Archive of Our Own

It's always loud in the POW cells, even in the dead of night. The work doesn't stop when the sun goes down; the factory overseers just split them into two crews, morning and evening, and the air rings constantly with the thump of heavy presses, the hiss of steam, angry shouts in German and the occasional bark of pain.

The men inside the cells are quiet. Exhaustion weighs heavy on their limbs, their tongues; it takes too much energy to speak. Occasionally fights break out, but they fizzle soon enough as leaden arms are reduced to pushing at one another until their comrades dully tell them to knock it off. Many curl up and sink into sleep like stones rolled into the ocean.

In one cell the men are all awake. Dugan's meaty hands clench and relax, grimy nails digging rhythmically into his palms. Morita and Falsworth trade miserable stares while Gabe rubs the heel of his hand against his knee, over and over. Dernier is so tense he nearly vibrates, holding himself still and listening with everything he has. They're all listening.

"'S just the machinery," Dugan rumbles, but there's no conviction in his tone. "It's too far away to...to hear anything like that."

Dernier flinches at the next scream, so loud no one can mistake it, for all that it comes from half a factory away and behind a locked door no one has ever returned from. Falsworth closes his eyes.

"Poor bastard," Gabe murmurs half to himself as Dugan shakes his head.

Poor kid doesn't deserve an end like this, but Jimmy might turn out to be the lucky one before the war is through.

Bucky's hallucinating and knows he is, but that doesn't help a bit. He's not worried about the part where his veins are on fire--that's just the drugs--or the part where the world keeps sliding to the left--that's the concussion. He still knows what's real and what isn't, and this--this isn't.

Zola usually works alone, inviting the guards in only when he needs strong backs to shift a box, open a crate, move a prisoner. A tall, thin man named Schmidt had come in once, but the tall, thin man standing over Bucky now is someone new. This one's a ginger, his hair not the bright Irish red Bucky's used to but the red-gold of German stock. His eyes are a wintery blue. The bones of his face are sharp and slanted, with a too-wide jaw and a broad brow, his cheekbones high and prominent. It's the teeth that tell Bucky something's not right here, because they're as long and sharp as a dog's, would be crowding the man's mouth if his jaw wasn't stretched to fit them.

"This one?" the stranger asks doubtfully. His English is so heavily-accented he's hard to understand, but Bucky knows he's meant to grasp every word. "A prisoner? He's not even German."

"And you're not exactly a known quantity, Herr Schlange," Zola replies with a faint little smile. "It could have been the Fuhrer's little joke to send the Seven-Headed Serpent to Hydra; forgive us if we don't wish to make the trial of your...'gift' with one of our own. The Fuhrer may have a taste for mysticism, but science is far more effective in matters such as these."

Schlange snorts quietly, upper lip curling. "And you'll blame me if anything goes wrong, will you? I can smell your tampering from here, fool; he barely smells human as it is. But have it your way. I'll be well rid of you lot after you report my failure."

Schlange steps forward as Zola begins to frown, gripping Bucky's left wrist and wrenching it around under the binding strap until the soft skin of his inner arm is turned up. He already knows he's seeing things, so it's got to be a knife in Schlange's hands; there's no way his nails are that long, like the talons of a hawk, or that sharp. One settles a few inches from the bend of Bucky's elbow and drags down, cutting in slow and deep, and Bucky can't keep a choked whine from escaping as his arm is drenched in blood. Fuck, he's not going to make it, not after this, but the one stupid thought that keeps echoing in his head is that no one's going to be left to look after Steve.

Pale eyes narrow thoughtfully as Schlange works his jaw, a muscle in his cheek jumping as he bites down on God-knows-what. His lips roll in like he's sucking a lemon, and all Bucky can do is stare. "Remember that you don't deserve this," Schlange says thickly, cutting through Bucky's panic with words that could have been kind and aren't. Schlange's teeth are red, blood filling the small valleys between each fang and sizzling like hot grease in a pan.

Then he leans in, opens that nightmare mouth wide, and slides a narrow, blood-slick tongue through the butchered meat of Bucky's arm.

Bucky screams. He can't help it. He'd thought his blood was on fire before, but it's nothing compared to now. The pain doesn't stop even when Schlange jerks back and spits on the floor in disgust, backing away even as Bucky starts to convulse. The tile where his bloody saliva lands instantly begins to smoke. "Nidhöggr's teeth," Schlange gasps, scrubbing at his mouth. "What filth did you give him? He tastes like a drache!"

Zola frowns. "Isn't that what you are?"

Bucky doesn't notice the skin of his arm healing over. He's too busy screaming his throat raw, so loudly it hurts his own ears, until the hint of bass underneath and the harsh echo that turns his cries strident start to sound completely normal.

He tells himself later that he imagined it. All of it. The teeth and the claws and the tongue that burned like fire through a wound that hadn't even left a mark. He tells himself at first that he's imagining Steve too, because he's free and they're running through fire and he can't even feel the heat. But then they end up in the woods, and it's a long, slow slog back to camp through rain and drizzle and the occasional skirmish, so at least some of his hallucinations must be real.

Not the arm, though. Not the guy with the teeth. That would just be weird.

He is...really quick to heal these days, though, and his once-even temper runs hot and cold. He's solid ice when he's peering down the barrel of his rifle--no scope on it anymore, because his eyes have never been sharper--but the damnedest things set him off. Close combat. The scent of anyone spoiling for a fight. Letting Steve out of his sight where anyone might take him. He gets downright crazy around Agent Carter, and it takes all his fraying willpower not to let it show, because Steve likes her, maybe loves her, and Bucky's not going to get in the way of that. He's not. Even if the one thing he wants in the world is to grab Steve and make off with him, wrap him up tight and keep him forever, all to himself.

It's a crazy damn thought, but he's getting used to crazy, and to putting Steve's increasingly worried questions off with a smile. He's fine. He's gonna be just fine. He looks just the same, doesn't he? Of course he does, because that weird stuff back at the Hydra base was just something he imagined.

He tries not to think about it, or the itch that slowly spreads beneath his skin. No one's going to listen to his crazy nightmares anyway.

When he falls--when the wind is rushing past him and the sky opens up above him like an endless invitation--there's a moment where the panic leaves him. Spreading his arms wide, he relaxes back into the air, his heart trembling like something's about to crack apart inside his chest. He wants it almost as much as he wants to chase the echoes of the voice fading out above him, and he splays his fingers, reaches, takes a deep breath.

The ground rushes up and shatters him before he even knows it's there.

Waking is a blur. He's cold, or he should be, but he can't feel it. Cold and heat haven't meant all that much to him in months, but he can feel the wetness under his cheek, the granules of ice or snow crusted to his lashes. When he blinks his eyes open, all he sees is white and piney green. Moving is a special kind of hell, but he manages, pushing against the snow with his right hand and clawing with his left. He digs deeper. Hooks into hard dirt below the snow that's half-melted away from him. Sinks his claws in and pulls himself...up.

His head turns by slow increments, eyes huge as he stares down at his left side. The arm of his blue peacoat hangs the way it always has, but his hand is...his hand is...silver. Scaled. His hand is not his hand.

He shoves the sleeve of his coat up with his right hand, the human right, and oh God, he must be imagining this. His skin isn't skin anymore; it's hide, right up to an inch above his elbow, gleaming wet from the snowmelt that soaked through his sleeve. He doesn't even have nails anymore, just wicked long talons with clumps of frozen dirt still sticking to them, and this is not happening, because if he isn't imagining this, then Hydra has turned him into a goddamn monster.

A pained whine builds in his throat, and he claps his hand over his mouth to stop it, only to feel his guts hitch a second later. Fuck, his teeth. His teeth.

"God, no," he breathes out shakily. He sounds like himself, but his mouth feels alien, too broad and too full. He can't. He can't do this. He can't.

He doesn't think. He's gotten good at doing without thinking too much about it. He's got a knife, and that's fine. He's not really cold when he pushes up his sleeve and stretches his arm out as far away from him as he can get it. It hurts when he makes the first cut, but all of him hurts. And when he loses his cool halfway through, when it's going too slow and he just wants that freak appendage gone, off, get it off of him, and resorts to his teeth--

Yeah, he's fine with passing out after that. It's about damned time.

He's got a silver hand when he wakes again, but this one's metal, and his teeth are back to normal. He must have imagined breaking down in the snow and trying to hack himself in two. Sure he did. That's why the scientists are so pissed at him.

Eventually, after...months, it must be months...they call in Zola. The little bastard must have gotten away after all.

"The serum you were given during the war wasn't strong enough. It only delayed the onset," Zola explains to him while he's worn out from trying to kill everyone in sight. "But now the process has finally begun."

"The hell it has," he rasps out. "I don't care what you try turning me into. I'll tear those bits out too."

Zola scowls, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sniff. "You'll grow tired of fighting it eventually."

Zola's wrong. The instant they leave his hands unfettered, he's at it again, tearing at the prosthetic they have to keep adjusting each time he savages himself. His phantom arm itches beneath the metal, almost like the limb's still there, and he hates that, hates the reminder of how well they've succeeded with him already. Mostly he just tries to break the parts they bolt onto him, but what's left of his arm, that he wants gone. Every time he fucking looks, there's a fresh wave of scales crawling slowly up his bicep, no matter what he does to stop them. Zola has him sedated, tries strapping him down, but his body's a war he plans to win, no matter what it takes.

When they bring in a padded black chair with a strange contraption sticking up out of the back, he growls--literally growls--before he can stop himself. He's not an animal, not a monster. He can curse them out in plain English, but he's not going to sink to the level they want him at.

"Prep him," Zola instructs the hard-eyed orderlies. "Perhaps this will do the trick."

He snarls. Let them torture him. He'll heal; they've seen to that.

They put him in the chair, cage his head, and with the flip of a switch--

The soldier does not look while they perform maintenance on his arm. He is ordered to look away, so he stares at the wall. It may be a kindness; he knows his arm is a disappointment to his masters, but it is functional and strong. He doesn't need to see. It's an easy order to follow.

The technicians close the armored plating. One checks his eyes, his teeth, peering into his mouth with a small light. He checks the nails of the soldier's right hand. All is as expected.

"Get dressed," the lead technician says, "and report for orders."

The soldier stands. He tests the metal arm, feeling the smooth slide of plate against plate. The arm is functional. He knows if he turns his head to look, his teeth will ache dully and his tongue will prickle with the memory of metal. He does not look. He gets dressed.

"Does he, uh...know--"

"No," one technician says, cutting off another. "Way I hear it, the wipes stopped everything, burned out all the triggers. At least they keep him from flipping out, which is all I care about."

"So he's just a really good hitman now."

"And that's the way he's gonna stay, long as you keep your mouth shut."

The soldier hears without thinking too much about it. He pays little attention to what technicians say. He is a very good killer; this is true.

Sometimes he thinks he may be a monster, and then they wipe him again.

He's starting to remember the wipes. It would worry him if he let himself think about it.

There is a bridge and a man and a name. He wants the name, wants the man. He doesn't care about the bridge.

There's a man with wings he will tear out of the sky, and a woman who chases him from the things he wants. There's always a woman. Sullen resentment burns in his gut.

He wants and he wants and he wants. It's confusing, so he slinks back to the dark, close place where his handlers wait and knows himself safe to lick his wounds and think. The room fills with men who reek of aggression and challenge, but he sets his teeth and tries to sink into memory, shutting the others out. There's something behind the want, behind the rage of being kept-from, being stolen-from, and he wants to know what it is. He thinks...he thinks he knows that man. He thinks that man has been his before.

He thinks he wants him back.

And there's hands on his shoulders, the bitter thickness of the rubber guard in his mouth, and as the lightning arcs through him--

He hangs suspended over empty space. Below him, the man he swears is his is dropping. Falling.

(Flying.)

He throws himself into the air after him, and it feels like coming home.

Steve makes a pact with himself that he's going to find Bucky again no matter what it takes, so of course Bucky finds him instead. They're in New York because Steve's got more hope than sense, wishes like anything that Bucky will somehow just wake up and remember, and if he remembers anything, surely it'll be home. Sam's great about getting dragged around to all their old haunts, all the ones still standing at least, but when the sun goes down without a single maybe of a sighting, Sam gently suggests they head back to the hotel and try again tomorrow.

Steve goes along, but he can't sleep, not when he knows Bucky's out there. And maybe it's New York herself, all the ghosts he's never going to be able to shake off, even when he tries to leave. He always comes back.

He gets up and gets dressed, grateful he'd insisted on a hotel and not Stark's offer of the tower, on separate rooms for him and Sam just in case they do find Bucky. It's just past midnight when he locks the door behind him and heads down to the lobby. The night clerk smiles absently without making eye contact and drops her head to her phone again. Steve doesn't mind. It's the only kind of anonymity he really gets these days.

He means to plunge out into the dark, just pick a direction and start walking, but he doesn't make it past the windows near the door, ambushed by practicality. Staring out at streets far brighter than he remembers, he debates running upstairs to leave a note. He knows paper is old-fashioned, but he doesn't want to wake Sam with a text after all the walking they did that day, and he doesn't want to be talked out of going, either. He just doesn't want Sam to think he's disappeared if he doesn't make it back before dawn.

He's not expecting to see any change in his reflection in the glass, for a shadowed face under a dark cap to swim into focus over his shoulder seconds before a familiar body presses up against his own. Bucky stands off-center to him, slumped against the left side of Steve's back the way he only used to when he was very tired. His chin hooks over Steve's shoulder like it belongs there, and when he turns his face into Steve's neck with a sigh, Steve feels two years of tension melt out of him in an instant.

"Buck?" he asks quietly. He's taking nearly all of Bucky's weight now, and he'd worry that Bucky has hurt himself somehow, but Bucky's too relaxed for that.

Bucky rumbles something wordless that's nearly a purr, and it brings back memories Steve's been trying hard not to revive: years of stolen looks and guilty thoughts, the fear that this one thing will be where Bucky draws the line and decides he can't give any more. It doesn't help that Bucky's always been tactile, comfortable in his body and comfortable with Steve's, even when the latter was a half-busted collection of pieces that never seemed to fit right. It's just like old times, having Bucky amble up and lean into him, though in the old days he used to stagger Steve when he tried. It's miles better than another fight, and maybe it means he remembers.

"Buck," Steve says again, not moving away. Like Bucky, he leaves his hands dangling loose at his sides.

"Hn," Bucky says, turning his head a little more and--God. He's nosing along the tendons of Steve's throat, breathing in his skin. Steve feels goosebumps ripple up his spine, and it terrifies him a little that they're the good kind. "You really are Steve. I thought...you're too many things inside my head."

Steve shakes his own head slowly, careful not to dislodge his visitor. "What do you mean?"

"Skinny," Bucky says, nose pressed to the warm hollow behind Steve's ear. "And like this. And dead. I know they told me you were dead. Killed a few of them for that." He says it so casually it nearly wrecks Steve, because he knows Bucky, knows the distance in his tone now is the furthest thing from what he'd felt then.

"Not dead," Steve says gently, "just frozen. I flew a plane into some ice. Ended up sleeping for about seventy years."

"Lazy bum," Bucky says with amused affection, and it's all Steve can do to keep from lurching around and grabbing him in relief.

"That's me," he agrees hoarsely, his throat going tight even as he's smiling for all he's worth. "Hey. Want to go upstairs? I was about to go back out looking for you, but since you're here and all...."

"Sure," Bucky says easily. Steve can feel him shrug against his back. "Not like I'm letting you out of my sight again."

"Same goes for you, you jerk," Steve warns. He tries not to regret it too much when Bucky finally pulls away.

He's half afraid to turn around, but Bucky's really there when he risks it. In a dark baseball cap and a well-washed denim jacket, unshaven and with his hair still long, Bucky looks so startlingly normal, Steve can hardly believe they were born in the same decade. He looks tired but well; they've both had time to heal from the damage they've done one another, and his eyes are alive and aware. He might still be a little lost, but Steve makes it a policy not to hope for more than one miracle at a time.

Bucky rides the elevator up with him three floors, follows him into his room and takes his hat off the moment he enters the room. Steve tries not to laugh; and here he's been thinking he's the only one who still does that. Bucky glances at him once then breaks away to prowl every corner until he's satisfied. Steve just finds somewhere out of the way to stand and leaves him to it. He doesn't expect Bucky to find anything, but if he does, Steve wants to know about it too.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asks as Bucky finally settles on the edge of Steve's bed, elbows braced on his knees. "I could order something."

Bucky shakes his head. He seems perfectly content to sit right where he is, watching Steve move hesitantly closer. There's a stillness in him that wasn't there before unless he has a rifle in his hands, but it's not wholly unfamiliar. It's just that the quiet at the core of him has grown.

"Buck...what happened?" Steve asks, trying to reconcile this peaceful version with the half-feral machine who'd ripped a steering wheel out of a moving car then tried to slice him to ribbons.

The tilt of Bucky's brows is honestly puzzled. "When?"

Steve edges another step closer. It's not that he's afraid of Bucky; he just can't believe it's this easy, that Bucky won't bolt if he gets too close. "You seem like you're starting to remember things...."

"I remember you." Steve can't tell if he's agreeing or pointing out his own limits. "Too many of you."

"Do you remember yourself?"

"Too many of me, too," Bucky admits, brows drawing together as his eyes slide down and to the left, studying the carpet with a blank stare.

He's almost on top of Bucky now; it just makes sense to sit down with him. "Like who?"

"Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The asset," he recites, frown pulling tighter with each one. He dips his chin as he turns his left hand palm-up, staring at it hard. Metal fingers twitch spasmodically as a shiver runs up his arm. "Hey, Steve?" he says softly, the way he used to when they shared secrets in the dark, late enough at night that they could pretend the other was sleeping. "I think I may be a monster."

Steve reaches out too fast, but Bucky doesn't flinch away when Steve grabs hold of his upturned hand. "Jesus, Buck." He doesn't know if Bucky can feel it, but he squeezes the metal hand tight. "Don't say that, all right? You're not a monster. Nothing that happened was your fault."

Bucky's eyes waver uncertainly between his hand and Steve's face, peering at Steve through his lashes and the curtain of his hair. He doesn't sit up, but he doesn't move away. "You don't...mind?"

"No matter what's happened," Steve promises, "you're still my best friend."

Bucky looks confused, like Steve's answered the wrong question, but then he finds a smile. "You're mine," he says, leaning over to bump Steve's shoulder with his own.

Steve laughs, so damned relieved to hear it again after all this time. "Okay," he says, feeling ridiculous. "Good. So. You pulled me out of the river, right?" Bucky nods. "What happened next?"

Bucky walks him through it: going back to the bank where he'd been held and finding it surrounded by police cars, finding the nearest safehouse and clearing it out just before it got hit in the next raid. How the questions had just kept coming--who was Bucky Barnes?--and how putting on civilian clothes had for the first time felt like something other than a disguise. He talks about his trip to the Smithsonian and how seeing all those faces--Steve's, Dum Dum's, Gabe's, his own--had sparked a landslide of memories, still sketchy but getting stronger.

Steve knows, somewhere down deep in the responsible part of his brain, that he should be trying to make a proper debriefing of it. He just can't get past the amazement of having Bucky here at all. He lets Bucky ramble, stumbling through stories as if they happened to somebody else, his accent changing rapidly depending on what decade his mind's stuck in at the moment. He learns far too much and not enough, but as long as Bucky keeps talking, that's all he cares about.

When Bucky finally runs out of words, it's with a jaw-cracking yawn that makes Bucky jump, eyes wide and startled. Blue eyes cut toward Steve with a look of solemn apology, one that melts into relief when all Steve does is smile. "God, what time is it?" Steve asks to put Bucky at ease. "We must've been talking for hours. What do you say we turn in?"

Bucky nods and rises, then hesitates, rubbing absently at his right temple. "We're not setting a watch."

It sounds like all he wants is confirmation, so Steve gives it to him like it's not a strange question at all. "Not tonight."

"And I'm...am I sleeping here?" He's scowling a little, frustration with his own uncertainty pulling his mouth into an unhappy line.

"There's plenty of room," Steve assures him. The bed's only a queen and they're both big guys, but they've made do with worse. "It'll be just like old times."

One thing that's different is that it's Steve's clothes that get borrowed this time. When he tosses a plain tee and a pair of sweatpants to Bucky, he's already thinking of the excuse he'll use to get himself out of the room, give Bucky some privacy. He thinks he has time, but with no hesitation at all, Bucky strips out of his jacket and shucks his shirt, and all Steve can do is stare.

Bucky's left side is a ruin, the skin around the shoulder plates a starburst of old scars. The polished perfection of the metal arm looks all the more unnatural against the weaker flesh it's grafted to, but it's the flesh that starves the breath from Steve's lungs. He's left swallowing down his horror and rage, because he can't for one instant let Bucky think it's because of him.

Bucky notices anyway, freezing with both hands threaded through the arms of Steve's tee but with the shirt still bunched in front of him, his scars still on display. He casts a puzzled look at Steve, like he's made some kind of sound when he can't even breathe. Face clearing with comprehension, Bucky starts to glance down at himself, but his head turns aside at the last moment, eyes sliding swiftly away.

"You shouldn't look at it," he says without heat. Like it's nothing but good advice. "I don't."

Jesus. "No, Buck," he says hoarsely, "it's not--it's not you, okay? I just can't believe they hurt you like that."

Bucky shrugs. "I think I did most of it myself, actually. Trying to get it off."

The wounded sound that escapes Steve makes Bucky's face crumple with worry. Throwing his shirt on in a hurry, Bucky makes a beeline for Steve, his tensed shoulders relaxing the instant his scars are tucked out of sight.

"Hey, you okay?" Bucky asks, clasping Steve's arm with his right hand. "I--I know I hurt you pretty bad last time--"

"I'm fine, Buck," he promises. "Really. No harm done." The set of Bucky's mouth is doubtful at best, and he takes a half step back to look Steve over like he's expecting to still find wounds. It's as if he's already forgotten Steve's reaction to his scars, or else he's forgotten the scars themselves. Steve's not sure which is scarier.

"Pretty sure there was plenty of harm done," Bucky mutters quietly. "And I'm real sorry about that, Steve. Don't think I said that yet, but--"

"Buck. I know," he says, reaching up to settle his own hand over Bucky's, holding him there. "I'm sorry too. But honestly? I'm just glad to have you back."

Bucky wants to argue that--he doesn't think Steve has anything to apologize for--but Steve's not having it and they're both dragging, super-stamina or not. Sleeping on their problems sounds like the most sensible option to both of them.

Steve climbs into bed first, expecting to keep a polite distance. It's the twenty-first century, and it's not like they have to huddle together on a rickety twin bed for warmth anymore. He isn't expecting Bucky to climb in after him and glom onto him like some sort of cyborg octopus, aggressively determined to be the big spoon. It's exactly like being back home again--Steve knows he'd be hearing nothing but pure Brooklyn if Bucky were to open his mouth right now--except that he suspects Bucky would smother him if he could, just cover him up so completely no one else will ever find him again.

He'd felt the exact same way after getting Bucky back from that Hydra base so long ago, so instead of trying to pull away, he just gives in. A too-large part of him doesn't mind at all.

They don't set an alarm, so their first indication that it's morning is Sam letting himself in, calling, "Hey, Steve--thought you'd be up before--holy shit!"

Bucky rolls up snarling, teeth bared, his entire body coiled tight to spring. He nearly launches himself across the room at Sam until Steve grabs his right arm.

"Bucky, wait!" he shouts, not daring to let up on his white-knuckled grip, though he has to be leaving bruises. "That's Sam! He's a friend!"

Bucky strains at the end of Steve's hold but doesn't try to jerk away. He even allows Steve to reel him back in, shifting from crouched readiness to a wary half-kneel. Sam forces himself to relax, keeping his empty hands visible, and deliberately shifts his eyes away to look less threatening. He stares at Steve's right shoulder when he speaks.

"Jesus, Steve, did you sneak out again last night to keep looking?" His voice is still a touch breathless, but exasperated humor is already creeping in at the edges.

"Didn't have to," Steve admits with a sheepish shrug. "He caught up with me in the lobby."

Sam tries not to grin. "What, he just followed you home, then?"

"Something like that. He's, um...he was doing fine last night. I think you just startled him."

"I think he startled me." The grin sneaks out; it looks like it's there to stay. Steve's relieved. Sam's a great guy, but he's not a saint and Steve can't expect him to be. If he'd decided to carry a grudge, Steve would have understood.

"So hey," Sam says, daring a quick look at Bucky before he drops his eyes again. "You're Bucky Barnes, right? I'm Sam Wilson, a friend of the Cap's. Pleased to meet you."

Bucky eyes him silently, taking a deep, fast breath through his nose that he briefly holds. "I remember you," he says at last, voice a little scratchy still from their long talk the night before. "The one with the wings. You're one of Steve's?"

"Uh...yes?" Sam frowns thoughtfully at Bucky's odd phrasing but shrugs it off with a smile.

Blowing out a harsh sigh, Bucky stands down all at once, a weird, all-over shudder rippling down his spine. "All right," Bucky says, gently tugging his wrist out of Steve's grasp. Since it doesn't look like he's going to go for Sam a second time, Steve turns him loose, but Bucky doesn't shift away. Instead he deliberately grabs Steve's closest foot. He doesn't take his eyes off Sam--he's not even blinking--and it's really not like he's holding onto Steve. It's more like he's pinning Steve down, like...like one cat claiming the best toy mouse before another can sneak up and steal it.

Steve isn't the only one who notices.

"Okay," Sam says slowly, going to heroic lengths not to stare. "Someone care to fill me in?"

Bucky goes through it all again, but the retelling goes more smoothly now that Steve's helped him put the events in order. He seems to remember more this time as well, not just parroting back what Steve told him but adding fresh details, some of them things Steve himself has forgotten. He even has Sam laughing a time or two when he remembers some embarrassing story that he just has to tell immediately. He looks so pleased with himself for remembering anything, Steve can't bring himself to mind.

The only worrying note is Bucky's arm. If the rest of him wears a sniper's stillness like a uniform, the arm is a livewire, never still. His fingers keep twitching, half-straightening only to draw up short, drawing back in on themselves to flinch into claws. Soon enough the rest of his discipline stats breaking down as well, his right hand creeping over to hook his nails into the cracks between the plates of his wrist. He catches himself the instant he finds purchase and pulls his hand away, but not five minutes go by before he's at it again.

After two hours of this, Sam is shooting Steve worried looks, but all Steve can think of are the scars. He doesn't want to set Bucky off by bringing up the problem, but he's growing more convinced by the minute that Bucky's going to snap if he doesn't.

"Bucky?" he asks at last, ready to grab Bucky's hands if he reacts badly. "Is your arm bothering you?"

"Needs maintenance," Bucky growls, ducking his head to the left with an odd expression: lips pulled fractionally back, teeth clenched with just the tips visible. He jerks his head aside an instant later, but the tendons in his neck stand out as he wavers on the verge of doing it again.

Sam clears his throat and tilts his head toward the window when they glance his way. "Your pal Tony Stark might be able to help. He keeps sending me these sad texts about how you're ignoring him--we can talk about how he even got my number later. Oh, yeah, and I'm supposed to tell you that Bruce and Thor showed up a few days ago, so apparently it's just you that hates him."

"I don't hate Tony!" Steve protests, exasperated. He maybe wants to strangle Tony occasionally, and sometimes he wants to duct tape blankets and a pillow to him until he sleeps, but he certainly doesn't hate the man.

Bucky glances back and forth between them, narrow-eyed. "Who's Tony?"

"Uh...you remember Howard?" He knows Bucky does; Howard features in quite a few of his Embarrassing Steve Stories. "Tony's his son. If anyone can fix your arm--"

"Why do we hate Tony?"

"We don't hate--I don't hate Tony," Steve repeats doggedly. "You don't even know Tony; you can't hate someone you don't know."

Bucky gives him a look like he'd argue that point if he could be bothered to care. Sam hides a laugh behind a cough.

Steve sighs. "Look, Tony likes to exaggerate things. A lot of things. Everything. And he gets on my nerves sometimes, but I like the guy, and he's the best there is at what he does. I don't want you to--" Bucky doesn't even stiffen when Steve reaches over to pull Bucky's hand away from his plating again, giving his wrist a gentle squeeze. He doesn't let go. "If your arm's bothering you, let us help. Please?"

All of Bucky goes perfectly still, but then he nods. Steve threads their fingers together for safekeeping, daring either of them to say a word. Sam arches a brow but stays quiet; Bucky just looks pleased.

It only takes one phone call to have them on their way to the tower. Bucky's as anonymous as they can make him with their limited resources, which mainly consist of a cap pulled down over Bucky's eyes. The jacket he'd arrived in would have served to cover his arm, but instead Bucky steals a dark navy hoodie along with a grey tee from Steve's luggage, stripping off in front of Sam with the same lack of self-consciousness he'd shown the night before.

Sam's face goes tight when he sees the scars, his eyes hard and determined under the sympathy. That's the look of Sam adding himself to their corner come hell or high water, and Steve won't deny he's grateful as anything. Sam's got a good head on his shoulders, has a way of cutting through bullshit that reminds Steve of Bucky.

Bucky glances over at Sam curiously, but otherwise he ignores them both, climbing back into his jeans from the night before and stomping his feet into his boots.

Steve refused Tony's offer of a car, so they take a cab, hauling all their luggage along with them. Steve has no illusions that he's going to get out of accepting Tony's hospitality a second time, and he has no idea how long it will take to fix Bucky's arm. He's certainly not going to leave Bucky vulnerable while it happens, and Stark's tower is the safest place he can think of.

Bucky hesitates when it's time for the three of them to pile into the cab, and Steve just knows it's because he wants to plant himself between Steve and Sam. It's crazy, because Bucky has never in his life been the jealous type, but then...when had he ever needed to be? Before the serum, no one had wanted the place at Steve's side Bucky's unashamedly defending, and after...well, it was pretty obvious afterward who all those people really wanted to be seen with, and it damned sure wasn't Steve Rogers.

Bucky being Bucky is how Steve ends up in the middle anyway, because Bucky always puts him first. He still keeps one hand on Steve at all times, the short nails of his right hand hooking over the inner seam of Steve's jeans at the knee when Steve isn't physically restraining him from dismantling his own arm. Sam looks like he's going to sprain something if he doesn't laugh soon, and Steve doesn't know how to tell him that whatever he's thinking, it's not like that. Bucky's not...Bucky's just not, and if Steve isn't discouraging this strange attack of possessiveness, it's just because the entire situation is so out of character, he doesn't know what else to do. It may also be that he's a bad person and a worse friend.

When they pull up to the curb at the tower, Bucky slides out of the cab so fast Steve's heart lurches hard in his chest, thinking Bucky means to bolt. Bucky doesn't; he's too busy scanning the rooftops, growling near-silently under his breath as he spots someone or something he doesn't like. Steve doesn't kid himself that the tower isn't being watched. He's pinning his hopes on Stark being too powerful to tackle head-on, assuming he agrees to help.

"Trouble?" Sam asks, eyeing Bucky with a healthy respect.

"For another time," Steve says with a sigh. "Let's just get inside."

The security guards on duty recognize him and let him pass unchallenged while giving his companions a cautious once-over. Bucky draws far more attention than Sam, but Bucky stalks at Steve's side like hired muscle brought along to a shakedown, his eyes and the set of his shoulders broadcasting a warning loud and clear.

"JARVIS?" Steve asks as the three of them slip into the private elevator that leads up to the residential floors. "Can you let Stark know we've arrived?"

"He is waiting on the floor set aside for your use, Captain Rogers," JARVIS replies as the car begins to move. Bucky's head jerks up, eyes snapping unerringly to the tiny camera set into the corner of the elevator.

"Uh, that's JARVIS," Steve explains quickly, groping for terms he can be sure Bucky will be familiar with. "He's the, um--computer program?--that runs this place."

Bucky frowns. "Like Zola?"

Trading an incredulous look with Sam as the elevator doors slide open, Steve asks, "How--?"

"Cap!" Stark calls from inside. "Long time no see!"

It isn't just Tony waiting for them inside; Thor and Bruce Banner are also present, all three of them camped out on the couches in the common area, watching the elevator with unabashed curiosity. Tony bounds to his feet with an enormous grin, Thor joining him as he strides over to greet them, but Bruce hangs back the way he always does when there are new people involved. At least he isn't wearing the strained look that would mean Tony badgered him into coming up and being social for his own good.

"Hi, Tony," Steve says, taking a deep breath as Bucky sways fractionally closer. The stupid part of him hopes it makes Bucky feel more at ease, but smart money says Bucky's just trying to figure out whether he needs to defend his territory again. "Er, I guess you already know Sam," he says, deciding to start with the easy introduction first.

"Nice to finally meet you in person," Tony says with an unabashed smirk, shaking Sam's hand.

"Nice to meet the guy behind the three AM texts," Sam shoots back, amused.

Tony claps him on the arm, his smile easing when Sam doesn't call him on the carpet or insist he isn't Captain America's answering machine. "Just wait until our relationship advances to drunk dialing," Tony says, a little too innocently for Steve's peace of mind.

"And this is Bucky," Steve cuts in, hoping to distract Sam from the fact that he's been doomed to a lifetime of Stark's friendship since the moment he answered the first text. "Buck, this is Tony Stark."

Sliding both of his hands into his pockets, Tony looks Bucky over with a tiny, unreadable smile that glitters strangely in his eyes. "Yeah, so before I invite you in," Tony says slowly, "there's just one thing I've got to know."

The bottom drops out of Steve's stomach all at once. It's not that he's forgotten about Tony's parents--it's not something you forget--but he'd let himself hope that Tony didn't know, that the news could come from Steve and not a data dump. It's clear he waited too long--the look in Tony's eyes when they slide his way makes that plain--but Stark doesn't lose his smile.

Bucky tilts his head a fraction. He doesn't remember what happened to Howard, and now he's just confused. "What's that?"

"Did you really convince my dad that you needed his help to infiltrate a Hydra cell and that the only way in was if he went in drag?"

Bucky nods, still puzzled. "Carter helped."

Steve stares, jaw hanging inelegantly open. When had they--oh, God, was that the weekend in Strasbourg? He's so busy trying not to picture Howard all dolled up to take on the bad guys that he misses the instant Tony's face is transformed with a barking laugh.

"JARVIS," Tony calls, "send that woman the biggest bouquet of flowers they can fit through the door."

"Certainly, sir." Steve's never going to get over how amused the AI's dry, British voice often sounds.

Tony holds his right hand out, grinning still. "Welcome aboard, Sergeant Barnes."

"Thanks," Bucky says with a lopsided smile Steve hasn't seen in far too long, the one Bucky gets when he's going along with someone else's insanity for a change. He'd worn that look often back in the war, surrounded by their friends.

"Buck, Sam, this is Thor--"

"It's an honor to meet such steadfast companions," Thor says with a beaming smile, holding one hand out for Sam to shake and clapping Bucky on the left shoulder before Steve can stop him. As Bucky gives a shuddering flinch, Thor's smile drops away, but there's no trace of insult in his frown, only concern.

"And this is Dr. Bruce Ba--"

"Friend, are you well?" Thor asks kindly. He's still holding on to Bucky, his big hand tightening briefly on Bucky's shoulder until Bucky pulls away. "If the roof would be more to your liking, it's no trouble to move."

"Uh, the roof?" Tony asks, eyes darting to each of them in turn as if waiting to hear the punchline. "I thought the whole point was to get him into the lab so I can look at that arm."

As if the reminder flips a switch, Bucky shudders convulsively, eyes snapping down to his own arm and widening instantly in horror. He jerks away when Steve tries to grab his right arm, clawing at himself through the thick material of his borrowed hoodie and snarling a warning when Sam tries to move in from the other side. Frustrated, Bucky rips his sleeve clean off, not seeming to hear Tony's appreciative curse or pleas to slow down, let him handle it. He digs his nails into a gap at the elbow joint and starts to pull. The sound of metal tearing grates loudly at the back of Steve's ears.

"Bucky, don't--" he tries again, reaching for his friend, but Bucky's not there anymore. He growls, snaps like a dog in pain at the first hand he sees, then turns to bite furiously at the metal of his own shoulder.

"His armor," Thor says urgently, hovering on the edge of jumping in. "It needs to come off--"

"It's not armor--" Steve protests, trying again to pin Bucky's frantic hand.

"--there won't be room to--" Thor's saying, raising his voice, not listening, damn it--

"It's not armor," Steve snaps, "it's his arm, it doesn't--Thor!"

Thor pushes Steve aside and latches onto one of the bent plates with both hands, the muscles in his arms bulging as he adds his strength to Bucky's. Bucky lets him, using Thor as leverage and prying at his shoulder before Steve can push them apart. When he tries to get between them, Thor knocks him away with his shoulder, grimacing an apology at the same time.

Bucky twists, heaves up and back as Thor holds his arm perfectly steady, until something gives all at once.

Bucky's scream is harsh and inhuman, but it sounds more like relief than pain. He skitters away from all of them, leaves Thor holding his arm, and Steve just wants to snatch it back, right before he beats the living daylights out of Thor. Only Thor doesn't look sorry; he's still wearing that look of helpful concern, like a dog that just wants to know which slippers it can fetch to make everything better.

"I...don't think I can fix that," Tony says faintly, staring not at Bucky's missing arm but at his eyes, icy and metallic, and his bared teeth, which are too many and too sharp.

Bucky only has eyes for his left arm, the one that's still there, flesh and blood but not...not human.

"Fuck, not again," Bucky breathes out in a cracked voice, holding his arm out as far from him as he can, like it doesn't belong to him. And with those scales, those claws, Steve can almost, almost believe it doesn't.

"Wait, my friend," Thor says as he lifts a calming hand. He slowly bends and sets Bucky's metal arm--no, his armor; Thor was right all along--on the floor before taking one cautious step closer.

Bucky breaks. He tries to back away, but shock makes him clumsy; he only manages to tangle his feet. He starts to go down, but falling makes him throw his arms out wide, and then--

Steve's left staring, barely able to comprehend what he sees. Bucky stretches, or melts, or grows, fabric tearing as he overflows the seams of his borrowed clothes. Silver scales spill across warm human skin like the rush of the incoming tide, fast and painless like the twist and arch of his expanding limbs, and in the space of five fast heartbeats, there's nothing human left of Bucky at all.

The silver dragon is far from monstrous, but it's big, forced into a crouch even with the room's high ceilings, its swept back horns threatening to take out one of the ceiling panels before it ducks. There's a greyhound's leanness to its long body, its massive shoulders and deep chest narrowing down to a sleek arch with the coiled power of muscular hindquarters balancing delicacy with strength. Steve can't say it looks all that threatening, though, not when it doesn't seem to know what to do with its own four legs. It flails madly until it gets its feet under it, wings thrashing the air as its tail whips around and smashes a small table to splinters against the wall. It breathes in harsh pants, blue eyes glassy and huge as it stares frantically around, settling on nothing for long--not until it spots the windows.

Shoulders hunching, long neck pulling in, it shivers once as every muscle draws tight.

"Bucky, wait!" Steve shouts, his paralysis snapping in time with his denial as he realizes what Bucky means to do. The windows in Stark's towers are at least strong enough to stop a bullet; if Bucky tries to smash through them and realizes he's trapped, seeing him panic isn't going to be pretty. And if he does crash through and realizes too late that he can't work his wings any better than his legs....

He rushes forward, ignoring the warning shouts from both Sam and Tony and hoping like hell that Bruce isn't about to check out over this. Bucky hunkers down smaller, trembling all over, but when Steve reaches out and grabs him by the--face? muzzle?--Bucky just lets his head be hauled down to look Steve right in the eye.

"Hey, take it easy," Steve murmurs, feeling the fine tremors rattling through Bucky in the palms of his hands. "It's just me. You don't need to go anywhere, Buck, just stay with me, okay? Everything's fine. You're safe here."

"Uh, Steve?" Sam asks quietly, edging warily closer. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but maybe you should step away from the dragon...."

Uncoordinated as he is, Bucky's reflexes are better than good. His left foreleg snaps out to hook around Steve's middle, yanking Steve face-first into a warm, immovable shoulder as he bares his teeth with a hiss. Curls of smoke trickle from the corners of his mouth as he pulls his wings and tail in, trying to hide Steve from sight, but his dazed misery is striking fear into the heart of no one. Sam's already straightening from his ready stance when Steve gets himself turned around and risks a glance over, and the sheen of bright green he was hoping not to see is already fading from Bruce's eyes.

Sam coughs, scratching his nose as Bucky tries to lean into Steve and nearly bowls him over. "So. I guess the way he's been trying to hoard you suddenly makes sense."

Tony makes an odd choking noise but only says, "Wilson. Tell me there are pics."

"Don't worry," Steve mutters, feeling his face heat alarmingly as five tons of furnace-hot dragon leans into his back with a despondent groan. "We'll be here all week."

Thor watches them with a trace of wistful sadness. He's the least upset out of the entire room. "Was this his first true transformation?"

"I don't know," Steve admits, bracing his feet and shoulders as Bucky's constant shivering slowly begins to settle. "He remembers some things but...not everything. He...he tried to tell me he thought he was a monster," he says quietly, reaching up to hook his arm around Bucky's neck.

Bucky turns his head and presses it against Steve's torso with a sigh, his steaming breath a humid cloud around them.

"Uh, Thor?" Bruce asks, pulling his glasses off to rub at his eyes. He blinks quickly, still not sure what he's seeing or possibly just tired. "How did you know about the armor? And to suggest the roof?"

"Shapechangers are not unknown on Asgard, though I'm afraid they're not well-regarded," Thor says. "I witnessed an ill-timed transformation once. He thought his magic would change his armor along with his body--and it can if one knows the trick of it." He shakes his head. "So few of your people have magic at all, it seemed better not to risk it.

"As for the roof, you had dragons living amongst you when my people last visited this world. Is that not still the case?"

"Dragons?" Tony asks incredulously. "Here? Seriously? Present company excluded, obviously, but...seriously?"

Behind him Bucky heaves a great, shuddering sigh, leaving Steve to catch himself when the enormous weight he's braced against shrinks back to human proportions. Bucky sags against him, head falling to Steve's shoulder as he gasps for air. His left arm is still wrapped tightly around Steve's midsection, but every bit of him that Steve can see is perfectly human this time.

"Bucky?" he asks, turning his head, but all he can see is Bucky's wild mop, the defenseless curve of his skull.

"H'bad is it?" Bucky mumbles against Steve's shoulder, refusing to look up. "H'much I gotta get rid of this time?"

Steve swallows hard. "It's all you, Buck," Steve tells him, wrapping a hand around Bucky's left wrist and squeezing tight. "And even if it wasn't, that'd be all right."

Bucky lifts his head slowly, taking a step back to peer down at himself with his lower lip caught between his blunt, human teeth. He's naked as the day he was born and doesn't seem to notice it at all, like modesty is just another thing Hydra burned out of him. An inch above his elbow, a ring of scars circles his left arm, and from his elbow to the mess of his shoulder, there's a ragged wasteland of raised slashes and the pockmarked imprint of too-sharp teeth. From his forearm down to the tips of his fingers, his skin is perfectly smooth.

A laugh escapes as Bucky stares at his upturned palm, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "They sewed it back," he says incredulously, rolling his arm to examine the suture scars just visible amongst the rest. "They fucking sewed it back on--they told me not to look, so I never looked, and they kept working on me, and--it was there all along. They just kept changing the armor so I couldn't see it happening."

"See what happening?" Sam asks when Steve can't get his voice to work.

Bucky's eyes are clear as they flick to meet Sam's, the set of his mouth grim. "Me turning into that thing. No matter what I did, it just kept spreading."

Bruce clears his throat quietly, but his face is calm. "Maybe we could start from the beginning," he says. "After you, uh...not to sound hypocritical here, but...wardrobe malfunction?"

Bucky looks down at himself again, and it breaks Steve's heart when Bucky just doesn't get it.

And then, with a blush that spreads from his hairline to the middle of his chest, he does.

"Spit," Tony orders, holding out a collection cup, and with a face screwed up with bewilderment and mild disgust, Bucky leans over and does what he asks. Tony zips away to the other side of Bruce's lab, adding to the collection of samples as Bruce peers through microscopes and fiddles with machinery Steve can't even begin to guess at. Thor watches with interest and a hint of longing; Steve suspects all the science gear reminds him of Dr. Foster. The only one absent is Sam, who's taking advantage of the momentary lull to get in touch with his family, check in with the VA back in DC, all the simple, mundane things he'd let fall by the wayside in their rush to pick up Bucky's trail.

Bucky slumps back in a wheeled office chair pulled from one of the lab desks, his right eye half screwed shut as another wave of pain hits. It's starting to scare Steve a little; the headache that's been troubling Bucky since his transformation is definitely getting worse. Bucky's not complaining, but he can't stop rubbing stiff fingers into the throbbing ache of his skull despite the painkillers they've already given him. He's already refused twice the suggestion that he try sleeping it off. Instead he sits white-knuckled in the lab, dressed in Steve's clothes again, flinching from the glaring overhead lights.

"You okay?" Steve asks, wanting to reach over to him and afraid of making it worse. The sound of his own voice is making Bucky cringe; touch might be more overwhelming still.

"Honestly?" Bucky asks with a sharp, near-silent laugh. "It feels like something's rearranging my brain."

Bruce glances up sharply from his equipment, blinking his eyes into focus as he straightens. "Actually, your brain might very well be rearranging itself. Healing is a side effect of some transformations. Maybe the neural pathways damaged by Hydra's conditioning are restoring themselves."

Bucky frowns, prodding at his left shoulder with two fingers before dropping his hand in a hurry. "Seems pretty selective if it's not going to heal all of me." The scars must still be there.

"Brain tissue is different from skin and muscle," Bruce explains, his voice low and soothing. "In ordinary humans, it doesn't regenerate the same way a--a cut finger would, for instance. But the brain is also organizing and reorganizing every minute of the day, writing new pathways and erasing others to maintain peak efficiency. If your body's gone into healing mode, the serum you received might have kicked your brain's recovery process into high gear."

"Huh," Bucky says, trying consciously to smooth the scowl from his face though the skin around his eyes is still tight. "You know, I'm pretty sure Hydra wanted me big and scaly. You're saying if I'd ever given in, I might've beaten their conditioning before this?"

Bruce shrugs. "Or you might've been dead. I imagine a dragon's a lot harder to subdue than a man. If you'd broken free of your conditioning at the wrong time, I guess their reaction would have depended on how badly they wanted to keep you."

Sighing morosely, Bucky digs his fingers into his right temple. He still isn't using his left hand more than he strictly needs to even though it looks completely human. It just sits motionless on his knee, the restless twitching of before vanished.

"So, this Herr Schlange," Tony calls back over his shoulder. "What did you say Zola called him again?"

"Uh, the Seven-Headed Serpent," Bucky says with a frown. A second later he's shaking his head, looking foolish. "Oh."

"What?" Steve asks.

Bucky hunches a shoulder. "Schlange," he says. "That's German for 'serpent'."

Steve's not going to ask how or when Bucky picked up the language. Bucky knows Russian too, is conversant in a half-dozen other languages that would make him really damned useful in the field. They only know this because Tony caught him cursing creatively then teamed up with Bruce to engage him in every language they know. Bucky's as surprised by his fluency as Steve is; those languages lurk like a weapon's cache in the back of Bucky's mind, ready to be taken out at a moment's notice but locked away out of sight when they aren't needed.

"The story of 'Die Siebenköpfige Schlange' is a fairytale originally Greek in origin, recorded by Andrew Lang in The Yellow Fairy Book in 1894," JARVIS offers without being prompted. "Considering Herr Schlange's involvement with Hydra, it is almost certainly either a code name or a jest."

"Interesting," Tony says, pulling up holographic representations of a handful of molecules while Bruce mutters to himself. "What’s the national dragon of Germany?"

"Firedrakes are common in most European folklore, as are wyverns, sir. In addition, there is the lindworm: a monstrous serpent with a venomous bite, generally wingless."

"Serpent, huh?" Bucky asks, peeling one eye open as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I dunno about the venomous part, though. It's more like his spit was acid or something."

"Well, good news," Tony says, spinning the molecule he's looking at with a flourish. "Yours definitely isn't. Not seeing any venom sacs on you, either, so you're probably safe to be swapping spit with, if that's a thing you worry about."

On Bucky's other side, Thor shifts in his chair, which creaks warningly under him. "A linnormr's venom is indeed potent; by itself, it would have killed you, not transformed you. Perhaps mixed with other substances--blood and saliva--"

"And combined with whatever version of the super-serum Zola was working with," Tony jumps in, "that could explain why you survived."

Bucky snorts. "Yeah, Schlange wasn't too happy about the serum thing. Said I tasted funny. Like a--" Scowling, Bucky brings both hands up to scrub at his temples, like he can force the right memory to the surface if he tries hard enough. "Like a drache, but why would I taste like a dragon already? He hadn't done anything yet."

"If this Schlange was a linnormr, he wasn't a dragon," Thor corrects Bucky with a shrug. "He was a serpent. Like Jörmungandr, or Nidhöggr."

"Hey, yeah," Bucky says, sitting up straighter. "I remember that one--he said something about Nidhöggr's teeth."

Thor looks perplexed. "That certainly settles his lineage, but you're no serpent. It would be hard to mistake a dragon for anything else."

Blowing out a huge sigh, Bucky slumps again. "Great. So not only am I a monster, I'm a mystery mutant."

"It could be worse," Bruce points out with a wry half-smile. "You could be a giant green rage machine." When Bucky just gives him a perplexed look, Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. "Listen. When you changed, you were still yourself, right? Your thoughts, your feelings?"

"Basically," Bucky mutters. He looks a little cagey about it, but if he thinks they haven't noticed that some of his mannerisms aren't quite human, it's just because he's been too distracted to pick up on it.

"Well, it was pretty clear you weren't out to hurt anyone, which isn't exactly what I'd expect of a fire-breathing lizard trapped in an unfamiliar place."

Bucky snorts. "I was half outta my mind and about to plow through a window before I got distracted by--uh, Steve." Steve sits up straighter. What had Bucky been about to say? "Not sure you can argue I was firing on all cylinders, there."

"Exactly," Bruce says, pleased. "So maybe you didn't look the way you're used to. You chose flight over fight, let Steve here talk you down. Sorry, but you're sort of failing the 'monster' test left and right."

Bucky ducks his head, glancing at his left hand as it curls into a fist. "Nice of you to say, Doc, but it's not that simple. And we still don't even know what I'm supposed to be."

"Could it have been the serum?" Steve asks, turning to Bruce. "I mean, some of the things it fixed in me were genetic defects, not just...you know. The normal things." Bucky shoots him a reproachful look for that, but like Steve, Bucky remembers when scarlet fever was normal.

"I suppose it's remotely possible," Bruce says, "if, uh...dragons and serpents share a common ancestor. But it's more likely that Hydra were experimenting in that direction to begin with. That is, if Hydra found a lindworm in the first place--if they were planning to test what the transformation could do for their soldiers--maybe they were already experimenting in that vein with dragons. No pun intended," he adds sheepishly.

Shaking out his still-normal left hand, Bucky frowns, eyes unfocused. "Zola thought Schlange was a dragon. He seemed pretty surprised when Schlange complained about the way I tasted."

"Huh," Tony says, waving his molecular holograms away at last. "So to sum up, you're ridiculously strong, very hard to kill, and without a metal arm to tie you back to the Winter Soldier, you can basically move around incognito. On the downside...I'm not sure I'm seeing a downside here."

"I turn into a dragon?" Bucky drawls sarcastically.

"Like Bruce said: It could be worse. And anyway, are you serious?" Tony demands, throwing out both arms like a kid about to make airplane noises. "Do you know cool it would be to be able to fly without the suit?"

"And where exactly am I supposed to do that?" Buck growls, flinching as he raises his voice. "Over New York? That's gonna go over well. Look, far as I'm concerned, this is just another crappy mess Hydra's stuck me with that I have to figure out how to control before it controls me, so if you can't help me with that--" Cutting himself off, Bucky tips his eyes down without moving his head, turning both his hands palm-up. The nails of all ten fingers have lengthened into talons, two inches long and needle-sharp at the tips.

Steve tenses, ready to tackle Bucky out of his chair if he tries to hurt himself, but Bucky just shuts down. Completely. It's the Winter Soldier who asks, "May I leave?" as Bucky's claws morph back to evenly-trimmed nails once more.

Steve swallows hard, reaching over to rest his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Sure, Buck," he says quietly. "Why don't we head back to my floor?"

Stark doesn't even make a crack about who owns the tower, and Steve's grateful for it. When he rises Bucky just stands and follows him out, face as blank as it'd been that day on the helicarrier, only this time Steve suspects he won't be doing Bucky any favors by trying to break through.

The next few days are quiet. Bucky spends all of the first in his room, waking from a screaming nightmare around three in the morning. Steve tries to rush in, ask if he's all right, but Bucky rolls out of bed with a thump and slams against the door before Steve can push it open, yelling that he's all right, he's all right, just go back to sleep. There's a growl under his words that shouldn't be there, and Steve debates with himself fiercely before agreeing to let it go.

"You know where to find me," he says, resting his head against the door. "Come wake me up if you need anything, okay?"

"Sure, Steve."

"Anything."

"Go back to bed, punk," Bucky tells him with a shaky laugh, already sounding more like himself.

When Bucky emerges the next day for breakfast, he's calmer but shier, which isn't a word Steve's ever associated with him. Some of the wildness has crept back into his eyes, which Steve finds far more comforting than the Soldier's dead stare, but this time Bucky does his level best to keep his distance. He doesn't lean on Steve or try to breathe in his scent, keeps his hands to himself though he watches Sam like a hawk from the corners of the room.

Sam takes it with good grace and not a little amusement. When Bucky outright growls at him over dinner in the penthouse for passing Steve the salt, Sam raises both hands with a grin. "Relax, Smaug. Do I look like a hobbit to you?"

Bruce nearly spits his tea, and a chortling Tony manages to get out: "My own, my own, my--" before Pepper kicks him under the table. She pats Bucky's arm when he bristles, and he lets her. Steve would like to think of this as progress, but he's trying hard not to be jealous of the fact that Pepper can touch Bucky at all.

Thor just beams at them, happy that his friends are happy. If he gets the reference or what it implies, either he doesn't read anything into it or he doesn't care. Steve's stopped trying to set the record straight; he knows what he is and what Bucky isn't, and if Bucky's strange new instincts are making things confusing, it just means he needs to be respectful of that. If Bucky decides he needs to stake a claim on the one familiar thing he has--if Steve's unchanged scent calms him down--Steve can support him in that without getting the wrong idea. If Bucky will ever let him, that is.

He catches Bucky staring out the windows often in the days that follow, standing with his right hand wrapped around his left arm, rubbing at the scars that circle just above his elbow. Part of Steve wants to ask if Bucky's changed his mind about heading up to the roof, but part of him is terrified of what might happen if the answer is yes. It's not so much that he thinks Bucky's going to throw himself over the edge; he's more afraid that Bucky will jump, won't fall, and won't be coming back.

He tries to touch Bucky just once, after Bruce hesitantly brings the news that they haven't found anything that suggests even the possibility of a cure, not when the serum Bucky was given seems to be half the problem.

"We'll keep looking," Bruce promises, guilty and sympathetic and probably plotting his revenge on Tony for making him be the bearer of bad tidings. Steve appreciates it, though; Tony would already have managed to say exactly the wrong thing five times by now and would have retreated for a week to build Bucky a mechanical arm he doesn't actually need to make up for it.

"Sure, Doc," Bucky says, so understandingly Bruce winces and casts a pleading look at Steve for rescue. Bucky's seen his own file; he knows how thoroughly various organizations have tested him over the years to see just how resilient he is. Neither infection nor disease can touch him, and even poison will only stop him temporarily; a cure is likely to be broken down just as quickly if the culprit is the serum itself. "Thanks for taking the time. Means a lot."

Steve waits until the doors of the elevator close on Bruce before reaching out. His palm skims Bucky's shoulder--the right one, just in case--but Bucky jerks away, whipping around with a harsh breath catching in his throat. Steve pulls his hand back fast, stomach knotting as he realizes the clench of Bucky's fists isn't him spoiling for a fight, pissed and ready to take his disappointment out on Steve. He's wide-eyed and tense, but his fear looks like the panic of a man about to fumble something he barely has a grip on in the first place.

"Sorry," Steve says automatically, wavering between holding his ground and taking a step back. He doesn't want to crowd Bucky, but he doesn't want him to get it into his head that Steve can be chased away, either. "Sorry, Buck. Didn't mean to startle you."

Bucky's eyes have paled to an icy blue, a sure sign that he's about to tip over into a change, but he blinks it away on a long inhale that catches in his throat. The bitten-off sound he makes is frustrated and apologetic, and he drops his head, closing his eyes. They're human again when he opens them. "'S not you," Bucky says with a faint rasp to his voice. "Honest."

"Okay," Steve says, trying on a smile that doesn't feel too strained. "Want me to make some coffee?"

Bucky glances up sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "We still have any of Banner's tea left?" He'd been resistant to the idea at first, had always refused to try the tea Peggy had offered them, but the stuff Bruce drinks is phenomenal. Steve's probably brewing it all wrong, but Bucky hasn't complained.

"I'll go see," he offers, trying not to feel like he's retreating as he heads for the kitchen. Bucky doesn't follow him. Maybe they both need a moment.

Dinner that night is strained. It's just the two of them, everyone else busy or out of town, and Bucky spends most of it pushing his food around with his fork, silent and preoccupied. Steve doesn't say anything when Bucky shakes himself, focuses on his plate for the first time in nearly an hour, and gets up with a guilty look to find the plastic wrap. He tells himself it's a good thing when Bucky heads straight for the floor's private gym, letting Steve out of his sight for the first time in a week for anything but sleep. He misses Bucky before he's even out of sight.

It's tempting to go collapse on the couch, to grab a book or turn on the television and just not think for a while, but he doesn't want to be there when Sam gets back. Sam will take one look at him, realize something's up, and want to talk. Usually he'd welcome it; Sam has an amazing gift for knowing when to push and when to let things lie. It's just that the only person Steve wants to talk to right now is Bucky, and he can't help feeling guilty for not opening up when Sam's been so supportive already. He knows it's ridiculous--he has a pretty good idea what Sam would say to that, in fact--but the feeling's still there.

He goes back to his room instead, picking up one of the tablets Tony leaves scattered around like party favors. "JARVIS?" he asks, looking up at the ceiling out of habit. "Could you recommend a few books?"

"Certainly, Captain. Is there a particular subject you're interested in?"

Fairy tales, he nearly says but shakes his head. "Surprise me."

He thinks at first that JARVIS has opted for Shakespeare--with an error on the title page, no less--but Winter's Tale draws him in painlessly. Begun in an earlier time than his own, there's no unfamiliar technology to trip him up or shake him out of the story, nothing to research or question. He knows from the minute she's introduced that Beverly's part in the tale will be a short one, but he lets himself hope anyway. He'd known his own story would be short, once upon a time, but look how that turned out.

And Peter Lake--cocksure and competent, so very quick to love--reminds him of the man down the hall: Bucky as he once was, and sometimes is still.

He's so caught up in reading that he has to drag his eyes from the screen when the door opens. He almost expects Sam, but there's no knock. Bucky slips in with only the briefest of hesitations, shutting the door behind him as Steve sits up and sets the tablet aside.

"Hey, Buck," he says, suddenly worried. He'd ask if Bucky's had a good workout, but he can tell Bucky hasn't touched a weight or a mat all evening.

Lower lip trapped between his teeth, Bucky stands with his hands in his pockets, brows creased, shoulders rolled inward. "Hey," he says quietly, leaning back against the door. "Listen. About earlier...."

"Hey, it's okay," Steve rushes to head him off, not wanting to hear another apology when Bucky's got nothing at all to be sorry for. "I shouldn't have grabbed you when you couldn't see me. I know you've got a lot on your mind--"

Bucky shakes his head swiftly, eyes dipping towards the floor as his mouth briefly tightens. "It's not that," he says, eyes flicking up to Steve's and catching there. "It's--it's hard to explain," he admits, shoulders tightening up a fraction more. "It really wasn't anything you did, and it's not--look, none of this is...it's not what I turn into that's the problem. It's the fact that I'm never not."

Steve frowns. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Told you it was hard to explain," Bucky mutters, one corner of his mouth jerking up in a strained smile. "You know, when I...fell," he says hesitantly, throat working as Steve goes tense, "when I woke up in the snow, I was still in pretty good shape. Broke half the bones in my body, sure, but it should've been all of them. And I think...right before I hit, it was like--I wasn't scared anymore. I actually felt safe, like if I wanted to, I could just follow the sound of your voice right back up again and onto the train. I think I probably would have changed for the first time right then if I'd just had another hundred feet to work it out.

"And then I hit," he says calmly, "and when I woke up, my arm wasn't mine anymore. And I thought...I dunno, that it was like gangrene or something. Like if I could cut away the bad parts, the rest of me would still be good. I'm not surprised they were able to give me my arm back; I should've been dead ten times over. But what I didn't know was that it was already too late. The thing I wanted to cut out--it's not just in one part of me; it's all through me, even when I can't see it."

"Buck--" Steve says hoarsely, barely knowing where to begin, only certain that there's no part of Bucky that needs to be corrected or removed.

Bucky holds up a hand, face tightening with determination. "No, Steve. Just hear me out. You know why they started wiping me? Because every time I saw what I'd become, I tried to get rid of it. They turned me into the Winter Soldier instead, only that wasn't really what they wanted either. When I forgot what had happened, I stopped attacking myself, but when I was calm, I was totally human. Only they wanted the dragon.

"The thing is...I'm not the Soldier. I don't want to be the Soldier. And that just leaves me with...this. What I am now. And I think I could get a handle on it, but...it's not like being human, Steve," he says, wrapping his hand around the scars on his arm again until his knuckles go white. "It's really, really not."

"How do you mean?" Steve asks, a finger of ice tickling his spine. "Are you--does it hurt?"

"No," Bucky says with a quick headshake, "it's not that. It's just...that part of me doesn't see things the same way, and there's all these instincts, and God, the way things smell. It was already driving me a little crazy back in the war. We'd walk into a camp or a bar, and I'd know exactly who was spoiling for a fight, and I'd want to give them one even if they hadn't said anything, because I could smell it on them. And I was already getting...weird about what I considered mine," he says, a faint flush creeping across his face. "Not things, so much. Mostly just people."

Steve tries not to smile, but that one's a little obvious. "So...not gold then?" he teases gently.

"No. Mostly it seems to manifest itself as a need to be an utter dick to Wilson," Bucky mutters, "but that's nothing new."

"Uh...I think you lost me." Is Bucky saying he's met Sam before? Or does he mean--

Bucky drops his chin to his chest, teeth bared in a humorless smile. "So, when I say 'people,' I really just mean you," he grits out, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "The minute I saw you--the minute I smelled you, back at that base--it just...clicked. It was like some part of me went, 'Oh. There's mine.'" Steve nearly squirms, remembering what Bucky had said back at the hotel and realizing he doesn't mind that casual claim of ownership at all. "It wasn't so bad with the Commandos, because they were just...ours, but Christ, Steve. People would come up to you wanting your autograph, and I'd want to shove them the hell away. I was always this close to snapping at Peggy, and she was the only one worth you."

Steve stares, his heart tripping over itself in his chest. Bucky's talking about instinct, he reminds himself, things Bucky can't control and probably doesn't even want, but if they're spilling secrets, at least Steve can keep things fair.

"Not that I'm worth all that much," he says, stomach in freefall, mouth going dry, "but Peggy wouldn't have been the only one. She wasn't even the first."

Bucky's head snaps up, eyes paling out as he stares. "What? But--you--"

"Both, Buck." He can't quite say it's a relief to have it out in the open, not yet, but there's a kind of giddy terror in saying the words aloud for the first time in his life. No matter what happens next, he can't take them back. "I always liked both. I always liked you. And I know that's not...necessarily what you were talking about, but it's not going to send me running if you--"

"Fuck, Steve, I've been crazy about you since we were kids!" Bucky exclaims, wide-eyed. "But I'm telling you, your scent is driving me crazy, and I'm liable to bite somebody's head off for looking at you funny. Literally!"

He shouldn't laugh when Bucky's this upset, but it's a close thing. He puts on his most reasonable face instead and rises slowly, hoping he doesn't scare Bucky right out the door. "C'mon, Buck. You've been beating the snot out of people for looking at me funny since the day we met. I'm not sure why you think that's going to change."

"Well, it's kind of a matter of degree, Steve!"

"Hey," he says, taking an unhurried step away from the bed. "I trust you. Sam trusts you, and you've been glaring at him for days. You're not going to hurt anyone on accident. And maybe...."

"What?" Bucky demands, watching him warily as Steve closes the distance between them.

Steve grins, cheeky and unrepentant. "Maybe your inner dragon just needs proof of who I belong to."

He watches that idea hit its mark, Bucky's pupils dilating until the icy blue is all but eclipsed. "That is such a bad idea," Bucky breathes, shifting to stand away from the door then catching himself with a jerk. "Seriously, I don't--I could--"

"I trust you," Steve says again, stopping with a bare foot of space between them. He wants to erase the gap, to learn Bucky's taste and what he sounds like when he comes undone, but he's already made his feelings plain. The next step has to be Bucky's.

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky groans, straightening all at once and sliding a hand into Steve's hair. He thinks Bucky's going to kiss him, but Bucky's fingers clench and gently tug, tipping Steve's head back as Bucky nuzzles into his throat. The teeth that scrape lightly over his skin are blunt and human, but there's a sinuous twist to Bucky's tongue that catches him off-guard.

Settling his hands on Bucky's hips, he rolls his head to the side, offering more, and hums appreciatively as Bucky mouths his way up the column of his throat. "God, Buck," he sighs as Bucky's fingers spread to cup the back of his skull, angling his head back down so Bucky can lick into his mouth. Bucky's tongue is narrower than it should be, delicately pointed at the tip, and when it twines with his own with a filthy flick and slide, all he can think about is how it will feel wrapped around his cock.

He goes without a protest when Bucky presses him back, distracted by Bucky's kisses and trying not to stumble. Bucky's free hand pulls Steve's tee free of his pants, sliding under to caress his side. He takes it as an invitation, rucking up Bucky's shirt and tugging it over his head, losing the heat of Bucky's mouth only long enough to strip them both down to their pants. Bucky's skin is furnace-hot, stippled with thin lines of scars across his back and along his ribs, so tantalizingly soft along the blades of his hips Steve's thumbs get caught there, tracing slow circles until Bucky growls. It's a good growl, Steve's pretty sure, a low rumble with the lighter notes of Bucky's own voice threaded through it, hungry and soft.

When he backs into the foot of the bed, Bucky catches him before he can lose his balance, the hand not curled around his nape hooking around his belt. Fingers tighten, and then Bucky's smiling into his mouth, one-handing Steve's buckle and popping the top button of his fly. Steve reaches down to help, freeing the rest of the buttons with an impatient tug, metal slipping through denim on a quiet series of pops. His hands tangle with Bucky's as they push his jeans and his briefs down over his hips, Bucky leaning in to tongue the hollow of his throat while coaxing Steve's pants down over the muscles of his thighs. Steve moves distractedly with him, but he's more focused on stripping Bucky down to naked skin.

With a sinuous roll of his hips that makes Steve wonder just how much serpent made it into the mix, Bucky slithers out of his clothes and pushes Steve onto the bed, tugging Steve's pants the rest of the way off as he hitches himself up toward the pillows. Crawling up onto the bed after him, Bucky tracks him with an unblinking stare that plants a shivery flutter in the pit of Steve's stomach. He can't quite shake the feeling that Bucky may have been trying to tell him something, that it's not just his growing possessiveness that has Bucky spooked. He doesn't think Bucky means to hurt him, but he braces himself for a rough ride regardless.

Slinking even with his knees, Bucky folds himself down further without breaking eye contact, tongue flicking out to circle the prominent curve of Steve's kneecap. Steve's leg jerks as a helpless laugh escapes, but Bucky just pins him down with one hand on his calf, nuzzling gently against the furred skin of his thigh. The next slow lick is followed by a kiss, Bucky's mouth sliding hot and wet along muscles that bunch against the firm hold that keeps him still.

Steve fists one hand in the bedspread, reaching down with the other to touch Bucky's cheek or card his fingers through his hair, anything: he just wants to touch. Instead Bucky releases his leg in favor of capturing his wrist, holding his hand steady while Bucky licks along the backs of his fingers, drops wet kisses along his knuckles, and finally presses his lips against Steve's palm.

"Fuck," Steve breathes out as Bucky laps the salt from his skin, slowly drawing back to wind his tongue around Steve's fingers. When he sucks the first two in, his lashes dip to a lazy half-mast, his cheeks hollowing as the timbre of his growl deepens.

Bucky pulls off his fingers to latch onto his wrist, still-blunt teeth nipping gently at the blue scrawl of his veins. The soft skin of Steve's inner arm has Bucky all but purring, and he rubs his cheek along Steve's forearm to bury his nose in the bend of Steve's elbow. Pausing there to breathe him in, Bucky's tongue flicks out for a taste, tracing the lines of the crease as Steve tries not to thrash, ticklish.

"Jesus, Buck," he groans, "stop teasing already...."

That gets Bucky moving, but it doesn't precisely help. Making his way up to Steve's shoulder, he gets distracted by the line of Steve's collarbone and loses himself briefly in covering every inch of Steve's neck in wet, sucking kisses. By the time he dips his head to lick his way down the muscles of Steve's abdomen, Steve's fingers are shredding holes in the heavy bedspread, his hips nudging up in shallow thrusts, desperate for the slightest bit of contact. He's expecting to be devoured, and that's exactly what Bucky's doing, only instead of being torn apart, he's being savored.

"Please," he begs as Bucky noses along the stiff line of his cock, lips only brushing all the way down. His stubble prickles over sensitive skin, Steve's cock giving a hopeful jump as Bucky nuzzles against the base. "God, Buck, please, just--"

His breath catches as Bucky's tongue wraps around him, twice as long and twice as strong as anything human should be. It sends a shiver rippling through him, focuses all his attention on Bucky's mouth, but the white, even teeth he glimpses as Bucky drags his tongue slowly up his length are as blunt as ever. Steve doesn't know whether Bucky's just being careful or whether it's anger and fear that trigger his strongest changes, and he doesn't care. The thought of sliding in past a ring of sharp teeth only makes him feel reckless, determined to show Bucky how much he's trusted, in any shape.

He tries and fails not to thrust up when Bucky finally takes pity on him, lets Steve sink into the wet heat of his mouth as his tongue traces slick spirals around him. Bucky doesn't even try to stop him, breath hitching the first time, not quite choking, the tilt of his brows going puzzled as Steve masters himself. Waiting for hands to settle on his hips, for Bucky's weight to pin him in place, he groans helplessly as Bucky dips his head and swallows around him, like he wants Steve as deep as he can get him.

Steve's left babbling breathless curses, gripping Bucky's shoulder with one hand as he cautiously rocks up as mindfully as he can. Never still, Bucky's tongue pulls at him when he tries to slow down and give Bucky space to breathe, tries to hold off for just one more minute. "Bucky," he warns when he can't hold back, squeezing Bucky's shoulder briefly before trying to urge him away. "I'm going to--"

Bucky's hands come down on him finally, nailing him in place as Bucky's tongue rings the base of his cock, drawing tight, tighter, as Bucky pulls up slowly.

He's coming before Bucky gets halfway off him, but Bucky's growl is smugly satisfied. The growl makes Steve jerk, hips stuttering as Bucky milks him dry with lips and tongue. It leaves him wrung out and boneless, fading jolts rippling through him as Bucky laps him clean with the fastidiousness of a cat. Bucky doesn't seem surprised when he doesn't soften entirely, just lets Steve go with a final, teasing lick to bury his face in the crease of Steve's thigh.

"Bucky," he manages, and, "you," before he's rolling over as best he can with his hips still pinned to the bed. He can reach the bedside table, at least, and for the first time he thinks Stark has the right idea: when a Stark has a bedroom stocked, it is by God stocked. He finds the lube in record time, watches Bucky's eyes sharpen on it with clear understanding, and feels nothing but hopeful anticipation despite the fact that he has almost no idea what he's doing. He's done a little research, didn't exactly grow up in the most respectable of neighborhoods, but he's never put it into practice. He has no idea how far Bucky's control stretches.

He desperately wants to find out.

"Can we?" he asks, and Bucky nods, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the muscles of Steve's belly. Steve's not sure whether he should prep himself or hand the tube over to Bucky, but Bucky reaching for it decides him. He starts to roll over, thinking Bucky might find it easier if he's on his hands and knees, more in line with Bucky's uncomfortable new instincts.

Bucky drops the tube of slick like it's burned him, grabs Steve fast and pushes him flat, shaking his head. He's shaking all over, shuddering as silver scales wash over his skin and fade just as quickly, eyes darkening to a warm slate blue as he ruthlessly takes back his control. "Not...not a good idea," he rasps out, even as he slides a hand under Steve's left knee to push his leg up and back. It leaves Steve on display, gives Bucky room to kneel, but it also gives Bucky something to hold on to as he's piecing himself back together. "Like this," he says after a moment. "If you want?"

"Hell, yes," Steve shoots back without hesitation. "I want. Been wanting you for ages."

Bucky's half-smile is fond, but his eyes are nervous as he glances down at his hands. "Maybe...maybe you should...." He stops himself by ducking his head, pressing his mouth to Steve's knee. A flush heats his cheeks, and Steve doubts even Bucky knows whether it's from embarrassment or arousal. "I think I need you to open yourself up," he says with another of those unsettlingly direct stares. Coupled with what he's saying, it makes Steve's cock twitch, firming up even more until he's nearly as hard as he was before he came. "If I lost it while I was fingering you...."

"Sure, Buck," Steve says, sure he's pinking up as well. "You gonna watch?" He tries to sound confident, maybe even a little dirty, but Bucky's eyes soften like they can see right through him. Maybe he can smell how self-conscious Steve feels as he goes fishing for the lube, finding it beside his hip.

"Already told you I'm not taking my eyes off you again," Bucky reminds him, deliberately looking Steve over and making no secret of his appreciation.

"At least you've got the deluxe model to look at," Steve tries to joke, thumbing open the tube's cap and slicking up his fingers.

Bucky snorts, stroking his free hand up the leg Steve still has stretched out on the bed, urging him to spread a little wider. "Liked the original model just fine," he admits, ducking his head and sneaking a glance at Steve through his lashes.

"Oh, c'mon. I was skin and bones and attitude," he scoffs, even though he knows Bucky's serious. He's so damn grateful for that, because he's always known that Bucky loves him, but finding out Bucky had only wanted him after the serum would probably crush him. He just needs to keep Bucky talking is all, because if Bucky is glaring him dead in the eye, all stubbornness and determination, he isn't looking as Steve slips a finger into himself.

It still feels new, though he's explored himself a few times before. Never before the war, much less during--curiosity hadn't outweighed the fear of getting caught--but in the privacy of his own apartment once he could pretend to be out from under SHIELD's watchful eye, he'd discovered a few things. He knows how fast he can go, how surprisingly accommodating his body is as he presses in ever-widening circles against his own walls. A second finger slides in easy, but he gives himself away then, stopping Bucky in mid-rant-- "--attitude's half the reason I fell for you in the first place--" --as he rocks his hips up to get a better angle.

Bucky shuts his mouth with a snap, eyes darting down to Steve's ass and arrested by the flex of his wrist. Steve falters, his left hand coming up to catch at the thigh Bucky's already lifted. He crazily wants to hide behind it, because Bucky's still staring, eyes huge and--hungry?

"Fuck, Steve," he breathes, his left hand brushing the bend of Steve's wrist, thumb tracing his knuckles and down the backs of his fingers to circle the rim of his hole. "Keep going."

As embarrassed as he is, he hears nothing but devout approval in Bucky's voice. The first thrust of his fingers is jerky, uncertain, but under Bucky's avid eyes, he finds a rhythm once more. The angle's not perfect--he can't get nearly as deep as he'd like and suspects he needs--but when he arches his hips up again, Bucky pulls his own thumb away with a soft, regretful whine deep in his throat.

"Wait, Buck," Steve says on impulse, deliberately rocking up into the next slick press. "Just...try for me, okay? Put your fingers in me. You're not going to hurt me."

"I--"

"Please--it's fine; I trust you--Christ."

The last hitch of his pelvis is just enough, and as Steve's fingertips graze his prostate, Bucky's resolve crumbles. The struggle plays out in eyes that pale and darken by turns, but the hand that plucks the tube of slick off the bedspread and the fingers that slide in beside and replace his own are completely human.

Bucky knows well enough what he's doing, though it may have been girls who taught him how sensuous a slow and steady touch can be. If he's ever had another man before, it must have been rushed, pleasure grabbed in the moment before a hurried retreat. Steve can tell no one's ever done this before: laid themselves out open and defenseless, let him take his time and look his fill. Steve is so damn glad he gets to be the one to give Bucky this.

Bucky's got him stretched around three fingers when he slides them out, turns his wrist, and strokes back in to nail his prostate unerringly. Spine arching, Steve works himself on Bucky's fingers, hiked-up leg wrapping around Bucky's back for leverage. "God," he moans, "c'mon, just...fuck me, please--"

He knows it's going to happen, but when Bucky pulls his fingers out again, he curses anyway. Bucky laughs, but it's a little shaky, a little tense. "Sure you wanna risk it? I haven't exactly checked, but...Christ, Steve. I could tear you apart." If he changes form, he means, with any part of him inside Steve, and Jesus.

He hadn't known this about himself until just now, but apparently flirting with danger is not just a metaphor where he's concerned.

"More than sure," he says, tightening his leg around Bucky's back to pull him closer still.

He's too contorted already to pick his head up enough to watch as Bucky slicks his cock. The rest of Bucky is human enough, and he realizes with a giddy burst of amusement that he genuinely doesn't care if this one part of Bucky isn't. It's still Bucky. He still tries to guess as blunt pressure nudges up against his hole, but it doesn't feel any different than he'd imagined it might: just heat and hardness, bigger than he expects even after three fingers. Bucky's still going slow, sinking into him with shallow thrusts as he scoops up Steve's other leg and shifts up on his knees. Steve lets himself be folded up, thighs hooked over Bucky's arms, his entire body rocked by each careful thrust.

Bucky goes still when he bottoms out at last, hands curling into the bedspread as Steve reaches up with his clean hand to card his fingers through Bucky's hair. Bucky turns his face into Steve's wrist instantly, half-closing his eyes as he breathes in the scent of Steve's skin, and then he's moving, the roll of his hips smooth and deliberate. Falling into his rhythm is effortless, and when Steve closes his still-slick hand around his own cock, he lets Bucky's thrusts drive him into his fist, the perfect blend of push and pull.

"Fuck," Bucky growls as he speeds his stroke, pounding into Steve with a filthy grind like he's trying to edge himself in deeper. "Fuck, Steve, I can't--God, you feel good--"

"It's okay," Steve babbles, tightening his grip on his cock, "it's okay, just don't stop."

"May not be able to," Bucky warns with a breathless laugh. "May have to fill you up and keep going, until we both forget our names." Steve groans wordlessly, loving that idea, until Bucky distracts him with a smile, unexpectedly sweet. "'Course, the way you say mine lately, I'm not likely to forget it in a hurry."

"Buck," he hums obligingly, tightening the hand that's been clinging to the back of Bucky's neck, just in case he needs to ground himself in Steve's scent again.

"That's it," Bucky murmurs as Steve goes breathless, legs tightening until Bucky's just rocking against him, barely pulling out at all. "That's it, come on...."

Watching him come must do it for Bucky, because Steve's barely starting to come down when Bucky's stroke goes erratic, hips snapping on tiny thrusts as he goes in deep and stays there. Just on the edge of being too sensitive, Steve tightens around him and grins at Bucky's garbled curses, riding it out until Bucky relaxes with a shudder. Bucky's still mostly hard--another trait they apparently share--but he pulls out carefully, stretching out beside and half on top of Steve like all he really wants right now is the closeness.

When Bucky pushes his face under Steve's chin like a determined cat, Steve just wraps his arms around broad shoulders, smooth and scarred, and pulls him in.

Steve's cautious at first when his hands itch to go wandering, contenting himself with combing through Bucky's hair, kneading at the back of his neck and stroking mindful fingers down his spine, avoiding the worst of the scars. Bucky doesn't seem to mind the petting, even when Steve gets too close to his left side, and he finally gives into temptation.

He doesn't have any scars of his own, not to speak of--nothing like Bucky's--so he doesn't expect the gentle pressure he uses as he ghosts his fingertips over proud flesh to make Bucky flinch. "Not so light," Bucky mumbles into his neck, relaxing again as Steve presses his entire palm flat against Bucky's shoulder. "Sorry. The nerves are all fucked up in there. If you touch it too lightly, it...I dunno, itches or something. Just feels weird, is all."

"I'm surprised you can feel anything," Steve muses, careful to keep his touch deliberate when he moves his hand again. An odd thought strikes him as Bucky shrugs, the muscles of his bicep sliding under Steve's fingers. "Hey, Buck? I thought...your left arm seemed stronger. Before. Was that your armor?"

He feels Buck frown against his throat, but when Bucky half sits up, his expression is thoughtful. "I...it shouldn't have been? I mean, having the armor was nice; I didn't have to worry about breaking that hand so much. But it was just regular armor."

"Huh. So why did you think you needed maintenance when you first showed up?" he asks, hoping he won't trigger anything with the memory. Bucky and his mind seems to have come to an uneasy truce: it saves up all this worst memories to dole out while he's sleeping, leaving him free to deal with nothing but his shaky humanity while he's awake.

Bucky glances at his left arm with a frown. "Well...at first they were just adjusting the armor, I guess. Adding more plates as the change spread up my arm. I mean, I thought they were doing upgrades on a prosthesis, but that's what they wanted me to think. I'm pretty sure they didn't start freezing me until after they added the shoulder plate, but after that...."

Steve's not expecting Bucky to break into a laugh, however wry. "What?"

"Uh...I think most of the 'maintenance' they did after that was clipping my claws," Bucky says, snickering helplessly. "They kept growing under there, or trying to, only there wasn't room. Used to drive me nuts."

"So," Steve says solemnly. "You're saying that the finest minds in Hydra...."

"Were reduced to dragon groomers," Bucky finishes with a chuckle. "That's about right!"

Steve's glad they can laugh about it, that Bucky sounds more at peace with what he's become. He considers hinting to Tony that new armor might come in handy, but he's not sure how Bucky would feel about that, and he isn't sure he wants anyone to spot Bucky in it in case the resemblance becomes too difficult to explain away. He's glad the red star is gone from Bucky's shoulder, at least. That they'd branded Bucky with something he never would have approved of just adds insult to injury.

Stroking Bucky's bicep, right in the middle of his arm, Steve suddenly finds himself smiling under an attack of nostalgia. "Kind of seems like fate, doesn't it?" he asks, shrugging at Bucky's puzzled look. "Remember the wing?"

"Wing?" Bucky asks, shaking his head.

"The SSR insignia. The Commandos all wore it: a silver wing. I kind of miss seeing that," he admits, rubbing a fingertip over Bucky's scarred skin until he stops himself, not knowing what that feels like to Bucky. "Maybe I'll get that put on the arms of my uniform too. It'll remind me of you."

Bucky barks a laugh, but his eyes are soft. "Pretty sure the knight's supposed to wear his lady's token into battle, not the dragon's."

"But I prefer the dragon," Steve insists cheekily.

"Sap."

"Guilty as charged," Steve agrees, leaning up to catch Bucky's mouth in a kiss.

It must be obvious how they spend the evening--and Steve hopes 'obvious' and not 'audible' is the word he's looking for, or he's going to be mortified--because Sam takes one look at him over the breakfast table on their floor and breaks into a grin. "About time," is all he says at first, grinning at Bucky's smug growl.

It isn't until they hit the gym and Bucky gets distracted by the weights that Sam's look turns serious.

"Look," Sam says in a sober undertone, "I honestly want no details, all right? But I gotta ask...you're okay, right? I mean, we've all seen the way he runs on instinct sometimes, so...if there's anything you need to talk about...."

"Oh," Steve says, blushing a little as he finally gets what Sam's trying to ask. "Uh, no, it's--it's fine. Um, dragons. Really appreciative of treasure," he manages to get out by not meeting Sam's eyes at all.

"Huh," Sam says, looking just as studiously away...and breaking into a laugh. "Well, go you."

Bucky watches them from across the room, and maybe he's growling at Sam even now, but Steve doesn't care. He knows he's the center of Bucky's world, and that Bucky's strange new instincts aren't the culprit; they're the excuse. It's always been this way.

And it may not be a fairy tale ending, but he wouldn't change a single thing.