Chapter Text
Then
Steve’s in a closet. His heart’s jackhammering out of his sternum inch by inch, tears are streaming from his eyes and his bloody knuckles are smearing sticky, wet blood on the floor. He’s trembling. God, he’s never been so scared. Fear grips at his heart with clawed fingers, teasingly digging into the flesh until he’s left gasping.
Footsteps. He stops breathing. His heart’s beating so loudly that he’s sure whoever’s in the room can hear it. He’s done. He’s done for! He closes his eyes, still trembling as the person walks into the room. Don’t make a move, don’t make a move, don’t make a move. He can see the outline of the person through a tiny sliver between the closet’s sliding door and threshold. There’s a man with a bunny mask on. The bunny is colored up like a zebra and there’s a splash of blood across the face. Steve swallows. That’s one of his friends’ blood. He’s heard some of their screams. He’s such a coward, hiding in a closet when his friends are being hurt. Getting killed.
Sharon was shrilling. He hasn’t heard her scream in a long time. He fears— he fears she may be gone. He doesn’t know why these people are here, what him and his friends did to deserve this, or how even this group of psychopaths even found the lake house. They’re here now.
Steve had heard the muffled screams as Harry was drowned in the water. He’d heard the squishy sounds of organs spilling to the ground before they pushed Harry’s face beneath the surface. That’s when Steve lost it. That’s when he decided to hide in a closet. He’d tried to be brave up to then. It wasn’t like he was going to stay hidden forever. He just needed a plan. Once he had a plan to save his friends, he’d come out swinging and take them all down. He’s never won a fight before. That thought tugs on his heart and he bites the inside of his cheek.
God, God help us. Please God help…please…
“What’re you doing?” a woman’s voice asks. Steve’s eyes widen, but he remains still, staring at the shadow that’s lingering in the room.
“There’s a fourth one,” the male says. His voice is gruff, like he smokes at least two packs of cigarettes a day. “A blond.”
“Female?”
Steve winces.
“Male.”
Steve’s shoulders slump. He barely knocks into a hanging shirt and has to bite his tongue so hard he tastes blood. If he screams, it’s all over. He can’t take two of them on at the same time. He’s not even sure he can take any of them on. The zebra-bunny mask guy is big. The girl is fucking batshit insane. Steve saw the way she’d pulled Harry’s intestines out and wrapped them around his neck as they held his head under the water. Steve’s not sure if he died from the water or the wound. He hopes Harry didn’t suffer. None of these people deserve to suffer— except the psychopaths. Steve’s too scared to come out from his hiding spot to even try right now though. He never thought he’d be this scared. These people are murderers. Steve’s never met psychopathic murderers before. He’s picked many fights but he never thought he’d leave one dead.
He sucks in the tiniest breath. He barely feels like he’s even breathing. God, his heart’s so loud! How are they not hearing it? It’s pounding in his ear like a gong and it’s only getting worse. He’s exhausted. He wants to lie down and sleep. If he can’t save his friends, maybe death won’t be so bad. He’ll at least get to sleep.
“If one’s loose, then why’re you just standing there in the middle of the room?” the female asks.
Bunny-mask turns to her, and Steve’s pretty sure he’s scoffing. “I’m lookin’ around.”
“The closet. They always hide in the closet.”
Steve starts shaking violently, whimpers escaping his throat before he even has a chance to catch them. They can hear him and they know.
The female pulls open the closet, smiling sinisterly at him. She’s not wearing a mask. She’d be beautiful except for the murder and torture bits— blood red hair and green eyes. “Well hello there pretty boy.”
Steve swallows, his chest heaving. He tries to shrink back into the closet but his shoulders are so broad that he just knocks a pair of shoes down.
“You’re so pretty,” she croons. She crouches down, reaching a hand out like she’s calling a cat to her. “C’mere— I’ll be gentle with that pretty face.”
“Nat,” the bunny-mask says. He shoves the mask up and Steve sees a web of thick scarring on the side of his face. “Don’t lie to ‘im.”
Nat smiles. “Oh— he’s gonna wanna see you. You’re so damn pretty.”
Now
Steve stares at himself in the mirror. It’s always sort of a strange feeling, staring at a person he didn’t initially know growing up. He knew, deep down, he knew. But he didn’t know this is what he’d become. He tried to shake it off, make the feelings go away or pretend he was just like any other kid trying to figure out who they were. He turns sideways, staring at his chest. He’s not flat— muscle clings to his body in ways he’d never expected. He didn’t expect his treatment would do this. He's not upset about it though. He likes the body he has now. But he always finds himself staring, like he's waiting for something to backfire...
“Stop that,” a voice says.
He turns and sees Bucky at the doorway. The man’s clinging to the threshold like a child clings to a parent. His head’s hung low and his eyes are heavy with dark bags.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Steve asks.
Bucky shrugs. “Get away from the mirror, Steve.”
Steve frowns. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Bucky bites his lip. He kicks at the door frame lightly and Steve’s anger goes away. He knows Bucky’s only trying to help. Bucky’s never been the most tactful. His words are as sharp as the knife he keeps in his back pocket, but they’re laced with good intentions. He’s learning and most importantly, he knows and it doesn’t bother him at all. In some kind of fucked up way, Steve’s glad it all happened. He’s glad he met Bucky on that terrible night.
“I made dinner.” Bucky’s voice is so quiet that Steve has to strain to listen. “If you want it.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Steve looks back at the mirror again, looking at his jawline, the light glinting off the stubble on his face. He still can’t really grow a beard, but it’s nice to see the little hairs at least trying.
“Steve,” Bucky says, slipping into their cramped bathroom. He snakes his hands around Steve’s waist and presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “You’re beautiful.”
Steve smiles, dropping his head to Bucky’s shoulder. He likes when Bucky gets like this. Bucky’s not the most affectionate person. Sometimes it’s hard for him to speak or behave— well— like normal. But Bucky’s always been good at telling Steve he’s worth existing. Somehow through everything Steve’s been through, Bucky thought he was worth saving. Steve wouldn’t be here to reminisce if Bucky didn’t think he was worth something.
“Eat with me?” Steve asks. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
Bucky chews his bottom lip. “M’fine.”
“Please, Buck?” Steve cups Bucky’s face. “Just a nibble on somethin’.”
Bucky sighs. He pulls away, scratching at the stubble that grows with ease on his face. Bucky can grow a beard. Steve doesn’t exactly like him sporting one though, so it’s usually kept to the perpetual five o’clock shadow look that Bucky can’t remove to save his life. It feels good between Steve’s thighs and Bucky likes pleasing Steve.
“Kitchen?” Steve grabs Bucky’s hand, gently tugging him away from the bathroom and down the dark hallway. He motions for Bucky to sit at one of their mismatched wooden chairs and then goes to get the plates. Bucky made noodles in olive oil, chopped up zucchini, cherry tomatoes (yum) and—
“Buck?”
Bucky turns around, watching.
“What’s this?” Steve stabs at the purpling meat and shows it off.
Bucky shrinks back. “You need protein. Guys your size gotta eat it.”
“What— is it?” Steve feels a tiny little tug at the back of his neck. It’s that shadow that lingers behind him, the one he carries every day. It’s full of guilt for the lives he couldn’t save. It’s always growing as more and more lives slip from this world at the hands of the people he now calls friends. It’s funny, in that cringeworthy way— they certainly didn’t start out as friends, more like predator and prey.
There’s a knock at the door. Steve clicks his tongue and sets the mystery meat down. “We’re not done.” He points at Bucky accusingly before moving to the front room. He opens the door a crack, seeing a shock of red hair under the harsh yellow porchlight.
“Hey pretty boy,” Natasha says. She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “You’re gettin’ big.”
“I’m working out.”
She growls approvingly, raking her gaze over him like a hungry lion. “You comin’ out tonight?”
Steve steps back, shaking his head. “You went out last night too.”
She nods, crossing into the house and slipping her shoes off. It’s not like they really need to take their shoes off. The floors are all scuffed up, the hardwood’s splintered in some spots and the tile in the kitchen and bathroom is disgusting. They need to move. Steve’s embarrassed by this place. It’s time he moves anyway. There’s too many memories here that he doesn’t like. He feared Bucky once— even thought Bucky would be the one to kill him. There were many nights he’d spent locked in what became their bedroom because he refused food or drink from Bucky. There were many nights Bucky stayed with him, watching to make sure Steve didn’t bite off his own tongue (he’d tried once). They needed to move out of this shack. Too many memories Steve didn’t want anymore.
He likes the newer memories– the ones where Bucky plays old jazz music and swings Steve around the living room, or the ones where they’re so filthy from gardening all day that they both shove each other into the broken shower and take turns kissing each other’s shoulders and neck. He likes those memories in this house. He doesn’t like the start, but he loves the end. But it's time to move on. Steve needs to put that whole— beginning— behind him.
“Steve?” Nat asks, waving a hand in front of his face. “You still in there, pretty boy?”
“Bucky made dinner.” Steve starts walking back toward the kitchen with its mint green fridge and the black and white tiles. The house is so 50s it’s a surprise Frank Sinatra isn’t storming in. “C’mon.”
When Natasha moves, she moves like the huntress she’s known to be. Her thighs guide her along and her spine sways with each step. She bobs her head from side-to-side and that just ties up the whole prowl into a neat little display of brutality and finesse. Steve’s turned on and terrified.
“Bucky was just about to tell me what this meat is.” Steve points to the purple meat atop the pasta.
“Oh— that’s liver.” Natasha grabs a plate and starts serving herself. “Tasty, tasty.”
Steve’s heart sinks. “Whose liver, Buck?”
Bucky shrinks in the chair, pouting. He’s a terrible liar and Steve knows that Bucky wants to be good— at least for Steve. He’s always so ashamed when he messes up. It’s okay to mess up. Steve’s not perfect. He’s hidden away in closets when he should’ve been fighting for his friends’ lives, he lets his boyfriend continue on killing people because it makes him happy. Steve’s far from perfect. He just doesn’t know how to articulate that to Bucky. There’s such an innocence— or maybe it’s a void— in Bucky. It gives him the illusion of appearing innocent when he’s anything but. Steve likes it when Bucky comes home from a killing. He’s always so alive. Almost like he was normal… So Steve lets Bucky keep killing so Bucky can come home and be alive.
“Probably someone from last night.” Natasha shrugs, taking a bite. “It’s fresh, who cares.”
“I don’t eat people.”
Natasha snorts.
Steve turns to Bucky with disappointment written across his face. He wants to explain why it’s wrong, but then he’d have to explain why it’s all wrong. Killing’s wrong and Steve lets Bucky do it because Steve likes it when Bucky’s a normal person. Steve lets Bucky stalk people to decide who he wants to kill because it makes Bucky horny as fuck and Steve loves it when Bucky takes over in the bedroom. Steve does a lot of things that’re wrong. He can’t explain to Bucky one part without saying every part is wrong. So he condones all of it.
“We didn’t have the money and you need the protein— so I just,” Bucky pauses, wincing. “M’sorry, Stevie.”
“Don’t call me that.” Steve turns, angry for an entirely different reason and retreats to the bedroom. He falls onto the rumpled blankets and stares out the window. It’s got bars on the outside. Another reason he wants to move. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s in prison anymore. He heaves a sigh, knowing full well he was over-sensitive. Bucky’s never ventured into nickname territory before and Steve’s never felt a reason to explain why Stevie upsets him. It’s not Bucky’s fault and yet Steve can’t stop the feeling of someone tearing at his heart. He looks at his arms, seeing the long strands of hair. He dips his hand under his shirt, letting the pads of his fingers slip over a fuzzy tummy and a fuzzy chest. He’s a man. He’s a man. He’s always been a man. It doesn’t matter what he started out looking like. This is who he is. A stupid nickname isn’t going to change that.
And yet Steve can’t stop the anger that festers like an infected wound.
Then
Steve’s dragged in front of two other people. He’s staring up at them with all the hatred he can muster despite the terror that’s berating him inside. His limbs are shaking, but it’s not even from the fear anymore. He’s pissed. He’s pissed at himself for being so helpless and he’s pissed at them for hurting his friends. Sharon’s on one of the chairs. She’s got blood all over and there’s a huge welt on her lip. She’s crying silently, but she’s still trying to pull her hands free from their bonds. It’s useless. They used zip-ties.
The two others are also wearing masks. One’s an insane duck with sharp teeth and the other is a potato sack with a face on it with X’s for eyes. Steve hates the masks. He hates the games that these people have been playing for most of the night. It’d started with knocks on the door and no one there. Then came the knocks on the windows followed by the screaming outside. Then the lights flickered and a terrible song came on. Everything just went wrong and Steve had never been so terrified. But that fear is starting to morph into putrid, vehement anger that’s radiating off Steve like steam. Good, he thinks, at least he’ll go down fighting.
The duck-mask one steps forward and Steve decides he’s had enough. He lunges forward, tossing the bunny-mask guy over his back and into Duck-mask guy. Creepy potato sack pulls out a knife but Steve grabs a chair and bashes it into the man’s stomach. He hears the chair crack. He doesn’t think about what’s happening. He doesn’t even register the knife is so close that its cool bite is against his throat. As the blade sinks against the skin, he shoves the chair into his attacker and one of the pegs goes into his stomach. The guy howls and drops the blade.
Steve feels someone jump on his back. She’s screaming and pulling at his face and getting her fingernails into his nose and trying to claw out his eyes. She scratches deep and manages to get her fingers under one eyelid before Steve’s backed her up into a wall and yanks her hair so hard that she tumbles over and off him.
Three people stand ready to attack him. His friends are all watching— well the ones still alive. Harry is floating in the lake. Sharon’s screaming at Steve to run. Erik’s lost too much blood to do anything but give a small smile and Phil’s trying to find a way to get out of the zip-ties.
“You’re gonna die so slowly for that!” the redhead screams. Her eyes are lit with an animalistic desperation, a terror that Steve’s never seen again since this very night. “I’m gonna flay you alive and feed your cock to you!”
Despite the danger presented, Steve starts laughing. He didn’t mean to find it funny, in fact, the situation is dire and he’s still rather afraid of what’s going to happen but this woman isn’t in on the joke and her face is amusing enough so Steve keeps laughing. It’s the irony of her words and Steve just can’t stop laughing.
“Hey,” the bunny-mask guy says. “Jack’s losin’ a lot of blood.”
“Oh fuck him, Brock!” the redhead says. Her voice is two shades away from crazy. Steve should be caring about what’s happening before him. He’s surrounded by psycho murderers and he’s laughing. But her words. Her words are so laughable because it’s an impossibility that she believes true and it’s funny to him. “This little shit thinks he’s somethin’!”
“Wait!” the creepy duck one says. He pulls off his mask and Steve stops laughing. He’s beautiful— shaggy brown hair, bright large eyes and beautifully crafted lips. Steve wants to draw him. “You said you wanted to show me him.”
“Here he is! Now I’m gonna kill him!” the redhead lunges at Steve but duck-mask pulls her back.
“Hey! Stop it! Nat! Stop!” Duck-mask grabs at redhead’s tiny throat and pulls her back against his front. They’re both breathing heavily and Steve stops to appreciate how beautiful they both are. He’d never thought murderers could be so pretty. He sees a glint of something silver on Duck-mask’s left arm but it’s quickly forgotten.
Steve looks to his friends. He’s not sure he could save a single one of them, but he could at least try. In a moment of sheer stupidity, he moves to Phil and realizes a moment too late that he has nothing to cut the zip-tie with.
“You’re an idiot,” Nat says. He’s slowly learning they have names. “You’re just a big dumb oaf and I’m gonna love splitting you open cock-first!”
Steve looks to the door, weighing his chances. He’d be dead before he even took a step. Brock, the bunny-mask one, is stalking around him like a crocodile, all sinister smiles and glinting eyes. His face is so ugly with all that twisted up scarring that Steve actually starts to remember he’s scared shitless. The one Steve managed to stab is on the couch and groaning. Duck-mask and Nat are watching him. Duck-mask seems to be the one in charge, and he’s staring at Steve with wonder— not anger.
Steve swallows. “Don’t hurt us. Please.” He hates himself for how shaky his voice is. He can’t save his friends, so he resorts to begging. Maybe it’ll buy some time. Someone’ll come and save them. A hollow feeling chills Steve’s core. No one will save them.
Nat snorts. Brock barks out a laugh.
“Too late for that, pal,” Duck-mask says. “You’ve seen our faces.”
“We won’t tell anyone!” Sharon exclaims. She rocks back in the chair, sobbing. “Please don’t do this! Please, please!”
“Shut up you dumb bitch!” Nat says. She moves over with speed and an alarming amount of grace to backhand Sharon. “You’re all gonna watch your pretty blond friend suffer and then I’ll end you myself, bimbo.”
Sharon bursts out into tears.
“I-its gonna be okay, Shar,” Steve says. He’s lying. He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to do now. He’s facing off with three murderers and one is mad as a hatter. He looks to the duck-mask one again. “I’m Steve.” He read in a book that sometimes you can talk a shooter down from killing if you flesh out your life to them. He wonders if that’ll be the case with psychopathic murderers too. “I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m still in college. I’ve got asthma and—”
“Do you think we care?” Nat asks. She stalks up to him, putting a knife to his temple. “I could slip this into your skull before you even move.”
“Nat,” Duck-mask says. “Put it down.”
“Bucky!”
“I said put it down!”
She backs up, sneering. “He’ll kill you nice n’ slow.”
Steve wipes at his eyes. He didn’t even know he was crying, but the evidence is shimmering up at him. Erik’s completely passed out now and Phil’s managed to cut himself deeply with the zip-tie. They’re all goners.
“Steve, huh?” Duck-mask says, “I’m Bucky.”
Now
Bucky creeps into their room at quarter to four AM. He’s tip-toeing around like Steve’s made of glass and could shatter from any vibration. Steve’s pissed off and thankful all at the same time. He likes when Bucky tries to be good. He also hates when Bucky fears him.
“Hey,” Steve says, turning over. “Good night?” He can’t see Bucky too well in the dark, but what he does see is splotches of dark on otherwise luminescent skin. Steve’s sure it’s blood.
“Tryin’ to find clothes. Didn’t know— didn’t know you were awake.” He shrinks backwards for the door.
“Bucky wait!” Steve sits up. Sometimes it’s hard to just get the words out. They cling to Steve’s throat, wanting to be said but he can’t force them to move onward. “I’m not— I didn’t—”
“S’okay, Steve. I won’t do it again.”
“Do what again?” He frowns.
“Say that name.” Bucky puts his duck mask down and heads back into the darkness of the hallway. Steve can hear the floorboards creak and moan beneath his weight.
Closing his eyes, Steve pulls himself out of bed and wanders over to the bathroom. There’s a little light on that creeps through the cracks. It’s the only light in the darkness of the tiny house. Steve’s pretty sure this used to be a fisherman’s home. They live in the small town of Mystic, Connecticut. Steve had moved out here during the summer to be closer to some of his friends. He’d planned on finishing his degree from NYU online but then— everything happened. Sometimes he can smell the saltwater when it’s breezy outside. It’s not like he hates the location. It’s a nice shack pushed up against a rocky hill that tumbles into the ocean. He just hates the house. It’s isolated. Steve doesn’t want to be isolated anymore.
He knocks on the bathroom door, waiting. Bucky doesn’t respond. That doesn’t discourage Steve though. Sometimes Bucky just can’t bring himself to talk. He slips into the bathroom and fidgets his toes atop the grimy tile. They should clean.
Bucky’s sitting on the toilet with his hair covering his face. He’s got his shirt and prosthesis off, and Steve can see raised lines and cuts in his arm. Prosthesis. Steve would never have imagined in a million years that a— man like Bucky— could do what he can. The cuts in Bucky’s arm distract Steve once more. Someone had been clawing at him. That shadow that Steve carries around gets heavier on his shoulders. It pushes him to his knees. He puts his hands on Bucky’s thighs, looking up.
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“Hey,” Steve says softly. He waits for any sign that Bucky’s in the mood or not. Not that that’s ever stopped Steve from speaking his mind. “I’m not angry anymore.”
“…Promise?” Bucky’s voice is so vulnerable that it makes Steve shiver. How can a man be so confident when he wields a knife against someone’s skin, and then so damaged once it’s all over?
“I promise.” Steve takes Bucky’s blood-stained hand and kisses the knuckle. “Wanna take a shower with me?”
Bucky’s eyes snap open. He jerks his hand back and stares in disbelief. Steve just cringes, shame pouring over him. “Steve— you don’t— I don’t need—”
“I don’t mind if it’s you, Bucky. You’re honestly the only person in the—” Steve pauses, contemplating his words. “You’re the only person that looks at me like I’m not— broken. My ma tries but— well it’s hard for her. I get that.”
“Sam?” Bucky asks. He takes Steve’s hands and starts tracing the veins. Steve used to think it was cute until Bucky tried to see if he could use his fingernails to slice into them. Steve didn’t talk to Bucky for a week after that. Still, he trusts Bucky and he knows Bucky wants to please him. He doesn’t think Bucky’ll ever pull a stunt like that on Steve again— at least without Steve’s permission. It’s not entirely unheard of for Steve to be okay with a little blood play. It gets Bucky so excited, and Steve loves seeing him come to life.
“Sam’s not my boyfriend. I guess I’m puttin’ him in a different category. He’s known me from day one. Okay, you’re one of two people.” He laughs, tucking a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “But you’re the prettiest one.”
Bucky blushes, looking away. “Steve— you still don’t have to.”
“Do you say that because you think you’re protecting me or because you want to be alone?” Bucky’s hard to read. He piles layers of protection around himself and his words. Sometimes what he’s saying is the exact opposite of what he wants to have happen. Steve’s been working out how to crack that code since the night they met. He’s still not that good, but he’s gotten better.
“I’m in a bad mood.”
Steve sits on the tile, his long legs on either side of the toilet. He really wants that shower now. This place is filthy. “Talk to me, baby.”
Bucky straightens up, saying, “Stupid bitch almost fucked it all up.” He shows off his arm stump. It’s bitten and full of scratch marks. “She pulled my prosthesis off and hit me with it.”
“She dead now?” Steve never thought he could get used to conversations like this, but here he is now.
“After I splayed her open.” Bucky smiles, full and alive and it’s the most gorgeous thing Steve’s ever seen despite the splotches of drying blood and sweat on his face. “She was so beautiful. Like a butterfly. I hung her on the wall for someone to find.”
Steve stares at one of his legs. They’d initially bonded over their appreciation of art. Bucky brought crayons and paper for Steve and was surprised to see Steve had created something beautiful out of it. They’d started talking like friends that day.
“Do you really— do you really wanna be in the shower with me?”
Steve looks up, nodding.
Bucky tries to smile, but it’s strained. Steve’s used to those tight-lipped attempts at false happiness. “Sometimes I look at’chu and— and I don’t even get it. You stayin’ with me.”
Steve shrugs. “Awful people tend to like awful people.”
“But you’re not awful.”
Steve stands up, looking at the mirror. He never sleeps without a shirt and at least his briefs. Tonight he’s sporting blue boxers that cling to his thick thighs. How did he get so big? He knows he worked for years on it, but when did it really happen?
“We can turn the lights out.”
Steve smirks. Bucky knows him well enough that he won’t continue the previous conversation and that Steve doesn’t want to see himself naked. He leans closer to the door and flicks off the light. There’s a window in the shower. Steve thinks it’s entirely impractical but since there’s nothing around them except woods and water, he’s sure the original builder of the house didn’t care. Moonlight spills into the room with its silver hues, making everything look wet and shiny.
Steve can see Bucky’s prosthesis on the floor, castaway. His face sours. He’s always known Bucky harbors disdain for what happened to him— whatever that was. Bucky still won’t tell him.
They undress silently. Steve takes in a deep breath and tugs his boxers down. He keeps his legs clamped shut and scuffles awkwardly into the shower. The spray of water gurgles out the old pipes and it’s a shock of cold that tenses each muscle in Steve’s body. It warms after a few painful minutes and then Bucky slips behind him. Warm and wrapping his arm around Steve’s middle.
They sway under the shower, nothing but moonlight to guide them. Steve’s thankful for the window. It’s a dingy shower in an old tub inside an even older shack, but it’s theirs. He cups Bucky’s hand with his, leaning back.
“I love you,” Steve whispers. “You know that, right?”
Bucky hums. It’s his way of saying yes when he can’t bring himself to work over the words. Steve’s never minded it— he often feels the same way. Sometimes words just don’t work or they outright refuse to. They speak in other ways.
“Your hand’s all slimy,” Steve says as he flicks one of Bucky’s knuckles.
“Blood.”
“I know.” Steve grabs the soap and starts to lather up a loofa. He brings it to Bucky’s hand and starts working at the skin and blood. “Other than that girl, was it a good night?”
“I never felt right leavin’ you.” Bucky presses a kiss to the nape of Steve’s neck. “I hate it when we fight.”
“We weren’t fighting.” Steve brings the loofa over Bucky’s forearm now, watching the bubbles turn blue in the moonlight. “It was just a stupid misunderstanding.”
“Who called you that?” Bucky asks. It knocks the wind out of Steve. “Are they alive? You know I’d kill ‘em for you.”
“I-I know.” Steve’s heart’s found its way into his throat. He coughs to choke it back down. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Someone hurt you, Steve. You’re a good guy, they gotta be real bad to make you hate ‘em.”
“I don’t hate anyone, Bucky.”
“Then why you gettin’ pissed?”
“Bucky!” Steve shouts, turning around. He accidently knocks Bucky back into the shower tile. “Oh… fuck… Bucky m’sorry—” He reaches out but Bucky smacks his hand away. Steve just stands there like the idiot he is. Always been too wrong. Too tall too skinny too curvy too weird.
“I can get up myself.” Bucky grabs the tub’s side and hauls himself to a sitting position. He brings his knees in and wraps his arm around them. “But I don’t wanna.”
Steve hesitantly goes to his knees. The shower feels cooler down here. He doesn’t like it so he turns up the heat.
“I know I—” Bucky’s on the verge of tears. “I know I do wrong things. I know I mess up. I just wanna be good for you.” He drops his head, hiding his face. “I just wanna make you happy.”
“You do make me happy.”
Bucky shakes his head. “You don’t really smile.”
Steve looks away. “You don’t either.”
“I’m not right. That’s why. But you— you’re right as n’angel. God, when I first saw you, Steve. I knew we couldn’t hurt’chu.”
Steve feels his heart sink. “I’m not right either, Bucky. I never have been.”
They don’t talk anymore. That’s one of their problems. They’ll dance around conversations that need to be had but when they finally try, one of them chickens out. They’ve been skirting around this one for weeks now. Steve thinks at the rate they’re going that they’ll finally hash it all out by Christmas in two years. If they make it that long. Steve’s not really sure how long Bucky can keep slaughtering people in Mystic before there’s no one left, or the police finally catch him and his friends. The newspapers have been hesitant to admit it’s a group of killers but the town knows better. Silent Soldiers, they’re called. Each of them have a personal calling card and it’s all too different to be a single person. Nat always leaves a dead black widow in her victim’s mouth, Brock makes sure to burn someone’s face like his and Bucky always creates beautiful imagery out of body horror and blood. Jack’s a bit tamer with his. He shoots them in the back of the head once he’s done torturing them.
“S’cold,” Bucky whispers.
Steve looks up and notices the moon’s higher in the sky, blocked by clouds. The room’s almost pitch black. He’s not sure if they’ve sat here for five minutes or an hour. He assumes by the cool water spray that it’s been closer to an hour.
“I’m not happy,” Steve finally says. “But it’s fixable.”
Bucky turns the water off and gets out of the shower. He wraps himself in a towel and then offers one to Steve. “How?”
“We move,” Steve says. “Closer to my friends? I want you to meet ‘em.”
Bucky hisses. He takes the towel and starts scrubbing over his head. Steve waits, pressing his lips together for something to do. He knows Bucky hates people. He’s downright afraid of them when he’s not the one in control. But Steve wants normalcy again. He wants to feel less like a shell and more like a human. Being around Brock, Jack and Nat all the time is damaging for his psyche. All he thinks about is blood, bone and horrible ways to torture bodies. He’s even done some sketches for it. Nat’s of course treasures them and they’re all in frames around her little apartment above one of the coffee shops in town. He’s officially an accessory to murder because of those sketches. Bucky started asking Steve to get creative and they actually made it come to— well— life.
“Please, Buck. Please do this for me.” He wraps his arms around Bucky’s chilled skin. He likes pushing his nose into Bucky’s neck and smelling him. Bucky’s got this musky, earthen scent. It’s like sand on a beach that’s been soaked too long or maybe dried out mulch. It changes all the time but it’s so Bucky.
“Fine. Start lookin’ fer houses.” Bucky kisses Steve’s cheek before walking away.
They end the night in silence.
Then
Steve’s taken from the room with his dying friends in it. He’s screaming, prying at the wall and trying to dig his fingers in. Bucky’s bigger than him, bulging muscle and a heavy metal arm. Steve should’ve paid more attention when he saw that silver glint from before. He’s backhanded once where he tries to hold onto the molding around the kitchen archway. He started prying it off the wall. A swift smack to the face and he is in Bucky’s arms and being taken up the steps.
They’re sitting in Sharon’s bedroom. Steve knows it’s hers because the walls are pink and there’s countless soccer trophies all over. She grew up in this vacation home as much as her other home. All her “last season” trophies are stored here.
Bucky’s pacing. He’s flicking a knife around and doing all sorts of interesting little tricks with it. It’s enough to keep Steve transfixed until he finally turns to Steve.
“You scared of death?” Bucky asks.
Steve nods. It’s a stupid question. Of course he is. Isn’t everyone?
Bucky smiles. “I could kill you real easy. Slit your throat or somethin’ so Nat doesn’t do it. Be better than what she has planned.”
Steve bites his lip. “I-I don’t wanna die. Please.”
“And I don’t wanna kill you,” Bucky says.
Steve stares at him. A murderer that doesn’t want to kill is like a fox that doesn’t want to hunt chickens. It’s strange. Like Steve.
“You’re really somethin’ you know? Jack’s got a big ol’ thing of wood in ‘im. You’ve got a lot a’heart.”
“Where’re you from?” Steve asks. The accent isn’t New York. It’s not even New England.
“Indiana.” Bucky sits on the bed, still flicking that knife around. He twirls it between his fingers like he can’t make a mistake. A mistake would take his finger off, Steve’s sure. “You?”
“Brooklyn.”
Bucky smiles. “You New York types love sayin’ exactly where. What, New York ain’t good enough?”
“It’s important to me. So’s Brooklyn.” Steve tenses when he hears a blood-curdling scream. “Sharon!” He stands up, ready to burst through the door. Bucky stands up and gets in his way. The man’s chest is so thick that Steve barely even pushes him back. “Move! You can’t do this to them! You just can’t!”
“And why not?” Bucky shouts back. “Why can’t we? We are, ain’t we?”
Steve’s crying. He pounds his fists on Bucky’s chest, listening to the thudding reverberations. “It’s not right! You’re hurting them!”
Bucky smirks, grabbing Steve’s hands with metal and flesh hands. “No— we’re killin’ ‘em.”
Steve falls to the floor, sobbing. “Stop it, stop it please, please just stop.”
Bucky doesn’t move. He stares at Steve’s crying form and that’s when it all starts to click into place. This is something Bucky likes seeing. Steve sniffs one more time. He wipes at his nose in the most unattractive manner and stares up at Bucky. He doesn’t like being on his knees before this man, but he’s not sure he’ll be allowed back up if he tried.
“You really are pretty,” Bucky whispers. “Nat’s right.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Pretty? A cow can’t ask a farmer to not call it meat. What makes you different?”
Steve sneers. “You’re a monster.”
Bucky laughs. It’s full of malice and drunk on the power he wields. He’s a psychopath, drawn to the displeasure of others and Steve couldn’t be more repulsed. He hears another shriek from downstairs.
“JESUS, JUST LEAVE THEM ALONE!” Steve wails. “Do whatever you want with me. Just let them go.”
Bucky kneels in front of Steve, his brow furrowed. He’s got the prettiest gray eyes. Steve wants to claw them out but he’s so exhausted from the night’s events. Running, terror, pain…
“Whatever I want?”
“Yes,” Steve answers numbly. “Just let them go.”
Bucky scoots closer, leaning into Steve’s ear. “That’s the thing, Steve— I don’t hafta. I already gotcha. My friends got them. We’re already doing whatever we want to you.”
Steve lets the tears pour silently from his eyes. He looks at Bucky’s metal hand. “What happened?”
Bucky pulls the appendage back, hiding it under his long black shirt. “You’re gonna be too dead soon to care.”
Steve just nods. His mind is shrieking at him. Fight or flight is battling inside, wielding sharp knives of their own but he can’t will his legs to even move. He can’t even ball his hand into a fist. He’s done.
“I don’t wanna kill you, Steve.” Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist. It’s warm and Steve hisses. He wants to shake this creature off. Steve can’t remember the last time someone touched him so intimately, so he lets it happen. “I just need to know if I can trust you.”
“Why?”
“So I can save you.”
“Why?”
Bucky laughs. “Have you seen yourself in a mirror? You’re beautiful. And I like your spirit.”
Steve snorts. He’s seen himself in a mirror alright. He’d always stared at mirrors when he was growing up, picking and prodding at what he didn’t like. His lack of jawline, his too crooked nose or the way his lips always looked like he was ready for a kiss. He hated it.
“What’re you gonna do?” Steve asks. “Rape me? Lock me in a closet forever?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t rape people— that’s Brock’s thing.”
Steve bites his tongue. Of course the creepy burned guy would be the rapist of the bunch. “So what’re you gonna do?”
Bucky shrugs a shoulder. “See how far I can take you.”
“What?”
“I mean see how far I can take you out of here— before they notice.”
Steve has never grabbed someone’s hand so fast. He doesn’t trust Bucky. He’s almost certain something bad will happen— but he wants to live. He’s not done anything important yet and he wants to live. He argues in his head about how to save his friends, but from the sounds downstairs, he’s certain they’re already cutting into them.
“Shar?”
“She your girlfriend?”
Steve shakes his head.
“She’s dying. Let’s go, Steve. I can’t save all of you.”
Now
Pan’s Labyrinth. Steve can hear the soundtrack playing from the other room as he sits on the bed with the laptop. He’s been house hunting for a few hours now but it’s proving difficult. They don’t have a lot of money. After crunching the numbers and speculating on what kind of mortgage they can deal with, Steve is reduced to looking at only foreclosure homes and none of them are any better than the shithole he is in now. He needs a job. He also needs to call his ma and ask her for his college funds.
The somber melody plays through the house, tugging on Steve’s heartstrings. Bucky always plays Pan’s Labyrinth when he’s happy. Bucky can express his emotions in music far better than he can in words. He turns on a tune, lies on the sofa and just lets it do the talking for him. He even hums the lullaby to Steve at night sometimes. At least he’s in a good mood today. Last night ended so poorly. Usually Bucky’s always happy when he comes home from a killing. Steve had managed to wreck that up for him before he’d left. Guilt presses against the back of Steve’s neck. He reaches up, massaging at the tired muscles. He needs to call his ma.
He picks up Bucky’s phone (they share) and punches in the numbers on the old flip phone. After a few beats, his mother picks up.
“We need t’get ye a new phone,” she says with her diluted Irish accent. “I can’t have you entirely dependent on tha’ man.”
Steve smiles sadly. He never told her that he’d been kidnapped. He’d even denied that he was at the house the night Sharon, Phil, Harry and Erik were murdered. Bucky said he’d gone back and cleaned the place so nothing of Steve was left. It was a huge lie that seeped into Steve’s muscles and made him perpetually tired. He hates lying to his mother.
“I don’t have any money for a new phone.”
“I can ask some of the nurses at work. Maybe they’ve gotta spare. What’re ya doin’? You haven’t called in awhile.”
Steve leans back on the bed, idly jerking his legs. Bucky swears he has Restless Leg Syndrome. Steve thinks that’s a fake condition, but he’ll claim it all day if it lets him keep bouncing his legs all the time.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about freelance art work. We need money to get a new house.”
“A new house? Will it be big enough so I can visit?”
“Ma!” Steve laughs. “Of course— if we can afford it. I need— I need to dip into my college fund.”
There’s a long pause followed by a deep sigh. Steve cringes.
“Stacy,” she says.
Steve suppresses the snarl. He knows she used that on purpose.
“You’re a grown adult and y’can make yer own decisions. Lord knows you’ve made plenty without me.”
“Ma—”
“I’m not saying I don’t support them! Because I do! I was cuttin’ yer hair at th’age of five when yer father was—” She stops. “Well you know what he was doin’ ta me.”
Steve swallows roughly. “I know.”
“So you need a new phone, yer college fund and what else? You have enough medication? How’s yer asthma? Th’weather’s gettin’ colder here.”
“I’m runnin’ out of—” Steve halts, licking the corner of his lips. “I’m runnin’ out of T.” He’s not ashamed that he takes a testosterone regimen. He’s not even ashamed at being trans— not really. He’s angry he had to do it in the first place and he never will feel like he fits in, but Bucky’s never cared. First time Bucky saw Steve naked he teased him about having the cutest little cock. Even gave him a blow job. Bucky’s always done well with Steve being different. Bucky doesn’t think he’s different though. He sees Steve as any guy would see a cis guy. He’s never joked about fucking Steve in the pussy or even inserted his fingers inside there. Steve wouldn’t mind, not at this point. He trusts Bucky so much now. But Steve likes the respect Bucky gives him. All Steve is— is a tall, massive man with a tiny cock to Bucky; a man with a tiny cock whom Bucky loves.
“Oh shite,” his mother whispers. “I can’t get my health insurance to cover you, baby. You’re too old now.”
“How much is it? I’m gonna open freelance work, so if anyone needs custom holiday cards? Maybe family portraits?” Steve sits up on the bed, his heart panicking. He’d never gotten bottom surgery. He didn’t want it. It’s not the parts that he’s entirely concerned about. It’s just the blending. He just wants to walk down a damn street and be seen for what he truly is. He had enough issues being a tall woman with large breasts trying to make her way through those passing stages. He never passed and everyone knew. Dyke, lesbo, freak, what’s the matter with you? Women have it so great why would you ever want to change who you are? As if he was deciding to change from a woman to a man. No. He was, and has always been, a man. He’d just stolen a woman’s body without meaning to.
“I’m not sure, I’ll hafta look into it. In th’meantime though, tell me about yer man. You never do.” Steve can see her now, sprawling out on the bed with her hand tangling into the corded phone. She’s one of those stubborn old girls living in the past who loves the romance of the corded phone. Claims it makes gossip so much sweeter.
“He’s good to me.”
“And he knows?”
“Yeah Ma, he knows. Never cared.”
“And yer sure movin’ into a house with this guy’s a good idea? You haven’t known him that long.” Bucky’s friends (and Steve now supposes his) had killed his friends back in the beginnings of summer. It’s only now just becoming early Fall. In the grand scheme of things, it did seem a bit rushed, and probably not entirely healthy if an outsider knew all their dark secrets. Steve’s never going to be sure if he has Stockholm Syndrome or not. He doesn’t think he does. He began to bond naturally with Bucky. Bucky’s behaviors didn’t coax or manipulate one way or the other. They love each other. Not many would love a serial killer the way Steve does and Steve’s honestly too terrified to try again to find someone else. He could— easily— but he doesn’t want someone else. He wants Bucky.
“He’s perfect for me,” Steve answers. “Sweet, takes good care of me, respects who I am. I’m not some fetishized conquest or anything like that. I’m a person— just a guy. He treats me right, Ma.”
“You really love ‘im.”
“Absolutely.” Steve hears the music switch to another soundtrack. Amelie. Bucky’s still happy. Probably napping on the sofa.
His mother laughs and Steve can hear shuffling of sheets. He knows the phone call is ending soon.
“So— when do I get grandkids?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Good bye mother.”
“Oh! You’re so cold ya know!”
“Text me how to get my college fund. Love you.” He hangs up the phone before she can answer. It’s his own way of being snarky. He stands up, stretching. He’ll keep looking for houses later. Right now he needs to wait till he gets all the information. He doesn’t want to be disappointed with falling in love with a house they can’t afford.
He walks into the living room. The curtains are old and flannel, the couch is a beat up leather thing that despite how ragged it is, it’s the most comfortable thing ever. Bucky’s on that couch, tapping his foot idly to the rhythm of the song. His eyes are closed and he’s got a tiny little smile on his face. He’s making little strokes into the air with his hands. Steve just watches, a little smile creeping onto his lips. He loves Bucky like this— relaxed, happy and relatable. This is the Bucky that Steve can have conversations all day with. The one that starts dancing in the middle of the kitchen and grabs Steve by the hips to join.
“Hey Buck,” Steve finally says.
Bucky opens an eye. He smiles wider and then sits up. “How’s house hunting?”
Steve sits on the couch, leaning against Bucky. He’s on his bad side but that doesn’t stop him from curling up under Bucky’s arm stump. He’s always been a tall mess of a human being. Bucky somehow manages to make him feel small. He likes that feeling.
“Boring and we have no money. You’re not hiding some kind of rich inheritance by any chance are you?”
Bucky snorts. He listens to the music wafting in the air for a bit before answering. It’s not an uncomfortable pause. Quite opposite really. When Bucky’s like this, their silences are nice interludes that leave each other wanting more.
“Unfortunately no. My parents are still alive.”
Steve blinks. He’s never heard Bucky talk about his family before. “Oh. Well— do they know you’re— um— that you like guys?”
“Why do you get so weird about it?”
Steve recoils. “I don’t get weird about it.”
“Yes you do. You could’ve asked if they know I’m gay. But you got weird about it.”
Steve sits up. “I’m not weird about anything.”
Bucky stands up, muttering something about stubborn ass under his breath. That only makes Steve’s temper flare. He’s always been a hot-head. One of his bigger downfalls but he isn’t going to think about tactics when he’s pissed off.
“Look,” Bucky begins. “I’m not tryin’ to be an ass. But I know why you get weird all the time. You’re a guy, Steve! No one’s telling you that you ain’t but you!”
Steve bites his lip. Anger coils beneath his skin, ready to explode at Bucky. He’s gripping the couch so hard he can feel the thin leather actually tearing between his fingers.
“I’m the only one who knows I’m a guy.” He’s clenching his teeth, glaring up at Bucky.
“Excuse me? What happened to last night? I’m supposed to be the only one that doesn’t think you’re crazy! I’m the crazy one!”
Steve huffs, crossing his arms. “Oh and how’s that supposed to translate for me? The only guy I could land is a serial killer!” He stands up. “I don’t wanna have this conversation.”
“No, Steve!” Bucky grabs Steve’s wrist. “We’re gonna have this conversation.”
“Let. Go.” Steve looks up, misery and anger etched deeply into his blue eyes. He’s embarrassed because Bucky’s right. Steve treads water around the subject like he has something to hide. He has nothing to hide. No amount of top surgery, T, work outs or the hairs on his chest as proof can change what he knows. He started out in a female body and he’ll always carry the shame of remembering that. It’s not the same for every person. Some transmen are so happy after they get on T or start on their paths. Steve’s never been able to let go of the guilt. It’s been piling on him since he was a child and it’s weighed him down so much since then. He can’t shake it. His experience isn’t everyone’s and he’s so glad that’s the case. For him, he’ll always remember the disappointment on his father’s face. He’ll always remember the whispers on the schoolyard when he made a fuss about having to use the little girl’s room. He’s always been bullied for not being right. Maybe he’s taken that so deeply that he has to bully himself. Stacy… Stacy… Stacy…
I’m not that anymore. I was never that.
Tears slip from his eyes. He folds into Bucky and sobs, clutching his lover for all he’s worth. Steve’s muscles are large and they press awkwardly against Bucky’s own. Muscles he worked so hard to obtain and wouldn’t change for the world. He clings to Bucky, whispering apologizes that Bucky probably wants nothing to do with. Bucky’s never upset with Steve. Steve is always upset with Bucky. It’s never even anything that Bucky’s done wrong. Arguably, Bucky’s never done anything wrong since they ran away from that night.
“Steve,” Bucky whispers, kissing Steve’s head. “It’s okay.”
Steve doesn’t respond. He doesn’t really know how. He’s embarrassed, angry and there’s that guilt that weighs him down. He just holds Bucky, wishing something would make him forget the life he had before he’d found Bucky. Even Sharon messed up Steve’s pronouns sometimes. It wasn’t until Steve's shoulders broadened and he got muscled up that she really got good at it. She was terrible about it in high school.
Bucky pulls Steve in for a kiss. It’s soft, slow and the way his stubble presses into Steve makes Steve groan. He pulls back, staring with gray eyes so clear. It’s rare that Bucky’s ever this clear in the head. “You don’t need anyone’s permission to be who you are. You don’t need justification to call yourself whatever you want. Nothin’s gonna change how I see you and nothin’s gonna change how you see you.”
Steve’s still can’t respond.
Bucky sighs. He turns off the music and makes his way down the hall. He pauses, looking to the side. “I’ll call my family. Maybe they’ll have money to spare.”
Steve’s left standing in the living room, feeling childish and angry. He does the only thing he can do when it gets like this. He goes outside into the chilly early autumn air and walks along the rocky coast.