Title: Midnight
Fandom: Captain America/Marvel
Rating: Mature
Length: ~2000
Content notes: Consent issues, dangerous behavior verging on self-destructive, violence between sexual partners, rough sex, canon-ish memory issues
Author notes: For fan-flashworks for the midnight challenge
Summary: Post-CA:TWS, the Winter Soldier visits Steve. They have sex, the Soldier always leaves right after, and Steve is never allowed to call him ‘Bucky.’




Steve had turned off the lights and was heading toward his bed. He barely heard the approach before he felt the force of it, a metal arm pressing him against the wall.

His instincts bore down on him, and his body wanted, badly, to fight, but he stayed completely still except to turn and look the Winter Soldier in the eye.

They stayed that way for a moment, the Soldier’s arm solid against Steve’s chest, the two of them staring at each other. Finally, the Soldier loosened his grip, slid his other hand gently across Steve’s jaw. His thumb pulled lightly on Steve’s lower lip.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped.

The Soldier moved back. “I’m not Bucky,” he spat.

“Okay,” Steve said, still eyeing him carefully. There was the coldness of the Winter Soldier, but something else, something animal and angry, and Steve could sense the danger, the threat of him, warring with the desire to pull the wildness closer.

“I’m not him,” he repeated, then moved closer, leaned in slowly. He ran a hand up Steve’s stomach to his chest, ran light fingernails down it. He moved closer to Steve’s face, slowly, then kissed him.

It was rough, clumsy almost. Nothing like Bucky. But Steve took him in, clung to him, moaned.

The Soldier stopped. “Why do I remember this?”

Steve felt a pit in his stomach. “We used to do this all the time.”

The Soldier looked blank, uncertain. But he moved in again, his hands tight on Steve’s hips.

Steve tensed, and the Soldier hesitated. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Steve admitted, looking away.

The Soldier moved in again, slow always, as if he knew he were a threat. He kissed at Steve’s neck, rough, groped at his body, and Steve did the same.

When they ended up on the floor, Steve getting rug burn on his back as the Soldier pushed into him, Steve closed his eyes and willed himself not to say the name “Bucky,” not to do anything that would drive him away.

—

The Winter Soldier visited again, and then again. He never wanted to talk; he showed up with a rough hunger for Steve’s body, and left when he’d had his fill.

After, Steve would lie alone, feeling empty. But he was grateful. Relieved, even.

He came a couple times a month, and Steve told no one. Instead, he would tread carefully around his own apartment at night, wondering if Bucky would come tonight, if he would remember something else the next time, if the next time he would be able to convince Bucky to stay or if the next time Bucky would try to kill him. He slept lightly, but it was at least better than when he was wandering the world after futile leads. Now he was scared to go anywhere in case he missed one of Bucky’s visits.

Not that he was allowed to say that name.

Finally, once, as the Soldier was leaving, as Steve was still lying there, sweaty and sore, Steve asked, “Why do always leave before midnight? What are you, Cinderella?”



The Soldier looked confused.



“It’s a story. Your mom used to read it to us when we were kids.”

The Soldier furrowed his brow. He seemed to think Steve was an idiot. But he answered, “I take out all the area security cams when I approach your apartment. Some of them automatically reset at midnight.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

The Soldier looked blank again. He walked out.

It was a conversation, at least, Steve thought. He didn’t move for a long time.

—

The next time, the Soldier waited until they were well into it. He was holding Steve up against the wall, pushing into his body from behind, when he paused, wrapped his arm around Steve’s neck, and whispered, “I looked up at that story.”

“What?” Steve said, flustered.

“The girl who lives in ashes. Who obeys the evil stepmother. You think that’s me?” the Soldier said angrily.

Steve tensed, acutely aware of the metal around his neck, the press of flesh inside his own body. “That’s not….”



“You think you’re the prince? You think I need you to save me?” the Soldier said angrily, squeezing his arm tighter

Steve flinched, and for some reason he desperately wanted to tell the Soldier that Bucky would never do this, that Bucky understood him better than this. Instead, he gasped out, “That’s not what I meant.”

The Soldier pulled out, then pushed Steve onto the floor. “Stop trying to save me,” he ordered.

“Maybe I need you to save me,” Steve snapped, glaring.

The Soldier looked confused again, then turned and left.

“Wait—” Steve yelled, but it was too late.

—

It was several months before the Soldier visited him again. Steve had almost lost hope.

The first time he returned, it was gentle. The Soldier moved his hands softly over Steve’s body, lips pressing against his skin, the slow movements, delicate caresses. It was good, though not as good at is had been with Bucky (Bucky knew every inch of Steve, knew just what to do and when; the Soldier had some vague sense, more like a claim than an intimacy with Steve’s body).

Steve figured this softness was as close as the Soldier knew to an apology.

When he left, Steve said nothing. It was a conversation, just smalltalk and a bad joke, that had almost driven Bucky away for good, and Steve was terrified to risk it again.

—

Still, Steve couldn’t stay quiet forever.

A couple times after, Steve said, as the Soldier was walking out the door, “Thanks for coming back.”

The Soldier turned, paused. “I still say Cinderella is a stupid story.”

The corners of his lips turned up just slightly, and Steve realized he was making a joke.

Steve smiled, nodded. “You thought it was a stupid story even when we were kids,” Steve said, hoping it wasn’t too much of a risk to speak of childhood.

“Then why did we listen to it?”

“Your sisters always wanted to hear it.”



The Winter Soldier frowned. He looked bewildered. “I had sisters?”

Steve swallowed, wondering if this would be too much. “Yeah….”

The Winter Soldier thought for a moment. “They’d probably be dead now, right? It’s been so long.”

Steve paused. Bucky’s youngest sister was still alive, living in a small town upstate. For a moment, all Steve could think was what it would be like for Bucky to see her again. If it would stir something in Bucky’s mind, if he might find an anchor in his memory that he could hold on to.

“Yeah, they’re dead,” Steve said, and the words felt like knives against his tongue.


The Soldier nodded. He walked out the door.

—

The next time, the Soldier waited for a moment before leaving, lying next to Steve on his bed.

Steve waited for him to get up, trying to savor each moment he stayed.

Finally, the Soldier said, “Bucky Barnes’ youngest sister is alive.”



Steve tensed, wondering what was coming.

“Did you see her?”

 Steve asked.

“Yes. But she didn’t see me.”



“Oh.”



“She likes to garden. Her grandchildren visit every weekend.”

“I know.”

The Soldier turned his head toward Steve. “You lied to protect her. You thought I might hurt her.” There wasn’t anger in his eyes, at least not visibly.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted to tell you.”



“Why didn’t you?”

“Bucky would’ve wanted me to protect her,” Steve said. It was the first time since that first night that Steve had said that name, and he wasn’t sure how the Soldier would react to being told that Bucky’s needs came before the Soldier’s.

The Soldier just nodded, though. He got out of bed, leaving a cold space next to Steve.

He looked down. “You’re a good friend,” the Soldier said, coldly, like it meant nothing to him.

“Thanks.”

“I won’t bother her. Bucky’s sister. I promise.”



“Okay.”

The soldier turned and left.

--

It was several months later, when the Soldier told him about a memory.

For once it was before they got started, words before bodies.

The Soldier paused for a long time, then said, "I remembered something. Going to the beach. You, my sisters, me. We were children."

"I remember that," Steve said, willing himself not to overreact, to let eagerness end the conversation before it started.

"The sun was too bright."

"Yep," Steve said, nodding.

"You cut your foot on a shell. I bandaged it with a strip of cloth from my shirt. My sisters watched."

"Yeah, that was... that was how it was."

"It's not very useful information."

"...I guess you're right."

The Soldier stopped talking then, moved in closer, pulled Steve's clothes off roughly.

After, he left without a word.

Steve couldn’t sleep all night.


—-

"I remember something else about Bucky."

"Yeah?"

"I remember the train."

Steve froze. "...Oh."

"I remember thinking that all I cared about was making sure you were okay."

Steve tried to find the words, to tell the Solider he would have done anything to save Bucky, given up anything.

"Is that why you care about Bucky? Because you owe him?" The Soldier was staring, but he didn't seem suspicious. He seemed confused.

"No. That's not why. But I owed him for a lot more than that day. A lot more."

"Oh."

"I could tell you about all the times Bucky saved me."

"No. I don't really need to know."

--

"Are you scared of me?"

"No."

"I think about killing you sometimes."

Steve made sure he didn't visibly react. "I know you're going through a lot."

"That's not how you're supposed to answer."

"How am I supposed to answer?" Steve said, letting just a little frustration show.

"I don't know. But I'm pretty sure you're messing it up." He smiled a little, and Steve let out a breath.

"Thanks for the advice."

"Sure."

--

"You saved me."

"What?" Steve asked. He was still panting for breath as the Soldier gently moved them into a comfortable spot on the bed, after a long hour of working over each other's bodies.

"Not on the helicarrier. Before. Long ago. I was being held. Experimented on. The first time."

"I wish I had gotten there sooner."

"I was wrong, I guess. When I said I didn't need you to save me. I didn't remember right."

"You remember now, though."

"It's kind of... fuzzy. I remember what happened, though."

"That's great...."

"We were close. Back then."

"Yes. Really close," Steve said hopefully.

"You know it's never going to be like that. If that's what you're hoping."

Steve carefully didn't react. "Sure."

"Good."

--

"You weren't here last time I came," the Soldier said.

"I had to go on a mission."

"I heard. You almost got killed."

"But I didn't."

"You should have been more careful."

"You here to lecture or take me to bed?" Steve said testily.

"Neither," the Soldier said, then punched him in the jaw.

Steve punched back, then waited for the response.

The Soldier walked out, and didn't return for months.

--

"Sorry about last time." The Soldier was staring at him, blank as hell.

"Thanks," Steve said warily.

"Let's go back to how it was. Just ...that...." The Soldier gestured toward the bedroom.

Steve paused. "Sure. Good idea." He tried not to show any pain.

--

The next night, the Soldier showed up again, instead of waiting the customary couple of weeks.

“I left one of my knives here,” he said abruptly.

“Did you leave it intentionally?” Steve answered, then winced. If the Soldier were looking for excuses to visit more, the last thing he should do is notice out loud.

But the Soldier just sat on Steve’s bed and gave him that stare, half blank and half angry. Finally, he said, “Cinderella lost her shoe on purpose.”

It took Steve a second, but then he broke out into a grin. 



“But I still don't need your self-righteous ass to save me,” the Soldier added wryly.

“Okay,” Steve said, then sat down carefully next to the Soldier. He realized that they had never done this - sit next to each other, side by side.

“We’re not going to be friends.”

“Okay,” Steve said, swallowing.

“I…don’t know how to be someone’s friend.”

“You used to be better at it than anyone I knew.”

The Soldier looked away. “Well, not any more.”



“…Sorry.”

The Soldier looked down, put a hand on Steve’s knee. “It’s okay. Do you want the two of us to stop doing this?”



“No. Maybe I should. But I don’t.”

“Sometimes I hate you for wanting me to be him,” the Soldier said after a long while.


“…I know.”

“Sometimes I hate you because you beat me in battle. Sometimes I hate you because I saved you from drowning in that river. Because I can’t figure out why I would do that.”

Steve was silent.

The Soldier continued, “Sometimes I hate you because you remember and I don’t. But then sometimes I think it’s easier to not remember. Like when you sit and look at old photographs and cry.”



Steve tensed. 



“Does it bother you?” the Soldier asked. “That I spy on you.”



“No.”

The Soldier sighed. “You lie to me. A lot. But I understand why.”

“Look. Even if you never remember, I’ll always consider you a friend.”

The Soldier looked at him, hard. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Steve. I can’t be a friend. If what we’re doing, if it’s not… helping you… maybe we should stop.”

Steve took a moment to process what the Soldier was telling him. The protectiveness in his voice almost made Steve dizzy.

Finally, Steve managed to say, “Please don’t stop.”

The Soldier leaned forward, pressed his forehead lightly against Steve’s. “Don’t act like you know what’s in my head. Even I don’t know what’s in my head. This won’t be a happy ending. This probably ends with one of us dead.”

Steve kissed him, lightly. “Just don’t stop coming. I don’t care about anything else.”

The Soldier turned his head. “Did Bucky ever get mad at you for rushing into bad ideas head first?”

“Every day,” Steve said, and the Soldier almost smiled.

The Soldier stood up then, turned toward the door.

“When are you coming back?” Steve asked, not caring that it sounded like pleading, just hoping desperately the Solider wouldn’t react with rage.

“In a week,” the Soldier said, voice neutral.


“Okay.”



“Next time… less talking. Okay? Let's stick to what we're good at.”



“Whatever you want.”

The Soldier walked out, not bothering to look back.

Steve stared at the door, long after it closed.