Archive of Our Own ^beta

Errant sunbeams hang in the dusty air as light spills into the loft for the first time in thirty years. Steve lets the sledge hammer drop by his feet and clouds of dust billow up into the air. All three of them are wearing dust masks. Steve tugs his down under his chin so he can direct a proud grin across to Bucky. "Is this not the most perfect place ever?"

Bucky rolls his eyes over the top of the mask. "Yes. Perfect. You did good." His voice is only slightly muffled through the thin mask and the fond sarcasm is clear even then.

"You guys just fucking tripled your investment," Brock is the third member of their intrepid demolition crew. He's handy with a sledgehammer and easily bribed into manual labor with the promise of pizza and beer. "I mean shit."

He's not wrong. They bought the third and fourth floor apartment and the attic space above it knowing only that the upper two floors had been sealed off years ago and that even the realtor could only speculate at the space beyond. It had been a risk. Top dollar for the trendy Tribeca zip code and promise of a wide expanse of space. They'd hoped there would be enough room for a studio for Bucky and maybe an office for Steve. Possibly a bedroom they could turn into a mezzanine if they were lucky.

This is beyond their expectations. Far beyond.

He looks at Bucky expectantly. "Good? Just good? That's all I get?"

Bucky doesn't have a sledgehammer. He's a devil with electric tools, but heavy duty objects like that kill his balance and put both him and everyone he's working with at risk of injury. He's long past letting that bother him.

"Exceptional?" Bucky offers, pushing the mask up and pulling strands of his long hair back off his face. He started the day with it pulled back into a loose bun but it hasn’t survived the demolition work. "Spectacular?"

Steve makes a grab for him, catching him by one of the straps of his overalls and dragging him close enough to kiss him for the first time in their brand new and extended apartment.

"An hour," Brock says, "just one hour. I dare you to go one hour without acting like lovesick teenagers."

"Not," Steve says, pulling back and placing a teasing kiss to the corner of Bucky's smiling mouth, "possible." He and Bucky have been together for fifteen years and he still gets butterflies when they make eye contact.

"Just promise me you won't christen the place until you get someone in to deep clean?"

"I can promise you that one," Bucky says, turning around in the circle of Steve's arms and leaning back against his chest. Brock mutters something under his breath about wanting extra meatballs on his pizza and wanders off to explore the newly uncovered space. He might bitch about them relentlessly, but it's his strange brand of affection and he's always quick to give them their space when they need it.

Like now. Just the two of them in each other's arms. Steve drops a kiss behind Bucky's left ear. "You really like it?"

Leaning back into the touch, Bucky hums contentedly. "How much longer do you have off work?"

"Couple more days of no shaving, why?" He's taken nearly two weeks off already. Time to move and start the long process of making this space theirs.

"You're not allowed to go back until we've fucked in at least three rooms," Bucky informs him. "Call Coulson and tell him."

Steve grins so wide his jaw hurts. "I'm sure he'll love that."

"Make Brock do your work," Bucky suggests, lacing the fingers of his right hand with Steve's.

"I already do!" Brock shouts across the room. The acoustics are perfect. Steve can't wait to get the old jukebox he's renovated wired up and working.

"I'll make sure I get out on time," Steve promises. "I'll be your lackey from seven p.m. until we pass out on the couch, all paint speckled and gross." He knows what Bucky is thinking even as he turns and looks at him with patient, knowing eyes. "I promised you a new start and I mean it. No more late nights at work for me. No more four am sculpting sessions for you..." He waits for Bucky to roll his eyes dramatically before kissing away any protest he might make. They both know it’s true. Bucky's insomnia can be a fierce beast. He claims it's just bouts of creativity choosing rude moments to strike at him from behind. Maybe that's partly true, maybe it's not. Steve knows Bucky has nightmares sometimes. He does too.

They have always dealt with things in their own ways. Mostly they complement each other. Sometimes they don't. Those are the times that leave Steve putting in hour after hour of overtime at work, unable to face the helplessness when Bucky hits a rough patch. They are the times when Bucky loses himself in his work and won't leave a piece for hours, sometimes days at a time.

It's made them both successful at work. Made them both incredibly wealthy - Bucky especially so. Famous worldwide for his beautiful and eclectic pieces of art. Sculptures, mostly. Sometimes slicks of oil on canvas, but mostly clay and metal and glass and stone. He calls it the novelty of owning something made by a one armed hipster. Steve calls it proof of his fucking genius.

That’s usually when it makes them miserable. So madly, desperately in love and unable to communicate across a void the both of them can see but cannot cross. They know each other so well that they’ve fallen into the trap of not thinking they needed to communicate the way everyone should.

Steve's the one who suggested a new start: home after the eighth day of fifteen hours behind a desk to realize that Bucky hasn't stopped in all the time he's been gone. Both of them exhausted and hurting and sick with loneliness.

Steve blames himself. For that, and for the reason it happens at all.

Bucky tries and still can't make him let go of that blame.

The accident was neither of their faults, but Steve was behind the wheel. He takes responsibility for that. For walking away unharmed and haunted while the drive of the other vehicle never survived the impact and Bucky spent nearly four hours pinned between twisted metal.

He lost his left arm. They amputated just below the shoulder. They offered him a prosthetic. He turned them down.

Strengthened and inseparable after. Bucky learned how to adjust his life and Steve learned how to adjust his expectations. They moved on.

The problems just… crept up on them.

This is a new start for them. A new home. Never-ending possibilities in the open, airy spaces. Room for all the sunlight and warmth they both know they can recapture.

Steve takes Bucky by his hand and pulls him to one of the enormous picture windows that run along the wall. "We are going to put two rocking chairs here," he says, "and when we get old and wrinkly and I lose all my hair, we are gonna watch the world below and bitch at everything."

Bucky leans into his side and smiles. "You do that anyway."

"Like you don’t," Steve rolls his eyes. "You are worse than I am. By like, a hundred."

"Am not," Bucky shakes his head.

"He’s really not," Brock shouts from across the room. Then he adds, "I’m hungry. Feed me."

"We should probably order pizza," Steve lets his hands drop from around Bucky and has to remind himself that they live together - he can hold Bucky whenever he likes. There is no need to get twitchy about it now.

Bucky grins and nudges him out of the way with his hip. "Go get pizza. I’ll dig out the beer."

Brock and Steve turn into the elevator from different sides of the lobby and very carefully refuse to meet each other's gaze. Steve has to stop himself smiling and giving the game away before anything even happens. He tucks himself into a corner of the elevator instead. Tries to be considerate with the width of his shoulders and the clumsy way he sometimes wields his briefcase.

Brock, on the other side of the elevator, smiles as he takes a half shuffle back to let more people on. Then he coughs. It's loud and jarring and awful. There's probably eight people with them by this point. All of them very politely stay quiet and avert their eyes.

"What did the doctor say?" Steve asks him from behind two IT technicians.

Brock's response is to cough harder. "He said it was contagious. Very contagious. I shouldn't be going into work today."

"Man, that's rough."

"What could I do?"

They never have a script to go off. It's totally ad lib. Brock is a lot better at it than he is. He can't even lie to Bucky about using the last of the milk.

"Damn. And the rash? On your genitals again?"

He catches the half amused, half irritated flash of Brock's smile before it vanishes. "Still pretty bad. I mean, it's everywhere." And with that he waves an emphatically distressed hand at his crotch.

Steve has to turn a laugh into a cough of his own. The three people closest all try and step away from him and end up bumping into each other.

"Sounds like you're gettin' it too, pal," Brock croaks.

"Nah," Steve shakes his head. He braces a hand against the elevator and leans over, couching. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, I thought I was as well. Next thing I know I got scabs on my balls, puss commin’ out of my dick and a chainsaw rattling in my chest."

The elevator dings as it reaches their floor. Steve smiles politely as he wiggles his way to the front. Brock is already there, his hands on his fly. Just as the doors close again, he pulls his shirt out of his pants and makes a show of pointing out his various deformities.

"Armani, really?" Steve breaks into a fit of laughter as the elevator closes and takes away their audience.

Brock pats the waistband of his Armani underwear proudly. "And?"

"One of these days we are going to get fired for doing that."

Brock shrugs and tucks his shirt back in. He's pressed and professional by the time they reach the office. "Me, maybe. They'll never fire their golden boy."

Steve picks up what feels like ten kilos of memos, internal mail and files from reception and thinks fondly of just passing it all politely back and going home. Crawling into bed. Making Bucky stop whatever artistic fretting his is doing and joining him. That is a much better way to spend his day. So much better.

"I mean it," Brock says, grabbing a couple of files as they pass his own desk and dropping them on top of Steve's mountain. "I've spent the last few weeks listening to the Coulson crying every time he remembers how long it will be till you're back in the office."

That sounds like an exaggeration, but within five minutes of collapsing into the leather chair in his corner office, Steve has had the Bank’s president, two junior VPs and what feels like half the administration department all sticking their head around the door, welcoming him back. It's nice, being valued at work, but it's also nearly eleven before he gets to sit down and actually review any of his accounts.

Considering that being a Banker is a job furthest from what he dreamed of when he was a kid, he finds the process of numbers oddly satisfying. He likes looking after his clients and he is proud of the fact that no matter what kind of account they have - he's got billionaires he looks after and he has little old ladies with only a pension to their names - always get the same fair treatment.

At a little after twelve, Bucky sends him a photo that he has to quickly close for fear of it being overseen. Suddenly he likes numbers a whole lot less. He looks at the clock. He made a deal with Coulson and with Bucky that when he came back he would be working set hours. No more pouring over accounts until the small hours of the morning. No more creeping guiltily into his own bed. He's going home at six, and he's picking up takeout on his way.

Which means he is at least seven hours away from being able to take Bucky up on any of the tempting offers presented to him in that picture message.

"I like my job, I like my job, I like my job..."

"You know talking to yourself is the first sign of madness," Brock has a desk out in what is less than affectionately known as the abattoir. It's only a few feet from Steve's office, so he's probably seen him start to lose his grasp on sanity.

"Get more sense than when I talk to you," Steve points out. Brock snorts, but doesn't retaliate. So, work then. Professional visit, not social. "You okay?"

"There's something wrong with the Wakanda account," Brock says. "I can't access any of the files."

The Wakanda account is the biggest Steve has. It's not the biggest the Bank has, though they all know that is because the account holders are still cautious about putting all their eggs in one basket. "Yeah, I changed all the password this morning," Steve says guiltily. Brock has been keeping an eye on the figures of his bigger accounts. He's also not as paranoid as Steve is. He doesn’t reset the passwords on everything once every couple of days. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"No problem," Brock says, "I was just checking in on one of the overnights and freaked the fuck out when I couldn't log in. Should'a known it would be you."

"Yeah, sorry," Steve cringes. "Everything looked good this morning. Thanks, by the way."

Brock grins at him. "Any time. Now, you want the good news or the bad news?"

Steve cringes. "Bad?"

"Nachios’s people are here."

Steve glances at the clock. "The meeting’s not till three."

"Well, They’re here. And Stark called. He needs nine hundred k transferred by twelve thirty."

Steve reaches for his diary on instinct, then swears. "Fuck." It’ll take him ten minutes to make the transfer for Stark but that’s ten minutes he’ll be leaving a very scary team of lawyers and accountants waiting. The fact that they are early makes no difference. "What’s the good news?"

"There is no good news, I was fucking with you."

"You’re a real pal," Steve snorts, flipping through the pages of the book to his latest string of generated MAC codes. "Listen, can you transfer the money to Stark’s payroll?" he asks, jotting down the right digits and handing over the paper.

"Since I like you," Brock nods. "And since you’re buying lunch tomorrow."

Steve grins and gathers up his iPad and files. "Deal.’

Steve wakes to an empty bed and nearly steps on Bucky’s demon cat when he yawns and climbs out of bed. The ginger ball of fur and spite glares at him before slouching off in search of entertainment.

It’s only been a week since Steve’s return to work, but the apartment is completely unrecognizable already. The floor has been buffed and polished and now gleams - old timber, no longer used the way it once was, lovingly restored to former glory. There is art everywhere. A towering stone angel leans over the couch, protective arms held wide and her wings an array of colored glass. In the morning and evening light she sets the whole room on fire with colors. She’s Bucky’s first sculpture, imperfect and sloped to one side. If the building burns down, Steve will genuinely try to find a way to rescue her before he makes a run for it.

Clay is Bucky’s medium of choice right now. He throws pots and bowls and candlesticks all day long sometimes as he works out which techniques he likes best for the project he has in mind.

Steve isn’t bad with a pencil and paper, but sculpting is a skill that’s beyond him. He likes to watch, though, which is why there is a large leather wingback chair set up across from the alcove Bucky has turned into his studio. It beckons Steve like a friend, promising comfort while he watches something beautiful take life 

He might have done so in the past, but Bucky promised no more middle of the night sessions. Steve’s not about to pick a fight over it, but that doesn’t stop him worrying.

"Hey," Steve rubs the sleep from his eyes and tries not to trip up over his own feet as he navigates the space Bucky has designated his workshop. The jukebox in the corner is crooning out old classics; black and white nostalgia in the early morning darkness. "You can't sleep?"

There's a multitude of reasons for Bucky to be awake right now. Sometimes he gets bouts of creativity induced insomnia; sometimes the insomnia is related to other things - nightmare things and nightmare pains. It's not always a bad thing and it's never bad enough for Bucky to really suffer from it the way he used to do. Most of the time, Bucky is back under the sheets with him when he wakes up in a morning, there in time for sleepy kisses and slow fucking on a weekend; grumpy huffs and demands for coffee during the week.

Bucky shrugs as a new vinyl is selected at random and soft, heart-breaking voices draw them into a space that is entirely theirs. "I didn't want to wake you," he says. Of course he wouldn't. He's considerate of Steve's work schedule. He's wearing only a pair of boxers as he sits at the throwing table, his long legs spread wide enough to accommodate the machinery and his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. There's already clay between his fingers and up his arm and when his hair falls absently out of the messy knot it has been pulled back into he looks like some kind of dream. Romantic heroes from artistic renaissances. Beautiful.

Wide awake now, Steve pulls a stool up behind him and leans in close.

Bucky's eyes are still on the clay, his attention focused on his art. He doesn't need to look to know where Steve is and can lean back and offer a kiss with the knowledge that his body is and always has been in tune with Steve's.

His lips taste a little like earth and there is a splash of blue paint on his earlobe and Steve has never been so in love with him.

"You okay?" Steve asks, letting one hand curl around Bucky’s waist. The other trails down his arm, fingers slippery with water and clay and moving together with Bucky’s.

"I’m trying," Bucky says softly.

Steve kisses the back of his ear. "I know," he promises. There’s nothing else to say, so he keeps quiet and lets the music wash over them. Let’s Bucky take his hand - slick and pliant and utterly at Bucky’s disposal - and settle it against the clay.

It’s cool and soft between his fingers, spinning and shaping itself with the gentlest of touches. It takes so little effort to change the lines of their creation and make it into something new. It is mesmerizing. Even more so than just watching. Bucky’s heartbeat is steady and his body warm against Steve’s, and the two of them move together so perfectly; they always have.

The clay builds taller and taller. Spirals spin around the body as Steve’s finger presses just a little too hard.

It topples so easily and a chuckle rumbles through Bucky’s chest when Steve wines in disappointment.

"Sorry," Steve apologizes. "That wasn’t going to be a million dollar masterpiece was it?"

"Not now it’s not," Bucky leans back into his chest and lifts a clay covered hand to Steve’s face, drawing him in and kissing away the thoughts that spin in his head. It’s awkward and perfect and the clay is going to dry in his hair and make a mess…

Steve takes his hand and hauls him up from the wheel. The bathroom isn’t far away, but it takes them forever to reach it when they stop every few steps to make out like horny teenagers.

His hands slip beneath the waistband of Bucky's boxers, pressing handprints into his skin in possessive clay marks. He can feel the laugh rise in Bucky's chest and ducks back down in time to steal it before he has to share it with the world.

The shower stall is cool when he climbs in and leans back against it but Bucky is warm enough for that not to matter. When Bucky's boxers hit the floor, Steve pushes them out of the stall with his toes and closes the glass partition. Another bubble for them to escape to.

The shower is more than big enough for the both of them. They've tested it as a matter of urgency. Different places around the apartment; different positions. In more vigorous moments, Bucky can brace his back against one wall and his heels against the other and Steve can do his best to fuck him right through the tiles, a hand on his thigh and another in his hair as Bucky clings to him and sobs his name. They are both a little too tired for anything that adventurous.

But Bucky pauses Steve's absent kisses to his throat with an insistent hand, guiding his face up until they are eye to eye. "I love you," he says, honest and radiant. Steve, who gets emotional during commercials about kittens, feels his eyes burn.

"Ditto," he says, and swears to himself that one day he'll be able to say it back and the words won't feel wrong in his mouth. They're true, regardless. He loves Bucky more than he loves anything in this world.

He'd kill for him. He'd die for him.

It's all very dramatic and romantic and right out of a Harlequin romance.

But he knows Bucky well enough to read the fleeting spark of disappointment in his eyes. He'll never ask Steve for the words he wants to hear and he doesn't doubt the truth of Steve's feelings for him. But. Steve knows there is a but there. He presses a kiss to Bucky's mouth that is both adoring and apologetic and continues working his way down, from neck to shoulder while Bucky reaches overhead and turns on the shower.

The water is freezing for half a second and Steve yelps when it hits his back, indignant but curling himself around Bucky the best he can, sheltering him.

Bucky laughs at him and reaches down between Steve's leg to give him a gentle squeeze. Fortunately, the water isn't cold enough to distract them.

"Very funny," Steve says, a hand on Bucky’s hip, spinning him around and pressing him up against the tiles.

"I thought so," Bucky chuckles, amused and delighted until Steve finds the lube they keep on the shelf behind their shampoos and shoves two fingers into him, rough and firm. They're back in that honeymoon phase of their relationship and they've fucked twice today already. Steve has forever ruined the innocence of breakfast by fucking Bucky against the worktop, and Bucky let Steve ride him later that evening, slow and teasing. Steve can still feel it and he knows Bucky can, too. He twists his fingers, pumps them in and out. Adding more lube as he stretches him open.

"Still funny?" Steve asks, biting down on paint freckled skin as he nudges Bucky's legs open wider and the water rains down on their heads. He gives Bucky space and a second to push back from the wall, holding him close as he brushes the wet hair from his eyes. Then presses him back against the glass, fingers replaced by his cock. It's one slow, inescapable thrust. Steve crowds him against the wall. Makes him take every inch and pushes him up onto his toes as he presses them together, skin to skin; heartbeat to heartbeat.

"God!" Bucky shouts, his hand scrabbling at the wet tile as Steve fills him up. "Steve!"

He wants more. Steve can feel it in every trembling inch of his body, smooth like wet silk and so fucking beautiful.

"Shush," Steve whispers, reaching up to lace their fingers together, holding Bucky in place. "Let me take care of you."

He's still not moved. Not given Bucky any more or less of the flesh that is stretching him wide and filling him up. He wonders how long he could hold things like this. He wonders which of them would go crazy first: himself, surrounded by trembling sweetness and lulled by desperate, pleading mewls; Bucky, so full he can hardly breathe for it, stretched out and pinned and wrapped up in Steve's love.

Maybe another night they can find out. Steve will never run out of things he wants to do, both to Bucky and with him. Never. Not after fifteen years and not after a hundred. He wants it all. He wants everything. Every sound Bucky makes: every helpless twitch of his cock as he's fucked; every moan as he fucks Steve.

Tonight though... not tonight.

He draws his hips back. Leaves Bucky gasping. Then slams back in. Over and over, hard and fast. His hands slide so easily over Bucky's body, tracing the lines of his chest and the jut of his hips and the perfect fullness of his cock when Steve takes him in hand and lets Bucky fuck into his fist with every snap of his hips.

And when Bucky's knees threaten to give out on him, when he is well and truly fucked beyond thinking and given entirely to sensation, Steve can kiss the lines of his scars.

Ten years has left them pale and pink and, in Bucky's mind, ugly. He lets Steve touch him there, encourages it even, when he's tired and sore and wants to be wrapped entirely in the surety of how much Steve loves him. But during sex... touching him there isn't off limits, but it's not something that happens during foreplay.

He's alive and warm and happy in Steve's arms when he very nearly wasn't. Steve won't push. He won't ask for more than Bucky can or wants to give.

He's just...

So thankful. So desperately thankful.

Bucky chokes out a desperate "Please," and his foot slides against the wet floor. He's tired: they both are. Steve ups his pace to something frantic, his fist tight around Bucky's cock as he fucks into him again and again, pulling him closer towards the edge.

Bucky falls first, his whole body tightening as he shouts out Steve's name, his release washed away as quickly as the overstimulated tears that have lost themselves amongst the water from the shower.

That's all Steve needs to follow him. He pulls out, kissing the back of Bucky's neck when he whimpers, not hurt but sore, and finishes himself off across Bucky's back.

The water is going cold by the time they catch their breath. "I love you," Bucky whispers again, turning in the shower so he can tuck himself against Steve's chest. "So fucking much."

Steve wraps an arm around him and turns off the shower. "Ditto."

It’s not late enough to be considered night still, but it is also too early to be considered morning. Steve is going to hate himself by afternoon, but for now he can’t sleep. He and Bucky have made a nest of blankets in front of the big windows downstairs and the city has lulled them into a careful bubble of serenity. 

He’s been idly drawing patterns on Bucky’s back with his fingertips for the past hour when Bucky gives in and rolls onto his side. "What’s wrong?" 

"Hmm?" Steve is noncommittal.

"I always know," Bucky reminds him. "Is it this? The new place? Is it...is it us?"

Steve’s head isn’t so far up his ass that he can hear Bucky make a comment like that and not address it. "No!" he swears, leaning over so he can press a kiss to the side of his neck. 

"The promotion then? I know you’re worried about it but you don’t have to be. We’re not going to be short on money. I can take care of us if you bomb so badly they fire you on the spot." It’s teasing but he knows Bucky means it. He’s going to be opening the biggest exhibit of his career in a few months. Then they won’t even be feeling the pinch that a new apartment and all the associated costs brings with it. That’s not the problem though.

Steve sighs and shuffles further down the blanket nest until he can wrap Bucky up in both his arms. "It’s just… I don't know. A lot of things. I just don't want the bubble to burst... Whenever something good happens to me I'm just afraid I'm going to lose it." He blames the crash. He blames a lot of things, himself most of all. But that’s how his brain works. Always waiting for the other shoe to fall. Always preparing for the worst.

"You know what?" Bucky says, reaching back and running his thumb soothingly over whatever parts of Steve he can reach..

"What?"

"No matter what happens," he whispers, "you’ll always have me."

This would be the perfect time for Steve to whisper those three magic words. He opens his mouth. He tries.

All he can do is sigh and curl himself over Bucky. He presses a kiss to the back of his neck and hums in agreement. "We’ll always be together," he agrees.

"Always."

"Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck. Me!" Steve shoves papers around on his desk, looking everywhere for his wallet, his phone and his sanity.

"Not sure Bucky will approve of that one," Brock has appeared to lean in his doorway with hardly a whisper of sound. "What’s up?"

"I am chaos. My life is chaos. Everything is crumbling into insanity." Steve uncovers his keys with a dramatic flourish of files. "Aha!"

"Okaaaay," Brock nods. "Is this where I need to stage some kind of intervention? Do you need Prozac?"

"I need more hours in the day," Steve grumbles. His phone is here somewhere. He knows it is. He had it only a second - hour - ago and phones don’t just grow legs and walk off.

Brock crosses the room, shoves a file to one side and produces his phone. Brock is a fucking angel. "Why so…?" he waves his arms around dramatically.

"It’s three," Steve says, glaring at the clock in the hope that he can intimidate time into reversing itself.

Brock nods. "Traditionally the hour after two, yes. Is this a problem?"

"It’s a problem when I promised to take Bucky to the theater tonight," Steve says, contemplating just taking his whole desk apart. "And when Hank Pymm thinks Skype is the devil and I have to spend eleven fucking years driving to Columbus Circle - and back, because god forbid Coulson pick up his fucking phone - and still make it to the show on time to convince Bucky that I haven’t actually gone back on the one promise I made to him before coming back to work and where the fuck is my fucking wallet?!"

Brock presses a hand to his chest like the heartless fuck that he is and smirks. "I will pray for you."

"Thanks, pal," Steve is thirty seconds from crawling under his desk and starting to cry, Only idiots drive in rush hour traffic. Is he an idiot?

Apparently so.

"Your wallet is exactly where you left it," Brock says, fishing it out from the pocket of his jacket, "and you’re gonna take the subway like a sane person."

"What if it breaks down?" Steve shoves the wallet into his back pocket with more force than is necessary.

"It won’t break down," Brock says patiently. "Now what work do you need to get done here?"

"All of it," Steve whimpers, "all of the work. I need an entire day to get my head around some of those accounts because fuck knows what’s happened while I’ve been away but something is off about them and Bucky’s gonna kill me." And look really, really disappointed while he does it. That look physically pains Steve.

"He’s more likely to kill me and turn my body into a million dollar piece of art," Brock grins. "So what’s wrong with the accounts?"

"The hell if I know," Steve shakes his head. He’s been staring at them for the last few hours. A fact he blames entirely for the panic that now comes with running late. "There’s too much money in them for a start. Don’t say anything to anyone yet. I’m gonna dig around over the weekend and see if I can get to the bottom of it."

"I’m the very soul of discretion" Brock winks. "Now go. Subway. Do not drive for the love of Christ."

Steve grabs his jacket and bolts for the door. He can do this. He is an organized, professional grown up. He’s got this. Fuck. Diary. Okay, now he’s got this.

"I’m gone!" he shouts, keys, wallet, phone and, most importantly, diary all on hand.

"Hey Steve?"

Steve grabs a hold of the doorway and leans backwards back into his office. "Yeah?"

"What are you seeing with Bucky?"

Steve chuckles and rolls his eyes. "Drunk Shakespeare. I’ll pick you up some tickets if it’s any good."

Brock laughs. "You do that. Now fuck off!"

It’s cold outside when they stumble out of the theater, but there is whiskey in their blood and their sides ache from laughing and so the crisp air is nothing but a side note. Steve drapes his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and rubs a hand over his aching stomach.

"I am never going to be able to think about Macbeth in the same way ever again," he laughs. Bucky, who has spent the last two and a half hours doubled over in hysterics, just chuckles and leans into Steve’s embrace.

"I told you it would be fun,’ he says smugly. And he’d made it in time, that’s the real miracle. He’d left the meeting with Pymm to a message from Brock calling him a dumb sonovabitch for not leaving behind any MAC codes for him to use to access Steve’s accounts because Stark wants another nine hundred k transferred, and another from Daisy to tell him that Coulson had gone home early with the flu.

He spent five minutes trying to decide what to do and then, in a flare of daring and spontaneity, decided: fuck it. He sent Brock a message telling him not to worry about Stark and had Daisy reschedule his meeting with Coulson for when he was back in the office. Then he called Stark and spent a surreal sixty seconds agreeing to bring Bucky to Stark Towers for Margaritas by way of making up for the delay in the transfer.

That gave him extra time he hadn’t planned for. He was early, and Bucky had lit up like Christmas when Steve had been waiting at the subway exit for him with coffee and a goofy grin.

"I never should've doubted you," Steve laughs, dropping a kiss to Bucky’s hair.

"Nope," Bucky nods. "Tell me that wasn’t the best date ever."

"Almost as good as the time you made me ride that fucking roller-coaster until I puked," Steve agrees.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "I was toughening you up."

"Uh huh," Steve agrees noncommittally. "You thought about what you want to do next month?" Their anniversary. Fifteen years.

Bucky breathes in deeply and settles even closer into Steve’s embrace. The bite in the air leaves his cheeks flushed; there’s a faint splatter of blue paint on the arch of his cheek and he’s been biting his lips all night. Steve kisses him, just because he can, and Bucky fucking glows. "Yeah, actually."

"Oh yeah?"

Last year they went glamping, something Steve still isn’t sure the actual definition of. There was a cabin and log fires and he spent three days gleefully pretending to be a lumberjack. There wasn’t a whole lot of nature exploration that went on that week, just a lot of time spent in that one room cabin and nights out under the stars.

There are no stars in New York, but Bucky looks as happy now as he did then.

"We could get married?" Bucky throws the suggestion out with serene calmness and Steve, like an idiot, has to pick his jaw up off the floor.

"But you said…" No to marriage. He’ll love Steve forever and they don’t need a bit of paper to prove that to anyone. Steve’s the one who dreams of an official stamp. Steve is the one who carries his father’s wedding ring in his wallet, just in case.

Just in case…

Bucky holds his gaze, steady and certain. "I know what I said. I changed my mind."

"You want to get married?" Steve has to clarify.

"I want to get married," Bucky grins.

"You want to get married in a month?!"

Bucky laughs and rolls his eyes. "Maybe not a month," he says. "Is that a yes? When someone asks you to marry them you’re supposed to say yes. Or no. You’re not going to say no, are you?"

Steve kisses him to shut him up. Kisses him to say yes, and I love you, and fucking hell, Buck, you took your damn time. There, in the middle of the sidewalk with the city loud around them, Steve holds Bucky in his arms and tastes the whiskey on his lips. He can feel the pull of Bucky’s smile against his own and he wants nothing more than to be home right now. He wants to take Bucky to bed, their bed. He wants to take his fiancé to their bed and spend the first night of forever losing himself in the smoothness of Bucky’s skin and the strength of his body.

"Fuck," Bucky says, pulling back, his tongue darting out across his bottom lip in a way he knows drives Steve fucking nuts, "I think I left my phone inside."

"I can- "

Bucky shakes his head. "I got it. I’ll be right back."

Steve waits until Bucky has complete retreated back inside the building before coolly and calmly losing his shit.

"Ok, Rogers, keep it together. Do not freak out. Do. Not. Freak out."

He's freaking out. His hand reaches inside his jacket for his phone, ready to fire a text filled with flailing emoji and exclamation points to Brock. He wants to tell the whole world. Bucky wants to marry him. They are going to get fucking married. And then they are going to grow old together. Old and curmudgeonly and wrinkly. Bucky will probably want to get another cat. Maybe a dog. Maybe a kid...

Christ. Holy Christ.

Okay, okay. He's calm. He's not freaking out.

Instead of his phone, his fingers brush his wallet. He pauses. Thinks.

Yes, it's still in there.

He glances back at the theater. When Bucky comes out, Steve can get down on one knee. He can ask him properly and give him his dad's wedding ring and then he might just die of happiness. They're getting married. Bucky and him.

Bouncing from one foot to the other, thoughts turned to whether they should get married in the winter or the summer; if they should stay local or travel some place exotic. Honeymoons. The wedding night. Making love to his husband.

His husband.

He's not paying attention to the rest of the world. He's not paying attention to the people around him.

The man with the dark, shaggy hair and the messy, badly healed scar across his cheek approaches unnoticed.

It's the gun he pulls that knocks Steve out of his daydreams.

"Your wallet," he demands, gun level with Steve’s chest in a hand that does not waver. Confidence in that posture. Experience. Steve's not the first person he has done this to. "Give me your fucking wallet."

"Easy pal," Steve holds up a hand, caution and carefulness in his stance. Tries to look calm. Tries not to piss himself while he looks down the barrel of a weapon. "You want money? Take it. It's fine. Nobody needs to get hurt here."

His fingers close around leather and he starts to pull the wallet from its pocket.

Then he hesitates. The money inside it is just money. It's just money. It's not worth dying over. The ring inside it, that's not something his insurance can replace for him. That's his father's. It's Bucky's. He can't-

"Now!"

Professional threat now seems panicked. Dark eyes dart up and down the alley in a frantic watch for witnesses. There's no one around now. Just Steve, his mugger -

-and Bucky, stepping out of the theater doors, wrapped up in the thick woolen overcoat and smiling like someone his put sunshine in his heart.

His mugger's eyes land on Bucky and Steve doesn't wait to see what happens. He doesn't wait to see if he runs at the sight of someone else on the scene, or if he goes through with the threat he waves around so carelessly. Steve can't risk it. He won't let Bucky get hurt. Not again, and not tonight. Not when they have forever to look forward to.

He sees the exact second that Bucky looks across the street and knows something is wrong. "Steve?"

"Don't!" Steve shouts as he steps into the line of fire. He dives for the gun, surprising the mugger with his aggression. He's taller. Stronger, he thinks, and he's fighting for everything that he loves.

"Steve!" Bucky is running towards them now. Steve has to get this under control, has to-

The gun goes off and the mugger makes a run for it.

"Stay there!" Steve shouts, not looking back at Bucky. "Call the cops!"

He follows. He has to. The man is a live wire and dangerous, and who knows what he could do to anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. Bucky is safe, but Steve has an obligation to everyone else out there and he can't just allow an armed madman to run unchecked in the street.

But whoever he is, he is faster than Steve. A lot faster. Within seconds, he has vanished away into the darkness.

Bucky's voice calls him back. "Somebody help us! Please! Please, somebody, help us!"

Steve can’t ignore Bucky, not when he sounds so afraid. He turns and starts to run back. "Bucky? Bucky!"

He sees Bucky on the ground, crouched on the wet, filthy road as he rocks back and forth. "Somebody help!"

He must be hurt. He must be! Steve’s heart hammers in his chest, skewered with fear. Bucky’s voice is laced with agony, and for a second Steve is back in that car, pinned. Unable to do anything but whisper promises of a rescue that seemed never to arrive as Bucky bled out and screamed in pain.

It sounds like that.

Oh god, Steve left him behind… what if

"Bucky!"

He trips and stumbles as he circles around to face Bucky.

Then he hits his knees. "No!"

Bucky's covered in blood. It's everywhere.

But it's not his.

Steve is... Steve is kneeling on the road, losing his fucking mind. "No, no, no, no… not happening. This isn’t happening…"

And he's laid out in a pool of his own blood, his head in Bucky's lap. There's an open, gushing wound in his chest, bubbling. He's bleeding to death.

He's...

Oh god.

What's happening?

"Bucky!" Steve tries to reach out for Bucky. Tries to grab on to some stability and grounding.

His hand slides right through Bucky's arm and he gasps in stunned terror.

Steve's body shudders as blood bubbles from his mouth. Bucky struggles to hold him with the one arm. He chants Steve's name between frantic pleas for help.

"Steve...come on, baby. Please... please, please, you can't leave me. You promised you'd never leave me. Steve, Steve...please. Please...'

Steve’s watching himself die. "Oh, my god… oh god, help me..." he doesn’t know who he is begging. Anyone. Anyone who might be listening.

This isn't happening. This isn't happening. He's fine. He's fine! He touches his own chest. No blood. There’s no blood. This isn’t real.

He's here. Right here! Opposite Bucky. Whole, but unable to touch anything or anyone, and Bucky can't see him...can't hear him!

"Bucky! Bucky, I'm here! I'm right here! Bucky! Bucky listen to me!"

Bucky doesn't, and in his lap, Steve's body gives one last shudder and then goes limp.

Bucky's scream tears open a void inside of him. A black, swirling vortex that sucks in everything good and happy and leaves only the cold, damp darkness of the street around them.

Steve's heart breaks as he watches Bucky desperately try to lift Steve's arm up around his neck, leaning down and trying to curl himself up into arms that are never going to hold him again. When Bucky collapses against him Steve scrambles to his feet and tries to run.

Run. That's it. he was running after the mugger. Maybe he fell? Maybe he hit his head? He's dreaming. He has to be dreaming. This is just all some awful nightmare and he's going to wake up in a hospital bed with Bucky white faced and red eyed beside him. He's get to be lectured to within an inch of his life, and he's going to wrap Bucky up in his arms and do everything he can to forget the broken scream he'd made when Steve had... died.

He runs. Runs for the edge of his dream and the promise of reality, but that's not what greets him.

Above him, the sky opens and all the stars in the universe seem to fall at his feet in a warm, golden glow. A host of glowing forms, radiating an intense inner light, float before him and a blinding tunnel spirals in an infinite vortex behind them.

The moment the light touches him, his panic vanishes. It fades away as if it never existed at all. Everything does, actually. Panic, pain, fear. He feels himself being wrapped in the warmest, purest blanket of serenity and it will be so, so easy to just give in and let it take him away.

But Bucky is still crying. He's still calling Steve's name.

And Steve can't go.

He promised. He promised he'd never leave.

He steps away from the light, and just like shutters are drawn across a window, the darkness of the night enfolds around it and snaps it away from sight.

The panic returns. The fear too.

Not the pain. He doesn't hurt.

Of course he probably can't feel anything when his body is lying in the street and he's here.

The dead don't feel pain.

is that what happened?

Is he dead?

It must be. It must. Bucky is cradling his body and he's standing here, watching.

Dead.

Riding in an ambulance with your own dead body is... there are no words. Fucking surreal is about as close as he can get. Steve spends the trip sat on the floor by Bucky's feet. He looks up at him as if he's got the answer to all the questions pounding around Steve's head. Mostly though, Bucky just trembles and stares down at his hand - blood drying on his skin and the sleeve of his wool coat. Whenever one of the EMTs try and speak to him he starts to shake harder. He rocks back and forth and Steve tries and fails to place himself as a protective barrier between the people demanding so much of him.

It does no good. They speak over him when he talks. They step through him when he tries to force them back.

At the hospital they take his body away, wheeled off to the morgue while a white-haired nurse coaxes Bucky into a waiting room. There are police already there, wanting to talk to him, wanting to question him.

Steve freezes in the middle of the hallway, torn.

He needs to stay with Bucky, but the idea of leaving his body behind is... he feels sick, but it's all in his head.

Before he can choose, a man sat in one of the waiting chairs leans forward and sticks his head right through the bag covering Steve's body. He looks up and smiles compassionately while Steve stares at him. "GSW huh? That'll do it."

Steve looks over his shoulders, then, not seeing anyone else, says, "Me? You're talking to me?"

"First day is the roughest," the old man nods. "It does get easier. I'll tell you a secret. Doors ain't as bad as you think. Zip zap. They ain't nothin' at all. You'll see. You'll catch on."

Steve edges closer to him. "You... you're dead?"

"Heart attack," he says. "That's my wife in there," he points into an emergency room just off the corridor. "Been waiting a long time for the old girl. Healthy as a horse." He jerks his head in the direction of the waiting room. "That one yours?"

His name is Bucky, Steve wants to say. We were going to get married. All he can do is nod. His throat is too tight. The nurse has her hand on Bucky's shoulder and he's not shying away from it. That tells Steve everything about how badly he is spacing out. She takes his cell out of his shaking hand and takes over the call he is trying to make.

There’s a loud wail of an alarm in a room off to the side of them and Steve stumbles over his own feet in an attempt to see what caused it.

There’s a man laying on a bed, surrounded by staff working frantically to save his life.

The old man shakes his head sadly. "He ain't gonna make it. I've seen it a million times. He's a goner. See? Here they come." As he speaks, the same light Steve saw in the alley suddenly floods the small room. Now he’s not encased by it, Steve can see just how strange and ethereal it really is. Angels. Heaven. Or whatever it is really called. Fuck. Fuck. "Lucky bastard. Could have been the other ones. You never know."

Steve wants to ask who the other ones are, but he’s compelled instead to turn back to try and see Bucky. The nurse now has his phone to her ear.

Steve isn't sure who he is calling. Neither of them have parents left alive. Bucky's sister, maybe? Brock? Someone needs to be with him.

When he looks back at the man on the bed, the light has gone and the doctor closest to him is announcing time of death. 

"Told ya," the old man says."

Steve has so many questions for him, but when he tries to ask them he’s caught up short by the sudden rush of a gurney being pushed right through him. An orderly follows and by the time both have passed, Steve is shuddering and weak and terrified.

It's Brock who tears through the doors into the ER twenty minutes later. Steve stands and takes several steps towards him, remembering too late that Brock can't see him. The shock of a living body passing through his own hits him again and by the time he recovers, Brock has his arms around Bucky and is holding him in a crushing embrace.

"Oh my god," he is saying, "oh my god, Bucky…."

Bucky hasn't cried since climbing into the ambulance. He's just staring straight ahead, eyes wide and empty as he hangs in Brock's arms.

"Can I take him home?" Brock asks the closest officer. "Please, he needs-"

Bucky cuts a sympathetic figure and both officers are decent enough to quickly agree. "We will be in touch tomorrow."

Brock is already hustling Bucky to the door. "Sure," he says. Then, looking at Bucky and his blood stained clothes, "Come on, kid. Let's get you cleaned up."

Bucky turns and looks down the corridor in the direction of where they took Steve's body. He stumbles as he walks and his fingers twitch, but he lets Brock walk him out of the hospital.

Steve almost loses them both to a panic attack when he stops to consider how the hell he’s supposed to get home.

Fortunately, Brock drove.  Steve sits in the back and rocks himself from side to side the hour it takes them to pull up in front of their apartment. Then he sticks so close to Bucky their shoulders occasionally pass through each other. Every time, Steve wants to cry, He tries. He tries until his chest aches with imaginary hurts and he ends up huddled on his own couch in a twitchy kind of shock.

It’s Bucky who pulls him out of it. Bucky, who looks like he might be about to follow Steve from one life into the next at any given moment.

"Please," Bucky says, his arm wrapped around himself. "Please, I just want to be alone."

Brock hesitates, uncomfortable with emotion and utterly at a loss. He’s never had to hold anyone together like this and Steve isn’t sure he even knows how to start.  "Not sure that's a good idea."

"Please," Bucky says, and this time his eyes fill with tears. "Please go."

"Don't you dare," Steve says to Brock. Of course, Brock doesn't hear him. That doesn't stop Steve trying to stand between him and the door, or from crossing his arms in a way he knows shows exactly how stubborn he's about to be. Or it did. When he was alive. "Don't listen to him."

"I am really not-" Brock's smart enough to know that Bucky needs someone with him but he's always been more Steve's friend than Bucky's. He's stuck, torn between doing what is best for Bucky and trying to give him what he wants. Steve wants to shake him. Under no circumstances should Bucky be alone right now.

But that's all Bucky seems to want. He screws his fist up into a ball and raises his chin stubbornly. "Get the fuck out!" he screams. "Leave me alone! Get out! Get out!"

Brock holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. He's crying himself and Steve has never, not in years of friendship, seen tears in his eyes. "Okay, okay. I'll come back in the morning, just... call me. If you need anything. Please?"

Bucky doesn't respond.

"No, man, come on," Steve pleads. "Don't listen to him."

But of course Brock can only hear Bucky, not Steve, and he's giving in.

He closes the door behind him and suddenly it is just Bucky and Steve alone in their apartment. Unable to talk. Unable to comfort each other. Steve takes half a step forward and freezes.

"Bucky..."

Bucky suddenly rears forward. He grabs at something on the side table and throws it at the wall with a scream of agonized rage.

"Bucky, please..." Steve begs. "Please, please. you need to hear me. Please Bucky, please hear me."

Bucky doesn't. Bucky can't. But the second the object hits the far wall he is running towards it, dropping to his knees and letting out a keening scream of hurt as his fingers close around the broken photo frame. Steve knows which one it is right away. He can't ever forget the day it was taken, not when they were both so impossibly happy. In the picture, he has his arms around Bucky, and Bucky has his chin on Steve’s shoulder. They both have ice cream on their noses and they are grinning so wide that just looking at the frozen memory is enough to remind him of his much his jaw had been aching the next day.

They are never going to have that ever again. They are never going to smile at each other with such joy. Never going to be able to hold each other and leaning into each other's warmth.

Steve is never going to be able to look Bucky in the eye when they wake up and watch that slow smile pull at the corners of his mouth.

They are parted. Forever and always.

Steve’s never been a lonely man before. Always surrounded by friends and family, and then with Bucky in his life for so long…

He’s lonely now, desperately, and he’s surrounded by people who love him.

The number of people who would turn up for his funeral is not something that has ever crossed his mind before now, but he can’t even bring himself to be touched by the crowd that has shown up.

He stands by himself, hands tucked under his armpits for a warmth he can’t feel.

Opposite, Bucky looks down with red, empty eyes. There’s a casket in the ground and Steve’s body is inside it.

He’d been to funerals before. He’s grieved for loved ones lost.

Grieving for himself feels…

"As our loved one enters eternal life, let us remember that love, too, is eternal, that although we will miss him, our love will light the void and dispel the darkness." The priest who gives the eulogy is one Steve has known from birth. Some of his teachers from school have shown up, and everyone from the office, including Coulson and the partners.

Brock has the spot next to Bucky. One hand is firm on his shoulder and it looks like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

Behind the gathered crowd, a woman Steve has never seen moves through the gravestones. She pauses and flashes him a sympathetic smile, then vanishes into a headstone. Things like this have been happening more and more frequently. The dead can see him and he can see them and as frightening as that is, just being acknowledged by something or someone is helping him cling on the the last threads of his sanity.

"Into Your hands we commend his spirit. May he rest in peace. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

This is the part where Bucky has to throw down the first handful of soil into the grave. It feels final. An undisputable fact. Steve is dead. His body is in the ground and it is going to putrefy and rot while he wanders alone.

"Bucky…" he moans. Bucky hesitates, but it’s out of grief, not because he can hear Steve.

He swallows and throws down the dirt and the thud it makes when it hits the coffin sounds like a condemnation.

There are only two people on the planet who call Bucky by his first name and they are both beside him now, filling spaces in the apartment that should have been full of joy.

"I’m not saying forever," Bucky’s sister looks so much like him. Same dark hair, same pale eyes, and she’s almost as tall as he is. "But maybe a for a few weeks?"

"I’m not leaving," Bucky says. He’s not raised his voice all day and the words are one flat monotone. "This is my home."

Becca bites her bottom lip. "Then I’ll come stay with you for a while?" she suggests.

Bucky is already shaking his head. "You’ve got the kids to worry about," he reminds her. "I’m fine. Really. I’ve got the exhibition to work on anyway. I’ll be too busy to think about things."

The redhead on his other side doesn’t look convinced. Steve’s glad. Bucky is lying through his teeth.

"I don’t like the idea of you being by yourself," Natasha says. "And you’re not fine." She has known Bucky even longer than Steve has.

"I am," Bucky lies.

Natasha scoffs at him. "You’re not and no one expects you to be. Please, let us help you. Go stay with Becca, or come to D.C. with me. Just for a few days." 

"You want to give the kid a break?" Brock steps up to them and Steve isn’t sure he likes him for it. He doesn’t want Bucky pushed into doing something he doesn’t want to do, and selfishly he knows he’d panic if Bucky left New York even for a few days. But it would be good for him. 

Becca’s eyes narrow dangerously. "I’m looking out for my brother."

Brock sets a comforting hand on the back of Bucky’s suit. "So am I. If he wants to stay here, let him. I’ll keep an eye on him."

Bucky doesn’t make a comment about the way they are speaking over him. He doesn’t say anything at all. He’s got eyes only for the angel stretching over the couch and the brilliant play of light reflecting on the glass. Steve wants to tell him that he wasn’t far off the mark. He wants to tell him that sitting beneath those twinkling glimmers is the closest he knows he’s ever going to get to peace now.

But Bucky isn’t speaking, and neither is Steve.

Bucky hasn’t bothered to switch on the lights, so the apartment sits in a shroud of darkness. Only the city outside provides any warmth and the view they both once loved now feels like a window out into a world that the both of them can no longer be a part of. Steve is sat with his back against the glass. He can’t feel its coolness and he wonders morbidly what would happen if he were to just…lean back. Fall through the window. It’s not like the fall would kill him. It’s not like anyone would know.

And it’s a better prospect than spending the night trying desperately not to look at Bucky, who hasn’t moved since being left alone.

This has always been Bucky’s way. How he copes or doesn’t. He just shuts down. Closes the world out behind walls that have only ever fallen for Steve. There’s no one left to reach him now, no friends to pretend for. Just a cat who won’t come near him while Steve is in the room and an apartment full of memories.

Steve wants – with a desperateness that borders on agony – to reach out. To hold him. Or even just… if there was a way, anyway, to show Bucky that Steve is still here and beside him and he loves him still, with his whole, aching heart.

There’s nothing.

Just Bucky on the couch, his knees tucked up to his chest. His right arm hugs them close and his shirt is too thin. The apartment runs cold, it always has. A lot of space to fill up. Bucky wears sweaters, his and Steve’s both. Sometimes he turns Steve into a human blanket. He’s not doing either now. He must be cold.

"You should take a shower," Steve says. "Warm up. Or… bed. You should get into bed."

The bed Bucky hasn’t slept in since Steve died.

"Or not…" he can’t imagine ever wanting to crawl into a bed that was theirs, knowing that Bucky would never be beside him again. He can understand Bucky not being able to do the same.

It’s just…

Eventually, Bucky does move. Only a little. Enough to curl up on his side, the couch; large enough for the both of them together now swallowing him whole. He falls asleep like that. Exhausted and shivering and looking as brokenly lost and lonely as Steve feels.

And the apartment is still too cold. Steve couldn’t figure out the thermostat while he was alive and doesn’t hold out much hope for divine inspiration now.

But there is a blanket draped over the armchair. Thick and fluffy and warm. If he can find a way to move it, he can tuck it over Bucky while he sleeps. Maybe he’ll know it is Steve, maybe not. He’ll be warm. Steve is supposed to keep him warm.

He gets off the ledge and walks over to the chair.

"Okay, you can do this. I can do this. It’s just a blanket, it’s not like I’m going all Amityville on this shit. Just a blanket."

There’s only a breath between the tips of his fingers and the edge of the fabric. All he has to do is reach out and grab it. That’s all. Nothing major. Nothing hard. He can do this.

His fingers slide right through, and that sick tug at the base of his stomach makes him jerk back in horror.

He clenches his fingers into a fist, shaking off pins and needles that he shouldn’t get any more. Then tries again.

He’s no more successful the second time around. Or the third.

Or the fourth.

On the fifth, he lets out a scream of frustration before clamping his hand over his mouth, horrified. He turns to look at Bucky. He’s still sleeping. Steve’s scream is nothing more than an echo in the void. No one can hear him. No one will ever hear him again. Only the dead.

He screams again – louder this time – as the terror of an unending future lays itself out in front of him, inescapable and infinite.

And Bucky sleeps on, restless, trembling. Still cold and alone. And Steve can’t fix it. He can’t make it better. He can’t ever make Bucky warm again. Or make him smile or laugh or roll his eyes in exasperation. That life is done. Over. Stolen. He’ll never get it back and the unfairness of it all threatens to swallow him whole.

He stumbles away from the chair and the blanket and hits his knees on the edge of the couch. It should shake the furniture, but it doesn’t. Bucky doesn’t wake, but he does reach out his hand in his sleep, searching for comfort that he’s never going to get.

The dead can’t cry. That’s what Steve learns that night. The dead can’t cry, only scream, and no one hears them.

Brock lets himself in the next morning and finds them both in the same spots. Or, he finds Bucky on the couch and doesn’t see Steve on the floor beside him.

"Fuck," he swears, shaking Bucky until he stirs groggily and then, in a moment that breaks Steve’s heart, brightens with hopefulness.

"Steve?" he calls, his eyes still bleary with sleep.

"Fuck," Brock says again. "No kid, it’s me."

Bucky’s face falls. He struggles to sit upright and rubs his hand over his face, wincing as his body protests at the uncomfortable way he’s slept.

Steve doesn’t feel any worse, despite a night spent on the wooden floor. Silver fucking linings, right?

"Brock? What are you doing here?"

Brock manages to haul him up off the couch and swing Bucky’s arm over his shoulder. "Right now I am questioning why the fuck any of us thought it was okay to leave you alone last night," he mutters.

"I was gonna ask the same thing," Steve grumbles, angry that their friends would let Bucky spend the night after his partner’s funeral alone in a dark, empty apartment. He knows Bucky prefers to be alone when he’s hurting. He knows they only tried to respect that. But… fucking but.

"I’m fine," Bucky mumbles. "Time’sit?"

"Early," Brock leads him carefully up the stairs. Steve follows, afraid of being alone. "You’re gonna take a shower and then you’re gonna sleep in an actual bed, okay? When you wake up I’ll take you out for lunch."

Bucky is already shaking his head, and so is Steve. "I don’t want to go out."

"He’s not ready," Steve says at the same time, knowing how badly Bucky tends to interact with people when he is upset or tired.

"Tough shit," Brock says, ignoring Bucky and not hearing Steve. "You’ve got no food in the kitchen, and you spent the night on the couch. You need sleep and you need food and you need to see the fucking sun for a couple of hours, okay?"

Begrudgingly, Steve can see Brock’s point. It will be harder for him to follow them outside the apartment, but he doesn’t want Bucky shutting himself away, either. And he does need to see the sun, feel the fresh breeze on his skin… things Steve can no longer appreciate. Bucky needs that.

"Please," Brock says, "I promised Steve I’d look out for you, if anything ever happened. Don’t make me a liar."

It’s hearing Steve’s name that does it. Bucky makes a small sound, a little like a sob, then nods.

"Thank you," says Brock. Then he looks down, awkward, almost shy, "Do, er, you don’t need help, do you?" He’s looking at Bucky’s left side. Like most of their friends, Brock has always followed Steve and Bucky’s lead when it comes to acknowledging or working with Bucky’s amputation. They have never done anything differently around him and have only made the same concessions that Steve has made in public. Mostly it doesn’t make a difference at all. In private though, yes, there are things Steve does for Bucky that he doesn’t do in public. Little things really, like scratching an itch Bucky can’t reach, or rubbing in lotions or holding him when he is tired and cranky and a limb he no longer has throbs and aches.

Other things, personal hygiene things, Bucky can do on his own. He doesn’t need help with that, but Steve supposes it’s decent of Brock to ask.

"I’m fine," Bucky says, and Brock seems to wilt in relief.

"I’ll dig you some fresh pjs out," he offers, and Bucky summons him a shaky smile as he slips into the bathroom.

"The gray ones," Steve tells Brock, "he likes the gray ones. Second draw down." Of course, it’s pointless but he speaks anyway, and when Brock moves directly to the chest of draws in the bedroom he has to wonder if there has maybe been some kind of spark he’s inspired.

When the first draw brings up nothing, Brock moves on to the second. He even has the gray pjs Bucky likes in his hand at one point, but he just rummages, moving clothes around, then closing the draw. He checks the third and the fourth and the fifth as well, then closes the draw and swears quietly.

"You just had them, man," Steve sighs. "They aren’t going to be in there, are they?" He rolls his eyes as Brock hurries to the side table and pulls open the top draw.

"Brock?"

Both Brock and Steve turn, neither of them having heard Bucky’s arrival.

Brock jumps, swears and hastily closes the draw. "You got any Advil?" he asks, pointing at the table he’s been rummaging through. Bucky doesn’t say anything. His hair is wet and he’s got a towel wrapped around his hips. Steve can see the shiny scars on his left shoulder, and he’s officially worried now because Bucky is painfully shy about showing them to anyone. It had taken Steve six months of gentle encouragement and they had actually been dating at the time.

Brock has never seen them at all, and his jaw hangs open in surprise. Steve thinks about kicking him, and somehow Brock gets the message. He shakes off the surprise and takes a step forward. "Bucky? What’s wrong? What happened?"

Stepping closer himself, Steve can see the tears streaked down Bucky’s face. He holds open his arms, waiting for Bucky to fold himself into them, then lets them drop painfully.

"His shampoo’s in the shower," Bucky sobs. "So I thought I’d… only it… it smells like him and and-"

Steve is frozen, helpless, useless, but Brock manages to reach Bucky in time before his knees give out and he half carries, half drags him to the bed. Bucky doesn’t resist, he just hangs in Brock’s arms as his chest heaves and tears choke him.

"Easy, easy, it’s okay," Brock is not an emotionally demonstrative man, and his own eyes are red and glassy as he struggles to hold Bucky and say the right words. "I miss him too, I do. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry."

That validation, that compassion, is all it takes to shatter Bucky apart. Brock is Steve’s best friend, but in a split second, Steve hates him. He gets to wrap his arms around Bucky and run a hand down his back, stroke his hair, whisper soft, soothing things and comfort him as he sobs. All Steve can do is kneel at the foot of the bed, so, so close and yet whole dimensions away as Bucky cries and he just… watches.

"I still see him!" Bucky chokes, "when I close my eyes, he’s everywhere and I miss him, I miss him so much I can’t… I can’t…"

"Shush," Brock curls a hand gently around the back of Bucky’s head, fingers tangling in his long, uncombed hair, and he turns Bucky towards him. "Ssssh," he whispers, holding Bucky close, his face tucked against Brock’s throat and his broken words fading into the hurt of fresh tears.

At the foot of the bed, Steve cries as well, his tears silent. He presses his forehead against the mattress and wants to sink inside of it and fade away into nothingness. Bucky’s right, and he can’t do this either. They’ve been together forever. They were supposed to stay together until they were old and worn and died side by side in their sleep. They aren’t supposed to be apart. They aren’t made for it.

Steve doesn’t know how to exist without Bucky in his life and he knows Bucky is the same.

"I’m sorry," he sobs, "I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Bucky please, please, I’m right here, I love you, I’m right here…"

Bucky doesn’t hear him. He cries in Brock’s arms until he can cry no more, and it’s hours before he slips under, carried away by exhaustion and grief. Brock is careful as he pulls the blankets up over Bucky’s shoulders, respectful of his state of undress, and desolate as he steps out of the bedroom and slides quietly down the wall, his face white and hollow beneath his tears.

"I don’t know what to do, Steve," he whispers, clearly not expecting an answer. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I don’t know what to do!"

If he is waiting for some kind of sign, Steve can’t give him one. Steve can’t do anything.

He didn’t follow the lights into Heaven.

This must be Hell.

Bucky hasn’t touched his clay or paints or even tried to do anything creative since Steve died. They’re living together but around each other. Lonely and isolated and hurting.

It’s been a week and nothing has changed.

Mostly Steve sits by the window and watches the world go by around him. Watches Bucky and tortures himself.

He’s doing that now while Bucky sorts through a pile of Steve’s things. He’s stopped and started five or six times already and is halfway through his second bottle of wine, despite it only being early afternoon. His phone sits ignored on the table. In the past hour it has rung twice and the names of so many of their friends have popped up on the screen. Bucky has ignored them all.

"Steve…"

Steve jerks out of his vacant haze and rushes towards Bucky, only to see that he’s running his fingers over the edge of an old dry cleaning stub. Steve’s terrible for remembering to throw things out and this one is from December last year.

"I picked up your shirts this morning," Bucky whispers. "Darcy said to say hi and I burst into tears in the middle of the store."

"Buck…." it would have been nothing to just reach out and touch his cheek, to soothe him in all the ways he knows how. Just another thoughtless gesture he can no longer make.

Bucky screws up his face, trying to stop the tears, then slumps. He’s too exhausted to fight them. "I think about you every minute. I see you everywhere I look and it’s like you’re still here. And i know you’re not, but I can feel you, Steve…"

"I am here, Buck. I’m right here, I’m-"

"Hello? Anyone home?" There’s only just enough time for him to scramble backward as Bucky stands. He’s still not used to the feeling of being walked right through.

Brock has a key now. Bucky gave him one in case of emergencies. This doesn’t classify as one, and Steve feels a small stab of anger that someone else is just allowed to let themselves into their sanctuary.

He shakes himself. Brock is his friend. He’s there for Bucky. Steve needs to stop letting his anger find the wrong target.

"Hey," Brock summons a shadow of a smile for Bucky. "Consider this your ‘time to get out of the apartment intervention," he says. "I need lunch. You need lunch. Lunch is gonna happen."

Bucky is already shaking his head, his fingers curl around the edge of the box he is sorting Steve’s things into.  

"I don’t really wan-"

"You sorting through his things?" Brock asks. "Jesus kid, that’s not something you need to be doing by yourself. Let me help you."

"I’m okay," Bucky insists. "It’s just…" he waves an absent hand at the items on the table. The police have returned Steve’s belongings that were with him when he died. All but the wallet and the precious ring inside. They haven’t found that. It will be in a trash can somewhere, or with his murderer. Steve knows which fate he prefers.

Brock’s shoulders slump. "Come on. It’s like summer outside."

"I really don’t… I’m not ready, I can’t…."

"You can’t stay in here all the time either," Brock says firmly. "You’re not the one who died." Bucky’s intake of breath is so sharp it cuts all of them. Steve wants to break Brock’s jaw. Brock himself looks like he can’t quite believe what he said. "Fuck… fuck, I’m sorry."

Bucky rubs his hand over his face. "No, you’re right. You’re right."

"I am? I mean damn right I am. Come on. I’ll buy you one of those green things you like." There’s a visible struggle in Bucky’s eyes as he steps away from the table, but makes it.

They are at the door when Steve realizes what that is going to mean.

Bucky is going to leave. He’s going to leave, and what if he doesn’t come back? What if he has an accident? Or if the man who killed Steve finds him? What if he doesn’t want to come back? What if someone stops him?

The need to be near Bucky always is one that is too strong to deny, but in those moments of paralyzing fear, the door closes behind them and Steve is alone. He’s alone for real.

He rushes up to the front door, only to come to an abrupt hault.

Okay. Okay. Things can pass through him easily enough, right?  Makes sense that he can do the same. He just has to… to get his head around the idea of putting his head through something.

He can do it. He can do it for Bucky.

There’s no logical reason to try the doorknob first. It’s not like he’s going to be able to open the damn thing. It’s habit. Logic.

Each fists clenches as he psychs himself up. "Okay Rogers, you can do this. You can. You just have to… to put your hand through a fucking solid door. No big deal. David Blaine does this shit all the time…" He forces himself to hyperventilate, almost as if he is planning on holding his breath for a long period of time, then he reaches out his hand.

His fingers slide clean through the metal handle and he jerks back. It feels like he’s stuck them in a wall socket. Sharp jolts of electrical charge race down his arm.

Swearing comes out more of a sob. "Fuck…"

Fuck. Fuck….

In an attempt triggered more by panic than anything else, Steve plunges his face into the wooden door only to throw himself back in terror the second the sensation hits him.

He hits the floor hard and doesn’t get up. No one will see him. No one will know.

He wraps his arms around himself and shakes with tears he cannot shed.

The cat is avoiding him every chance it gets. It’s typical: the one creature alive that can see him wants nothing to do with him at all. That leaves Steve sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for Bucky to come back home. That’s the rest of his life, laid out right there and it’s terrifying. Yes, he wants Bucky to be happy, wants him to find love again, wants him to move on… but the idea of just waiting around and watching it happen seems hellish. He’s selfish, he knows he is selfish, but Bucky is literally the only thing he has in the whole universe, and he’s scared of what will happen when he can no longer take just being stuck here, watching and waiting for… well, for nothing. There’s no deadline to death, is there? No light at the end of the tunnel. Not his, anyway. Not when he’s turned away from it once already.

The door opens downstairs and he starts. Keeping track of time is hard when he has nothing really to judge it by, but he’s still sure that Bucky has only been gone a matter of minutes.

It’s clear as soon as Bucky starts to climb the stairs. He’s white and shaking and overwhelmed and Steve is suddenly furious at Brock for taking him out of the safety and security of the apartment.

He shakes himself. That’s not what he wants for Bucky. That’s not who he is….

Bucky starts to undress as soon as he reaches the landing, first pulling his hoodie over his head and then his t-shirt. He’s barely eaten in the last week and it’s visible around the band of his ribs. He’s always been like that - shutting down when he’s upset - but now Steve isn’t around to gently bully him into taking care of himself, and no one else knows him well enough to know his habits.

The cat ambles out of the bedroom and brushes himself around Bucky’s ankles, pausing only to glare at Steve in a way that makes it clear the smug little fucker is rubbing in the fact that he can touch Bucky and Steve can’t.

"Hey kitty," Bucky reaches down and scratches fluffy ears, and Steve is fucking jealous of a cat, that’s how far he has descended into this Hell. "You’re not gonna leave me, are you?" It’s probably a rhetorical question, but it makes Steve ache regardless.

"I’m right here, Buck," he says, pointlessly.

Bucky continues into the bedroom and strips down to his boxers. He leans into the bathroom and turns the shower on, then leaves the water to heat up. One of the downsides to an old building is no instant hot water. He remembers his own squawk of indignation when learning the hard way.

He’s pottering around the bedroom, putting clothes in the hamper and tidying things away - all of which are good signs, signs that he’s not completely lost in the depression of his own head.

He doesn’t hear the door open downstairs.

Steve does.

He heads back onto the landing, expecting to see Brock making another attempt to coax him back into the real world.

What he sees instead is a scarred face and shaggy hair, and a flash of gunfire and crimson agony.

"No, no no no, what the fuck are you doing here? Fuck you! Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" He charges down the stairs, taking them three, four at a time, and scrambles across the wooden floor towards the man who murdered him.

The fucker has a key. His key, and the fact that Bucky hasn't changed the locks seems like a stupid, unforgivable thing to have failed to do, but how the fuck does this asshole know where they live?

"Don't you fucking hurt him!" Steve screams, swinging around with a punch that goes right through the intruder and sends him sprawling across the floor. He jumps up and scrambles up the stairs in pursuit.

He's never felt this kind of fear in his life. Not when looking down a gun and not when dying. Bucky has no idea anyone is in the apartment, and this man is a killer... a monster... and Steve can do nothing. Nothing at all. He's going to have to just watch.

Oh god...

"Bucky! Bucky! Don't you go near him you piece of shit! Don't you fucking touch him!"

The intruder reaches the top of the landing and pauses, ducking and pressing up against the wall when Bucky emerges from the bathroom and wanders obliviously to the side of the bed. He sits down to take off his socks, then pushes down his boxers and he has no fucking clue he's not alone... that's he's being watched by eyes that track his every movement. Steve can see him assessing the shape Bucky's in, noting strong muscles but also the amputation and the scars. He's visibly deciding if he wants to make his presence known, and if Steve's heart still was beating it would be deafening him right now.

"Bucky!"

He can't just sit and watch. He can't... he won't.

Then the cat wanders across the landing, scarcely a glance at the stranger occupying his space.

Steve gets an idea. He throws himself down and launches himself at the cat, screaming at the top of his voice as he does so.

The cat yowls and leaps into the air, scrambling onto the bookshelf at the top of the stairs, then up and over and into the intruder, claws extended.

They sink into a scarred cheek and the intruder yelps in pain.

"Hello?" In the bedroom, Bucky grabs a towel and covers himself up. "Hey! Who's there?"

The intruder isn't waiting around now, but he's not going for Bucky, either. He's leaving, scrambling down the stairs, and Steve isn't letting him get away this time.

Knowing Bucky is safe - for the time being - Steve tears down the stairs in pursuit. By the time he reaches the front door it is being slammed closed.

He doesn't hesitate this time. He's not letting that fucker get away.

He runs, leaps, and launches himself through the solid door.

He can feel every grain of the wood and for a second he can hear every tiny sound, every vibration that runs through the building. The electric charge is there, but it feels energizing.

Then he's on the other side. Whole.

Suddenly feeling like the whole world is opening up for him, Steve grabs hold of his confidence and he runs.

Now he’s mastered the door, Steve has nothing but confidence when tackling other objects. His fear has freed him and he charges right through a barrier and onto the subway platform he has followed his murderer to. Even so, he only just makes the train before it closes the doors and moves on to the next station. He’s braver, but he’d not sure he wants to see what happens when he tries to jump onto a moving train. 

He stands between the man and the exit, arms crossed as he contemplates all the things he would do if he were able to just touch things. Between thoughts of revenge, he tries to look for something, some sign of remorse or regret, but sullen eyes linger on the ground and he avoids looking at any of the other passengers on the busy train.

The other commuters are doing the same, oblivious to the murderer in their midst.

All but one. There is a grizzled, angry looking man stood at the far end of the carriage. He’s wearing an old Army jacket that might have seen better days before Vietnam and for a second it feels like he actually locks eyes with Steve.

The carriage jolts on the line and the man roars before charging forward. None of the other passengers move, no matter how loud the man howls as he runs.

Steve’s jaw drops with realization a split second before something hits him solidly in the chest.

He skids through several metal poles as he sails backwards but doesn’t have the time to appreciate the strangeness that usually accompanies the sensation.

Something hit him! It made physical, violent contact, and as terrifying as the unknown of it is, for a moment Steve rejoices in being able to feel.

There’s a nametag that says ‘Phillips’ on the Army jacket. Steve can see it clearly as hands fist at his throat and shove him head first out of the carriage.

He’s half inside it, half outside it, and he screams in terror as the sound of the subway rattles and rushes around him. He closes his eyes and braces himself for something, only to be pulled back inside.

When he’s shoved this time, he goes backwards through the carriage doors into another compartment.

Glass shatters and people look up, startled.

"How did you do that?!" Steve exclaims, looking around excitedly as people stand and start to inspect the broken glass. "How did you…?"

"This is my train. Mine! Stay out!" Phillips screams before turning his wrath on the passengers around them. He sends newspapers and bags flying and doesn’t stop until people are cowering away at the far end of the carriage.

Steve is horrified, but he’s excited as well. Phillips is clearly like him, dead and royally fucked over by fate, but he can interact with the world. He can make himself known.

If he can do it, Steve can, too.

The man who murdered him is called Jack Rollins and he lives in the Prospects. There's a letter addressed to him on his dresser, and that's where Steve is standing. Next to it, in Rollins's apartment. He made it all the way down here without losing the bastard.

His wallet it open and empty on the bed. Steve’s stolen wallet is on the floor. Who knows if the ring is, too? There’s a picture of him and Bucky tucked into the fold and Steve hates that it’s here, in this shithole. It's a single studio, uncared for and grimy, and the few belongings Rollins seems to have are stacked up beside a pile of obviously stolen items.

Rollins is clutching his cell phone, shouting. He's been on the call since getting off the subway and instead of running out of steam and calming down with the distance between him and his failed job, he's only growing more and more agitated.

"Where the fuck are you? He came back early, okay? No, I didn’t get it. Give me a couple of days. I’ll go back."

Steve can't hear the voice on the other end. "No! No, you stay the fuck away from him!" 

He thinks of Phillips and the way he threw things around the train and tries desperately to do the same. He takes a swing, and then another, each time falling straight through Rollins.

He stops and looks at the cracked window instead. Glass, like on the subway.

He pulls his fist back, lets it fly.

Nothing.

"Fuck! Fuck!" No one hears him, and Rollins scurries out of the apartment to plan new ways of destroying everything Steve loves.

As desperate as he is to get back to Bucky, this is the first time he has been out on his own since he died and for ten minutes Steve just wanders the streets around Rollins’s apartment, trying to sort things out in his head. He’s always been a walker. Always liked to take the fresh air as an excuse to find clarity. Maybe things have changed now he’s dead. Fresh air doesn’t really have the same effect. 

There is music on the breeze though. Something religious and upbeat. He follows it without thinking and less than a block away from Rollins’s apartment he finds himself in front of a storefront with a brightly lit sign hanging outside.

‘SISTER ODA MAE BROWN, MEDIUM, SPIRIT READER, ADVISOR.’

"Twenty bucks?" Steve shakes his head. "Jesus." He’s passing judgment on someone who would take money to do the impossible and then stops himself. He is the impossible. If the dead do still walk the earth - and he’s proof they do - then who says they can’t communicate with psychics? 

He steps through the door into a one roomed studio. There’s a closet built into the far wall and the ceiling is strewn with gaudy baubles and lights.

The woman he can only assume is Sister Oda Mae Brown is with a client already, beckoning him to take a seat with a wave of her hand. He’s about Steve’s age and he looks like this is the last place on earth he wants to be. Two other women hover behind Oda Maw.

"You have to relax, kiddo," the Sister says with an encouraging smile.

"No offense, Auntie Oda," the man says, "but you know I don’t believe in all this, right?"

Oda Mae waves a dismissive hand. "That’s because you don’t want to believe. Is it really such a terrible thought? That the people we love can still communicate with us after death?"

He takes a long, slow breath and sinks back into the chair he is sat in. He doesn’t want to be there, but there’s clearly someone he thinks about talking to. 

Steve looks around. Yep. He’s still the only spirit here.

"Atta boy, Sam," Oda Mae says. "And since you’re family, this one’s on the house." 

The lights overhead start to flash and someone has turned the music up.

Oda Mae lifts her arms into the air. "Spirits! Make your presence known! Sam is here with an open heart and wants to speak to Jack Riley!" She jolts in her chair and clutches at the table, rumpling the gold sheet thrown over it and threatening to upset the glass ball pretending to be crystal resting in the middle. "I can hear them! Today is a good day, Sam!" 

Fragile hope cracks the disbelief on Sam’s face and Steve is outraged on his behalf.

Steve leans back against the wall and bitterly resents all the horror movies he and Bucky used to watch and laugh at. What he’d give to get down with his inner poltergeist right now. Show this fraud what a real ghost fucking sounds like.

She waves her hands over the crystal ball, rings clinking together as she wiggles her fingers, and behind her the two other women make whooshing noises. "Does the name Cathy have any meaning for him?"

Sam looks bewildered. "No?"

"Elizabeth? Annabelle? Sarah?"

"His mom’s name is Sarah?" There’s so much desperate hope in Sam’s eyes, but he is still visibly resisting the urge to give in to it.

Oda Mae reaches out and pats his hand kindly. "Kiddo, we are in luck. I believe the spirits are being kind to us today."

"Yeah right," Steve mutters quietly.

"Raise your arms! Raise your arms and rejoice, for the heavens are with us today!"

Steve pushes himself up from the wall and stalks towards the door. He’s done. He was stupid to even come here at all. Overhead, the lights continue flashing dramatically and suddenly it’s impossible to contain the anger at having his hopes dashed yet again. "This is such a load of bullshit!" he grumbles.

Sam, now shaking his head at Oda Mae’s antics, agrees. "Amen to that," then looks up quickly in shock.

At the door, Steve freezes. "What did you say?"

"What did I say?" he’s looking around the room, doing the math, and his eyes are growing larger and larger as he realizes he’s the only man in the room – only apparently not.

"You can hear me?" Steve practically bellows. "Holy fuck! Can you hear me? Say you can hear me!"

The pay-per-minute psychic looks across the table in bewilderment. "Sam, honey… What are you doing?"

"He can hear me!" Steve yells at her, dancing around the table and racing over to Sam, who is on his feet and poised to run for the fucking hills. "You can fucking hear me!" Worried that this might turn out to be a part time thing, he rushes to put all of his cards on the table. "My name’s Steve Rogers! I was murdered and the man who killed me might be trying to kill my fiancé and you have to help me!"

Sam starts to shake his head back and forth in panic. "I’m losing my fucking mind!" he says. "I’m having a mental breakdown. It was due. Overdue, actually. Oh Fuck…"

"Say my name!" Steve shouts. "Steve Rogers!"

"Sam, honey…" the three women are circling around him.

"Say it!" Steve yells. "Steve Rogers! Steve Rogers!"

"Say it!"

Sam clutches his head in his hand and shoves the chair over as he scrambles away from Steve. "Steve Rogers!" he yells.

Steve shrieks in excitement and starts to dance around the room.

Confused as fuck, Oda Mae throws her arms in the air. "Who the hell is Steve Rogers?" she demands.

"Me! I’m Steve Rogers. Oh my god."

He holds out his arms, wanting to hug Sam then remembering that might not be the best idea. Hugging isn’t something he can do anymore, and Sam is looking freaked out as it is.

"You okay, pal?" Steve asks, than then, because he hasn’t had anyone to talk to in so long, he feels himself grin. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Sam shakes his head, eyes wide as they flicker from one corner of the room to the other. "Nuh uh. Nope." Then turns and runs from the store.

Stalking someone as a ghost is a lot easier than doing so as a human. Not that Steve has. Stalked anyone. As a human. But following Sam to his apartment is easy. He stays quiet, thinking it might be the best idea to let the poor guy get his head around the whole American Haunting thing he’s got going down. By the time they are inside the small, homely building though he has bubbled over with excitement and says "Hey Sam!" just as the door is closing.

"Motherfuck!" Sam yells, scrambling backward. "Leave me alone!"

"I can’t," Steve says apologetically. "I need your help." 

"I’m having a nervous breakdown," Sam says. "I’m no help to nobody."  

"I just need you to make a phone call, okay? One phone call."

Sam walks right past where Steve is standing and towards the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and sits down at the small table. Everything is neat and orderly and there is only one picture on the refrigerator. Sam and another man, dressed in combat gear.

"You’re in the military?" Steve asks, curious.

Sam ignores him. "They said this could happen. They said my symptoms could manifest themselves this way. Deep breaths, just gotta take deep breaths…. What the fuck was I thinking? I love the woman but she’s is a fraud and there are no such thing as fucking ghosts" he’s almost rocking back and forth at the table and Steve feels like a Grade A asshole.

"She is a fraud," Steve agrees. "But you’re not."

"I’ve got magical powers and I can talk to the dead," Sam whimpers. "I am suffering from a psychological break from reality, that’s all. Nothing to worry about."

"I wish it were that simple," Steve says sympathetically.

Sam presses the glass to his forehead. "Who the fuck are you, man?"

"Steve Rogers, I said…" 

"Yeah I heard that," Sam says. "Why the hell am I imagining you. I don’t know any Steve Rogers. Were you one of the Drill Sergeants back at Bragg?"

Steve frowns. "What? No...I, I’m a banker. Sorta."

Sam sets the glass down and drops his head into his hands. "A banker. The fuck is my life…? No, you know what? I can prove you’re not real." He pulls out his cellphone. "If I google your name and…" he taps away, then throws his cell phone down in disgust. "That doesn’t mean anything. I clearly read about you dying in The New York Times a few days ago and my subconscious is using you to manifest my trauma."

While yes, it is technically possible as significant tabloid inches have been dedicated to his untimely death, it’s not that simple.

"Look, I’m am really sorry about this. But you are literally the first, only, person who has heard me since I died and I am not leaving until you help me. The man who murdered me is going to try and kill my fiance and you have to help make sure that doesn’t happen."

"I don’t have to do anything but call my therapist," Sam says, not looking up from his hands.

"Sure, okay. That’s probably a good idea. But even if you do, I will not stop talking until you pick up the phone and make the call for me. You think this is annoying? You like Taylor Swift? I know the lyrics to every single Taylor Swift song and I will sing them on repeat all fucking night if you don’t help me."

It’s a low blow. He’s desperate.

Sam actually whimpers.

Steve takes a breath… he’s a terrible singer and he knows it, but needs fucking must. "I stay out too late. Got nothing in my brain. That's what people say, mmm-mmm. That's what people say, mmm-mmm…"

Sam has his cell phone in hand before he reaches the chorus. "Fuck you, man. One call. Then it’s Ghostbusters time."

Steve doesn’t stop to thank him. He just rattles off Bucky’s number and waits, desperately hopeful, for Bucky to pick up.

 Eventually he does. "Hello?"

"Who do I want to speak to?" Sam asks Steve, one hand over the phone. "Are you marrying a dude? Not judging, but you know, context is important here."

"Hello?" Bucky asks again.

"His name is Bucky," Steve blurts.

Sam rolls his eyes but uncovers the phone. "Is this Bucky?"

 "Yes?"

Sam sighs, clearly disappointed. "Okay, this is gonna sound weird, I know it is. But a friend of yours asked me to give you a call."

Bucky sounds suspicious and Steve can picture his expression. "Who?"

"Steve Rogers," Sam says. "He’s here with me now and he asked me to give you a call-"

The line goes dead.

Sam hangs up the phone. "Okay, I called him. You can go now and leave me to my sanity."

"No, no you gotta go see him!" Steve demands. "You have to!" 

"I have to do jack shit," Sam snaps at him.

"Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play. And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…"

Sam stands and snatches his keys. He grits his teeth and stuffs his phone in his pocket. "Where the fuck are we going."

Bucky doesn’t answer the buzzer. He’s inside, Steve knows he is inside, but after three minutes of solid buzzing, Sam throws his hands up in the air and steps away from the door.

"I tried! I came to fucking Tribeca for you and I rang the goddamn bell and either he’s not home or he doesn’t want to talk to me. You know who I wish didn’t want to talk to me? You. But whatever. I did my bit. I’m done."

He turns and starts to walk away, taking with him any hope Steve has of keeping Bucky safe.

"If you leave now," Steve rushes after Sam, "I will never let you sleep again. You think Taylor’s bad? Wait until I crack open Justin’s finest…"

Sam comes to an abrupt standstill in the middle of the street. "You’re Satan, aren’t you? I’m being haunted by hipster banker Satan."

"Please, Sam," Steve begs. "There is no one else who can help me. I need you."

It’s the please that does it. Sam, for all his snark, is clearly a good man. His shoulders slump and he turns around to face the building Steve and Bucky wanted to make a new start in. 

"Hey Bucky!" Sam suddenly bellows. "Bucky Bucky Bucky!! I know you don’t wanna talk to me but tough shit! Steve’s here and he needs you to know something!"

"Tell him about the starfish at Montego Bay, and the picture I took of us at Santa Monica pier," Steve prompts and Sam repeats him. "Ask him about the sweater in the closet, the one he knitted that's too big. I know he hasn’t thrown it away. Or the blanket he made us last Christmas."

"You made him a blanket?" Sam shouts. "Dude, you are too good for this asshole… Bucky! Bucky, can you hear me…?" he trails off and mutters, "fuck I sound crazy. I am crazy…" 

"I can hear you!" The woman who lives a floor below leans out of her window and screams down at them.

"Ma’am, I am not talking to you," Sam shouts back. "Okay, I’m done. I’m not doing this all day."

He turns to leave as the building door opens and sees Bucky before Steve does. Something changes then, Steve can see it in his eyes. It’s no longer just him and the voice in his head, but a person outside of it all who is visibly grieving. He believes, and his expression softens. "That him?"

"Bucky," Steve whispers.

"Bucky?" Sam calls out, closing the gap between them.

"Yeah," Bucky says quietly. There are rings around his eyes and he looks even more drawn than when Steve left him. "Who are you?"

"My name is Sam Wilson," Sam says. "Is there some place we can go to talk?"

The cafe is small, but it's the one he and Bucky had giddily claimed their own upon moving in. Their local. Their favorite table. Bucky can bring himself to enter the building, but he visibly draws the line at sitting in their usual spot. His body automatically turns towards it, then jerks to a broken standstill.

"You okay?" Sam asks. He is observant enough to pick up on Bucky's change of posture: closed and guarded to something visibly hurting.

Bucky nods sharply. Guides them to another table and orders his usual when their waitress comes over. Sam takes the seat opposite him. Steve slides into the one beside him. To not be able to reach out and touch him is an agony beyond dying. Every part of his soul is screaming at him, wanting, needing Bucky.

Their drinks arrive while they all sit in silence. Bucky spends the time eying Sam with a combination of hostile defensiveness and aching desperation. Sam, for his part, keeps looking around the room for Steve.

Bucky picks up his coffee - so transfixed on Sam and so caught in his misery that he foregoes the sugar he usually saturates it with. "Okay, so. Talk."

Sam does. "Look, I don't even know where to start, okay? I don't believe in ghosts."

Bucky swallows. "Because they aren't real."

"Exactly!" Sam says, leaning forward and curling himself around his own coffee. His hands are shaking a little. He's still spooked by this. By Steve and by his own abilities. There's a part of Steve that regrets bringing him into this: it's drowned out by the rest of him that will do anything to protect Bucky, regardless of the cost. "My family? Big believers. Huge. Totally into Casper 101. Me? I'm a soldier. I got no time for that shit."

"You are in the Army?" Bucky asks.

"I was in the Air Force," Sam corrects. "77th Pararescue." There's a note of pride in his voice. And one of pain.

"I saw a documentary on you guys," Bucky says. "You're all fucking nuts." Sam laughs, not offended and in clear agreement. Then Bucky follows it with, "You were? You aren't anymore? Why'd you quit? You go nuts for real?"

"Buck, come on," Steve reprimands. Sam's here to help. He doesn't deserve to be on the end of Bucky's sharp temper.

"No Steve, it's okay, he can say it," Sam waves off Steve's worry and Bucky crumbles in front of them.

"Steve's here?"

Surprise draws Sam up sharp, then his expression softens. "Yeah. Shit, I'm doing this backward. I can explain. I think-"

But Bucky doesn't hear him or care for explanations. "He's here? You can see him?"

"I can't see him," Sam shakes his head apologetically. "Just hear him. And the dude does not shut up."

"Tell him I'm sitting beside him," Steve pleads, his eyes only for Bucky.

Sam sets down his coffee. Says, very gently, "He says he's sitting beside you," and Bucky looks at Steve directly for the first time. Then his gaze falls through Steve to the wall behind him. So, so close. But not close enough. Steve needs more.

"Tell him I'm touching his hand," he begs Sam, curling his fingers over Bucky's and wishing he could feel the heat from either him or the warm coffee mug.

"He says he's touching your hand," Sam obliges.

Bucky's whole body shudders as a quiet sob rises through him. His fingers twitch, then he shoves the cup away, coffee spilling over the side as he jerks himself away from the table and takes several unsteady paces away. "Why are you doing this?" he demands, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Why are you lying? Why are you-"

Steve, who has desperately tried to follow Bucky up and steady him in case he falls - pointless, he's useless - turns to Sam. "You can't let him leave! Say something!"

"What do you want me to say?" Sam yelps. "There's isn't exactly a handbook for this kind of thing! I'm winging it, okay?"

"You're crazy," Bucky says, backing away further. "Just stay away from me."

He's leaving, taking any chance Steve has of keeping him safe with him as he goes.

Desperately, he shouts to Sam, "Tell him I love him!"

Sam looks as out of his depth as Steve feels, but he shouts, "He says he loves you!" anyway.

Bucky actually stops. He turns slowly enough that Steve thinks for a moment they have gotten through to him. Then he laughs. Ugly and cold. "Steve would never say that."

"You never told him you love him?" Sam demands, almost offended. "Dude, you are a lousy boyfriend."

"That wasn't what we-" Steve defends. Then. "Ditto! Tell him ditto!"

Bucky's nearly at the door. This is it. Last chance.

"What the fuck is ditto?" Sam frowns.

"Just do it!" Steve yells, walking through four tables and a counter full of cream cakes in the hopes of somehow being able to stay Bucky off at the door. How he has no idea. But he'll try anything.

"Ditto!" Sam shouts across the cafe. "Is ditto a thing?"

It is. Steve knows it is.

Bucky does too. He turns back into the cafe. "Steve?"

"I'm right here," Steve says. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving you. I promise. Please, please just listen to Sam."

Bucky is shaking so hard now that several people are looking at him in concern. One woman stands from her table and starts to head his way.

Sam gets to him first. "Easy," he says, ignoring Steve and his presence now and focusing entirely on Bucky. "Take a deep breath. That's it." He keeps his hand on Bucky's back until he steadies himself. "You okay?"

Bucky doesn't answer. Bucky just says, "Steve..."

Sam looks around, eyes up the people staring at them both, then wraps his arm over Bucky's shoulder sportingly. "Look, I don't mean to be an asshole, but is there someplace else we can go?."

Bucky nods and leads Sam out of the cafe and back to the apartment.

"Is this you?" Sam picks up a photo of Steve and Bucky from the coffee table. They'd taken it when they were in California; two young lovers drunk on sea air and sunshine and goofing around on Santa Monica pier. Steve has both his arms around Bucky, his chin tucked into his neck and the biggest smile on his face as they dance around in the fading light. "You're pretty cute for a white boy."

"Thanks," Steve says wryly, looking up from the couch as Bucky carries a tray over from the kitchen.

"You want sugar?" he asks, setting it down on the table and then handing Sam a mug.

"No, thanks," Sam says, taking it from him carefully. "Look, I'm sorry. About before. I'm... pretty new to this whole hearing ghosts things. There were better ways to do that. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Bucky nods, visibly psyching himself up. "Is Steve… is he here?" He sinks down onto the couch and tucks his knee up to his chest.

"I’m sitting next to him on our ugly as fuck couch." With eyes only for Bucky. If he leans any closer towards him he’ll fall.

"I don’t think he’s a fan of your couch," Sam says.

Bucky sniffs. "He tried to lose it when we moved but I caught him."

"You said it was unappreciated," Steve whispers, "you thought it deserved better than to be thrown out because it didn’t match anything."

Across the coffee table, Sam shakes his head. "I wish you could hear him," he says, "dude’s a romantic fuck."

Bucky jerks and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. "Why can’t I? Why can you? I’m...he’s my Steve. If anyone should hear him…." his bottom lip wobbles with the threat of tears but he bites down on them, hard.

"I really don’t know," Sam shakes his head. "This has never happened to me before. He just showed up and hasn’t stop demanding I come see you."

"Why?" Bucky asks.

"Tell him he’s in danger," Steve says to Sam.

"I can’t just say that! You want me to give the poor guy a heart attack?"

"Sam! Tell him!"

"Has he always been such a drama queen?" Sam asks Bucky, who almost smiles in response. "He says, and I quote ‘you’re in danger,’. Which is pretty fucking cliche."

Bucky’s gaze darts from side to side as he tries to find some sign of Steve’s presence. "How is he here? Why has he come back?"

Sam actually answers before Steve has to try find the right answer. "I think he’s stuck. Between worlds. He thinks he’s still got something to do, which from the way he’s so desperate to protect you I think I know what that is."

"Me?"

"You’re all he’s talked about. Well, you and mainstream pop music. Which, even the CIA would draw the line at some of the shit he’s threatening to pull."

"Can we focus?" Steve snaps. Sam pulls a face but waves his hand in a gesture for him to continue. "The man who murdered me is Jack Rollins. He lives at 321 Prospect Place."

Sam repeats what he says, then frowns. "Prospect Place is my neighborhood."

"Tell him he has to go to the police. He broke in here looking for something and he’s gonna come back." 

"Here?" Bucky asks when Sam tells him. He looks around the apartment and draws in on himself, and the last thing Steve wants it to take this one safety away from him, but he has to know what could happen. He needs to protect himself.

"He needs to call the cops," Steve says. "You have to tell them what I told you, Sam. You have to make sure-"

Sam stands abruptly. "Okay, I’m done. Message delivered. I have a killer in my neighborhood and folk of my own to look out for. You, have a nice life," he waves his arm in the air in what probably indicates he is now talking to Sam, "and you have a nice death, goodbye!"

Bucky stands quickly and tries to follow him as he runs from the apartment. When the door slams, he comes to a standstill.

"Steve?" he calls out.

There’s no point answering, but Steve does so anyway. "I’m here."

"Steve?" When Bucky doesn’t hear anything, he shakes his head angrily. "Get a fucking grip, Barnes. Steve’s gone."

"You want to what?" Brock is never far these days and twenty minutes after Bucky’s call he is sitting across from him at the kitchen counter. "Run this by me again."

"I know it sounds crazy," Bucky admits. He’s wearing another of Steve’s sweaters and is fiddling with the unravelling hem at the sleeve.

"Because it is crazy!" Brock shakes his head.

"Hey," Steve snaps, "give him a fucking break. He needs your support on this. 

"I know," Bucky carries on, "but he knew things. Private things."

Brock leans over the counter and catches Bucky’s hand in his, stopping the restless fiddling and squeezing comfortingly. "No one wants this to be true more than I do, kid. But you’re talking ghosts here. 

"I know," Bucky’s shoulders slump even lower. He’s practically a ball of misery, and in the face of Brock’s disbelief, the hope Steve had of this lighting a fire beneath him is quickly being smothered out. "But… but it can’t hurt for me to check it out, right? He said his name was Jack Rollins and he lives at 321 Prospect Place. I can head down there tonight and-"

"What? Bucky, no!" That was literally the last thing Steve wanted from this. "Brock! Do not let him go down there!"

For once, Brock seems to be on the same page, even if he can’t hear him. "Okay no. If I let you go there and something does happen Steve would find a way to come back from the grave to haunt my ass."

"Damn fucking right I will," Steve agrees. "Call the fucking cops!"

"Look, how about a deal, okay?" He waits for Bucky to hesitantly nod, "I will take a look into this… Rollins? And I’ll look into your psychic as well, and if I find anything on either of them I will come right back here and tell you. But you have to promise me you’ll call your sister? And Natasha. Or they are gonna come up here and chew us both new ones. Then get some sleep."

"I…"

"The docs gave you some pills, right? Maybe you should think about taking one? You can’t keep going on like this. Have you even touched your art? Don’t you have an exhibition to plan for? It would break Steve’s heart to see you this bad."

He’s right about that. Steve had always thought that, selfishly, he wanted to die before Bucky. So he’d never have to live without him. He’d not, even in his worst nightmares, that this would be what happened when he went.

"Will you do that?" Brock asks him. "If I check this out?"

Reluctantly, Bucky nods. "Thanks, Brock."

Brock shakes off the gesture. "You and I are all that’s left. We take care of each other, okay?" 

Bucky sniffs and nods and lets Brock kiss him affectionately on the forehead before he leaves. It looks like he’s about to cry again, overwhelmed by the day. Steve wants to stay, but he’s more worried about Brock right now.

"I’ll come back, Bucky. I love you so much," he vows, then follows Brock out of the apartment.

It’s happening. Brock’s standing at the door of number 321 Prospect Place. He’s going to find Jack Rollins and give him a black eye from Steve, and the cops are going to arrest the fucker and Bucky will be safe.

"Thank you," he says to Brock, "thank you…"

He expects Brock to knock. He doesn’t.

He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door.

What?

"What the fuck, Rollins?" Brock demands, storming into the apartment and scaring Rollins’s shitless in the process. He jumps so high he falls off the bed, then scrambles to his feet to square off with Brock.

Steve just… hangs back. He can’t move.

"Who the fuck have you been talking to?" Brock demands.

"Talking to? What the hell do you mean? What's going on?" Rollins is twitching and antsy and fucking high for all Steve knows, and Brock is… Brock is….

"Some guy is talking about you! He knows what you did! The murder, everything. He knows where you live! Who the fuck have you been talking to?"

"No…" Steve whispers. "No…"

"Lotta people know where I live. Gotta be more specific," Rollins smirks.

"This isn't a joke, man. You find that bastard, whoever he is, and... get rid of him, you hear me? I've got five million dollars stuck in that fucking computer. If I don't get those codes, if that money's not transferred soon, I'm dead. If I lose Nachios’s money, we're both dead."

Rollins starts to laugh. "Tell him you only wash dirty money on the first of the month."

"What is wrong with you? Is everything a joke? You were supposed to steal his wallet. You weren't supposed to kill him!"

"I did you a favor. Freebie." Rollins shrugs his shoulders and sits back on the bed. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that what he did cost Steve everything.

Brock’s face crumples and he drags his hand over it angrily. "Jesus. Jesus Christ. Do not blow this for me, Jack. I’ve risked everything. Stay away from the apartment. I’ll get the diary myself."

The thought of Brock going back into the apartment, of him smiling sadly and playing the hero… of him being alone with Bucky… it snaps something that has been holding Steve frozen in agonized betrayal.

"Fuck you! Fucky you! I had a life! I had a fucking life!"

Everything explodes out of him and the world remains unaffected. Brock and Rollins don’t see or feel or hear any of it. The agony that tears through him is unobserved and the grief unrecognized.

It doesn’t matter to the world that Steve’s universe is falling apart. There is no one to witness it.

Steve walks back to Tribeca. He’s slow, trudging, and he takes all night to do it. He spends the morning working himself into and out of multiple breakdowns.

Things are worse when he gets back to the apartment.

Bucky is curled up on the couch, his eyes vacant as they stare into the distance. He’s wrapped himself up in one of the fluffy robes they stole from a hotel in Vegas and his hair hangs damp and loose around his face. Even without any lights on it is bright enough outside for Steve to read the file on the coffee table.

Of course Bucky hasn’t done what he promised. Of course he wouldn’t leave it to anyone else to follow up on.

But the file isn’t on Rollins, it is on Sam.

Dishonorable Discharge are the words stamped on the front page. Besides it is a pile of rap sheets almost as thick as a book. These ones are for Sam’s aunt, Oda Mae Brown. Apparently fraud is a family activity.

"No, Buck…" Steve moans. "That’s not… it’s not like that. Please. Please, I need you to listen to me. I need you Bucky. Please, please…."

To his surprise, Bucky answers. "I want to believe it so badly. Steve… god, I miss you so much."

"I’m here!" Steve shouts, furious this time. "For fuck’s sake Bucky, I am right here!"

The apartment door opens.

Steve shoots to his feet. "Bucky, get out of here."

"Hey," Brock announces as he walks into the apartment like has has any fucking right to be there. "I brought you some food, you hungry?" 

"Not really," Bucky doesn’t move from the couch.

"Tough shit," Brock says. "I brought soup."

"Bucky, do not touch anything he gives you," Steve demands. "He’s a murderer!"

Brock comes up to the couch with a tray of piping hot soup and fresh crusty rolls. "I went to the address you gave me," he says. "There was no one there. I don’t think there had been for a while."

"I know," Bucky whispers. "I went to the cops."

Brock freezes, and now Steve can see right through his lying fucking face to the panic behind it. "What did they say?" 

Bucky doesn’t touch anything on the tray Brock sets down for him. He doesn’t move at all. "Wilson, he… he was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force. He failed his psych eval and broke an officer’s jaw."

"Bucky, no," Steve shakes his head hopelessly.

"Ouch," Brock grimaces.

"Apparently his family have been scamming people with the whole medium shit for years."

Brock pushes the tray aside so he can sit on the coffee table and lean towards Bucky. He puts a hand on Bucky’s knee and Steve thinks about all the ways he wants to kill him.

"I’m sorry kid," he whispers. "I know you wanted to believe."

Bucky swallows loudly and nods, his eyes glassy. "I just… I don’t know what to do. Steve was my everything and I…"

"I know," Brock says softly, "What you have to remember is the love you felt. That's what's real. You have to remember how good Steve was. How much he loved you." The tears start to roll down Bucky’s face, and Brock tenderly brushes them away. "You were everything to him, Bucky. You were his life."

"I just feel so alone," Bucky whispers 

Brock laughs gently. "You’re not alone. You’re young, you’re talented. You’re fantastically gorgeous."

He winks, and Bucky smiles shakily.

"I’m gonna fucking kill you," Steve promises Brock.

"Oh God, I don't know what's real anymore," Bucky murmurs. "I don't know what to think."

Brock still has his hand on Bucky’s cheek and he continues to gently stroke his thumb back and forth. "Just think about Steve. Think about what he meant to you, the years you had together, how wonderful they were." Bucky’s breath hitches. "It’s okay. You can let it out. I’m right here."

For the first time, the name Bucky whispers isn’t Steve’s.

"Brock…"

"Life turns on a dime, kid. People think they have forever, that they'll always have tomorrow. But it's not true. Steve taught us that. We have to live for now, for today."

It’s only when Brock leans in closer that Steve realizes what he’s trying to do. "No," he says, shocked. "No, don’t you fucking dare."

Brock doesn’t care. Bucky doesn’t hear.

The robe Bucky is wearing parts above his thigh when Brock presses them closer. Bucky doesn’t notice, his head tipping back and his mouth opening with a soft gasp when Brock leans in and kisses his throat. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows exactly how desperate Bucky is for the warmth and comfort 

Steve has never wanted to hurt someone the way he does now.

Then Brock moves, pressing Bucky back into the couch. His hand moves towards the cord of Bucky’s robe, and Steve snaps.

He reaches out and grabs the nearest object, and he throws it at Brock’s head.

He throws it.

And it actually moves.

The picture frame doesn’t land with much force, but it does knock Brock sideways and when it falls face up, Bucky looks down at the matching smiles he and Steve wore when they went to the first exhibition of Bucky’s art. 

"Oh my god," Bucky whispers. He scrambles off the couch and away from Brock. "This… this was a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you…. You can show yourself out."

He turns and runs for the stairs before the slam of the bedroom door echoes around the building. 

Brock doesn’t chase after him, that’s all Steve cares about.

He does stare at the picture, but after only a moment his eyes slide across the floor to the box that’s sitting half unpacked by the far end of the couch. Bucky still hasn’t finished sorting through his things. It takes Brock less than thirty seconds of rummaging to find Steve’s diary and clutch it triumphantly. 

He leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him. Steve charges after him. Not to follow. Not this time.

This time he has something else in mind.

The train is just leaving the station when he arrives on the platform. Fearless, Steve runs and jumps right on to it.

He has no way of knowing which train is the right train but he’s not leaving now until he finds it. When they arrive at a platform he runs and jumps into the first train he sees. Over and over and over until an express train starts to speed past them.

Steve shoves his head out of his own train and into the express. Bingo. He doesn’t even have to wait long. As soon as Phillips, the terrifying ghost from before, sees him, he charges towards him. "Get off my train!" he bellows.

When he comes for Steve, Steve is waiting.

He takes everything. Every shove. Every blow. Each time, he climbs back to his feet. No matter how loud Phillips shouts. No matter how many windows he shatters or objects he throws. Steve takes it, and when Phillips starts to slow down, he rages back. "Teach me how you do that! I want to learn! I'm not leaving ‘til you teach me!"

To his surprise, the hostility melts in an instant. "You stubborn asshole," Phillips says.

"Yep," Steve agrees.

At the next stop, he follows Philipps out onto a platform.

"Move the bottle cap," Phillips says, pointing to the small object on the floor.

Eager to learn, Steve drops to the ground and tries to do as instructed.

"What are you doing? What are you doing? You can't push it with your finger. You're dead." Phillips turns around and kicks a soda can across the platform. It looks to Steve exactly what he is trying to do to the cap.

"I don’t get it."

"It's your mind, you idiot. It's all in the mind. The problem is you think you're still real, that you're standin' on the floor, that you're wearin' those clothes. Bullshit! You don't even have a body anymore. It's all up here." He taps his forehead. "You wanna move things, you gotta use your mind. You gotta focus! You hear what I'm saying?"

Steve does, but… "How do you focus?"

Phillips scowls at him. "Do I look like a fucking self help manual? I don’t fucking know how you focus, you just fucking do it! It’s all in the anger. You gotta channel it. Make it work for you." 

"I’m angry all the time," Steve admits. "It doesn’t make any difference."

Phillips nods, as if he understands what Steve is and isn’t saying. "That’s ‘cos you’re angry all over. You gotta be angry here," he points at his gut, "bring it down here. Let it explode outta you."

Easier said than done, but Steve’s got so much to be angry about. So much rage to channel. Having one place to put it almost sounds like a blessing. Like he can stop shaking with it.

He clenches his fist, then fixes his attention on the bottle cap.

He thinks about everything he’s lost. About Brock betraying him. About Brock taking advantage of Bucky’s grief… grief he should never be suffering. 

Ping!

The bottle cap shoots off down the platform.

"Way to go kid!" Phillips shouts. "Way to go."

Steve jumps to his feet. Enough. This is going to be enough.

"Thanks," he says to Phillips, who shrugs.

"What the fuck else I gonna do with my day?"

"Get revenge on the person who murdered you?" Steve suggests.

Phillips eyes light up. "That does sound like a fun way to waste some time. Let me know if you want any help."

Steve grins. He throws out his hand and a soda can goes flying. "Thanks. But I got this."

Sam isn’t in his apartment, so Steve runs all the way to Oda Mae’s store. When he gets there a line is going out the door and around the block. Several people look at him. Ghosts. It’s like American Horror Story. Steve elbows his way through the crowd, ignoring the complaints until he is inside.

Sam is sat in the chair that used to be Oda Mae and he looks like he hasn’t slept since he left Tribeca.

"Holy shit," Steve whistles, eying the collection of ghosts and the large number of living customers all waiting to meet loved ones.

Sam’s head snaps up. "Steve, is that you?"

"My husband’s name is Orlando," the woman sat opposite Sam says helpfully.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Sam grumbles. "That you Steve?"

"Yeah, wow. This is great."

"This is not great. What'd you do, tell every ghost in New York about me? I got spooks from out of town here. I got spooks coming at me in the shower, spooks giving me fucking cooking lessons. Spooks everywhere, Steve! This is your fault."

"And yet here you are, helping people out anyway," Steve grins. "I knew you’re a good guy."

"Fuck you," Sam snaps.

The woman opposite holds her hand to her heart, scandalized. "Are you talking to me?"

"Does it look like I'm speakin' to you?" he asks, glaring at her before looking up in what he must imagine is Steve’s direction. "So, are you gonna leave or not? I've got work to do."

"I can’t leave," Steve says. "I need your help."

"Oh no, no way. I help a spook out one time and it’s the Winchester Fucking Mystery house in here. I’m outta the spook helping business." The crowd says otherwise. Sam is here, helping people. Even when he clearly would rather pretend none of this is happening to him. 

One of the waiting ghosts starts to move out of the crowd. "To hell with this," he swears. "That’s my wife."

 He jumps forward, not towards the table, but towards Sam. Steve doesn’t have the time to shout a warning before Sam’s whole body jerks and stiffens as the ghost just slides into him. His eyes bulge and his tongue lolls as his body convulses. It looks like his skin no longer fits him, stretched and stuffed and uncomfortable as fuck. Then he slumps forward and when he raises his head it’s not Sam who looks back at them.

"Ortisha?" Sam says in a voice that isn’t his own. "Ortisha, that you?"

The woman opposite lights up like a million candles. She practically glows at the idea that her husband is with her again and Steve gets then why Sam is doing what he is when it so clearly freaks him out. A good man. The best. Steve’s lucky.

"Orlando?"

"Ortisha, where are you? I can't see too good."

Several of the ghosts yell and point at the woman.

"I’m right in front of you," she says. "I’m right here!"

Sam’s eyes bulge in a parody of someone squinting at something far away. "Girl! What’d you do to your hair?"

Happily preening over her beautifully styled locks, Ortisha smiles, "Orlando, do you like it? It's Autumn Sunrise."

Sam’s whole body jerks before he can reply and suddenly Orlando is flying across the room to land in a pathetic, wobbly heap.

"Oh fuck no! Don’t any of your assholes even think of pulling that shit again!" He’s visibly shaking. Scared, no doubt, and unsteady.

"Sam," Steve breathes, "that was incredible."

Sam is already shaking his head. "Never again. Nope. Never."

Ortisha is calling for his husband, and on the floor, Orlando is struggling to move. "What happened? I can’t…"

Another of the ghosts shakes his head. "You should know better than to try that. It's not worth it. It'll wipe you out for days."

"What happened to Orlando?" Ortisha demands. "Where’d he put the insurance policy?!"

"I mean it, Sam," Steve says. "This is the real deal. You’ve got the gift. Genuinely. You’re incredible."

"Uh huh," Sam agrees. "Now everyone out. All of you. You too," he says to the living customers who hover in awkward uncertainty 

The ghosts are the first to go, respectful in ways the living often aren’t.

"Sam…"

"You too! You most of all!"

"But!"

Before Steve can argue, Oda Mae is poking her head into the store. "Sam, honey, there’s a man here who needs to see you."

"Tell him to-" Sam starts, but the man is already pushing his way towards them.

Steve recognizes him at once. "Rollins!" he shouts in warning.

Sam understands immediately. "Rollins?"

Jack Rollins comes to an abrupt stop. "How’d you know that?" he asks.

Sam rolls his eyes. "I’m fucking psychic," he says, then punches Rollins in the jaw.

"Auntie Oda, get everyone out of here!" Sam shouts, already moving towards Rollins. His shoulders are square and confident and this is a man who has been trained by very scary people to be equally as badass.

But Steve’s not taking any chances. He grabs the crystal ball and throws it at Rollins.

"Holy shit," Sam whistles, impressed. "Check you out, Casper!"

"Sam, he’s got a gun!" Steve shouts as Rollins rolls and reaches into his pocket.

Sam dives behind the table as the first bullets fire his way. None of them hit, but by the time he can come out Rollins is running from the store, shoving people out of his way as he goes.

Panting and as shaken as he was when Orlando had been flung from his body, Sam climbs to his feet. "Asshole tried to kill me. Why the fuck did he try kill me?" Steve doesn’t answer him at first. "Don’t go shy on me now!"

"Sam," he says, "we’re in trouble."

"What ‘we’? You’re already dead."

That’s true. Steve’ll give him that one. "I can stop them. But I can't do it alone. You've gotta help me."

"Oh I do, do I? Why couldn’t you just find an old house and rattle some chains like any other self respecting ghost?"

"I need you, Sam," Steve pleads. "And I need some of the fake I.D.s your aunt makes."

"My aunt does no-"

"I’ve seen the files," Steve snaps. "Bucky saw them too, so he doesn’t believe you and now both of you are in danger."

Sinking back down behind the bullet riddled table, Sam shakes his head and sighs. "Ok fine. Help you how?" 

"So let me get this straight. Your BF, the guy now looking to make a move on your floppy haired hipster boyfriend, has been laundering money through your accounts because he’s a piece of shit. Only you found out and were dumb enough to let him know you found out, so he had you killed and now he’s, what, trying to un-launder the money before anyone notices it is there and throws his ass in jail?"

"Yeah," Steve says as they walk up the steps to the bank, "in a nutshell, I guess."

"And we’re gonna steal it before he can. This is the worst fucking idea ever," Sam growls, tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket. Steve had told him to dress up and he’d turned up in an ill-fitting tuxedo.  After ditching the bowtie Steve figures he can pass as a rich guy still on a bender from the night before. If he carries himself right 

At the moment he just looks awkward.

"Just do as I tell you and you’ll be fine," Steve promises him.

"The voices in my head are telling me to rob a bank," Sam almost whimpers.

"Voice," Steve corrects.

"Shut up."

"You shut up. People are looking at you." He leads Sam through the public floor of the bank until they are at a section signed ‘New Accounts’.

"Tell her you’re here to fill out a new signature card for your account."

Sam does, word for word, smiling in a pained, strained way.

"Do you have your account number?" The woman at the counter asks.

"926-31043," Steve prompts. The address book might have his MAC codes inside, but Steve still knows all his account numbers.

"926-31043," Sam repeats.

"Nick Fury?"

"Who?"

"I’m sorry?" The woman asks.

Steve would elbow Sam in the ribs given half the chance, but he can’t.

"Nick Fury," Sam says. "Me. 

"Oh," she smiles awkwardly. "Didn’t they have you sign a new card when you opened the account?"

"Tell her Brock Rumlow opened it for you over the phone and asked you to come in today."

"Brock Rumlow," Sam stammers, "he opened the account for me over the phone and asked me to come in. 

The woman smiles. "Oh sure, that’s not a problem. Give me a minute." She types away and then prints out a new slip, which she hands to Sam 

"Sign it Nick Fury," Steve orders. "And tell her to make sure it goes right to the third floor because you have a transaction to make."

Sam carefully signs Nick Fury’s name then passes the slip back. "I have to make a transfusion, so please make sure it goes right up to the third floor."

"Transaction!" Steve yelps.

Sam laughs awkwardly. "You know what I mean," he says before the woman can say anything in her confusion. "You have a nice day now."

"Um, yes. You too, sir."

"Keep it together, Sam."

"I’m fucking nervous, okay?"

Steve leads him over to the smartest part of the bank and directs him to the teller waiting on duty.

"Tell him that Nick Fury is here to see him," Steve mutters. He doesn't know why he's started to whisper, only that he can't shake the feeling of being watched. Sam comes to a stop so abruptly that Steve almost walks right through him. "What? What's wrong?"

"This is a terrible idea. Why the hell did I let you talk me into this?"

"Because you're a good guy who wants to help out a friend," Steve assures him.

"Who says we are friends? For all I know you're just my PTSD kicking into overdrive."

Steve is in a rush and he's desperate, but he's not enough of an asshole not to try and reassure Sam that he's not, in fact, a mental blip. "I think if I were you'd be imagining someone you know and not a random stranger."

Sam's eyes dart from side to side. Steve can see how much he wants to make sure Steve is aware of every inch of his scathing scowl. "That's your idea of reassurance? Don't worry, Sam, your crazy isn't crazy enough to manifest itself as some random white dude so by extension the afterlife is for sure a thing and you're totally sane as fuck?"

"Pretty much," Steve agrees as a teller finally makes their way towards them.

Steve remembers him being a slimy sort of asshole, but he reaches new depths of grossness when he eyes Sam up and down and then very pointedly says, "Can I help you.... Mr....."

"Fury," Steve reminds him. "And technically he owns his own country, so make the fucker squirm."

Sam is quiet for long enough that Steve starts to panic and then, in the coldest voice he has ever heard, Sam responds. "Tell Harvey Stern that Nick Fury is here to see him and when you've done that you can get me a coffee, white, no sugar."

The teller jerks and swallows nervously. "Yes sir, Mr Fury. One minute. I'll be right...one minute." He skips off like a fire has been lit under his ass and Sam snorts.

"Who the fuck is this Fury guy and can I buy him a drink?"

"He owns a couple of Islands that he leases to the military and that's literally all I have ever been brave enough to know about him," Steve says. "He plays a mean game of poker."

"And this Stern guy is going to think I'm him? No offense here Steve but if I get arrested my one phone call will be to the Vatican to exorcise your sorry ass." 

"I think that only works with demons," Steve shrugs but of course Sam can't see him. "And don't worry. Harvey is a racist pig and he's only met Fury the one time. He was so hammered that night you could tell him he'd sold you his car and he'd not remember it."

The look on Sam's face isn't impressed. "And us black guys all look the same, right? Damnit, you're lucky you're so fucking annoying."

"I know," Steve says quietly. "It means a lot, that'd you'd risk this. I'll find a way to pay you back, I swear."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Just promise me that once we're done you'll go haunt some other poor bastard."

"I promise," Steve says. "As soon as I know Bucky is safe you will never hear from me again 

Sam huffs. "I'mma hold you to that. 

The teller returns with a coffee in a fine china cup and saucer - the type that only come out when they are after some rich guy's money - and his hands are shaking so badly he splashes coffee over the rim of the cup. "Mr Stern will see you now, Mr Fury," he says.

Sam lifts the cup, takes a sip, then drops it back down on the saucer with a cringe that's probably not all faked. Then he walks right past the teller and over towards a man standing behind a desk at the far end of the room. "That's not Stern," Steve hisses, "on your left!" The turn Sam makes is smooth as silk and distinctly military in precision.

Stern is exactly as Steve remembers him - pasty and piggy eyed with a smile that Bucky has frequently labeled creepy as fuck - his smile is more of a grimace when Sam greets him and they take seats at either side of the large wooden desk.

"As him how his wife Claire is," Steve prompts, "and his kids Brandon and Brady. Brandon is about to start college. :

"Good to see you again," Sam says, managing to sound both imperious and friendly at the same time - the tone of the old boys club that he's probably heard from officers in the Air Force. He's damn good. "How's Claire doing?"

"She couldn't make it to the christmas party because she was ill, but he did leave with an eighteen year old escort named Lola," Steve adds. 

"I remember she wasn't doing so well last Christmas. And Lola?" Stern goes pink, then white, then Sam adds, "I'm betting you weren't too disappointed you had to show up stag when you made a friend like that," he smirks, and Stern starts to laugh, at ease now he thinks Sam is as lecherous and gross as he is.

"She's shopping with her mother and my credit card in Milan," Stern says, "and Lola is now Tabitha."

"Damn," Sam chuckles. "I'm gonna have to start taking notes."

"You're doing good," Steve praises. "Little too good, actually. You're creeping me out."

"I spent half my damn life with assholes like this one," Sam whispers through clenched teeth.

Stern frowns. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked how Brandon and Brady were doing," Sam covers. "Gotta be ready for college by now."

"Yes, yes... what can I do for you, Mr Fury?" Stern asks.

Steve leans over the chair Sam is sat on. "Tell him you want to close your account."

"I'd like to close my account." 

That makes Stern sit up sharper. "I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have your account number?"

"926-31043," Steve whispers.

Sam clears his throat. "926-310..."

"4,3."

"4,3."

Steve has to bounce back on his toes as Stern types in the numbers and visibly has a silent heart attack. "I... it looks like you'll be closing your account today at five point three million dollars."

"Holy fuck!" Sam blurts. "I mean yes...yeah, that sounds right."

Stern is going to need a strong drink after this and Steve laments the fact that he can never drink away the stress from making this work. "How would you like that?" he asks.

Sam shrugs his shoulders, "Tens and twenties?"

"Check!" Steve yelps. Christ, what he wouldn't give to be a little less Casper and a little more Poltergeist.

"I'm messing with ya," Sam chuckles, waving off Stern's incredulous stare. "check's fine." 

Stern nods, "I'll be right back with it," and crosses the room to the printer.

As soon as he has gone, Sam turns to where he thinks Steve is leaning and yelps, "Five million dollars?"

"It's blood money," Steve says harshly. His blood. His life. If it weren't for that money, none of this would be happening.

Sam huffs and goes quiet, only moving again when Stern returns with the paperwork for him to sign.

"Here we are, if you can just sign on the x here," he points out a number of places Sam needs to sign, "and here."

"Whatever you say," Sam takes a pen and starts to sign his own name.

"Nick Fury!" Steve howls in his ear so loudly that he jerks and scribbles across half the page. "Nick Fury!"

Sam sets the pen down. "I'm sorry, could I have another copy?"

Stern blinks, then goes to print off a second.

"The fuck, Sam?" Steve yells.

"You know what? I am not exactly experienced with bank fraud, so maybe you could chill the fuck out for a second and give me a goddamn break?" He slams the pen down on the table and a number of people from nearby benches stop what they are doing and stare. 

That's when Steve sees Bucky waiting at the end of the hall. He's wearing one of Steve's old varsity jackets and a baseball cap pulled down over his face, but despite his state of dress, people are fawning over him solicitously. Their former VP’s widowed fiance. So sad.

"Shit," Steve hisses, "Bucky's here."

Sam tries to stand and look around. "Fuck, where?"

If Bucky sees Sam, if he even says his real name, they're royally fucked. "Keep your head down." he says to Sam. "Finish the transaction. I'll distract him." 

"How?" Sam demands. "By thinking at him real loud?"

Steve doesn't answer and races over to Bucky instead. He’s out of the house, and that’s amazing, but god. Not now. Not now. Not here.

There’s a pile of forms on the counter next to where Bucky is standing. Steve focuses. The papers go flying with a swipe of his arm. Bucky startles, but he bends down to start gathering them up and that’s enough time for Steve to run back to Sam and hustle him away from the desk.

"It was good seeing you again," Sam says to Stern, who nods and agrees but doesn’t get a chance to actually respond before Steve focuses again and shoves Sam to get him moving.

"Do not do that!" Sam hisses. "You shove me one more time and you can kiss my ass."

"I’m sorry," Steve says, "but we really do not want Bucky to see us."

"What kind of fool do you take me for?" Sam asks, patting his jacket pocket and making sure the check is still there. "We’re done, we’re gone."

As soon as they are out of the bank, Steve directs Sam over to the church across the street. Three nuns are outside with coin boxes they are taking donations with. 

"Endorse the check," Steve instructs him, impatiently tapping his foot as he watches Sam sign Nick Fury’s name on the check.

"Okay, why?" Sam asks.

Steve glances up at the clock on the tower of the church. It’s nearly four. All transactions have to go through by four in order to hit the right accounts on time and still go through the clearing processes. Brock will leave it to the last minute to minimize any prying eyes. He’ll notice the money missing any minute now and that extra balance Steve spotted before he died will no longer exist. Fuck Brock. Fuck him for everything. He’s got no hand to play now, and Steve isn’t done with him.

"You’re giving it away," Steve says to Sam.

"I’m giving away five million dollars," Sam repeats.

"I died for that money," Steve reminds him.

"I know a lot of people who died for a whole lot less," Sam frowns. "And they left behind people who need this a whole lot more than a group of nuns. You know how much money the Catholic Church has? All the money! You know how much money the schools in my neighborhood have? No money. This could help a lot of people-"

"You can get it to them, no questions asked?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "It’s five million dollars, Steve," he says. "Of course there’ll be questions. But they’ll be the right kind. I’m taking this to the VA and you can Bad Blood me all you want, but that’s the way it is gonna be."

Steve feels himself start to smile for the first time in a long time. "Anyone ever tell you that you’re a stubborn asshole?"

"Frequently," Sam says. "Now move your disembodied ass, we’re gonna do some good with this blood money and you’re gonna fucking like it." 

"You go," Steve says, not for a second doubting Sam’s intentions for the money. "I’ve got someone else to torment tonight."

Brock has been at his computer all evening. The office has emptied and he’s sat alone in the dark. Steve’s been watching him get more and more upset and afraid as the hours have passed and it is as satisfying as he hoped it would be.

"Search, you bastard! You'll never find it. It's gone." He smiles, cold and nasty. "They'll kill you for this, Brock. You and Rollins. They'll wipe you off the face of the earth."

In a moment of childish delight, he pushes his feet against the wall and the chair he is sat on shoots across the room. Brock looks up and sees an empty chair moving. He stares at it in confusion, and then goes back to the screen. He’s desperate. Nothing is working.

Panicked and frightened, Brock flicks off the machine and storms furiously around the room. Steve approaches the computer, hesitates a moment, and then pushes the power switch. The computer clicks back on with a beep. Brock spins around. He stares at the monitor curiously for a moment and then turns it back off. Steve’s fucking enjoying this. He reaches for the switch and flicks it back on again.

Brock stares, "What the…"

Brock watches as the keys seem to depress themselves and letters begin appearing on the screen. He sits down, mesmerized by what is happening. Then his face grows tense, the word ‘M-U-R-D-E-R-E-R’ emerging before him as Steve types.

Scared now, Brock jumps to his feet and glances around the empty office. "Who is doing that? Come out here you peice of shit!"

Steve isn’t done. ‘S-T-E-V-E’ flashes on screen. Then again. Steve fills the screen with his own name until Brock is about to hyperventilate in his terror.

Steve cannot hold himself back any longer. With a horrifying scream, he charges at Brock, jamming his fist hard into his ribs. "You bastard! You goddamn bastard!"

The hit lands and Brock stumbles back, winded. He clutches his ribs and scrambles around, eyes wide and bulging. "Jesus Christ…"

"He can’t help you," Steve growls. He hits Brock again. And again. Going harder into his midsection until Brock is cowering on the ground, doubled over like he’s going to throw up.

Before Steve can continue, his legs give out and he hits the ground hard. He’s exhausted in ways he’s never been before and it costs him everything just to climb to his feet. "Fuck," he whispers. His anger might be limitless, but apparently his ability to manifest it is.

Sensing a pause in the onslaught, Brock scrambles up to his knees and runs from the office.

Steve isn’t fast enough to follow Brock from the building, but he knows where his old friend will be going. 

By the time he reaches the apartment, Bucky has already made Brock a drink and is mid-way through explaining what happened at the bank. "His name isn’t even Sam Wilson," Bucky shakes his head. "I’m such an idiot."

"What do you mean?" Brock’s pale and sweating, but if Bucky has noticed it he’s not saying anything. He’s too busy stirring a bowl of chilli on the stove.

"I saw him at the bank today," Bucky says. "His name is Nick Fury. Are you okay?"

 Brock has almost fallen off the stool he’s perched on. "Nick Fury? You’re sure?"

"Yeah," Bucky nods, frowning. "I talked to Stern just after he left. Are you sure you’re okay? You look awful."

"He needs to borrow five million dollars," Steve snarks.

"My stomach," Brock says. "Do you have any Pepto Bismol?"

"Er, sure I think?" He’s worried, so he hurries up to the bathroom. Good. Steve doesn’t want to do this in front of him.

He struggles to find the energy this time, but he manages, and shoves Brock firmly in the back.

Brock yelps and jumps forward. "What are you doing to me. Get away from me! Get away from me!"

"Nope," Steve says in a sing song voice.

Freaked, Brock runs to the stove and stabs a finger towards the lit gas. "You touch me again and I'll set him on fire. I mean it. I'll kill him. I'll blow up the whole fucking building if I have to. Stay away!"

Steve reaches over and turns off the gas.

Brock’s not about to give in. He snatches up one of the kitchen knives and holds it up menacingly. "I’ll cut his fucking throat, don’t think I won’t. You think you can protect him? Well you can’t. You believe me, huh? You better believe me! I want my money. I need that money and I want it tonight -- at 11:00. If your psychic friend doesn't bring it here, Bucky’s dead."

"I’ve only got the regular kind," Bucky calls down from upstairs.

Brock grins manically and flashes the blade of the knife in the light. "I mean it," he hisses. Then, louder, "Don’t worry, I’m gonna head off. I’ll see you later, okay? Sorry!"

"I got it," Bucky holds up the bottle as Brock drops the knife into the sink. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I've got to go. Look, there's something going on. I can't talk now. Some trouble at the bank."

"Is it because of that guy?" Bucky asks. "Brock, what’s going on?"

"I don't have time to talk now. What if I come back? Around 11:00?" He grabs his coat and is already half out of the door.

"Sure, I guess," Bucky agrees. "Are you sure you’re okay?"

"Eleven!" Brock shouts, and the door slams behind him.

Sam is just back from a run when Steve stumbles through his wall. He jolts and looks around, sensing someone there even before Steve says anything.

"Steve?"

"Sam, we gotta go!" Steve yells. "They’re coming for you. They want the check."

"The check I’ve already given away?" Sam demands. "That check?"

‘We need to go now!" He tugs on the sleeve of Sam’s sweater until he starts to move.

"Dammit, Steve, what have you done?" Sam demands. He’s less freaked out now than he was playing pretend in the bank. A soldier’s calm, maybe. Steve’s freaking out enough for the both of them.

Even from inside they can both hear the squeal of tires outside. Sam looks up, his mouth forming into a thin line. "What’s the plan?"

"Don’t die," Steve says.

"Good plan. What’s phase two?"

"Stay out of sight," Steve tells him. "I’m gonna go rattle some chains."

"Be careful," Sam warns him.

Steve wishes Sam could see him shrug and grin. "I’m already dead. It’s you I’m worried about."

"Oh now you worry!" Sam grumbles, but he steps into the dark shadows of the apartment and all but vanishes from sight. A soldier, and a damn good one.

But Sam doesn’t deserve blood on his hands, and Steve is too selfish to share this anyway.

He knows Brock is here - it’s his mustang that squealed up outside - but it is Rollins who enters Sam’s apartment.

Steve slams the door as soon as he is inside. Rollins nearly jumps out of his skin. "Damn!"

He stares at the door in total bewilderment.

At that instant, a collection of picture frames flies off the breakfront and crashes into his legs. Steve is careful. Calculating. It works. Rollins backs away, back towards the door, spooked.

Suddenly, the T.V. flicks on at full volume and then the stereo and the radio. Lights begin flashing on and off. Steve is running around the apartment in a furry of motion, knocking things flying as he amps up for maximum freakout.

Rollins spins around in total discombobulation and that’s when Steve goes for the kill.

Summoning all of his force, Steve slams into him. Rollins recoils in unexplainable pain. His gun falls to the floor. He reaches for it and Steve pushes it away easily. His eyes dart around the room and Steve can’t help but laugh. "How does it feel to be afraid?" he demands.

Desperate to get away now, Rollins scrambles through the apartment. He reaches what he thinks is the exit only to stumble into the bathroom. Steve is there, waiting. He turns on the hot tap as Rollins screams in terror. When he tries to scramble back, Steve kicks him in the back of the knees.

The bathroom is small, and the mirror is already starting to fog over with the heat from the tap. Grinning wickedly, Steve reaches over: ‘B-O-O’ he writes in the glass.

It’s enough.

Rollins lets out a high pitched scream of terror and sprints from the apartment. Steve follows, makes sure he leaves. He doesn’t help when Rollins falls down the stairs in his attempt to escape.

He hopes Rollins thinks about this moment every second of every day. Every time he wants to hurt someone or ruin someone’s life, Steve wants him to remember this. To remember how afraid he was.

Brock suddenly appears on the stairs. He has Rollins’s gun and he is shouting after him as Rollins runs.

"Help me!" Rollins screams.

Brock scrambles after him, knowing exactly what is happening.

"Steve!" He howls, waving the gun in the air as he chases after Rollins "You son of a bitch!"

He comes to an abrupt stop as he reaches the front porch of the building. Rollins is already in the street and when Steve reaches for him this time it is to pull him out of danger.

"Watch out!" he cries, but Rollins wouldn’t have stopped even if he could hear Steve.

In his blind terror, he races down the street and directly into the headlights of an oncoming car. 

There is a howl of overworked breaks as the driver tries desperately to stop in time, but it is too late. Rollins bounces over the hood of the car, his body flipping in the air and doing a complete one-eighty before hitting the road like a sack of bricks.

Steve knows he’s dead. He sees it the second his body comes to a stop. But much as he’d not understood what was happening when he died, Rollins doesn’t either. He climbs to his feet and looks at his body in utter horror. Steve wouldn’t wish that on anyone, no matter what they have done.

It’s too late now. Too late to save Rollins’s life and as something creeps from the shadows in the street, Steve knowns in his heart it is too late to save his soul as well.

There are no glowing lights like there had been for him in the alley, or in the hospital room. The shadows only grow darker and instead of peace Steve can feel himself shrinking back from the darkness that creeps up on Rollins. He’s scared in a way he’s never been scared before, and they aren’t even here for him. There is a bizarre and horrifying clicking sound in the air as the shadows move and writhe. Steve shudders and takes a step backwards.

When the first shadow grabs Rollins by the ankle, his scream sends jolts of horror down Steve’s spine. He can’t watch, but he can’t turn away either as one after another, the shadows grab hold of Rollins and drag him away from what little light is left. Rollins kicks and screams and struggles, his hands clawing at the ground in his desperation, but a final shadow looms above him and just like that he is gone. Swallowed whole by the dark.

The others. This must be what the old man was talking about.

As quickly as they arrived, the shadows leave. The streetlamps seem brighter now and Steve hurries towards the lights on the apartment steps. Sam is there, waiting for him. So much for staying out of sight.

"Steve?" He can feel Steve almost as soon as they are close. 

"I’m here."

"Is it over?" Sam asks. His eyes are fixed on the crash and he looks shaken again. PTSD, he said. And here is Steve, traumatizing him over and over.

He shakes his head sadly. "I’m sorry, but not yet. There’s still Brock."

Sam slumps miserably. "Of course there is."

"Bucky? You in there?" Sam raps on the door firmly, but his voice is gentle. 

Steve sticks his head inside the apartment. Bucky is there, staring at the door. No doubt trying to decide if he has the energy to tear Sam a new asshole for what he thinks he has done.

"He’s there," Steve promises, stepping back to stand next to Sam.

"I know you don’t want to talk to me," Sam says softly. "I know you’ve seen my file. Dishonorable Discharge and all that…" he takes a breath and composes himself. "Did you read the report? Did it tell you why I did what I did?"

Bucky says nothing, but neither does Steve. He’s been so caught up in his own horror that he’s never stopped to learn Sam’s. That shames him.

"I was in Afghanistan. Me and my partner, Riley," just saying the name makes Sam smile, small and sad. "I say partner. Like you and Steve were. In every way. Someone shot him down during an exercise. The Brass gave us bad intel, and Riley died because of it. I watched it happen, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And when I got back to base, when I found out why it happened… I broke the fucker’s jaw. They had to drag me off him. Might’ve gotten off with a warning, but he held grudges and I made him look bad, so they stamped my jacket with the words ‘psychologically unstable’ and kicked my ass to the curb."

"Sam," Steve exhales, horrified. He knew Sam was with Oda Mae to contact someone. So desperate that he was willing to try even when he didn’t believe. "I’m so sorry."

Sam ignores him and continues. "And then this crazy ass fucking ghost shows up and what am I supposed to believe? That I’m crazy? I’d rather be crazy. Because if ghosts are real, where the hell is Riley? Why couldn’t it be him who came back?" Sam clenches his jaw and leans back, shaking himself and grabbing on to his composure with a dignity that Steve could only dream of aspiring to. "I feel bad for Steve, I really do. I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now, how scary it must be. But I’ve been the person left behind. I know how much it hurts."

"You never said anything," Steve whispers.

Sam shrugs. "You never asked. And there was the whole crazy murder conspiracy thing going down, so…" he pauses and bites his lip. "You haven’t… Riley, I mean. You’ve not seen him?" 

"I’m sorry, Sam," and Steve really, genuinely is.

Sam nods, as if expecting that answer. Then swallows and focuses back on the task at hand.

"I got nothing else to convince you to believe me. So Steve’s gonna have to that himself."  He reaches in his pocket and drops a dime on to the floor. "Do your Casper thing," he says.

Steve crouches down and looks up gratefully. "You’re a genius, Sam."

"Damn right I am," Sam sniffs. Then he nods.

Steve focuses everything he has on the coin. He nudges it forward gently, sliding it under the door and into the apartment. He follows it through to the other side. Bucky is standing right up against the door now, his palm spread out on the wood, swayed by Sam’s genuine compassion in ways that all of Steve’s plans could never have achieved.

This is it.

So carefully, Steve pushes the coin slowly up the inside of the door. He watches Bucky freeze as the coin raises higher and higher, and then tip into seeming nothingness as Steve balances it on his finger and carries it to Bucky’s hand.

The first tear falls as the coin settles into his hand, but this time it is joined by a smile that Steve hasn’t seen since he died.

"Steve, oh my god…."

Bucky reaches over, the coin between his fingers, and unlocks the door.

"Call the cops," Sam says, before Bucky can change his mind. "Steve’s death was no accident. He was murdered, Bucky. Brock was laundering money at the bank. Steve found out. He's dangerous. He tried to kill me. He'll kill you, too."

"This isn’t happening," Bucky whispered.

"You believe us?" Sam asks as he steps into the apartment. Bucky nods. "Call the cops."

"Right. Yes, it's right on the corner. We're a red brick building with the entrance on the left side. Please hurry. Thank you Sergeant. We'll be waiting right here." Bucky hangs up the phone and slumps down onto the couch. "They’re on their way. What do we do now?" 

"Just wait," Sam says. He’s a lot more gentle and patient with Bucky than he is with the disembodied voice that is Steve.

Bucky looks around uncertainly. "Is Steve here?"

"I’m sitting next to him."

Sam smiles gently. "He says he’s next to you."

Bucky jerks a little at first, then relaxes. His fingers reach out across the couch. "Can you feel me?" he asks Steve.

"With all my heart," Steve whispers.

"He says with all his heart."

"We were gonna get married," Bucky whispers. "We should have done it years ago, but I-"

"Bucky no," Steve whispers, "it’s not your fault. I’d give anything to be able to touch you again. Just one last time. Bucky…"

Sam hesitates, looking away, trying to give them some privacy. "He says it’s not your fault and he wishes he could touch you one last time."

Bucky’s chest heaves with a silent sob. "Steve…"

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Sam mutters. "But come on. Do it."

Bucky climbs out of the couch and wraps his arm around his waist, confused. "Do what?"

Steve doesn't have to ask. He knows exactly what Sam is offering. What it will cost him to do so. "Sam..."

Visibly trying to psych himself up, Sam bounds from toe to toe and shakes out his arms as if he's about to start boxing. "I mean it. One hundred percent genuine offer here, so take me up on it before I change my mind."

"I’m gonna kiss him," Steve says. "You should know that."

"I should fucking hope so," Sam grumbles. "Come on."

There are no words Steve can say that will convey the level of gratitude he's feeling right now. He says nothing, knowing that once he steps into Sam's body, Sam will know.

He takes a breath, not knowing what it will feel like to possess someone and as worried that he might hurt Sam as he is that he simply won't know what to do once he's done it.

He makes it quick. Steps up to Sam, and then into him.

It's like nothing Steve has ever felt before. For the first time since he died, he can feel his heart beating. He can touch the fabric of his couch and trace lines over raised velvet mounds. He takes a breath and air fills his lungs. He remembers what it is like to be alive and to feel again and for a second it's all so overwhelming that he just wants to break down and cry.

But then he opens his eyes and sees Bucky.

And Bucky sees him.

Or Sam. He sees Sam, but he's looking at Steve and Steve can touch him now if he wants to. He can kiss him.

"Hey baby," he says.

Bucky's eyes fill with tears. "Steve?"

"I'm here." He doesn't know what else to say. He reaches out and presses fingers that aren't his own to the cool curve of Bucky's cheek. Bucky leans into the touch instantly, and Steve loses his ability to control himself. He steps closer and gather's Bucky in his arms. "I miss you so much."

Bucky's expression crumbles and he buries his face against Steve's shoulder. "Steve..."

This is the last time he is ever going to hold Bucky. The last time he's going to be able to breath in the scent of his overpriced mint shampoo and run his fingers over the softness of his skin.

The last time he held Bucky he had not given thought to how important it was to memorize everything. He'd taken it for granted that he could just reach out and do this whenever he wanted to.

Now, he cataloges every tiny detail. Every one. Nothing is too small or too insignificant. Nothing is left unnoticed.

And then he lets Sam's fingers curl so gently under Bucky's jaw. Tilts him up just enough.

Bucky's eyes are wide and overflowing, but there's still a shadow in them. Still a part of him that is afraid that Sam is just Sam, and he's believing in something unbelievable.

And maybe he looks like Sam. Maybe he does.

But Sam doesn't know how to kiss him like Steve does. Sam doesn't know that.

So Steve shows him with the touch of his lips and the memory of the thousand kisses that came before. He shows Bucky by the tilt of his chin and the ghost of the fingers on his neck.

He shows Bucky the only way he knows how.

And Bucky sees.

When Steve starts to draw back, Bucky surges forward and demands more.

A last kiss. One that has to take them both through for the rest of forever.

It's the slam of the front door being kicked that breaks them apart. Steve turns sharply, his spirit thrown from Sam's body so violently and suddenly that the world tips dizzyingly on its axis. He can't hold himself upright. He can hardly move at all. He'd not realized just how badly it would affect him, now he is sprawled on the ground, weak as a kitten and useless as Brock screams into the empty kitchen.

"Sam!" Steve gasps, barely strong enough to even form words. "Sam, get him out of here!"

Steve's not the only one knocked for six though. Sam is down on one knee, gasping. One hand is on his chest, on his heart, and when Bucky bends to try and steady him Steve can see something wholly new in his eyes. He can't put a name to it, and they don't have time, anyway.

"Steve?" Bucky asks, a note in his voice that suggests he knows Steve isn't there any longer. Desperate enough still to try.

Sam shakes his head, gathers his wits. "No, it's me. Come on-" he pushes himself up to his fit, finding a surge of energy or maybe just adrenaline that makes it clear just how good a soldier he must have been. Up and into action, no matter how badly he's fucked up. He grabs hold of Bucky's hand and drags him over to the fire escape.

Bucky digs his heels in stubbornly. "No! I'm not running! He killed Steve! He took him from me!"

That's what Steve has been fearing from the moment he saw the recognition in Bucky's gaze. He knows. And he won't let it go. He'll go after Brock and he'll get himself killed.

"Sam!" Steve tries to roll over and get himself up on to his knees. He can't even manage that.

Sam, fortunately, is smarter than all of them. He grabs Bucky's shoulders and shakes him harshly. "He will kill us too. We need to get out of here. Now." Bucky struggles for a moment. Sam shakes him again, harder. "Now, Bucky!"

"Please..." Steve moans. He can hear Brock. He's nearly through. Any second now and he's going to be inside. "Sam, I can't move. You need to go!"

Bucky doesn’t want to budge. He’s tense, pulling against Sam’s hold. No heart to hear the words spoken to him, just lost to the same anger and pain Steve shares.

"Take it from someone who has done what you want to do," Sam says harshly. "It won’t change anything. It won’t bring him back." Something in Bucky’s expression fractures at that truth. "Do not make him watch you die!" Sam snaps.

Bucky shudders, then nods, and allows Sam to pull him towards the fire escape.

A moment later, the door splinters and Brock skids into the apartment. And control, any sanity that might have been left is long gone. Steve has pushed him to the edge and now, stupidly, he's incapable to dealing with the consequences. He watches, helpless, as Brock races after Bucky and Sam, the gun in his hand shaking wild and unsteady, but still deadly. A shot rings out and the sculpture by the staircase shatters.

"Bucky! Bucky, get back here!"

"Go, go!" Sam shouts, pushing Bucky up in front of them. If they go down the fire escape they are sitting ducks to anyone with a half decent aim. They go up instead. Up to the highest floor of the building and the attic space they have dreamed of turning into a fully imagined art studio and gallery for the both of them.

Sam's heels just vanish above the window as Brock reaches the escape. He makes a wild grab for him and misses.

"Fuck!" Steve screams, pushing his fists beneath him and looking for something, anything, to draw strength from.

The ghost of Bucky's lips against his own still tingles. His heartbeat and Sam's still echo in his own chest.

He can't let Sam get hurt. He drew him into this madness, it's his job to make sure he gets out of it safely.

And Bucky...

Steve pushes himself to his feet. Stumbles. Then, one foot in front of the other, forces himself to run.

The attic is dark and full of places to hide. It's also dangerous. Unsteady floorboards and hanging beams swinging from the roof, needing to be replaced or repaired. The windows haven't been updated since the building was built and the glass is old now, and fragile. It's broken, where Bucky and Sam have clearly climbed through from the escape. Brock is already inside when Steve drags himself through it.

"Bucky, Bucky, it's okay! I'm not going to hurt you! I just need to talk to you!" Brock says, gun swinging madly as he twists his way and that. Looking for Bucky and Sam... waiting for the ghost that is tormenting him to make a move.

Steve stumbles forward, reaches him. He swings his fist, trying to knock the gun from Brock's hand.

And falls right through him.

"I know you're scared right now! I am too! But your friend is a liar! You know he was dishonorably discharged? That his family have made their living scamming people while they are grieving? You can't trust him! You can't-"

Steve is on his knees, trying to steady himself, when he hears Sam swearing.

"Fuck!"

And from out behind a wall, Bucky suddenly swings a block of wood directly at Brock's head. It's a glancing hit. Enough to make Brock stumble forward and go down to one knee. He's still clutching the gun.

Bucky swings again.

This time Brock goes flying.

The force of the swing sends Bucky stumbling forward, off balance. Sam is at his side in seconds, grabbing him around the waist and holding him upright. It's a mistake. He should have gone for Brock instead.

Steve has a split second. Less than.

He sees Brock steady himself and turn.

He sees the gun.

He doesn't have a body. There's nothing he can hope to do by throwing himself between the weapon and the people he loves. He does it anyway.

The gun fires, and the world around him slows.

All he can see is Bucky. Bucky's eyes and Bucky's smile and the tiny little things about him that Steve will sacrifice anything and everything he has just to keep safe.

When the world speeds up again, he's standing between Bucky and Brock. His hand is raised in a fist.

Inside it, a bullet sits hit and heavy in his hand.

He hears Bucky's choked gasp behind him and with it the strength rushes back to him. He can do this. He can protect the people he loves this one last time. This is what he turned away from the light for. This moment. This second in time when Bucky needs him to do what he couldn't do before.

"Sam, get him out of here," he says. Cold now. Calm.

The bullet drops to the ground and rings. Behind him, Bucky reaches out. There's so much aching desperation on his face that he's ignoring the threat, ignoring the danger. He wants Steve. When Brock lunges madly, Steve is there. Instead of feeling a body pass right through him, Brock hits his outstretched hands with a solid thud. Then Steve shoves. He's so much stronger than he was as a human. Brock goes sailing across the attic.

"Steve!" Bucky shouts his name.

"He's got this," Sam says, grabbing Bucky's wrist and tugging him across the floor. "Let him rock on with his Conjuring shit."

"I can't leave him!" Bucky digs his heels in.

"He's dead!" Sam points out desperately. "He's not the one I am worried about right now."

Steve can't tell if Bucky just gives in or if he is simply overpowered by Sam. All he knows is that the two of them are no longer in Brock's line of sight and that's all that matters to him.

"Fuck you!" Brock yells into the air, swinging wildly as he tries to guess where Steve might be. "Fuck you Rogers! This wasn't supposed to happen! It wasn't supposed to be like this!"

"You stole my life!" Steve would give anything for Brock to hear him right now. For him to be able to see and hear the damage he has done. To make him look the man whose life he stole in the eye. Anything.

"I'll kill him," Brock says again. "I'll fucking do it Steve!"

Steve grabs him by the throat and throws him across the attic. "You're not going to touch him. You're not going to look at him or speak to him or even think about him. Run away, Brock. Run away and never fucking come back."

What little color there is in Brock's cheeks seeps from him with each of Steve's words. It's only when he heard Bucky call his name out again that he realizes what is happening.

They can hear him. By some miracle, they can hear him!

Grabbing onto a gift Steve never thought he would receive, he turns to Bucky. The words he wants to say are pushed aside in favor of the only thing that matters.

"Bucky! Bucky, get out of here!"

"I won't leave you!" There are tears on Bucky's face, tracing lines of heartbreak through the dust and grime the attic has covered him with.

"I know," Steve says. "Now run!"

He doesn’t have the chance. Brock lunges for him, only to hit Sam instead as he makes a wild dive to divert the weapon. They both skid into a pile of wooden pallets set aside for the rebuild. Brock gets up. Sam doesn’t.

Bucky won’t leave Sam any more than he would leave Steve, and all hopes of ending this without further bloodshed vanish into the dust.

Steve won’t let him hurt them. He won’t.

In a wild explosive fury, Steve charges at him and smashes at his gun with both hands. The weapon goes flying and, empowered by an anger he’s not unleashed before, Steve collides with Brock with a violent force.

Brock’s body careens into walls and floorboards. Wiring snaps. Two-by-fours crack. Crawling desperately to escape, Brock sees his gun on the floor. With a wild rush, he grabs for it and shoots without looking. He doesn’t hit anything, but next time he might. When he tries to make a run for it, Steve is there to stop him.

With growing power, Steve sends Brock flying back into the attic, colliding into a tall scaffold left over from the last of the renovations. Bags of plaster topple to the ground as mounds of dust hurl into the air.

In a state of total unrelieved panic, Brock breaks away from Steve, but the dust obscures his escape. Like a trapped insect, he scrambles furiously back to the fire escape window. Steve loses him in the clouds of dust and can’t see him.

The broken pallets have blocked off the window they originally climbed in through, and the one beside it is stuck fast. With a supreme effort, Brock grabs a ripped bag of plaster and swings it at the glass. Half of its plaster spews across the room before smashing the window. Shards of glass fly in all directions and Steve knows, like he knew with Rollins, what is about to happen 

"Brock, no!" he shouts, but it makes no difference. He surges towards him, but knows he cannot get there in time.

The plaster bag swings back, tangled in a rope hanging from the scaffold. Steve ducks as it flies past his head and watches helplessly as it collides with the frame of the window again.

Brock is half way through it when a huge shard of glass breaks loose. Without the frame to hold it in place, it slides down like a guillotine and impales Brock right through the chest.

Before his body is done convulsing, Brock rises up and stumbles away. He blinks in shock when he sees Steve, and when he turns around and sees his own writhing body there is as much excitement in his eyes as there is horror.

"Steve?"

"Oh Brock," Steve says sadly. "Why didn’t you come to me?"

It’s too late for him now. That terrible, ominous sound is back, and though it is dark in the attic, Steve can still see the shadows start to move.

"What’s happening?" Brock demands, horror giving way to terror. "Steve? What’s happening?" 

"I’m sorry," Steve says. And he is. No matter what Brock has done. No matter what he’s taken. Steve wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

He had to watch when they took Rollins away. He was too stunned to move. Now, he turns his back. Brock screams for him, but he doesn’t look. He doesn’t know if Bucky and Sam can hear this like they seem to now be able to hear him, and he will do what he can to protect them both from the horror of what is happening.

 The terrible sound stops. So does the screaming.

When Steve turns back, Brock’s body is there, lifeless and bloody.

It’s over, and something inside him changes.

From the darkness, suddenly there is light. So much light. It fills every space in the dark attic, chasing away the shadows and the horror of what has just torn through their lives. It bathes away the fear and the hurt and it seems to Steve like every part of him comes back to life again.

He turns when he heard Bucky sob his name.

"Bucky..." he hopes Bucky can still hear him. He wants more than anything to be able to comfort him now in the face of what he's just had to do.

Bucky can't just hear him. Steve watches fresh tears spring to his eyes as he blinks and leans forward.

Bucky can see him.

"Buck..."

Beloved features crumble with the first fall of tears. "Steve. Oh god...Steve..."

"I'm here. I never left you. I'm here." It's everything Steve has dreamed about. Everything he has sworn to himself he would not take for granted if ever he was allowed the gift of Bucky's eyes meeting his own. It's perfect. It's more than perfect. It's a miracle.

 Sam’s leaning against the far wall. He’s exhausted and hurting, dusty and bleeding and smiling, soft, tired, relieved.

"Look after each other," Steve asks them. He thinks they will. Knows it, actually. He's been inside Sam's head and Sam inside his. He knows every inch of Bucky's heart. They are more alike than they know yet. They will guard each other's hearts and minds and everything else that is precious.  Sam, clinging to the wall, rests his head against it and smiles. He's crying as well, and his face is one Steve commits to memory. "I'll never forget you, Sam. Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Sam shakes his head, unable to speak. When Steve nods in recognition, he knows Sam can see him. "I'll look for him. For Riley. We’ll wait for you." He waits for Sam to close his eyes and nod, unable to speak, then turns back to Bucky.

The world has turned to sunshine. Every inch of the attic glows with warmth and the light hangs in pockets of brilliance, like stars, like the glass charms Bucky makes and hangs around the apartment. Steve hopes he can see it. Hopes it will inspire him to go back to the one thing that made him so happy before. "It's so beautiful, Buck. God, I wish you could see it."

"I can see you," Bucky says between his tears, as if somehow that is the same thing. "Steve..."

"Please don't cry," Steve begs, crouching down before him and folding both his hands over Bucky's shaking fingers. "I hate seeing you cry."

"I can't lose you," Bucky cries, not even trying to stop. "Please, Steve, please don't go."

"I'll be right beside you," Steve promises. "Always. Even when we're apart. I'll be right there. God, Bucky. I love you. I should have said it so many times." Somehow though, standing in that warm, glowing brilliance, Steve doesn't feel any loss at not having said it more. He doesn't feel anything but hope. Hope, and so much love. For Sam. For Bucky. For a place in the peace that is calling to him now and the knowledge that someday he can share that with them. He can wait. He can wait years. He hopes he does. He hopes Bucky has so many years of life and joy ahead of them. He can't wait to hear all about them.

It's time to go. He can feel the pull. It knows he is ready and it will give him as long as he needs. That's not forever. Forever can wait. It's just one little moment. One final kiss.

"I love you so much," he says again, and leans in to press the lightest touch of his lips to Bucky's mouth. It feels like he's kissing sunlight and air. He takes every moment of it and paints it in his head. Turns memory into watercolor . A masterpiece he can hold close to his heart. He'll remember the dark fall of Bucky's eyelashes as they flutter closed. He'll remember the pale flush on his cheeks and the soft, silky fall of hair around them. Every detail. Every single one.

When he pulls back, Bucky's eyes are open again, and he's smiling.

Not one of his beaming grins or teasing smirks. It's not a happy smile, but it's not a sad one either. It's just for Steve.

"I love you," Steve says again.

Bucky blinks and another tear rolls down his cheek. He says, "Ditto," and Steve feels starlight burst in his chest. It grows and grows, filling up every corner of his heart and soul. Brighter and brighter and brighter. He's floating and falling and when the light fills every space in the world around him, he closes his eyes and lets himself go.