Steve was in the middle of making himself lunch when the doorbell rang. He wanders over and pulls the door open, then freezes, his grip tight on the door handle. Bucky was there. His Bucky.

"Buck?" He asks quietly, incredulously, staring at him. The brunette looked broken, that's how Steve would put it. His shoulders slumped and he was holding his right arm close to his too thin body. His hair was matted and tangled, hanging down to his shoulders, he was pale and there were large violet bags under his bluish grey eyes.

Bucky tried to straighten up the best he could, look more confident than he felt.

"What happened to you?"

Bucky opens his mouth to respond but closes it and merely shakes his head. He knew he needed help, and he knew that if Steve was still his Steve, he would help him. Just so he could get back on his feet. Steve ushers Bucky inside and closes the door behind him, his eyes never straying from him.

"Steve?" Bucky croaks, looking up at him.

"Yeah?"

"Uh, have any clothes I can borrow?" Bucky mumbles, glancing down at his clothes. His red shirt was torn and dirty, his sweater stunk and his jeans were covered in dirt and grime. Steve noticed a backpack and wondered what it could be.

"Of course. Do you need to shower? There's, uh, there's one upstairs to the left," Steve explains and the brunette nods a little and rubs his face. He looked so exhausted and the blonde felt a pang of pity for him.

"Thank you," Bucky mumbles quietly before soundlessly making his way upstairs. Steve was just... shocked. How long had he been looking for him, two years? And here he was. His Bucky was back, but he was hurting, and broken. Steve swallows before going back into the kitchen and resuming what he was doing. He figured Bucky needed food way more than he did at the moment.

Bucky sighs softly as the warm water washes over him, he felt better knowing he was clean on the outside, at least. Every time he closed his eyes he saw red, guns, heard shouting and screaming, Russian and English dialogue, and Steve was everywhere. Tiny, large, injured, sick, why was it all there? He was so confused, and he hated that.

He turns the tap off, then steps out and wraps a towel around his waist. He glances towards his backpack and relaxes a little. He would hate himself if he lost that backpack and the contents inside it.

Lunch was done shortly and Steve looked up when Bucky came down, in just a towel. His head was down and he refused to look up. Steve was taking in how thin he was, how pale, but he didn't make a comment. He walks over to his drying machine and pulls out a shirt and jeans that luckily had shrunk. He hoped they'd fit the smaller brunette.

"Thanks," Bucky sighs, taking the clothes and dissapearing upstairs to get dressed. He dries off quickly then dresses in the clothes, grateful they fit fairly well, snug against his thin body, and he wondered how they had ever fit Steve. He slings his bag over his shoulder and frowns at his right arm as it twinges painfully with the movement.

"I made lunch," Steve says as Bucky reemerges, his hair still wet. The brunette stays quiet for a moment, considering if he should eat something. He looks down at himself again and frowns a little before looking back up and giving Steve a small nod. The blonde nods back and Bucky takes a seat. He was hungrier than he thought he'd be.

Steve cleans up some of the lunch mess while Bucky eats. Steve's mind was whirling and there were so many things he wanted to ask, but he figured they weren't important at the moment. He glances at the backpack and Bucky follows his gaze then swallows thickly. No. He knew Steve was curious, he could see, but he wasn't ready. Those were for his eyes only.

"How's your arm?" Steve asks, looking back at Bucky's face. The brunette looked a little confused so Steve gestured to his right arm. He still felt ashamed at breaking it, but it should've healed by now.

"Oh. Fine, I sprained it a while ago," Bucky mumbles, frowning down at it then looking back up. "It'll heal."

"Right," Steve agrees just for something to say. He knew to hold his tongue but he was so curious about so much.

"Thanks for lunch," Bucky sighs as he gets up, tightening the shoulder strap on his backpack and slinging it onto his left shoulder.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Steve tests and the brunette wets his lips briefly.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he dismisses, starting to walk to the door.

"Hey Buck?"

The brunette turns back to face him. Steve scratches the back of his neck, looking around his place. "Wanna build a couch cushion like when we were kids? Come on, it'll be fun."

Bucky looks at him, a small smile on his lips, and he steps over.

"All you gotta do is maybe shine my shoes, take out the trash," he adds quietly and Steve smiles, earning another small smile in return. "Thank you, but I can get by on my own."

"Thing is, you don't have to," Steve continues, Bucky steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder like he used to do. It felt natural and he felt relieved, in a way. Maybe he wasn't such a lost cause after all.

"I'm with you till the end of the line, pal," he finishes quietly, looking the blonde in the eyes. He could do this, rehabilitate, become Bucky Barnes again. He forgot, for a moment, about Hydra, SHIELD, the contents of his backpack, it was just him and Steve, back in the day, just the two of them against the world. Then he was pulling the blonde closer, and then he was hugging him, and the blonde hugged back and Bucky felt relieved. "Thanks," he says quietly as he pulls away.

He puts his bag down carefully then starts making a couch cushion fort with the blonde. It was different, but still the same in its own way, and Bucky was grateful for that.

////

They were lying under the cushions later on that night, Bucky stared right up at the cushions and Steve lay beside him.

"Can I ask you a question?" Bucky asks quietly, not looking at the blonde. Steve props himself up onto his elbow and turns to face him.

"Yeah."

"Do you trust me now?" He asks in a softer voice, as if unsure he should or shouldn't ask. Steve studies him for a moment and Bucky turns his head towards him.

"I do," he answers truthfully. Bucky watches him quietly, wanting an explanation. "If you were- well, you enough- to come back here, remember something we told each other seventy something years ago, then I think I can. The Winter Soldier isn't here anymore, is he?" Bucky shakes his head, his eyes fixed on Steve's. "That's my point. I think you're piecing yourself back together."

"I am," Bucky agrees in a soft whisper, watching him, and Steve saw so many emotions in his blue-grey eyes. Then Bucky was smiling again, a shy smile that Steve hadn't seen in forever. "Thank you."

"Don't need to thank me," Steve muses.

"Yes, I do. Don't tell me I don't. I-" Bucky pauses and looks back up. "I was the Winter Soldier, I had killed those people, but I don't do that anymore. Because you got through to me," he declares, glancing back at the blonde, who nods in agreement.

"That's really good, Buck," he says and the brunette relaxes some more, nodding his head to himself. It went quiet for a while and Steve began to nod off.

"Steve?" Bucky prompts, looking over at him. The blonde stirs and blinks his eyes open.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks, again," he whispers, and he tried to put everything into that thank you, tried to convey his feelings into two simple words. Steve nods a little.

"Not a problem, Buck," Steve assures with a small smile. "You should get some sleep."

"Okay. 'Night, Steve."

"'Night," Steve replies. Minutes later he was back asleep and Bucky sat up. He decided to get up, grab his backpack, then sit back in their fort.

He pulls out a notebook from his backpack. He had several notebooks, all containing his memories. Whatever he remembered he jotted down; his memories were that precious to him. If anything happened, he swore he'd always have those books.

The paper was thick and darker than normal white paper, his messy scrawl was everywhere. Along the borders, filling entire pages, Russian and English combined. It would've been some sort of code for anyone else, and that was what Bucky had wanted.

He picks up his pencil and twirls it with his fingers before pressing it into the paper and starting to write.

Building couch forts with Steve.

107th.

Punk. Jerk.

'Til the end of the line, always.

He wrote simple sentences in this particular notebook. Others had full pages from a single memory. He tucks his notebook back into his backpack, along with the pencil, and zips it closed. He lies back down, holding his backpack close to his chest, his arms wrapped around it. He glances at Steve and blows out a breath, slowly. He was still alive, Bucky was going to be okay, and he had his memories.

Bucky closes his eyes and relaxes his body. For the first time since the Winter Soldier, he felt like he could sleep safely, and he did.