This was requested by linalygemini , warnings for angst and general sad!

////

When Steve'd said goodbye to his husband he hadn't realised it would be the last time.

It was a simple takedown situation, Tony had said. Required a small team who actually knew how to use weapons to destroy a HYDRA base and the few remaining agents that lingered there, like cockroaches.

So, in other words, Steve wasn't invited. He hadn't been too concerned, Bucky was a skilled fighter and could easily handle his own -- his only worry was the general worry that accompanied Bucky charging into danger without him.

"Be careful," he had warned him; Steve remembered he didn't look up from his book while Bucky had stood by the door, getting ready.

"Always am," Bucky had replied, and he was looking at Steve, still engrained in his book. Bucky had smiled, unseen, then walked over and kissed the top of his head. "Love you, Steve."

Steve smiled at the page then finally looked up, brief enough to catch a glimpse of his soft eyes and gentle smile. "I love you too."

That was the last he'd seen of him.

////

Steve paces the floor enough to wear a thin track into the carpet, clutching and releasing his fist as if that repetition will help. He's already called Bucky maybe five times, left two voicemails, and texted nearly half a dozen times too -- and still, radio silence.

He's in the motion of grabbing his phone when there's a knock at the door.

His heart leaps into his throat; hope, he thinks, but then he forces himself to think it through. This was Bucky's home and the knock was gentle and uncertain -- someone who didn't visit often. Steve swallows his disappointment and pulls the door open.

"Tony?"

Stark looks exhausted -- usually tired eyes are downcast, and there's a weariness on his shoulders Steve hadn't noticed before. He didn't want to meet his eyes. That was a bad sign.

"Hey, Cap. Um-- can I come inside?"

So Steve goes through the motions of making him a coffee, automatically adding creamer and a scoop of sugar because that was how Bucky always took his. If Tony didn't like it, he didn't comment as he accepted the warmth gratefully.

"Sit down, you're going to need to." Tony sighs, readjusts, and forces himself to hold Steve's worried gaze. "Um-- Barnes, he didn't -- " His breath hitches in his throat, Steve was still staring at him but something was dawning in those brilliant blue eyes and Tony didn't want to have to witness the realization. It was hard enough being there in person; dealing with the aftermath would be devastating.

"We lost him," he chokes out and clears his throat, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "He, uh, went inside to take out one of the targets and then it-- the building just-- "

"Who's responsible?" Steve's voice sounds distant, even to himself -- he was staring at a spot over Tony's shoulder, he wasn't even sure his heart was beating anymore. "Who set it off?"

"HYDRA got to it before we could do anything," Tony rushes to say, reaching a hand out as if to reassure him. "We went in as it was going down, we couldn't see him and I had to get everyone to safety, so -- "

"So he's... " Steve trails off. He couldn't bring himself to say dead, there was no way his Bucky was dead -- it was so foreign to feel and so achingly familiar. Tony goes off on a tangent, we did the best we could, don't blame yourself for this, I'm sorry Steve, and it sounds like the buzzing of flies and nothing more.

He isn't sure when but Tony leaves to see his family. Steve felt sorry for him, of course, he'd just watched one of their own die and--

Steve couldn't catch a steady breath, he felt hazy -- drained. He slowly sinks onto the couch and drops his head in his hands. Why did everything in their home smell like Bucky's cologne? Steve sits and waits for the memories of ghosts to go away but in that place that would never be possible again. This was their home; now it was tainted, stained with unseen blood.

////

There was that quiet Steve had gotten used to over the years. The everyday dull ache and the nightly getting-stabbed-in-the-heart, suffocating pain that left him gasping as he cried until his throat was raw and his eyes hurt.

He wakes up each morning, ignores the empty side of the bed, and tells himself firmly he's not waiting for Bucky's dry voice to greet him in the kitchen saying, "you slept in late today, huh?" Messy hair askew, a grin on his face as he slides Steve a coffee.

No, when he walks into the kitchen he reminds himself that Bucky isn't there anymore. Same with the living room, Bucky isn't sitting there studying Steve's drawings, he isn't at the front door after an exhausting mission and a "hey, babydoll," greeting him with a kiss, he isn't in the bathroom studying his tired reflection, lightly brushing his fingers over his metal arm -- catching Steve's eyes in the mirror and turning to him with a more genuine smile and loving gaze.

Steve was getting used to being alone. Well, he wasn't, but if he told himself he was eventually it would be the truth, because that would be all he knew.

Sam and Natasha made more constant visits, even Sharon got roped into helping him -- and he appreciated it, really, he did, his friends were very sweet and cautious, but they simply didn't understand.

At least they had been happy, for a couple years. Gotten an apartment together, both officially Avengers. They'd discussed getting a cat, maybe, like the one Bucky had as a kid, a long-haired white one -- Steve couldn't bring himself to do that now.

Everything is more or less the same for a good couple of months, until Natasha is once again on his doorstep and Steve opens the door, makes no movement to let her inside though. Nat doesn't press.

"I don't want to get your hopes up," she says, folding her arms and eyeing him carefully, "but we got a sighting on a certain silver-armed assassin."

Steve blinks. "Then it's one of the other Winter Soldiers, Nat."

"You don't think that maybe he's -- "

"No." Steve leans against his doorframe, copying her pose as he shakes his head. "Bucky's gone," he says with a finality he hates. Nat just frowns, lifting an eyebrow.

"You really believe that?"

"You said you didn't want to get my hopes up, Nat -- "

"But there's a chance it's him!"

Steve studies her for a second. "I don't want to believe it because if I do, that means I've been doing nothing and my husband has been -- is being tortured."

Nat is silent for a second. "I'll keep looking into it," she says, and tilts her head.

Steve's brief frustration deflates. "Thank you," he murmurs. "And I'm sorry, I... "

"You've got nothing to apologise for," she says quietly. "You're not the first person to lose someone."

He nods at her, mentally sighing as she tugs him into a hug. He accepts it after a moment and tries to allow himself to heal, a little. She rubs his back and hates this parallel between Peggy's funeral and now.

"Thank you," he utters as she pulls away. Nat nods, smiles briefly again -- all of them were exhausted for little else.

////

Steve tried. He really, really tried not to get raised spirits because he knew the moment he did disappointment would crash over him like a wave and he was already drowning without that piled on top. He already felt empty enough.

Yet his hopes had inched up.

Steve sits on the couch motionless, hands curled over his knees, as he tries to think of something else. Of course that doesn't work -- he pulls out his phone, still nothing can sway him, so he grunts a curse and rises.

He's pulling his gear on before he knows what he's doing, fingers working the straps and buckles of his uniform automatically. He dismisses the helmet -- he tells himself it's not necessary, he's just doing a recon-type of a self directed mission -- doesn't want to admit to himself that the real reason is that he's simply past caring. His helmet remains on its hook in the wall for the remainder of the weeks to follow.

////

Once he started it was easy to get back into the mindset of Captain America, a persona he'd been acquainted with for close to 100 years now -- adopting his confidence and strength whe he feels drained of it himself.

Going to Fury was the first step, getting information and providing little of his own. He tried not to come across as desperate -- Fury could easily read it in his stance and the flicker of his eyes, but he decided not to comment on it.

"You sure you're ready for this, Cap'n?"

Steve nods once, hands secured around his belt buckle as if grounding himself to the moment. Fury sighs, too soft to be noticeable, and hands over the scrappy file they'd managed to create.

On the flight there Steve flicks over the information: two minor attacks in New Jersey of all places, several reported sightings of a masked and silver-armed man leaving the scenes. It seemed almost too easy, to Steve, the way it appeared that Bucky Barnes wanted to be caught by leaving these clues.

Perhaps the control over him isn't as pressing. Maybe it isn't him at all, Steve reminds himself firmly. He takes a deep breath, slowly releases it, rolls his neck. Whoever he was going to face, the situation wasn't going to be pleasant -- he had to be ready.

////

Twelve down, Steve thinks, a mental record as he presses further into the building, shield at the ready, his movements precise. The trickle of blood trailing his face is more of an inconvenience and a reminder that he has to remain focused rather than any pain he can feel -- sure, he'd feel it later, the cut was deep enough to coat the left side of his face, but he had no time to worry about that now.

Steve's steps are slow, careful as he rounds the corner, expecting to find more storage rooms and disappointment-- and he freezes mid-step, eyes locked on the figure in the chair, head hanging low, a mop of brown hair very characteristic of his husband's.

Time stands still.

"Bucky?" His voice sounds uncertain; he tries to hold any decorum of self as he inches closer. A moment passes, stretching across the room, too silent and far too long.

"Is this a trick?" Bucky's voice is gruff as he lifts his head. "'Cause if so, you guys have gotten damn good at mimicking people."

That's all it took: time came thundering back. Steve's ears are ringing, and he finally remembers to breathe.

Steve stumbles a step closer and the shield falls from his arm. He stands, blinking blood from his eyes, until his knees give out and he sinks to kneel in front of him. "Bucky, it's me," he breathes.

Bucky looks disbelieving -- scrutinizing him. Steve slowly takes him in and stops, breath catching when he sees a familiar sight of a metal arm, and then a mirrored second one.

"Made me a f*ckin' cyborg," he murmurs, aware of his horrified gaze; he seems in general unfazed, accepted his death long ago. "Steve..?"

"It's me," Steve wavers, and tears are rushing fast to his eyes. He blinks them away -- first and foremost was getting Bucky back home. "It's me, I'm here, baby." He moves to gently cup his face, and Bucky's hand curls into the fabric of his shirt, as if double-checking he's real.

When he looks up and meets Steve's eyes, his look can only be described as yearning, there's a hope there that hasn't been for however many months he's been gone. Recognition is bright in his eyes and a helpless smile crosses his face, brief.

"Steve," he breathes, sounding more human than moments before. "Steve, Christ, you're here, you're-- you're here," he enunciates, searching his face as if committing the sight to memory. Steve strokes his thumb over his cheek, nodding distantly.

Reality jerks him back when he remembers his husband is still bound by the metal clasps over his arms, and with fumbling hands he works to release him -- he's shaking too badly and all Bucky can do is watch him, sadly.

"It's okay, babydoll, hey," Bucky interrupts, "Steve, look at me," he hushes.

Steve, still struggling with the metal, hesitantly does so. "Breathe, I'm right here, with you," Bucky promises, voice soft.

Steve nods, trembling, and gets back to work. The first thing Bucky does when he's free is roll his arms, swallowing thickly when he compares the two arms. They were near identical; he wanted to throw up looking at them.

Steve tosses his arms around Bucky and hugs him tight, burying his face against his neck. The smell of cologne was gone, but it was still unmistakably his Bucky.

His Bucky was alive.

Bucky hesitates hugging him back, so instead lets his arms linger in the air -- Steve doesn't comment on this, and doesn't push. Bucky would either adjust to that, or he wouldn't -- only time would tell.

His husband does, however, tilt Steve's head into the light ever so carefully to examine the wound on his head, sliced open as if with a knife. Even so, Steve's eyes were bright, wide, focused on Bucky's face.

"I'm so sorry, Stevie," he murmurs, taking him in. "Can you walk?"

Steve doesn't try to move. "Yeah, I'll be fine," he says without knowing if that's the truth or not.

As they make their way through the maze of hallways and corridors he realises that's not quite true, the combination of blood loss and shock proved to be not fantastic, putting it simply.

Before he can say anything Bucky is scooping him into his arms, taking to a careful jog. He leads them almost too easily out of the place; Steve supposed they had light security for a brainwashed man and he must've gotten through the thick of it when he first came in.

Bucky hesitates at the door, then the weight of Steve in his arms brings him shuddering back to the present. Taking a breath, Bucky stepped forward and continued on, Steve still held tightly as if he's afraid to lose him.

He was never losing him again.

////

Steve wakes alone.

Jolting upright, ignoring the faint throbbing in his head, he looks around, taking everything in. Had it been a dream? His dreams were always vivid, extremely detailed, but the feeling of two strong metal arms carrying his weight was stark in his mind -- hearing Bucky's ragged voice.

He inhales, shakily, and rubs his face. His forehead pounds and he reaches for the glass of water he didn't remember pouring himself.

Just as he's confirming that it was in fact a dream, he hears footsteps, soft and cautious. Bucky Barnes stands uncomfortably in front of him, holding a cup of coffee in each metal hand.

"Morning," he greets, placing the cups down, and Steve stares at him mutely, the only sound he can hear the beating of blood rushing through his head. "I, um, couldn't find the sugar you like in it but-- "

Steve stands and pulls Bucky into his arms, pressing his face against the familiar crook of his neck. So it was real, then, Bucky's hands reaching nervously to rest on his hips as Steve presses himself close.

"I thought you were dead," he murmurs, swallowing around the growing lump of emotion lodged in his throat. Bucky moves to hug him back, carefully, and closes his eyes as he focuses on Steve's steady heartbeat. "Thought I had dreamed it."

"I'm here." Bucky opens his eyes to look at him, as if he hasn't seen him in years. Neither move to let go first; Bucky waits for Steve to feel secure enough to pull away, and when he does, he takes his hands instead -- thumbs smoothing over the silver metal.

"Are you hurt?"

Bucky didn't want to point out that that was a foolish question -- Steve'd had quite a night.

"I'm okay now," he assures and tilts Steve's chin up to look at him. "You got me, babydoll."

Relief makes Steve take half a stumbled step closer. "I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner-- "

"How were you s'posed to know?" Bucky interrupts, giving him a look. "You were there when I needed you to be, Steve, I-- " He purses his lips. "It's okay." Another brief silence, then Bucky repeats, "it's okay," softly, as if an apology itself.

Steve wasn't so sure about that, but hugging Bucky close to his chest, he figured that maybe, it would be.

////

This is super late but here we go!! Happy ending :)