what is this? another chapter? incredible! i'm so sorry it's been so long since i last updated and i honestly have no excuses, but i had sudden inspiration after staring at my wall for hours on end and threw up this rushed, horrid chapter. hopefully i've got the ball rolling for me to continue this but i won't make any promises! i'll probably go back and fix up this chapter at a later date but i hope it'll do for now. thank you for your patience and for reading my work *:･ﾟ✧
(also i'm really bad at keeping the same tense lately so i apologise if it's super confusing;;)

Bucky's not entirely sure how he's meant to wait out the twenty-four hours until Steve is himself again. It's hard to focus on much – there's a sudden onslaught of memories that Steve's smaller body has triggered. But he's gotten used to this overwhelming feeling, and he's gotten using to letting himself slow down, accept the intake, and then shuffle his way through them, trying to piece them into what he already has floating about in his head. He's sitting on the couch and letting this happen, the television on for background noise, when he feels the cushions shift slightly as Steve settles himself down and gets comfortable.

"Tell me how ya got this," Steve requests quietly, his long, thin fingers brushing over the dull metal of Bucky's prosthetic. His eyes are curious, his face open and welcoming. Bucky's heart throbs. Steve often has the exact same expression on his new face, but there's just something about seeing it on the kid sets of sparks in sections of his memories, of times Bucky sometimes wishes he could go back to, despite knowing how beneficial the future is to the both of them.

"What do you want to know?" Bucky asks. He sets aside the task of sorting out his thoughts to focus on the now smaller man, and he can't help but notice how soft Steve's pink lips look, and how they looked even softer and pinker that time they had cotton candy at Coney Island in the summer of '37, which Bucky idly thinks this Steve hasn't lived yet. Steve's words snap him out of it before he can lean in, thankfully.

"When did it happen? 'Cause if this is 2014, and you're still alive, then you're a hell of a lot older than ya look."

Bucky laughed. "You can say that again," he said, voice raspy with amusement and adoration for the man beside him that he's always managed to hold on to, even with all that Hydra has put him through in the last near century. He scrubbed his flesh and bone hand over his face, trying to figure out just what to say to Steve. It felt wrong to lie to him, as it always had. Bucky hated lying to his best friend, though he couldn't deny that he had at times, when he felt it was for the best. "It's a long story." He looked down at his prosthetic, and wiggled the metallic fingers. The joints moved smoothly, soundlessly. Stark really had done a good job fixing it up for him.

"I lost this arm in the war," he said, slowly, hesitantly. "In 1945. I was presumed dead by my regiment." By you, a voice hissed in the back of his mind, but he hurriedly shoved it back down. This wasn't Steve's fault. No matter what Hydra had tried to make him believe, Bucky would never think that his time as the Winter Soldier was his friend's fault. He took in a slow breath as he curled his fingers again, before blinking when Steve's smaller hand settling in his, interlocking their fingers.

"I really wanna know," Steve says, looking up at him. His azure blue eyes are earnest and worried, but Bucky can see the adoration in them. His heart aches, and he can't tell if it's good or bad. "But I can tell it's hard for ya. So don't push yourself. Don't ever wanna see you achin', Buck." He can feel the faint pressure in his hand as Steve squeezed it gently. Bucky just looks at him, and then before he can ever really register his own movements – so rare for him, when he's spent decades calculating everything, down to his breathing and blinking – he's wrapped the blond up in a tight embrace, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and breathing him in.

Steve is clearly surprised, and he wheezes slightly, but he manages to get his arms free to wrap them around Bucky in return. "It's okay," he mumbled in the other's broad chest, "it's gonna be okay. We always get through everything together, Buck. And even if we're both outta the right time right now, we still got each other. Just like it's always meant to be." And Bucky is incredibly ashamed but he's crying, tears running hot and thick down his cheeks to soak into Steve's borrowed shirt. He hasn't let himself cry in a while, but it feels damn good to do it now, wrapped up in the arms of the man who's the most important to him.

"Yeah, we'll be okay," he agreed, voice trembling now. He let out an awkward laugh and squeezed Steve closer. "We've gotten through so much before together, Stevie, we'll get through this now." And he knows it's true. Sometimes it's hard to believe, but right now, with Steve small and fragile but just as full of fire as he's always been, Bucky knows he can believe those words.

"I love you, Bucky," Steve says quietly, and for a second Bucky is almost certain he's merely hearing things. "I always will. No matter what. Even if you looked as old as you really are." He lets out a quiet laugh. "'til the end of the line, right?"

Bucky lets out a strange sob and nods vehemently. He's pulled Steve onto his lap now and he's almost certain that if he held the poor man any tighter he might just crack one of his fragile, bird-like ribs, but he doesn't think he could let go even if he tried to. His declaration of love is ringing in his ears; Bucky can't remember the last time someone told him they love him and he didn't doubt it. It's a foreign feeling, but his chest feels warm and full and he wants to experience this feeling again and again. "I love you too, Stevie," he replies earnestly, words pressed into the crook of his thin neck, against the somewhat unsteady throb of his pulse under pale skin, "'til the end of the line."