Chapter Text
Everybody, everybody, has a soulmate. Sometime before the age of seven, if not within minutes of being born, the name of a person’s soul mate (or, in some cases, mates) appeared somewhere on their skin. When a person meets their soulmate, the world undergoes a 'transformation' that is apparently hard to describe. The two to seven year age gap is usual, and most people fall in that range- except for Steven Grant Rogers. Steve Rogers' soulmark appeared on the inside of his left wrist at 12:42 pm on March 12th, 1999- When Steve was about to turn nineteen.
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Fast forward sixteen years, two tours of Afghanistan, and teacher's college, and Steve was going down the attendance list for his eleventh grade Ceramics and Sculpture class, last period of the first day of school.
"So, I've got-" he startled slightly, his heart fluttering, before he continued- "James Barnes absent, is that it? Anyone's name that I didn't call? Barton, I know for a fact that I called you, put your hand down. We good?" He clapped his hands before continuing to sign for Barton, who was 70% deaf. "Alright. I'm Mr. Rogers, and if anyone tries to welcome me to the neighbourhood, they will be reconstituting the slip at the end of every month. Technically I'm a Captain, but the school board says you guys can't call me that, so instead you can call me Steve. Now, everybody come up here- school-board issue overviews, hooray, right? Now, for the marking scheme--"
At that moment, the door opened, and a tallish boy with coiffed, dark hair strode in.
"Hiya, Teach. Sorry I'm late." Steve froze and blinked. The boy was- He couldn't describe it. He had heard people who had found their soul mates try to describe color, but this... This was something else. Recovering a couple of seconds later, he cleared his throat.
"You must be James. I'm Mr. Rogers, but most folks call me Steve. Come get one of these, okay?" Now, as James looked up, it was his turn to freeze. He looked around, wide eyed, and took a deep breath, looking like he was about to say something. Steve cut him off. "We'll talk after class. Come get this sheet, we're going over the marking scheme."
Steve turned back to the rest of the class. "Basically, all you need off of that sheet is that you have one week to turn in late assignments before they become a zero, and that your final grade will be made up of 70% coursework, and 30% is from your final exam. Questions?" Clint Barton raised his hand. "No? Good. James, if you could find a seat with some elbow room- ah, there's one, front left, okay?" James took his seat, still seemingly dumbfounded. "Okay. Now, who can tell me the #1 most important rule when working with clay?"
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The rest of the period ticked by torturously slowly, at least for Bucky. Whenever he had looked at his Mark in the past, or felt phantom fingers or lips brush against it, he had always pictured his soulmate to be the same age, or only slightly older than him. He couldn't exactly say he was disappointed, though. Steve was Hot. Yeah. Capital H italicised Hot. And he kept shooting Bucky these looks, startling him into realizing that he was rubbing at his Mark again. Well, excuse me, Bucky thought. Can't help if I've got tics. The guy kept stressing the cleaning aspect of pottery- yeah, we get it, clay dust plus lungs equals bad. Move on. Bucky almost fell asleep a couple of times, but was woken each time by a pinch to his Mark. His jaw set, and he spent the rest of the class paying as close attention as he could.
When the bell finally rang, Bucky stayed behind, sitting at the desk he'd been pointed to, as the rest of the class filed out to go home or catch up with each other. Being the new kid, he wasn't exactly top of the food chain anyway, so staying behind was no skin off his back.
"So, um. What happens now?" Bucky asked quietly into the silence of the room.
"I have no idea. I should probably call your parents, and then maybe resign. Fuck." Bucky grimaced.
"I don't think you wanna bother calling my folks. It's not exactly a happy home," he murmured. "Not since mom married Alex, anyway. And I'm sorry about your job. Fuck, this is so weird."
"Yeah, you're tellin' me. I knew it'd be soon, if you went to this school, but it's still weird. Do you go by James? I feel like I should ask."
"Nah, I go by Bucky. Buck, sometimes. My sister used to call me Bucket." Steve chuckled and sat down in the chair at his desk.
"God, you're so young. I didn't even have a Mark until I was almost nineteen, and now I'm meeting you, and you aren't even that old. You're what, sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Sixteen," Bucky confirmed. Steve scrubbed his face.
"So I guess I'll call your parents, then-"
"No!" Bucky interrupted, "Please don't. I, uh. I don't think that's a good idea. And I'm kind of... Between homes right now, anyway." Steve raised an eyebrow.
"You got a place to stay? And 'm not talkin' about the youth shelter, those places scare the crap outta me. " Bucky grimaced.
"Kind of?" He replied, wincing. Steve sighed.
"There's no possible way you're sleeping under the bridge if there's anything I can do. Here-" he pulled out a little notepad and scribbled his address and phone number onto it.
"You feel like sleepin' in a bed, you swing by. And I'm not just talkin' about cold nights, here, either, okay? I've got a spare bedroom, you're welcome to it. And there's probably enough food in my fridge to feed the football team, so I'd be glad for the help eating it all." Bucky stared at the offered slip of paper.
"Thanks," he murmured, taking it. "I appreciate that. I- um. So, are we- what's gonna-"
"Nothing's gonna happen unless you want it to, Bucky. I promise. Is there anything else I can do? I think I probably still have to resign, so I mean... Not gonna have a steady income other than government cheques for a while, but I've got a backup plan." Bucky smiled.
"I think I'm alright 'till the cold weather sets in. The school's got a food bank, so I can get stuff to eat, and if I get here early enough I can use the locker room showers. But... Thank you. For the offer, I mean. I'll keep this," he promised, holding up Steve's address slightly. Steve bit his lip, looking like he wanted to say something. Steve chewed his lip.
"If you want- just, if you want- you could stay with me. I mean, we legally have to register as soulmates anyway, and my place isn't far from the registration office in Prospect Heights. Make it a helluva lot easier on you," he offered. Bucky's eyebrows shot up.
"Really?" He asked. "You- you wouldn't mind?" Steve shook his head.
"Nah. Rent's cheap, and like I said, I got a ton of food. Only downside is, there's no elevator."
Bucky nodded, contemplating. A massive part of his told him that there was no way that this guy could be trusted. But on the other hand... Steve was his soul mate. Soul mates didn't hurt each other. Hell, even Alex-- No. Stop. Don't think about him. Bucky took a deep breath.
"Yeah. Alright. Just let me grab my stuff from my locker."
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Steve had told Bucky to meet him at the gym doors once he had his stuff. Steve just had to grab his jacket and shoulder bag from the staff room before they met up. He ran headlong into Mr. Wilson, the American History teacher, while he was going around a corner, knocking the box of files from the other teacher’s hands.
“Sam! God, sorry about that,” Steve apologized/greeted, helping him pick up the loose papers.
“It’s all good. What’s got you running? Leave the kiln on or something?”
“Nah. you’re supposed to leave kilns on, they’re not pleasant to be around. I, um. I met James,” he explained, his voice softening.
“So it was that new kid. Thought the name sounded familiar. You going down to register?” Sam asked, standing back up with his box. Steve nodded.
“Yeah. And then I’m going to resign before Fury can fire my ass.” Sam frowned and nodded.
“Good plan. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” Steve nodded.
“Will do. Thank you, Sam.”
“No problem.”
Steve dashed down the stairs and opened the door to find Bucky leaning against an old pickup truck, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey,” he greeted. Bucky turned and nodded in greeting, carefully butting out his half-finished smoke to save for later. “You got everything you’re gonna need for the night?” Steve asked, eyeing the half-empty military-issue duffle that Bucky had slung over his shoulder. Bucky nodded.
“All my worldly possessions. I’ve been doing the whole 'zen' thing. Feels great.” his lips quirked up at that last, and he looked up at Steve. “So, you got a car or what?” Steve shrugged.
“Something like that,” he replied before taking his keys out of his pocket and twirling them around his finger. “You ever ridden a motorcycle before?”
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See, this is nice, Bucky thought. Steve’s bike wasn’t overbearing- Just sturdy enough. It was a Harley, but it wasn’t branded too heavily like they often are. Bucky currently had his arms wrapped tight around Steve's waist, his forehead pressed between the older man's shoulder blades. By God, this man was ripped. Bucky seriously couldn't think of a time when he'd met somebody this jacked that wasn't on steroids, and Steve really wasn't giving off that vibe. Steve had been nervous about letting Bucky ride without a helmet, and had therefore forfeited his own to the teen. Bucky would’ve been fine either way, honest- Steve was nothing if not a careful driver.
“You alright back there?” Steve asked at a red light. Bucky nodded, but clung a little tighter to Steve, indulging the idea that maybe this could be okay. “Alright. Take the helmet off if you gotta puke, okay? Don’t want you to choke on it.” Bucky chuckled at that, but the helmet muffled it so that Steve couldn’t hear. Bucky already knew he was going to like this guy. Plus, seeing things in color was a real eye-opener. (Ha ha.) He could tell, vaguely, who out of the people they passed had met their soulmate. He may not know what the colors were called, but he could tell when they clashed.
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Arriving at the registration office, they dismounted, Bucky bringing his duffle with him and Steve leaving his bag and the helmet stashed in a storage box on the back of the bike.
“You ready, Buck?” Steve asked, taking Bucky’s hand like they hadn’t met two hours ago. Bucky squeezed back.
“Yeah. ‘M good.” Steve smiled and held the door open for him.
“After you, my dear.”
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Registration was Hell. They needed picture ID (and wasn’t Bucky glad he’d bothered to get his driver’s license), fingerprints, DNA testing, records of their marks, and eye exams. What was nice about the eye exams was that they got to learn the names of all of the colors, so Bucky didn’t need to think to himself “That one that’s all over trees and grass and stuff”, etc. They were given pamphlets explaining what sort of changes to expect, physically and emotionally, as they got to know each other better, and a business card for a psychiatrist that specialized in soul mate-related issues. By the time they were leaving, Bucky was starving.
"Thai sound alright to you? I know a place between here and my place that does a killer green curry," Steve suggested. That's it. I'm the luckiest guy alive, Bucky thought.
“I haven’t had Thai in years. Sounds good to me.”
They ended up getting take out- They got there right at the dinner rush, and apparently, Steve’s order wouldn’t have fit on the table anyway. Steve ducked back inside once they had decided from the menu that was placed just outside the door. They carefully arranged the bags on the handlebars before re-mounting and driving about two blocks to Steve's apartment.
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"Oh my God, this is good," Bucky moaned around a mouthful of the softshell crab he was half-finished. "Thai's my favourite, but Alex is allergic to shellfish, so after Ma met him we never got it. You've got good taste, Steve." Steve smiled and picked up the container of orange duck.
"It's cheap, too, so that doesn't hurt. Eat as much as you want, seriously. You could use some extra meat on your bones." Bucky smiled and bit his lip.
"To be honest, I'm stuffed. Funny thing about not eating, it makes you not hungry." Steve nodded.
"Well, whatever you can manage. I'm not gonna make you eat, I was just trying to make sure good manners didn't starve you. Alright. If you're done, let's pack this up, and then I can help you get settled. I think you should be fine, there's a desk you can have in there, and an electric blanket for when it gets cold. You need anything, you let me know, okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, of course,” Bucky confirmed, nodding, “But to be honest I would have been fine on the floor. I’m not exactly picky anymore about this kind of thing.”
“Yeah, and I get that, trust me, but I want to make sure you’re comfortable. You seem like a good kid, Barnes,” Steve remarked, nudging Bucky’s shoulder with his own. Bucky chuckled and nudged back as he set the crab back down.
"Not so bad yourself, Rogers. Alright. Let's have the grand tour, shall we?" He asked, standing to help Steve get everything back in the fridge.
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There was no possible way that Bucky was going to get back to sleep after that nightmare. He huffed a breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed- God, it's like a marshmallow or something- and got up to grab a glass of water and maybe have a shower. When he got to the junction between the living room and the kitchen, however, he froze.
"You too, huh?" Steve asked from where he was sitting, reading a book by the light of the floor lamp. Bucky yawned and leaned against the wall, nodding.
"Nightmares?" He asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pyjama pants. He didn't want to pry, but the look on Steve's face was pretty familiar.
"Yeah," Steve replied, dog-earing his book and removing his reading glasses. "Some nights it's not so bad, but then others... Well, let's just say the war doesn't always stay in Afghanistan." Bucky's eyebrows shot up.
"You served?" He asked. Steve nodded.
"107th unit. Captain Steve Rogers. Two tours." Bucky nodded, biting his lip.
"My dad was in the 107th," he murmured, smiling a bit sadly. "After Ma met Alex, well. Dad couldn't compete. Joined the army so he could die honourably." Steve's brow furrowed.
"What did you say his name was?" He asked.
"Sergeant George Barnes. Was probably before your time--"
"He did." Steve whispered. "He did die honourably." Bucky looked at him in confusion.
"You knew him?" He asked, his voice getting a bit thin. Steve nodded, standing to hold Bucky's hands gently.
"He saved my life at least three times over. I asked him a couple times why he was always so preoccupied with making sure I didn't die, but he never told me. I'm guessing it was because of you." Bucky rubbed the tears from his eyes and leaned forward into Steve's arms, crying softly into his chest.
"Hey, shh," Steve tried to soothe him. "Deep breaths. I've got you, Buck. You know what?" He asked quietly. Bucky shook his head slightly, sniffing. "He was always talkin' about you and Becca, always said how proud he was of you. Always sayin' how smart you were, especially. I always thought it was a little strange that he'd talk to me about his kids, and nobody else, but... I mean, I get it now. Should'a put two and two together, even if he never actually told me your name. He called you 'junior' when he talked about you. I can see why, you look just like him." Bucky yawned again and looped his arms loosely around Steve's hips. He was a bit calmer now, but there was still something on his mind.
"Was that you who wrote me the letter when he died?" He asked quietly, still hiccoughing. Steve squeezed him a little bit tighter, tucking Bucky's head under his chin.
"Yeah, Bucky. He saved my life. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him." Bucky clung tighter, his hands fisting in the fabric of Steve's shirt.
"How did it happen?" He asked, almost afraid for the answer. Steve kissed the top of his head, not really thinking about it.
"Buck... 'M not sure now's the best time. You've got school tomorrow, and I've still got the six week period before they can actually fire me. We should get some rest." Bucky nodded.
"Stevie?"
"Mm?"
"Can- Can I stay with you? Please?" Bucky asked tentatively. Steve nodded, rubbing the teenager's back, gentle and a little timid.
"Of course, darlin'. I invited you, didn't I?"
"No, I mean... With you. In your bed." Steve nodded slowly in understanding.
"Well, sweetheart... If... If you want, then of course. Just... If I have another nightmare, you can't wake me up, alright? I keep a gun under my pillow, and if I hurt you, I..." Bucky nodded, squeezing tighter for a second before dropping his arms.
"Of course. I get it, Stevie." Steve squeezed Bucky's shoulders gently and kissed his forehead.
"Come on. Bedtime."