Chapter Text
It was early, 05:32 according to Steve's watch, but he was late. Those two minutes behind schedule felt like a personal failure, and he couldn't help but flush with anger at himself. He had always been a stickler for following strict routines and maintaining control over his life. Running was one of the few things that made him feel in control. He started sprinting, his tennis shoes smacking aggressively against the pavement with each determined step.
The recent mission had been particularly grueling and exhausting, stretching into the early hours of the morning. Steve had barely made it home at 03:58, leaving him a meager hour to rest before his internal alarm urged him to wake up and stick to his disciplined regimen. If any of his fellow Avengers saw him up and about at this hour, they would be concerned, but he preferred to keep his struggles hidden. That's why he lived in a shabby, out-of-the-way place instead of the lavish Avengers tower. There was rarely any hot water, the pipes leaked, it was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, and the building was probably older than Steve was. The rundown living conditions hardly bothered him. The privacy it afforded was all that mattered.
In his small, shabby apartment, Steve could hide away from judgmental eyes. Here, he could maintain his arduous routines, punishing himself for desires he believed to be shameful. Running became an obsession to burn away the nagging feeling of vulnerability that ate at his mind with every moment. He restricted his eating in hopes of gaining a sense of discipline. He even berated himself, internally, at all hours of the day, a punishment designed to suppress his submissive nature. In the depths of night, when loneliness and yearning gnawed at him the most, he sometimes found himself on his knees, seeking solace in a void that felt impossible to fill.
His senses sharpened as he ran down the deserted streets. In a place that never slept, he felt it was strange that there was no one around. He thought he glimpsed an elusive glimmer of light bouncing against a familiar surface, vibranium, down an alleyway. The sight was perplexing, and he came to an abrupt stop, heart racing not just from exertion but from an unexpected twist in his routine. Steve cautiously retraced his steps and peered into the dark, foreboding alleyway where the light had originated. The place seemed completely empty, not even a sound of rats scurrying about. He tried to dismiss the feeling of unease, thinking it might be just his overactive imagination playing tricks on him. Even with the serum, his mind was still human, it could struggle under the stress he put it under. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he turned to continue his run, but something was amiss. Before he could fully process it, he felt a sharp prick at the base of his neck, like a bug had bitten him.
Dizziness washed over him, and his surroundings blurred. He tried to reach up to touch the spot where he felt the sting, but his limbs wouldn't obey his commands. His body felt heavy, and he stumbled, barely managing to stay on his feet. Steve's vision darkened as his legs gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, his last coherent thought being the worry of what was happening to him and why he couldn't resist.
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Steve's eyes slowly opened, and he felt a wave of disorientation wash over him. The throbbing in his head made it difficult to focus, and he instinctively reached up to rub his temples. As he stirred, he realized he was lying in a comfortable bed, tucked beneath the covers, and dressed in unfamiliar pajamas that were certainly not his own.
He tried to make sense of his surroundings, but his head was pounding and his vision was swimming. He had to close his eyes for a few more minutes, until his body worked through whatever had been injected into his bloodstream. Whatever it was, it was definitely designed with supersoldiers in mind. When he could finally look around, Steve was shocked by his surroundings. The room he found himself in was disorientingly familiar, almost like a dream from the past. It bore a striking resemblance to a picture he had once seen in a catalog back in the during his time as a teen, back in the 30s, of a room he had only daydreamed about. He always thought his Ma would have liked it, before she died, anyway. But there was something off in the room around him, a subtle modern touch that seemed out of place in this nostalgic setting.
The vintage wallpaper that adorned the walls had delicate patterns in faded hues of cream and soft pastels, evoking a sense of nostalgia that tugged at his heart. He was lying on a large, four-poster bed with intricately carved wooden frames. The canopy above the bed was draped with sheer curtains, creating an almost delicate atmosphere around him. The bedding, though undoubtedly modern, had a vintage charm, with delicate embroidery and lace accents.
Steve strained to gather his thoughts. The atmosphere of the room weighed heavily on him. He could hear the soft hum of an air conditioning unit, a sound entirely foreign to the era he believed he was in. A faint buzz from a nearby television seeped through a partially closed door, adding to the surreal sensation. But amidst these incongruent sounds, he could still hear the familiar thumping of his own heartbeat, grounding him in the present moment.
A weathered wooden dresser stood against one wall, adorned with carefully placed ornaments. The surface held a collection of seemingly random objects, each one carrying stories of its own, a pocket watch, a faded postcard, and an old perfume bottle. These items seemed to whisper tales of bygone days. Near the bed, a wooden rocking chair sat in a corner, exuding an aura of comfort and invitation. Its smooth, polished surface hinted at years of use and affection, leaving Steve to wonder about the memories it held.
Steve continued to take in his surroundings, but the sense of dislocation persisted, leaving him feeling like a puzzle piece out of place. The room held an uncanny blend of familiarity and mystery, like a half-remembered dream that refused to fully materialize. But one thing was certain, this was not the past he once knew. The throbbing in his head made it difficult to think clearly, but he knew enough to recognize that he had not returned to the 1930s. The modern elements in the room were too distinct, a stark contrast to the vintage decor that surrounded him. The room seemed to exist in a liminal space, caught between two eras, teasing him with memories that weren't quite his own.
Determined to understand the truth, Steve mustered the strength to get up and stumbled toward the window. His heart sank when he saw the view beyond. Instead of the familiar cityscape of Brooklyn or any semblance of the world he knew, there was nothing but vast fields stretching as far as his eyes could see. The landscape was utterly unfamiliar, and it only added to the disconcerting feeling that he was in a place that shouldn't exist. Outside, the fields whispered of serenity and seclusion, leaving him with an eerie feeling of isolation. There was no sign of civilization or the bustling city he was accustomed to. The absence of human activity only deepened his disquiet, as if this place existed in a bubble, disconnected from the world he knew.
Steve knew he was still in the present day, considering how well the window was sealed. Plus, there was the central air circulating through the room. He could even see the air conditioning units on the side of the house. But if that was the case, how did he end up in this peculiar place that seemed to blend two eras together?
As he leaned against the window frame, the cool glass offering a small respite to his still-throbbing head, Steve's thoughts swirled with questions. His mind darted back to the memories before waking up in this mysterious room. There was the alleyway, the strange prick on his neck, and then darkness. But what happened after that remained elusive. He had been captured, that much was certain, but by whom and for what purpose?
He had enemies, of course, a multitude of them. But what enemy would put him in pajamas and tuck him into bed? Steve's mind raced with conflicting thoughts and emotions as he navigated his memories. The mysterious circumstances of his situation gnawed at him, but he refused to let fear paralyze him. He may not have his gear, or even shoes, but he was still Captain America, and he had faced countless challenges before.
The carpet beneath his bare feet felt unusually soft and well-preserved, suggesting that this house wasn't just a random hiding spot, but rather a place of deliberate design and care. As he approached the bedroom door, he noted how it was slightly ajar, and he couldn't help but wonder why his captor hadn't secured it properly. The absence of a lock raised further questions, leaving him to ponder the intentions of the person behind this strange abduction. What kidnapper didn’t put a lock on the door? One that either thought their victim either couldn’t escape or wouldn’t escape. Steve wasn’t sure which one was worse.
Peering through the gap, he caught a glimpse of a hallway beyond, leading to other closed doors. The absence of any visible adversaries didn't mean he was in the clear, so he moved silently, keeping his senses alert for any potential threats. He noticed the other closed doors along the hallway, each one concealing potential mysteries, adding to the enigma of the place. With his senses on high alert, Steve cautiously approached the open bathroom door across the hallway. As he peeked inside, he was met with a fascinating blend of vintage and modern elements. The design exuded more of the 30s color design, which was rather ugly when Steve thought about it, but the presence of modern plumbing fixtures provided an intriguing juxtaposition. He was glad for modern plumbing. His curiosity piqued, he decided to continue down the hallway, passing closed doors on either side. Each door held a sense of mystery, leaving him wondering what secrets might lie behind them. The absence of photographs on the wallpapered walls only added to the air of secrecy and made him question the purpose of this place.
The hardwood floor beneath his feet was smooth and polished, while a long rug guided his path. The hallway seemed to stretch on endlessly, beckoning him forward with each step. He moved silently, careful not to make a sound that might alert anyone to his presence. When he drew closer to the end of the hallway, the sound of the television grew louder, pulling him like a magnet. It was a strange sensation, hearing a TV's noise, with such clarity, in an environment that appeared to belong to a different era. The clash of past and present elements only heightened, making Steve feel even more confused.
At the end of the hallway, he discovered the source of the TV sounds—the door to the room was ajar, allowing a soft glow to spill out into the hallway. He hesitated for a moment, knowing that whatever lay beyond might hold answers, or perhaps even more questions. But Steve was not one to back down from a challenge. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, ready to face whatever awaited him.
He felt like he had walked into an idyllic family home, like something he had seen in a movie. The farmhouse appeal of the room added to the surreal ambiance of the house, a strange combination of past and present that kept Steve on edge. The dining room stood to the right, and to the left was the living room. His eyes were drawn to the flat-screen TV, playing a fishing show where a man leisurely caught fish on a drifting boat. Despite the tranquil scene, Steve's focus was pulled elsewhere, fixating on the figure sitting on the couch, the man who turned when Steve spoke.
"Bucky?" Steve asked, his voice hesitant and hopeful as he stood cautiously in the doorway. He couldn't ignore the familiar shape of Bucky's shoulders, even from behind, but as Bucky turned slightly to glance back at him, Steve's heart sank.
It was Bucky, yet not the Bucky he had known before. His long, brown hair looked cleaner, and the wear and tear that had marked his previous life as the Winter Soldier seemed less apparent. But the look in Bucky's eyes was what troubled Steve the most. The spark of recognition he had hoped to see was absent, replaced by a blankness, a coldness, a distant detachment that betrayed the lingering grasp of the Winter Soldier persona. Steve's heart clenched with the realization that Bucky hadn't fully reclaimed his identity. The man sitting on the couch was still the Winter Soldier, trapped in the shadow of his past, and Steve couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness and frustration. He had hoped that their reunion would bring back memories, that the bond they once shared would shine through, but it seemed that wasn’t going to happen.
"Bucky..." Steve's voice was soft, filled with longing as he took a cautious step closer. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, but he couldn’t. Bucky's gaze locked onto Steve's, and for a moment, it seemed as if there was a flicker of recognition. But it was fleeting, lost amidst the lingering shadows of the Winter Soldier's past. As Steve fully rounded the couch, he approached Bucky with caution, his emotions swirling inside him like a raging storm. He had been chasing after Bucky for so long, hoping to bring him back to the person he once was, but seeing him now, sitting on the couch like any ordinary person, made Steve's heart ache. Bucky's appearance was simple, dressed in a dark blue shirt and worn-out jeans. Bucky’s vibranium arm looked almost harmless in the soft light of the living room, but Steve knew how easily it would be for Bucky to launch him through a wall with that thing.
Steve approached, wanting to get closer, but Bucky held up a hand to halt him. The gesture made Steve hesitate, but he couldn't help how his gaze was drawn to Bucky's flesh hand, examining it intently, noting the familiar lines and contours that hadn't changed much over the years. To his surprise, Bucky's hand moved again, and with two fingers, he pointed downward. Steve followed the gesture, his eyes landing on a kneeling pad, unmistakably designed for a submissive. His heart raced at the implication, his submissive desires long suppressed, but he refused to give in so easily.
“C’mon,” Steve muttered, resisting the urge to kneel as ordered. He couldn't simply submit, not without understanding what was going on, not without knowing if this was truly Bucky or if it was still the Winter Soldier lingering. Besides, Bucky had never been his dominant. He had never actually done what Steve had always wanted him to do, anyways. Sure, Bucky had scolded him a few times for getting into fights, saying Steve was a ‘mouthy thing’, but Bucky had never committed to Steve, had never really punished him, never made him kneel, and he had definitely never touched him sexually.
"Kneel," Bucky ordered, and this time, Steve couldn't resist. The strength in his legs seemed to drain away, and before he knew it, he found himself on the kneeling pad, his body obeying the command almost instinctively. He was surprised by his own response, feeling vulnerable and exposed in such a position.
Bucky's voice, though raspy from disuse, held a commanding presence that Steve couldn't ignore. The dominant energy in Bucky's voice reached deep into Steve's soul, stirring a response he had denied for far too long. It was a part of him that he had tried to bury, a side that he believed didn't fit with the image of Captain America. His eyes darted down to his own legs, disbelief and confusion swirling within him. He had always been the one in control, the leader, the one to protect others. To find himself so quickly submitting to Bucky's dominance was bewildering. Steve's reputation as someone hard to put down was well-earned. He had tried to embrace his submissive nature in the past, after he had been thawed from the ice, but he was not a typical submissive by any means. His relentless pursuit of justice and his unwavering need to protect others often outweighed his own desires to submit. In the past, even Bucky, who knew him more intimately than any others, had struggled with Steve's stubbornness. Back then, Bucky hadn’t even been aware that Steve was a submissive. He just thought Steve was a stupid kid with no leanings, what the average person called a ‘none’.
Steve knelt before Bucky, torn between his instincts as Captain America and his long-suppressed submissive desires, Steve couldn't help but reflect on his past with Bucky. The contrast between them was striking. Bucky had been drawn to submissives who easily slipped into subspace, finding pleasure in their surrender, while Steve had been the exact opposite. Steve's heart ached with the memories of his past actions. He had always been a champion for justice, even at the cost of his own happiness. His strong sense of right and wrong often put him at odds with his submissive desires, making him feel conflicted and guilty for wanting to embrace that part of himself.
In their earlier years, while Bucky danced and flirted with numerous female subs, Steve was out in the world, picking fights and standing up against those who abused or harmed submissives. He couldn't bear to see others suffer, especially those who were in vulnerable positions. He mostly did it to avoid the jealousy that burned within him whenever he saw Bucky with someone else.
It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t believe that Steve shouldn’t stand up for others. In fact, Bucky had always been there to defend those weaker than himself, including Steve, on numerous occasions. He had a genuine sense of justice and compassion, and he didn't hesitate to lend a helping hand to those in need, often putting himself on the line to protect the vulnerable. Bucky was undeniably a great guy, but there was one aspect of their friendship that led to occasional friction: In Bucky’s mind, Steve was constantly itching for a fight.
The truth was that Steve did have a tendency to seek out fights. While he genuinely enjoyed helping others and standing up for the vulnerable, there was another side to his actions, a hidden desire to be beaten down. It was a way for him to fulfill his submissive needs without compromising his strong moral principles. Engaging in fights provided an outlet for the complex mix of emotions that simmered beneath the surface, allowing him to express his true self in a way that felt both liberating and conflicting. However, Bucky detested this aspect of Steve's behavior. Whenever he discovered Steve in the middle of a fight, he would rush to his aid, but not without scolding Steve afterward. Bucky couldn't understand why Steve constantly put himself in harm's way, and he worried about his friend's well-being. Unbeknownst to Bucky, Steve had many times considered sharing his true nature as a submissive with him. On one particular night, he mustered up the courage to bring it up, but Bucky, who had been drinking, had laughed it off, dismissing the idea entirely.
“No way,” he said with a teasing smile, “you'd be a terrible submissive.”
Though Bucky's words were meant in jest, they hurt Steve deeply. He felt dismissed and misunderstood, as if his closest friend didn't truly see him for who he was. Steve kept his identity even further hidden within himself. He was successful in that, even now. And Bucky, who was his closest friend, had never figured it out. Well, at least, that was what Steve had thought before this very day.
Kneeling there, Steve couldn't shake off the awkwardness of the moment. This version of Bucky was obviously very aware of Steve's designation as a submissive, and yet, he seemed distant, absorbed in the fishing show playing on the TV. But Steve couldn't really tell if Bucky was genuinely watching the program, as his eyes remained fixed and unresponsive, giving little indication of where his thoughts truly lay.
Despite the comfort he found in the submissive position, the surreal circumstances surrounding him dampened any sense of satisfaction. It was as if he was caught between two worlds, the past and the present, his role as Captain America and his true desires as a submissive. The internal struggle was palpable, and Steve's heart raced in his chest. He had been yearning for so long to embrace this side of himself, to share it with someone who truly understood and accepted him. And yet, now that the opportunity presented itself, he felt uncertain and exposed. He couldn't help but wonder what Bucky was thinking, why he had brought Steve to this place, and what his intentions were. The lack of communication between them only added to the ambiguity of the situation, leaving Steve feeling vulnerable and hesitant.
Steve's breath caught in his throat as Bucky's metal arm shot out, swiftly grabbing his right shoulder. The firm grip conveyed a clear message, and without a word, Bucky applied steady pressure, pushing Steve down. It was as if Bucky had seen right through him, understanding the hesitation that lingered within Steve. Steve had been kneeling in an incomplete manner, not fully sitting back on his feet. He had kept himself slightly elevated, as if trying to maintain some semblance of control and distance from the situation. But Bucky's action left him no choice but to yield, bit by bit, to the forceful guidance of the dominant. Try as he might to resist, Steve's body responded to Bucky's command. Millimeter by millimeter, he sank down until he was sitting properly, seated back on his feet, fully embracing the submissive posture.
After he had finally settled into the proper kneeling position, Steve's gaze lingered on Bucky's profile, searching for any sign of what this man, who was simultaneously his friend and not his friend, was thinking or feeling. Yet, Bucky's eyes remained locked on the fishing show, leaving Steve uncertain of how his submission was being received.
“That’s it,” murmured Bucky so quietly that Steve thought he imagined it. Bucky's vibranium hand gently ruffled his hair, just like he used to do in the past with his real hand, and Steve couldn't help but lean into the familiar touch. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he couldn't help but let out a small sigh of relief.
“Wait, no,” Steve responded. Steve pulled his head away from Bucky's hand. He felt a mix of emotions: confusion, fear, and a sense of defiance that he hadn't expected. But Bucky's response to his refusal was chilling. His head turned mechanically, and Steve could feel an underlying threat beneath his soft tone.
"No?" Bucky's question seemed innocent enough, but Steve could sense the danger lurking beneath the surface. Despite his inner turmoil and the impulse to back down, Steve steeled himself and held his ground. He couldn't let fear dictate his actions, he needed to know the truth.
"Why did you bring me here?" Steve's voice was steady, but his heart was pounding in his chest. He needed answers, needed to understand the reason behind this strange situation. "And where are my clothes and phone?"
Bucky's response was unexpected, and it only deepened Steve's confusion. "This is your home," Bucky said, his words filled with conviction.
Steve frowned, trying to make sense of Bucky's words. This place, with its mix of vintage elements and modern touches, was nothing like his home. He couldn't recall ever seeing this place before, and it certainly didn't feel familiar to him.
"No, Buck," Steve countered, using the nickname in the hope of sparking recognition. But Bucky's fleeting response gave Steve little comfort. It was as if the name meant nothing to him, like a distant memory just out of reach. Even while Steve tried to make sense of the situation, his legs remained stubbornly immobile, reminding him that he had been ordered to stay down. He wanted to stand up, to reclaim control over his own body, but the dominance Bucky exuded kept him obediently in place.
"You belong here," Bucky asserted, and Steve couldn't help but feel a shiver of unease. There was something off about the way Bucky said it, as if he believed it with unwavering certainty, despite the reality being completely different.
“You mean I can’t leave,” Steve said, suspicion evident in his tone.
“No, you will stay here,” Bucky continued, voice becoming less raspy with each word. Bucky's voice, though sounding somewhat familiar, lacked its usual warmth, making it feel distant and unsettling.
Steve's suspicion grew as Bucky confirmed that he couldn't leave, that he was expected to stay in this unfamiliar place. Panic started to gnaw at him as he considered the implications of being held against his will. He had responsibilities as Captain America, to his team, and to the world, and he couldn't simply disappear without consequences.
“I have responsibilities to take care of,” Steve protested, trying to reason with Bucky. “The other Avengers will come after me, Bucky, you can't just-” He paused as he saw the darkening in Bucky's eyes, a sign that resistance might not be well-received.
“They will not find you here,” Bucky insisted, his resolute tone sending chills down Steve's spine. It was clear that Bucky was determined to keep him hidden, tucked away from the prying eyes of the outside world.
When Bucky stood up and grabbed Steve by the upper arm, Steve's instincts kicked in, and he readied himself for a fight. But to his surprise, Bucky didn't attack him. Instead, Bucky led him down the hallway, releasing him outside of the bathroom. The abrupt change caught Steve off-guard, leaving him momentarily disoriented.
"Shower," Bucky ordered, pointing to the tiled shower. Steve hesitated, still needing answers, but the commanding tone left him with little choice. Bucky's sudden shift in behavior was confusing and unnerving, and Steve couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
“Now.” The growl from Bucky urged him into action, and without fully understanding why, Steve obeyed. He stepped into the bathroom, shutting the bathroom door behind him with a sense of urgency. His mind raced with questions and a sense of powerlessness. As Captain America, he was used to being in control and making decisions, but here he was, following Bucky's orders without resistance.
Steve stood in the bathroom, not moving, the weight of the situation weighed heavily on him. Bucky's assertion that he couldn't leave and that the other Avengers wouldn't find him here sent a chill down his spine. This was not the Bucky he knew, the warm, caring friend who had always been by his side. There was something different about him, something distant and unsettling.
Steve locked the bathroom door, hoping to buy himself a little time, but he knew that wouldn't be a foolproof solution if Bucky truly intended to get in. Steve's mind raced with questions, trying to piece together the puzzle of his current predicament. Turning his attention to the window, he contemplated the possibility of escape. However, it quickly became apparent that the small window wouldn't be an option for someone of his size. The realization left him feeling trapped, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
Deciding to follow Bucky's command and take a shower, Steve turned on the water. The showerhead was easy enough to figure out, thankfully. Steve had found that many showers in the future were difficult to operate if you weren’t familiar with each individual kind. He began removing the unfamiliar pajamas. In the corner, sat a large wicker hamper with a lid. He opened it to peer inside, but he found nothing. There was no sign of his own clothes or even of Bucky’s dirty clothes.
At the sink, Steve opened one of the drawers and began going through it. It was immaculately organized. Instead of finding anything good, he discovered various toiletries and grooming items that were eerily familiar, brands and products he used back home. His favorite brand of toothbrushes, still unopened in their back, a tube of his preferred toothpaste, the minty floss he liked, and a few other toiletries, like a stick of deodorant that was the same brand and scent as the one he had at home. The other drawer held a new comb, a thick wooden hairbrush, though there were no strands of hair in the brush, and some pomade. He owned no hairbrush. The pomade was similar looking, something he had seen at the store and picked up once, but had never bought for himself. This discovery only deepened his confusion. Had Bucky been in his apartment? Had Bucky followed him around? Why had Bucky gone to such lengths to recreate elements of Steve's own life in this unfamiliar place? And how did Bucky know so much about him?
There was no mirror above the sink. Just an empty space of wallpaper. When Steve checked under the sink, he found neatly stacked towels and washcloths, fluffy and new. He couldn't shake the feeling that everything in this place had been carefully prepared for his arrival. Steve tried to push aside the unsettling thoughts and concentrate on the present moment. However, the questions still loomed, casting a shadow over the seemingly innocuous act getting into the shower. The care products in the shower were different from what he had at home. He was more of a 5-in-1 kind of guy, but this stuff was fancy. He had seen something similar at the tower, but they weren’t the exact same brand.
The unfamiliarity of the fancy care products didn't matter at that moment as the sensation of the water washing over his body eased his soreness and melted away his thoughts. The pressure of the water was perfect, hitting just the right spots on his body, and he let out a contented groan. Despite his superhuman abilities and healing powers, Steve was still susceptible to physical pain, and his last mission had left him with broken ribs, some torn muscles, and a few cuts. But in that moment, the water offered a soothing respite, easing the strain and allowing him to momentarily forget about the chaos and uncertainty surrounding him. But right now, as the water washed away the grime of life and the stress of his current predicament, he felt a rare sense of relief. Even the pounding in his head began to ease, and he allowed himself to savor the simple pleasure of a hot shower. In the comforting embrace of the water, Steve found a moment of solace, a fleeting escape from the tangled web of emotions and questions that had consumed him earlier. He knew he couldn't remain in this sanctuary forever, but for now, it was a much-needed respite from the storm swirling around him.
Steve stepped out of the shower. He was surprised to find a set of clothes neatly placed on the sink, waiting for him. Wrapped in a warm towel around his waist, he glanced towards the door and saw that it was still locked. Had Bucky unlocked the door from the outside, left him clothes, and then relocked the door? The door appeared to lock only from the inside. Frowning, he approached the door cautiously, only to find it still locked. He had been so out of it that Bucky had entered without him noticing. He grabbed the laundry hamper and placed it in front of the door. At least if Bucky came in again, he would know.
Steve began to inspect the clothing laid out for him, and he noticed immediately that they were similar in style to what he wore at home, but they weren't the exact same clothes. It was clear that they hadn't been taken from his apartment, but had been purchased new with him in mind. Jeans, a plain t-shirt, underwear, and socks were laid out for him, but there were no shoes. Guess he wasn’t going outside any time soon. Drying off quickly, Steve decided that he had little choice but to wear the provided clothes. When he slid them on, they fit perfectly, almost as if they had been tailor-made for him. It was unnerving, but he had to admit that the clothes were comfortable and well-suited for his needs.
He hesitated for a moment before putting on the socks, given the dampness of the bathroom, but he figured that Bucky must have intended for him to wear them. Perhaps it was another attempt at taking care of him, though Steve couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was something more to it. When he finished dressing, he looked around the bathroom one more time, searching for any clues or hidden messages that might shed light on his situation. But the bathroom remained quiet and seemingly unremarkable, offering no answers to the questions swirling in Steve's mind.
Apprehension lingered in the air as Steve took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. He knew he couldn't remain locked in the bathroom indefinitely. With a sense of resignation, he moved the laundry basket back to its place and unlocked the door. As he stepped out into the hallway, the cool air greeted him, a sharp contrast to the warmth he had experienced in the steam-filled bathroom. His hair was still slightly damp, droplets clinging to the ends. He hadn't bothered to fully dry it, as his current situation had overshadowed the need for grooming.
Bucky was waiting for him, sitting patiently at the large table in the center of the dining room. Steve approached and he noticed a flicker of satisfaction in Bucky's eyes, the dominant seemingly pleased that Steve had complied with his request to bathe. Despite the underlying tension, there was a hint of familiarity in the way Bucky looked at him, as if he cared about Steve's well-being, even if his motives remained elusive.
Bucky gestured for Steve to take a seat across from him, where a substantial sandwich sat on a plate. The sandwich was piled high with layers of savory meat, cheese, and fresh vegetables, an inviting sight despite Steve's lingering doubts. Surrounding the sandwich were crisp potato chips, adding a touch of comfort to the simple meal. A glass of ice-cold water rested on the placemat, the condensation on the glass reflecting the subdued lighting of the room. Steve hesitated for a moment, his mind still grappling with the bizarre circumstances. But eventually Bucky’s stare won over, and he sat down, keeping a cautious eye on Bucky.
Steve ate one chip, popping it into his mouth. The burst of saltiness awakened his taste buds, reminding him of the simple pleasures he had denied himself lately. The tantalizing aroma of the turkey sandwich wafted through the air, and his stomach grumbled in response. He wanted to indulge, to enjoy the meal that had been thoughtfully prepared for him, but Steve's strict rules about food and his recent habit of skipping meals held him back. For some time now, he had developed a pattern of restricting his food intake, a way to exert control in a world that often felt chaotic and overwhelming. It was a coping mechanism, something that would have had him red-flagged back at the tower. Tony said that their homes weren’t being watched, but Steve had gotten an earful for excessive exercise from Sam. Sam had looked at him in that sad way he always did when he thought Steve was suffering from the weight of his past. Sometimes, it was comforting. Sometimes, it just made him angry.
The sandwich looked incredibly tempting upon his plate. Steve knew he would enjoy every bite, but he resisted the urge to reach out and grab it. Instead, he placed his hands in his lap, an act of defiance towards his captor. Despite the vulnerable situation he found himself in, Steve refused to let Bucky see his weakness. He stared directly into Bucky's eyes, unyielding and resolute, a silent challenge in his gaze. He wouldn't give Bucky the satisfaction of witnessing his internal struggle or vulnerability.
Bucky, on the other side of the table, seemed to take note of Steve's defiance. His eyes studied Steve for a moment, and a few emotions cycled through, acknowledgment, understanding, and finally, irritation, before his expression settled back into its familiar enigmatic mask. Bucky made a disapproving noise, a slight click of the tongue against the roof of his mouth, as his eyes narrowed. Steve picked beneath his fingernails, even though there was no dirt beneath them.
“Didn’t figure you for a brat,” Bucky said, his accent coming back fullforce.
Steve's surprise at Bucky's words was evident as he tilted his head back, obviously taken aback by the accusation. His hands stilled, no longer picking beneath his fingernails, as he regarded Bucky with an affronted expression. The suggestion that he was acting like a brat didn't sit well with him.
“I'm not a brat,” Steve retorted firmly, his irritation seeping through his words. He didn't appreciate being labeled as such, especially in a situation as perplexing and tense as the one he was currently in.
“Good boys eat their food,” Bucky responded, a commanding tone lacing his words. He leaned forward and pushed the plate closer to Steve. He seemed intent on making Steve adhere to some unspoken expectation, as if it was part of a routine they had shared in the past. Bucky’s voice had begun sounding more and more like the friend he had known with each word he spoke. It brought back memories of the past, of times when Bucky was the closest friend Steve had ever known. But the shift in his eyes, the lack of the usual spark that once defined Bucky, reminded Steve that something had changed.
An unspoken question seemed to linger in the air: Are you a good boy, Steve?
Steve hesitated, torn between his desire to resist and his inclination to follow orders. He knew that giving in to Bucky's request could be seen as a submission of sorts, something he had tried to suppress for so long, but there was also a part of him that longed for the simplicity of following someone else's lead, even if it was just for this moment.
In the end, he made a choice, one that was perhaps an unexpected compromise between the two sides of himself. With a deep breath, he reached for one half of the sandwich and took a bite, savoring the taste as it filled his senses. The act of eating became a small gesture of acquiescence, an acknowledgment that he couldn't remain in control of everything all the time. As he chewed the food, he kept his gaze fixed on Bucky, wondering if his actions were being observed, analyzed, or if Bucky was merely satisfied with his compliance. The tension in the room was still palpable, and Steve knew that there was much more to unravel in this intricate dance between them.
Steve swallowed down the bite of the sandwich he had been chewing on and placed it back on the plate, a subtle gesture to indicate that he had complied with Bucky's request. For a fleeting moment, a minuscule flicker of amusement crossed Bucky's face, a remnant of the old Bucky that Steve once knew. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving only that strange, assessing expression of the Winter Soldier.
Without a word, Bucky stood up and disappeared through a side door, likely leading to the kitchen. When he returned, he had a notebook and a pen in hand. He sat back down across from Steve, flipping open to a blank page and writing something down with deliberate movements. Steve couldn't help but feel curious, wondering what Bucky was jotting down in that notebook.
Once Bucky was done, he closed the notebook and stood up again, heading back to the kitchen. Steve could hear the sound of a door opening and closing, and then the subtle noise of activity beyond the kitchen. Time seemed to stretch as Steve waited, the seconds ticking away on the grandfather clock that stood against the wall. His body felt strangely anchored to the chair, as if some invisible force was keeping him in place. He could have easily gotten up and explored, searched for an escape route, but something within him held him back. Perhaps it was the unspoken dominance that Bucky exuded, or maybe it was the remnants of their shared past that kept Steve rooted to the spot. Eventually, he heard the familiar creaking of the kitchen door, and Bucky reappeared, holding a piece of printer paper in his hands. He sat back down and placed the paper, filled with text, on the table, sliding it forward to Steve.
At the top of the page, handwritten in Bucky's distinctive scrawl, was the title: Rules for Steve. Steve blinked down at the words, his eyes scanning the page to take in the list of instructions. His frustration grew as he saw the rule Bucky had added recently, the fresh ink still glistening on the paper. It read, 'Steve must eat three meals a day.'
Steve looked up at Bucky, a mix of confusion and irritation evident in his expression. “What is this?” he asked, his tone accusatory.
Bucky simply replied, “Rules.”
“I can see that,” Steve retorted, a hint of sarcasm edging into his voice.
“Then why ask?” Bucky responded, seemingly unfazed by Steve's tone.
“Am I supposed to forget you kidnapped me?” Steve shot back, incredulous at Bucky's apparent nonchalance.
Bucky sighed, his expression softening slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "If that makes it easier for you, yes," he replied.
"I just don't understand, why did you take me?" Steve's voice held a mix of frustration and desperation, his eyes searching Bucky's face for any sign of the truth. He was tired of dancing around the issue and wanted to know the real reason behind his capture.
"You are my submissive," Bucky stated simply, his gaze unyielding.
"No, I'm not," Steve rebutted firmly.
Bucky seemed to find Steve's denial amusing, a faint twitch at the corner of his lips. Steve's heart twinged at the sight, wanting nothing more than to see Bucky's genuine smile again. "Not much I remember," Bucky said, his voice tinged with nostalgia, "but I do know you belong right here with me, not out crime fighting in tights."
Steve shook his head in confusion. "You were never my dominant," he stated with conviction, unable to comprehend Bucky's claims.
Bucky made a dismissive noise, as if Steve's objections were of no consequence.
“I'm not following these rules because you are not my dominant,” Steve declared, pushing the page back towards Bucky without even reading its contents. He was adamant that he wouldn't be coerced into following some arbitrary set of rules.
"Whether you want to abide by them or not, they still apply. You're expected to follow them," Bucky asserted, standing up and stretching casually. He pushed the page back towards Steve, his voice adopting a low and commanding tone. "You're not to get up until you eat your food. All of it. Come find me in the garage when you've finished. And read your rules."
As Bucky started walking towards the kitchen door, he paused, turning to face Steve once more. His voice dropped even lower as he issued a veiled warning, "Don't gotta tell you what'll happen if you get up before then, huh?"
Steve frowned, his gaze fixed on the plate of food before him. He didn't need Bucky to spell out the consequences. He knew from their past experiences that Bucky had always been an old-fashioned dominant, and he expected obedience and submission or there would be physical consequences. Well, it hadn’t been old-fashioned in the 30s and 40s, back then it had just been life. In the present time, people were really into the mental health portion of submission, which Steve understood. He’d seen a lot of abuse in the old days. Now, there were boundaries, safewords, and a whole plethora of submissive protections. But based on the current style of Bucky’s house, it was safe to assume he hadn’t exactly subscribed to submissive rights.
Steve could give as good as he got, fighting wise, but he wasn’t sure how well he would be able to resist Bucky if the dominant really wanted to make him do something. It was hard to submit to someone weaker than he was, but Bucky definitely wasn’t weaker. He’d gotten the upper hand on Steve before. The idea of someone overpowering him did make his toes curl slightly within his socks.
Steve sat at the table, his mind churning with conflicting thoughts. He picked up another potato chip, hesitated for a moment, and then placed it on the wooden surface. His thumb hovered over the chip, and he pressed down, applying just enough force to crush it into crumbs. It was a small act of rebellion, but it made him feel a tiny bit in control amidst the chaos of his current situation. He glanced towards the kitchen, where Bucky had disappeared. The garage must be attached to it, Steve surmised. The urge to toss the food into the trash can and escape this strange place tugged at him. But a part of him hesitated. He wasn't sure if Bucky was testing him or genuinely expected him to obey. Either one was a gamble.
Steve frowned, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on him. Bucky's intentions remained a mystery, and Steve couldn't shake the unease that washed over him. Maybe this was some twisted game to Bucky, or perhaps he genuinely believed Steve belonged with him. In an attempt to quell his anxiety, Steve pressed his knuckles into the crushed chip crumbs, rolling them into even smaller pieces. The repetitive action provided a small distraction from the whirlwind of emotions and uncertainties swirling within him. He knew he couldn't stay here forever, but for now, he had to play along and bide his time. He needed to find out what Bucky was planning and if there was a way to escape.
Where were they, anyways? From where Steve was sitting, he could see out a window. The landscape outside seemed vast and remote, far from the bustling city he was used to. The view offered little in the way of clues, except for the large barn in the distance. The barn stood proud and weathered. The red paint was faded and peeling, and the wooden planks showed signs of age, but the structure appeared solid and well-maintained. Beyond the barn, the fields stretched out in a sea of green, rolling hills that seemed to go on endlessly. It was a peaceful sight, and he wondered if this place had once been a farm, now forgotten with time. The idea of living in such a secluded area stirred mixed emotions within him. On one hand, the quiet and solitude were inviting, but on the other hand, the feeling of being trapped and isolated sent a shiver down his spine. Farther in the distance, a dense wall of trees marked the edge of a forest. Steve's mind raced with thoughts of what could be hidden within those woods. Were there people living nearby, or was this place truly as remote as it seemed? The prospect of being so far away from civilization only made him feel disjointed.
Had anyone noticed Steve was gone? Maybe not yet, but after a few days, when he didn’t answer a summons, they’d come looking for him. He had always been a reliable and responsive teammate, and his sudden disappearance would not go unnoticed for long. Sam, Natasha, and the rest of the Avengers would likely start to worry when he didn't answer their messages or show up for team gatherings. SHIELD seemed to have a hand on each member’s pulse, so it was inevitable that they would be involved. Sam, in particular, was a vigilant friend and would probably notice Steve's absence sooner than most. He would try calling, texting, and visiting Steve's apartment, but he wouldn't find him there. Natasha, with her uncanny ability to track people down, might sense that something was amiss even before Sam did. She always seemed to have her ear to the ground when it came to her teammates.
When they couldn't reach him, their concern would escalate, and they might reach out to Tony, who had an entire network of surveillance and tracking capabilities at his disposal. SHIELD, too, would likely be alerted to the missing Captain America. Every camera feed, every satellite image, and every available resource would be utilized to try and locate the figurehead of freedom. However, Steve knew that Bucky was cunning and skilled at evading detection. He was a master of espionage, and he knew how to move through the world without leaving a trace. He would have taken every precaution to ensure that his actions went unnoticed by surveillance systems. He was a ghost in the shadows, leaving no trace behind. He had evaded Steve with ease every time he had tried to look for him.
As for Steve's phone, he was almost certain that Bucky had disposed of it. The Winter Soldier was not one to leave loose ends, and smashing Steve's phone would be a logical step to ensure there were no traces of their location or communication. Steve had a smartphone, but he had left it in his apartment. He had only had his flip phone on him when he was on his run. He preferred to handle personal communication with that thing, no matter how stupid the others thought he looked with it. He always brought the smartphone on missions, though. Bucky most definitely visited his apartment, maybe even more than once. He had probably staked out the place for weeks, months even, while he planned to take Steve.
Steve brought a chip to his mouth and ate it mechanically, not really registering the taste. Bucky had made that comment about his uniform, which meant he definitely didn’t approve of Steve’s day job. Bucky had always worried about him, even in the past. Back in the past, Bucky had been the one to constantly remind Steve to be cautious, to think things through, and to not rush headlong into danger. It had been a running theme in their friendship, and Steve had often laughed it off, assuring Bucky that he could handle himself. A dominant’s need to protect a submissive was genetic, and Bucky’s disapproval for Steve’s stubbornness was probably written into his DNA.
Sitting in the comfortable surroundings of Bucky's home, Steve couldn't help but feel conflicted. He was well-fed, safe, and even though he was technically being held captive, it was nothing like the torment he had expected. Part of him felt relieved to be away from the constant pressure and expectations of being Captain America, even if it was under these circumstances. But another part of him rebelled against the idea of being trapped here, away from his friends and the life he had built for himself. He missed the familiarity of his apartment, the camaraderie of the Avengers, and the thrill of fighting for justice.
There were times when he had sworn he would give everything up if given the chance to bring the old Bucky back. He had held onto the hope that somehow, someday, he could bring back the friend he had lost during the war. There were moments when Steve would have given up everything—the mantle of Captain America, the Avengers, his own dreams—if it meant having the old Bucky back. But as much as he had tried to let go of that idea and come to terms with the reality of Bucky's new identity as the Winter Soldier, this unexpected turn of events reignited a glimmer of hope in Steve's heart. Maybe, just maybe, being here with Bucky in this strange, secluded place would give them a chance to reconnect. Perhaps this forced time together could help Bucky remember the friendship they once shared, even if their roles were now different.
Steve knew that the Winter Soldier was a complex and tormented figure, and he didn't expect everything to go back to the way it was. Yet, in the midst of this uncertainty, Steve found himself clinging to the hope that Bucky's memories of their past might resurface. He longed for that familiarity, the camaraderie, the inside jokes, and the shared experiences that had forged a bond between them.
Steve sighed and picked up part of the sandwich. He couldn't help but notice the way Bucky had cut it diagonally. It reminded him of something his mother used to do when he was a child, and it brought a bittersweet feeling to his heart. With each bite, he forced himself to eat, trying to obey Bucky's command to finish it entirely. The taste was delicious, but a knot of anxiety and unease made it difficult to swallow. He took quick sips of water to help wash it down.
Despite the good flavor, the food seemed to turn into a lump in his stomach, and he couldn't bring himself to eat all of it. Setting the plate aside, he felt a sense of relief that he had eaten as much as he had, even if just for a moment. Steve reached for the paper with the rules, his fingers tracing over the neat handwriting. Part of him resented being given rules to follow, feeling like he was being controlled, yet there was an odd comfort in the structure they provided. With a heavy sigh, he decided to read them, hoping to gain some understanding of Bucky's intentions and what this new situation meant for both of them.
Steve frowned as he read through the list of rules. He couldn't help but feel a mixture of amusement and incredulity. The rules seemed so out of place in his life as Captain America, a seasoned soldier and Avenger. He had faced world-threatening villains and fought in huge battles, and now here he was, faced with rules that belonged to a bygone era. The rules were a mixture of something from an ancient Good Housewife’s Guide and general rules he was used to seeing for a submissive. He read each rule in amazement.
- Steve will always keep the house tidy and organized.
- Steve will prepare and serve meals promptly at designated times.
- Steve will accept discipline and correction with humility and a willingness to learn.
- Steve will not leave the house without express permission.
- Steve will not go beyond the wooden fence when outside.
- Steve will not engage in any dangerous activities or put himself in unnecessary harm.
- Steve will follow a reasonable sleep schedule and get adequate rest.
- Steve will take care of his physical and emotional needs, seeking help when necessary.
- Steve will obey orders without hesitation or resistance.
- Steve will exercise only under direct supervision.
Underneath the rules, it said: Any infractions will be dealt with accordingly.
The additional rule hastily added in fresh ink on the side of the page read:
11. Steve must eat three meals a day.
At the end of the list, Steve’s mouth had gone dry and a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. The first rule about keeping the house tidy and organized seemed like an alien concept to him. He was a soldier, a man of action, not someone who knew the first thing about maintaining a perfectly pristine home. Steve couldn't help but think back to his days before he went into the ice. He had been a simple kid from Brooklyn, and while he had some basic cooking abilities, they were far from what one might expect of a "good housewife." He chuckled inwardly at the absurdity of the idea. Him, a good housewife? It was almost laughable.
The thought of preparing and serving meals promptly at designated times made his head spin. He had been on the front lines, surviving on whatever rations he could get his hands on during the war. Now, being expected to whip up meals like a gourmet chef was beyond his skill set. What if he burned everything or couldn't make something edible? The pressure of these expectations felt overwhelming. As far as cleaning went, Steve prided himself on keeping things orderly and efficient, but it was a soldier's clean, not what one might consider the meticulous standards of a housewife. His apartment was neat and functional, but it lacked the touch of domesticity that the rules seemed to imply. He could almost picture Bucky's reaction if he tried to fulfill these tasks. The old Bucky, the one who had known him since they were kids, would probably find it amusing, but this new Bucky wouldn't let Steve off the hook that easily. He knew that Bucky was a bit old-fashioned, and these rules seemed to reflect that aspect of his personality.
Steve's irritation and frustration grew as he realized that Bucky had been surveilling him during his day-to-day activities, observing Steve and his actions without his knowledge. The rules about exercising, sleeping, and eating seemed like a glaring testament to the fact that Bucky had been monitoring him more closely than he had ever realized. It felt invasive, as if Bucky had been watching him even during his most private and vulnerable moments. He couldn't help but feel a sense of horror at the thought of Bucky witnessing his unhealthy habits and struggles. The idea that Bucky had seen him neglecting his own well-being, skipping meals, and depriving himself of rest, made him feel exposed and vulnerable. The idea that Bucky had been secretly observing him and then, in a way, was now taking control of his life through these rules was hard to digest. But the submissive part of himself was happy to know that someone had been watching him, keeping an eye on him, even back when he had felt invisible outside of the suit. It was an insane breach of privacy. Steve hadn’t even noticed someone was watching him. How long had it gone on?
Steve's heart quickened as he heard the footsteps approaching. Strangely, he felt like he was about to be caught misbehaving, so he moved quickly, returning his plate to its original position. The sound of Bucky washing his hands only added to the anticipation, as if Steve was waiting for a verdict to be passed on his actions.
Bucky walked into the dining room, his presence commanding attention. He leaned casually against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest, his vibranium arm glinting in the soft light. Steve had remembered it being made of titanium some time ago, back when Steve saw Bucky for the first time since the ice. He must have gotten an upgrade at some point. His eyes bore into Steve, making him feel exposed and vulnerable. Steve felt exposed under Bucky's scrutiny, like his every move was being dissected and analyzed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the weight of Bucky’s gaze bearing down on him.
“Not gonna make this easy, huh?” Bucky said, his lips curling into a half-smirk. He seemed to find Steve's awkwardness amusing, but there was also a sense of determination in his gaze.
Steve shrugged his shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant despite the nerves bubbling beneath the surface. “It hasn't even been that long,” he responded, trying to downplay the situation.
“It's been an hour,” Bucky replied, nodding towards the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The clock's steady ticking seemed to mock Steve, as if it was counting down the moments until he would have to face the consequences of not following the rules.
“You didn’t exactly give me a time limit,” Steve said, before glancing over at the grandfather clock. He was taken aback by what he saw. It felt like only a few minutes had passed since he had last looked at it, but Bucky was right–it had indeed been an hour. He must have lost track of time, lost in his thoughts and conflicting emotions.
Bucky made that disapproving, clicking noise with his tongue again. He pushed himself off the door and approached the table, taking a seat opposite Steve. His eyes never left Steve's face, and the intensity of his gaze made Steve feel a little breathless. “You got me there, pal.”
Bucky's statement normally would have comforted Steve, but he sensed that Bucky saw Steve’s exploitation of the time loophole, because Bucky really hadn’t set a time limit, to be a form of defiance. Steve, despite how large and muscular he was, found himself sinking forward in his chair. The weight of Bucky's disappointment felt heavy on his shoulders, and he nervously glanced down at his half-empty plate. He picked up a few chips, shoving them into his mouth, chewing and swallowing them quickly, hoping to appease Bucky’s ire. His mind raced, searching for the right words to explain his actions without sounding defensive.
“I wasn’t trying to make you mad,” Steve said simply, hoping the truth would make Bucky relax.
Bucky sighed, “My memory isn’t crystal clear, but you’d think I’d remember the way you need specific instructions or else you’ll find any way to weasel out of an order.”
“That’s not true.” A small flush crept up Steve's cheeks as Bucky leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing him.
“And how long would you have sat here, hm? Two hours? Three hours? All day long?” Steve hesitated, not sure how to respond to Bucky's pointed question. Bucky continued, “You've got a stubborn streak a mile long, but we'll take care of that.”
The way Bucky said it made Steve uneasy, as if there was more behind those words than just a simple statement. The reminder that this was not the same Bucky he once knew sent a pang through Steve's heart. The old Bucky used to scold him for being stubborn, but it had always been teasingly.
He sought refuge in the chips, munching on one in order to distract himself.
Bucky's curious gaze never left him. “Expected you to throw the table or something. Figured you wanted to get a little roughed up.”
Steve scowled, feeling defensive. “No, I don’t.”
"Hm," Bucky responded with a hint of skepticism, clearly not fully convinced by Steve's denial. After a moment of silence, Bucky's voice filled the room again, dripping with dominance and mischief. “Should I make you kneel right between my legs? Hand feed you at every meal?”
“No!” Steve's response was immediate and adamant, his blue eyes flashing with defiance.
“No?” Bucky's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth again, a subtle sign of disapproval. “Is that how you should speak to me?”
Steve's body reacted to Bucky's disapproval, and he sat up straighter, attempting to show some semblance of respect. The words were hard to force from his mouth, but he managed to say, “No, sir.”
But after saying them, Steve felt an odd sense of relief.
Bucky glanced down at his watch, twisting his wrist to check the time. “You've got another thirty minutes to finish eating.”
Steve's throat tightened with nervousness. He looked down at the remaining food on his plate, wondering if he could consume it all in the given time. His mind raced, contemplating where he could secretly stash the food when Bucky left the room. But Bucky didn't leave. He just sat there, his piercing gaze fixed on Steve. Feeling exposed under Bucky's intense scrutiny, Steve looked at him expectantly, silently pleading for some privacy to eat at his own pace.
Bucky couldn't help but smirk, clearly enjoying the power he held over Steve. “What? You thought I'd leave again? No way. I see those cogs in your head moving. I know what you're thinking.”
Steve's frustration grew, his emotions churning like a storm within him. He wanted to rebel, to escape from this bizarre situation, but Bucky's presence and dominance were suffocating, making him question every impulse to resist.
“Time's ticking,” Bucky taunted, reminding Steve of the limited time he had left to finish his meal.
Steve wanted to snap back a retort, to curse at Bucky for playing this game, but he restrained himself. Instead, he picked up another chip and reluctantly started eating.