Chapter Text
The first thing Steve Rogers noticed about James Buchanan Barnes was that nobody sat next to him. Not in homeroom, not in the cafeteria, not in chemistry. Not anywhere. It wasn't like people actively avoided him. Nobody got up and moved when he entered a room. Nobody whispered when he walked by. Nobody openly disliked him. If anything, it was stranger than that. People simply left him alone. Like some unspoken agreement existed throughout the entire school.
Leave Barnes alone.
Steve noticed it during his first week. Being the new kid meant spending a lot of time observing people. Trying to figure out who was friends with who, who dated who, who the popular kids were, who the weird kids were. Normal high school stuff. But Bucky didn’t seem to fit into any of it. He existed somewhere outside the usual social circles, drifting through the hallways without ever really becoming part of the crowd. Steve would see him moving between classes with his backpack slung over one shoulder, dark hair falling messily into startling blue eyes that always seemed a little too tired. Like a ghost with a schedule. Quiet and efficient, and always alone.
Steve couldn’t figure out why he kept looking.
Maybe it was the way Bucky held himself, shoulders drawn tight like he expected impact. Maybe it was the careful way he moved, like every step had been thought through before he took it. Maybe it was the bruises Steve caught glimpses of sometimes. Fading yellow near his jaw, purple beneath one eye, a neat ring around his wrist. Or maybe it was the fact that nobody else seemed to look at him at all. That bothered Steve most. Because Bucky wasn’t invisible. People had simply decided not to see him. And the more Steve watched, the less sense it made. Bucky wasn’t rude. At least, not from what Steve had seen. Sometimes he caught him helping people. Holding a door open when someone’s hands were full. Silently passing over notes to someone who'd missed class. Pointing a lost freshman toward the right hallway before disappearing into the crowd again, usually before they could do much more than thank him. He did little things like that all the time. Then he went right back to being alone. Steve didn’t understand it.
People who were assholes had friends. People who were nice had friends. Somehow Bucky Barnes had neither. And for some reason, Steve couldn't stop thinking about it. He gave it a month. A whole month of watching from a distance, telling himself there was probably some obvious explanation he was missing. That eventually he'd see Bucky sitting with someone at lunch, talking to someone between classes, doing literally anything that proved Steve's first impression had been wrong. But it never happened. Eventually, Steve’s curiosity got the better of him. Who was Bucky Barnes? The obvious person to ask was Sam Wilson.
Steve had met Sam on his first day at the school, when he'd gotten lost trying to find the gym and somehow ended up in the band hallway instead. Sam had laughed, pointed him in the right direction, and somehow introduced him to half the student body before lunch. Steve still wasn't entirely sure how Sam knew so many people. Somehow he was friends with everyone. Teachers liked him, freshmen liked him, seniors liked him. Athletes, theater kids, honors students, it didn't seem to matter. Sam floated effortlessly between social circles, collecting friends the way other people collected action figures. More importantly, Sam knew things. Not in a malicious gossip kind of way, but people just talked to him. They trusted him, and Sam had an annoying habit of remembering everything anyone told him. If there was anyone in the school who might know something about Bucky Barnes, it was Sam.
So during lunch one day, Steve pointed across the cafeteria toward the far table by the windows, where Bucky sat alone, picking at his lunch with a textbook open in front of him, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.
"Who's that?" Steve asked, trying his best to make the question sound like nothing more than casual curiosity. Sam followed his gaze, and something flickered across his face when he realized exactly who Steve was pointing at. "Oh." he paused, schooling his expression back into neutral. "That’s Barnes." Steve waited for him to continue, but Sam said nothing else. Steve kept waiting, watching as Sam suddenly became very interested in the fries on his tray. Eventually, his eyes narrowed. "Stop doing that." Sam looked up. “Doing what?”
“You clearly know more, but you’re not saying anything.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.” Steve gave him a look, and Sam lasted approximately two seconds before sighing. "I don't really know much." Steve raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. Sam immediately looked uncomfortable. "Okay, that's a lie." Steve’s expression lit up. "I knew it!"
Sam glanced toward Bucky again, lowering his voice slightly despite the fact that nobody nearby seemed remotely interested in their conversation. "Nobody really knows him." Steve looked across the cafeteria. Bucky still hadn't looked up from his book. "Nobody?" His brows pulled together. “Not really.” Sam leaned back in his chair. "I mean people know of him. But that's different." Across the room, Bucky turned a page, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh. Steve thought he looked exhausted. "So he doesn't have any friends?" Steve asked. "Not really." Sam replied.
"Why?"
"No clue." Sam paused for a moment, before adding. "People have tried." That got Steve's attention. His gaze snapped back to Sam. "What happened?" Sam laughed softly. "Nothing." Steve’s expression turned confused "What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean exactly that." Sam gestured vaguely toward Bucky. "People have talked to him. He’ll talk back. He’s polite, helps people out sometimes in class. But that’s as far as anyone gets."
“Why?” Sam shrugged. “Because Barnes never gives you anything. Ask him how his weekend was, he'll say fine. Ask what he's doing after school, he'll say nothing. Invite him somewhere, he's busy. Eventually people stop asking.” Steve’s eyes drifted back to Bucky. He was scribbling something down in his notebook now, completely absorbed in whatever he was working on while the rest of the cafeteria buzzed around him. Steve found himself wondering how many lunches he'd spent exactly like this. Reading. Studying. Finding something to occupy himself with so he didn't have to acknowledge the empty seats around him. "Maybe he just likes being alone." He concluded, but even as he said it, the words sounded wrong even to his own ears.
"Maybe." Sam tilted his head, considering Bucky for a moment. "But I don't think that's all of it." There was something in his tone that made Steve look back at him. "What?" Sam hesitated, and Steve waited. Sam looked as if he was debating whether to continue, but one look at Steve sent him over the edge. Steve was persistent, and he already knew he wasn’t going to let this go. He continued with a sigh. "There are rumors." Steve groaned immediately. "Of course there are." Sam laughed. "It's high school, man. There are rumors about everybody!"
"Fair." For a second, neither of them spoke. Sam looked down at his hands, his expression turning slightly more serious before he continued. "Some people think he has anger issues or something." Steve blinked. "What?"
"You've seen the bruises, right?" The question made Steve pause. Because yes, he had. A fading black eye last week. A split lip once. Bruises circling one wrist that Steve had only caught because Bucky's sleeve had ridden up when he'd reached for a book in English. Little injuries that appeared and disappeared without explanation, replaced eventually by something new. Steve noticed things like that. "Some people think he gets into fights." Steve frowned, looking back across the cafeteria. Bucky was still reading, eating his lunch one small bite at a time, completely detached from the chaos surrounding him. Steve tried to imagine him picking fights in parking lots or throwing punches for the hell of it. The image didn’t fit. "Does he?"
"No idea."
Another pause passed before Sam continued. “But that, plus the Walker thing, and the fact that he doesn't talk to anybody...” He shrugged. “Suddenly people think Barnes spends his weekends fighting people behind gas stations. You know how rumors work.” Steve barely seemed to hear the last part. His brows had already pulled together. “What Walker thing?” Sam looked at him. “John Walker. He's one of the linebackers on the football team.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“He and Barnes got into it freshman year.” That immediately caught Steve's attention. “Got into it how?”
“Listen man, I don’t know the details of how it started, all I know is that Walker apparently called him a freak or something.” Steve’s expression soured. “Charming.”
“Yeah, well, Barnes wasn’t a fan either.” The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched. “He punched him.” Steve blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yep. Right in the face.” Despite himself, Steve almost smiled. “Good for him.” Sam laughed. “Honestly? Walker deserved it. But they both got dragged to the principal's office, parents got called, whole shitshow. From what I heard, it got handled pretty quickly.” He paused, his amusement fading slightly. “Then Barnes showed up the next morning with a nasty black eye, and looking like he could barely fucking stand.” Steve's faint smile disappeared. “Was it Walker?”
“Nobody knows.” Sam shook his head. “Walker looked completely fine, and Barnes wouldn't tell anyone what happened. People figured maybe they'd gotten into it again after school and Barnes just took the worst of it.” Steve frowned. Something about that explanation didn't sit right with him. “So everyone just assumed Walker beat the shit out of him?”
“Pretty much. Or someone else did. Depends who you ask.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “That's kind of how the whole fighting thing started. Barnes punches Walker once, shows up bruised the next day, and suddenly every time he comes to school with another busted lip or black eye, people assume he's been fighting again.” Steve looked across the cafeteria. Bucky was still reading, completely oblivious to the conversation happening across the room. “And nobody knows if that’s true?”
“Nope. All we know is Walker is still an asshole, and people still avoid Barnes because of it.” Steve looked back toward where Bucky sat. He had finally stopped writing. He sat with his chin propped on one hand, staring out at the football field beyond the glass. For the first time since Steve had started watching him, he wasn't reading or taking notes or pretending to be busy. He just looked tired. The kind that sat bone deep. Steve’s frown deepened. "Did anybody ever ask him?" Sam glanced over. "Ask him what?"
"Where the bruises come from." Sam's expression shifted slightly. "Sure. A couple people."
"And?"
"And he said he's fine." Steve's jaw tightened slightly. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“He says he’s fine and everyone just… leaves it at that?” Sam studied him for a second before letting out a long sigh. “See? This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you any of this.” Steve's brows pulled together. "What?"
"You've got that look." Sam pointed accusingly at him with a fry. "What look?"
"The one where you've decided somebody is your problem now."
Steve opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because annoyingly, Sam wasn't entirely wrong. The bell rang before he could think of a response. Around them, the cafeteria immediately erupted into motion. Chairs scraped against the floor. Conversations were cut off mid-sentence. Students gathered backpacks and headed toward the exits in noisy groups. Across the room, Bucky moved too. He closed his textbook, slipped it into his bag, before standing and flinging it over his shoulder. Just another student heading to class. Except he wasn’t. Because nobody said goodbye to him. Nobody called his name or waited for him to catch up. Nobody fell into step beside him as he joined the crowd heading for the doors. And Bucky never looked around to see if anyone would. That was what bothered Steve the most. He simply walked away alone, like he'd done this so many times that he no longer expected anything different. Steve watched him weave through the crowd, disappearing between groups of students without anyone seeming to notice.
Maybe Sam was right. Maybe Bucky really did prefer being alone. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of it. The exhaustion. The bruises. The way he never seemed to let anyone get close enough to know him. Maybe Steve was reading too much into things that were none of his business.
But no. Steve didn’t buy it. Not completely. Because people who wanted to be alone usually looked comfortable in their solitude. Bucky looked isolated. There was a distinct difference. Steve didn't know what that difference meant. He didn't know Bucky. Had never even spoken to him. For all he knew, Sam was right and Bucky would tell him to fuck off the second he tried. But Steve was tired of watching from a distance. Tired of wondering. And there was really only one way to find out.
Steve stood abruptly. Sam looked up at him with immediate suspicion. "What are you doing?" Steve grabbed his backpack and swung it over his shoulder. Across the cafeteria, Bucky was already halfway to the exit, slipping through the crowd uninterrupted like always. Steve smiled. "Making a bad decision." Sam groaned. "Oh no."
"Yep."
"Man, you've known this guy for exactly zero minutes." Steve started walking. "Technically true."
"And yet you're doing this anyway."
"Also true."
Sam shook his head, apparently deciding there was no point trying to stop him. "Good luck, man." He called after him. Steve laughed and headed across the cafeteria. He moved quickly, weaving between students heading toward their next classes, keeping his eyes on the dark-haired boy steadily getting farther away. Bucky reached the cafeteria doors just as Steve finally caught up. "Hey."
Bucky stopped in his tracks, his shoulders tensing as he slowly turned. And for the first time, Steve found himself on the receiving end of those bright blue eyes he'd only ever caught glimpses of from across classrooms and crowded hallways. They were even more striking up close, a clear, almost startling shade of blue that might have been beautiful if they weren't watching Steve with such immediate caution. His gaze flickered over Steve's face like he was searching for something, trying to figure out what he wanted before he'd even opened his mouth. Almost like he was already bracing himself for the insult. More than anything, though, he looked confused. Like people didn't approach him often enough for him to know what to do when someone did. Like he genuinely couldn't imagine why Steve would want to talk to him. "You're Bucky Barnes, right?" Bucky blinked, clearly caught off guard by the fact that Steve knew his name at all. His eyes searched Steve's face again, that wary uncertainty sharpening as though he were trying to work out where this was going. "Yeah?" He paused. "Do I know you?" Steve stuck out his hand, still smiling. "No. But I think we should fix that."
For several seconds, Bucky simply stared at him, waiting for the catch. When none came, his gaze dropped to the outstretched hand. People talked to him when they had to. Group projects happened. Classmates occasionally asked to borrow notes or a pencil. But nobody ever sought him out like this. Not anymore. Most people left him alone, which was exactly how he liked it. Or at least that's what he told himself.
Bucky stared at the outstretched hand, then at Steve, then back at the hand. For a brief moment, he genuinely wondered if this was some kind of prank. The setup certainly felt familiar enough. Get the weird kid's attention. Watch him fall for it. Laugh afterward. It wouldn't exactly be original. But if that was the plan, Steve Rogers was putting on an impressive performance. His smile looked genuine. There wasn't a trace of mockery hiding behind it, no sideways glance toward some group of friends waiting for the punchline. Just open, uncomplicated friendliness, which somehow made the whole situation even stranger.
Steve, unfortunately, showed no signs of leaving. His hand remained extended, that patient smile still plastered on his face, waiting for Bucky to respond. "This is weird." The words escaped before Bucky could stop them. Steve grinned. "Is it?"
"You don't know me."
"Nope."
"Then why are you talking to me?" Steve seemed to consider that for a moment before shrugging, like the answer was obvious. "You looked lonely." He finally dropped his hand, apparently realizing Bucky had no intention of releasing the death grip he had on his backpack long enough to shake it. Bucky blinked. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? He'd been prepared for a joke, an insult, maybe even a prank. He hadn't been prepared for you looked lonely, delivered with complete sincerity by a stranger who was already confusing enough without being unfairly good-looking on top of it. For a second, Bucky forgot how to respond. Steve took his silence as encouragement. "Also Sam said nobody talks to you." Bucky furrowed his brows. "Wilson."
"I take it you know him."
"Unfortunately."
Steve laughed. The sound was warm. Easy. Careless in a way Bucky couldn't remember ever being. The kind of laugh that made him wonder what it must feel like to move through the world without constantly waiting for something to go wrong. Bucky felt his chest ache. He didn't know what to do with a sound like that. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Steve was still smiling, like this was a completely normal occurrence to him. Walking up to a complete stranger and just announcing they should be friends. Bucky couldn't decide if he found it charming or deeply concerning.
"So." Steve shifted his backpack higher on one shoulder. "I'm Steve."
"I know." Bucky responded too fast, the regret instantly washing over him. He looked away, towards the class he was originally walking towards, wondering if he should just start walking away right now. Steve blinked. "Oh." The surprise vanished, replaced by a grin. "You're new," Bucky added, because apparently his mouth had decided it was participating in this conversation whether he liked it or not. Steve's grin widened. "So you noticed me." He said playfully. "No." Bucky’s reply came too fast again. And yes, maybe he was lying, because who hadn't noticed the new kid? Steve was 6’2, broad-shouldered, blond, and looked like he'd walked straight out of some painfully stereotypical all-American advertisement. He wasn't exactly easy to miss.
"You just knew my name by accident?" Bucky squinted at him as Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. The worst part was that he wasn't even trying to be smug. He was just genuinely delighted, like he'd discovered some fascinating piece of information. Bucky hated how infectious it was. And to make it worse, some traitorous part of him wanted to smile back. "You're annoying." It was supposed to put some distance back between them, but even Bucky could hear there wasn't enough bite behind it. What the hell was wrong with him? Usually this part was easy. Put the walls up. Tell whoever was bothering him to fuck off. Make it clear he wasn't interested until they finally got the message and left him alone. Except every time Bucky reached for the words, they refused to come.
"Wow. And here I thought this was going pretty well." Bucky stared at him. “What part of this is going well?” Steve gestured vaguely between them. “I mean… You haven’t left yet.” Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again. Annoyingly, Steve had a point. "W-Well, I was about to." He shifted his weight, as though preparing to leave might somehow make the claim more convincing. It didn't. He was still standing there. Steve laughed. That same warm and easy laugh that sent a wave of emotion through Bucky’s chest. He couldn’t understand how someone could laugh so naturally. For a brief second, he found himself wondering what it would be like to move through the world like that. To laugh without thinking first, to talk to people without fearing they might get too close. The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
When Bucky looked at him again, Steve was still watching him expectantly. Like he was waiting for Bucky to continue the conversation. Like he hadn't already done more than enough. Bucky should leave. He’d literally just said he was going to. Somehow, he finally managed to get his legs to cooperate, adjusting the grip on his backpack as he turned and started walking towards class. A second later, footsteps fell into rhythm beside him. Bucky glanced over, and saw Steve was still there, a smile still plastered across his face. Still acting like this was completely normal. Like they were already friends. Bucky shook his head. "You're seriously coming with me?"
"Looks that way."
"Why?"
Steve considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "No reason." The lie was so obvious that Bucky almost laughed. Almost. Instead he rolled his eyes and kept walking. Steve matched his pace without missing a step. And for reasons he couldn't begin to explain, Bucky found himself letting him. Which was where he made his first mistake.
They walked in silence for a few seconds, and to Bucky's surprise, it wasn't awkward. Steve seemed perfectly content beside him, apparently requiring neither conversation nor permission to continue following him. "So how long have you gone to school here?" Steve asked. "Since freshman year." Bucky answered, keeping his eyes forward. "That's rough."
Bucky frowned. "What is?"
"Being here before me." Against all odds, a laugh escaped Bucky. Small and unexpected. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him laugh, and the realization startled him. Upon hearing Bucky’s laugh, Steve's entire face lit up. “Holy shit. I made you laugh.” Steve teased, making Bucky’s cheeks turn a darker shade, his smile disappearing immediately. “W-What?” He stopped walking, trying to compose himself. “It’s good to know you have a sense of humor.” Steve stopped as well. “I don’t have one.” Bucky quickly replied, resuming his stride. He couldn't believe Steve had actually made him laugh. “You literally just laughed.” Steve said, matter of fact. “I was laughing at you.” Bucky mumbled. “Because you sounded ridiculous..” At that, Steve laughed. “I’ll take it.” Bucky rolled his eyes.
The hallway was beginning to fill as students moved between classes. People streamed around them in every direction. Most of them didn't even glance at Bucky. A few looked surprised to see Steve talking to him, but Steve didn’t seem to notice any of the strange looks. Or maybe he noticed but just didn’t care. Bucky couldn't tell which possibility was stranger. "So what class do you have?" Steve asked.
"History." Steve immediately grimaced. “Good luck.” Bucky glanced over at him. “Why?”
“I hate history.” His brows pulled together. “What's wrong with history?”
“It's boring.” Bucky looked almost personally offended. “N-No, it’s not.” Steve turned toward him, amusement immediately creeping into his expression at how quickly Bucky had jumped to its defense. “Oh, you're one of those people.” Bucky's eyes narrowed. “What people?”
“The people who actually like history.”
“There's nothing wrong with liking history.”
“Sure.” Steve nodded, clearly unconvinced. “And let me guess. Your favorite subject is math.” Bucky stared at him, because yes, that was one of his favourites, along with English. But that was completely irrelevant. “No.” Steve's grin widened. “It is, isn't it?”
“I-I didn’t say that.”
“You didn't have to.” Bucky rolled his eyes, fighting against the smile threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah? And let me guess. Your favorite subject is gym?” Steve's mouth dropped open. Bucky felt a tiny spark of satisfaction. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Bucky gestured vaguely at him. “I mean…” Steve looked down at himself, then back at Bucky. “You mean what?” Bucky's smile was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress. “Nothing.” He shrugged, innocently. “No, no.” Steve pointed at him. “You can't just gesture at my entire body and say nothing.” That did it. A small laugh escaped Bucky before he could stop it. Steve’s face lit up at the sound, and Bucky realized his mistake approximately half a second too late. “You laughed again.” Bucky’s smile vanished instantly. “No, I didn't. You’re seeing things.” He schooled his expression into something aggressively neutral and looked straight ahead. “Maybe all that gym has damaged your brain.” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, fuck you.” Bucky's lips twitched again. “Sounds like I was right.”
It wasn't until they reached the end of the hallway that Bucky seemed to remember where they were, the noise of the school rushing back in around them and breaking the strange little bubble he'd somehow fallen into with Steve. He hadn't even realized how far they'd walked. His history class was down the hall to the left, and Steve would have to go wherever his next class was, and that would be it. For a second, neither of them spoke, and then Bucky realized something horrifying. He didn’t want the conversation to end. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. This was exactly why he didn't do this. Why he didn't let people follow him to class or make him laugh or stand around smiling at him like they genuinely enjoyed his company. Because eventually that warmth started spreading through his chest. Eventually he started wondering what would happen if the conversation lasted another five minutes. Eventually he started wanting. And wanting things had never ended well for him. Bucky tightened his grip around the strap of his backpack, swallowing over the lump in his throat.
“My class is this way.” He managed. "Oh." For the first time since Steve had approached him, some of the endless enthusiasm slipped from his expression. He looked almost disappointed. The sight sent another painful twist through Bucky's chest. "It was nice talking to you, Bucky." The smile he received in return was so genuine it almost hurt. Bucky didn’t deserve a smile like that. He looked away. "Yeah." Brilliant response, truly incredible work, Barnes. But Steve didn't seem to mind. "I'll see you around."
Every instinct Bucky possessed immediately screamed at him to put a stop to that. This had already gone too far. One conversation was one thing. One stupid conversation with the new kid he'd probably never speak to again. That was fine. But the promise of next time was different. The promise of more conversations made this into something dangerous. He couldn’t let that happen.
"Probably not." The words came out sharper than intended. Steve blinked. Bucky forced himself to continue before he could change his mind. "It was just a conversation." There. That should do it. Any normal person would understand the message. Steve would realize Bucky wasn't interested, find someone significantly less complicated to bother, and by tomorrow this entire interaction would be forgotten. Instead, Steve’s smile slowly returned. Wider this time. Bucky’s stomach dropped. Oh, he’d fucked up. "I'll definitely see you tomorrow then." Bucky stared at him. "No."
"Yep."
"No."
Steve started backing away down the hallway, still grinning. "See you tomorrow, Buck!"
Bucky's brain snagged on the nickname. Buck? "Don't call me that!", Bucky yelled after him. Steve's laugh echoed down the hallway before he disappeared around the corner. And then Bucky was alone again. He stood there for another second, staring at the place Steve had disappeared. The hallway hadn't changed. Students still moved around him. Conversations overlapped in the distance. Everything was exactly the way it had been ten minutes ago. Except Bucky. His heart was still racing, that strange warmth refusing to leave his chest no matter how badly he wanted it to. Every logical thought in his head told him this was a problem. Steve was a problem. He needed to stay away from him. And yet, as Bucky finally forced himself toward history, one thought followed him all the way down the hall.
Was Steve actually going to show up tomorrow?
God he hoped not. The warmth in his chest suggested otherwise.
_________
The feeling of warmth lasted exactly twenty-three minutes. That was how long it took Bucky to get home. Twenty-three minutes of replaying every stupid thing Steve Rogers had said. Every grin, every joke, every stupid mundane question he’d asked. It was ridiculous. The guy had talked to him for less than ten minutes. Bucky should have forgotten about it already. Instead he kept hearing it. You looked lonely. Nobody had ever said something like that to him before. Not like it was a problem worth solving. Not like it mattered. By the time he reached the front gate, Bucky had almost convinced himself it meant nothing. Steve was new, that was all. He didn’t know any better. He would soon understand that Bucky wasn’t worth it. That there were other, better friends he could have. Tomorrow he would find real friends. Normal friends. And then he would forget all about Bucky, and Bucky would accept this and move on as if nothing had happened at all. The thought should have made him feel relieved, but instead something unpleasant settled in his chest. Disappointment. He couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around what this meant.
He opened the front door before he could think about it any further. And just like that, the feeling disappeared. The house had a way of doing that. Every good thing seemed to evaporate the moment he stepped inside.
"James."
His stomach dropped. Bucky's head snapped toward the voice. Rumlow was leaning against the wall farther down the hallway, arms crossed loosely over his chest as if he'd been standing there waiting for him. Bucky hadn't even noticed him when he'd walked in. His dark clothes blended into the dim hallway, his expression unreadable as he watched Bucky from across the space. This wasn't unusual. If Pierce wasn't home, Rumlow was. It had been that way for years. Pierce didn't like leaving Bucky alone, so whenever work, meetings, or one of his endless trips took him away from the house, Rumlow took his place. He was there when Bucky got home from school, there when he ate dinner, there until Pierce returned. Sometimes he stayed even after that. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd had the house completely to himself. Pierce liked knowing where Bucky was, what he was doing, who he was with. And when Pierce couldn't be there to make sure, Rumlow was.
Bucky stopped just inside the doorway. Something in his posture changed before he even consciously registered doing it. His shoulders drew inward. His grip tightened around the strap of his backpack. His gaze dropped automatically toward the floor. The version of himself that had walked through the school hallways barely twenty minutes ago disappeared almost instantly. Rumlow had a way of making him feel small without even trying.Bucky quietly dropped his backpack beside the door. "G-Good afternoon, sir." Rumlow didn't answer. The silence immediately made Bucky nervous. He stood there for another few seconds before risking a glance up. Rumlow was still watching him. Bucky's stomach tightened. “What?” Rumlow finally asked. His gaze dropped again immediately. “Nothing.”
“I said, what?”
Bucky's heart gave an uncomfortable thud. “N-Nothing, sir.” Rumlow pushed himself away from the wall. Bucky went completely still. There was nothing particularly dramatic about the movement, but Bucky's stomach tightened anyway. He knew that look. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The tension settling into his jaw. He'd already done something wrong. He just didn't know what yet. Rumlow stopped a few feet away. “You look happy.” Bucky's heart skipped. For one horrible second, Steve's face flashed through his mind. That stupid grin. The way he'd laughed when Bucky called him annoying. The ridiculous confidence with which he'd announced that he would see him tomorrow. Bucky shoved the memory away. “I-I don't, sir.” Rumlow's eyebrows lifted slightly. Bucky instantly wished he could take the answer back. “No?”
“No, sir.”
“You were smiling when you walked in.” Dread coursed through him. He hadn't even realized. The version of Bucky that had laughed in the hallway with Steve Rogers wasn't supposed to follow him home. That person didn't exist here. At school, sometimes Bucky could almost pretend he was like everyone else. He could sit through class, read his books, get perfect grades and disappear into the crowd. But at home, that boy didn’t exist. Here there were expectations. The moment he stepped through that door, he was whatever Pierce or Rumlow needed him to be. Quiet. Obedient. Grateful. Above all else, grateful. That lesson had been drilled into him for as long as he could remember. Ever since Alexander Pierce had found him. Or rescued him, depending on who was telling the story.
Bucky's memories of his parents were fragmented at best. A cramped apartment. Empty cupboards. The smell of cigarette smoke. Adults who disappeared for days at a time and came back acting strange. Hunger that settled into his stomach so often it eventually started feeling normal. Then Pierce had appeared, like something out of a movie. Rich and powerful and important. He'd given Bucky a bedroom bigger than the apartment he'd grown up in. Clean clothes, regular meals, school. A future. That was the story Bucky had heard since he was six, repeated often enough that it had stopped feeling like a story at all. It was simply the truth. Pierce had saved him. Pierce had chosen him. Pierce had spent more money on him than Bucky could ever hope to repay. Therefore Bucky owed him everything. Whenever he complained, Pierce reminded him where he'd come from. Whenever he struggled, Pierce reminded him how lucky he was. Whenever Bucky wanted something Pierce didn't approve of, he was reminded that none of this had ever been guaranteed. After enough years, the message had settled somewhere too deep to question. Engraved into his very soul. Bucky didn’t belong to himself. Not really. He belonged to the man who had taken him in. And whatever he wanted, Bucky would do. Whoever Pierce wanted him to be, Bucky would be. Bucky was nothing but a clean slate, ready to satisfy any way he could. Through his grades, his obedience, his attitude.
Rumlow's voice pulled him sharply back into the hallway. “What happened at school?” he took another step closer. "Nothing." The answer came too quickly. Both of them knew it. Rumlow's expression darkened, and Bucky felt the last of the tiny spark of happiness Steve Rogers had left behind begin to flicker out. “Try again.” Bucky swallowed. “I-It was just a normal day.” The hit came out of nowhere, a backhand straight across his cheek that pulled a startled yelp from him. His head snapped to the side, pain blooming hot across his face. When had Rumlow gotten that close? Bucky barely had time to recover before a hand tangled roughly into his hair. Rumlow shoved him backward, knocking his head hard against the door behind him. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself not to make another sound.
“You know what your problem is?” Bucky's heart hammered against his ribs. “You think you're a better liar than you are.”
"I wasn't-" Rumlow pulled his head away from the door only to knock it against the wood again, harder this time. “Don't.” Bucky immediately fell silent. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he blinked rapidly, refusing to let them fall. “You walked through that door smiling.” Bucky flinched. It was barely a reaction, a tiny tightening of his shoulders, a hitch in his breath, but Rumlow caught it anyway. His grip remained firm in Bucky's hair. “So something happened.” Bucky tried to shake his head, but Rumlow's grip made the movement impossible. “N-No, sir.”
“No?” Rumlow studied him for a moment. Bucky could feel his eyes moving over his face, searching for something, and he desperately tried to make his expression blank. “Get a good grade?” Bucky hesitated, confused by the sudden question. “N-No?” Rumlow gave his hair another sharp tug, causing him to wince. “Teacher say something nice?”
“No, sir.”
“Something happen in class?” Bucky shook his head again as much as Rumlow's grip allowed. “No.” Rumlow didn't respond immediately, he just kept watching him. Bucky's scalp was beginning to burn where Rumlow's fingers were tangled in his hair, his cheek still stinging from the slap and the back of his head throbbing where it had struck the door. He wanted desperately to pull away, but he knew better than to try. So he stayed exactly where Rumlow had put him, breathing shallowly through his nose and trying not to give him anything else. “So it wasn't school.” Bucky’s pulse spiked. Rumlow’s eyes narrowed. “It was someone.” Bucky froze. Shit. Rumlow went very still. Bucky knew immediately that he'd reacted. He didn't know how. Maybe his eyes had changed, maybe he'd stopped breathing, or maybe Rumlow simply knew him too well. But he'd seen it. Rumlow's grip tightened again, sending another painful pull across Bucky's scalp. “So you lied to me.”
“I-I’m not lying, sir, please-”
“Who was it?” The question brought Bucky straight back to reality. His mouth went dry. How could he have let this happen? How had he let Steve get into his head so completely that Rumlow had noticed the second he'd walked through the door? They'd barely talked for ten minutes, yet that stupid grin had followed Bucky all the way home. The way Steve had looked genuinely happy just to talk to him. The way he'd laughed. See you tomorrow, Buck. It all felt like a dangerous dream now. “N-No one talked to me I swear.”
"Stop fucking lying." Rumlow's fingers tightened painfully in his hair, forcing Bucky's head farther back. His expression remained cold and unreadable, but Bucky could see it in his eyes. He wasn't buying a single word. Bucky stayed silent, focusing on breathing. On keeping his face as blank as possible. On not thinking about Steve. “You’re really asking for it, aren’t you.” Rumlow growled, pushing his body against Bucky’s. He had nowhere to go, hard wood against his back, and Rumlow’s hard muscled body against his front. He hated it. The feeling of being trapped like this. The smell of Rumlow’s cologne invading his nose as he leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I hope whoever you’re trying to protect is worth it.” Bucky once again stayed quiet. He knew nothing he would say would stop what was about to happen. When Rumlow got like this the only thing he could do was be as pliant as possible. Take the path of the least amount of pain. Years of dealing with this had taught him there was no point trying to stop the bigger man. He would take what he wanted, no matter what Bucky said or did. No matter if he struggled or not.
“Come here.” Rumlow dragged him by his hair from the door, over to the living room couch, pushing him down on his stomach over the armrest. Bucky didn’t fight, stumbling along and trying his best not to fall over his feet as Rumlow kept pulling painfully at his hair. Once he was face down in the pillows, he clutched at the pillows of the couch, bracing for the pain to come. Knowing what was about to happen next didn’t make it any easier. But this is what he deserved. Not the sunshine Steve had brought him today. What happened today was a mistake. An anomaly. This would remind him. This would put him in his place. What had happened today couldn’t happen again.
He felt his pants be dragged down to his knees and his shirt be dragged up to expose his back. Naked skin exposed to the air, Bucky shivered, clutching the pillows tighter. “Count them out loud. If you stop, I start from the beginning. Understood?” He could hear the grin in Rumlow’s voice. He loved this. Even if he told Bucky he didn’t enjoy punishing him, Bucky knew he was lying. Rumlow never ran out of reasons to make him suffer. No rule needed to be broken for him to find an excuse. And Bucky had learned to know when it was inevitable, and when it could be avoided. “Understood?” Rumlow repeated, bringing his hand down hard against the skin of his ass. “Y-Yes, sir!” Bucky yelped, gritting his teeth against the flash of pain. He was still bruised from the last time Rumlow had decided he’d done something wrong, which wasn’t more than three days ago. “Good. Now let’s start.” Bucky heard the distinct sound of a belt unbuckling, swallowing down his fear of what that meant. The hand was bad, but the belt was worse.
The first hit landed on his upper back, shooting searing hot pain through him. “One!” He yelled out, trying his best to stay still, despite how badly it hurt. If he moved, Brock would hurt him more, so he stayed as still as possible. Each hit arrived with a loud crack against his skin, hurting worse and worse for each one, but despite this, Bucky kept counting, focusing as hard as he could on the numbers. Each hit was carefully measured, perfectly placed to cause the maximum amount of pain, while also making sure it wouldn't be visible to others at school tomorrow. A perfect system that had been refined over the years. Under his clothes there would be a constellation of bruises and cuts from the belt, but only he would know. That’s how he was reminded of his place. Of who he owed his life to.
He had counted to 20 when it finally stopped. Bucky stayed still, face buried in the pillow, not wanting to move a single muscle, fearing that any movement might provoke him again. He tried to ignore the smell of Rumlow’s cologne, the sound of his breathing right next to him. The feeling of being watched even as he remained still. The silence stretched, and for a split second, Bucky dared to hope he might actually be safe, that Rumlow might be done for tonight. Then he heard the distinct sound of Rumlow’s zipper being pulled down, and Bucky had to physically stop himself from flinching. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on breathing through his nose. One breath in. One breath out. He could do this. Rumlow had done this before. He would do it again. All Bucky had to do was lay there. Rumlow’s heavy weight settled over him, and he felt the intrusion slowly enter, tearing him open. Bucky bit back a whimper, not quite able to stop himself “P-Please-”. He cried. He hated that he always cried.
Rumlow ignored his plea, pushing all the way in with a groan of pleasure. “Fuck you feel so good like that” He praised, before grabbing his hips and starting to pound into him, hard and fast. Rumlow’s heavy body pinned him down, a suffocating blanket of muscle and malice. The rough fabric of Rumlow’s uniform chafed against Bucky’s back, a counterpoint to the searing pain inside him. Every thrust was a violation, a reminder of his powerlessness. “This is what you were made for. Fuck-” Rumlow groaned, pounding in and out in a steady rhythm. Bucky couldn’t keep his whimpers back anymore. It was too much. Everything was too much. The lashes all across his back and backside, the intrusion ramming into him, using him. Rumlow’s words, drilling into his brain like a parasite. “If only the kids at school saw you like this. You think anyone would want to talk to you? Knowing you’re just a used up fuck-toy?” Bucky cried out, he couldn’t take it anymore. “S-Sir, please-” At that, Rumlow grabbed his hair, pulling his head back at an awkward angle, somehow making the pain even worse. “Shut up! This is what you deserve.” He spat, continuing his relentless pace. “You come home smiling, lying to me about it and think you can just walk away?! I’m doing this for your own good. This is what you need, James.” Bucky had heard it all before, he knew it was true. So why had he let himself forget it today. Steve had barely spoken to him, yet he’d had such an effect on him. Bucky needed to remember his place. The pain was what he deserved. What he needed. He should be grateful to Rumlow for giving him this reminder. Bucky tried to go somewhere else until Rumlow would finish. Anywhere else would do. He tried to think about school. About a homework assignment he had to do. About a book he had read. About the blue eyes of a boy who had smiled at him like he was someone worth smiling at. A boy who had called him Buck.
But those thoughts were washed away by the pain, and the shame, and the feeling of being used, like he always did. When it was over, Rumlow left him there, stretched over the couch armrest. He didn’t dare move until the bigger man had left the room, not wanting to accidentally set him off again.
The house was silent by the time Bucky finally made it to his room. Silent except for the sound of his own labored breathing from the exertion of trying to move around with his fresh wounds. He made it to the shower, slowly undressed, then walked under the spray. He tried his best to scrub away the feeling of Rumlow’s hands on him, but nothing would make the pain and shame go away. Bucky lost track of how many times he had scrubbed his body, but the water suddenly running cold was an indicator that he had been in the shower long enough. He reluctantly stepped out and dried himself off, deliberately avoiding the mirror. Seeing himself after what had happened today would be all too much for him to handle.
It was hard to feel like doing anything after the events of the afternoon, but Bucky forced himself toward his desk anyway. Homework. That was what normal people did. That was what he always did. No matter what happened, there were assignments to finish. Tests to study for. Essays to write. Pierce expected excellence from him, no matter what he endured, no matter how little sleep he got. If his grades as much as slipped to a B, there would be hell to pay. And Bucky did not want that to happen. So life kept moving, and so did he. At least, he tried as much as he could.
With a small groan, he lowered himself into his desk chair, feeling the sting as he sat down on his newly made bruises and cuts. He ignored the dull throbbing and opened his history textbook. The familiar pages stared back at him. Words, dates, paragraphs. Normally he would have been halfway through a chapter by now, but tonight, he couldn’t even get past one sentence. His eyes moved across the page, but his brain refused to process what his eyes were reading. With a sigh, he rubbed at his tired eyes. This was useless. Slowly, Bucky closed the textbook. There was no point. Nothing was getting done tonight. Tomorrow was going to come whether he was ready for it or not. And right now, all he wanted was for this day to be over. Bucky changed into an old t-shirt and carefully climbed into bed. The familiar weight of the blankets settled over his shoulders, the bed making him feel comfortable, despite the pain in his body. For a while he simply stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. It didn't come. Not immediately. Because every time he closed his eyes, another memory surfaced. A grin. A laugh. Blue eyes. You looked lonely. Bucky rolled onto his side and buried his face deeper into his pillow. Tomorrow. Steve had said he'd see him tomorrow. Earlier today the thought would have filled him with hope, happiness even, but after what Rumlow had done, what he had been reminded of, Bucky found himself dreading it. Steve had to forget about him. He had to. That was how these things worked. Tomorrow everything would go back to normal. Repeating the thought like a prayer, Bucky finally drifted toward sleep. And the last thing he thought about before exhaustion pulled him under was a bright smile and a teasing voice echoing down a crowded hallway.
See you tomorrow, Buck.