified fascination as Bucky tugged the strap off his arm and leaned back,
closing his eyes, a soft moan falling from his lips.
Steve picked up the syringe, careful to avoid the sharp point and put it on the
coffee table next to the spoon, cotton and opened alcohol swab arranged in a
neat line.
He stood, indecisive, for a moment, before Bucky’s eyes opened.
“You’re angry,” he observed.
“You’re damn right I’m angry,” Steve snapped. He was standing over Bucky,
glaring down at him, his anger and jealousy over Pierce pulled to the forefront
by his fury with Bucky getting high. “How the fuck can I not be?!”
Bucky leaned forward, looking up at Steve. “You have no right.”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. I refuse to just shut up and do nothing while
you slowly destroy yourself like this.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Bucky said quietly, still looking up
at Steve, his blue eyes intense.
“Is that so? I know you’re smart, and talented, and a good person. I know your
band respects you and Wade and Ellie love you. That’s more than enough.”
Bucky shook his head, not breaking eye contact. “You’re just listing your own
heavily biased opinions.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Steve hissed and ran a hand through his hair. “You just
have crippling self-esteem issues.”
Bucky let out a bark of laughter. “There you go, that’s more like it.”
Steve’s curled his fists at his sides. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Sure you did, Stevie. And I’m not an idiot, you know, I see the way you look
at me sometimes. You want to see all these positive things in me, because you
want to fuck me. But it’s an illusion, there’s nothing there. Sorry.”
“That’s not true,” Steve breathed, his heartrate kicking up.
“Which part, exactly?”
“All of it.”
“So you don’t want to fuck me?” Bucky leaned forward a little more, slowly
moving his gaze down Steve’s torso to linger on his fly, before looking back up
at his face.
“Not if I have to get in line behind Pierce,” Steve spat, with more venom than
he’d intended, and Bucky jerked back like he’d been slapped.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I saw him leave,” Steve stated. “You should have told me you were having an
affair.”
“An affair?” Another bark of mirthless laughter from Bucky. “Imagine that.”
“What do you call it then?”
“Gee, I dunno. How ‘bout: as long as he gets to fuck me, I have career. Not
sure if there’s a nice euphemism for that.”
Steve froze, his retort vanishing from his lips. “You’re sleeping with him for
a record deal?”
“There’s not much sleeping, to be honest.”
“Bucky,” Steve snapped, “what exactly is going on?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “You want all the sordid details?”
“I want the truth.”
“Fine. If I don’t let Pierce fuck me, he rips up Siberia’s record contract. And
I can’t let that happen.”
“I need to call this in,” Steve said, looking away from Bucky to get his phone
out of his pocket, nearly jumping a mile as Bucky’s hand closed over his
forearm.
“No,” Bucky said, suddenly afraid. “Steve, you can’t.”
“Buck, if you’re telling the truth, what Pierce is doing is sexual harassment,
coercion.”
“I don’t lie,” Bucky said quietly, “I told you that before.”
“Then let me call it – “
“No!” Bucky was suddenly on his feet, chest inches from Steve’s, his breath hot
against Steve’s face. “Please, Steve. If this gets out, it’s game over for
Siberia. No other label will sign us; no other agents or managers will touch
us. And think of Scott’s daughter, of Ellie. Not to mention their livelihoods.
Brock spends almost every penny on the assisted living facility where his mom
is. Rollins has a sister with three kids to support. They need Siberia, this
isn’t the mainstream where we earn millions for every single we release. Most
bands barely make enough to get by without a day job.”
Steve hesitated. He knew turning in Pierce was the right thing to do, but
Bucky’s eyes, pleading and desperate, were breaking down his will faster than
he could muster it.
“Bucky, this isn’t right,” Steve tried to reason.
“I don’t care,” he said, with conviction. “This is a price I’ve been paying for
a very long time.”
“And what about the other bands Pierce works with?”
“It’s just me,” Bucky said, “there’s no one else. I wouldn’t let him do it to
anyone else.”
“But it’s okay that he’s doing it to you?”
Bucky shrugged. “I can handle it.”
“With heroin.”
Bucky cracked a crooked little smile. “It wouldn’t be rock ‘n roll without the
sex and the drugs.”
“That’s not funny, Buck.”
“It’s a little funny,” Bucky said, his hand gripping Steve’s arm a little
tighter. “Please, Steve, let me handle this, okay?”
Steve let out a sigh. “I don’t like this.”
“I know.”
“I could lose my job for keeping quiet about this.”
“If you do I’ll make Pierce hires you to be my bodyguard full time.”
“That’s actually kinda sweet of you.”
Bucky smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s all the sugar I eat.”
Steve couldn’t keep a grin off his face. “Damnit, Buck.”
They were still standing too close together, Steve’s arm still in Bucky’s grip,
and Steve’s smile faded as he realized he could feel the heat rolling off
Bucky’s naked torso.
“See,” Bucky said quietly, “you do want to fuck me.”
Steve’s breath caught in his throat and he shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Bucky let go of Steve, and took a step back. “We need to be at the studio in
twenty minutes.”
He ducked past Steve and disappeared up the stairs. For a second, Steve
imagined that he’d hurt Bucky’s feelings with his denial.
But it was mostly true. He didn’t want to fuck Bucky, he wanted to make love to
him. He was attracted to Bucky, but it went far deeper than just superficial
physical desire. Whatever Bucky had thought he saw; he hadn’t been seeing
things clearly at all.
Bucky came back downstairs several minutes later wearing dark jeans and a white
t-shirt, his hair pulled up in a bun, and Steve was convinced he was doing it
on purpose. His jeans clung like a second skin and Steve was a little surprised
that the shirt hadn’t torn with the way it stretched over his chest and biceps.
Steve cursed inwardly and followed Bucky into the hall.
“Hey, Steve,” Buck started, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his legs
crossed at the ankle, “we should take your bike.”
“Should we?” Steve raised an eyebrow, playing oblivious to Bucky’s little game.
“Yeah. Come on, I’ve never been on a Harley before.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine, let’s go.”
Bucky grinned, and stalked outside, coming to a stop next to Steve’s bike to
run his fingers over the blue paint, flecked with metallic red flakes.
“Pretty,” he stated, looking up at Steve from under his lashes.
For a precarious second, Steve nearly replied with a flirtatious ‘yes, you
are’, but luckily spared himself the embarrassment of the cheesy line, instead
lifting up the seat to pull out the spare helmet he kept there.
Bucky tugged the elastic band out of his hair before pulling the helmet on. He
turned to Steve, a coy smile on his lips. “Can you do the straps?”
Steve rolled his eyes again before clicking the buckle closed under Bucky’s
chin. He tucked his pinkies into the straps to tug Bucky’s face closer to his.
“Drop the act, Buck. I’m not going to succumb to your little seduction
technique.”
Bucky blinked, his lips parting in surprise. “How do you know it’s an act?”
“Because you only do this when you’re insecure about something.”
Bucky looked down, then back up, and his expression became genuine. A little
unsure, a little unhappy. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Buck.” Steve told him.
“Okay,” Bucky said softly.
“Okay.” Steve let go of Bucky’s helmet straps and swung a leg over his bike,
pulling on his own helmet. He felt Bucky sit down behind him, then those arms
were winding around his waist, and Steve closed his eyes, enjoying the
sensation, before starting the bike and pulling out into the road. It took all
Steve’s concentration to focus on the traffic with Bucky’s arms around him, his
chest against Steve’s back, his thighs gripping Steve’s like a vice. They made
it to the studio in one piece, no thanks to Bucky’s hot breath on the back of
Steve’s neck all the way there. Once inside the studio, Steve took his usual
seat in the corner, leaning his head back and letting his thoughts focus fully
on Alexander Pierce for the first time.
Pierce forcing Bucky to have sex with him to keep his record deal sounded
exactly like rape to Steve, but he knew that what Bucky had said was true.
Scandal like that would kill Siberia’s career in one fell swoop. If Bucky were
female it might have been easier. Female victims getting the blame for being
raped was bad enough. For male victims it was a thousand times worse. So much
stigma was attached to male sexuality – from the old ‘men can’t be raped’
nonsense, all the way to ‘what man wouldn’t want sex?’. It was even more
complicated when the man in question isn’t straight. So many conservatives
still believed homo- and bisexuality was already a perversion, and that any sex
between men had to be consensual in some perverse sense.
Steve knew that the media – especially the more conservative outlets – would
have a field day with a story like that. He could see the headlines already:
Rock Band Turns Into Sex Cult – Influencing Our Children?
But, no matter how convincing Bucky’s argument, what Pierce was doing was still
horrible and downright wrong.
Steve knew the simplest course of action – without going against Bucky’s wishes
– was to just stay at Bucky’s side for as long as it was possible. He would
forfeit his off days, refuse to leave Bucky alone, even if the other man hated
him for it. Steve would stick with him until he could figure out some way to
bring Pierce to justice.
He opened his eyes to look toward where the band were and realized Bucky was
staring at him, his blue eyes clouded, one hand lightly picking a subdued tune
on the strings of the guitar cradled in his lap. Steve tried to burn the image
in his mind so he could sketch it later, before looking away again.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     "Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only
     remembers to turn on the light." - JK Rowling.
     There is light in each of us that will never be snuffed out by their
     hate - shine bright friends.
      
     The last side chapter can be read here
     It's good and has lots of friendship and caring.
***** I Do Anything That I Want, And I Get Everything That I Ask *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Uplift by Pantera.
     I started watching Westworld recently, and Tessa Thompson just jumped
     out at me. I can really see her and Seb Stan playing a couple.
     I have no idea if I'll be able to update during December (I work in
     retail, you gotta cut me some slack, please).
I can't decide if you're wearing me out or wearing me well
I just feel like I'm condemned to wear someone else's hell
We've only reached the third day of our seven-day binge
I can already see your name disintegrating from my lips
 
I've got bullets, in the booth
Rather be your victim, than be with you
I got bullets, in the Boothe
Rather be your victim, than be with you
I'd rather be your victim, than to be with you
Rather be your victim, than be with you
 
- Third Day of a Seven Day Binge, Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
I see you in the dark
I see you all the way
I see you in the light
I see you plain as day
I wanna touch your face
I wanna touch your soul
I wanna wear your face
I wanna burn your soul
 
Watching - Bring me to my knees
waiting - I am your disease
Lover - set my symptom free
Covered - You can't love me
 
- The Virus of Life, Slipknot
 
~
 
I bear witness
To this place, this prayer, so long forgotten
So pure
So rare
To witness such an earthly goddess
 
That I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time
For one chance
One kiss
One taste of you my black Madonna
 
I'd sell
My soul
My self-esteem a dollar at a time
 
- Magdalena, A Perfect Circle
 
~
 
The days passed in a routine that was rapidly becoming familiar to Steve.
Having coffee with Bucky, driving to the studio, reading while the band worked,
driving home, having dinner in front of the television. It was all comfortable
and pleasant and Steve learned to live with the sour aftertaste that the
knowledge about Alexander Pierce had left on his tongue. Bucky had asked about
his next off day and glanced up sharply from his coffee mug when Steve told him
he was forfeiting the free time.
 
“Why?” Bucky asked, brows furrowing above his eyes.
“You’re the smart one,” Steve said, running his fingertips along the rim of his
House Lannister mug, “you know why.”
“Pierce?” Bucky asked, his eyes scanning Steve’s face, their intensity burning
over his skin.
Steve gave a short little nod, half expecting Bucky to laugh or call him an
idiot.
Instead, Bucky’s eyes clouded, his expression torn between confusion and hurt.
Before Steve could say anything further, Bucky left the kitchen to go get
dressed for the day, avoiding Steve’s eyes until they reached the studio.
 
Eventually the band finished the song for the movie soundtrack. The movie
studio arranged for the band to fly to Georgia to shoot the music video there,
on set, to get the feel of the movie just right. Bucky had chafed at the bit
when he realized the band had almost no control over the creative process for
the video, but had acquiesced after the director of the music video – who was
also a second AD on the movie – sent him the full storyline.
 
Steve had been a more than a little surprised when Bucky had asked him if he
was packed the night before they were to leave. He’d forgotten about the video
in all the drama of the break-in and Pierce.
He’d gone upstairs to pack, Bucky trailing behind him to sit on his bed and
give a little running commentary on which clothes he ought to bring.
“What do you have against my clothes?” Steve asked, exasperated as Bucky vetoed
everything except black band t-shirts.
“Nothing,” Bucky said, his smile a little impish. “It’s just our video
aesthetic.”
“Right,” Steve said, nodding along. It had entirely escaped him that there had
to be more Siberia music videos out there. He’d listened to their music, but
never bothered to explore any deeper.
Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, obviously following his train of thought.
“I’m not gonna be in the video,” Steve reminded him.
“The director is gonna take one look at you and put you in as an extra.”
“I’ll hide in a closet somewhere.”
“You’re no fun.”
Steve hadn’t heard the recurring little barb from Bucky in so long it almost
stung to realize how much he’d missed it.
 
As soon as they reached the film set, Steve and Sharon were shown to a row of
chairs while the band were hurried into a couple of trailers for hair and make-
up. Before taking a seat, Steve did a perimeter check, more to avoid one of the
young extras making eyes at Sharon than any real safety concerns. The film set
had more than enough security to make Steve’s presence redundant.
While waiting for the band to emerge, a young woman wearing a black leather
catsuit walked up to them, smiling brightly.
“Ms. Thompson,” Sharon said, getting to her feet, “it’s great to meet you.”
“Tessa, please,” the woman said, shaking hands with Sharon and Steve, who’d
also gotten to his feet.
“I’m Sharon, the band’s assistant,” Sharon introduced, “and this is Steve
Rogers, James’ bodyguard.”
The actress – who was playing one of the films leads – stayed to chat for a few
minutes before being called into make-up herself. She would feature in the
music video, Steve learned from Sharon as she checked something on her tablet.
Finally, the door of the first trailer opened and a man jumped down the steps.
He stalked toward where Steve and Sharon were waiting and Steve’s mouth went
dry when he realized the man, moving with a predatory grace, was Bucky. Bucky
wearing black boots, black cargo pants, a black t-shirt under a very real
looking black tac vest, his tattooed left hand curled loosely around the handle
of a knife, his hair falling in messy curtains around his face. Oh god, Steve
swallowed heavily, his face. His eyes were lined in kohl, making the blue
darker and even more intensely beautiful than usual. But it was the mask that
caught – and held – Steve’s attention. Covering his face from the bridge of his
nose down to his throat, the mask was made from a woven black metal, shaped to
perfectly fit the contours of Bucky’s cheekbones and jaw, it gave him a
dangerous, feral air that sent blood rushing from Steve’s head downwards. The
mask was a muzzle, made to keep a dangerous creature silent and obedient, and
Bucky was nothing if not dangerous.
His eyes fell on Steve, darkening as they took in whatever expression they saw
there. His lithe movements reminded Steve of a tiger he’d seen once in a game
reserve while on leave during his second tour. And if Bucky was the tiger,
Steve was his prey, caught helpless and terrified in his gaze.
He stood immobile as Bucky strode wordlessly past him, trying to get his
thoughts and heartbeat back under some semblance of control. It was Wade who
finally broke him from his daze, none too gently punching Steve’s shoulder to
get his attention.
“Dude, we’re filming over there,” Wade motioned with one hand, and Steve
realized he was wearing a red and black leather suit and a matching mask.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Okay.”
Wade laughed, shaking his head as Steve fell into step beside him. “Don’t
worry, Cap, Bucky in the full outfit has that effect on many a mere mortal.”
“The full outfit?” Steve questioned, hoping to God that he wasn’t blushing,
though the look on Wade’s face convinced him the hope was in vain.
“Yeah,” Wade responded. “The music video outfit.”
For the second time in as many days, Steve regretted not watching Siberia’s
videos earlier. “You have specific outfits for videos?”
“Yeah. Well, see, right when we started out, - for obvious reasons -  I wanted
the band to wear masks all the time, kinda like Slipknot. But Brock and Scott
didn’t want to, so as a compromise, it’s become tradition to wear them for
music videos.”
“Obvious reasons?” Steve questioned, realized his mistake a split second too
late when Wade turned his head, his discomfort evident despite the mask and
suit.
“Not a fan of showing off my ugly mug,” Wade said, the levity in his tone at
odds with the tension in his shoulders and his clenched fists.
“You’re not ugly, Wade,” Steve said, but Wade just gave a little grunt and sped
up his steps as they neared the band, Sharon, the director and Tessa.
The rest of the band were wearing masks too – Scott’s was a silver helmet, the
compound eyepieces and little antennas giving it an insect-like quality.
Rumlow’s was molded and black, with crossbones painted on in white. Rollins’
mask was a cast of his face, with no eyelids or lips, much creepier than any of
the rest.
The set seemed to be an interrogation room, brightly lit with futuristic
looking screens lining one wall, with little markers to show where CGI will be
used to insert the images on them. In the center of the floor was a chrome
chair with a black leather seat and black leather straps around the armrests.
Steve stayed on the sidelines with Sharon, while the director showed Tessa
where to stand and showed Bucky where she would push him backward into the
chair. Bucky quietly asked something, his eyes taking on that strange blank
look as the director nodded and tugged at one of the arm straps on the chair.
Somewhere the new Siberia song started playing and Tessa and Bucky let the
director guide them through their moves. The scene was simple enough, Bucky
strapped into the chair,
while Tessa, in character as the futuristic intelligence operative,
interrogated him, interspersed with the band members appearing over Bucky’s
shoulders in a devil-and-angel manner.
They ran through the sequence several times with different camera angles, the
director especially fond of a take where Tessa grabbed Bucky’s hair to force
his head back. It looked amazing, Steve had to concede. Even with most of
Bucky’s face obscured, he was able to emote with just his eyes, portraying
defiance and desire in a way that had Steve’s already frayed nerves sparking
with want.
The second sequence had the band performing while Tessa lounged in the
interrogation chair. It took a while to set up the band’s equipment, and Steve
watched while Bucky removed his mask to drink the coffee an assistant handed
him while he laughed at something Tessa was saying. They were talking
animatedly, and from the snatches Steve could hear, Bucky was regaling her with
tour stories.
They looked ridiculously good together, Steve had to concede, even though it
left a bitter taste on his tongue. He made half-formed plans for disappearing
from their hotel room if Bucky invited her to spend the night.
His phone vibrating in his pocket distracted him and he pulled it out, smiling
as he read Sam’s name on the caller ID.
“Hey, man,” Steve answered, walking backwards a few paces for privacy while
still keeping an eye on Bucky.
“Hey, is this a bad time?” Sam asked.
“No, it’s fine. Is everything okay?”
“Except for the fact that you stood me up for the game, everything’s peachy.”
“Oh, shit,” Steve breathed, “I forgot. I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m working and it
just slipped my mind. I’m an asshole.”
“Just a little bit. Why are you working? It’s supposed to be your off weekend.”
“Something came up,” Steve hedged. “I couldn’t take off.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“I can’t, but thanks, Sam. I owe you.”
“You’re damn right. I should make you do the dishes for the next decade. And
buy me jewelry.”
Steve gave a little snort of laughter that made Bucky’s gaze fly to him. Steve
looked away, but couldn’t stop himself smiling.
“Sure thing, babycakes,” he told Sam, “anything for you.”
“You’re the worst,” Sam grumbled.
“I love you too, puddin’,” Steve told him with a grin before ending the call.
By instinct, Steve looked in Bucky’s direction again and realized the other man
had put the mask back on, a scowl darkening his eyes above the black metal.
The crew had finished the setup and Steve watched the band pretend to perform
the song over and over again. The band all moved, only Bucky stayed unnaturally
still, the microphone dangling from his tattooed hand the way the knife had
done earlier.
It was a disturbing image, hearing Bucky’s voice screaming from the speakers
even though he was motionless and muzzled.
 
After the shoot, back at their hotel, Bucky wordlessly grabbed a bottle of
bourbon and locked himself in his bedroom. The silence stretched between them
all the way back to New York, in the car back to Bucky’s house and through his
front door.
Steve held out until he was halfway up the stairs on Bucky’s heels, before
breaking the silence.
“Bucky,” he started, and nearly collided with the other man as he came to a
dead stop in front of Steve, spinning on his heel so fast Steve had to press
his palm flat against the wall to keep his footing one stair below Bucky, who
still had eyeliner from the day before smudged around his sad, baleful eyes.
Steve started to speak but was cut off as Bucky grabbed his face with strong,
cool hands and pressed his lips against Steve’s. The kiss was hard and angry
and Bucky stepped forward, pressing Steve back against the wall as his tongue
pressed past Steve’s lips. Steve raised one hand to grip the back of Bucky’s
neck, breathing him in like a dying man desperate for air. Then Bucky staggered
back, his lips red and wet, his eyes wide. Terrified.
“Get out,” Bucky breathed, one hand coming up to scrub at his lips as though he
wanted the taste of Steve’s mouth gone. “Get the fuck out of my house, right
now.”
***** You Keep This Love, Thing, Love, Child, Love, Toy *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from This Love by Pantera.
     Sorry for deleting all the lovely comments along with the Serenity_of
     Suffering non-chapter, I read each one, promise.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Flesh wound, flesh wound
With medication it will fade
Should I assume
That someone hears me when I pray?
 
Love, full of hate
Don't you love how I break?
 
Don't let them throw me away
Keep me and I'll be okay
Skipping a beat but it plays
Don't let them throw me away
Don't let them throw me away
 
Screwed up, used up
Crumpled, lying on the floor
Fucked up, shut up
All you did back then was score
 
I'm feeling weak
Missing parts, incomplete
 
Hold me up into the light
Fix the cracks and fix them right
Keep the pieces in the drawer
Keep them there forever more
May come in useful some day
Recycle this shit in some way
And all that I have to say
Don't let them throw me away
 
- Throw Me Away, Korn
 
~
 
Steve turned on his heel, blindly striding down the stairs and out the front
door, not stopping until he had one leg thrown over his Harley. He paused and
sat down heavily, lowering his face into his hands. For one second he let
himself dwell on the kiss. On how right Bucky’s cool hands and warm lips had
felt against his skin. On how his blood had seemed to ignite in his veins.
Steve shook his head, forcing himself to shove down the memory and focus on the
present. Bucky’s voice, telling him to get out, echoed icily in his head, and
he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“Nick,” Steve started as his boss answered the call, “Mr Barnes and I had an
altercation. I think you need to prep someone to replace me.”
“An altercation?”
“Yes,” Steve said, unwilling to give details. “I’m gonna pack up now, how long
until you can get someone here?”
“One hour,” Nick said, his voice not betraying if he was annoyed at the
upheaval.
“Alright,” Steve replied, looking up at Bucky’s brownstone as he ended the
call. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and got off his bike.
He made his way back inside the house, half expecting Bucky to still be
standing on the stairs, glaring at him, but the way was clear. He slowly
climbed up, trying to make his steps as soundless as Bucky’s always were.
Bucky’s bedroom door was ajar, and Steve took a deep breath. If he was being
honest with himself, he didn’t want to face Bucky. Didn’t want a repeat of the
last words the man had spat at him.
Weak,his brain supplied, coward.
Steve knocked lightly on the door, then stepped into the doorway without
waiting for an answer.
It was the first time Steve had ever been in Bucky’s room. It was done in
shades of black and dark blue, more of Darcy’s art on the walls. Bucky was
sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, the black sheets and wrought-iron
bedframe making his skin look sallow and pale. A wooden box sat next to him,
its lid askew. He was holding a filled syringe loosely in his fingers.
“I called Shield. My replacement will be here in an hour,” Steve said quietly,
doing his best to keep his voice level and professional.
Bucky didn’t look up. He flicked his wrist and threw the syringe at the wall,
hard enough for the needle to snap off.
Steve started to pull back, but Bucky’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“When I was almost fifteen, I ran away from home.” Bucky got to his feet, still
not looking at Steve and opened the door to the walk-in closet. Steve heard him
rummage around, but didn’t move to see what he was doing. Bucky’s voice
drifted, slightly muffled, from inside. “I didn’t really think about the
practical aspects of living on the streets. I had about twelve dollars in my
pocket, which ran out as quickly as you’d expect.”
Bucky came back out of the closet, carrying a thick brown folder. “About a week
in, just after sunset, I was walking down the street, looking for somewhere to
sleep, when this guy stopped his car next to me. He leaned out, gave me this
smile, and offered me ten bucks and a bottle of whiskey for a blowjob. I didn’t
even think twice. Easy money, I figured. About a month later, these two Russian
guys pick me up, offer me vodka before we got started. I remember thinking,
maybe they know it’s my birthday. So I drink it, and five minutes later, things
go black.”
Bucky held out the folder to Steve, not meeting his eyes. Steve took it,
hesitantly.
“It’s…” Bucky scratched at his arm. “I don’t want a different bodyguard.”
“Bucky,” Steve said, “you told me to go, so I’m going.”
“Please don’t,” Bucky breathed. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Damnit, Bucky!” Steve snapped, and Bucky flinched. “How many times is this?
I’m sick of trying to keep up with what you want, when you keep changing your
mind at the drop of a hat.”
Bucky bit his lip, looking at Steve for the first time. “I don’t want a
different bodyguard.”
Steve ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the short strands. “And if
something else happens tomorrow, or the day after? Are we going to do this
again?”
“I don’t want a different bodyguard,” Bucky repeated, almost angrily. “Call
Shield, then read the file. It’s not pretty, though.”
Bucky turned back to the bed, letting his fingers skim over the lid of the box.
Steve had a pretty good idea what was inside it, so he stayed put as he pulled
out his phone to call Nick. This time his boss let his annoyance show clearly
as Steve explained that he’ll be staying with Bucky, but underneath the
muttered curses, Steve could hear the concern in Nick’s voice, too.
Bucky sat back down on his bed, closing the box and shoving it under the bed.
Steve looked down at the folder in his hands. He didn’t want to think about
Bucky’s story, about the matter-of-fact way he’d told it. His thoughts skirted
painfully around the edges of the terrible knowledge.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Bucky pick up a battered paperback book from
his bedside table and open it somewhere in the middle.
Steve moved to the end of Bucky’s bed and sat down on the edge, his back to
Bucky. He opened the folder. Everything seemed to be in Cyrillic, with English
translations. The first page had the most basic information. James Buchanan
Barnes, born 1982 in Brooklyn, New York. Brown hair, blue eyes. Small birthmark
on his thigh.
The next few pages contained a psychological evaluation. INTJ personality type.
Signs of depression. History of drug abuse. History of trauma. Highly
intelligent. Acquiescent. It was dated the second of May, 2000. After the psych
evaluation, there was another report, this one titled ‘Recruitment details’.
Words jumped out at Steve and he had to close his eyes for a second to regain
control of himself. Behind him, he heard Bucky turn the page of his book.
Barnes found working as a prostitute in an establishment with ties to the
Bratva. Heroin addiction. Aptitude for languages. Skilled at reading body
language and facial expressions. Untrained.
Pages detailing in clinical terms the story Bucky had told him weeks ago, about
how he’d been working for the Bratva, about how a SVR agent had recruited him.
Bucky had been fifteen when he was trafficked to Moscow. Had been forced into
prostitution and addiction by the Bratva, for three years. He’d been eighteen
when the SVR had found him and forced him into a different form of
prostitution. Gathering intel on suspected enemies of the Russian Federation by
seducing them. The file listed heavily redacted overviews of Bucky’s missions,
ending with the one that ended his career for the SVR.
Steve closed the folder and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were
burning, a lump heavy in his throat. He hadn’t cried since his mom had died,
not even when he’d lost his unit. But now he forced back tears.
Bucky – beautiful, kind, talented, smart, funny Bucky – had lived through all
of that. Years of what amounts to rape, years of being used, only to be back in
the same situation with Pierce.
“I told you it’s not pretty,” Bucky’s voice came from behind him, much closer
that he expected. He hadn’t even felt the bed shift under Bucky’s weight.
“I had no idea,” Steve said, his voice a little too scratchy. He cleared his
throat.
“No one does,” Bucky murmured. “I’ve never even told Wade about it.”
“Why tell me?”
“You deserve to know,” Bucky answered. “I didn’t mean to kiss you, didn’t mean
to soil you like that.”
Steve turned, his eyes going wide. Bucky’s face was sad and resigned, inches
from his. “Soil me?”
“You’re good. Pure. All I’ve ever been is unclean.”
“Bucky,” Steve started, “you’re not – “
“Don’t,” Bucky cut him off, reaching over the take the folder from Steve’s numb
fingers, carefully not touching his skin. “Is pizza okay for dinner?”
The subject change threw Steve, but he nodded anyway. He was grateful that
Bucky had been so honest with him, even if every part of Steve ached for
Bucky’s pain. “Pizza’s good.”
Bucky got to his feet and stooped to pick up the syringe he’d thrown against
the wall. He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open so Steve could see
him empty the heroin into the sink and run the cold water until it all washed
away.
 
They ate pizza while watching Pacific Rim. It was nice, almost normal, and if
Steve kept his attention focused on monsters and robots duking it out and on
how Bucky pulled all the pepperoni off his slice and stuffed it in his mouth
before eating the rest, he could almost forget about what Bucky had shared with
him. Almost. He’d been just a kid,Steve thought, feeling a little sick. Just a
kid, accepting money from strangers for sex. Just a kid, addicted to heroin.
Just a kid, trafficked, enslaved.
Hallway through the movie, Steve set his half-eaten pizza aside, unable to take
another bite with the way his stomach was churning.
He wanted to turn to Bucky, pull him into a hug, kiss his forehead, tell him
that he was a lot of things, but uncleanwasn’t one of them. Instead he folded
his arms, pressing his hands into his armpits to hide the way they trembled.
Bucky gave him a sidelong glance, before returning his attention the movie. It
was a long evening, and Steve claimed exhaustion before the credits even
started rolling, escaping to his room.
He set a pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt on the bed, before shutting himself
in the bathroom to take a shower. Once under the warm fall of water, Steve bit
into his fist to muffle a sob. He sank down to his knees and let the tears
come.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I'm so sorry. I'll try to make the next one a little fluffier.
***** You Keep This Love, Fist, Love, Scar, Love, Break *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from This Love by Pantera.
     Two chapters in one day?! It's a Christmas miracle!
     This one's short, but it's fluffy, so it balances out.
     Just a side-note. The song I use, Carry Me, holds a lot of really
     painful memories for me, and I haven't listened to it in years. Using
     it now is shockingly cathartic. So, yeah, anyway...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I've been looking for something sacred
Running away from the light.
Gotta burn all the bridges in my head
That lead me away from my life.
I question my own existence,
Question the meaning of life.
 
Why don't you carry me?
Why don't you carry me?
I can't move on
I can't live on
Carry me
Why don't you carry me?
I can't save me
I am crazy
 
Without you...
 
It takes horns to hold up my halo
And strength to get through the fight
Now I'm laying my cards on the table
Praying everything will be alright
I question my own existence
Question the meaning of life.
 
The hardest ones to love
Are the ones that need it most
 
- Carry Me, Papa Roach
 
~
 
The next day, Bucky refused to talk about the what he’d revealed to Steve,
shutting down and changing the subject when Steve tried to bring it up. Bucky
went back to complaining about Steve’s wardrobe and making him watch teen
movies from the nineties, the only sign that anything had changed the way Bucky
avoided physical contact at all times. He’d never been overly touchy-feely, but
Steve missed the occasional nudge to the shoulder and pat on the back. The days
passed in boredom in the studio and trying to figure out why Bucky stopped
singing in the shower. The next Thursday, Bucky leveled Steve with a hesitant
look.
“Are you taking this weekend off, like you’re supposed to?”
“No,” Steve said evenly. “Why?”
“There’s a thing this Saturday,” Bucky said, vaguely gesturing with one hand.
“What thing?” Steve asked, a little apprehensively.
“The midnight release party for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child,” Bucky said
with a grin.
 
Which was how Steve found himself at a bookstore at eleven PM on a Saturday
night, wearing a red shirt with a varsity-like slogan proclaiming him to be a
keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, while Bucky stood next to him,
bouncing in excitement like a six-year old. Steve had to admit that Bucky
looked ridiculously sexy in a skin-tight midnight blue shirt with the Ravenclaw
house crest on it in bronze and black skinny jeans that left absolutely nothing
to the imagination.
“I feel like a chaperone at a kid’s birthday party,” Steve grumbled. “A nerdy
kid.”
“You’re no fun,” Bucky told him. “And if you keep complaining I’ll draw a
lightning bolt on your forehead in permanent marker.”
“Idle threats,” Steve said snootily.
“Complimentary Butterbeer?” A voice to Steve’s right said, and he realized
they’d ambled over to the refreshment table.
A kid with green and black hair, wearing a green and pink sweater vest – whose
nametag read Alex – held out two paper cups to Steve.
“Yeah, thanks,” Steve gave the kid a little smile as he took the cups and
passed one to Bucky.
They stepped away from the table to make room for other people to receive their
own Butterbeers.
“Hey, did you ever actually read the Harry Potter book I bought you?”
“Yes, I did,” Steve answered, “in fact I’m about halfway through Deathly
Hallows.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I haven’t seen you read them.”
“I bought the e-books,” Steve admitted.
“Eugh,” Bucky’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Look, Kindles are convenient and
all, but some things need to be experienced on paper. Come on.”
He led Steve over to the wall-length Harry Potter display and lifted down a
boxed set of the entire series, which he dumped in Steve’s free hand.
“I already have the first book,” Steve reminded him.
“You have the proper Philosopher’s Stone; this set has the Americanized
Sorcerer’s Stone.” He dumped another boxed set on top of the other one, this
one small and labelled ‘The Hogwarts Library’.
“Right,” Steve mumbled and took a sip of his drink. And immediately coughed and
pulled a face.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, taking a sip of his own and smiling in
contentment.
“This stuff is all sugar. It’s gross.”
“You have no appreciation for the finer things, Stevie.”
Steve pressed his cup into Bucky’s free hand. “There, you can appreciate it on
my behalf.”
Bucky shrugged and grinned, taking alternating sips from both cups as they took
a circular route back to the table piled high with Harry Potter inspired
snacks.
“Cauldron Cake?” Bucky asked.
“Too much chocolate,” Steve shook his head. “I don’t have a sweet tooth like
you.”
“Pumpkin Pasty? Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean? Chocolate Frog?”
“Doesn’t the Wizarding World have any savory snacks?”
Bucky frowned, taking the question more seriously than Steve intended. “They
mention potato chips, I think. At least have a rock cake.”
Steve held out his hand and Bucky dropped a lumpy cookie into his palm without
touching him. Steve bit into it, grateful that these, unlike Hagrid’s, were
actually edible.
“Oh my god, you’re James Barnes!” a high-pitched voice said from behind them.
Bucky looked up from his handful of jelly beans to smile at the teenage girl
wearing a full Hermione cosplay. “I love your music! My brother does, too. He’s
gonna regret saying Harry Potter is for kids so much, now.”
“You can tell him I said Harry Potter transcends age,” Bucky told her. “I love
the cosplay.”
“Thanks! Uhm… can I maybe… get a picture with you?”
“Of course,” Bucky smiled, then looked at Steve. “Steve, would you…?”
“Yeah,” Steve said, setting down his boxed sets and taking the girls phone to
snap the picture.
Steve smiled as the girl left. “I thought that would happen more often,” he
wondered aloud.
“Getting recognized? Nah, this side of all the radio drivel, fame is completely
relative.” He stuck a jelly bean in his mouth, and immediately gagged,
swallowing with some difficulty. “Soap flavor. Ick.”
Finally, midnight arrived and Bucky got two copies of Cursed Child, paying for
them and Steve’s boxed sets, despite Steve’s protest that he could do it
himself.
“This isn’t a date, I can pay for my own stuff,” Steve said, and immediately
regretted it as Bucky’s expression became closed-off.
“I’m aware, Steve,” he snapped, shoving the shopping bags into Steve’s arms,
and turning to stride away to the exit. Steve cursed under his breath and
hurried to catch up with him outside.
“Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Bucky mumbled, speeding up.
“Damnit, Buck, slow down.”
Bucky ducked his head and continued walking, turning into a dark side-street.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” Steve huffed out, adjusting the bags he
was carrying.
“Away from you.”
Steve stopped dead in his tracks. “Okay, you know what, you’re being a brat.
I’m not doing this again. Stop acting like a petulant child.”
Bucky turned on his heel. “A petulant child?”
“Yeah. Pierce may find it cute, but I don’t.”
Bucky’s eyes widened in shock and Steve realized he’d hit a nerve.
“It turns him on, you know,” Bucky stated, schooling his voice and expression
back into flat, matter-of-factness. “He likes me acting like a bratty kid. He
also likes it when I call him ‘sir’ while he fucks- “
“Enough,” Steve cut him off. Bucky’s words just stirred up the anger still
simmering beneath Steve’s skin.
“He wanted me to spend the weekend at his place. He was pissed when I told him
I was going to be here. He’ll find some excuse to force you to take time off.”
“He can try,” Steve said, the words almost a snarl.
“You take your job much too seriously.”
“This isn’t about my job,” Steve said carelessly. “I’m not letting that bastard
lay his hands on you again.”
Bucky’s lips parted, his eyes a little too bright. He walked past Steve, back
to the main road. “I’ll call an Uber.”
They made it back to Bucky’s house in silence. Steve went to the living room to
set down the books on the couch while Bucky filled the kettle and made tea.
Steve perched on a stool and sipped the hot liquid while petting Fred, who’d
trotted up the counter.
With his mug empty, Steve stood up and moved toward the stairs.
“Hey, Steve?” Bucky’s voice called him back. “For what it’s worth, thank you.”
Steve gave a crooked smile, and said half-jokingly; “if I try to hug you, are
you gonna punch me again?”
Bucky made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, stepping forward and
throwing his arms around Steve’s neck. Steve let his own arms wind around
Bucky’s waist as the other man buried his face against his neck, breath
scorching on Steve’s skin. They stayed like that for a long moment, as Steve
breathed in Bucky’s scent, soap and shampoo and something warm that was wholly
Bucky.
The moment was broken by Fred hooking her claws into Steve’s leg with an angry
yowl.
“Ow, fuck!” Steve exclaimed, reluctantly pulling away from Bucky to glare at
the cat. “What’d you do that for?”
In reply, Fred walked to her empty food bowl and gave the two men a pointed
glare.
They looked at the cat, then at each other, and both burst out laughing.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Fred's fucking awesome. My own cat, aptly named Lucifer, is evil in
     many similar ways.
     Also, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child came out on the 31st of July
     2016, just so you're all okay with the timeline of this fic. Steve's
     under contract to be Bucky's bodyguard until after Ozzfest meets
     Knotfest 2016, which was in September.
***** Grow Your Hair And Crawl Inside Yourself *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Hellhound by Pantera.
     I know I haven't replied to comments in a while, sorry. I read them
     all and I love everyone who took the time to leave one, replies are
     coming soon, promise.
     How was everyone's Chrismas/other holiday? Mine was okay. There were
     no screaming matches about religion, so I'll count that as a win.
     The news about Carrie Fisher really got to me today. She was such a
     strong and amazing person and she'll be missed by so many. This year
     has just taken so fucking much and I can't wait for it to just be
     over already.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Hello,
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone at home?
 
Come on now
I hear you're feeling down
Well, I can ease your pain
And get you on your feet again
 
Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts?
 
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb
 
I have become comfortably numb
 
O.K.
Just a little pin prick
There'll be no more…
But you may feel a little sick
 
Can you stand up?
I do believe it's working, good
That'll keep you going through the show
Come on, it's time to go.
 
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb.
 
- Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd
 
~
 
“Who’s this?”
Steve froze in his tracks in the doorway of his bathroom, thanking his lucky
stars that he’d put a pair of sweatpants on after his shower instead of just
wrapping the towel around his waist as he usually did.
Bucky was sitting on his bed, holding up Steve’s sketchbook, open to a page
depicting the likeness of a beautiful dark-haired woman.
“Why are you in my room?” Steve retorted, moving to the closet to get clothes
for the day.
“I kinda own the house,” Bucky said flippantly, with a small smirk at the
corner of his mouth.
Steve rolled his eyes even though he had his back to Bucky, rummaging for
underwear. “So that makes snooping okay?”
“The book was already open.”
“On a blank page.” Because, before his shower, Steve had carefully removed the
sketches he’d done of Bucky and stowed them in a folder in his suitcase. All
except one, the first one, where’d he’d drawn Bucky on stage in Prague.
“I was curious,” Bucky defended, as Steve returned to the bed with a bundle of
clothes in his arms.
“Uh huh,” Steve said with a raised eyebrow.
“So who is she? You draw her over and over.”
Steve sighed, sitting down on the opposite end of the bed from where Bucky was
lounging. “Her name was Peggy. She was an exchange student from England in our
senior year of high school and we became good friends. After that she joined
the RAF. My unit and hers had a couple of missions together during my second
tour. She was killed in action about a year later.”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly. “You loved her?”
“If I were straight,” Steve said with a shrug and a rueful smile that Bucky
couldn’t see, “I’d probably have wanted to marry her.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve heard paper rustling as Bucky paged
through the sketchbook again.
“You drew me,” Bucky said, even more quietly.
Steve nodded, looking over his shoulder. “Does it bother you?”
“No,” Bucky said, lightly running the tip of his finger over the edge of the
page. “I don’t look like that though.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Steve said, “I drew that back when we were in Russia, I was
really out of practice.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky pulled himself to his feet and walked toward
the door. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”
“Out where?” Steve called after him. It was Sunday, they didn’t need to go to
the studio.
“To a movie, and lunch,” Bucky threw over his shoulder.
 
They watched Suicide Squad, and Bucky grumbled all the way out of the theatre,
dumping his empty popcorn container angrily into the nearest trashcan and
taking grumpy slurps of his blue slushy in between complaints about the movie.
Steve listened in fascination, his only contribution – “I kinda liked it” – met
with a huff and an eye-roll.
They turned into a small, hipster-filled restaurant and snagged a corner table.
The burgers were good and talk about movies lasted them through the meal.
Bucky looked a tiny bit impressed when Steve confessed his favorite movie was
The Wizard of Oz, though he immediately groaned when Steve followed that up by
mentioning the crush he’d had on the Tin Man. Bucky stayed true to his nerdy
nature by expounding the virtues of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which lasted them
most of the way back home.
It was a peaceful day, and Steve let himself relish it, curling up on the couch
next to Bucky with a copy of Seven Deadly Sins by Corey Taylor, a
recommendation Bucky had made in preparation for meeting the man himself at
Ozzfest Meets Knotfest the following month. Bucky looked up from his own book,
something in German with a spaceship on the cover.
“Hey, Steve,” he said slowly, a small crease between his eyebrows.
“Yes, Bucky?” Steve replied when Bucky stayed quiet.
“Design me tattoo.”
“I… what?”
“A tattoo,” Bucky said, turning to face Steve, one leg folded under his body,
the movement bring him very close. “A sleeve, for my right arm. I’ve been
wanting to do it for ages, I just haven’t been able to find the right artist.”
Steve blinked in surprise. “I’m no artist, Buck.”
“Bullshit,” Bucky said easily. “C’mon, Steve, please?”
“I know almost nothing about tattoo design,” Steve hedged.
“You draw a picture,” Bucky answered, “simple as that.”
“What picture?”
Bucky shrugged. “Something organic, to go with the mechanic elements on my left
arm.”
“Something organic?” Steve repeated weakly.
“Yup,” Bucky nodded with a pleased grin and returned his attention to his book.
Steve stared at Bucky, his mind rolling over the word organicand what it meant.
Something alive, Steve thought, as alive and vital as Bucky himself was, and
without meaning to, Steve could see lines and pictures form behind his eyelids.
The evening was a lazy one, and Bucky put on The Fifth Element after dinner,
while Steve tried to continue reading his book and tried to resist the urge to
get up and fetch his sketchbook from upstairs. The idea of Bucky wearing
Steve’s art under his skin was unnerving and Steve was sure that Bucky would
immediately laugh off the idea of actually getting the tattoo once he saw
whatever Steve ended up drawing. That trepidation lasted all the way to his
bedroom later that night, where with a deep breath, he opened the sketchbook to
a blank page and picked up a pencil. Eyes,Steve’s mind whispered, a beating
heart. Blood and bone. Warmth.Bucky’s warmth, when they’d hugged in his kitchen
a week previous. Bucky’s heat, when he’d pressed Steve back against the wall
and kissed him. Steve put pencil to paper and let his mind wander on those
memories as he drew, quick lines forming across the page.
He didn’t go to sleep until the sun peeked in through the blinds over the
window, and groaned into his pillow when Bucky pounded on his door two hours
later to call him down to breakfast before they had to go to the studio.
 
Alexander Pierce was waiting for them when they entered the studio, sitting on
a stool next to Roland. He was obviously in a foul mood, and Steve wondered if
it was due to Bucky denying him for two consecutive weekends. For most of the
morning the band were treated to his criticism of their new material and his
complaints that the recording process was taking too long, even though their
predicted completion date was mid-October.
Bucky got the worst of it as Pierce sneered at his lyrics, calling them stunted
and childish. The color drained from Bucky’s face, but he stayed quiet, staring
expressionlessly at the wall, his body going completely still. Steve clenched
his fists behind his back to resist the urge to punch Pierce in the face. The
rest of the day was spent in tense agitation, the band tiptoeing around both
Pierce and Bucky. At some point mid-morning, while Pierce was talking at Bucky
in an angry aside, Wade gripped Steve’s shoulder, the touch grounding Steve,
who’d been on the point of stepping between them.
“Relax,” Wade said quietly, “read your book. Bucky won’t thank you for fighting
battles he can win on his own.”
Steve nodded, the unexpected wisdom calming the turmoil of his thoughts. He sat
on his usual stool in the corner, and pulled out his book. After lunch, Pierce
left, and the entire studio seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Bucky stayed
unusually reticent until they arrived at his house that evening. Once inside
the door, Bucky let out what sounded like a growl and, before Steve could stop
him, spun around and punched the wall between the hall and kitchen. As he
pulled back for a second swing, Steve grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” Steve got out between clenched teeth as Bucky struggled against him.
“Fuck you,” Bucky spat, swinging his left fist at Steve’s jaw, but Steve neatly
sidestepped the blow, twisting Bucky’s arm up between his shoulder blades.
“Buck, you need to calm down,” Steve said evenly, and felt the fight drain from
Bucky’s body.
“Sorry,” Bucky said sheepishly as Steve let him go. “I just… I’m sorry, Steve.”
“It’s okay. Let me look at your hand.”
“My hand’s fine,” Bucky told him, holding it up so Steve could see the slight
reddening across his knuckles.
“The wall punching may not be your worst habit, but you really need to unlearn
it, Buck.”
“What’s my worst habit?”
“Slurping your coffee,” Steve said without missing a beat, not in the mood for
another discussion of Bucky’s drug use. Although, now Steve thought about it,
he couldn’t recall the last time he’d noticed Bucky get high.
“Well, you talk with your mouth full,” Bucky defended mock-petulantly.
“I do not!” Steve put his hand to his heart, trying for an offended expression.
“Speaking of, are you gonna make dinner tonight?”
“I… yeah, sure,” Steve said, a little surprised. Bucky had refused all his
earlier offers of cooking.
Bucky sat at on a stool, watching as Steve grilled steaks and fried potatoes
and chopped vegetables for salad. He asked careful questions about Steve’s
childhood and military days. Steve answered them as openly as he could while
avoiding the more painful memories. Bucky listened to Steve’s answers, nodding
and prodding for more information between sips of orange soda. Steve paused
mid-anecdote to look at the glass in Bucky’s hand. He usually had a couple of
beers or vodka when they got home from the studio. Now Steve thought about it,
he was sure he hadn’t seen Bucky drink anything alcoholic for more than a week.
Instead of calling attention to it, however, Steve just continued his story of
the time he and Gabe had gotten stuck up a tree in the middle of a firefight in
hostile territory, waving a paring knife for emphasis and feeling a warm bubble
in his stomach as Bucky chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
 
They ate while watching Natural Born Killers, and Bucky let out a surprised
yelp, a huge grin on his face as Steve quoted most of the movie.
“You’ve actually seen this?!”
Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky’s shocked expression. “Oliver Stone and Woody
Harrelson? How could I not?”
“You hadn’t seen Star Wars, what was I supposed to think?”
“Fair point.”
After the movie, Bucky went up to the studio and Steve sat on his bed, pulling
out his sketchbook again. He listened to the music filtering through the half-
open studio door to his bedroom and continued his design for Bucky’s tattoo.
The scratch of pencil on paper lasted long after Bucky’s bedroom door closed
with a soft clickand it was again near dawn when Steve collapsed face-first
into his pillow, still fully clothed.
His dreams were quiet, peaceful. He and Bucky were sitting on soft grass near
the base of a large tree, the sky overcast, but no rain falling yet. Bucky was
reading, head bent over a hardcover tome so that soft strands of hair fell
forward across his cheeks. Whatever was written on the yellowed pages was
making Bucky smile his crinkly-eyed smile and Steve breathed a contented sigh
as he watched him.
 
Chapter End Notes
     There's a Bucky chapter here for those who haven't read it yet.
     Love you guys, never forget that you are important and appreciated...
***** I've Paid The Masters With Blood And Hunger *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Hellhound by Pantera.
     Uh, so this chapter is huge (about double the length of the other
     chapters) and it's written in a weird non-linear way, and I'm not
     sure if I like it. Oh, well.
     Uhm, hey, it's 2017, yay! Happy not-2016-anymore-thank-god to you
     all!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It seems like every day’s the same
and I’m left to discover on my own
It seems like everything is gray
and there’s no color to behold
They say it’s over and I’m fine again, yeah
Try to stay sober feels like I’m dying here
 
And I am aware now of how
everything’s gonna be fine one day
Too late, I’m in hell I am prepared now,
seems everyone’s gonna be fine
One day too late, just as well
 
I feel the dream in me expire
and there’s no one left to blame it on
I hear you label me a liar
‘cause I can’t seem to get this through
You say it’s over, I can sigh again, yeah
Why try to stay sober when I’m dying here
 
- Fine Again, Seether
 
~
 
You and I are underdosed and we're ready to fall
Raised to be stupid, taught to be nothing at all
I don't like the drugs but the drugs like me
I don't like the drugs, the drugs, the drugs
 
There's a hole in our soul, that we fill with dope. And we're feeling fine.
 
- I Don’t Like the Drugs (But the Drugs Like Me), Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
Jesus, won't you fucking whistle
Something but the past is done?
Jesus, won't you fucking whistle
Something but the past is done?
 
I am just a worthless liar.
I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you.
Trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you.
I will chew it up and leave,
I will work to elevate you
Just enough to bring you down.
 
Mother Mary won't you whisper
Something but the past is done.
Mother Mary won't you whisper
Something but the past is done.
 
Why can't we not be sober?
Just want to start this over.
Why can't we sleep forever.
I just want to start this over.
 
- Sober, Tool
 
~
 
Slow and
Everybody wants you
So
Slow and
Everybody wants your soul
 
Give me what I could never ask for
connect me and you could be my chemical now
 
Give me the drug you know I'm after
Connect me and you could be the chemical
 
You could be the chemical
 
- Slow Chemical, Finger Eleven
 
~
 
“Steve, wake up,” Bucky’s voice filtered down to wake Steve from a dreamless
sleep, “we’re landing soon.”
Steve nodded, bringing up one hand to rub sleep from his eyes so that he could
look out at the sun drenched landscape of California through the small airplane
window. His shoulders and back were cramped despite the first class seats where
he and Siberia were sitting. Next to him, Bucky tucked a battered paperback
into the black knapsack he’d carried on board.
Steve leaned forward, trying to stretch out a kink in his lower back. It wasn’t
very successful, and he sat back with a stifled groan to put on his seatbelt.
The flight hadn’t been long, but it had been one of the most uncomfortable of
Steve’s life.
He thought back to the last six weeks and bit back a sigh.
 
“Steve, c’mon, you’re already missing his actual birthday, now you wanna bail
on this too?”
“Sam will understand,” Steve said, handing Bucky a mug of coffee.
“It’s one day!” Bucky spread his hands in exasperation. “What do you think will
happen? Is Pierce gonna corner me in some dark corner of the studio?”
“No, but he might follow you home.”
Bucky’s shoulder’s hunched. “Sam is your best friend, you said so yourself.”
“Yeah, and he’ll understand if I have to miss one lunch,” Steve reasoned.
“That’s the point,” Bucky insisted, “you don’t haveto miss it!”
Steve groaned. They’d been going back and forth on the issue of Sam’s very
early birthday lunch ever since Bucky had walked in on his phone call to Steve
that morning.
“Buck, I told you, I’m not leaving you alone.” Steve’s voice held a note of
finality.
Bucky glowered, taking a gulp of coffee. In the silence, Steve took a sip of
his own, leaning forward on his elbows where he was standing at the kitchen
counter. It sucked that he had to bail on Sam, but Bucky had been denying
Pierce with flimsier and flimsier excuses for weeks now and the older man was
not taking it well.
“Steve,” Bucky started, holding out one hand, palm out, in a gesture to show he
was being reasonable, “how about a compromise?”
“What compromise?”
“How ‘bout, you take the day off, but come back here after we finish in the
studio?”
Steve considered for a moment. “Fine. But I drop you off at the studio and pick
you up.”
“I can drive myself, Steve,” Bucky rolled his eyes.
“I know,” Steve told him, “but you wanted to compromise.”
“Okay, fine, you can drop me off,butafter the studio, since it’s technically
your day off, you have to come out for a drink.”
“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky held up one finger.
“Compromise, Stevie. Now go tell Sam the good news.”
 
The plane touched down smoothly on the tarmac, and Steve stood, following Bucky
out of the plane. The sun was beating down mercilessly, belying the fact that
it was fall, and Steve shoved a pair of sunglasses onto his nose one-handed,
shouldering his duffel bag with the other. The band trooped into a van, the air
conditioner turned up as cold as it could go. Steve sat between Bucky and
Scott, and did his best to ignore the way Bucky’s tattooed arm brushed against
his in the confines of the vehicle. The drive to the festival grounds felt much
longer than it actually was, and Steve grit his teeth, fighting down the urge
to scream every time Bucky leaned across him to say something to one of the
other band members. Steve knew Bucky wasn’t doing it on purpose, but he
couldn’t help but feel that this was his punishment for being such an idiot.
 
 
Lunch with Sam, Nat and Clint was amazing, and Steve felt a surge of gratitude
to Bucky for forcing the issue of him not cancelling. He talked and laughed
with his friends, and felt a little bubble of joy as Sam opened his gift – a
framed sketch Steve had done of Sam in profile – and his jaw dropped in awe,
almost entirely ignoring the gift card Steve had included in case Sam didn’t
like the picture.
Both Natasha and Clint demanded similar gifts from him and Steve acquiesced
with a grin.
After lunch, which ran slightly later than Steve intended, he went to pick up
Bucky at the studio, sliding his Harley to a stop in front of the building.
Bucky was leaning against the wall outside the door, legs clad in pale denim
crossed at the ankle, strands of hair escaping from his messy bun, sleeves of
his black Henley pushed up to his elbows. He grinned as he pushed off the wall
to approach Steve, still straddling the bike. Wordlessly, Steve handed Bucky a
helmet and watched the movement of his fingers as he pulled it on and buckled
the straps under his chin. Then Bucky gripped Steve’s shoulders to balance
himself as he threw one leg over the bike behind Steve.
To cover his sharp intake of breath at Bucky’s touch, Steve cleared his throat.
“So, where to?”
“Luke’s,” Bucky said next to Steve’s ear, his hot breath making goosebumps rise
on his skin.
Steve revved the engine and pulled away, swallowing heavily as Bucky’s arms
tightened around his waist.
 
The festival grounds were hot and chaotic, with an air of the macabre, and
Steve felt – for the first time since Europe – out of place next to the band.
He tugged at the collar of his white Siberia shirt, then pushed his sunglasses
further up his nose.
Bucky lightly hip checked Steve, nodding toward a large bus bearing the Siberia
logo. The band’s tour bus and equipment had been sent down a day previously,
but the band had to finish recording and mixing for a song they hoped to
release as a single before the album came out, and had followed by plane. They
trooped toward the bus to stow their bags and check that everything was in
order. After settling everything, Bucky broke away from the rest of Siberia,
and Steve followed. Bucky stopped occasionally to greet people and introduce
Steve. The names (David, Jim, Scott, Zakk, Clown (Clown???), Kerry, Johan and
Johan) were lost as soon as Steve heard them, even though he tried his best to
be polite and say the right things. Bucky shot him a puzzled frown once or
twice, but Steve avoided his gaze. It’s not Bucky’s fault,Steve kept telling
himself, but it didn’t seem to make things better. They made their way to the
refreshment tent and Steve stayed several paces back as Bucky went up to the
bar to wait his turn for a drink.
“Hey, did they finally fire that prick and get a new guitarist?” A voice said
from behind Steve, and he turned to find a man about a head shorter than him,
with reddish blond hair and blue eyes, his smile revealing a slight gap tooth.
Steve recognized him from the covers of his books; Corey Taylor.
“Uh, no,” Steve muttered. He held out his hand. “I’m Steve, James’ bodyguard.
Brock’s still got his job.”
Corey shook Steve’s hand. “Good to meet you, man, I’m Corey. It’s too bad about
Brock.”
Steve gave a lopsided smile. “He’s a good guitarist, though. James gave me your
books to read, they’re really good.”
“Aww, thanks, dude,” Corey said, then flicked his gaze over Steve’s shoulder.
“Speak of the devil.”
“And he shall appear and kick your ass,” Bucky said from behind Steve. “How you
doing, Corey?”
“Good man, good.” Corey took the bottle of water Bucky held out to him with a
nod of thanks.
Bucky handed Steve a bottle, too, before twisting the cap off his own and
taking a swallow.
“You on the wagon?” Corey asked, his gaze narrowed shrewdly.
“Something like that,” Bucky said dismissively, then grinned. “Oh, shit, I
gotta go break something of Sid’s, be right back!”
“Not his fingers!” Corey called out after him, “We need him for the show!”
Steve watched Bucky tackle a guy wearing a DJ Starscream t-shirt.
“When did that happen?” Corey asked and Steve looked at him, puzzled.
“When did what happen?” Steve asked.
“I’ve never seen James Barnes completely sober. And I’ve known him almost ten
years.”
Steve scratched at the label on his bottle of water with one fingernail. “It’s
recent. He still has a drink or two now and then.”
“He’s off the heroin?” Corey asked in surprise, turning to where Bucky and the
man who must be Sid were walking toward them.
 
Luke leaned over the bar to shake hands with both Steve and Bucky, and Steve
went over to secure a table while Bucky lingered at the bar to get drinks. He
came back to the table with two beers, and clinked the neck of his against
Steve’s before taking a sip. Steve averted his eyes from the way Bucky’s lips
parted around the bottle and took a sip of his own drink to try and drown the
heat suffusing his limbs. This was much too intimate and like a date for Steve
to be at all comfortable, even as Bucky made him chuckle with anecdotes of the
band’s first tour.
He was drinking too much, he realized, as he downed yet another shot of
bourbon, but the alcohol made his tumultuous thoughts settle down and if that
meant he could watch Bucky throw back his head with laughter at Steve’s stupid
jokes, then he didn’t want to stop.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you tipsy,” Bucky noted, pushing another shot
toward Steve.
“I’m not,” Steve disagreed, but he knew he was. Even so, he downed the shot,
toying with the empty glass.
“Yeah, of course not,” Bucky said with a snort of laughter. “Let’s fix that.”
 
“I couldn’t really say,” Steve answered Corey’s question, just as Bucky bumped
into his side, shoved by Sid. He automatically reached out a hand to steady
Bucky, and immediately regretted it as Bucky’s cool fingertips closed over his
own.
“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky said, tugging Steve away from Corey and Sid. “You can
socialize with the riff-raff later.”
Corey flipped them off as they exited the tent, where Bucky mercifully let go
off his hand.
“You okay?” Bucky asked a few paces later as the headed back toward the band’s
bus.
“I’m fine,” Steve said, unsuccessfully trying not to snap at Bucky.
“No, you’re not.”
Steve shrugged, not in the mood to explain himself.
“Steve,” Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. He seemed to dither for a second.
“It’s only a few more days. I know you can’t wait to put us… me… in your
rearview mirror.”
And there Bucky had it, if backwards. Steve’s contract ended after the
festival. And then he and Bucky would part ways. There would be no more reason
for him to stick around. And Bucky would be right here, where Pierce could get
to him, drive him back into addiction to cope with what that bastard did to
him. And Steve would be unable to do anything, following around some politician
and pining for a man he’d never have.
“For a smart guy,” Steve retorted, “you can be really stupid.”
He walked away, toward the band, without looking back at Bucky.
 
“Shit,” Bucky whispered loudly, a giggle bubbling up past his lips as his keys
jingled their way down the front steps to land on the sidewalk.
“Butterfingers,” Steve taunted as he stumbled back down the steps to retrieve
the keys and then laboriously climbed back up to unlock the front door.
They stumbled inside, giggling at nothing and toppling onto the couch in a
tangle of uncoordinated limbs.
Bucky somehow tucked himself into Steve’s side, his elbow digging sharply into
Steve’s ribs and his chin heavy on Steve’s sternum.
Bucky let out a hiccup, then giggled some more, and Steve was sure he’d have a
cleft-chin shaped bruise on his chest the next day, but Bucky was warm and
comfortable and he didn’t want him to move away.
“I think that last shot was six too many,” Steve mumbled, shifting a little to
wedge his arm beneath his head, the movement bringing his face within inches
Bucky’s.
“Lightweight,” Bucky poked his stomach with his free hand. “Grandpa.”
“Still younger than you,” Steve reminded him.
“When’s your birthday?”
“July fourth.”
Bucky’s eyes widened. “You never said! Why’d you never say? We could’ve had a
party or s’mthin’.”
Steve shrugged as best he could with Bucky’s weight pressing him down. “’S not
that big of a deal.”
“Yeah, it is. We should’ve had cake.” Bucky looked suddenly genuinely sad.
“Chocolate cake. With blue icing. And M&M’s.”
Steve used his free hand to pat the top of Bucky’s head. “There, there. It’s
just cake.”
“Chocolate cake,” Bucky lamented, pouting.
“I don’t like chocolate cake.”
“You shut your blasphemous mouth!” Bucky put his hand across the lower half of
Steve’s face, and Steve licked his palm in retaliation.
“Ew,” Bucky pulled his hand away to wipe it on Steve’s dark blue t-shirt.
There was a moment of quiet, and Steve knew he should get up, put some distance
between them. The alcohol was slowly burning out of his bloodstream, and in its
wake, Steve found himself painfully aware of Bucky’s warmth where they were
pressed together from shoulder to knee.
“Stevie,” Bucky’s voice was slurring, his eyelids drooping, his lashes forming
shadows over his cheekbones. “You scare me sometimes…”
 
The hours at the festival passed slowly, and Steve kept his distance from
Bucky, who mostly ignored him, pretending not to notice Steve’s presence in his
periphery. They caught a few hours of pre-dawn sleep on Siberia’s bus before
starting the process of getting ready to play that evening. They had an early
slot, several acts before Slipknot, who were headlining.
 
Siberia took to the stage amid screams from the crowd, and Bucky adjusted the
strap of his guitar as he stepped up to the microphone, the first cord of one
of their earlier songs drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Several songs
later, there was a lull in the music, only the rolling thud of Rollins’ bass
and the occasional tingle of Wade’s cymbals audible as Bucky took a long drink
of water, before leaning forward to grab the mic off its stand.
“Hey, there, you crazy bastards,” he said huskily, and the crowd screamed in
response. “We’re recording our new album, and we thought we’d give you a little
taste. Sound good?”
The reaction was enthusiastic, and loud enough to make Steve wish he’d brought
earmuffs.
The song started off with a staccato beat from bass and drums, then a few
sharp, gritty chords from Rumlow accompanied by an earsplitting screech from
Scott’s turntables, before Bucky’s whispered vocals filtered through.
“Take me, shape me…
Lead me, leave me…
Alone and…
Transformed.”
The last word was held on an endlessly soaring harmony between Bucky and Wade,
while Bucky picked a slow melody on his guitar. The effect was eerie, even more
so as Bucky turned toward the wings, making eye-contact with Steve as he
repeated the lines.
Steve swallowed hard, but couldn’t look away. Bucky, on stage right then, was a
vision to behold, something otherworldly. Something unattainable and perfect.
 
“You scare me sometimes…”
Bucky’s words were painful and Steve pulled in a sharp breath.
“Why?” he breathed, shifting out from under Bucky to sit up. The movement was
meant to put distance between them, but Bucky followed, pulling his legs up to
rest on Steve’s lap, burying himself against Steve’s side, his hair tickling
Steve’s throat.
“Because you’re so good,” Bucky murmured against his chest. “I’ve never met
someone as good as you.”
“I’m not, Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky shook his head.
“Yes, you are. And it scares me, ‘cause I think I want you and sometimes I
don’t care that I’d never deserve you.”
Steve froze, Bucky’s words washing over him in a sobering wave.
“Bucky,” he started again, but again Bucky cut him off.
“Don’t,” he breathed, “just don’t say anything, please?”
Steve made a pained noise and lifted his hand to the back of Bucky’s neck,
titling his head back so he could see Bucky’s face.
“God, Buck, how could you ever think you don’t deserve me?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the movement sluggish with his intoxication and Steve
suddenly regretted not stopping him from drinking almost twice as much as Steve
himself. “Steve, you read the file, you know about Russia, you know what I am.”
“I know you’re a good man,” Steve whispered. “Bucky, I won’t say I don’t care
about your past, because I do care about how much pain you endured, and I’d
give anything for you not to have had to go through that. But it doesn’t make
any difference to how I feel about you.”
“How you…” Bucky frowned, “feel about me?”
Steve swallowed painfully, and realized there was just enough alcohol in his
bloodstream to make him both brave and stupid enough to answer Bucky.
“I’ve been in love with you for months,” he said, the words at once weightless
and massive as they settled between them.
Suddenly both Bucky’s cold hands were folding around the back of Steve’s head
and neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was slow and careful and Steve let out a
sigh against Bucky’s lips as he wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist. Bucky
deepened the kiss, tugging Steve forward, then down on top of Bucky as he lay
back on the couch. Steve settled between Bucky’s thighs and Bucky dug his teeth
delicately into Steve’s bottom lip, arching up against him.
The movement brought Steve back into his own head, and he pulled away from the
kiss. Before he could say anything Bucky made a needy sound, wrapping one leg
around Steve’s waist.
“Don’t you want to fuck me?” Bucky all but growled.
It took all Steve’s willpower to sit back on his heels. “No, Buck, we can’t.”
“Why not?” Bucky demanded, his face falling, hurt flickering in his eyes.
“Because you’re drunk,” Steve told him.
“So?”
“So, if you’re drunk you can’t give consent. And I’m not doing anything you
don’t consent to.”
Bucky looked at him blankly for a second. “If you don’t want me, say so. You
don’t need to think up some ridiculous excuse.” Bucky started to get up,
turning away from Steve, but Steve grabbed his hand, tugging him back down.
“It’s not an excuse,” he said, moving around so Bucky had to face him. “I want
you, God, you have no idea how much. But not when you’re not sober, okay?”
Bucky let out a breath, before nodding. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Steve agreed, then sat up to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “I’m
going to bed. Sweet dreams, Buck.”
“G’night, Steve.”
 
Siberia stuck around at the side of the stage to watch the other bands perform,
and even Steve had to admit to being impressed by the sheer skill of the
performers on stage, even though he was sure a couple of Slipknot’s members
would show up in his nightmares.
Afterwards, they trooped back to the bus, tired and sweaty. Their bunks
welcomed them, and Steve was asleep as soon as his head hit the thin pillow.
 
Steve woke up slowly, the ache behind his eyes an instant reminder of the
events of the previous night. He sighed, letting his thoughts dwell for a
moment on the kiss he and Bucky had shared. Bucky wanted him. He’d told Bucky
he was in love with him and Bucky had kissed him. He had no idea if Bucky felt
the same, no way of knowing if what Bucky wanted from him was anything more
than just sex. It scared him, made his heart clench painfully. Steve ran his
hands over his face and got up to take a shower. He found Bucky in the kitchen
half an hour later, where he was nursing a mug of black coffee, looking a lot
more hungover than Steve himself felt.
“Morning, Buck,” he said carefully, stepping around the counter. Bucky gave a
groan and held out his mug to Steve in a pitiful way, begging silently for a
refill. Steve smiled and complied, nudging the newly steaming mug back toward
Bucky.
“Thanks,” Bucky mumbled, “why are you so bright-eyed and bushy tailed? It’s
offensive.”
“I didn’t drink as much as you, remember.”
Bucky’s head snapped up. “What?”
“You drank twice as much as I did. It’s almost impressive actually.”
“You were drinking with me?”
Bucky’s question hit Steve like a cold fist. “Yeah, we went to Luke’s last
night.”
“Who?”
“Me and you, Buck,” Steve said, trying his best to keep his voice level. “You
don’t remember?”
Bucky shook his head, then hissed as the movement aggravated his headache.
“There was an empty bottle in my room this morning, with… never mind.”
Something painful tore against Steve’s ribcage. Bucky had gotten high after
Steve had gone to bed. Bucky didn’t remember anything they had done. Bucky
didn’t remember Steve telling him he was in love with him. Steve took a gulp of
coffee to swallow down the bile rising in his throat.
After a while, where the kitchen was much too quiet, Bucky cleared his throat.
“Did we have a good time?”
“Uh, yeah,” Steve said lamely. “I have to send a couple of emails, I’ll be
upstairs.”
He escaped the kitchen, only to sag back against the closed door of his
bedroom. Bucky didn’t remember. It hurt, an acid burn behind Steve’s sternum.
Bucky didn’t remember, because he’d just had to fucking get high.
Bucky didn’t remember. He’d shot up and forgotten all about Steve’s confession
in the bright destruction of his beloved heroin.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Okay, confession time. I fucking love Corey Taylor. Like FUCKING LOVE
     him. He has been my idol and inspiration for almost 10 years (I'm
     old, get over it). He is an amazing person, smart and kind and
     talented. If you haven't done so yet, I really, really recommend
     reading his books (especially Seven Deadly Sins). They are
     intelligent and hilarious and surprisingly inspirational. I've
     learned so much from both his books and music and I owe him a debt of
     gratitude for each word and lyric.
     "Remember, you're a wreck, an accident. Forget the freak, you're just
     nature. Keep the gun oiled and the temple clean, shit, snort and
     blaspheme, let the heads cool and the engine run. Because in the end,
     everything we do, is just everything we've done." - Omega, Stone Sour
***** Like A Junkie I Hurt For It. A Bad Trip, The Emptiness. *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks by Pantera.
     Bucky chapter over here if you missed it.
     A quick note I should have made like three chapters ago: In this fic
     Sharon and Peggy are not related to each other (the fact that they
     canonically are is just super creepy anyway)
     Also, I know I promised an update ages ago, I'm sorry I didn't do it.
     I've just been in a bit of a funk. But, hey, you're getting two
     (extra long) chapters at once, so that makes up for it.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's not like I made myself a list
Of new and different ways to murder your heart
I'm just painting that's still wet,
If you touch me, I'll be smeared
You'll be stained
Stained for the rest of your life
 
So turn around, walk away
Before you confuse the way we abuse each other
If you're not afraid of getting hurt
Then I'm not afraid of how much I hurt you
 
I'm well aware I'm a danger to myself
Are you aware I'm a danger to others?
There's a crack in my soul
You thought was a smile
 
I'm more like a silver bullet
And I'm like a gun, not easy to hold
I'm moving fast and if I stay inside your heart
I'm certain that this will be
The end of your life
 
So turn around, walk away
Before you confuse the way we abuse each other
If you're not afraid of getting hurt
Then I'm not afraid of how much I hurt you
 
I'm well aware I'm a danger to myself
Are you aware I'm a danger to others?
There's a crack in my soul
You thought was a smile
 
Whatever doesn't kill you...
Is gonna leave a scar
Whatever doesn't kill you...
Is gonna leave a scar
Leave a scar
Leave a scar
Whatever doesn't kill you, it's gonna leave a scar
 
- Leave a Scar, Marilyn Manson
 
~
 
They arrived back in New York under gray skies, a light rain starting to fall
as Bucky drove them back to his brownstone. They didn’t talk, the first Korn
album the only thing breaking the tense silence as Steve stared out the window
at the gray city.
Once inside Bucky’s house, in the hall with all their luggage surrounding them,
Bucky turned on Steve, blocking his way to the living area and staircase.
“What the hell is going on with you, Steve?”
The question was unwelcome, and Steve very nearly pushed Bucky bodily out of
his way to avoid answering it. Instead, logic prevailed and he looked up at the
ceiling as though he could find the perfect answer there.
“Nothing is going on with me.” The words were tight, clipped.
“Like hell,” Bucky retorted. “You’ve been distant and sullen for weeks. And
this weekend…” He trailed off and Steve felt a hot trickle of guilt down the
back of his neck. Bucky didn’t need to remind Steve of the way he’d snapped at
him at the festival.
“Can you just drop it?” Steve said, perilously close to yelling at Bucky.
Bucky glared at him. “No.”
This time, Steve did attempt to push past Bucky, to escape upstairs, but Bucky
blocked him, grabbing his shoulders and giving a light shove to back Steve up
against the wall.
“Stop being so fucking childish!” The words were out of Steve’s mouth before he
could stop them.
Bucky shoved him again, harder, his back hitting the wall as he stumbled over
his own feet. “Childish?! You give me the cold shoulder for weeks, you call me
stupid, you refuse to man-up and spit out what’s bothering you, but yeah, sure,
I’m childish.”
Steve had never seen Bucky angry like this, much less had that anger directed
at him. Somehow, instead of riling Steve up even more, it calmed him, settled
something that had been boiling in his chest since the morning after Luke’s. He
sagged back against the wall, hard and cold beneath the thin hoodie he was
wearing.
“I’m sorry,” he told Bucky.
“Tell me,” Bucky insisted.
Steve shook his head, unsure of where to even begin. The weight of the
situation settled heavily on his shoulders, making them hunch forward, and he
shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to hide how they were starting
to tremble.
Bucky didn’t move. He stood still and steady, his gaze fixed intently on
Steve’s face. It made Steve squirm, curling even further in on himself, wishing
to be smaller, to disappear. Finally, finally, Steve thought the silence would
drive him crazy.
“You don’t remember,” Steve said, then winced. Those were not the words he’d
meant to say, not the weak excuse he’d formulated in his mind.
For a second, Steve was sure Bucky would ask ‘remember what?’, but instead the
other man’s eyes – so blue, why did they have to be so fucking blue, Steve
wondered – widened.
“You mean Luke’s,” Bucky said slowly, a slow frown pulling his brows down over
his eyes. “Did something happen?”
Steve shrugged, as unwilling to have this conversation now as he had been the
morning after the night in question.
“What happened, Steve?” Bucky demanded.
“Nothing important,” Steve breathed, pushed off the wall and again attempted to
shoulder past Bucky. This time he got as far as the staircase when Bucky’s
voice stopped him.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said and Steve stopped dead.
Steve didn’t turn, said the words to the bottom stair. “And you’re just a
junkie.”
He lifted his foot to take the first step up the staircase, then the second,
then the third. He reached the fourth stair before Bucky’s hand clamped around
his arm, put his foot on the fifth just as Bucky tugged him around. It was too
reminiscent of their first kiss, weeks ago on the very same staircase and Steve
tore his arm out of Bucky’s grip and made it up the sixth and seventh stairs
with white noise screaming in his ears, drowning out Bucky saying his name. The
eighth stair, the ninth, tenth, then he felt Bucky’s hand on his arm again, and
his hearing filtered back.
“- sorry, okay, I know you hate the drugs, God, Steve, just stop for a second.”
Steve made the last few stairs without counting, his focus intent on the grip
Bucky still had on his forearm.
“Steve,” Bucky said, stepping around Steve so they were face to face. “Just
tell me what happened, please, Stevie.”
“We went to Luke’s,” Steve said, each word unwillingly forced past his lips,
“we got drunk, we came here.”
“And then?”
Steve fixed his gaze on the wall behind Bucky’s left elbow. “And then we both
said stupid shit, I went to bed, you got high and forgot all about it.”
“Stupid shit? Did we have another fight?”
An ugly laugh forced itself through Steve’s teeth. “If only.”
Steve refused to look at Bucky’s face, but he heard the tiny hitch in his
breath.
“Did I kiss you again?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, but carried a sharp edge of
fear, a sound terribly familiar to Steve, one he’d heard on battlefields and
during firefights for years.
“Yes,” Steve said flatly, “after I told you I’m in love with you.”
There was silence. Steve pulled his gaze away from the wall, to look at Bucky’s
face. His expression was a strange combination on fear and pain and shame, and
something worse that pulled at his lips and made him blink slowly.
When Bucky stayed quiet, Steve narrowed his eyes. “I told you that, and you
kissed me, and when I said I wouldn’t have sex with you while you’re drunk, you
came up here and stuck a needle under your skin.”
Bucky slowly shook his head.
“I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t seem to that night, either,” Steve snapped.
Bucky seemed to cast around for what to say. “You were drunk, too?” he finally
asked.
“Not as drunk as you, but yes.”
Bucky nodded, then took a breath. “Why… no, I mean, I get it, never mind. I’m
sorry.” He turned in a half-circle, and dragged his fingers through his hair.
“You get what?”
“Why you wouldn’t have sex with me,” Bucky rolled his eyes as if that were
obvious, and Steve was struck by how much this situation seemed to mirror the
one before. It made him angry again, the heat of it pooling beneath his skin.
“No, you fucking don’t!” It was just barely not a shout and Bucky recoiled,
stumbling back half a step. “I had to fucking explain it to you then, too! And
if you hadn’t been so in love with your goddamned heroin, you would still
remember it!”
“How many more times do I have to apologize for that?!” Bucky shouted back. “I
said I was sorry! So why don’t you just explain it all again, huh?!”
“Fine,” Steve hissed. “I wouldn’t have sex with you because you were too
intoxicated to give consent.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Bucky began, but Steve cut him off.
“It’s not ridiculous, and it wasn’t an excuse either.”
“Fine,” Bucky grit out, though Steve could plainly see Bucky didn’t believe
him. “Anything else happen?”
“No.”
Bucky raised a hand to his chin, scratching lightly at the stubble there.
“You’re not gonna ask about the elephant in the room?” Steve said at length,
something sour rising at the back of his throat.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “You thinking you’re in love with me? That was just the
alcohol, Steve.”
The world seemed to distort around Steve for a second.
“I’m sober now.”
“Steve,” Bucky said, his eyes pleading, “that’s a cruel joke.”
“It’s not a joke.” Steve’s heart was hammering so hard in his chest he was sure
it was chipping away at his ribcage. “I am.”
“You can’t be,” Bucky whispered. “You read the file, you know what I am.”
It was almost word for word what Bucky had said the night after Luke’s.
“It doesn’t change how I feel,” Steve told him.
“It should,” Bucky’s voice was almost inaudible.
“Why?”
“Because… because I’m damaged, used up, stained.”
“No, you’re kind, and generous and funny and smart and you’re a good person,
Bucky.”
Bucky’s eyes fell closed, his lips twisted down, throat working like he was
trying to swallow something bitter.
“We have to pick up Fred,” Bucky finally uttered, his eyes opening slowly to
look at Steve’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Steve said quietly. “I’m sure she misses you.”
Bucky nodded, but didn’t move to descend the stairs. He cleared his throat.
“Why doesn’t it matter to you? My past.”
“I never said it doesn’t. It matters how much pain you endured. If I could do
anything to go back and spare you, I would, I swear. It just doesn’t make me
feel differently about you.”
Bucky took a breath, still not meeting Steve’s eyes. “I’ve never… never
wantedsex, not really. I mean, I do it, because having sex with a fan is
preferable to Pierce, and because sometimes they expect it, given my, uh,
reputation.”
“You could have said no,” Steve said gently.
Bucky let out a strangled little giggle. “Right, yeah, theoretically, but that
would just make everything even more unpleasant, believe me.”
Steve did believe him, and it hurt, down to his core.
“The point is,” Bucky continued before Steve had a chance to say anything, “I
never wanted it, never even thought about it as something I would actually
wantto do, until you came along.”
Steve swallowed heavily. Nodded, because he was pretty sure his vocal cords
were out for the count, because suddenly Bucky’s gaze met his, a heat there
Steve had never seen before.
“Steve,” Bucky said, and Steve nodded a second time, sure that he’d never be
able to speak again.
Bucky stepped closer, reaching out to fist one hand around the front of Steve’s
white t-shirt, one finger of the other hand hooking through the belt loop of
Steve’s jeans. Then Bucky’s lips were on his and Steve’s hands were both
tangled in Bucky’s hair. Bucky nipped at Steve’s lips, and Steve opened up to
allow him entrance, moaning into Bucky’s mouth as their tongues brushed. Bucky
tasted like mint and chocolate and Steve knew he’d never have enough of that
flavor, not even if he lived to be a hundred.
They moved down the hall as they kissed, and Bucky pressed Steve back against
his bedroom door, not breaking the kiss even as he fumbled with the door knob,
not even as they stumbled through the doorway. It was Steve who pulled away
when his knees hit the edge of Bucky’s bed.
“Bucky,” Steve grabbed Bucky’s shoulders as he leaned in to resume the kiss,
“wait, just gimme a second.”
Bucky paused, his breath coming in ragged little gasps and Steve knew his own
wasn’t much steadier.
“Bucky, I need you to promise me something,” he got out, and Bucky’s eyes
narrowed.
“Promise you what?”
“That if I do anything, anything,you don’t like, you’ll tell me to stop.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Steve, that’s – “
“It’s not stupid. I’m not like Pierce, or anyone else you’ve been with. If you
want to stop, for any reason, even if you think it’s silly, you tell me and I
will stop. Promise me.”
Bucky nodded. “Okay. I promise.”
“Thank you,” Steve said, and leaned forward to peck at Bucky’s lips, feeling
the other man give a lopsided smile.
Bucky pulled him into a brief, searing kiss before pulling away to divest Steve
of his hoodie, before tugging at Steve’s shirt with one hand, while working at
the buckle of his jeans with the other, but Steve covered Bucky’s hands with
his own.
“What about Fred?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “She’ll be perfectly happy at Darcy’s for another day.”
“Okay, good,” Steve said, but didn’t let go of Bucky’s hands. “So why the rush?
We can take our time.”
Bucky nodded. “Yeah, we can.”
Chapter End Notes
     I really dislike this chapter. I dislike the next one even more, and
     it's like 5k words. :(
***** Simply To Thy Ghost I Cling. *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks by Pantera.
     Two chapters at the same time? It's a January miracle!
     Full disclosure: I am not good at writing sex scenes.
     I really, really dislike this chapter. It's so long and awkward in
     places and just, ugh. Sorry, lovelies.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
I'd cross the sea to you
I've left myself deserted here again
I'd cross the sea to you
My pieces are too broken now to mend
 
In the middle
Under a cold black sky
The sun will only burn for you and I
In the moment
Before I lose my mind
These hours don't mean anything this time
 
Give me a sign
Show me the line
Maybe tonight
I'll tell you everything
 
I'd cross the world for you
My reasons have no reason to remain
I'd cross the world for you
I don't know what I'm doing wrong but I can’t stay the same
 
In the middle
Under a clear blue sky
The sun can only burn for you and I
In the moment
Before I lose my mind
These hours don't mean anything this time
 
Give me a sign
Show me the line
Maybe tonight
I'll tell you everything
 
- Taciturn, Stone Sour
 
~
 
Hold me now I need to feel relief
Like I never wanted anything
I suppose I'll let this go and find a reason I'll hold on to
I'm so ashamed of defeat
And I'm out of reason to believe in me
I'm out of trying to get by
 
I can't face myself when I wake up
And look inside a mirror
I'm so ashamed of that thing
I suppose I'll let it go
Until I have something more to say for me
I'm so afraid of defeat
And I'm out of reason to believe in me
I'm out of trying to defy
 
I'm so afraid of the gift you give me
I don't belong here and I'm not well
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living
Right on the wrong side of it all
 
Hold me now I need to feel complete
Like I matter to the one I need
 
I'm so afraid of the gift you give me
I don't belong here and I'm not well
I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living
Right on the wrong side of it all
 
- The Gift, Seether
 
~
 
Steve leaned forward, reaching around Bucky to grip his thighs and haul him up
against his body. He swallowed Bucky’s gasp as he fit their mouths back
together for a lazy kiss, Bucky’s hands locked around his shoulders, legs
hooked over his waist. He turned, climbing onto the bed, still kneeling, to
deposit Bucky back against the dark blue pillows, holding his weight on his
elbows to hover over Bucky, who was again trying to divest Steve of his
clothes. Steve smiled, leaning down to give Bucky’s bottom lip a tiny kitten
lick, before sitting back to allow Bucky to tug his shirt off and toss it
aside. Bucky’s hands went to the hem of his own plain black t-shirt, but Steve
brushed them aside. “Let me?”
Bucky nodded and folded his arms behind his head. Steve tugged lightly at the
fabric of his shirt, then scooted back to place a kiss where it covered Bucky’s
bellybutton. Bucky made a small sound.
“What are you doing?”
Steve smiled up at him. “Taking it slow.” He slid his fingers under Bucky’s
shirt and pulled the fabric up a couple of inches, just enough to reveal the
tattoo below Bucky’s bellybutton. He read the words, then placed an open-
mouthed kiss to the skin that drew a hiss from Bucky. Steve marveled at the
goosebumps that rose on Bucky’s skin, before tracing the tip of his tongue over
each inked letter.
Bucky made another sound, squirming a little.
“You good?” Steve asked.
“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice sounded a little strangled.
Steve nipped the skin next to Bucky’s bellybutton, then dipped his tongue
inside, before moving his shirt up farther. Steve continued his slow
exploration, kissing and licking his way across the ridges of muscle over
Bucky’s stomach, all the way to his chest. There he took Bucky’s pierced nipple
gently between his teeth and Bucky gave a strangled moan. Steve sucked at the
cool metal, and Bucky arched under him.
“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky breathed.
Steve moved his attention Bucky’s other nipple, eliciting much the same
reaction as he bit lightly into the hard bud. He stayed there for a while,
licking at one nipple while rolling the other between his fingers, until Bucky
bit out a curse. Steve took mercy on him, sitting up again to slowly pull his
shirt off all the way, and toss it after his own. He leaned back down to kiss
Bucky, slowly, taking his time to explore Bucky’s mouth the way he’d done with
his chest. Bucky groaned and dug his fingers into Steve’s hips, grinding up
against him.
“Goddamnit, Stevie,” Bucky snarled into Steve’s mouth, “just fuck me already.”
But Steve shook his head. “That’s not how taking it slow works, Buck.”
“You’re confusing slowwith torture, Steven.” But Bucky stopped grinding against
Steve, letting go of his hips to run his fingertips along Steve’s spine in
teasing little circles.
“There ya go,” Steve murmured approvingly against Bucky’s mouth. “God, it feels
good to have you touch me.”
Bucky shivered a little at Steve’s words, dragging blunt nails over Steve’s
shoulder blades.
Steve leaned back down, to kiss at Bucky’s neck and Bucky tipped his head back
to give him better access. He sucked a hickey against Bucky’s collarbone,
making the other man chuckle. Then he started reversing his earlier journey up
Bucky’s body, this time more intently. He let his teeth scrape over one
protruding hipbone while he tugged off Bucky’s belt, reveling in Bucky’s sharp
intake of breath. Steve popped the button on Bucky’s jeans and tugged down his
zipper before giving a quiet moan when he realized Bucky wasn’t wearing
underwear. For a second Steve had to just breathe to clear his head enough to
actually work Bucky’s jeans off his hips and down his legs. He purposefully
kept his eyes on the fabric in his hands, because Bucky was more beautiful than
he could ever have imagined, and having him here, like this, under Steve’s
hands, had him painfully hard in his own jeans.
Finally, Bucky’s jeans and shoes hit the floor, leaving him dressed in nothing
but tattoos, and Steve looked at him, really looked at him, spread out on the
bed, chest flushed a dusky pink under a thin sheen of sweat. Steve crawled back
up the bed, to cradle Bucky’s face in his hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded,
pupils dilated until only a ring of blue remained, like twin event horizons
around twin black holes and Steve let himself be dragged into them without
struggle.
“You are so beautiful, Bucky,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s lips. “So
perfect, so amazing. I love you.”
Bucky let out a shuddering breath, almost a sob. His hands cradled the back of
Steve’s head. “Say it again?”
“I love you, Bucky,” Steve complied, lifting his head to look into Bucky’s
eyes.
Bucky pulled Steve back down to kiss him, his breath hitching in his throat,
and Steve used his thumbs to gently rub away the tears forming at the corners
of Bucky’s eyes.
“I love you,” he said again, after Bucky’s breathing had evened out a little,
his lips moving against Bucky’s.
“I know,” Bucky said, and one corner of his mouth titled up the tiniest bit.
“Was that a Star Wars reference?”
“It may have been,” Bucky was grinning now.
“You little shit,” Steve pulled away far enough to look at Bucky’s face, trying
for a stern expression and failing miserably. “Here I am, trying to be sincere
and heartfelt, and you ruin it with a Han Solo quote.”
“To be fair, what else did you expect?”
Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too much for it to make an
impression. “You’re a jerk.”
“Punk,” Bucky retorted.
In retaliation, Steve hooked his pinkie into Bucky’s nipple ring and gave a
gentle tug. Bucky made that little sound in the back of his throat again, and
Steve smirked at him, before moving back down Bucky’s body.
He nibbled at Bucky’s hipbone again, letting his fingers skim lightly over the
juncture of his thigh.
Steve slowly let his fingers find the silky hardness of Bucky’s cock, and Bucky
arched off the bed, a strangled moan leaving his lips to go straight to Steve’s
own erection, still trapped in the confines of his jeans.
Steve followed his fingers with his mouth, slowly licked a stripe up the
underside of Bucky’s cock, before parting his lips around the head.
“Stop,” Bucky’s voice gasped out above him, “Steve, stop.”
Steve pulled away immediately, sitting up between Bucky’s legs and letting his
hands fall limply into his lap. Bucky’s eyes were wide as he propped himself up
on his elbows.
“Do you want me to go?” Steve asked.
“No,” Bucky shook his head, “of course not! I just… are you sure you want to…
do… that? With me?”
“Yes,” Steve said slowly, “but I won’t if you don’t like it.”
Bucky shook his head again. “No, I do like it. I just… don’t want you to do
something you don’t like because you think I will.”
“I want to. I want to taste you, Buck, want to make you feel good.”
Bucky nodded. “Okay.”
Steve slowly touched Bucky again, his cock having lost some hardness while they
talked. Steve stroked him slowly, keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face even as
Bucky’s gaze fixed on Steve’s hand. Once he was fully hard again, Steve stilled
his hand.
“May I?” he asked and Bucky nodded.
Steve leaned back down, taking the head of Bucky’s cock between his lips,
slowly working his mouth down to take as much of the shaft in as possible,
lightly stroking his fingertips over Bucky’s balls.
“Fuck,” Bucky breathed and the bed shifted a little as Bucky fell back down.
“God, Stevie, oh fuck oh fuck, oh.”
Bucky’s voice spurred Steve on, and he hollowed out his cheeks, sucking and
swirling his tongue by turns and feeling Bucky tremble beneath him. Steve had
wanted this for so long, but none of his fantasies could compare. The taste of
Bucky, the feel of him coming apart beneath Steve was exquisite.
“Steve, I’m gonna, Steve, I’m close, fuck, I’m gonna…”
Steve pulled off Bucky’s cock with a wet pop, giving him time to come back from
the edge of his orgasm.
Bucky breathed hard for a second, hand fisted in the sheets, before opening his
eyes.
“Take off your pants,” Bucky demanded, sitting up as well. Steve complied
happily, pulling off his pants and underwear to kneel naked on the bed for
Bucky’s gaze.
“There’s something…” Bucky started. He reached out a hand to run his fingers
over Steve’s chest. “Something you said once. After I walked in on you in the
shower.”
Steve blushed at the memory, and Bucky’s fingers followed the red stain down
his sternum. “What did I say?” Steve asked.
“You were touching yourself. You said it felt good.”
“It does,” Steve affirmed. “Would you like me to…?”
Bucky nodded and Steve’s stomach clenched, his cock jumping a little at the
thought. He reached down, wrapping his fingers around his shaft, never taking
his eyes off Bucky’s face as he slowly starting stroking himself. Bucky’s eyes
watched Steve’s movements intently, and he licked his lips. One hand reached
out to toy with Steve’s nipple and Steve groaned at the sharp pleasure. Then
Bucky’s other hand wrapped around his own where he was jerking himself off, and
Steve nearly collapsed face first onto the bed.
“Bucky, oh my God, Buck,” he moaned, eyes squeezing shut.
Bucky’s lips found his, and for a moment Steve’s entire world whitened out
until it was just him and Bucky and the heat pooling low in his abdomen.
“Steve,” Bucky said softly, lips moving over Steve’s jaw to his ear. “Want you,
Stevie. Want you inside me.”
“God, yes,” Steve said, and pulled his hand away from his cock with some
effort, Bucky letting go to lean back across the bed and rummage through the
bedside cabinet to pull out a bottle and a foil packet.
Steve watched as Bucky flipped open the bottle, but stopped him before he could
pour the lube into his hand.
“Buck, can I?”
Bucky nodded, even though he looked surprised. He lay down, then turned onto
his stomach. “Like this,” he muttered as Steve touched his hip to turn him over
again. “It’s the most comfortable.” His voice sounded apologetic, and Steve
leaned down to kiss the tattooed skin between his shoulder blades.
“Then this is good,” Steve assured him. He let his hands roam over Bucky’s back
and down to his ass, dipping his fingers into the cleft to explore, pressing
soft kisses to down his spine every so often. Steve poured a generous amount of
lube onto his hand, rubbing it between his fingers to warm up a little, before
running the tip of his index finger gently over the tightly puckered little
hole. Bucky spread his legs wider and Steve took that as permission to slip the
tip of his finger inside. Bucky pressed down, making an impatient noise and
Steve pushed deeper. He worked his finger in and out, taking his time and Bucky
huffed. Steve slid a second finger in beside the first and Bucky squirmed down
again, trying to get them deeper. Steve complied, albeit slowly, waiting until
Bucky became impatient again before adding a third finger.
“God, Steve, the going slow thing is really unnecessary for this part,” he
hissed, his voice a little bitter. “I’m not a tight little virgin anymore.”
Steve begged to differ. Bucky was plenty tight around his fingers, surprisingly
so, even.
Steve leaned down to kiss up Bucky’s spine, while crooking his fingers inside
him. Bucky’s back arched like a cat’s.
“Want to see your face,” Steve told him, repeating the movement of his fingers
to make Bucky moan.
Bucky nodded against the pillows. “Okay.”
Steve pulled his fingers out of Bucky’s body and helped him turn onto his back
again. He settled between Bucky’s legs and let his body press down on Bucky’s,
sliding their cock’s together and capturing Bucky’s mouth in a sloppy kiss.
“Do you really want this, Buck?” Steve had to make sure, would hate himself if
he took anything Bucky didn’t want to give.
“Yes,” Bucky breathed, “yes, want you, Stevie.”
Steve groaned, the words going straight to his cock. He sat back a little to
roll the condom on and pour more lube to slick himself up. Then he positioned
himself against Bucky’s hole and leaned down to kiss him again. Steve pushed
in, slowly, and swallowed Bucky’s moans as he filled him inch by inch. Bucky
was tight, hot and perfect around his cock and he said so, gasping each word
into Bucky’s mouth. He bottomed out and paused inside Bucky, giving him a
minute to adjust, but Bucky rolled his hips, trying to get Steve to move.
“Steve, just fuck me already,” Bucky urged, but Steve shook his head.
“Wanna make love to you, Buck.”
Bucky stilled a little, and Steve spoke again. “I love you.”
Bucky’s arms wound around Steve’s shoulders and he nodded.
Steve started moving, slowly, taking his time to savor the feeling of Bucky
clenching around him, then marveling at the broken noise Bucky made as Steve
hit his prostate. Steve was wrapped up completely in Bucky. Each breath, each
whimper and moan and gasp, each drag of blunt nails across his back as Bucky
arched into him.
“Tell me how it feels?” Steve begged.
“Good,” Bucky gasped. “Stevie, s’good, oh God, never like this, Stevie, never
been this good, oh fuck, Steve…”
Steve smiled, canting his hips just so and watching Bucky throw his head back
with a cry of pleasure.
“I love you,” he told Bucky, and as his thrusts sped up despite his effort to
go slow, the words tumbled from his lips in an endless stream. Telling Bucky
how perfect he was, how beautiful, how much Steve loved him. Bucky’s eyes were
shut tightly, his breath hitching in his throat.
“Bucky,” Steve murmured, leaning down to kiss him again, “please look at me?”
Bucky’s eyes opened, his pupils blown wide. “Steve…” He was sobbing, suddenly
and Steve gathered him in his arms, sitting up so Bucky was straddling his
thighs, the position forcing him even deeper into Bucky’s body.
Bucky hooked his arms around Steve, burying his face in his neck as he moved
his body, continuing the slow rhythm Steve had set up.
“Steve, touch me, please, Stevie.”
Steve reached down to stroke Bucky’s neglected cock and Bucky rolled his hips,
increasing the pace of his movements. Steve stroked Bucky’s silky cock,
thrusting his hips up to meet Bucky’s movements halfway. It only took a few
thrusts before Bucky clenched around Steve like a vice, every muscle in his
body pulling taut as he spurted hot come over Steve’s hand and both their
stomachs, lips pressed tight over the side of Steve’s throat.
Steve made a broken sound and followed right after, the tightening of Bucky’s
body around his cock seeming to draw out his orgasm infinitely and the world
faded away around Steve, leaving nothing but Bucky wrapped around him.
They stayed locked together for a while, catching their breaths, pressing soft
kisses to each other’s skin. Steve shifted them apart, finally, to take off the
condom and throw it in the wastebasket, while Bucky got up, going to the
bathroom to wet a washcloth and bring it back to the bed.
“Can I?” he asked, motioning to the cloth and Steve nodded. Bucky hummed
quietly as he cleaned them off, then threw the cloth in the general direction
of the bathroom.
“Steve,” he said quietly. They sat facing each other and for a moment cold
apprehension filled Steve’s chest. “I… you said you love me.”
“I do,” Steve breathed.
“I… please don’t be angry,” Bucky looked afraid, suddenly, and Steve swallowed
heavily.
“It’s okay,” he said as gently as he could. “I never expected you to feel the
same way.”
“It’s not… Steve, it’s not…” Bucky paused, searching Steve’s face for a second.
“You’re already angry.”
“I’m not angry, Bucky,” Steve told him, and it was the truth.
Bucky sighed. “Can I just try to explain?”
“You don’t need to, Bucky,” Steve murmured.
“Yes, I do.” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “I just… I’m not sure what to
call it, I just… I read a lot, right?”
“I’ve noticed,” Steve said. He was feeling the need to escape more and more
with every syllable Bucky uttered. He had no idea why Bucky would want to
explain his indifference to Steve.
“And that’s how I feel, about you,” Bucky said, one hand lifting in an abortive
gesture.
“Like reading?” Steve was a little confused, eyebrows knitting together.
“No, stupid,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Like the characters in the books.”
Something very much like hope filled Steve’s chest. “Wait, uhm… you might have
to narrow that down. You were reading Stephen King last I checked, and I’m not
sure ‘abject horror’ is something I want anyone to feel about me.”
Bucky snorted a laugh and punched Steve’s shoulder. “You know what I mean. I
just wasn’t sure if that’s actually… y’know… what love feels like.”
“Is it a good feeling?”
“Yes,” Bucky said quietly. “It is a little bit scary, though.”
“Sounds like love to me.” And it did.
Bucky nodded and leaned over to kiss Steve, sweet and lingering.
“So,” he said as he pulled away, leaving Steve a little breathless. “Grilled
cheese for lunch?”
And if they abandoned their lunch halfway through for slightly more… intimate
activities, Steve wasn’t going to complain.
 
Steve woke up slowly. He was immediately aware of the sound of rain, then of a
warm body pressed against his back, a hand splayed out on his hip. It was a
perfect moment, warm, sleepy, happy, only to be broken by a voice in his ear.
“You fart in your sleep.”
Steve groaned, burying his face in a pillow. “You hog the blankets.”
“You have terrible bed head right now.”
“And you have morning breath.”
“Do not!”
“Do too.”
“Punk.”
“Jerk.”
“Grandpa.”
“Still younger than you, Buck.”
Bucky poked Steve in the ribs.
“Quit it.”
Another poke. “You gotta get up and make me coffee.”
“Why me? It’s your house.”
“I made dinner last night.”
“I did the dishes.”
“You pressed the button afterI loaded the dishwasher.”
“It was a very nice button.”
“Coffee, Stevie.”
“Sleep, Buck.”
This time a foot was planted on Steve’s lower back, pushing him toward the edge
of the bed.
“Okay, okay,” Steve grabbed Bucky’s foot. He sat up, and blinked a little
blearily at Bucky, who had a satisfied little smirk on his face.
Steve leaned over to kiss him, smiling against his lips. “You really do have
morning breath, Bucky.”
Bucky groaned. “You’re no fun.”
“Love you, too, sweetcheeks,” Steve said sweetly, admiring the view as Bucky
got up and sauntered to the bathroom, with a deliberate little sway to his very
naked backside. The familiar little insult made his chest fill with warmth.
Steve smiled, stretching his arms overhead. It had been an amazing night, bouts
of talking and cuddling interspersed with three rounds of the most mindblowing
sex of Steve’s life. Then he heard Bucky’s voice and suddenly felt almost
giddy. He hadn’t heard Bucky sing in the shower for ages, had thought he would
never hear it again. He recognized the song – Dear God by Avenged Sevenfold –,
even hummed a few bars as he made his way down to the kitchen to make coffee
after putting on his boxers.
Bucky came downstairs with wet hair and decidedly minty breath, and reward
Steve for the coffee with a slow, heated kiss. Steve went upstairs to shower
and get dressed for the day, then they had breakfast in front of the
television, watching Wayne’s World. Bucky let his head rest in Steve’s lap
after they had cleared their plates, making a soft noise of contentment as
Steve ran his fingers through his hair. The movie ended and Bucky let out a
sigh.
“Steve?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Not quite.”
“You’re no fun.”
“You’re the one who kept me up all night.”
“It seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”
“Oh, I was, I assure you. Were you?”
“Very much.” There was a long pause before Bucky spoke again. “Steve?”
“Yes, Buck?”
“You having second thoughts yet?”
“No,” Steve replied. “Still very much in love with you, Buck.”
Bucky sat up, twisting around so he could kiss Steve, sliding his tongue past
his lips almost urgently. Steve was happy to let Bucky take the lead, winding
his hands into Bucky’s hair as the other man straddled him, pressing their
bodies together and pulling a moan from Steve.
Bucky was tugging Steve’s shirt up, nails dragging across the sensitive skin
over Steve’s ribs, when the doorbell rang.
They both froze, then Bucky climbed off Steve. “It’s probably Wade. Could you
get it while I make more coffee?”
“Sure, Buck,” Steve got up, straightening his clothes as he strode into the
hall, a smartass remark on his tongue for Wade interrupting them.
Except it wasn’t Wade standing out of the rain on the doorstep.
“Uh, hello.” It was an older man, wearing a well-cut suit. He was tall and
lean, clearly someone who took good care of himself, his salt-and-pepper hair
trimmed and combed neatly, clean-shaven. He had had hazel eyes, friendly and
intelligent. He also had the same cleft in his chin that Bucky had, the same
cupid’s bow lips, the same nose. “Is Jimmy here?”
Chapter End Notes
     Jimmy...
***** I Sit Now With His Hand In Mine *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Hollow by Pantera.
     It's been a long time, guys! I'm so sorry for not posting sooner,
     life happened.
     Also, so much love and gratitude to everyone who commented on the
     non-chapter, I loved and saved each one!
     Okay, so this is sorta two very short chapters in one, because after
     my very long absence, I could not leave you all with another
     cliffhanger.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Wish I was too dead to cry
My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
Masochists to which I cater
You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on,
I won't let go 'til it bleeds
 
Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
So you fed me shit to digest
I wish I had a reason;
my flaws are open season
For this, I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying
 
Wish I'd died instead of lived
A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten
with its memories
Diaries left
with cryptic entries
 
You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on:
I'll never live down my deceit
 
- Bother, Stone Sour
 
~
 
“Is Jimmy here?”
Before Steve could say anything, Bucky’s voice rose from behind him.
“Dad?”
The man’s lips lifted in a smile, his eyes looking past Steve toward Bucky.
“Jimmy. It’s been too long. How are you, son?”
Steve turned, moving out of the way so the man could step into the hall. On the
curb behind him, Steve saw a shiny grey sedan that must be his.
“Where did you get this address?” Bucky’s voice was strained, and Steve looked
from the man to him, pushing away the urge to bodily shield Bucky from the man.
“Your manager, Mr Pierce, gave it to me. He said he was worried about you, that
you haven’t been doing too well.”
Bucky didn’t reply, his chest rising and falling with each silent breath, as if
the air were too thin. After a tense moment, the man turned to Steve.
“We haven’t been introduced. I’m George Barnes, Jimmy’s father.”
Steve took the man’s proffered hand, but Bucky cut across him as he started to
speak.
“Steve is my bodyguard.” The words were flat, inflectionless, and Steve turned
a worried gaze to Bucky, recognizing the utter stillness that showed Bucky was
under stress. “Steve,” Bucky continued. “I’m out of tea. Could you go get some,
please?”
For a moment, the world seemed to warp around Steve. Because Bucky had just
told an outright lie. Bucky, who bent the truth, but never said anything
untrue, ever, had lied. Steve knew this, because Bucky had spent twenty minutes
the previous night teaching Steve how to properly make tea, and Steve clearly
remembered the box being almost full. Such a small thing, Steve thought. Such a
small thing to lie about. It sent shivers of somethingalmost like panic up
Steve’s spine.
“Right now?” Steve asked.
“Yes.” Bucky reached out and snagged a set of keys from the bowl on the hall
table. “Take my car.”
Steve caught the keys Bucky tossed to him. He pressed down on the steadily
rising feeling of something being very wrong. Steve knew Bucky and his father
hadn’t seen each other in years, maybe he just wanted some time for them to get
reacquainted? Yes, Steve reasoned to himself, that had to be it.
“Okay,” Steve said, and moved to put on his shoes, ignoring the way George
Barnes silently watched the exchange between them.
“I have my phone,” Steve told Bucky. “Call if you need anything.”
“Yeah.” Bucky wasn’t even looking at Steve, his eyes fixed on his father.
Steve took a last glance at Bucky as he left, unable to shake the feeling that
he was making a mistake in leaving.
 
The drive across town was unpleasant, the traffic heavier than expected for the
time of day, the rain adding to an atmosphere of disaster-waiting-to-happen,
and it scratched at Steve’s nerves. While in the car, he dialed Nat’s number.
She answered on the third ring.
“Hey,” Steve said, “you still friends with that PI?”
“Yeah,” Nat’s voice sounded tinny and distant through the loudspeaker. “You
have something for her?”
“I just want some info on someone,” Steve started. The explanation of his
suspicions lasted all the way to the little import shop in Manhattan where
Bucky bought the Russian tea he liked.
“Thanks, Nat,” Steve told her as he parked the car.
“Anytime,” Nat replied. “Hey, since your assignment’s almost over, we should
all go for a drink sometime soon, okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “that sounds really good.”
He ended the call and went into the shop, finding the tea with some difficulty.
He paid and got back in the car just as his phone beeped with a text. It was
Sam, sending him a silly picture of Clint right after winning a round of Mortal
Kombat. Steve grinned and typed congratulations to his friend.
The traffic back to Bucky’s house was an even worse nightmare. The rain came
down heavier, seemingly causing half the population to forget how to drive.
Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he parked Bucky’s car and got out, the
plastic bag with the tea slung over one finger. There was no sign of the man’s
car near Bucky’s house and Steve felt a second wave of relief wash over him. He
ducked through the front door, dripping a little, and called out to Bucky.
There was no reply.
Steve frowned as he checked the living room and kitchen. Both empty. His
stomach lurched at the sudden vivid memory of the wooden box Bucky kept under
his bed. Steve rushed up the stairs and into Bucky’s room, only to stop dead in
his tracks, the bag of tea falling from his limp fingers onto the floor with a
barely audible thud. There was the wooden box, on the floor, lid open, some of
its contents spilled out on the floor like the viscera of a man who had stepped
on a landmine.
Steve dragged his eyes from the box to the immobile shape on the bed.
“Bucky… oh dear God, Bucky, no!”
 
~
 
Help me if you can
It's just that this, this is not the way I'm wired
So could you please,
 
Help me understand why
You've given in to all these
Reckless dark desires
 
You're lying to yourself again
Suicidal imbecile
Think about it, you're pounding on the fault line
What'll it take to get it through to you precious
I'm over this. Why do you wanna throw it away like this?
Such a mess.
 
Why would I want to watch you
Disconnect and self-destruct one bullet at a time?
What's your rush now, everyone will have his day to die
 
Medicated, drama queen, picture perfect, numb belligerence
Narcissistic, drama queen, craving fame and all its decadence
 
Disconnect and self-destruct, one bullet at a time
What's your hurry, everyone will have his day to die
If you choose to pull the trigger, should your drama prove sincere,
Do it somewhere far away from here
 
- The Outsider, A Perfect Circle
 
~
 
Feeling like a puppet controlled by invisible strings, Steve allowed his
training to move his body. He rushed over to where Bucky was slumped on his
side, phone already in his hand, his fingers dialing without need for his brain
to think about it first.
Bucky’s eyes were rolled back, only the whites visible through his half-closed
lids. There was a small puddle of vomit on the pillow, smeared over his cheek
and in his hair, but he was breathing, if barely, as Steve checked to make sure
his airway was clear.
Steve spoke to the operator as calmly as he possibly could, even as wanted to
scream and cry for Bucky to just wake up.
“Drug overdose. Heroin, maybe something else. Yes, he’s breathing. Pulse
irregular.”
The minutes it took the ambulance to arrive each seemed like an entire lifetime
of waiting, praying, begging.
Steve adjusted Bucky’s body into the recovery position, talking quietly to him,
begging him to hold on, to not leave Steve like this. Finally, Steve heard the
sirens and he rushed downstairs to meet the paramedics. He stood aside to let
them work, answering the questions they shot at him as accurately as he could.
As they carried him out on the stretcher, Steve’s eyes fell on a folded piece
of paper printed with his name, and a crystal case containing an unmarked DVD.
Steve rode in the ambulance to the hospital, gripping the paper and DVD.
Once there he watched them hurry Bucky away, then went to the nurse’s station
to fill out what forms he could, while the hospital called Wade, who was listed
as Bucky’s emergency contact.
Wade arrived sooner than Steve expected, rushing over to him with panic written
clearly on his scarred face.
“He’s still inside,” Steve said before Wade could start asking questions. “I
haven’t heard anything yet. He OD’d. I don’t know if I was too late.”
“Where were you?!” Wade snapped. “You were supposed to be with him! Why weren’t
you?”
“He sent me to get him tea.” The answer was so weak. Steve felt his throat
tighten. “I’m sorry.”
Wade seemed to calm down a bit, one hand gripping Steve’s shoulder. “What
happened?”
They sat down on uncomfortable plastic chairs and Steve told Wade about the
morning’s events. At the mention of Bucky’s father, Wade looked just as puzzled
as Steve felt. Finally, a doctor came to find them.
“I’m Dr Khadem. Mr Barnes is alive, but he is in a coma. It may be only
temporary, but there is no way of knowing when he will wake up. I am sorry. We
will be moving him to a room soon, then someone will bring you to see him.”
Steve nodded, shaking the doctor’s hand and thanking him. Wade did the same.
Steve turned to him. “I should go pack him a bag,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” Wade seemed a little lost. “I’ll call the guys, let them know.”
“Yeah. Fred’s still at Darcy’s. Could you call her, too? I don’t have the
number.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
Steve left the hospital, still clutching Bucky’s note.
Once back inside Bucky’s house, he put the note and DVD on the kitchen counter,
then went upstairs. He changed the sheets on Bucky’s bed, putting the soiled
ones in the wash. Then he emptied the wooden box. He flushed the drugs and
threw away the other paraphernalia, then put the box back under Bucky’s bed.
He rummaged through Bucky’s closet, pulling out a duffel bag and filling it
with several changes of clothes and pajamas, toiletries, a couple of books and
Bucky’s phone and charger. He set the bag in the hall before going to the
kitchen.
He lifted the note and read the two words written inside.
 
I’m sorry.
 
Then he took the DVD into the living room and popped it into the player.
Home movies,Steve thought as the screen showed him a little boy who had to be
Bucky when he was about five years old. Then Steve realized what he was seeing
and recoiled, skipping ahead to the next part, showing George Barnes’ face
before panning to Bucky at around six. Then a gap toothed third grader. Chubby
and eating cake on his twelfth birthday. A surly fourteen-year old. All
starring Bucky and his dad.
Steve stopped the DVD, sitting back for a second before jumping up, nearly
tripping over his own feet as he ran to the bathroom. He reached the toilet
just in time to be violently sick. He retched up what was left of his
breakfast, the acidic bile burning he throat. It took a while for the nausea to
subside, and Steve swayed a little as he got to his feet to rinse his mouth and
splash water on his face. When he felt a little steadier, he went back to the
living room and removed the DVD from the player. He snapped the disc in half
and threw it in the trash, leaving the empty case on the table. He put Bucky’s
note in his pocket and grabbed the duffel, locking the door behind him.
Chapter End Notes
     So, there was a mini Bucky POV chapter here
     And, if any of you are interested in more Wade, I wrote a thing and
     another thing for the past two annual international fanworks days.
     Maybe they could tide you guys over until the next chapter?
***** Try to die again... *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Suicide Note pt. I by Pantera.
Now I think I understand
How this world can overcome a man
Like a friend we saw it through
In the end I gave my life for you
 
Gave you all I had to give
Found a place for me to rest my head
While I may be hard to find
Heard there's peace just on the other side
 
Not that I could
Or that I would
Let it burn
Under my skin
Let it burn
 
Left this life to set me free
Took a piece of you inside of me
All this hurt can finally fade
Promise me you'll never feel afraid
 
I hope it's worth it
What's left behind me, yeah
I know you'll find your own way
When I'm not with you
So tell everybody
The ones who walk beside me, yeah
I know you'll find your own way
When I'm not with you tonight
 
- Fiction, Avenged Sevenfold
 
~
 
Back at the hospital, Wade was slumped in a chair, Scott next to him, his face
drawn in worry. Steve put Bucky’s duffel down near Wade’s feet, opened his
mouth to say… anything, and was interrupted by the hurrying footsteps of Rumlow
coming towards them.
“Jack is out of town; he’s making arrangements to come back. What the fuck
happened?”
Three pairs of eyes turned to Steve, who took a deep breath before relaying the
day’s events, leaving out only that he and Bucky had slept together and the DVD
Bucky had left him.
Steve sank into a chair a little ways away from Wade and Scott, feeling more
like an outsider here than he’d ever done before. To his surprise, Rumlow came
to sit next to him.
“His dad showed up?” Rumlow asked in a low voice.
Steve nodded, casting a sideways glance at the other man. “He said Pierce gave
him Bucky’s address.”
Rumlow made a quiet sound. “Did he tell you? About his dad?”
Steve nodded again. “It was too late. You knew?”
“Yeah,” Rumlow scrubbed a hand over his face. “We used to be good friends, me
and James. You probably think I’m full of shit, but it’s true. I fucked it up
by being a dick, I was too angry, too fuckin’ scared. Fuck.”
Rumlow looked at Steve for a long beat, his eyes a little red.
Steve gripped his shoulder for a second, at a loss for words. It was a long
wait, and soon more people were arriving. Darcy, wearing ripped skinny jeans
and dark red lipstick, followed by a huge blond man who was introduced to Steve
as Thor, the owner of the tattoo shop where Darcy worked. He hugged everyone,
even Steve, then sat down on a chair that looked too flimsy to support his
bulk. After them it was Rollins, who sat next to Rumlow without a word. Then
came Sam, who tried to persuade Steve to go home.
“I’m staying, Sam,” Steve said, obstinate. Sam sighed and sank into a chair
next to Darcy, just as the doors on the far side of the corridor swung open.
Dr Khadem walked over to them, his expression serious. “Mr Barnes has been
moved to a private room, though he is still in a coma. You can see him in
pairs, no more than two minutes each, for now.”
Wade got up first, gripping Steve’s shoulder and all but hauling him along the
corridor after the doctor.
They turned into a room, which Steve had expected would be filled with beeping
machinery and nurses, but had only one silent machine and no nurses at the
moment. Just Bucky, on his back on the uncomfortable-looking bed, seeming for
all the world to be sleeping.
Wade went over the him immediately, making some pun that Steve could barely
hear over the rushing in his ears. Steve stayed at the end of the bed, though
he reached out with one hand to brush his fingers over Bucky’s blanket-covered
ankle. With a certainty Steve couldn’t explain, he knew Bucky would wake up
soon. Knew it like the color of Bucky’s eyes or the sound of his voice. He
turned and left the room, motioning for Darcy to take his place once he’d
reached the group of Bucky’s loved ones. He sat down next to Sam, and pressed
his fingers to his lips. More waiting, as each person got to see Bucky, then
more waiting as some went home, and others got greasy food from the cafeteria.
More waiting as Sam begged Steve to come home to sleep and he refused. More
waiting as the sun set and rose and set again. More waiting as Steve dozed
fitfully in his chair. More waiting as Wade pressed a cup of tarry coffee into
his hand in the pre-dawn chill. More waiting as Darcy assured him Fred was
fine. More waiting as the doctor came to check in and tell them Bucky’s
condition remained unchanged. More waiting, and waiting, and waiting as
something like a scream built up inside Steve. Five days of waiting. Five days,
then there was a commotion outside of Bucky’s room and the doctor came rushing
past, into the room already filled with nurses, and a beeping somewhere close
by.
“He’s awake.”
The doctor’s face swam in Steve’s vision as he sank down against the wall. He’s
awake.Steve was numb, too cold, too hot, his eyes blurring, his ribs aching and
then he realized he wasn’t breathing.
He’s awake.
Steve dragged in breath, forcing oxygen into his lungs. He’s awake.
He found his feet, found Sam. He’s awake.
“I want to go home.” He’s awake.
 
Three days later, Wade showed up on his doorstep.
“He asked about you.” It wasn’t an accusation.
Steve sighed. “I can’t, Wade. I’ll be a crutch for him.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yeah. He’s strong enough to get clean without me. And if he doesn’t… I’d
rather he do that without me, too.”
“He asked about a DVD he gave you.”
Steve’s eyes snapped up to Wade’s face, then back down to the coffee mug in his
hands. “It didn’t change anything. You can tell him I said that.”
“So, in other news,” Wade said. “Pierce got arrested. On charges of sexual
harassment and coercion. A girl in a band he used to manage came forward. The
whole thing pretty much razed Hydra Records to the ground.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve lied, making a mental note to send Natasha and
her private investigator a couple of expensive gifts for a job well done.
“Oh, that’s just the start of it. Yesterday morning, none other than business
tycoon Tony Stark himself strolls into Bucky’s hospital room where we’re all
gathered, right. And he cool-as-a-fucking-cucumber informs us he’s branching
out into the music industry with a record label called Iron Man records. I
suppose he paid Black Sabbath a bajillion dollars to use the name. And he
offers us a deal, right there, wearing a Tom Ford three piece with grease
stains on the cuffs.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “That’s some imagination you got there, Wade.”
“You’d think I’d be making this up, but I’m not.”
“Did you accept?” Steve asked, making another mental note to paint something
completely ostentatious for Tony, who he’d guarded a couple of times over the
years, and to whom he had turned to cash in a favor he had earned by saving
Tony’s life.
“Hell yeah! Rollins seemed to have some second thoughts, but Bucky took one
look at Brock and he got Jack to agree.”
“I’m really happy for you guys,” Steve said, with obvious sincerity.
“But you won’t come talk to Bucky?”
“There’s nothing to say, Wade,” Steve said, weariness seeping into his bones.
“And… if Bucky doesn’t get clean… Wade, I can’t go through that again.” There
was no use pretending in front of Wade that his feelings didn’t run deeper than
employer-employee, or even just friends. Wade must have known since Steve had
refused to leave the hospital until Bucky had woken up.
“And when he does get clean?” Wade asked.
“I hope to God he does.”
“And when he does?” Wade repeated.
“Then I want him to be happy. Without me.”
“Why does it have to be without you?” Wade looked almost heartbroken. “You love
him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. Enough to be his crutch, his escape mechanism, his enabler. I’ve
already been that too long. I’m bad for him. I’ll stop his from getting
better.”
Finally, either agreeing with Steve, or tired of fighting him, Wade left, but
not before wringing a promise out of Steve to stay in touch with him, if not
with Bucky.
 
Exhausted and miserable, Steve sat down on his bed. For the first time since
returning all his belongings to his and Sam’s apartment, he pulled his
sketchbook closer. He opened to the first blank page and drew his index finger
down neatly torn pages where he’d removed Bucky’s tattoo design. Those pages
he’d left carefully on top of Bucky’s bed, for him to find once he’d been
discharged from the hospital. A parting gift.
***** And These Eyes Have Seen A World: Goddamn Electric System... *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.
     315 Bowery is (was) the address of CBGB.
     Please read .5:_The_Gray_Chapter first.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
So close no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
And nothing else matters
 
Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say
And nothing else matters
 
Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
And nothing else matters
 
Never cared for what they do
Never cared for what they know
But I know
 
Never cared for what they say
Never cared for games they play
Never cared for what they do
Never cared for what they know
And I know
 
So close no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
No nothing else matters
 
- Nothing Else Matters, Metallica
 
~
 
Thirteen_Months_Later
 
Steve’s phone vibrated with a text alert, and he barely suppressed the impulse
to reach for it. Checking your phone while standing discreetly next to a very
high profile politician was a bad idea. Even worse considering that the
politician Steve was guarding was attending a meeting with the President of the
United States, who was sitting directly in Steve’s line of sight. He sighed.
President Ellis wasn’t awful, but his successor and the new administration…
well, that was a whole pile of nope that Steve didn’t wanna touch with a ten-
foot pole. Unless that touching came in the form of punching the Neo-Nazi Chief
Strategist in the face. That, Steve thought to himself, he would do with a
smile.
 
Once the meeting was over and he was free for a lunchbreak, Steve pulled his
phone out of his pocket.
 
Wade: I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby.
Steve raised an eyebrow.
Steve: While I appreciate a 10 Things I Hate About You reference as much as the
next guy, I don’t think that text was meant for me.
Wade: oh but it was, big boy. I need you to accompany me on a night time
excursion ;)
Steve: Am I required to wear a stocking over my head? Or bring a grappling
hook?
Wade: nope. just wear a nice button up and bring Sammy-baby ;x
Steve: Sounds terrifying.
Wade: Tomorrow, 8pm, 315 Bowery
 
Steve put his phone back in his pocket, then reconsidered and pulled it out
again. He texted Wade in the affirmative, then called Sam to extend the
invitation. Over the last few months he’s kept in contact with Wade via text
and twitter – never so much as mentioning Bucky – but has only seen the man
once, briefly at the grocery store, since their conversation after the
hospital.
He was apprehensive, but even so, the following evening found him buttoning up
a blood red shirt over dark blue jeans. He shrugged on a leather jacket and
followed Sam out of their apartment.
The address was for a bar in Manhattan, the kind that would never see an inch
of gentrification and still have their logo on celebs’ t-shirts. Wade was
standing outside, in front of a sign advertising live music, next to a young
man with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses that managed to be more
adorable than hipster.
“Peter,” Wade said, “this is Steven and Samwise. Steven, Samwise, my soulmate,
Peter.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he shook their hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you
guys, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” said Steve, who’d never heard a word about Peter from Wade.
Peter smiled and walked into the bar alongside Steve.
“Wade doesn’t talk about me too much, even though we’ve known each other for a
few years.”
“Why?” Steve asked, taking a seat next to Peter at the table Wade pointed out,
glancing at the other man’s profile as he went to the bar to get drinks with
Sam in tow.
“He thinks I should be ashamed of him,” Peter said, his voice fond. “Because of
his military record and, I daresay, the scars. Stupid, really. If I weren’t
straight, I’d probably have married him by now.”
Steve smiled. “Wade’s a good man.”
“Yeah,” Peter said, looking over his shoulder at the subject of their
discussion. “He really is.”
They made small-talk and Steve learned Peter was doing freelance photography to
pay for NYU, that he really wanted to be a biochemist someday, and that he had
a really cool girlfriend named Mary-Jane.
It was nice, sitting in the dimly lit bar with friends, classic rock filtering
through the speakers.
Then the spotlight over the empty little stage in the back corner came on and a
man with graying, curly hair stepped out, microphone in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man said in a whiskey-rich voice. “Please welcome
to our humble establishment, from the band Siberia; James Barnes!”
Steve looked across the table at Wade, feeling betrayed. Wade gripped Steve’s
forearm, pinning it to the table.
“Just stay until the end of the set. Please, Steve.”
Steve sagged. He didn’t want to cause a scene, especially not now. He lifted
his gaze to the stage, and watched Bucky step into the spotlight with a guitar
in his hand.
He looked good. Very good, Steve noticed as he took a seat on a stool and
started adjusting his microphone. He looked leaner, his cheekbones standing out
in sharp relief under slightly flushed skin and Steve realized that this was
the first time he’d ever seen Bucky in perfect health. He seemed thinner
because there was no bloating from drink and drugs. His skin was flushed
naturally, from the heat of the stage lights. Steve knew that – if Bucky were
to remove his long-sleeved white t-shirt – his body would be all lean muscle,
healthy and strong. Bucky started playing and singing an acoustic version of a
Siberia song, and Steve saw his hair had grown longer, now falling just past
his shoulders in shiny, soft, chocolate colored waves that Steve wanted very
badly to run his fingers through.
For three songs Steve sat silently transfixed, then Bucky took a break to drink
some water and readjust the mic. He pushed up his sleeves to resume playing and
Steve sucked in a shuddering breath. Because his right arm, bare and smooth the
last time Steve had seen it, was now covered in ink. A flowing, organic design,
all eyes and flesh and skin and bone. Fenrir, the great wolf of Norse
mythology. Steve knew it, intimately, because he had spent hours drawing it. It
was the tattoo he had designed for Bucky, the sketches he had left on his bed,
now imbedded within Bucky’s skin the way Bucky was imbedded in Steve’s soul.
Steve watched Bucky as he strummed his guitar, an unfamiliar melody blossoming
warm and sweet from it.
“Can’t tell the difference between truth and fiction
Can’t get enough, it’s become an addiction
I’m painting this scene with the symptoms of my affliction
I’m pulling myself in conflicting directions…
But I don’t care
I need some sleep
I don’t care enough to keep on looking for direction
I think that I’m in need of some protection.”
 
If there had still been any question of Steve leaving, Bucky’s voice made the
answer very clear. Steve glanced at Wade, who was smiling fondly at Peter, then
looked back to Bucky, drinking in every note.
Not once during the set did Bucky look their way, and Steve wasn’t sure if he
was relieved or disappointed. He settled on relief as Bucky finally walked of
stage, and leaned across to Sam.
“Can you get me another beer? I’m going to the bathroom.”
Sam nodded and Steve left to go empty his bladder and clear his head. For so
long he’d been studiously avoiding news about Siberia and Bucky, that seeing
him now was more of a shock than Steve expected it to be. He looked at himself
in the mirror over the sink as he washed his hands. Same old Steve, no outer
signs of his inner turmoil. He mentally told himself to quit being a baby and
left the bathroom, treading gingerly through the narrow, dark corridor back to
the bar, only to almost literally bump into someone silhouetted against the
lights from the room where Steve was heading.
“Steve.”
Steve swallowed heavily. “Hey, Buck.”
Bucky smiled at him, his gaze warm. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Steve said, “working a lot. How ‘bout you?”
Bucky’s smile widened a little. “Better. Been sober for almost eight months
now.”
Steve grinned, genuine and happy. “That’s great, Buck! I’m happy to hear it.”
Bucky nodded, ducking his head a little. “I’m going to therapy, too. To deal
with all this crap, y’know.” Bucky motioned to his head.
Steve couldn’t help it. He reached out a hand to clasp Bucky’s shoulder. “I
really am happy for you, Bucky.”
“Thanks, Stevie.”
Steve stood aside to let Bucky pass into the corridor, took two steps toward
the table where Wade, Sam and Peter were sitting, then felt a hand on his arm.
He turned to face Bucky, who looked suddenly serious. “Hey, Steve, I just…
wanted to say I’m sorry. For, y’know…”
Steve nodded. “I know. It’s okay.”
But Bucky shook his head. “I get it, y’know, why you left. It might sound
fucking awful to say this, but you did the right thing.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah. It was the kick in the ass that I needed.”
Steve gave a rueful smile. “Well, in that case, you’re welcome.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, then turned somber. “I miss you.”
The words made Steve’s breath hitch, and he swallowed heavily.
“I miss you, too.”
“Maybe…” Bucky hesitated, “maybe we could get dinner sometime? If you want?”
“Only if you promise to have me home before curfew. I’m old, I need my eight
hours of sleep.”
“Grandpa.”
“Jerk.”
“Punk.”
Steve grinned. “I should go. I actually have to work this weekend, so I should
get an early night.”
“An early night,” Bucky mocked playfully. “You’re no fun.”
Chapter End Notes
     The End.
End Notes
     Comments and kudos are food for starving writers, please feed me!
     Also, for Marvel prompts or to request a fic - find me on Twitter at
     yollie183
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