two ghosts . [stucky]

same lips red, same eyes blue

Bucky remembers Steve's eyes.

It's not a lot, and yet - it is.

They're driving, and the street lights cast watery orange beams on the road. Something with a deep bass and an English accent is playing on the radio. Steve tells Bucky he likes music with soul in it - "I can't just go around listening to noise, Buck. It has to mean something."

It has to mean something, right? That he remembered?

Blue-as-yonder, he'd thought one night, staring at the hotel ceiling as he had woken up from a fitful sleep. Blue like the sky in summer evenings, so blue it makes your heart ache. These days, there's not a lot Bucky can name. But he's trying.

They're driving to Florida, Steve tells him. Bucky asks if that's where people go to die. Steve's mouth curves in a wry smile. "Depends who you ask, Buck."

They started yesterday from Steve's hole-in-the-wall apartment in Brooklyn. Steve couldn't stand staying in DC after what happened at the Triskelion - he needed familiarity. Something to ground him after having everything he'd ever known, everything he'd ever fought for, be torn down around him.

It left Steve lost.

It left Bucky something to find.

Bucky showed up at Steve's door three months after he moved in. Steve had moved back to Brooklyn but he didn't really know why - it didn't feel the same. The bodegas were the only thing that gave him a sense of familiarity, but even then, the people who worked there looked as miserable as Steve felt. He didn't blame them - customer service was a hellscape on a good day. That's why he always made an effort to tip where he could and smile as much as his body would allow. Which wasn't much, considering the circumstances.

Anyway, Steve lived in that apartment for three months before Bucky showed up at his doorstep. Steve had brought him against his chest in a rib-crushing hug and said nothing. Bucky moved in a week later. The week after that, they were on a road trip. Bucky still isn't totally sure why.

See, the thing was, Bucky didn't know what he wanted. He had spent so long doing what other people wanted, against his will. Spending a few days in a blur of gunfire and screaming and hyper-focused tension, before being led back to a dark warehouse or bank vault like a sheep to slaughter. Steve had broken the trance. The fog from Bucky's eyes had lifted. He'd dragged Steve out of that river.

Even after all that, though, Bucky still feels like a shell. A wisp of a person - something less than human. He could eat and talk and sleep but he couldn't tell you about his favorite food or his favorite band or what side he slept better on.

He needs to know who he was - he wants to know who he is.

So he found Steve. And they were going to Florida.

Steve's hands look giant on the steering wheel. Bucky remembers slowly, like a television finding the right station through thick static - Steve's tiny hands wrapping around the paper bag his Ma packed his lunch in for school. Bucky smiles softly. It feels like a good thing to remember.

"What was my Ma's name?" Bucky asks. Steve always says Ma, even though Bucky's initial instinct is 'Mother'.

"Winnifred. Winny for short," Steve replies, glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"Best damn matzo ball soup in the neighborhood. Good after a long day in the snow," Steve continues. The creases around his eyes soften, his lips relaxing. Bucky feels the impulse to run his thumb over his skin. He contains it, and turns up the volume on the radio.

"I like this song," he says. The declaration feels like thunder and fireworks in his chest. Steve's birthday fireworks. It feels like he's found another part of himself, and tucks the feeling inside against his heart, a mother protecting her child. It feels precious.