Chapter Text
The wind was whipping around Bucky’s body; snatching, and grabbing at strands of his hair. He could feel the pull on his cheek, and the tug of delight in the pit of his stomach. The motorcycle was purring; deep, and healthy below him. It handled like a dream. It was perfect.
He turned the sleek machine smoothly, gliding around a corner and flexing his fingers on the handle grips. His mouth split into a grin, an exhilarated gasp escaping his flushed, red lips as he coaxed the bike faster. Bucky’s eyes were smarting from the rush of air, his blood racing. He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs. He felt light. He felt free. Bucky never felt better then when he was riding; never...except when he was with Him. He made Bucky feel like everything, like he could never be as happy, or feel as deeply for anyone ever again. One little smile from Him did things to Bucky's heart that he could never explain, and He didn't even know it. He didn't know that Bucky lived for the moments when he could hear His deep, easy laugh. He didn't know that Bucky thought about telling Him every day- telling Him what His smile did to his heart- telling Him that he-
Bucky crossed the intersection, and a truck smashed into his left side.
And then there was nothing but pain.
-.-
A year and a half didn’t seem like a long time, not after such a serious accident; not after losing his left arm, and almost all of his memory. But all the same, everyone praised him over how well he was adjusting. They meant well, but their attention was smothering. It was true that he had learned to manage his prosthetic with ease, but Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell them that much of his supposed recovered memories were faked in order to soothe their worries.
Of course it wasn’t all gone. Bucky remembered his family and his working memory was in fair condition. He remembered things like world history, dates, and the sciences. He remembered how to drive, and cook, and other day to day tasks. But if someone asked him, Bucky wouldn’t have been able to tell them what he’d done on his eighteenth birthday, or whether or not he’d ever been skiing, or visited the Grand Canyon. Those details were lost to him, until something could dislodged them. Some memories would never fully come back.
Still, it was a relief to be back at school, and away from his family’s well meant concern. He'd adjusted to his classwork, and -in the beginning- his professors had been more than willing to make accommodations for his limitations. Over the months though, Bucky regained most of his mental capacity, with the exception of the gaps in his memories. He liked college...But at the same time...Bucky didn’t feel as though he fit, even when he was assured that he did.
“-Jamie-”
Bucky lifted his head abruptly from his book. He’d been trying to catch up on the reading for his literature class that he was so sorely behind on, but the tangle of voices in the campus dining hall kept cutting in and out of his focus. For the most part, he’d been able to block it out; but not this.
Brock Rumlow sat across the table from him with raised eyebrows, his gaze fixed expectantly on him. Brock was the undisputed leader of the STRIKE fraternity on campus; a fraternity Bucky had been assured -post accident- that he had been a deeply ingrained part of. He was rough around the edges; calloused, sharp. He had uneven, dark stubble, and a mouth that twisted into a crooked smirk, and spilled barbed sarcasm. He was clever, and a little vicious, but he was Bucky’s friend...at least...he’d told him he was.
Bucky blinked quickly, shaking a few strands of his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. “Sorry, what?” He asked, feeling a tug of misplaced shame in his gut as Brock subtly rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
“Would it kill you to pay attention once in a while, huh?” He asked, his long-island accent, thick, and smooth; his dark, deep set eyes fixed on Bucky. Beside him, Jack scoffed something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a ‘not likely’.
Jack Rollins was Brock’s partner in crime, muscle, and occasional easy fuck. He had a nasty streak a mile long, but one word from Brock could have him on his knees. Conversely; one word from Brock could also have him blackening the eyes of any unfortunate student that might get on STRIKE’s bad side. Even from inside the fraternity, Bucky didn’t want to be one of them.
“What?” Bucky asked again, the embarrassment shifting to annoyance as Brock seemed to be more interested in harassing him over spacing out then he was in actually repeating what he’d wanted him to hear. Fortunately, Brock let it go with an easy smirk, his eyebrows lifting suggestively as he tipped his chin to gesture over Bucky’s shoulder.
“Take a look behind you. The blond twink on your six.”
Bucky turned his head, his eyes flitting across the faces of the students that cluttered the dining hall, searching for the object of Brock’s attention. Brock shifted his weight over the table and pointed, his breath hot on Bucky’s cheek, mouth rested just beside his ear. “Right there. He’s cute, yeah?”
The moment Brock pointed, Bucky knew who he was referring to.
And holy shit- he was actually kind of gorgeous.
The young man was sitting across the dining hall from where the STRIKE fraternity ate. He was fair skinned, and blond, and so gorgeously slender it made Bucky’s palms itch to touch. His waist and hips were narrow, his shoulder thin; bones almost visible under the skin. But there was a pretty flush across his sunken cheeks, and his lips were soft, and pink. Bucky could catch just a suggestion of clear, sky blue under the sweep of the young man’s long, dark lashes. He was gorgeous, and Bucky was almost able to forget who had directed his attention to him in the first place.
But Brock was pushy. He thrived on ribbing, and encouragement, and Bucky wouldn’t wish his attention on anyone, so he merely shrugged, tearing his eyes away from the gorgeous blond as though it didn’t physically pain him to do so. He shrugged absently, turning his gaze back to his book.
“He’s alright.”
Brock scoffed, dropping back into his seat, looking a little chafed at Bucky’s unsatisfactory reply. “Oh come on Jamie,” He drawled, and Bucky felt a twinge of annoyance. Not Bucky. Not James...always Jamie. “You’ve got to admit he’s got a sweet little ass.” Brock tempted, his tongue sliding out to suggestively wet his mouth, and he shifted his weight onto his elbows despite Bucky’s staunch attempts to ignore him. “He’d look real pretty all spread out, don’t’cha think?”
Bucky bent pointedly over his book, trying to block out Brock’s teasing, prodding voice; trying not to let his cheeks heat at the images Brock’s words tugged to the surface of his mind. The blond was gorgeous, but Bucky shouldn’t be thinking about him that way. He didn’t even know him. He didn’t want to let Brock’s words paint images in his mind. But he wasn’t one to be ignored. Not ever. Not over anything.
“Wanna bet I can fuck him?”
The reaction from the other members of the fraternity was instantaneous. There was a chorus of wolf-whistles, and someone jarred Brock with an elbow. A few snorts, and scoffs mingled with the teasing crows of approval, and Bucky felt heat spill into the pit of his stomach. Brock was just being an asshole. The kid was clearly too young for him. But that didn’t seem to bother Brock. He was grinning, and indulging in the teasing and encouragement of his fraternity brothers, and the way his eyes kept dragging over to the unsuspecting freshman worried Bucky. Brock was in constant need of being taken down a peg or two, and Bucky usually kept his nose out of it, but this? This was a little too much for Bucky to just sit back and watch.
“You think he’s gonna be interested in a geriatric like you?” He asked, his tone, low, and smooth, the corners of his lips turned up in a scathing smirk as he met Brock’s eyes. There was a challenge there; or maybe a warning. All the same, the other fraternity members took it as a show, and there was an explosion of barbed jeers at the brutal jab.
Brock’s mouth twisted in an incredulous smirk, his eyes flickering halfway to furious before cooling again, taking the jab with a strangled approximation of grace. “Y’know what Barnes” He said coolly, arching an eyebrow with a nasty smirk, but he didn’t get to finish the sentiment.
“He’s probably right.”
Brock’s head snapped around to Rollins, who was slumped back in his seat, looking up at him with a sharpness that Bucky could detect as jealously, but Brock couldn’t see beyond insubordination. At the scathing glance, Rollins elaborated, dropping his eyes away with a smirk “Jamie’s got a point.” He pressed on, Brock’s mood darkening beside him. “I bet he’d keep his scrawny little legs pretty tightly crossed around you.”
“Not a problem if you turn him over.” One of the other boys snickered, and Brock’s eyebrows flicked up appreciatively. Bucky felt his gut tighten.
“Alright…” Brock drawled, sitting back away from Rollins as dragging his gaze around the circle. “Alright you horny assholes, since you all seem to wanna get your hands in this, how’s to say we make a little bet?” Bucky didn’t like where this was going. “First one to fuck the new kid wins.”
His stomach dropped.
This was stupid. It was stupid, and cruel, and Bucky wanted no part of it. But the group had exploded into overlapping chatter. The fraternity was suddenly all flashing, predatory grins, and glinting eyes. They looked like a pack of wolves, and Bucky was almost afraid for the object of their hunt.
“Win’s what?” One of the STRIKE members called from across the table, sitting back with a shit-eating grin, and Brock faltered slightly. Bucky allowed himself a hint of cautious relief. It was all just hot air unless there was something good on the table. Hopefully, no one would be able to propose anything to add enough incentive to make this whole cruel game worth it.
“I think I can help with that.”
Shit.
Jeremiah Pierce.
Jeremiah didn’t fit STRIKE’s general appearance or attitude. The fraternity was made up of the rebels, the leather jackets; the steel-toed boots. Jeremiah was undoubtedly a prep, with his white button ups and pastel shorts that really left far too little to the imagination. But his grandfather, Alexander Pierce, was the president of the college, and Jeremiah was filthy rich. He didn’t mind throwing away money on alcohol, or wild parties, so he was an unquestioned part of the group. If he was setting the prize, that poor kid was about to get the hounding of his life.
He sat forward, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips, his eyebrows lifted superiorly. Brock may be the leader, and Rollins may be the muscle, but Pierce was the money, and everyone attended to the money.
“I had a sweet little something come into my possession a while ago…” He started, dragging out the suspense, basking in the attentive stares. “It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but I had it cleaned, and patched, and it run’s like a dream, but I’ve two others so...I’m not against throwing it into the pot.”
Brock’s patience stretched like a rubber band, and then snapped. “Oh for fucks sake! What is it?” He snapped, despite the eager, hungry faces around the table.
Jeremiah’s eyebrows raise, looking as though he was considering not telling out of pure spite, before he gave it up. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his ridiculously expensive, warm-off-the-press, iphone, casually scrolling through it’s contents until he arrived at the picture he was looking for. He tossed the iphone into the middle of the table with a clatter that made Bucky’s heart lurch, and his mostly empty wallet flinch. This guy went through tech like tissues. He could smash the screen and not bat an eyelash. And why would he? He had enough money to buy the same thing a hundred times over.
STRIKE crowded forward, the young men pressing shoulder to shoulder to get a look at the prize for their nasty bet, and at the appreciative sounds, Bucky couldn’t suppress a niggle of curiosity. He shifted forward, lifting his chin to try and catch a glimpse of the image on the screen.
A motorcycle. A nice one. Shit. That was really going to get everyone’s attention. But more than that, it had gotten Bucky’s.
He knew that motorcycle.
He owned that motorcycle.
Bucky’s brow drew into a deep frown, and he sat back heavily, trying to sort through his fog of memories. He remembered that. That was his he was sure of it, but...how did...Bucky blinked rapidly, his head starting to throb. His memory was patchy, especially of the months surrounding the accident but...he thought...he vaguely remembered a day in the hospital. He’d been there for weeks, and still in bad shape; still on morphine. Someone had been there, assuring him smoothly that they’d take care of his motorcycle until he got better, they had said they’d get it fixed and as soon as he was out of the hospital he could have it back...he’d just needed to sign one little thing....
Shit.
He’d signed his motorcycle over to Jeremiah fucking Pierce. His motorcycle that he’d dreamed of since he was a kid, that he’d scraped and saved, and worked for since he was fourteen! And in a drugged, brain damaged state, he’d signed it over to the lowest, slimiest, most entirely selfish person on the whole campus.
And now he was pawning it off as a prize for manipulating some poor kid who’d have no idea what to do with the sudden harassment.
“Brock…” Bucky’s voice was low, and soft, almost lost under the excited chatter and jeering of the other frat boys. Brock was an asshole, but he was his friend...he’d help him straighten this out.
Brock blinked casting him a barely interested glance before crowding back over the phone, smirking, and commenting over the sleek bit of machinery. Bucky’s gut twinged with agitation, and he pushed past the other boys, forcing himself down against Brock’s side, his body prickling with tension.
“Brock.” He pressed again, sharper this time, grabbing the older boy’s arm with his right hand and yanking him around to face him.
“Wh- Jamie, what the fuck is your problem?” He demanded, his eyes already drifting back to the prize, before Bucky jerked them back to him with a rough tug on his arm.
“That’s mine.” Bucky gritted out through clenched teeth, his gaze darting to the image on the phone before snapping back to Brock. “Brock, that motorcycle's mine, I bought that, I paid for it! I payed a fucking lot for it!”
Brock snorted, tugging his arm free with an easy smirk that somehow only tightened the knot in Bucky’s gut. “What are you talkin’ about?” Brock drawled, his gaze sliding over to him before the expression softened just slightly, and he reached over, gripping the back of Bucky’s neck and squeezing comfortingly. “You’re forgetting things again.”
Bucky shook himself free with a start, his eyes widening incredulously. They couldn’t do this. He owned that bike, it was under his name! Or...or it had been. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything for sure, just that his property was being pawned off on a bet he wanted no part of. “It’s mine.” He insisted again, unable to think of anything else he could possible say. That was all he should have had to say! But neither Brock, nor anyone else at the table was taking it for an answer.
“Well…” Brock said easily, jostling Bucky’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Win the bet and it will be.”
Bucky’s jaw very nearly dropped. They couldn’t do this. They couldn’t hold this over his head and make him participate in this stupid game! They couldn’t- But Brock was dead serious. With the air of a leader, Brock hauled himself easily up onto his feet, snatching the phone on his way up and standing on the chair above the rest of the fraternity.
“Okay assholes, listen up.” He called, commanding their attention with a nasty smirk. “ You’ve all seen the prize. First guy who gets the new kid to open up for him wins it. If that’s not your thing, sorry, but you’re out of the running.” This was met with a little shuffling and muttering from a handful of the more obstinately straight guy in the fraternity, and Brock fixed his gaze on them with a wolfish grin. “Or...you could just sack up and get it through your thick skulls that one tight hole feels about like the next. Get to it dickheads!”
The grinning order rang in Bucky’s ears, turning his skin hot, and his thoughts into white noise. He really, really didn’t want to do this...but that bike was his- he had to get it back- he- That bike held more of his clear memories than almost anything else. While a lot of his past life was still a blur, Bucky could remembered working for it, coming home with aching muscles and a few more dollars in his pocket. He remembered counting every night, eeking his way closer, and closer. He remembered brorrowing money from his parents which he'd scrapped to pay back even after the motorcycle had been bought. Bucky could recall with a clarity that was mostly lost to him, how he’d felt riding it, the wind rushing around him, the sun hot on his neck.
He needed it back.
But STRIKE wasn’t just going to hand it over.
He needed to win.
The STRIKE fraternity was dispersing around him. Vaguely, Bucky felt Brock grip his shoulder on the way by, before walking out, shoulder to shoulder with Pierce. Slowly, Bucky let out a strangled breath, feeling guilt already tugging at the pit of his stomach. This whole bet was nasty business. It was cruel, and the kid certainly didn’t deserve it, but at least if it was Bucky he could be patient, he could be gentle, and maybe even explain it to him. He didn’t have to corner the kid into feeling like he was either under attack by a dozen guys suddenly trying to get into his pants; or worse, hurt because he imagined someone was truly interested in him only to find out that the whole thing had been a sick joke. Bucky could keep that from happening...at least...he hoped.
The only upside Bucky could see was that the fraternity hadn’t all descended at once like a flock of vultures. They’d gone their own ways, biding their time, or thinking of the best strategy to get the poor, unsuspecting freshmen into bed with them. So Bucky pushed himself to his feet and, feeling vaguely sick, crossed the dining hall towards him.
-.-
Start simple, Bucky tried to coach himself as he weaved his way around tables, and students, his prosthetic arm held close to his left side to keep it from getting nudged or jostled on the way by. It never hurt anymore, but the gut instinct to guard it was still in place from when it had.
God- He could see him more and more clearly now. The gorgeous freshmen sat at one of the dining hall tables, bent over his phone, his floppy blond bangs hanging over the thick rims of his glasses. He had a cute, vaguely hipster vibe, if the scarf and converse sneakers were anything to go by, and if Bucky was honest, that kind of thing worked for him. It suited his delicate build, and the thick glasses accented the length of his lashes, and the stunning blue of his eyes. He was by himself at the table, and as Bucky slipped closer, he felt his stomach sinking.
This kid looked sweet.
He didn’t deserve this.
He shouldn’t do this.
“Hey,”
Bucky felt the greeting slip from his mouth before he could stop it, and he watched in horror as the blond tucked his phone away and turned to look up at him. His eyes were even bluer than Bucky had imagined. His mouth was plush, and pink, and parted just slightly with surprise, and there was something about him- something that made Bucky’s heart jerk in his chest- something that made his pulse jump, and his stomach turn into a knot.
He shouldn’t have done this.
And then the kid’s expression went slack, his mouth dropping open; gorgeous blue eyes going perfectly round behind the thick frame of his glasses. Bucky’s already racing heart stuttered, the expressing striking into his chest like a physical blow. And then suddenly the boy blinked rapidly, and broke out in a strangled tone he’d never wished to hear.
“Bucky?”
