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The sun hasn’t risen above the horizon in almost two months, which is how Bucky knows he’s close to the breaking point. Although he grew up in a northern climate—Brooklyn gets plenty of snow—Alaska’s version of winter is something else entirely. He hates the cold, despises the dark, but that’s only because he’s sure both live in him where light and warmth should be. Bucky’s not the kind of person anyone would say is a hero. He gave up on that goal a long time ago.
If he can be honest with himself, he knows deep down that circumstances beyond his control have shaped him in more ways than one. He didn’t ever want to be a soldier, didn’t grow up playing one in his imagination, but war came to Europe, and America joined in the fight to preserve democracy—or so former President Wilson insisted. Far from the safety of the White House, the trenches of northern France were cold and dark as well as dreary and miserable, and Bucky’s moods began to reflect the state of the world around him.
He saw too much death, which is why he still wakes screaming in the middle of the night, even though he can barely tell the morning from it. Lost in his nightmares, he finds himself drowning in the black ink of his cabin’s interior. Alaska is the land of the midnight sun, but it’s also one of endless darkness. The winters drag, and the summers hardly make up for the desperate loneliness and melancholy that manifest as one year turns into another. Three times, he’s turned the page and started a fresh new calendar, and the isolation and seclusion have only grown more overbearing. If something doesn’t change, he’s afraid he’ll be inundated or fall to his death in a chasm of solitude.
In mid-February, he drags himself out of his small bed with its hard mattress and shrugs on his boots and parka. He should have gone to the river the previous evening before retiring, but he couldn’t face returning to his empty cabin once he staggered home. Now, he has no water to wash or prepare breakfast, and his stomach refuses to allow him peace until the hunger is satisfied. Huffing his displeasure, he opens the door and pushes through a small snowdrift that formed on his stoop while he fought demons in his dreams. He might shovel later, but right now is not the time.
Bucky trudges through the snow as the wind swirls around him. Weak sunlight barely lights the horizon when it should sparkle like diamonds on the snow as he makes his way to fill his pail with fresh, glacial water. Crisp, cold air stings his nostrils, and he concentrates on breathing through the pain. He doesn’t want to freeze his lungs while the moisture from his breath crystalizes on his mustache and beard. Both are bushy and dark against his pale skin. He used to be sun kissed, but that was long ago when he viewed everything with childlike innocence. Now, his glasses aren’t rose-colored. Instead, he fights against a misty gray that obscures his vision. What he wouldn’t give to see the sun sparkling on clean snow while dark green pine trees stand proudly against the bright blue sky. Even his eye color is a faded, watery blue instead of vivid cerulean. No amount of shaking his head can ease the dreariness of his everyday life.
A tall pine marks his path, and he plunges into the forest where the trees whisper to him. Since he grew up in the bustle of Brooklyn, he couldn’t hear them speak before he fled to the wilds of Alaska with a vague dream of riches. Instead, he’s found…peacefulness—or maybe it’s just the quiet of a wild land where trees come alive and animals are his only companions. Sometimes, he talks to them, and they answer. Occasionally, he wonders if his mind is shattered and his reality is skewed, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one to correct him. What’s the harm in finding company where he can? No one else is around for miles.
Deep in his thoughts, he jerks his head as he emerges into a clearing. Water sluices through the snowdrifts, and he swears something shifts in his peripheral vision. Tensing, he freezes and studies the landscape, willing who or whatever is out there to come into the open. His response to the perceived threat is a carryover from his time in the military, the period of his life during which he spied through a scope and killed strangers before they could inflict damage and death on his fellow troops. Highly skilled and trained, Bucky’s sharpshooting skills kept him and countless others alive. His time in the military made him a prisoner for a brief time and left him with a permanently injured left arm. The army also destroyed his soul.
Now, Bucky only fires a weapon if he’s in grave danger. Living as he does, he frequently comes into contact with bears and other wildlife. He’s leery of them, especially since they rarely let him know what they’re thinking. It’s the wolves that engage in full-fledged conversations with him—in particular, a white male as tall as Bucky. He’s lost track of the number of times he’s spied the beast far in the distance and heard the animal’s thoughts as clearly as if they were implanted in his own head.
Another flash of color flits through the trees, and Bucky whirls. The bucket bangs against his leg, causing him to wince. No matter how carefully he examines the woods around him, he doesn’t see anyone or anything. While it’s not uncommon to come into contact with a bear or moose this near the river, these quick movements suggest something human—which isn’t possible so far from civilization. Bucky’s intentionally retreated from any form of polite society. He’s not fit for the company of decent people.
“Who’s there?” he calls.
Silence surrounds him except for the gentle murmuring of the trees, reminding him that he’s completely alone. No one is coming for him, except for the ghosts in his sleep. Even if there was a person hiding in the woods, he’s not sure a confrontation would be a good idea. His ability to communicate effectively has deteriorated to almost nonexistent since he became a killing machine for the United States military. Only other animals understand him. Bucky might as well be a vicious monster.
Water bubbles between giant drifts of snow, which draws Bucky out of his anxiety. In the depths of winter, the river has frozen over until there’s merely a trickle available for him to access. Carefully, he dips the pail into the clear, cold liquid and scoops out enough for the day. It’s brisk and refreshing, he knows from past experience, and it’s what he needs to snap out of the funk into which he’s sunk repeatedly and can’t ever quite seem to shake. Slowly, he shuffles back to the cabin, his snowshoes leaving solitary tracks in the snow.
The next day is the same and the one after that. The tedium of an Alaska winter overtakes him each afternoon and evening, but every morning arrives with the fresh promise that things will change. It frustrates him—this perpetual hope where there should be none—and he fights to keep from losing his mind while the sun toys with him by barely peeking above the tops of majestic pines. Flashes of color continue, but he can’t pinpoint any of them without wondering if he’s simply making it up just so he can feel less alone.
That evening, he sits alone in his cabin, staring into the flames of the crackling fire. The tedium of his life frustrates him, but it’s better than the city. Once he’d returned from France, Brooklyn had felt too constricting. Too many people and a maze of streets that reminded him of the trenches where so many of his fellow soldiers died. He needs to be here. He knows the fresh air and solitary lifestyle is better for him than anything else. It still doesn’t ease the loneliness.
He fiddles with the edges of the book he bought on his latest trip to Nome. Although he loves reading, he didn’t plan to purchase the book of Russian fairy tales, but the cover vibrated under his fingers when he picked it up and flipped through the deckled, dogeared pages. On a whim, he’d tucked it into his rucksack and brought it back to the cabin with the rest of his supplies. For the past few weeks, he’s read a tale or two, but one in particular has caught his attention and won’t seem to let it go.
“Snegurochka,” he mutters. “The Snow Maiden. There’s no way to make a person out of snow.”
The gist of the story is simple, he knows. A lonely couple wants a child, so they form an infant from snow and raise it as their own. Although he longs for a companion more than offspring, the concept is the same. Creating a partner from snow isn’t possible, even if Alaskan winters last throughout most of the year. Every summer, he’d be alone again, and suffering a repeated loss every year would likely destroy him.
As he burrows into his pallet that night, he rests his cheek on bearskin and tries to forget the fantasy of a magical partner. He’ll wake tomorrow grounded in reality, not with false hope. His eyelids droop, and he slips into slumber. That night, his dreams are filled with flashes of blue through the thick pine trees and a warmth that eases the ache in his heart. That’s what makes waking up the next morning even harder.
The trip to the river is as cold as ever, and it seems to take twice as long. He’s anxious after dreams that filled him with hope and tinges of what he’s sure he remembers as pure joy. It’s been too long since he felt anything other than shame for his actions during the war and trauma from seeing so much death and destruction. The killing machine he’d been for eighteen months has haunted him for twice as long so far. It’s brutal.
In spite of the uneasiness strumming in his veins, Bucky makes the most of his day. He spends the morning outside, hunting far from the cabin because the deer far from him speak a foreign language. He can’t understand them the same way he can hear the animals surrounding the clearing where he spends his days. After a quick lunch, he dresses the deer and buries sections of it in the snow around his cabin so he’ll have food for the next several weeks.
A flash of memory comes—one of the icebox in the small tenement apartment where he lived with his parents and siblings before he left for the war. He misses them sometimes, especially his sister Becca, but it’s better for him to be far away when he falls into despair. They don’t deserve to have to deal with his dark moods. Shaking his head, he allows himself the tiniest wry smile. There’s no need for an icebox here with the interminable cold and barren landscape. He lives off the land because it provides everything he needs.
Except there’s something missing, and Bucky knows it. More than ever, Bucky’s lonely, and the story of the Snow Maiden flashes through his mind again. It’s ridiculous, but maybe…
As he chops wood that afternoon, he tries to put it out of his mind. His hands grip the ax handle so tightly that he’s afraid it’s going to crack under the pressure. He soothes his conscience for chopping up a tree by communing with those who stand tall overhead, and he can tell they’re whispering among themselves.
“Why doesn’t he make a companion?”
“There’s plenty of snow to go around.”
“It wouldn’t take long.”
“He can’t chop wood forever. He’ll have to face it soon enough.”
“I can hear you!” he shouts when the voices fill his head and overtake the silence he’s been trying to find for hours. “I can hear you, and I’m not going to—”
A flash of blue through the trees catches his eye, and his words garble in his throat. There’s no reason for that color to be so close to the ground, but he’s sure he’s not seeing things. Just because he spies the flashes doesn’t mean anything flits between the trees.
Grunting at the exertion, he loads wood in his arms and carries it back to the cabin where he stacks it carefully along the outer wall. After a few more trips back and forth, the pile’s grown so tall that it almost reaches the edge of the roof, and Bucky’s shoulders droop. The trees are right. He can’t keep ignoring the pull for companionship by chopping logs into tinder. As it stands, he has more than enough for the foreseeable future.
Sighing heavily, he squats and sits on his haunches. Miles of snow surround him, and he contemplates the smooth surface as a pair of squirrels chatter in the distance. They say the same thing as the trees—that Bucky should stop putting off the inevitable and give into his madness. Molding a partner from frozen precipitation is preposterous, but it might just be the best option open to him.
Dipping a tentative hand into the snow in front of him, he appreciates how good it feels to use his hands for something besides shooting and hard labor. For the briefest flash of time, he’s back in Brooklyn with his sister, and they’re dancing and frolicking in the aftermath of a blizzard. It happened when he was eleven—a ten inch dump of snow in January 1910 that felt like a gift from Mother Nature.
Chuckling at the memory of Becca with snow in her hair and pink-tinged cheeks, Bucky packs a snowball and holds it in his palm. He appreciates the heft and tosses it in the air before catching and staring at it for several long moments.
“Why not?” he breathes as a puff of vapor forms crystals on his beard.
Pushing to his feet, he shuffles to spot at the edge of the clearing with a view of the undulating knolls that seem to stretch forever. He drops to his knees and clumsily fashions two blocks that scarcely resemble feet. His heart beats in his chest while he packs snow carefully to form shins and calves, knees, and thick thighs. The snow crumbles occasionally as he works, so he speeds up the process. He no longer worries about creating something decent, only passable. He’s sure it won’t work anyway.
There’s hardly any light at all from the watery winter sun by the time he finishes. What he’s made is a snowman of sorts, but it could easily be a creature or a monster as well. A howling wind begins, which brings Bucky back to himself. He’s been outside for hours, and his limbs feel heavy. There’s no life in the snow, so he turns his back and traipses to the cabin where he berates himself until he falls asleep for behaving like a lunatic. He’s not God. He can’t bring life from nothing, and he certainly can’t from snow either.
He’s still feeling sheepish when he wakes the next morning and grabs the water pail. When he exits the cabin, he purposefully doesn’t glance around him and sets off to the river without seeing how his snowman survived the squall that had howled outside overnight. As usual, the trees and animals chatter around him, but he ignores them pointedly. He doesn’t feel included in their conversations today, and he doesn’t want to be reminded that he’s an outsider here. Instead, he stares straight ahead, without bothering to follow the glimpse of movement between the trees. There’s nothing there except what should be. Nothing’s changed while he slept.
At the bank of the river, he steps carefully until he can lean over and dip his pail into the small stream left between enormous slabs of ice. He’s just about to stand and turn back to the cabin when he hears the sound of a snapping twig behind him. It sounds like a shot in the quiet of the forest, and he jerks back and lands on his rear end in a snowdrift.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Startled, Bucky glances around him as panic builds in his gut. He’s alone out here, but the words are unmistakably human. Low, gruff, and deep, they are the speech of a grown man—one who is undoubtedly rugged and capable of surviving in the wilderness of Alaska. A silhouette appears over him, blocking out what little light there is, and Bucky reaches for the knife in his boot.
“I won’t hurt you,” the voice informs him, its keeper seemingly offended at Bucky’s instinct to protect himself.
Bucky pushes upright and finally catches a full glimpse of the figure before him. He’s tall, broad, and handsome, with an Aquiline nose and bright blue eyes. A shock of blonde hair falls over his forehead, and Bucky has to work not to gape at the sight. Although he’d developed the reputation of a dandy with a girl on his arm back in Brooklyn, Bucky’s always been attracted to men as well. The sight before him only reaffirms that. The stranger is a vision, and Bucky’s in real danger of falling under his spell.
“Who are you?”
He barks the question because he has to shake himself out of a stupor. In the three years since he’s lived in Alaska, this is the first time he’s encountered another human being other than on his supply runs to Nome or Fairbanks. He’s not used to company, especially when the person in question makes him want to explore every inch and discover what’s hiding under the ragged winter clothing.
Cocking his head, the stranger replies simply, “I’m who you wanted.”
Head spinning, Bucky takes a step back. Overwhelmed by the promise of those words, he drops the pail and breaks. Running as quickly as he can in the tall drifts, he bursts into the clearing where his cabin sits and stares at the spot where he’d built a man from snow while trying to tamp down any glimmer of hope that it would come to life like in the Russian fairy tale.
“It can’t—”
Choking on the denial, Bucky stares at the spot, now empty. There’s no collapsed pile of snow, nothing but an empty patch where he’d crafted a companion without expecting magic to be true.
“You dropped your bucket.”
Flinching at the deep voice behind him, Bucky turns on his heel and sputters, “Wh-who are you?”
A tender smile curves up the corner of full lips. “You know who I am.”
For years, Bucky had longed for a brother instead of five sisters or a best friend who understood him. Back in Brooklyn, he’d wished so hard that he’d convinced himself it had come true. Steve, his pretend best friend, had lived only in his imagination and accompanied him on every childhood mission as he knocked around the streets of Brooklyn. When he turned twelve, he said goodbye and shut the door on Steve, but now…a real-life version stands before him, exactly how he’d always imagined the frail young boy who had lived in his head would develop as he grew older and filled out as a man. This can’t be happening, but it is.
“Steve?” he asks, the words barely audible in the still air.
A smile breaks over Steve’s face, and Bucky’s stomach swoops at the sight. As dim as the winter morning is, Steve’s smile is brighter than a million suns. Even with the confusion and incredulity making his head whirl, Bucky feels lighter, cheerier, and more hopeful than he has in months. If Steve’s appearance is his break with reality, Bucky considers welcoming it with open arms. He’s tired of living in a prison of his own making.
“I missed you. I haven’t seen you for a very long time.”
“S-seen me?” Bucky asks. “You aren’t real. When would…you have seen me?”
He trails off until the question is almost silent as it leaves his lips because it becomes fairly obvious what Steve means. About fifteen years ago, Bucky closed that chapter of his life by packing away his childhood imagination and focusing on becoming a man. Since then, Steve’s been held in limbo, waiting for Bucky to need him again, and bring him out in the open. Why it’s taken three years since leaving Brooklyn to remember him, Bucky’s not sure, but that doesn’t matter when Steve’s standing before him.
“We used to be inseparable,” Steve reminds him. “I knew everything about you. You seem different now, though. Sadder. Older. More cynical. Don’t you believe in magic anymore?”
Scoffing at Steve’s apparent sincerity, Bucky shakes his head. “I never believed in magic, and I’m not a child anymore.”
“Growing up doesn’t mean you have to say goodbye to everything special. Enchantment happens in everyday life.”
“Not to me,” Bucky insists and takes the pail from Steve’s hand. Turning to his cabin, he tosses over his shoulder, “You aren’t real. I’m imagining this, so I might still be sleeping.”
Cold washes over him, and Bucky gasps. Whirling around, he finds Steve standing there with a handful of snow in his open palm. Icy rivulets pour down his neck and under his collar. He didn’t bother to put on his parka when he left the cabin, and he should have. Otherwise, Steve would never have been able to put a snowball down his back.
“Did you—” Irritated, Bucky tosses the bucket aside and dips his hand into the snow. Flinging it at Steve, he shouts his frustration. “You’re not really here! I’m imagining this. I’m still dreaming.”
In response, Steve lobs a snowball that hits him squarely in the chest. Stunned, Bucky charges him and tackles him around the waist. They tumble into a snowdrift and wrestle until Steve’s laughing hysterically and Bucky can’t keep a straight face. Whether or not he’s crazy doesn’t matter—not when he finally has a companion who is determined to find the bright spot in everything, even losing a snowball fight to Bucky.
Finally, Bucky stills and realizes Steve’s beaming up at him. Slightly chastened, Bucky rolls off him and falls into the snow beside his childhood friend. Shifting away from Steve, Bucky’s grateful for the frigid air because straddling Steve’s bulk has made him hot in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
“Are you convinced yet?”
“No.”
“You will be,” Steve teases as he rises. Reaching down, he extends his hand and helps Bucky to his feet. “Come on. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in…what must be fifteen years.”
They fall into an easy rhythm with Bucky carrying on as before and Steve working alongside him. Although Bucky tries to keep his distance, Steve’s persistent and refuses to be pushed aside. He asks questions and offers observations, including some that make Bucky pause.
“You answered the call, Buck,” he insists after listening to Bucky lament about his time in the army. “You’re a hero, not a villain, and you should stop being so hard on yourself. You weren’t murdering people; you were at war. Killing isn’t something to be celebrated, but it’s not the same as shooting a man in the streets.”
“Isn’t it?”
Exasperated, Steve argues, “Did you ever kill without orders?”
“No.”
“Well, then…”
Silence falls around them, and Bucky stares at the stew on his plate. It’s better than his usual fare, which he knows is thanks to Steve’s arrival. Having someone to cook for has motivated him to spend time preparing meals instead of eating just enough to survive. For the first time in ages, Bucky’s enjoying food again.
“Why did you shut me out? Back then…why didn’t you ever want me again?”
Steve’s hurt is glaringly obvious, and it pricks at Bucky’s conscience. The day he shut off Steve has been locked in his memory for years. He’d told Steve he was going out to play with his sisters; instead, he’d turned off the part of him that allowed himself to embrace anything but reality.
“I didn’t—that’s not what I did,” Bucky insists, but he’s lying.
Refusing to explain until Bucky looks at him, Steve argues, “You told me not to do anything stupid until you got back, and then you left. I waited for you for hours, and when you didn’t come back, I thought it wouldn’t last that much longer. Weeks passed, and I kept hoping—”
“Hoping is stupid,” Bucky grumbles, but he can’t stop the niggling worry in his head that Steve’s presence now means that Bucky’s never been able to give up either.
“Stop pushing me away,” Steve snaps. “You brought me back. Quit acting like I’m the one bothering you.”
Shoving back from the table, Bucky stalks outside without his parka. He’s freezing after only a few moments outside, but winter is already giving way to spring. In a few weeks, it will be April, and the sun will rise in the sky for more than only a few hours. The temperatures will increase, and the snow will melt. When it does, what will that mean for Steve?
“Come back inside.”
Of course, Steve’s popped outside to check on him. Hunching his shoulders as Steve drapes his parka over them, Bucky shakes his head, but he’s already turning to face Steve.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to…hurt you.”
Steve cups the back of his neck and waits for Bucky to look at him. “I forgive you. Now, stop hurting yourself by pretending this isn’t happening. I’m here.”
“And what happens when the snow melts?”
“Then, I’ll leave.” Heart clenching, Bucky shuts his eyes against the pain flowing through his body. “But Bucky…I won’t stay gone forever. When the snow comes back, so will I.”
It seems a special form of torture to know that Steve will abandon him, but that only makes Bucky determined to embrace the time they have together. It’s against his nature to trust easily, but Steve might only be a figment of his imagination. If that’s the case, then there’s no harm in enjoying the time they have left together. Bucky can always conjure Steve again if he leaves. Unfortunately, he can’t stop the seasons from changing.
Over the next few weeks, Steve brings Bucky out of his shell. More than once, Bucky finds himself grinning, which he can’t remember doing since before he was shipped off to France. When he barks a laugh, Steve smiles at him with such affection and pride that Bucky feels approval all the way to his toes.
Day after day, Steve draws Bucky closer to him until they’re inseparable the same as they were during Bucky’s childhood, but the nights are harder. With only one pallet of blankets and furs, Bucky’s careful to keep his distance while bedding down with Steve’s warm, solid body only a few inches away from him. It’s akin to torture, but he doesn’t want it to end. As darkness envelops them each evening, Bucky itches to curl into Steve’s side and find comfort and more in his companion’s arms.
He doesn’t, though. Instead of giving into what he really wants, Bucky reminds himself repeatedly that Steve is his friend—only his friend. Unfortunately, neither his heart nor his body listen. Both want Steve, and they aren’t quiet about it.
Everything seems normal, until it’s not. A few days later, Bucky’s in the cabin with Steve in the evening. The dinner dishes have been washed and stored, and the fire dances in the hearth. Nothing should feel different, but Steve’s tall and sturdy beside him as he leans sideways and brushes his arm against Bucky’s. Jolting at the touch, Bucky swallows hard and tries not to reveal how much Steve’s presence affects him. Somehow, though, he’s sure he’s not doing a very good job of hiding how he feels. Steve’s not stupid, even if he’s made from pure, white snow.
The tension’s been building between them for weeks, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stand so close to Steve, hands shaking with need and anticipation. As always, Steve seems unflappable—a steady presence in the maelstrom of Bucky’s life. The peace he’s been searching for hasn’t come from solitude. Instead, Steve’s provided the calm that Bucky needs. It’s a precious gift, and so is Steve.
When Bucky fumbles his cup of coffee, Steve glances away from the fire and stares at Bucky with heat in his blue eyes. Mesmerized, Bucky forgets to look away. Drowning in the warmth and want, Bucky feels himself lean toward Steve like a plant reaches for the sun.
“Bucky,” Steve says so softly that it feels more like a caress than a word. “Stop stalling.”
His breath whooshes from him at Steve’s tender command. Insides heating rapidly, Bucky bites his bottom lip as he wars with himself. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t pretend that he can have something good when he’s done so much bad. He’s not worthy, not decent enough for someone like Steve.
But Steve’s waiting, and Bucky can’t say no to someone so wonderful.
As if in a trance, Bucky lifts his hand and cradles Steve’s cheek in his palm. His thumb glances over Steve’s full bottom lip, and Bucky’s world turns on its axis. He’s completely attuned to the world around him, and he can hear the trees over the roar of the fire. Even the stars are telling him to take what Steve’s offering. His hand drops, and he shakes his head.
Slowly and with all the precision in the universe, Bucky takes hold of his sweater and tugs it over his head. His long hair falls over his shoulders as he works open the buttons of his thick flannel shirt. Steve’s eyes follow his fingers and linger on the hollow of his throat. When Bucky hesitates, Steve urges him to keep going. As Bucky shrugs the fabric over his shoulders, Steve groans softly and strips his own sweater from his bulky frame. With trembling fingers, he unbuttons his flannel shirt so it slips open and exposes his chest.
Bucky expects Steve’s body to be pale, but the smooth, honeyed skin on display proves him wrong. Steve’s as real as Bucky is—probably more so after his stint during the war in Europe. Steve’s no longer an imagination, not an inanimate object made of snow or a figment of Bucky’s tortured mind. Steve is real, and he’s watching Bucky with hooded eyes darkened with an emotion Bucky doesn’t know how to define.
“Steve,” he whispers, his voice failing him.
Only one word, but it feels like the entirety of the world to Bucky in this moment. After years of longing, the hell of war, and months of isolation, Bucky’s dream of love and companionship has materialized in front of him.
“I’m really here,” Steve murmurs as quietly as Bucky whispers his name. “I’m actually here, Buck. I promise. I’m not an illusion. I’m real.”
So raspy he barely recognizes his own voice, Bucky tentatively asks, “H-how can I be sure?”
Bright blue eyes lock with his slate gray gaze, and heat courses through Bucky’s veins again. He’s been cold for so long. He licks his lips in anticipation because heat wafts off Steve’s body in waves. It’s too much temptation, and Steve severs the last hindrance.
“Touch me,” he answers.
It’s so simple, so heartfelt and honest and unbelievably straightforward. As naturally as Bucky would skim his own hand over his beard, he stretches out and traces his fingertips along the golden skin of Steve’s cheek.
A moan of desire catches in his throat as Steve tilts his head and nuzzles Bucky’s palm and the inside of his wrist. It’s intimate—exhilaratingly so—and it’s too much for Bucky to handle. Succumbing to Steve’s gravitational pull, Bucky sags against Steve’s hard chest and closes his eyes as strong arms encircle him. Heat envelops him, causing the icicles that have lived in his veins to finally thaw. For the first time since he arrived at the front in France, he feels warmth reach to the tips of his toes again.
“Do I seem real?”
Too overwhelmed to answer, Bucky simply nods and tucks his face into the sweet-smelling curve of Steve’s neck. Inhaling deeply, Bucky fills his lungs with Steve’s scent and holds his breath. If he could get drunk on Steve, he would. If he could feast on his companion, Steve would be his favorite meal. As it is, Steve’s everything Bucky’s been craving since the first clawing of despair reared its head in Bucky’s empty life.
Steve doesn’t break the silence. Instead, he lays his head against Bucky’s and tightens his hold. Swaying back and forth slowly, they remain cocooned with each other as the tension drains from Bucky’s rigid body.
“You’re not alone anymore,” Steve croons, and it’s Bucky’s undoing.
A sob catches in his throat, but he chokes it back. He won’t ruin this perfect moment with tears. He refuses to allow the perfection of companionship to be sullied by the sadness he’s bottled up for years. Unfortunately, his body has different ideas, and he sniffles against Steve’s sculpted jawline.
The dam bursts when Steve presses a tender kiss to Bucky’s forehead. Pain rockets through him, and he howls. All the agony and suffering he endured during his brief time as a prisoner of the Central Powers, the guilt he feels, and the despair of being ruined—made into a monster by America’s war machine—erupt from him in a wail so plaintive that it scares him. Weeping loudly, he vents everything, the entirety of what he’s tried to deny and bury when he came home as a husk of himself, something more like the dead than the living, even if he still breathed.
To his credit, Steve doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t melt under Bucky’s hot tears. Although he’s made of pure white snow, unblemished and untainted, Steve remains whole and real and wrapped around Bucky like a safe haven in a dangerous storm. Although Steve’s been nothing more than imaginary for most of Bucky’s life, he’s real now, and he doesn’t seem fazed by Bucky’s despair.
As Bucky purges sadness, a warm, desperate need replaces it. Suddenly hollow, Bucky craves something to replace the emptiness left behind. Clinging to Steve, Bucky lifts his head and blinks in astonishment at Steve’s beautiful face. Before he can stop himself, he lunges forward and presses his mouth to Steve’s perfect lips. A jolt of electricity shoots through him at the touch of Steve’s mouth against his. Moaning softly, he melts into Steve until he’s nothing more than a bundle of nerves that’s limp with desire and burning up from the inside.
“Steve,” he gasps, breathless as they part for the briefest of moments. “Steve, I—”
Answering with another kiss instead of words, Steve cups Bucky’s cheek and tilts his head. Sweeping his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, Steve crowds him against a wall and holds him there. Caught between the hard wood of the log cabin’s interior and Steve’s muscled frame, he shifts, and a rush of lust shoots straight to his groin. For the first time in ages, Bucky wants…and he wants with every fiber of his being.
Bucky grapples with Steve’s shirt, and his hands slip it over Steve’s broad shoulders. Grunting as his cold hands encounter Steve’s heated flesh, Bucky whimpers and digs his fingernails into Steve’s back. Suddenly, Steve’s hands are on him, too, pulling and tugging at Bucky’s pants with a frantic desperation that mirrors Bucky’s feverish intensity.
Steve groans when his bare legs connect with Bucky’s. It’s the first time Bucky can pinpoint that Steve’s lost control, but that’s to be expected. When Steve brushes against him, Bucky’s knees go weak. Hot, velvet skin covering hard muscle is all around him—under his palms, in between his thighs, up and down his back, moving down his chest.
Head spinning, Bucky looks down at the mussed blonde hair sticking up from Steve’s bowed head. He sucks in a breath when Steve’s massive hand wraps around him and guides Bucky into his mouth. A broken groan strangles in his throat, and his head tips back against the roughhewn logs. Pleasure streaks through him, radiating from the suction of Steve’s gorgeous lips wrapped around Bucky’s swollen shaft.
Swearing softly, Bucky strains and arches his back as he pants. It feels so good, so incredibly real, that he has no defense against it. Steve’s hands move over him, his fingers trailing over Bucky’s abdomen and thighs, and Bucky’s sure he’s going to melt the way he’s been worried Steve might before this glorious experience. Maybe that’s what this is…Bucky’s demise at the hands of someone so flawless that his own sins are forgiven.
“Steve,” he moans. “Steve, I… Ah, Christ.”
Twisting under Steve’s touch, Bucky panics. The emotions coursing through him are more than he can handle. This is beyond sexual gratification, enormous compared to a physical release. Love and longing well up inside him, and he can’t help begging the universe for this one thing. If he loses Steve after this, if he has to go back to his solitary life on the Alaskan frontier, he won’t survive it.
Steve’s fingers intertwine with his, and he squeezes hard. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he drops his head to look down at Steve who’s staring up at him with love and acceptance. His blue eyes sparkle, and his lips tenderly caress Bucky’s skin. Biting his bottom lip, Bucky tries to maintain control, but it’s no use. A wave of relief and bliss rolls through him as he empties into Steve’s willing mouth. Sagging with relief, Bucky winds Steve’s hair in the fingers of his gnarled hand, an unwelcome souvenir from his war days. Even with Bucky’s release, Steve doesn’t pull off. Instead, he nuzzles closer, taking Bucky deeper inside until his nose and lips glance against the patch of hair between Bucky’s legs.
“Stop,” he begs, but Steve moans and pulls Bucky closer. “Steve… Please…”
Blinking rapidly, Steve finally pulls back and stares up at Bucky with a dazed expression on his face. His tongue flicks out and swipes shiny fluid off his lips, effectively swallowing everything Bucky’s given him. It hits him then that Steve’s taken it all, all that’s good and bad and in between. Steve’s broad shoulders have borne Bucky’s burdens and carried them when Bucky can’t do it anymore.
“Steve,” he whispers, his voice awed at how much he loves this man who’s knelt before him. There’s nothing else to say, no words adequate for the depth of his feelings. He’s madly, desperately, insanely in love with Steve, and feeling this much no longer terrifies him. Instead, it seems exactly right.
In an instant, Steve’s on his feet, and his mouth is on Bucky’s again. Eyes closed and mind and body sated, Bucky melts into Steve. They move together, stumbling toward the pallet of blankets and furs on the floor until they fall together in a tangle of limbs and fevered flesh.
Time stops as they explore each other with trembling hands and tentative kisses. Steve covers every inch of Bucky’s body with his hands, and Bucky kisses each patch of golden skin that comes close to him. They twist and turn together, sliding against each other as sweat slickens their skin. When they finally join, Bucky’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. He can’t vocalize the glory of becoming one with his lover. It’s as if he’s lost in a blizzard, completely disoriented, but Steve’s there as the light guiding him home.
For what feels like an eternity, Bucky moves with Steve, shuddering in his arms and crying out until he’s hoarse. There’s nothing but a feverish haze, Steve’s hands and mouth on him, and the ache deep inside that wants even more. Bucky needs this—is desperate to feel human again, even if that means giving up his commune with the wolves and trees. Finding Steve is like rediscovering his own soul. Bucky’s coming back to himself, shedding the pain and suffering of his time as a soldier and embracing his capacity for passion, love, and desire.
Exhausted and content, Bucky allows his thoughts to drift as his cheeks rests on Steve’s slick skin. Arms and legs intertwined, they lie together with Bucky floating as tendrils of flame lick along every nerve in his body. When he shivers, Steve strokes down his spine until Bucky moans low in his throat. Despite his fatigue, he already craves joining with Steve again, uniting with him physically as their minds and souls meld into one unit.
Words fail him, and he wonders if he’ll ever be as satisfied as he is in this moment again. Although Steve’s a solid bulk underneath him, Bucky can’t help wondering if he’ll wake the next morning alone in the pile of blankets and furs with a broken heart and an ache between his legs.
Desperate to keep what he has, he lifts his head and looks down at the hard planes of Steve’s body. Mouth watering, Bucky uses his lips to bring Steve to climax until he’s twitching in Bucky’s arms. When his eyes droop, Bucky tries to fight the curtain of sleep, but it’s as relentless as Alaskan winters. Clinging to Steve, Bucky whispers a soft plea.
“Go to sleep, Bucky,” Steve murmurs into his hair. “Rest.”
As Bucky slides into subconsciousness, he can only think one thing. For the first time since he arrived in Alaska, his mind is as tired as his body. Even if he wanted to fight it, he couldn’t stay awake. Before he can think another thought, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The curtain of darkness eventually gives way, and Bucky blinks open his eyes only after registering the aroma of bacon assailing his nostrils. Stretching, Bucky registers the soft slide of fur against his bare skin, and he moans at the twinge of pain between his legs. He hasn’t been with anyone in so long—until the previous night—that he’d forgotten the feel of being stretched and filled. Lips curved in a sated smile, Bucky turns his head and feels his heart swell in his chest.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Steve offers as he turns over a piece of bacon with a fork.
Inexplicably, Steve’s cooking breakfast with a rough blanket tucked around his slim waist. His broad shoulders and muscled torso make Bucky’s mouth water much more than the bacon. All he can do is appreciate the perfection of Steve’s body.
“You’re beautiful,” Bucky croaks as he sits upright with a dry mouth and desire clawing at him.
Steve flashes him a tender smile and motions for Bucky to join him. Following Steve’s example, Bucky tosses a blanket over his shoulders and covers himself with it. Despite his eagerness to press against his lover, Bucky’s hesitant to remain bare when the cabin air is chilly. The fire that raged the previous evening has burned low, barely hot enough for Steve to cook.
Grinning sheepishly, Bucky hops from one foot to the other and accepts the brush of Steve’s lips against his own. His feet are freezing on the cold wood floor, and he’s fully aware of the cotton feel in his mouth.
“I should get water,” he mumbles as Steve’s arms close around him. “Don’t…don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
Chuckling at Bucky’s order, Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear, “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Bucky chuckles, but his heart is heavy. In the early morning gloom, Steve seems more mist and vapor than flesh and bone. A quick trip to the river might be longer than it takes for Steve to disappear, melting into the landscape and leaving Bucky forever.
Swallowing hard, Bucky admits, “I don’t want to leave. I’m afraid—”
“You can’t be with me every second, Buck,” Steve admonishes him gently. “I’m here because of you. I sprang from your imagination, your sheer force of will. Even if I disappear, I won’t ever really be gone. I’m with you until the end of…”
Steve’s voice fades, but Bucky can hear the unsaid words. With a lump in his throat, he dons clothing, tugs on his coat, and shoves his feet in the boots he’d left tipped on their sides from when Steve and he stumbled into the cabin together.
At the door, he stops, heart clenching, and allows himself one final glimpse of Steve before forging into the crisp air. Dizzy with dread, Bucky hurries to the river, thrusts his pail into the water, and turns quickly to retrace his steps to the cabin. Sick with panic, Bucky bursts through the door to find an empty room waiting for him.
“No,” he moans. “Please. No.”
Near tears, he sets the bucket on the table and sinks to his knees. There’s no trace of Steve except for the warmth of memories and ache in his chest. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he tries to get his mind around the realization that he’s alone again in the wilderness. Before Steve, Bucky welcomed the isolation, but now…
A thwack from outside the cabin jerks him from his downward spiral. Unsettled and anxious, he forces himself to his feet and back outside where he stumbles to the back of the cabin and peers into the very edge of the woods. Squirrels chatter at him, and the trees sway and wave at him. Without warning, they open their branches as a gentle breeze caresses the boughs. Steve’s there, standing beneath the green giants with an ax slung over his shoulder. As Bucky stands frozen, Steve sets up a log and brings the ax down in one forceful stroke.
“Steve?” he calls, unsure whether to believe his eyes or not.
At Bucky’s cry, Steve catches Bucky’s eye and lifts his hand. “We need more wood!” he calls and gestures at the three logs he’s obviously intending to split. “Go back inside. I’ll be done in no time.”
On unsteady legs, Bucky ducks back into the cabin. His hands shake as he runs his palm from his forehead to the tip of his scraggly beard. When he left the cabin, he’d been afraid of the worst, but Steve hasn’t left him. Sucking in a deep breath, Bucky holds it for a few seconds before letting it out in an unsteady, uneven hiss.
By the time Steve returns to the cabin with an armful of firewood, Bucky’s heart is back in his chest. He turns as Steve enters and flashes a smile that’s as rare as the Alaskan sun in winter before sculpting a companion from the snow around him. Now, it feels exactly right.
They aren’t out of time. Not yet.