the tables have turned | steve/bucky

chapter one | you again.

It started with a creak.

A small, barely audible groan of the floorboards that I immediately picked up on upon returning home from training day with S.H.E.I.L.D.

I froze, instantly alarmed, and listened.

It was quiet. Only the distant sound of the bustling city beyond the windows clogged the still air of my apartment. A sigh of relief pushed out of me and I chuckled to myself for being so jumpy—cool it, Rogers. You'll give yourself early grays at this rate.

EEK.

I stiffened. Inside I urged myself to ignore the sound. The building is just settling. And for just a moment I was sold on that, but then the noise was followed by a light swish and petite thud, and all rational excuses for the quiet symphony shot out of my head.

With a bag in each hand, I threw myself against the nearest wall and listened for real this time.

Eeek!

Slowly, I reached into my duffle bag and pulled out a grenade. There was no room for hesitation — I bit the pin off and rolled it into the dark living room.

"WAIT!" someone shouted.

A shape darted from the shadows and scooped up the grenade. They chucked it through my kitchen window, shattering the glass.

I threw my bags to the ground and then rushed the intruder. The individual swiftly moved to the side, dodging me with little effort.

I swung around, pivoting on my heel, and blindly jabbed at the figure in front of me.

I missed.

I struck again. And again. And again. They darted to the left, swayed to the right, and dropped to their knees; they dodged my fists like they were flying bullets.

"Stop," they warned. Their voice was deep, raspy, sounding like an old cello hitting a high note for the first time in decades. 

It was a hauntingly familiar voice.

I yielded for just a moment, and then the living room light flicked on. 

I'd recognize that face anywhere.

Bucky...

He hadn't changed a bit since the last time I'd seen him. His eyes were still sunken in and dead around the rims, and his pink lips were still pulled into that forever frown like back in D.C.

I didn't know which Bucky was standing before me — the one that tried to put a bullet in my head or the one that dragged me to shore...

I tried to read him but his poker face was well practiced. But then again, I could never tell what Bucky was thinking, not even when he was my Bucky.

"What are you doing here?"  I was panting still.

His cold stare cut right through me. He didn't even blink. He was like a statue. I thought he wouldn't respond to my question, but then his lips moved carefully.

"Steve..."

My breath hitched—I hadn't heard him say my name since the war. His voice felt like a million kamikazes hitting my chest all at the same time.

"How did you find me?" I asked him.

A long, scary, cold pause.

"I followed you."

My gaze fell to the floor. I was unable to sort my thoughts. My head was booming with all the things I wanted to say and ask, but I didn't want to scare him away...

He was as delicate as a flower, and I could either be the boot that crushed him, or the sun that breathed life back into him.

"I saw...myself... in the Smithsonian..." looking down, Bucky shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I saw... us..."

I swallowed, hard.

"You're my friend," Bucky mumbled. "My best friend."

I reached out and put my hand on Bucky's shoulder. He leaned into it, prompting me to do the rest.

I engulfed Bucky into my arms. And I stood there, squeezing him until I felt him squeeze back. A small sob escaped my lips as I dug my face into the crook of his neck.

God, I missed him.

His arms wrapped tight around me, the metal one digging into my ribs, but I didn't mind the pain.

Numbness had circulated throughout my system for long enough.

I knew that trusting him now would be suicide, but I couldn't help myself. Deep down, I'd always be that Brooklyn boy when it came to Bucky.

He needed me. I needed him.

We needed each other.