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Whenever there's something on Bucky's mind, it's no secret. Steve has known the soldier long enough to recognize that look he gets on his face when there's something clumping up his thought process. It's the look he used to get back before the war- the one where his jaw is set in a hard line and the spot between his eyebrows is more creased than Steve wrinkled up shirt. He gets this faraway gleam in his eye as well, which is just a telltale signal that he's lost in thought.
It's different now though. Back then, when Bucky got that look on his face, it was usually because Steve had done something stupid and Buck was just worrying for nothing. Or maybe some dame was cross with him, and he was trying to figure out why. But now, when that jaw of his is set like that, and he starts looking at nothing but the air in front of him, he's usually thinking about his past. Or, what he can remember of it, anyways.
Steve had found his friend by accident on the streets after a late night at Stark's place- a party to celebrate some new energy renewal source in another state he thinks. It was cold that night during that time of month- late December of the year that Bucky had pulled Steve's half-dead body onto shore from that sinking helicarrier actually- and Steve had just glanced over into an alley (he's not sure why he always does that. Maybe because he remembers all those fights he used to get into, and can't help but make sure no one is getting the treatment he used to get). What he saw definitely shocked him. It was Bucky, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. but he was cold, and huddled against the wall of the dingy alleyway wearing the same thing he was wearing when Steve saw him last, and the man had never looked so small in his life. He was only half-conscious at the time, so it wasn't too hard to coax him to his feet and to lead him back to Steve's apartment building.
After many times dodging the startled swing of Bucky's fist, very many explanations, and almost a year of his friend slowly regaining his memories, Steve had never been happier in all honesty. Sure, he knew that not everything would work out perfectly. He knew that there were still some things that Bucky didn't remember. And he knew that sometimes, Bucky wakes up from nightmares in full Winter Soldier Mode- his eyes glazed over and a scream on the tip of his tongue. But he snaps out of it pretty quickly now, and doesn't always need Steve to be there in the room in 0.5 seconds to make sure he's alright.
Like hell he would say that though. It's not like he minds.
But now when he gets that look on his face and that gleam in his eyes, he seems pained. Like whatever he's thinking is physically hurting him to roll over in his head. And it's the look he gets not only when replaying memories over in his mind, but when he glances in a mirror of their shared apartment. Or when Steve mentions his artificial arm. Or when he's forced to wear short sleeves. Steve always knows what he's thinking. Bucky isn't exactly an open book, but Steve has learned to see beyond what the cover insists.
It's late July, 3:32 a.m. when Steve hears something from his spot in his bedroom. It sounds like it's coming from the room next to his- which used to be his rarely used art room, but is now Buck's room. And at first he's reaching for his shield on the floor beside his bed, but then he stops. He hears the familiar gait of his roommate (could you call them roommates? S'not like Bucky helps pay rent- the guy doesn't even have a job yet. Steve doesn't mind) and deems this situation able to be taken care of without the involvement of a disk of adamantium-vibranium poised in front of his person. So, he carefully sits up and pads over the carpet to the door. He's sporting a white wife beater with the accessory of baggy gray boxers and white socks, which isn't exactly appropriate apparel, but he could care less at the moment.
Once he's out of the room, he notices that the fire exit is open, and the warm summer breeze can be felt from where he stands. With curious thoughts, Steve makes his way over to the exit and climbs onto the fire escape, where his friend is leaning forward with his elbows propped up onto the metal railing in front of him. Silently, Steve walks forward and mirrors Bucky's pose, noticing the look on the other's face. He can't help but be a bit worried. But he waits another thirty seconds before speaking.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks. Steve's voice is low, but not necessarily quiet. Cautious would be a good word.
A snort is heard from Bucky's end, and Steve can't help but see that he really hasn't changed all that much. He sees this in the way one corner of his mouth twitches upwards just a bit higher than the other side. The way his eyes reflect his smile in them. And the way the shake of his head amplifies his response just enough to be sarcastic.
"Keep your change, Rogers. S'nothin' to buy outta me. I'm an open book, remember?"
Steve can't help but grin lightly at his choice of words. The way they're said, and the fact that Bucky's hair is now the length it was before the war just increases the meaning of his thought earlier. Bucky was never gone, really. Just under a harder surface.
"You're about as much as a open book as Nat is a helpless dame. Which is to say, not at all" Steve retorts, not meaning to say the word 'dame' as he's been informed on multiple occasions that no one calls girls that anymore. "But I've gotten pretty accustomed to reading between the lines a bit. Just like I can tell that even Natasha can't do everything by herself."
This earns a slight chuckle from the man next to him, and he clicks his tongue in response. "Damn. Can't say I didn't try, right?" Bucky asks, not needing an answer for it to be true. His grin was slowly dropping as he began to slip back into his thoughts again. And Steve could practically see the gears in his head turning over at whatever thoughts were working through his mind now.
Steve is slightly worried, but he tries to not make this fact known. "But seriously, what's got you up at three in the morning? And don't say 'nothing' either, I know when you lie, Barnes" He tries to make it sound nonchalant, but the question sounds too forced, too serious, to be casual.
The dark haired man just nods, no longer grinning. "Guess it's just a few things that I've been thinking about lately. 'Plaguing my mind' and whatnot. S'nothin'. Forget about it" The reply is followed by an obviously forced grin.
Steve decides to drop the issue. Or, at least to pretend to.
"Nice night, ain't it?" Steve asks, abruptly changing the subject in hopes to steer Bucky away from any more thoughts that would 'plague his mind' for the time being.
There's another snort from the man next to him, and Bucky raises his left arm to point at the sky. "Yeah, I guess so. Full moon tonight though. Maybe that's why we're standin' out here in the middle of the night on our fire escape wearing boxers."
He's pointing at the moon, but Steve is looking at his hand. The hand that has caused the death of so many people. The hand created by HYDRA. The hand created to destroy him and others like him.
It's also the hand connected to the arm that Steve slung over his shoulder that one time when Bucky had a panic attack in the mall and was too damn physically and mentally drained to walk back home on his own afterwards. Not that Steve would let him, even if he were fine.
But it's the also arm connected to the grotesque scars that litter the skin of his shoulder where the metal fuses with flesh. The scars that are kept hidden whenever it is made possible- which is most of the time.
This arm is the one Bucky glares at when he thinks no one is looking. He knows exactly why those scars are there and what that arm has done and whose blood is on his hands. And Bucky hates it, because he knows that bad things are correlated with that hand, that arm, those scars. And he knows he can never change that.
But Steve knows better.
It's about another thirty seconds before he speaks up, a new subject already forming. "None of it was your fault, ya know." he states, cutting right to the chase.
Bucky exhales beside him, his flesh arm pressed up against Steve's arm as he did so. "Guess I'm kinda an open book after all, huh?" he mutters, not really awaiting a response.
Steve gives one anyways. "Well, like I said: I've grown pretty accustomed to reading between the lines"
When Bucky shows the hint of a smile, Steve continues. "And it's not too hard if I'm being honest. You get this look on your face..-"
"Yeah, I remember you mentioning it that one Christmas before your mom passed. You described it to me in vivid detail, and then insisted on drawing me with that expression" Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. "Man, used to hate sittin' still for so long. Felt like I was cramping up, ya know? But the outcome was always pretty neat. You always were the best artist in town"
This time, it's Steve who snorts. "Can't believe you remember that. And what do you mean 'were'? Trust me, nothing's changed when it comes to how I handle a pencil and paper." He gloats jokingly. There's only a few people he lets see this side of him- the carefree, joking guy who grew up in Brooklyn and picked fights in alleys. And those people are Natasha, Sam, and Bucky. Maybe Tony if he's lucky.
Bucky smirks, sending a quick stab of his elbow into Steve's ribs. "Oh, is that so? You'll have to prove it one of these days. Add me to your list or priorities, Cap- I won't disappoint. I'll sit pretty s'long as you don't take more than a few hours to capture my exquisite physique"
"Exquisite, huh?" Steve jabs. "Well, I wouldn't say that..."
"I would" is his immediate response, accompanied by a loose grin that is just so, utterly Bucky that Steve actually can't help but smile back.
"Well,I do admit, it would be pretty cool to get a closer look of that arm of yours" Steve doesn't fail notice his friend wince at these words. He sighs. "I knew something was bothering you"
Bucky shrugs, traces of a smile gone once again. "Like I said, s'nothing to worry about."
Steve's gaze is determined as he speaks his next words. "And like I said, I know when you lie. And, also like I said, none of it was your fault, Buck" he insists.
There's a pained look in the other man's eyes now, and he seems lost. "I know, Steve, I just...I was still in there, ya know? I know what I did- Or what..what he did, and I have to live knowing that it was my body doing that shit. And I...I know you don't know what it's like to be in that state, and I can't thank you enough for bein' there for me, pal. I can get by with this on my own, but-"
"But the things is, you don't have to" Steve utters, repeated the words spoken by his friend so long ago. And Bucky recognizes them, because he smiles then- a real one.
And Steve can't help but to lean in and kiss that grin right off his face. It's nice. And it's not perfect. Bucky is a little too tense and Steve's lips are a little chapped and neither of them know what the hell they're doing, but it's nice.
When he pulls back from the chaste kiss, what he doesn't expect is the full-on smile he gets when he opens his eyes. " 'Bout time, punk" Is Buck's reply.
Steve has no problem kissing the hell out of that grin again.