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Assistant: Title: Echoes of a promise
        Author: Aeywa_aa Aeywa_aa 
        Chapter: 2/20 
        Summary: The Avengers embark on a dangerous mission that takes a devastating turn—Steve Rogers is killed in action. His body is never recovered, leaving his team to mourn and move on, though some wounds never truly heal. No one feels the loss more than Bucky Barnes, who not only lost his best friend but the man he secretly loved.6 years later, during an unexpected call for help, Bucky sees a ghost—Steve Rogers, alive and well. But he’s not the same. He’s living  a new life, and a woman by his side. The catch? Steve remembers everything. He knows who he is, what he left behind, and that he chose not to come back.Rage, heartbreak, and years of unresolved feelings rise to the surface as Bucky demands answers. Why did Steve let them believe he was dead? And more importantly, why did he let Bucky suffer alone?
            
            First chapter omg, hope y’all enjoy❤️
        Contents: Chapter 2: Chapter 2
    

    


      
        
          
          (See the end of the chapter for  notes.)
          
      
  

  
  
    
    
  
    
      Brooklyn, 1941
    
  
  
   The streets of Brooklyn were alive with the hum of the city—cars rattling over cobblestone, the distant sound of a street vendor shouting about fresh pretzels, the laughter of kids playing stickball down the block. The air was crisp with the bite of autumn, and the setting sun cast long shadows across the sidewalks.
    Bucky walked with easy confidence, hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, the faint scent of shoe polish and city air clinging to his clothes. Beside him Steve, small, scrappy, and full of stubbornness—kept pace despite his shorter strides. They had just left the movie theater, where Steve had insisted on watching a war film—something about brave young soldiers fighting for their country. The credits had barely rolled before Steve had started talking about enlisting.     
  And Bucky hated that conversation. “You’re not doing this again,” Bucky said, shaking his head as they walked past a shop with a "Support Our Troops" poster plastered in the window. “Doing what?” Steve asked innocently. Bucky shot him a look. “Talking about deploying like it’s a d@mn field trip.” Steve sighed, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his too-thin coat. “Buck, we gotta do something. There’s a war out there—” 
   “And there’s a war right here,” Bucky interrupted, jerking his chin toward a newspaper stand, where headlines screamed about Hitler’s latest advance.    “You think the whole country isn’t already sending every guy they can? Guys twice your size?” Steve stiffened. “I can fight.” Bucky clenched his jaw. “That’s not the point.” They walked in silence for a few beats, their footsteps muffled by the worn pavement.   
  
  

  The sky was dimming, the city settling into the quiet hum of the evening, but the tension between them crackled like a live wire. Steve exhaled sharply. “I don’t expect you to understand.” Bucky stopped walking. “The hell does that mean?” Steve turned to face him, jaw set, eyes burning with that stubborn fire Bucky knew all too well. “You’re strong. You’ve always been strong. You don’t have to fight for everything. But I do.” Bucky’s stomach twisted. That was what Steve never said out loud—the truth buried beneath all that righteous determination. 
    
  Steve had spent his whole life being pushed around, being told he was too small, too weak, too sickly. And it killed him. “You think fighting’s gonna change that?” Bucky asked, voice softer now. Steve lifted his chin. “I think fighting is the only thing I can do.” Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Steve, listen to me—” 
   
  “No, you listen,” Steve cut in. “Guys like Schmidt, like Hitler—bullies. And if we don’t stop them, who will?” Bucky clenched his fists. “Not you, Steve.” Steve narrowed his eyes. “So what? I should just sit here? Let other guys go die while I stay safe?” Bucky let out a sharp breath. “It ain’t about that.” “Then what’s it about?” Steve challenged. 
   
  Bucky looked at him, at the sharp angles of his face, at the fire in his eyes. It was about the fact that Steve Rogers had no sense of self-preservation. That he would throw himself into a fight no matter how bad the odds were. That Bucky had spent his entire life keeping Steve out of trouble, and now Steve wanted to run straight into the worst kind of danger. It was about the fact that Bucky couldn’t lose him. 
   
  
  
  Bucky swallowed hard. “It’s about the fact that I don’t wanna visit your grave before you hit twenty-five.” Steve’s expression flickered. Bucky pressed on. “You’re my best friend, Steve. Have been since we were kids. And yeah, I know you wanna do the right thing. But I can’t stand the thought of you going out there and not coming back.” Steve’s lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Like maybe, just maybe, he realized how much Bucky had been holding in. But Steve being Steve, he didn’t back down. 
       
  “I have to do this,” he said quietly. Bucky’s shoulders sagged. They stood there for a moment, the sounds of Brooklyn moving around them, the world carrying on like it always did. 
    
  Finally, Bucky sighed and threw an arm around Steve’s shoulders, steering him back down the street. Steve chuckled, and for a moment, it almost felt like nothing had changed. Like they were just two kids walking home, the world outside their own little bubble not yet knocking down their door. The war was creeping closer, its shadow stretching long over the city, but here, in this moment, it was just Steve and Bucky, walking side by side like they always had.
     
   The argument had settled into something quieter now, the sharp edges dulled by the weight of everything left unsaid. Bucky kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the leather of his jacket stiff against the chill of the autumn air. Steve walked beside him, arms crossed over his too-thin coat, eyes set on the pavement. It wasn’t often that they found themselves in silence, but this one was heavy, neither willing to be the first to break it. 
   
  
  Then, Steve let out a quiet breath, his voice softer this time. “You’re also gonna enlist soon, Bucky.” Bucky’s step faltered just slightly, but he kept moving, tilting his head to glance at Steve. “I can’t let you go alone,” Steve added. Bucky let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ll only be gone for three months, Steve.” He nudged Steve’s arm lightly, trying to pull them back into easier territory.
   
   “In the meantime, you can learn how to cook for me.” Steve scoffed. “I’m not your little girlfriend, Bucky.” It was meant to be teasing—meant to push back in the way they always did—but something in Steve’s voice faltered at the end, just a hint of something unreadable. 
   
  Bucky felt it settle in his chest like a slow burn. “Unfortunately, you’re not”. The words left his mouth before he could stop them, quiet, almost wistful. Steve’s breath hitched, barely audible, but enough that Bucky knew he heard it. He knew they both heard it. The air between them shifted—something tight, something dangerous. 
   
  They didn’t stop walking, but neither spoke, both of them too aware of what had just slipped through the cracks. It was the kind of thing that could never be said out loud. Not here, not now, not ever.
   
   Because there were rules. Because there were things that weren’t allowed. Because it was illegal for two men to think like this about each other, to want something more than friendship, to feel something that could ruin their lives if they ever gave it a name.
    
   So they didn’t. Instead, Bucky forced a smirk and looked ahead, pretending like it hadn’t happened. And Steve, like he always did, swallowed whatever was lingering in his throat and fell back into step beside him. 
   
  The moment passed, slipping into the cracks of their history like so many other things unspoken. The war was coming, and soon, there wouldn’t be time to think about this. At least, that’s what Bucky told himself. 
   
  But for now, they just kept walking. And neither of them looked back. 
   
  ————————————————————— 
    Bucky sat at the long kitchen island, his back hunched slightly as he poked at his barely touched breakfast. The Avengers Tower was quiet this early in the morning, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of his spoon against the ceramic bowl.    It was routine at this point—waking up before everyone else, making himself something simple, and eating alone. He preferred it that way. No small talk, no forced smiles, no one watching him like he might break at any second. He was tired of the way they looked at him.   He sighed, dragging the spoon through his oatmeal, not really hungry but forcing himself to eat anyway. It was easier than listening to Sam’s concerned lectures about taking care of himself. But his solitude didn’t last long.    One by one, the others began trickling in.   Tony first, dressed in sweatpants and a Black Sabbath T-shirt, grabbing a cup of coffee without a word. Then Sam, stretching as he walked in, followed by Natasha, who immediately went to make herself some tea. Wanda and Pietro came next, both looking half-asleep, and then Peter, bouncing in with way too much energy for this time of morning.   Bucky’s grip tightened around his spoon. He wasn’t stupid. They never all had breakfast at the same time. Sure, they were a team, but everyone had their own schedules, their own routines. And yet, here they all were, filling up the kitchen, settling into chairs, pulling food from cabinets like this was just another normal morning. Like they weren’t here just to keep him company.     Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Didn’t realize we were doing a team breakfast,” he muttered, finally breaking the silence. Tony, who was stirring sugar into his coffee, didn’t even look up. “What can I say? We missed your sparkling morning personality.” Bucky gave him a flat look. Natasha arched a brow at him. “You know why we’re here, Barnes.”   Bucky scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I do.” He crossed his arms. “You don’t have to keep babysitting me, you know. I’m not gonna lose my mind and jump off the roof.”   There was a beat of silence, and then Sam sighed. “That’s not what this is about, man.” Bucky huffed, glancing around at them. Peter was watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Wanda was chewing her lip. Even Pietro, who barely knew him, looked vaguely concerned. Bucky clenched his jaw.   It had been two years. Two years. And still, none of them could seem to let him grieve in peace.   He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before speaking. “I’m leaving soon.” That got their attention. Tony finally looked up from his coffee. “Leaving where?” Bucky set his spoon down, glancing between them. “Wakanda.”   A heavy silence settled over the room. Peter was the first to speak. “Wait… like, permanently?” Bucky shrugged. “For a while, yeah.” Wanda furrowed her brows. “Why?” Bucky leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Because I need to get out of here.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, something raw.   “I need space. And Wakanda’s the only place I can get that.” Sam frowned. “Buck—”   “No, Sam,” Bucky cut in, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. Every d@mn corner of this place reminds me of him.” His voice tightened. “I can’t be here anymore.” The room was thick with unspoken words. Natasha was watching him carefully, her expression unreadable. Tony just took another slow sip of coffee, eyes sharp over the rim of his mug. Sam ran a hand over his face.   “You really think leaving’s gonna fix anything?” Bucky let out a bitter chuckle. “Nothing’s gonna fix anything, Sam.” His eyes flickered to the table, to the empty seat at the far end. Steve’s seat. “But maybe it’ll help me breathe.”   Peter shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of what to say. Wanda, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke up. “How long will you be gone?” Bucky hesitated. “I don’t know.” That answer seemed to weigh on everyone. Tony sighed dramatically, setting his mug down.     “You do realize Wakanda isn’t exactly around the corner, right?” Bucky smirked slightly. “Yeah, I got that.” Tony studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “Well. Guess we’ll just have to throw you a going-away party. Maybe a little ‘Winter Soldier Retirement’ bash. I’ll order a cake.”   Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a d@mn party, Stark.” Tony smirked. “What if I make the cake say ‘Have Fun in the Jungle’?” Bucky shook his head, but the ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Sam sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I still don’t like this.” Bucky looked at him, really looked at him.    Sam had been the most persistent, always checking on him, always making sure he was eating, training, existing. But Bucky was tired. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.” Sam held his gaze for a long moment, then finally sighed and nodded.    That was the closest thing to permission Bucky was going to get. He glanced around at the others, taking in their reactions. Some worried, some resigned, some unreadable.    But none of them tried to stop him. And that was enough. Bucky pushed his chair back, standing up and grabbing his half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. “I leave in a week,” he said simply, before turning to the sink.   The kitchen stayed quiet, but he could feel their eyes on him. He ignored it. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was making a choice for himself. And no one—not even the Avengers—was going to change his mind.      
  ———————————————————- 
    The room was dimly lit, the only source of illumination coming from the warm glow of a single lamp on Bucky’s desk. The rest of the tower was quiet, settled into the kind of silence that only came late at night, when even the city outside seemed to take a breath.     Bucky sat hunched over his sketchbook, charcoal smudged along his fingertips, his wrist moving with practiced ease as he dragged the pencil across the paper.    He had never been an artist. Not the way Steve was. Steve had drawn because the world fascinated him. He had captured faces, streets, memories—his sketchbooks were filled with life, with movement, with things he wanted to hold onto. Bucky, though? Bucky only drew ghosts.    His sketches were haunted things, etched in shades of grief and longing, each stroke of his pencil carving out a piece of something lost. And every single one of them was Steve. There was Steve as a boy, all sharp angles and too-big eyes, his bony shoulders hunched under the weight of a world that never gave him a fair fight.    There was Steve before the serum, sketching at the kitchen table, nose scrunched in concentration as he tried to capture the curve of Brooklyn’s skyline. There was Steve in uniform, the wind catching his hair as he smiled, looking every bit the hero the world had made him out to be. Steve laughing. Steve fighting. Steve standing in the golden light of a setting sun. Steve looking at Bucky like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.   Bucky’s fingers tightened around the pencil, his breath uneven as he stared down at the latest drawing. It was different from the others. Not Captain America. Not the scrawny kid from Brooklyn. Just Steve.    His face was turned slightly, eyes distant, lips parted like he was about to say something but never got the chance. The shading was softer this time, the lines delicate, as if Bucky had been afraid to press too hard, afraid to make him any less real.    A lump formed in his throat. Steve had never let him see his sketchbooks—not really. Bucky had caught glimpses, of course, but Steve was always shy about them, always embarrassed. And now, all these years later, Bucky understood.    Because every time he put Steve on paper, it was like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. Like maybe, if he got the shading just right, if he captured the angle of Steve’s jaw the way he remembered, he could trick his mind into believing—just for a second—that Steve wasn’t really gone.     But paper wasn’t skin. Charcoal wasn’t warmth. And no matter how many times Bucky drew him, Steve was never going to step out of the page. His breath shuddered out of him, and he let the pencil fall from his fingers, clattering against the desk. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.    It had been two years. Two years, and still, Steve was everywhere. In the city streets, in the mirror, in the spaces between Bucky’s ribs. In the worn pages of a sketchbook filled with ghosts.   Bucky exhaled, long and slow. Tomorrow, he would draw again. And tomorrow, Steve would still be gone. But tonight, just for a little while, he let himself believe. And maybe that was enough.    He stared at the sketch in front of him, at the face he had memorized long before he ever started drawing it.   His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for a pen, flipping the page over. He knew Steve would never read this. But maybe, just maybe, if he put the words on paper, they would stop suffocating him.    So, with a slow breath, he pressed the pen to the page and began to write.   
  Steve, 
 
  I don’t know why I’m doing this. Maybe because it’s the only way I can talk to you now. Maybe because there are things I never said, things I never let myself say, and it’s killing me. 
   
  I miss you. I miss you so much I can barely breathe some days. It’s like losing a limb—like some part of me got carved out and I’m expected to walk around pretending I don’t notice the absence. But I do. I notice it every second. 
   
  I see you everywhere. In the way the morning light slants through the windows. In the hum of the city at night. In the stupid little things—coffee rings on the table, a song on the radio, the way my own name sounds in someone else’s voice. 
  
  I’ve been drawing you. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m afraid that if I stop, I’ll forget the exact way your mouth curved when you smiled, or the way your eyes looked when you were about to laugh. 
   
  I tell myself it helps, but all it does is remind me that no matter how many times I put your face on paper, you’re not coming back. And God, Steve I wish you’d come back. 
  
  There’s something I need you to know, something I should have told you a long time ago. Something I buried so deep it nearly disappeared under the weight of everything else, but it never really went away. 
   
  I loved you. Not just as my best friend. Not just as the punk from Brooklyn who always bit off more than he could chew. Not just as Captain America, or the man who the world saw as a hero. I loved you.
    And I think, deep down, some part of me always knew. When we were kids, when we were just two boys sharing warmth on cold nights, when I walked you home after school and you looked up at me like I could move mountains. I think I knew.    When you took the serum and saved me and my team from HYDRA, taller, stronger—but still you, still Steve—I knew.    
  When we fought together, when we bled together, when we saved each other more times than we could count. When you looked at me like I was the only thing keeping you standing. I knew. And when you left—when I lost you, when you disappeared into nothing—I knew.
   I knew I loved you. And I knew I never told you. And now, it’s too late. Maybe it always was. Maybe even if I had said it, you wouldn’t have felt the same way. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything. But I’d give anything for the chance to find out.    I would have spent a lifetime loving you, Steve. I would have given you everything I had. But all I have left now is this empty space where you should be.    
  And this letter you’ll never read.
    Bucky’s grip on the pen was tight enough to hurt. He stared down at the words, his chest tight, his vision blurred.   Then, carefully, he folded the paper. He didn’t tear it up. He didn’t throw it away. Instead, he reached for his sketchbook, tucking the letter between its pages, right behind the drawing of Steve.    It wasn’t much. But it was something. And for now, that was all he had.    —————————————————-   The living room of the Avengers Tower was filled with the low murmur of conversation, They were all here. Sam was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Natasha sat beside him, idly twirling a knife between her fingers, though her eyes were distant.    Wanda was curled up in an armchair, Pietro sitting on the floor at her feet, drumming his fingers against his knee. Tony was nursing a drink, silent for once, while Bruce adjusted his glasses, looking down at nothing in particular. Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, looking younger than usual, like he didn’t quite belong in a room full of people who had seen too much.    They were all here. Except Bucky. Of course, Bucky. Sam exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “Alright, we need to talk about him.” No one needed to ask who him was. Natasha sighed. “Bucky?” “Who else?” Sam muttered. “We haven’t seen him in two days. Two! And it’s not like we were seeing him much before that.”     “He’s grieving,” Wanda said softly, fingers tracing the rim of her mug. Sam shook his head. “He’s disappearing. He barely eats, barely talks to anyone. I mean, I get it, I do—but it’s been two years. And now he wants to leave for Wakanda?”   Tony scoffed, swirling the liquid in his glass. “It’s classic Barnes. Self-imposed exile. Maybe he thinks if he runs far enough, the ghost of Rogers won’t follow him.”    “Steve wouldn’t want this for him,” Bruce said quietly. Silence followed those words, heavy and aching. Steve. Steve, who was always the first to reach out, to make sure no one was left behind. Steve, who had brought them together, who had been their leader, their friend. Steve, who had been the heart of this team, the kind of person who made you believe in something better just by standing in the room.    And now, he was gone. Gone in a way that still didn’t feel real, like they were all waiting for him to walk through the door, to crack a joke, to give one of those speeches that only he could pull off.   Peter swallowed hard, pulling his knees to his chest. “I didn’t know him as well as you guys did, but… he was kind to me. Treated me like I actually belonged here.”    “You do belong here, kid,” Natasha said, giving him a small nudge with her foot. Peter gave her a half-smile but quickly looked down. “I just mean… I get why Bucky’s having a hard time. If I lost someone like that, I don’t know what I’d do.”    “Steve was more than just a friend to him,” Wanda murmured. Everyone looked at her. She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I mean—he was his family. His only family.” No one could argue with that. Bucky and Steve had been inseparable from the beginning, from the moment they were two scrappy kids in Brooklyn, looking out for each other in a world that never made it easy. And even when war tore them apart, when decades of pain and blood separated them, they had always found their way back to each other. Until now.    Pietro sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “I think… I think he’s afraid.” “Afraid of what?” Sam asked. Pietro met his gaze. “Of living without him.”   No one spoke after that. Because they all knew the truth, even if none of them had wanted to say it out loud. Bucky Barnes was still breathing, still walking, still existing in the same world as them. But in all the ways that mattered—he was gone too.    And maybe, just maybe, they were losing him the same way they had lost Steve. Slowly. Silently. And completely.    Wanda wiped at her eyes, pretending there was nothing there. Peter sniffled but tried to hide it. Sam exhaled a quiet breath, his jaw tight. Even Tony looked unusually still.   They missed Steve.    And they were terrified of losing Bucky too. But what could they do? How do you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? The air in the living room had settled into heavy silence, the kind that came after saying too much. No one spoke. No one moved. Until sudden footsteps broke the silence.    Slow, hesitant, quiet in a way that shouldn’t have belonged to someone who had once been feared as the Winter Soldier.    Every head turned as Bucky stepped into the doorway. For the first time in two days, he was here. He looked—God, he looked tired. Not just the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that lived in his bones, that had settled into the hollows of his cheeks and the shadows beneath his eyes.    His hair was longer than before, falling into his face, and his usual sharp, unreadable expression had softened into something else. Something that looked fragile. No one spoke at first, as if saying his name too suddenly would make him turn around and disappear again.   Bucky’s eyes flickered across the room, taking them in—Sam’s careful stare, Wanda’s worried frown, Tony’s uncharacteristic quiet, Peter’s hesitant hope. Then, finally—Natasha broke the silence. “You’re out.” Bucky let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” It wasn’t much. But it was something.    Sam shifted on the couch, leaning forward. “You hungry? We were just about to—”“I’m fine.” It came out too quick. Too sharp. And they all knew what it really meant. Sam sighed but didn’t push.   Bucky hesitated, then moved further inside, leaning against the wall as if standing too close would suffocate him. His arms crossed over his chest, the metal of his left hand glinting in the low light.    For a while, no one said anything. And then— “Do you ever think about him?” It was Peter who spoke. His voice was small, careful, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to ask, but also knew what he was doing. Bucky stiffened.   “Steve,” Peter clarified, as if there was anyone else he could have meant. “Do you think about him?” Bucky’s throat tightened. He hadn’t said Steve’s name in days. Maybe longer. Maybe he had stopped counting. “Of course we do,” Wanda said softly. “Every day.” Sam nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was rough. “Not a day goes by.”    Peter swallowed “You knew him better than any of us” He looked back at Bucky. Bucky looked away. There it was. The thing they had all been avoiding. The weight of Steve’s absence, pressing down on the room, pressing down on him.     “I can’t,” Bucky murmured. Sam frowned. “Can’t what?” Bucky exhaled, shaking his head. “I can’t sit here and—talk about him like he’s some story we tell ourselves to feel better.” He looked up then, and there was something shattered in his gaze. Something raw.   “He’s not a memory,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “He’s Steve. He was here. He was—” His breath caught, and he clenched his jaw. “He was real.”    No one spoke. “I don’t need to talk about him,” Bucky muttered. “I live with him. Every d@mn second.” His voice wavered. “I wake up expecting him to be there. I turn corners thinking I’ll see him. I hear his voice in my head telling me to get my ass up when I don’t want to move.” His fingers curled into fists. “I see him in every g@dd@mn thing, and no matter how many times I remind myself he’s gone, it never feels real. So no—I don’t need to talk about him.”    His voice broke. “I need him to come back.” No one had words for that. Because they all understood. And they all knew that no matter how much they wished it— Steve wasn’t coming back.   Bucky inhaled sharply, blinking hard. His chest felt too tight, his lungs too small. He hadn’t meant to say all of that. Hadn’t meant to let them see. He pushed off the wall, heading for the door. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.   “Bucky—” But he was already gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room silent once more.   And in that silence, they grieved him just as much as they grieved Steve. Because they were losing Bucky too. And no one knew how to stop it.      ————————————————————-     
  
    Brooklyn, 1941 
  
 
  The late summer air in Brooklyn hummed with the sounds of the city—cars rolling over cobblestone streets, the chatter of pedestrians, and the distant jazz drifting from an open window. 
   
  Bucky leaned against the brick wall outside their apartment building, arms crossed over his chest, watching Steve struggle with a sketch in his lap. The pencil scratched lightly against the paper, but Bucky could tell from the slight furrow of Steve’s brow that he wasn’t happy with it.
   
   "You’re getting too in your head, pal," Bucky said, nudging Steve’s knee with his foot. Steve sighed, sitting back against the stoop. "Maybe. Or maybe it just ain’t turning out the way I want it to." Bucky grinned. "You say that every time, and every time it turns out better than anything I could draw." 
 
   
 
  Steve rolled his eyes, but Bucky saw the way his lips twitched, fighting back a smile. Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels. "Anyway, I got an idea for tonight." Steve raised a brow. "Oh yeah?" 
 
   
 "Stark Industries is doing some big expo over in Queens—showing off all the latest tech. Thought we could go check it out. I already asked Dot and Mary to come with." Steve’s expression faltered just slightly. "Right. So… a double date." Bucky tilted his head. "Yeah. What else would it be?"  
   
 
  Steve let out a breath, looking back down at his sketchbook. He dragged his pencil absently over the page, avoiding Bucky’s eyes. "You should go," he muttered. "Sounds like fun." Bucky frowned. "WE should go, you mean." Steve shook his head, still not looking at him. "Not really my scene, Buck. You know that." 
 
   
 
  Bucky scoffed. "C’mon, it’s not like we’re goin’ to some fancy club. It’s just an expo. You love that kinda stuff."
    "Yeah, well, I don’t love being ignored all night while you charm every girl in the room." Steve finally met his eyes, and his voice had that tightness to it—the one that told Bucky he meant every word but didn’t want to admit it. Bucky sighed, stepping closer. "That’s not gonna happen." Steve huffed out a dry laugh. "Sure. Because they’re all gonna look at the guy who can barely keep his head up after walking three blocks instead of the guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut steel."   
   
Bucky frowned. He hated when Steve talked like that, like he was somehow less just because the world didn’t give him the same attention. "That ain’t true," Bucky said. "Sure feels like it," Steve muttered, running his fingers over the edge of his sketchbook.    
  Bucky crouched in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees. He searched Steve’s face, and there was something there—something unsaid, something raw. Steve always did this. Always convinced himself he didn’t matter as much as everyone else, as if Bucky didn’t notice every single d@mn thing about him. 
   
  Bucky licked his lips, hesitating. Then he reached out, tapping his fingers against the side of Steve’s sketchbook. "If they don’t see you, that’s their loss." Steve glanced up, something flickering behind his eyes. "Yeah?" Bucky’s throat felt tight. "Yeah." 
 
   
 They stared at each other for a long moment. Steve’s fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the book, his knuckles going white. Bucky could hear his own heartbeat, loud in his ears. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was. What it could be—if they lived in a different world, if things weren’t the way they were. If wanting something like this didn’t make you an outcast, didn’t turn you into something people whispered about behind closed doors.     
   But they didn’t live in that world. So Bucky leaned back, forcing a smirk. "So, what do you say? You comin’ or not?" Steve shook his head, exhaling. "You go. Have fun. I’ll just stay here and—" He gestured vaguely to his sketchbook. 
    Bucky sighed, rocking back on his heels. He glanced toward the street, where the city stretched out before them, busy and alive. Then, after a long pause—he sat down next to Steve. Steve blinked. "Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?" Bucky shrugged. "Don’t feel like it." Steve looked at him, confused. "You were just talking about this thing all excited like a second ago."    
   "Yeah, well," Bucky said, resting his arms on his knees, "ain’t no fun if you’re not there." Steve swallowed. 
 
   
 
  The city kept moving around them, the lights from the streetlamps casting long shadows over the sidewalk. The sounds of laughter and distant music floated through the air, but here, on this stoop, it was quiet. Steve’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. "You didn’t have to stay." 
    Bucky tilted his head, smirking just slightly. "Sure I did." Steve looked away, but not before Bucky caught it—the faint pink dusting his cheeks and the way his fingers twitched slightly against the cover of his sketchbook.   
   

  Bucky didn’t push. He just sat there, side by side with Steve, the way they always had been. And even if it wasn’t a different world, even if this was all they could have— For now, it was enough.
      
  
  

    
      
        
        
          Hope y’all liked these 2 starting chapters🫶🏾 feel free to follow me on TikTok: @_aeywa'
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