starmaki

This was for week 16 for mcuflashmeme: A story that begins with a gunshot.

This scene was for my Bluebird fic I wrote last year, but it somehow, for one reason or another, never ended up in the fic. The rough draft of this scene was still written out in my notebook. I have been meaning to add some "timestamps" to that fic, missing scenes, so here is one.^_^ The title is a little silly, but I got stuck on it. I mean to change it later, maybe.

So the setting is the Bluebird fic (though it can be understood without reading that fic). World War 2. CATFA. Characters: Bucky Barnes, Gabe Jones and Steve Rogers. POV Bucky. Warnings of Graphic Depictions Of Violence and Angst. PTSD. Swearing. Oh and a tiny touch of humor.

***
'Baker Needs Sugar'




The story started with a gunshot...

Mouth grim, eyes narrowing to slits, Bucky squeezed the trigger. The heavy .45 kicked in his left hand, but he steady it, aiming and firing again and again. The sharp bark of the pistol echoed in the semi-abandoned factory. Each bullet finding its target. The impact knocking the Hydra soldiers clean off their feet. One just folded down, a puppet cut off his strings, face half gone.

Bucky fired until his gun was empty and swiftly reloaded as he walked further down the hallway past the dead and nearly dead twitching bodies. He didn’t look down at the pools of blood or retch at the acid smell of piss. He didn’t notice the decaying walls, rusting machines, a dead factory with more unmourned death to lie in this place forgotten for all time. He didn’t notice, didn’t want to notice, yet it all leaked in his brain anyhow to settle in like a festering boil.

He neared a set of heavy double doors with yards of chain looping the sliding bar to close and lock it. Fuck… Bucky took a deep breath and let out the building tension in his muscles, his lungs breathing in the dust, oil and metal of the factory. He got out his radio to call it in.

“Sugar, this is Baker, over.” Bucky said in a low voice. He kept searching for any movement around him as he spoke. He didn’t know how sneaky the bastards were. They haven’t been so far, but he didn’t want a bullet in the back from dropping his guard.

“Baker, what’s the status, over,” Steve’s voice came after a burst of static that jangled Bucky’s nerves.

“Need assistance with a heavy hatch, send Sugar, over.”

Bucky allowed himself a quiet chuckle at their phonetic call names. Oh, yes Baker would like some Sugar. Steve wasn’t fond of his code name Bucky christened him with, but fuck it if he’d use Roger. Too confusing. So he was Baker and Steve was Sugar. It made perfect sense to him. Also he liked to rib Steve. Their wasn’t much fun in the war zone, so of course he was going to be an ass sometimes.

“Roger. Sugar and two. Wilco, over,” Steve said.

“Roger. Baker, out.” He put the radio away, before standing guard. Bucky’s finger ghosting his gun’s trigger, a phantom stroke, a hair from touching, as he paced back and forth, body a live wire, as he waited for Steve and two others to break the door down.

Because, yes, maybe—maybe, he could bend that thick heavy chain himself. Not in the past, but now? After escaping Zola? What was terrifying him was the implications of ‘what if he could’. And he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think. So he pushed it down in a little dark place in his mind where he kept all his fears and secrets. And hoped it would just stay there.

Bucky heard Gabe Jones’ Thompson firing in the near distance, clearing out another corridor. The bullets spat out in a blaring rattle that rang in his head. The Thompson signature sound a welcome and recognizing mark of Gabe. Like a fingerprint.

“Sarge…” The name pushed out of Gabe’s breath as he jogged up to Bucky’s side. “Well, shit!” His eyes bugged out at the thick chains on the door.

“Exactly, what I thought,” Bucky said, giving a small smirk.

“Wonder what’s so important to have it locked up like that?” Jones gestured with his gun to the heavy door.

Bucky shrugged. “Fuck if I know, but we’ll find out as soon as Rogers’ hauls his ass up here.”

Bucky licked his dry lips. Dammit, a cigarette would taste so good right now. He had a whole pack of Wings begging to be opened in his pocket. Not his favorite brand, but he wanted at add another card to his collection. And the nicotine would smooth his nerves. Each hidden Hydra facility or location they found lead to more mystery and more questions. And another facility. The harder they squeezed and stomped on them, the more they found. Like ants, they were everywhere. But he was determined to eliminate each one; he just hoped that he would live long enough to step on that one last ant and be done with it and go home.

Week 15: A story set at a concert or festival.

Story with Sam and Steve. Sam pov, G rated, after catws but before cacw. Setting Washington D.C. during the cherry blossom festival. This is my first attempt at writing from Sam's pov. I like Sam lots, but he is difficult to write for me so I thought I'd challenge myself. I think I found his voice here. ^_^

***
In Bloom

It was the beginning of April and Sam was diverting from his normal jogging run. The cherry blossoms trees on both sides of the path were in full bloom. Pink delicate puffs telling him spring was here. A chill still settled in the early morning air, but he took care of that by working up a sweat. His steady pounding feet took him down the path heading for East Potomac Park. He knew who he would find there. Steve.

Steve was sitting under one of the many cherry blossom trees, peering out over the pallid water. The pink explosions of color so different to the fiery ones two years ago at this very place. Soft petals gently rained down, not burning soot and twisted metal.

"He pulled me out, you know." Steve said, without looking at Sam. His eyes fixating on what was in front of him or maybe what he was remembering.

Sam pulled up and walked over to Steve. "Of course, he did."

"You believe me?" Steve looked up at Sam, an eyebrow raised. He was so ready to defend what he believed, but Sam side-stepped the question by agreeing.

"It really isn't a matter of believing or not, " Sam said, as he stopped at Steve's right side. He was a little of breath, placing both hands on his hips, nodding toward the shoreline. "There were boot prints near you coming out of the water. They took off that way." Sam pointed near the treeline at the path the rescuer took. "Disappeared once off the soft soil into the trees."

"You were there." Steve squinted up at him, shading his hand to his eyes to block the morning's bright sun. It had all the making of being a perfect spring day including the sun and near cloudless sky.

"Who do you think gave you medical attention? I couldn't let all that PJ training go to waste. The government spent good money on it." Sam never thought he needed to tell him, it just was, what it was. He didn't feel the need go into something that was so automatic, his training, like breathing. It was just something he use to do, in the past.

"Thanks." He was staring at Sam, dropping his hand down to his knee, drawing it up.

"For what?" Sam grinned, as he squatted down to be more eye level with Steve.

Steve didn't answer for a moment, before he broke eye contact and shrugged. "Don't know."

"Yeah, you do." Sam called him on it, his smile disappearing as he added. "You'll find him, you know."

"I don't think he wants to be found." Steve said, lips turning down as his eyes looked downward at his sneakers.

"Maybe, maybe that's true, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Steve turned his head, nodding out at the Potomac. "It's all so different now. It's like the helicarriers didn't fall right out there, two years ago."

"Mother nature is funny like that." Sam broke out in a grin. He looked around at the flowering trees showing off like damn peacocks. All proud and bold, daring the cold winter of the past to keep at bay. "I have an idea."

"What?"

"Are you up to a challenge?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at Steve.

"What type?" And Sam could see a subtle change in Steve's posture, shoulders squaring. The sparkle in his eyes, the determine set of his jaw.

"You'll see. Come on." Sam stood up, offering his hand to Steve to help him up even though he didn't need it, but the simple act of offering was enough. Steve clasped his hand.

***

"Kites?" Steve was looking at the table filled with kite building supplies. A rainbow of colored paper and plastic, tape, glue, string and thin wooden strips were spread out like a crazy banquet. Kids at the far end were busy making their own masterpieces of sticks and plastic.

The annual 'Blossom Kite Festival' was taking place at the grounds around the Washington Monument. The second reason Sam changed his jogging route this morning; Steve was the first. He knew Steve might be going back to visit the Potomac because it was coming up on that anniversary.

Steve pulled his baseball cap down, adjusting his glasses, hunching his shoulders a bit to look smaller. Sam inwardly rolled his eyes. Steve just wasn't going to hide that tall, muscular frame.

"Sure." Sam gave an easy shrug as he picked up a sheet of bright red plastic. "Or do you think I'll show you up?"

"Oh no, you don't," Steve said, grabbing up a sheet of blue plastic.

"I don't know. I'm a pretty mean kite maker since I was ten." Sam said, gloating a little. He glance over at Steve rising both eyebrows in a silent dare.

"Five." Steve smirked. "I was five when I made my first kite."

"Okay, so you think you can beat me?" Sam pointed to himself. "Or are your skills still at five year old level?"

"I know I can." Steve stood tall before reaching for a ball of string.

"You keep talking, but I see no action." Sam palmed some tape. They both faced each other as if getting ready for battle.

"Just you wait." And the challenge was on.

***

The finished kites sailed into the cloudless sky with all the other dozens of flying bright and cheerful pieces of plastic and paper. The red, blue, white, yellow, orange, all mixing, darting, soaring like swooping birds in the blue, blue sky.

"Told you, I'd beat you." Steve's arced his blue kite, with the trailing white tail, in a loop.

"Excuse me?" Sam glared at him in amused annoyance.

"It was fair. The kids voted which one they liked better."

"So that's how it is?" Sam shook his head hiding a smile. He dipped his red kite with the orange tail and let the string ride out so it would go higher.

"Yep." Steve was all cocky grins as their kites did battle in the sky.

Sam just smiled.

Working title: 'Moonlight' (which is subject to change when I think of a better title) This is my second idea because the werewolf AU was not going to be finshed by Friday. Yeah, seriously I'm writing one, thanks to this prompt. Lol!

Prompt: Story set at a full moon.

Anyway, this story takes place after CATWS but before CACW. The full moon is present. Warnings: Steve/Bucky, General rating, Steve pov and oh angst, cause this is Steve and Bucky. Not betaed and still needs a tiny bit of editing before cross posting to ao3. Present tense (which is the first time I attempted a fic in this tense, it wasn't as easy, but I wanted to try it) Cross posted mcuflashmeme . Okay, let's get to it!

******

"Moonlight"

Steve wakes with a start. There is a presence in his bedroom, an intangible disturbance of particles, settled yet unsettled. A push of air, sketchbook pages fluttering, pencil rolling off his night-stand, bouncing on the hardwood floor. The noise like knuckles cracking--pop, pop. Steve drowsy senses coming on line sharp--sight, hearing, smell, and he sits up.

The window is open, damp night air invading. A bath of moonlight washes over floor boards, walls, furniture. Shadows stark, as if ink splashes across the room. It is a full moon. And he is being watched. The hair at the back of his neck prickles, palms sweat, as he peers around the room. Nothing, nothing and yet.

A shadow peels away from the wall, and moves closer to the pale light. He can make out the height and breadth. The solid mass. A glint of metal, but not a knife. Steve is almost certain. Or hopeful--fool's hope.

"You." The familiar voice is a low rumble and it vibrates to his very bones.

Steve remains quiet, holding his breath, shoulders tense. He does not want break the spell, the moment. He has searched for months and now he is here in his room. And he is not prepared. Every practiced word, turns to dust in his mouth.

"Why?" The question pointed, but not hostile.

"Buck?" Steve asks, because he has to. His fingers dig into the sheets, the mattress, as if to hold on because the world is spinning too fast.

"Why are you?" And Bucky walks into the light, dressed all in black--black cargo pants, black hoodie. His dark hair, half obscuring his face, eyes--stormy blue. He is unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, and smells of stale sweat. But he doesn't look any less dangerous, doesn't look any less than Bucky.

He comes closer, the brief shine of metal, his finger tips and thumb, made from the motorcycle gloves he wears. Shining like five bright diamonds--like points of a star.

Bucky gets to the edge of the bed, boots never making a sound on the wooden floor, then stops.

"I remember."

"Remember, what?" Steve asks carefully. His heart is pounding hard against his ribs.

"The fire escape, a cold spring, someone sick, dying," Bucky says, his tone flat, metal fingers flexing.

Steve breath lodges in his throat, because he knows where this is going. He knows who was sick. Bucky rests his knee on the bed, weight sinking in. Steve scoots over to make room, blood rushing in his ears, pulse pounding, as he watches him. Bucky's face gives nothing away what he is thinking. His eyes look down at the bed, than back at Steve. Time falls away, and Steve wonders what Bucky will do now.

"Go to sleep," Bucky says.

"I'm not tried."

"Yes, you are."

The words stretch over the years and boomerang back at Steve, knocking the breath from his lungs. Replaying something only they knew, and no one else.

Bucky lies down on the bed, on the duvet, boots still on, and just stares at him, unblinking like a cat. Eyes dark, unreadable, but he isn't expressionless. His brows furrow together, lips pulling into a frown. One minute passes, two, and Steve loses track, because he can't believe Bucky is here. And the quiet, all but the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest, so he knows this is all real. And not a dream. He isn't sure how much time passes when Bucky breaks the silence.

"Turn around," Bucky says and finally blinks.

And Steve's pulse speeds up, stomach knotting, palms prickle in sweat as he curls them into loose fists. He tries to will himself to relax, to not spook Bucky, but he knows he is failing. He swallows, calming himself, and turns his back to Bucky to face the window. To watch the curtain drift in a breeze, the paper of his sketchbook flipping, flipping as if by invisible fingers, the moon--a perfect glowing disc in the cloudless night sky. He catalogs all this as if these small things are worth remembering. And they are if these are the last things he sees when he is with Bucky.

Steve stills, he turned his back Bucky, so much a stranger now. One that tried to kill him (but one that saved him too). He doesn't know which Bucky is now lying in his bed. The killer or the savior. Or maybe both. And he doesn't know what to expect--a knife between his shoulder blades, cold fingers circling his neck or maybe...just maybe...

There is hesitation as Bucky's right hand touches his hip, feather light. It rests there a few seconds before easing around, sliding across Steve's chest to rest there, palm flat, pressed to his heart. The gap between them narrows as Bucky slides closer; the firm press of his body to Steve's back. He feels the power pulsing in Bucky's still body--a force of nature, contained, for now. And Steve is sixteen again--small, thin and cold, so cold; and Bucky, a solid, comforting, warm weight behind him. Then and now. He smells of fish brine, sweat and grime. And the smell isn't too unfamiliar to Steve.

Bucky's nose finds a soft spot just behind Steve's ear and breathes in deep.

"Stevie." He breathes out in a whisper, tightening his grip, curling more into Steve.

And, oh God! Steve is nearly undone when Bucky says his name, his eyes mist up and he bites at his lower lip. He misses this and he didn't even know until now. Because who is there to do this for him? Someone to hold him, comfort him, when he damn well would never ask, couldn't ask. Bucky's breath tickles his neck, his long hair falling over his collar bone, teasing his skin. It shoots shivers straight down his spine.

"Sleep." It comes out more like a command, Bucky's voice rough yet soft. As if he didn't speak often. But that just meant to Steve each word is important, like gold. Steve wants to protest, but that is what he would have done before with Bucky. In the past. But this is now so the words dried in his throat, and he just nods.

"Alright, Buck."

And Steve's heart does stop when Bucky's dry lips brush over his neck. He bites back a tiny whimper as a light kiss presses to the base of his neck.

"Why are you here?" Bucky asks. Steve feels each word on his skin.

"What do you mean?" Steve doesn't understand the question.

"You are dead." Bucky's breath hitches, then evens out. "They told me you were dead."

"I'm here." Steve risks placing his hand over Bucky's, both over his heart. Bucky hand doesn't move and it feels strong, scarred, secure. "I'm alive." And Steve wanted to pound his fists into the ones that hurt Bucky, lied to him. He read that damn file! He wanted to dig up and burn their bones and spit on their ashes. Steve heart ached with sudden rage, which Bucky neatly dampen with three simple words.

"Yes, you are." Bucky's breath moist and warm on his neck, as he nuzzled his nose more to that tender spot behind his ear. "You smell the same."

Steve closes his eyes, allowing his lips to curve into a small smile. "So do you."

A huff of air, between a cough and a sigh stirs Steve's hair. "I smell like shit."

"So?" The brief exchange between them is natural to Steve. So much said in so few words, as if time froze and they are the last two people on this earth. And Steve is okay with that. More than okay.

"Humph..." Is all Bucky says, as he rests his chin on Steve's shoulder, the hush slide of metal plates adjusting in his left arm as he slips it under the pillow.

They lie there together, long minutes pass. Breathes and heartbeats adjust to one rhythm, one tune. A missing harmony that fills Steve's soul when it was so empty before.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, after he watches the moon rise. The shadows growing darker, as less light pours in, until the moon drifts behind the upper windowsill.

"Shhh...You need to rest. Your mind's workin' so hard, steams coming outta your ears." Bucky says, his Brooklyn accent slipping in and out.

And Steve wonders if Bucky is here or somewhere else, reliving the past; and he doesn't want to intrude on that, even though he has a thousand things he wants to say, to ask. "It can wait until morning."

"Punk..." Bucky's quiet voice trails off to nothing as he gently rubs his lips into Steve's hair, before settling again to his shoulder. His lips mimic a kiss there, or maybe it is one. Dry, chapped lips pressing quick to his skin then away. And it burns, in that tiny spot. Burns.

"Yeah, morning," Bucky says, his breathing picking up a choppy rhythm, while his hand clenches more to Steve's chest, fingers grasping, twisting into his undershirt, five points branding, bruising into his skin, but Steve doesn't flinch at Bucky's tight hold. He swallows back a moan instead.

"Goodnight, jerk," Steve finally says, low, a little sarcastic, but it is real, and it is Steve, the real Steve. The one that only Bucky sees.

Bucky doesn't answer, but Steve feels his breath even out, slow, steady; and Steve finds despite himself drifting off, under the strong protective embrace of his oldest friend, best friend, and maybe he will be again one day. Because he feels safe, safe, and to hell with everyone else, because nothing could take this away from him, from them. He wants to be selfish. And hold this close to his heart, forever.

Morning arrives. The sheets tangled, duvet half on the floor, half still clinging to the bed. Dust motes dance in the morning light. Steve glances over to the window. It's shut. He rolls over--and Bucky is gone. But the impression is still there, dirt from his boots flaked and grounded into the duvet. And he fights the urge to gather the duvet to his chest, to bury his nose in it to capture Bucky's scent. He runs his palm over the bed where Bucky was. It's cool, no body heat left.

And it is the same--same as that night when he was sixteen. In the morning, Bucky was gone--out the window, down the fire escape--and they never mention that night. He held him all night long when he was gravely ill, that they gave him last rites. And now it is replaying itself. And Steve's insides knotted, his chest hollow, heart scooped out, and he gasps from the loss, fighting back tears, tearing his fingers into the bed-sheets. So close, so close.

Steve notices the sketchbook, the pencil not on the floor, but stuck in between the pages. Sitting up, he grabs it, hands shaking as he opens the sketchbook to the bookmarked pages. There...there, he stares at Bucky's neat script. The same careful penmanship the sisters rapped rulers on knuckles over. Words, some crossed out as he wrote it, but it is clear and the words shear into his mind.

Stevie,
I can't stay. Don't look I can't be the person you want me to be. I am not who you think I am. I'm not a good man. The terrible things I've done. I remember so many things. Mostly bad, but It gets confusing in my head. I see you and remember not all my memories are bad. Some are good, pure. I didn't want to ruin it. I'm not ready. I won't

So Stevie, take your medicine and I'll see you in school Brooklyn on that bridge I couldn't sell.

--B.

Steve's lips tremble when he reaches the end of the note. Brushes at his eyes, to remove sleep, not tears from his eyes. Dammit, he is fooling no one, especially himself, when he looks down at his wet fingertips.

They will meet in Brooklyn again. Steve knows this, swears this to the bottom of his soul. He will not stop searching. And when they finally are together again, they will be home.

This was my second idea as the first one wasn't working out as I hoped. I kind of failed at creepy, this turned out more angsty and sad. :( .I wrote this in about little over an hour after work in the food court when I was waiting for my ride. This is the short version. I have a longer version that I added to this and finishing up and will post later at ao3. ( might also post the short version there too) Cross posted for week 9 at mcuflashmeme Without much further ado, here it goes....

Warnings for angst, blood, graphic violence, death ( not major character). Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier and his point of view.

***
One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret Never to be told.
***

One For Sorrow

He kept them in a box, souvenirs--mementos. He didn't know why. Maybe to jar a memory--a memory he couldn't grasp. To remember a time, a mission, a face. They let him keep it, the wood, black , lacquered box, stored away with his guns and TAC gear--let him open it and touch each item. The tactical feel against his flesh hand was comforting as he counted each one. A calmness settled in his bones as he sorted through the box. They said the contents were his--a collection. He wasn't sure of the significance of it. All he knew it was his and they let him keep it.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke.

He picked up a brass button, flipping it between his knuckles like a coin. Not knowing why he knew how to do this, he just did.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-one. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.

An important mission. One he was worthy of, that no one else could do. His skills were needed for the good of mankind. Someone was going to die today. It was for the greater good. Chaos swept clean, evil eliminated with a flick of a knife or crack of a rifle.

It was almost child's play how easy it could be. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, it was that he was good at it. He took a certain pride in that. To be needed, to be the best. Child's play--if he could remember being a child or if he ever was one. All he knows he was born from pain and strife. Born to cleanse the earth with fire and blood--until they told him it was done. But it never was done. There was always one more enemy, one more purge.

So he went on collecting--one item at a time. A ribbon, a key, a coin, a ring--each memento was one small death in the larger scheme of things. But he wanted to remember each one, each face. To know they existed at one time like he exists now. But many times he could not recall, like his name. Others had names, he did not. Not really. It was his profession, soldier--asset. But not a name. He had just a number he could recall--3255. Was he one of many or the last of his kind? A dying breed. And he wondered.

***

The knife went deep, severing through flesh, tendons--a second smile--as the head, flopped back, still attached by the spinal cord, the neck bones--but little else. The blood gushed thick, wet, sticky as he carefully dropped the woman to the floor. He used too much force on such a delicate throat, one he could have crushed with his weaker hand. He used the stronger one and the cut became deeper, longer for it.

Maybe it was that he wanted to hold the slender column of skin and bone in his flesh hand. To feel the fluttering pulse, the texture of silky skin-- which his other hand could not-- a blunt weapon of force, able to tell hot, cold or pressure but little else. Then the flood of warmth as blood had coated his hand.

Crouching down, he wiped his hand on her gauzy blouse--sheer and now painted dark red. His fingers touched her cheek, eyes still open--blank, bottle green--mouth parted as if to draw a breath, exhale. His hand closed her eyes--brushed at her ear. A small pearl dotted in red and he plucked it off, rolling the smooth, hard marble in his fingers-- white, red, pink. And dropped it into one of his pockets. Another token, another memory, another face.

Maybe he made this death more memorable, special, within perimeters, that he would recall it later. Maybe this time he would remember.

***

He opened his box. He always counted the items, each one.

"Do you remember?" A handler spoke to him.

He picked up a pearl earring. It wasn't clean, smeared in pink.

"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-two. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.

Okay, this is just wishful thinking, it's not going to happen this way, but I can dream. ^.^ Post Ant-man credits and some of the first trailer altered slightly. Bucky pov. Steve and Bucky. Angst warning and a little detail of violence. Bucky doesn't refer to himself as Bucky yet. Going to post this later on ao3 after I clean this up a bit more. Just wanted to get it up here first. (Cross posted http://mcuflashmeme.dreamwidth.org/ )
The story is now uploaded to ao3. :)
http://archiveofourown.org/works/5987377

Now on with it! ^_^

Sometimes finding something you lost isn't always physical. Sometimes it is something else.

'for a muse of fire'

"Buck, do you remember me?"

He looked up following the voice, the man standing there, wary, hesitant, as he approached him. The set of his wide shoulders, hunched, steps soft. There was a fear in him, but there was no physical threat, at least not from him, trapped as he was. That face was in dreams and nightmares as he remembered bits and pieces.

"Your Mom's name was Sarah." His voice rough and quiet. As he also remembered another name, Becky, sister. His mind worked as he dragged up another memory. One that might ease the line of tension in the man, remove the wariness. This man he knew would help him.

"You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

A small, wry smile and the man's features soften. Body relaxing an almost unnoticeable degree, but he noticed. The man nodded to the other man in the room, communication unspoken. He remembered the other had wings before.

"I'll be just outside," the other said. To watch over in vigilance. Something inside faltered, his breath quicken then slowed. As if this was something he lost too, and he wanted it back.

The man now turned his full attention to him. "You're a wanted man." The tone wasn't a threat more a warning.

"I don't do that anymore." He shook his head, hair falling more into his eyes. He didn't, but the others never stop hunting so he kept moving. It happened before, but he wasn't going back. He was done.

"Some people think different and they are coming." He stepped closer, but kept his hands open in a peaceful gesture. As if to say--'I mean you no harm.'

His throat was gravel. He was so thirsty, dust dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He licked at his lips.

"Were you my friend?" The question lingered. The word swirled around in his mind--friend. This man was his friend. But what did that mean?

The memories of bloody fist-fights and roller coasters swapped like flash cards, one after another. His hands smaller, but he was beating on this man...boy... No. But someone else. The crunch of cartilage under his fist familiar, the drool of blood, mixed with salty tears, his clenched fist raising again, no mercy--were his hands always made of violence? His peripheral vision spotted a crumpled body, injured, not dead--small, blond, white shirt spattered with crimson. And--

The man crouched down close, balancing on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah, you were my friend--still are."

"Why?" His voice a rasp of sandpaper. He watched the other through the fall of his hair.

"Don't know. You just are--always were since we met, not sure why you picked me but you did."

"Stevie. Is your name, Stevie?" And he was rewarded with another quiet smile.

"Yeah. And yours is Bucky."

The name bounced around his brain--pulling at memories--frayed, the razor blade sharp, shards broken, tearing painfully. Broken glass, cutting, and he had to close his eyes, swallowing thick.

"Bucky..." His lips formed the unfamiliar yet familiar word and he opened his eyes. The name he read in the Smithsonian, the name he heard from this man's lips that started the unending free fall in his mind two years ago.

"Yeah," the man, no, Stevie said, nodding. His smile soft and mellow, eyes misting, and bluer because of it.

He reached up his weaker right hand, thumb a whisper from this man's cheekbone, soot marred it, and he wanted to wipe it away. But his hand fell back away and his trapped hand's fingers flexed telegraphing his internal unbalance . His heart rate was steady, but a pressing ache to his chest continued.

The man came closer--so close his breath puffed on his skin, foreheads almost touching, his sooty brow to his sweaty one, to mix--

"You used to be smaller."

"I was."

He wanted to lean closer, instead his left fingers twitched. His elbow bending at an unnatural angle, but the arm still was functional, just stuck.

"I'll get you out of this."

It sounded like a vow. And he remembered kneeling, in a small box with a bench asking for forgiveness for his sins. He wasn't sure if anyone would hear him now. The memory shifted to another, eating hot dogs slathered in mustard and throwing darts at balloons. The stuffed bear was bigger than Steve.

"Coney Island... the Cyclone--the front seat."

"And I threw up, you bastard." But the word wasn't a curse, the tone making it a word of fondness.

"Steve." And this time his hand found the other man's and covered it, touching not in violence, but just to touch to see if this man was real. The flesh was warm, solid. His own breath caught in his throat.

"I want to remember." His voice lowering to a hoarse whisper. He wanted more memories not colored in red or fueled in savage brutality.

"I want that too." The man nodded and smiled. His lips so close that he almost felt them. The smile moving on his skin, an impression not unlike a brush of a glove on finger tips.

He dropped his gaze to their touching hands.

"You draw." A statement, not a question. It was a flash, a glimpse. Bony large hands, fingers smeared black, gripping a tiny stub of charcoal, making hasty slashes and swirls in a large journal. He wanted to see what it was that he was drawing with so much intensity.

"I used to."

"Why did you stop?"

"I lost the inspiration." The man, Steve, leaned back, lips pressing together in a line, the warmth receding. And a single thought entered his mind, protect. I must protect this. This is what I do.

"You'll get it back." The words formed slow but felt right.

"I think I already did." And the other man laced his fingers into his, long and strong, but it wasn't a hurtful grip just firm and steady--skin to skin. No violence, no pain.

"That's good, Stevie." He nodded, his mouth pulling back in what he thought might be a smile. A smile he saw his face do in the old news-reels.

The mist in the other man's eyes wavered, filling with unshed tears, a small smile played on his lips once again.

"Thanks, Buck."

He knew they both found something they lost and now they both had to fight to keep it.