Work Text:
"She knew the minute they locked eyes that he was her true mate. The one she had waited for all her life. They were destined to be together. His eyes flared golden and he growled low in his throat as he clutched her to his muscular chest. And then it's sex for," Bucky flipped through the book, "the next five pages. Do you want me to read you the sex?"
Steve lifted the pillow off his face and glared half-heartedly at Bucky. "I didn't want you to read me any of it."
Bucky grinned at him. "I don't know, some of this sounds pretty good. You might get some ideas."
"I didn't hear any complaints last night," Steve grumbled and dropped the pillow back over his face.
"But can you growl low in your throat while you clutch me to your muscular chest?" Bucky laughed as Steve lifted the pillow long enough to stick his tongue out at him. "Very mature. Hang on, let's see what this one's got." He grabbed another book—the third in his latest round of torture-Steve-with-bad-werewolf-romances, something he enjoyed probably more than he should—off the pile sitting on the floor next to the bed. This one featured a full moon, a howling wolf, and a bare-chested muscular man.
Just like all the rest of them.
Bucky flicked through it, scanning the pages. "Here we go." He cleared his throat. "He had never known such intense need. From the moment he saw Ben, his wolf had recognised that Ben was his mate. He would have him, no matter what anyone said. They would be together. Already the magic of their bond was drawing them inexorably closer. They were true mates and soulmates. Hey, two for one," Bucky said. "Their eyes met across the room and the bond was joined. His wolf was clawing inside him, trying to escape, as he felt Ben's desire pulse through him like a drum. And then it's sex for," Bucky counted the pages, "oh, nine pages. Stamina."
"Why do you hate me?" Steve groaned from under the pillow.
"Aw, Steve, I don't hate you. I love you. I just love your reactions to bad werewolf romances even more." Bucky lifted the pillow and kissed him, pushed the books off the bed to land on the floor with a clatter, and leaned over him. Steve snaked his arms around Bucky's waist. "And hey, terrible as they are, those books have given me some ideas." He dipped down to kiss him again, paused just before he made contact, and said, "Of course, it's mostly ideas of what not to do."
Steve's eyes gleamed with amusement. He kissed Bucky soundly, managed a credible growl, and flipped them so he was straddling Bucky's hips. "Perfect!" Bucky laughed. "Now clutch me to your muscular chest!"
There were a lot of good things about living in a house in the forest, far away from people and a fair drive out of town. The peace, the quiet. Steve’s safety. Not having to worry about him being seen shifting from wolf to man and back again. No one to wonder why there was a giant wolf hanging around the house. No one to catch him walking around nude, as he did more often than was strictly necessary.
Not that Bucky was complaining.
One of the annoying things was the lack of mail delivery. They had to go and pick it up from town.
Steve, having returned from doing just that, dropped a pile of envelopes and parcels on the table in front of Bucky, and set his phone and keys next to them. He watched, bemused, as Bucky, with a gleeful noise, pounced on a specific parcel and ripped it open. When he pulled out a book with a lurid cover, featuring the obligatory howling wolf, bare-chested man, and full moon, Steve groaned. “How do you keep finding these?”
“One star reviews on Amazon,” Bucky said distractedly, flipping through the book.
Steve stared. “You’re telling me you’ve been deliberately buying the bad ones?” His fingers twitched, like he was going to grab it out of Bucky’s hands. Bucky noticed.
“Of course. It wouldn’t be any fun if they were good.” He was no longer paying attention to the book, was only pretending to. Instead, he was watching Steve very carefully out of the corner of his eye. Paying careful attention to his eyes and his hands, to his body. Bucky knew the second he decided to move and was already in motion, bolting out of the chair and leaping over the couch. “You’ll have to do better than that!”
Steve was on one side of the couch and Bucky was on the other. Bucky waved the book tauntingly. Steve was doing his best to exude an air of predatory menace but it was hard to take seriously when his lips kept twitching, a smile sneaking out at the corners. “Come on, Steve. You know you love it.”
“Love you, maybe,” he muttered under his breath. “Though I’m starting to wonder why.” Bucky smirked at him. “I kind of hate those damn books. I can’t believe you’ve been buying the worst ones you could find.”
“You're actually surprised?” Again, Bucky watched him carefully and was moving seconds before Steve leapt over the couch. This time, Bucky bolted out the front door. He’d made it down the first three steps when a shadow passed over his head. Steve had vaulted over him. He landed almost delicately in the grass at the bottom of the stairs, spinning with impossible grace to stare up at Bucky, a hand on each railing, blocking Bucky’s way. His grin was sly and challenging.
“Very impressive, very werewolfy,” Bucky said, and it was. It took his breath away when Steve moved with such ease, such grace, all that ridiculous strength on display. “One problem though.” Bucky flashed a grin at him and ducked back through the door, locking it behind him. Steve was laughing as he ran up the stairs and rattled the door handle. Bucky put his back against the door and started to read. Loudly. “Ah, here’s a good bit. “No, I must not,” Fenris declared. “I could harm you. I’m a werewolf. We are not like other men.” “I don’t care,” she cried. “Take me, ravish me. You are my true mate and I have waited for you through countless lifetimes. I can wait no longer. Take me here and now, I need your maleness in my”—” Bucky stopped reading and made a face. “That’s it, I’m officially banning the word moist from all books forever.”
“I’m not sure you can do that, but I’ll support you. Are you going to let me in?”
“Nope. You’ll have to huff and puff and blow the door down.”
“I think that might be speciesist.” Bucky could hear the laughter in Steve’s voice, even over his attempt to sound offended.
“I’m still not letting you in.”
Steve didn’t reply, but Bucky heard a thump and a quiet scrape on the roof, followed by soft footsteps over his head. He kept his eyes on the open window on the other side of the living room, because he knew Steve would be appearing through it soon enough. He was looking forward to it.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the sound of Steve’s phone ringing. It was automatic to pick it up off the table and answer it. Steve expected him to, given how often he was a wolf. “Hello.”
There was a short silence before the voice on the other end said, “I was calling to talk to Steve.” The not you came through loud and clear.
“Natasha. How nice to hear from you,” he lied as he tossed the book on the table. He could almost feel her disdain coming through the phone and couldn’t resist responding with, “I’m afraid he’s currently on the roof, but I’m expecting him to come through the window and ravish me any second now.” He could picture her face. Her lip curling back to show perfect white teeth. It was extremely memorable.
“Charming.” Bucky knew he shouldn’t bait her, but it was hard to resist. He knew how she felt about him. She didn’t like humans in general, but she really didn’t like him; he was the reason Steve wasn’t a happy member of her pack.
His opportunity to reply was cut short when Steve came through the window, landing neatly on his feet, and held out his hand for the phone. Bucky passed it over and Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. Bucky slipped his arms around Steve’s waist and Steve kissed the top of his head. “You’re not helping,” Steve murmured.
“I wasn’t trying to,” he admitted. He felt Steve smile against his hair and then he was talking to Natasha and Bucky tuned out in favour of pressing his ear over Steve’s heart and listening to the quiet, solid thump. He could feel Steve’s voice vibrating through his chest and the arm around him was warm and strong. Steve’s hand was cupping his shoulder, his thumb absently brushing back and forth as he talked. He tightened his arms around Steve, getting closer to his strength, to the heat he constantly radiated, and sighed a little. Rubbed his cheek against Steve’s chest. Felt his muscles going lax. Thoughts of ravishing were quickly being subsumed by thoughts of pushing Steve onto the bed and curling up on top of him to take a nap.
Even Steve saying, “How long would we be gone for?” and “I have to talk to Bucky,” couldn’t really knock him out of it. Steve adding, “No, I didn’t think you were inviting him,” in a dry, sarcastic tone made him grin and kiss Steve’s chest. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone onto the table. “Are you falling asleep?” he asked, leaning back to look at Bucky.
“No,” Bucky replied and smothered a yawn. “What am I not invited to?”
Steve shook his head, looking amused, and kissed him, ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Natasha’s pack and a few others, every couple of years they meet up, go deep into the wilderness for a week or two where there’s no people, to just be wolves.” There was a thread of wistfulness in Steve’s voice. It woke Bucky up, made him pay attention. “She asked me to come.”
“It’s a werewolf jamboree,” Bucky said, sounding delighted, but he was watching Steve carefully.
“I’m not going to tell her you called it that,” he said. “What do you think?”
“You know she still wants you for her pack.”
“I know, and I know it’s never going to happen.” Steve curved a hand around the back of Bucky’s neck. “I’ve got you.”
“Do you want to go?” He could see the answer for himself, but Steve would need him to ask.
Steve looked torn. “I kind of do, yeah. It’s not that I’m not happy, I am, it’s—”
Bucky cut him off before he could fall into some sort of guilt spiral. “I know. Go. Be a wolf. Run, chase deer. Frolic.” Steve smiled at that and Bucky patted his chest. “I’ll miss you like hell, but I’ll be fine. As long as I know you’re coming back and I always know you’ll come back.” Bucky caught Steve’s face between his hands, metal fingers glinting against Steve’s skin, and held his eyes. “Go be a wolf. It’s important.”
The insistent buzz of his cell phone dragged him unwilling out of sleep and practically shoved the numbers of the alarm clock in front of his eyes. Six am. Bucky groaned, considered not answering, then huffed out a sigh and picked it up. "Yeah?" His phone manners could probably use some work, but it was ass o'clock in the morning.
"Is this Bucky?" It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar, and she was scared. Bucky could almost feel her fear leaking through the phone, creeping out of the plastic and across his skin. It worked on him like a shot of coffee pumped straight into his veins.
He sat straight up, the blanket pooling in his lap. "Yes, it's me. It's Bucky. Who is this?"
"I don't, you probably don't remember me. You gave me your number. You said, you told us if we ever weren't safe your alpha would come and help us."
"He's not my alpha," he said automatically and he knew who she was now. Fuck. "Megan, right?" Because of course he remembered. He wished he could say he remembered her and her little pack because he'd been worrying about them and hoping they were all right. That wasn't the reason. He mostly remembered them because the expression on Steve's face when he'd realised he'd scared her was permanently etched in his brain, filed under Things he never wanted to see again.
"But he's still with you. You're still together?"
"We're still together, yes." The sigh, the shuddery ragged sigh in his ear, was the sort of sound you'd hear when a reprieve arrived at the foot of the gallows stairs.
"We need help." It was shaky. "There's an alpha here. He found us. And he's—" She stopped, like someone had flipped a switch. When she started again, her voice had gone flat, all emotion, all inflection gone. Like Bucky's when he talked about the accident. Like Steve's when he'd told Bucky about being bitten. "He's hurting us. For fun. Because he can. We can't stop him. He's going to kill one of us soon, or worse."
Bucky didn't say anything. Steve was gone. Bucky didn't know when he was coming back. He'd been gone for a week. He could be gone for another week. He could be back in a few days. Bucky had no way of knowing. What did he say: Sure, we can help you. I'll text you when it's convenient.
"Please." It was desperate and her voice cracked, a whine that was pure wolf creeping out.
What would Steve do? "There's just one?"
"Yes, but he's strong, he's..." He could hear more wolf now, that hint of a whine louder. She sounded hopeless, as if she expected him to suddenly yell at her for not fighting back, or hang up the phone, or any one of a million things that meant they'd be alone. "You don't understand, I know there's three of us, but we—"
"I wasn't criticising." Her words were a physical thing, reaching through the phone to clutch at him, and he tried to be gentle, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. Too much of him was succumbing to the sparks of adrenaline starting to leap through his body. "Just getting information." What would Steve do? "You still work at the diner?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
He hung up while she was saying thank you. Before she could ask what he meant by I. Could ask why he hadn't said We.
When you lived with a werewolf, when you ran with a werewolf, you didn't need a rifle. Reality was, Steve was the most dangerous thing in the forest. He was also the gentlest person Bucky had ever known.
Bucky had been glad to leave the rifle behind, because it was a pain in the ass to run with, but he hadn't let it get dusty. Hadn't let it sit unused. He was a good shot and he enjoyed shooting. He'd kept in practice, even if Steve hated it. His ears were too sensitive, his nose too sensitive, the sounds and the smells driving him into the forest whenever Bucky practiced.
But he'd grin at Bucky when Bucky showed him a target full of well-grouped shots, even if his nose was wrinkling at the smell. On one memorable day when Bucky's grouping had been perfect, when he'd been glowing with pride, Steve had hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him to the shower, Bucky laughingly protesting and struggling the whole way.
He couldn't get away from Steve if Steve didn't want to let him go. Steve was usually so careful not to use his strength. Except sometimes. Sometimes, when he knew Bucky wanted him to. Steve had pinned him to the wall of the shower, pinned Bucky's hands above his head, so Bucky couldn't move, couldn't get away. It had made heat coil deep in his gut. Then there'd been nothing but the water beating down on them, the weight of Steve's body against his, Steve's mouth against his skin, Steve's hand moving between their bodies, until Bucky couldn't breathe, couldn't think...
Bucky had nothing but good memories associated with shooting.
He was very much afraid he was about to change that.
Bucky dug into the boxes in the storeroom under the house. He knew there were bear loads under here. He'd bought them when he'd bought the rifle, had listened to the advice of the locals. They knew what lived in the forest. Not that he'd never seen a bear; even a bear wasn't going to come anywhere near a werewolf. But it meant he owned rounds that would stop a bear. What had the guy said? A responsible hunter uses enough gun.
Bucky had to lean against the wall for a minute and laugh shakily, because he was pretty sure there wasn't enough gun short of the military to stop a werewolf, to stop it for good. But he didn't have to stop it permanently. Just long enough to get three werewolves away.
As he kept looking, he wished the legends were true. This would be so much easier if all he needed were silver bullets. But like vampires and the moon being crack for werewolves, Steve had put paid to that one, too. There was literally no magic bullet. Silver didn't kill a werewolf. The only thing that killed a werewolf was pouring more damage into them than they could absorb.
The best Bucky could do were rounds designed to stop a bear. Six boxes of them, he realised, as he found where they were stored.
He took all six.
He kept calling Steve, even though he knew there wasn’t much chance he’d answer. He tried Clint, in case something had happened to Steve's phone. If he'd had Natasha's number, he'd even have tried her, but he was pretty sure it would have had the same result. No answer. Sent to voicemail.
He didn't leave a message. What could he say?
Instead Bucky sat down at the coffee table with a page ripped out of the pad from next to the phone and wrote Steve a letter.
He didn't write: Gone to try and rescue three werewolves. He couldn't know who'd find it if...something happened. Instead he wrote: Gone to see those three Mel Brooks fans we met in that town last year. They're having some family trouble, someone throwing their weight around. If you don't hear from me, I think they'd really like to hear from you. You can find at least one of them at that diner.
Steve would figure it out.
Bucky almost didn't write the next part. Had already folded the letter in half before he realised he needed to. He stared at the page for a long time before he put pen back to paper.
If you're reading this, I'm sorry. But I had to. It's what you would do. If someone asked you for help you'd never say no, and I did have a plan.
Before I found you I was as alone as you were, I just didn't know it. Thank you for changing that. I love you. I love you for everything you are. All of it. Always. Remember that.
He wrote his name on the bottom, folded it in half, wrote Steve's name on the outside and set it on the couch where it could be seen from the front door. Then he grabbed his gear and left.
It had been four hours since the phone call.
Their first meandering route had placed the three werewolves' town a very long way from the house in the forest. Driving straight through, stopping only to catch a five hour nap on the side of the road, it took Bucky twenty-two hours.
He realised somewhere around hour sixteen that even if he could somehow pour enough damage into this werewolf, he wouldn't be able to kill him. He didn't have it in him to murder someone. Not even someone who might deserve to die. Bucky wasn't sure, given the situation and the fact that the person in question was a werewolf, whether that made him a good man or a bad one, but either way, he couldn't do it.
She had two broken legs and a fractured spine. We heal, but it doesn't mean we don't hurt. Steve's words, talking about one of the werewolves in his first pack. A human needed an intact spine to walk. So did a wolf, and what was a werewolf but a human plus a wolf? The werewolf would need an intact spine to move. To run. To chase after three werewolves and one stupid fucking human. So that was his plan. Get him down. Make it so he couldn’t walk, couldn't move. He'd heal, eventually.
Bucky, remembering the fear, the desperation, the hopelessness that had come through the phone, found he had no problem with the hurting part of his plan.
Bucky pulled into the diner parking lot. It looked different by daylight. More cars for a start. The bell over the door chimed cheerfully as he went inside and a helpful host showed him to a booth. His metal arm was covered with long sleeves and he was wearing driving gloves; he didn't want to be memorable.
He ordered coffee, strong as they had it, from the host and stared at the menu. When the waitress approached he looked up to find a werewolf standing next to the table. Megan. Her left arm was in a sling. Bucky knew how fast werewolves healed. How badly had she been hurt to have her arm in a sling? It settled something inside him, made him sure this was the right decision. What would Steve do? He'd do this. "Bucky," she said.
"Hi."
"You're alone."
Of course she'd know. She'd probably smelled him as soon as he'd walked in. Him and only him. He hadn't been with Steve for over a week, and she'd be able to smell that too. "Yeah." Bucky didn't have words for the way her face fell. The despair made him wonder if werewolves could kill themselves, if they ever tried. "I'm still going to help you."
"How?" It was simple, heartfelt, hopeless, and her eyes were lost as they met his.
"I have a plan." As he watched, she plastered what he assumed was her professional waitress face over everything she was feeling. "What time do you get off?"
"I've got three hours left, then I have to go straight home. He's got Tomás and Sasha. If I don't..." Her eyes were on the floor. Bucky nodded.
"I understand."
"No you don't," she said quietly. "You have to order something or I'll get in trouble."
He ordered breakfast and more coffee and when she walked away, Bucky could see she was limping.
He spent the time before her shift ended visiting a drug store and buying the strongest bottle of cheap perfume he could find. Steve had spent all that time trying to teach him how werewolves thought, how they acted, how they moved and fought. He'd paid attention. Mostly because it meant he got to spend a lot of time sprawled over a naked Steve—and what he wouldn't give to have that right now—but whatever his reasons, it meant he knew a lot about werewolves.
What they could smell, what they could figure out from what they could smell, and the best way to keep that from happening.
He was sitting in the driver's seat of his pickup, door open, feet on the sideboard, when Megan came out of the diner door. "Hey."
She looked at him sadly. "Hi."
"I'm working on a guess here, and that's that you live pretty far out of town. Somewhere there's not a lot of people?"
"Yes," she said, confused. "How did you know?"
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Then here's what we're going to do. You're going to come with me and I'm going to drive you home."
"He'll kill me. And you."
"Hopefully not," he replied with a reassuring smile. "You're going to tell him I drove you home because your car wasn't working." He held up a hand before she could speak. "I know. I'm going to pull out your sparkplugs so it's not a lie. You're going to need to make sure you don't stand between him and the truck." He lowered his voice, until it was barely loud enough for him to hear; he knew she'd have no problems. "And then I'm going to shoot him and keep shooting him until he stops moving." He lifted the towel to show her the rifle sitting on the bench seat of the truck. "Then we're all leaving."
"He'll smell the gun on me."
"No he won't, because someone spilled their disgusting perfume on you." He pulled the bottle out of the bag and watched her nose wrinkle. "It should cover the smell of the rifle long enough."
"We're going to die," she told him hopelessly. "All of us."
"No we're not. I know what I'm doing." He hoped. He really hoped. But this should work.
"Why are you doing this?"
Because it's what Steve would do. "Because I said I'd help. Because you asked."
The werewolves lived in what could generously be called the sticks. Bucky followed a long driveway leading up to a ramshackle house in desperate need of repairs. No other houses were anywhere in sight. No wonder a strange werewolf had been able to walk in and take over.
The rifle was laying on the bench seat, covered by the towel. Bucky was violating every rule of gun safety, since it was pointing right at Megan, but there wasn’t going to be time to do anything but snap the safety off when it started. He tried Steve once more before they arrived. No answer. He didn’t leave a message.
As they pulled up, the werewolf Megan was so afraid of walked out of the house and into the yard. No, walked wasn't the right word, Bucky thought. Strutted. He was glaring. If Bucky hadn't already known he was a werewolf, he would have been able to tell. There was something about the way he moved, the way he stood, that gave it away. He wasn’t as big as Steve; it was close, but he didn’t have Steve’s aura of power. Steve radiated quiet strength even when he was standing still. It came from who he was. This werewolf, it was like he had to prove himself with every step and every step reeked of arrogance.
Bucky pulled around so the passenger door was lined up with where he was standing. Megan got out and left the door open, keeping Bucky's line of sight clear.
She reeked of chemical flowers, strong enough to cover the smell of the rifle. The werewolf’s nose wrinkled as he stalked forward. "I'm sorry, Brock. The car wouldn't start and he offered to drive me home." Everything about her was cringing; if she'd been a wolf, she'd have been on her back with her belly showing. Brock showed his teeth as he grabbed her right arm. Bucky could see her wince, see how hard his fingers dug in.
To anyone who didn't know they were werewolves it would look bad enough, but Bucky knew her bones were probably cracking under his grip. Brock turned to face the truck, turned to look at Bucky, dragging Megan forward a few steps. His teeth were bared. "You can go now. Good deed done for the day."
Bucky gave him an ironic salute, leaned forward as if he was going to pull the passenger door shut, let his hands slide over the rifle and fired from a prone position. He blew out Brock's kneecap. Megan bolted as he abruptly released her. Brock's scream was filled with outrage and disbelief. Not filled with enough pain. Bucky kept firing, all eleven rounds, but Brock was moving even as he hit the ground, twisting in the dirt like a cut snake.
Bucky slid out of the truck, reloading as he went, backing away to put distance between them. He couldn't risk being trapped in an enclosed space with a werewolf.
Brock was shifting. Bucky couldn't see him well enough to aim but he opened fire where he should be, emptied the rifle into the in-between space, heard a whine and a yelp, managed to reload, and there was a wolf where the man had been. A wolf who was slower than he should be, his back legs not working right, one dragging in the dirt, but still too fast, too angry. Bucky got five more shots off, then he was shoving his metal fist into Brock's mouth as his back hit the dirt, curling his legs up to plant his feet in the wolf's chest, holding him at bay. He'd done damage—a front leg was dangling, there was werewolf blood leaking all over him—enough to let human strength hold him off, but not enough.
He could feel hot breath on his skin. The screech of teeth against metal was a discordant note in his ears. His eyes met Brock's and there was nothing there but rage and Bucky's death.
It was like falling through ice. Everything was suddenly very clear. Very slow. Inside, Bucky was screaming, but that Bucky wasn't in charge. That Bucky was locked away behind the ice.
Bucky shoved his metal fist further down Brock's throat and the wolf choked. Bucky clubbed him in the head with the rifle, still held tight in his right hand, and Brock growled around Bucky's fist but he couldn't bite. Then he jerked and whirled, teeth scraping on the metal as he spun away from Bucky. There was a wolf behind him, sandy blonde and thin, very small compared to Brock, but her teeth were locked in his tail and she was yanking with all her strength.
Bucky rolled to his feet as Brock lunged at the smaller wolf, snarling in outrage, teeth sinking into her shoulder, tearing deep. Bucky shoved the muzzle of the rifle against his spine beween his shoulders, angled across, not down into his body, and pulled the trigger. Kept pulling it. Six rounds tore through his spine. Six rounds designed to stop a bear. Blood and bone exploded across the dirt.
A werewolf needed a working spine to move. A huge chunk of Brock's was gone.
Brock collapsed. Teeth snapping, eyes filled with hatred and rage, he was paralysed, could move nothing but his head. Bucky reloaded. Kept the rifle pointed at Brock. Glanced sideways at the other wolf. "Will he heal from that?" While he watched, she changed, became Megan, crouching naked, blood oozing from her shoulder.
"Yes." Her eyes were huge, the whites showing all around the edges, and she was shaking.
"How long?"
"A week, maybe."
"Okay." Inside, he was shaking, too. Inside, he wanted to throw up. Wanted to howl. But that Bucky still wasn't in charge and that was a good thing. "Where are the others?"
"I need the key. It's, Brock kept it in his pocket."
Bucky looked down at Brock. Who looked back. Bucky was good at reading wolves. Brock looked like he was laughing around his anger, around his pain. Like he'd figured out Bucky wasn't going to kill him and he was laughing at him. Bucky went to the pile of Brock's clothes and fished around until he found a key ring. He handed it to Megan who disappeared into the house.
Sasha turned out to be the older wolf, the one who'd thought there was something wrong with Bucky. Bucky kind of thought he might be right. Tomás was the young wolf. They were both staring at Bucky like they didn't know how to react. Megan was staring at him with a desperate gratitude that made him feel uneasy, made him want to look away.
"Pack everything you can't live without," he told them. "It's going to be a tight squeeze, and someone's going to have to ride in the back as a wolf, but I'm taking you somewhere safe." When he reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, to try and call Steve again, all he found was a starburst of shattered glass and plastic. "I'm sure they'll take you in. You can't stay here."
"And what are we going to do if this safe place you're taking us to doesn't want us?" It was Sasha, suspicious eyes that had seen too much glaring at him, but Bucky could see the fear underneath. "What happens to us then?"
Bucky looked at the rifle in his hands, looked over at Brock, who was laughing, who was looking very pleased with himself for a werewolf who couldn't move, who had a hole blown in his back. His hands tightened around the rifle's grip. His voice was quiet as he said, "If that happens, you can come home with us." Surprise, Steve. You went on holiday and I adopted three werewolves.
All three werewolves looked surprised. "With you and your alpha," Megan said.
"He's not my alpha," Bucky replied wearily. "He's my," and how did he finish that sentence, "Steve." He wanted Steve so badly right now he could feel it like a physical ache, overpowering all his other physical aches.
"Yeah, I'm starting to think it might be the other way around," Tomás muttered and it was enough to make Bucky smile. Just a little.
"We need to go."
They patched up Megan's shoulder. Bucky changed into clothes not soaked in werewolf blood. They loaded up the truck. They dragged Brock out of the front yard and into the back where he couldn’t be seen. Sasha shifted and hopped in the back of the pickup, poked his head in through the rear window of the cab.
Bucky started the long drive to the city where Natasha’s pack lived.
The rain was the barest sprinkle, a soft, gentle patter across the windshield.
Bucky felt something inside him shudder. All three werewolves' heads snapped around to look at him. Tomás tentatively asked, "Bucky?"
But the Bucky who'd been in charge since the ice came down was still in control. He shook his head. "It's fine." The rain was only the gentlest of gentle showers. He could barely even hear it. Could barely even see it. He felt more than saw the werewolves exchange looks, Sasha nosing the side of Megan's head. "It's fine," he repeated. "Nothing to worry about."
He missed Steve so hard it was like someone had ripped out his heart.
Two days later, Bucky pulled up across from Clint's building. They'd stopped overnight, stayed in and around the truck, three wolves and Bucky the lone human shape among them. He wasn't sure any of them had actually slept.
He had all three werewolves in the front, Megan sitting on Sasha's lap. Bucky turned off the truck and faced them. "Stay here. I'm going to see if they're back. If not, we'll find somewhere to wait." All three looked apprehensive. No, call it like it is, Bucky. They're scared. "It's going to be okay. I promise." As soon as he said that, he could see their fear ease and he wanted to shake his head, because fuck, that wasn't right.
He left them and crossed the road, leaned on the buzzer of the intercom to Clint's apartment, and sagged in relief when a tinny voice he could barely recognise as Clint's answered. He could hear Lucky barking in the background. "Yeah?"
"Clint? It's Bucky."
"Bucky, what the hell, man. Steve's been going crazy. There were about fifty missed calls on his phone, the same on mine, and then he couldn't get you. Where have you been?"
"Long story. Is he still here?"
"No, he left about two hours ago, which is only about ten minutes longer than we've been back. He didn't want to hang around, wanted to head straight home to you."
Bucky closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to rest against the wall. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to call and get him back here." He needed Steve. Soon. "And," he hesitated, then pushed on, "and I need you to get Natasha for me. I need you to get her to meet me here as soon as she can."
"The first is no problem. I'm texting him right now." Clint sounded momentarily distracted. "There. The second, are you serious?"
"Clint." Bucky almost didn't recognise his own voice. It sounded like ice. "I need you to get her for me. It's important. It's not for me, but I need her."
There was a long silence before Clint said, "Okay, but I hope you know what you're getting into."
"Me too. I'll be waiting across the street."
"Do you want me to come down?"
He thought about it. Looked over at his werewolves, who were watching him through the truck's windows. Shook his head, even though Clint couldn't see him. "No, but thanks."
"Good luck, man."
Bucky made his way back to lean against the truck, arms folded. He was so tired. The three werewolves were leaning on each other, talking softly, looking up occasionally, almost as if they were making sure he was still there. Each time, Bucky dragged a reassuring smile from somewhere.
It wasn't long before a red car pulled up in front of Clint's building. Natasha got out, her glare sharp enough to cut glass, but it faded as she saw him; as she, Bucky guessed, smelled the werewolves behind him.
Bucky didn't have the energy to straighten off the truck but he did it anyway. Sam got out and stood beside Natasha. They both watched as Bucky crossed the road to stand in front of them, both lifted their heads slightly, noses in the air. He knew they were reading the smells he was carrying. Blood and gunpowder, the scent of other werewolves. The lingering reek of chemical flowers. He'd be steeped in them. He wondered how much he stunk of old fear and faded adrenaline.
"You wanted me here," she said, voice aggressively neutral. "I'm here."
"Thank you," he said and meant it. He was actually amazed she'd come. He wondered what Clint had had to do to convince her. There was no one else on the street, but he still kept his voice low. "I need you to take three werewolves into your pack."
"Excuse me?" For one brief moment she actually looked surprised before her expression settled into absolute neutrality. He had to think it was a positive sign; the only emotion he was used to seeing on her face was irritation. Or disdain. Sam was watching him with something Bucky thought might be concern.
"You grabbed me that first time because you thought Steve needed protecting. Well this time there's three werewolves and they do need protecting. They need you, they need your pack. Steve said your pack is what a pack is supposed to be and they need that. They've been beaten down and abused and hurt. They need you and unless you only want strong wolves like Steve who can kick ass you'll take them." He hadn't meant to but he found he was getting closer, probably too close. He'd be lucky if she didn't tear his throat out. His fingers curled into fists. "They need you. They need to be safe. And if you won't take them then I will and me and Steve will try and figure something out, but they deserve better than that."
"Bucky." It was Sam and his voice was calm and soothing. It didn't stop him. Everything that had been locked up behind the ice since he'd shoved his metal fist down a werewolf's throat while it tried to kill him was pouring out.
"No. They deserve better than to have a makeshift pack cobbled together out of a human who doesn’t know what he's doing and a werewolf whose first pack was so bad he spent two and a half years alone in the forest. They need you and—"
"Bucky." It was the first time Natasha had ever used his name. Her voice was firm. Her hand was on his right elbow. Her fingers were curled around his arm. "Stop." His words stumbled to a halt and he stood there, breathing hard. She exchanged a look with Sam. "Tell me what happened."
He swallowed. Took a breath. And told her. Just the facts. Bare and unadorned. Her hand never left his elbow. Her fingers stayed curled around his arm, like she was holding him up. Her expression never changed but Sam, standing at her shoulder, was watching him out of kind, compassionate eyes. He shook his head when Bucky finished. "You're lucky to be alive."
"I know." It was the first time he'd acknowledged it and he felt his heart clench, but it was still safely under the ice. "Will you take them?"
Natasha squeezed his arm. "We'll take them." She made him sit in her car while she and Sam went to talk to his werewolves. Not his anymore, he guessed, not that they ever were. He sat sideways, the door open, his feet on the street, and watched. They got Clint to come down, and he brought Lucky. Bucky watched as Natasha and Sam and Clint set the three werewolves at ease, as they were calm and gentle with them. Watched Lucky bounce around, making them laugh; watched and knew they'd be okay.
He wanted to go home. No, he wanted Steve. He wanted Steve and he wanted to go home and he wanted Steve because then he’d be home.
A car pulled up and Steve got out. Bucky watched him come closer. The werewolves had gone upstairs to Clint's apartment. Bucky had stayed downstairs, waiting. He kept his eyes on Steve as he closed the distance between them, as he reached down and pulled Bucky to his feet, and then he was wrapped in Steve's arms. He pushed into him as hard as he could and the ice was cracking.
He started to shake. He clenched Steve’s shirt in his fingers and held on, pressed his nose into the hollow of his throat and breathed in. "It's okay, Bucky. It's okay. I've got you."
Bucky laughed and it was shaky and he tried to get closer even though he knew it wasn't possible. Steve was already holding him as tightly as he could. "I love you," he said into Steve's skin. "So much. I can't." He shook his head. Stopped talking. Felt Steve stroke his back, long slow gentle strokes. Over and over.
Slowly, slowly, the shaking stopped, until he was leaning on Steve, boneless. He was so tired. He was exhausted.
"Bucky?" Steve leaned back a little to look at him.
"Hi." He tried to smile and was pretty sure he managed it. Maybe not. Steve's eyes were worried.
"Are you going to be okay?"
"I think so. I need you do something, though."
"Anything."
"I need you to kiss me right now. And then I need you to take me home."
Steve's smile was soft and he bent his head to kiss him, one hand coming up to rest under his chin, lips gentle and slow, pulling a small noise out of Bucky. He didn't care that they were standing on the street, all he cared was that finally, finally he had Steve and he threaded the fingers of his right hand into Steve's hair and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, mouth opening under Steve's.
Steve was looking a little dazed when he pulled away. Bucky pressed his face back into Steve's neck, feeling Steve's presence settle through him like warmth on a summer’s day, thawing the ice completely. "Let me talk to Natasha before we go?" Steve asked.
"She's in Clint's apartment. You can just use the intercom."
Bucky kept one hand fisted in the back of Steve's shirt, listened to the buzz of the intercom. "Hello?"
"Natasha?"
"Steve. Clint said he let you know you needed to come back."
"He did. He didn't say why, just that Bucky was here."
Bucky could almost feel her choosing her words. He wasn't expecting them to be, "And is Bucky all right?"
Steve's surprise was palpable. "He will be," he said carefully, glancing over his shoulder at Bucky. Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve's back. "He's here with me if you want to talk to him?"
"No. Tell him he did a brave thing." Bucky pressed his forehead harder into Steve's warm, solid muscles and wrapped his arms around Steve's waist. "And that several members of the pack have already left to be certain his actions won't follow him home."
"Tell her I said thanks," Bucky said and he could feel Steve's surprise, his confusion.
"He says thanks," he said, even though he knew Natasha would have been able to hear Bucky.
"Tell him I said he's welcome."
That was apparently where Steve drew the line on playing messenger between two people who could hear each other. "Nat, if I leave the rental, can someone deal with it?"
"That shouldn't be a problem. Take your human home, Steve. He needs you."
Steve took his finger off the intercom button. Without turning he asked, "Bucky? What happened? You smell like blood and guns and strange wolves. And Natasha..." He trailed off, obviously not sure how to articulate it.
Bucky pressed closer to Steve. "Can it wait until we're home? Please?"
"Of course, Bucky." Steve stroked his right arm, fingers warm against Bucky's skin. "Of course."
Most of the first leg home was a blur. He spent it lying down on the bench seat, not exactly comfortable with a seat belt on, but he could rest his head on Steve's thigh and doze, if not outright sleep. Steve didn't ask any questions.
Every time he surfaced, Steve had a hand on him somewhere: resting on his shoulder, his head, his back, was running his fingers gently through Bucky's hair. Even when they had to stop, he refused to let Bucky out of his sight or out of his touch.
They didn't drive straight through. They stopped at a hotel for the night. Bucky wanted to keep going—he wanted to go home—but Steve insisted, said Bucky needed a shower and to sleep in a proper bed. Bucky didn't have it in him to argue; he was exhausted and he knew he probably stunk to Steve's sensitive nose. He was pretty sure he was starting to smell even to his own non-sensitive, non-werewolf nose.
Steve led him into the hotel room. Carefully undressed him and then himself. Led him into the shower. Turned the water on and pulled Bucky under the spray. Bucky reached for the soap and had it snatched away before he could pick it up. "What?"
"Nope."
Bucky shook wet hair out his eyes. "What do you mean nope?"
"Just relax." Steve curved a hand around Bucky's hip, holding the soap in the air above his head, a little smile playing around his mouth.
Bucky frowned at him. "I can wash myself."
"But you don't have to and I want to." Steve was smiling wider now, soft and loving, and his hands were warm, even under the heat of the water, as he moved them over Bucky's skin. Eventually, Bucky sighed. Gave in, let his head tip to rest on Steve's shoulder as he washed his back, settled his hands on Steve's shoulders as Steve knelt in front of him, hands moving down his legs, over his feet, working his way back up. He couldn't help a little smile as Steve washed his hair. "Keep your eyes closed."
"They're closed."
"Good." Bucky didn't open them again. Just leaned against Steve, cheek against his collarbone, as Steve ran his hands from Bucky's shoulders down his back to the tops of his thighs and back up. Did it again and again under the spray of the water as Bucky's heartbeat slowed and his breathing slowed and his awareness of the rest of the world got hazy.
"Do you want me to carry you to bed?" Steve's tone was teasing, but Bucky knew if he said yes Steve would do it. Steve would do anything Bucky asked. It had never hit him quite so forcefully before.
"No." He kissed Steve's water-slick skin. "I think I can manage to walk on my own. Not sure I can manage anything else," he admitted.
"That's fine." Steve splayed his hands across Bucky's back and he swayed a little. "Come on, before you fall asleep in here and drown."
He made a scoffing noise. "As if you'd let me drown."
Steve turned off the water, pulled Bucky out and wrapped him in a towel. Bucky managed to get his eyes half way open as Steve started drying him. "You never know," Steve said.
"I know," he mumbled sleepily. His eyes closed again. "I know."
"That's true. You do." He could hear the smile in Steve's voice as he reached out, tipped Bucky's head forward, and started to dry his hair.
Bucky didn't remember getting to bed. When he woke up in the middle of the night, briefly and for no reason he could discern, Steve was curled tightly around him. He suspected he might have ended up being carried after all. He found it difficult to care all that much.
Sitting in the middle of a bench seat wasn't that much more comfortable than trying to lie down with a seat belt on.
Again, Bucky didn't care.
It meant he could press himself against Steve's side. It meant he could shuffle down and put his head on Steve's shoulder. It mean Steve could rest his hand on his thigh when he wasn't changing gears. These were all worth a little discomfort.
Steve still hadn't asked any questions.
Soon enough, they were pulling into the clearing surrounded by ancient trees stretching to the sky.
Steve had promised to wait until they were home to find out what happened.
They were home.
Steve got out of the truck and Bucky followed, followed him right into the house, one hand wrapped in the back of his shirt. Let him go when they got inside. It was dusk and Steve didn't need the light, but Bucky did. When he turned the lights on, he saw Steve standing next to the couch, holding Bucky's letter in his hands.
Bucky's heart stopped then slammed into high gear. Steve's head jerked up. The letter was still folded. "I won't read it if you don't want me to," Steve said, holding it out.
Bucky swallowed and then opened his hands. "No, you can read it." If he'd been able to get to it before Steve had seen it he would have shredded it, he would have eaten it if necessary. But he couldn't try and hide it now that he had. Bucky thought it would hurt Steve worse than reading it ever could to think Bucky was hiding things from him.
He leaned back against the dining room table and looked at the floor. He couldn’t watch while Steve read it. He heard the crinkle of paper as Steve unfolded it, knew Steve would be reading the words he'd written what seemed like years ago now:
Gone to see those three Mel Brooks fans we met in that town last year. They're having some family trouble, someone throwing their weight around. If you don't hear from me, I think they'd really like to hear from you. You can find at least one of them at that diner.
If you're reading this, I'm sorry. But I had to. It's what you would do. If someone asked you for help you'd never say no, and I did have a plan.
Before I found you I was as alone as you were, I just didn't know it. Thank you for changing that. I love you. I love you for everything you are. All of it. Always. Remember that.
The noise Steve made wasn't human. It was pure wolf. A short, sharp sound of absolute distress. Bucky lifted his head. Steve was staring at him and his eyes were a deep, deep blue. His voice was very calm, too calm, when he spoke. "You said you'd tell me what happened when we got home."
It wasn't like telling Natasha. Natasha didn't care whether he lived or died. To Natasha, he'd given bare unadorned facts. To Steve, he gave everything. Everything he'd felt. Everything he'd done. When Bucky told him that he'd shoved his metal fist into Brock's mouth Steve was suddenly beside him, werewolf swiftness almost making him jump, except this was Steve.
Bucky knew what he wanted and he held out his metal hand. Steve's fingers were incredibly gentle when they held it, when he examined it. There were dents, scrapes, barely visible, but they were there. "Stark makes good equipment," Bucky said, trying for light, trying for a smile. Steve’s eyes met his and Bucky's smile faded away because his eyes were...he didn't know the word for what they were. Devastated, maybe.
"Finish it. Please." Steve didn't let go of his metal hand. Folded it to rest against his chest. Even though it couldn't feel touch the way his other hand could, could only feel pressure, Steve was cradling it like it was an injured animal.
Bucky finished it. Steve closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Held on to Bucky's metal hand and opened his eyes and didn't look at him. Didn't say anything. Not for what felt like a long time. Finally, Steve asked, "Why didn't you wait for me?" It had no inflection. No emotion. He could have been a stranger, passing Bucky on the street and asking for the time. He didn't let go of Bucky's metal hand.
"I said we'd help." He couldn't tell what Steve was feeling. "You saw them. How much did it take for her to ask for help?" Bucky kept his eyes on Steve's hands, wrapped around his metal one. "She was afraid he was going to kill one of them. Or worse and I don’t know what’s worse than being killed.” Steve's fingers tightened around his hand. “I didn't know when you were coming back. What was I going to say? Sorry, it's not convenient right now, try again next week? You didn't hear her, Steve. She was so afraid. I asked myself what you would do." Steve drew in a sharp breath. "You would have helped them." Bucky laughed weakly. "Shit, I wanted to turn around half a dozen times, but I knew you wouldn't do that, you wouldn't leave them, and turns out I couldn't either."
Steve finally turned his head to look at him. "I had a plan. It worked. You guys can take a lot more damage than I thought, but it worked. And they're safe and so am I." He touched Steve's hands where they were still holding his metal one, a fleeting brush, let his hand fall. "I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you." He rubbed his right hand tiredly over his face. "You have no idea how sorry, but I had to go."
Steve wasn't giving him anything back, was watching him out of deep blue eyes, and Bucky suddenly couldn't take it. "If you're mad could you just be mad? So we can get it over with or, or whatever's going to happen? I can't take much more of this." He wanted Steve's arms around him, so he could pretend there wasn't anything else in the world. Wanted to wrap himself around Steve, but he couldn't, not when Steve was so still and watchful, seemed so distant.
His fingers twitched involuntarily, his breath hitched, and then Steve's arms were around him, Steve was hauling him in close, using all of his strength, and it took his breath away. There was a swoop of movement, his feet left the ground, Steve took two strides and they were on the couch. He was on Steve's lap, Steve’s arms around him. Bucky clutched him tightly, pulled himself closer. Steve’s voice wasn't steady, but it was warm and real in Bucky’s ear. "I'm not mad. Never think that. You, Bucky, I'm terrified. You terrify me."
Bucky buried his face in Steve's shoulder, felt Steve's breath in his hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I terrified me, too."
"It doesn't," he said, pressing a kiss to Bucky's temple. "But at least I'm not suffering alone."
There was a long silence, the two of them wrapped around each other, breathing together. Steve's hands were moving slowly over Bucky, no pattern to the movement, just touching him, gently stroking down his arm, across his back, moving from one spot to the next. As if reassuring himself that Bucky was there, that he was whole, that he was safe.
Bucky eventually broke the silence. "You taught me. You taught me to think like a werewolf." Steve's hands stilled. "How to protect myself against one. How to fight one. You had to know I might need to use it someday."
"I thought I was teaching you how to protect yourself if someone came after me and you got caught in the crossfire. I didn't think I was teaching you how to go out and take the fight to a werewolf."
Bucky leaned back to look at Steve. "I only did what you would have done."
"No, I would have gone, but I wouldn’t have been risking much. You did what you would've done, which is risk your life to save werewolves you barely knew because they needed help. That's, Bucky, that's so much braver." Bucky made a quiet noise of protest and Steve kissed him, just once, and pulled back. "And that's why you terrify me." Steve kissed him again, slower this time, longer, and Bucky lost himself in it. When Steve lifted his head he said, voice soft, "I understand why you couldn't wait."
“I’m glad you understand,” Bucky said. “But I sure as hell hope I never have to do it again.”
“Good.” Bucky dropped his head to rest on Steve’s shoulder as Steve’s arms tightened around him. “I don’t want to find out if werewolves can have heart attacks from stress.” It made him smile and the silence swirled around them once more. Bucky relaxed into it. Relaxed into Steve, rubbed his nose against Steve's neck, kissed the hollow of his collarbone. Let out a breath that carried tension with it and let his hands fall to rest on Steve's hips. He stiffened when Steve said, "Bucky, that letter you left me."
"Steve, don't. Can we just pretend I never wrote it? That you didn’t read it?"
"No." Bucky closed his eyes. "You left it in case you didn't make it. In case you got killed trying to save those wolves. Didn't you?"
He knew Steve already knew the answer, so he didn’t know why he was asking. He still answered. “Yes.”
Steve's hands were gently pushing him back so he could grasp his face and he was tilting Bucky's head so he had no choice but to open his eyes and meet Steve's. "This was my sunrise."
"What?"
"Remember? When the sunrise over the Grand Canyon was just a sunrise? I was disappointed it wasn't a life-changing experience."
"I remember."
"I should have known it wasn't going to be. I should have known it was only ever going to be something to do with you. I could have lost you."
Bucky had to look away from Steve's eyes. He had to. They were too intense, the emotions simmering through them too much, but he couldn't. He was trapped and it had nothing to do with Steve's hands.
"I could have lost you and I never would have known until I came home and found your letter. I love you. I don't, there's not words, Bucky. You're my it. There's never going to be anyone else. There's no such thing as soulmates or true mates and there’s never going to be, no matter how many shitty books you inflict on me." It surprised a laugh out of him and Steve flashed a quick grin in response. "But there is such a thing as one person in the world that's your entire world and you're it."
"Steve."
"You're it for me. Forever, Bucky. There’s never going to be anyone else."
Bucky's breath was shaky. "Jesus, Steve."
"Too much?" Steve's hands fell to his arms, slid down to cover his hands.
"No. No, never too much." He squeezed Steve's hands. "Just a bit..." He blew out a breath. “You don't fuck around do you?"
"Not unless you ask nicely."
Bucky stared at him. Steve looked back, corner of his mouth quirked up, and Bucky huffed a breath of laughter, tipped forward to rest his forehead against Steve's. Steve's smile was radiant and his eyes were filled with love. Bucky had trouble looking at them, but he had a harder time looking away. The easiest thing to do was catch Steve's face between his hands and kiss him, long and slow and deep, until they were both breathless. Then do it again and again. And the next easiest thing was to pull back and run his fingers under Steve's shirt to flatten against his stomach, and say, "Hey Steve?"
Steve's eyes were bright, his pupils were huge, and his hands were tangled in Bucky's hair. "Bucky?"
"I love you." Bucky leaned in to kiss him. "And forever," he smiled against Steve’s mouth, "I guess forever sounds just about right."