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Biology Don't Mix

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It happened before that final mission in the winter of '45. Steve and Bucky had a moment alone for the first time in two years. They were supposed to be prepping for the mission, going over the details together since Bucky held the position of Second in Command of Steve's little group. They'd sent the rest of the Howling Commandos off for a drink, promising to meet up later once they'd gone through everything again. Except they didn't go over everything again.

Once they were gone Bucky locked the door, turned around. He gave Steve a smile, full of pressed, curved lips. It was his smile, the one he gave mainly for Steve. Deliberately he moved from the door, up to Steve who couldn't quite keep his eyes off of him. They hadn't done this in years, and while both felt disgusted, ashamed that they couldn't be like others (and they had tried, oh how they had tried) both had come to terms that this was who they were.

Bucky pushed Steve back onto the bed, crawled on top of the now taller best friend he'd ever had, and leaned down for a kiss. It was soft, sweet, or gentle. This kiss was one full of passion, heat, and filth. Steve groaned, raggedly, in the back of his throat. Kissing Bucky had always been the biggest turn on he could ever have.

“Missed this,” Bucky growled, moving from Steve's lips to his neck, and then to the collar of Steve's shirt. They both shifted, after that, Bucky pulling back to yank off his shirt and Steve sitting up to remove his as well and then they met again, a clash of teeth, lips, and grappling hands.

“Missed you,” Steve muttered. They weren't used to this difference. Bucky smaller, Steve taller. They weren't used to it at all but together, on the bed, it worked. Bucky sat on Steve's hips and suddenly they were of even height, even space.

Groping hands drifted downward until Steve was grasping Bucky's ass and Bucky was grinding down, grinding against Steve's erection, pressing his own erection closer, looking for friction, for heat. Steve shimmied out of his pants first. Bucky unzipped the fly, tugged them down, until Steve kicked them off with a grunt. Bucky palmed his erection, palmed Steve's erection, and they both groaned at the feel of each other.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped as Bucky slipped a hand beneath Steve's briefs.

“I know,” Bucky said back, lips tracing lines down Steve's chest. He could remember a time when that chest was practically skin and bones and wracked by a wheezing cough. It hurt to remember such times, and it felt surprisingly good to touch a chest so new, so different. All of Steve's erogenous zones were the same, nothing in that department seemed to change except the size and shape of the man beneath him but Bucky didn't mind.

He jerked Steve's cock gently, insistent, until Steve was moaning, trying to muffle himself just in case someone came by. They knew quiet. They'd had to be quiet if they were to do any sort of relations with one another. Any noise, any sound, giving away that they were together could equal death or imprisonment. Being what they were was wrong but now, at the age of twenty seven, they didn't care. All they cared about was each other, was what each other could bring.

It was only when Steve started to come undone that Bucky stopped, relented, and began to tug Steve's briefs off.

“Come on,” he groaned. Steve jerked his hips up, reached a hand around as Bucky pulled them off to palm Bucky's own tented pants. Bucky didn't remove them, despite the sudden tug Steve gave them. Instead he pulled down the zipper, tugged his erection out. He spit-slicked it, stroking it gently, offered Steve one hand to get wet. They didn't have anything for lube but saliva, and even that wouldn't last very long but at least Bucky could stretch Steve open and the saliva would help him start that process.

Steve felt tight, ridiculously so around his fingers, enough that Bucky groaned lewdly at the idea of landing himself inside not too shortly. Steve groaned, but loosened. He didn't like the gentle display, he muttered something about how he could take it now but Bucky shot him a grin, wide and full of teeth.

“Don't care,” he said, leaning up to nip along Steve's jaw.

“Jerk,” Steve gasped.

“Punk,” Bucky replied and then he was lining himself up against Steve and pushing in and Steve gasped and Bucky had to shift up enough, bend Steve back enough, until he could seal the others mouth. They moved, quick but gentle. They had to be fast, they could be found any minute if they weren't careful.

With a curse, a moan, and a faint cry the end came and Bucky pulled out and rolled until he was laying next to Steve who wasn't breathing nearly as heavily. A part of Bucky grinned at the sight, had the thought of maybe now they could go more than one round. He lightly traced his hand around Steve's dick, nuzzled at Steve's neck.

Steve laughed, turned to grab a kiss between them.

“Another round?” Bucky asked, breathless, between kisses.

“Want to try something different,” Steve muttered in reply.

“Oh?”

“Want to be in you.”

Buck inhaled, his eyes widened, his pupils dilated. They couldn't shift positions before, Steve too delicate a figure to even think of topping. His breath almost gave out and he almost had an asthma attack from just even Bucky doing all the work, from the mere pleasure itself. They'd never done it the other way around before and suddenly Bucky quite liked the idea.

He hissed out a, “Yes,” and that was that.

That was when it happened.

Neither knew, of course, that anything was different. Neither knew just what the other had done, the shame and guilt building up only after they'd had their fill but then Bucky and Steve quelled it, prepared for the upcoming mission, and went back to normal. Neither knew Bucky was anything but Bucky, that when he fell, when Steve thought he died, he was anything but Bucky.

Not even Bucky knew, and he wouldn't for some seventy years.


When HYDRA found him, not even hours after having fallen from the train, they proceeded to torture him. They tortured him by cutting into his arm, by waterboarding, beating, starving, electrocuting him. They cut into his skin, whispered lies into his ear. They did everything to break him down and it only took three weeks of work before he was entirely theirs to do with as they pleased. He was their new toy, their new weapon. With the blessings of Zola they put him to sleep, pressed him into the cold. They didn't need their weapon yet, not for a while, and so he slept.

He dreamed.

Periodically he was awoken, pulled from the cold, pulled from his dream, back into the world with a job to do. He'd work efficiently, quickly, growing better and better day by day that they pulled him out. He was never out long, at most forty-eight hours when they did call on him. The longest being a staunch seventy-two until that fateful day he shot Nick Fury, shot him dead and his mission was done and when he'd normally be asleep, he wasn't.

They kept him out for a week before HYDRA went to hell in a hand basket and he didn't have anymore handlers, masters, owners to put him back into the cold. His entire existence as their dog, their weapon, their tool lasted seventy odd years, to be certain, but his time awake neared only two and a half months in total.

No one had known, none of HYDRA even suspected, that their Winter Soldier could have been more, was more, carried more, and they wouldn't know because there had been no signs, no chance to grow, to change, until after HYDRA was gone and he was alone. He was free, not knowing what that meant. Never knowing what that meant.


He suspected something that day he stood before the memorial to the name Bucky Barnes. That day he retook himself, realized that the Captain had not been lying. He was Bucky, whoever the hell that was aside from the best friend to the All American Hero. He was Bucky Barnes.

Bucky stared, and stared, and stared at his own face reflected back at him, unsure, afraid even what this all meant. He stood there for maybe hours, ignoring his own need for food because hunger wasn't something he was used to. He didn't know how to get food, to buy things without money. He didn't understand this world, so he stared, and stared, and stared.

He suspected something that day that he stood before his own memorial. A little girl walked by, some disgusting fast food thing in her hand, the smell wafting over to Bucky. It made his stomach roil, curl. It made him ill and sick. Without a word Bucky turned, confused to the feeling, concerned it was something more serious, and left.

Bucky wouldn't realize that something more serious was wrong and right all at the same time, aside from a sudden aversion to random foods, a sudden sickness in his gut in the mornings, for another two weeks when, quite suddenly, his combat BDU's no longer fit.


Near seven months of awareness, of being awake, passed since that night in '45 and Bucky didn't know what to think. His stomach was round, swelled, and sometimes it hurt. He thought maybe, maybe HYDRA had stuffed some sort of alien parasite into his stomach that was only now making itself known. That soon would burst out in a shower of gore.

He'd watched Aliens on the television in his shitty motel, grabbing take out and delivery from the room door without showing his face or condition. After that he slept with his gun and his knife underneath his pillow. Some days Bucky stared at his stomach, confused, terrified, with the gun in his hand. He debated shooting himself, killing whatever this was. He could survive the wound. Maybe. Probably.

Bucky wasn't too sure what he could survive, really, and so he always put the gun down before he did something to himself he might regret. Instead he watched the tv without any real idea what he wanted to do. He couldn't go out, not like this, he couldn't hide, he couldn't do anything.

Some days that made him cry, some days that pissed him off, some days he felt entirely apathetic to everything and his memories that weren't quite there and the memories that were. He can't even wear his clothes anymore, they're too taunt and too tight and they squeeze and it hurts. He doesn't have anything else to wear except the hat and the hooded zip-up sweater and a shirt and a pair of jeans and underwear. Out of all of his clothes he can wear the underwear, the hooded zip-up sweater, and the hat.

So most days he's naked, which was a little odd but not too much. Bucky can vaguely remember being in worse states, those memories often followed by pain and a phantom sensation where his arm is now metal and not flesh. Most days he wrapped the filthy motel linens around him like a toga, or just made a nest out of them when the bed was too soft and too uncomfortable.

Not that the floor was any better but there's nowhere else Bucky can go, can hide, can just wait out whatever this was. He worries it'll kill him, and other days he's perfectly content with his lot in life aside from, you know, the strange swelling to his stomach which he knew was not quite right.

It near seven months of being awake, aware, and unfrozen since '45 for Bucky when the door to his motel room busted open with a resounding crash. He grabbed his gun and held it up, lips pressed together, determined to protect himself if nothing else, or this strange swelling he doesn't understand. Instead of HYDRA, of being attacked, Bucky is met with two familiar faces. Falcon and America. Falcon and Steve.

Bucky Barne's Steve Rogers, the Winter Soldier's failed, always failed, never to be completed mission. He breathed out heavily through his nose, tightened his grip on his gun.

Steve dropped his shield, eyes wide, jaw slack. “B-Bucky?”

“Holy shit the killing machine let himself go,” Falcon uttered.

“Did not,” Bucky snapped back, eyes bouncing between the two of them.

“Dude you're huge,” Sam said.

Bucky frowned and cried, “Am not!” Then he looked down at himself, his brow furrowed. His face pinched and he looked back up, pathetic, tears in his eyes. “Am I?”

Steve jolted out of his frozen stupor, dashed forward unmindful of the gun which didn't matter anymore because Bucky started to drop the damn thing anyway.

“No! No, Buck, Bucky look its gonna be okay,” Steve said quickly, kneeling beside him on the bed and pulling him into his arms. Bucky sniffled, clenched his fists. He hated this surge of random emotion that made no sense. “We'll figure this out.”

Sam snorted, “Seriously? I bet you this is some sort of play. He look's like he's got a baby bump and that's impossible, right? I mean he's a dude.” A small part of Sam's voice started getting slightly hysterical. “Unless that's a thing you can do? Get pregnant? Oh fuck is this some sort of weird side effect from your super soldier whatsit? Aw shit that just ain't cool.”

Bucky started to shake, and Steve quickly shot Sam a cold eyed glare and snapped, “Get him some clothes!”

“Right on it, Cap!” Sam saluted and darted out with a, “Fuck he's really fucking pregnant this is just the weirdest shit we've got the shittiest of luck fucking HYDRA...” which faded away the further he got.

“I – I'm huge,” Bucky stuttered, eyes wide. He looked up at Steve. “I think I have an alien in my gut.”

“I dunno,” Steve said, a sort of breathless, hysterical laugh bubbling up but he clamped it down. “Maybe Buck. Look I got a friend. He can help. Okay? He can figure this out.”

“Should kill it,” Bucky muttered, reaching for the gun again. Steve reached out and grasped his hand, stared at him.

“Listen to me, Buck,” he said. “Bucky. Bucky!” Bucky's head jerked up, he reminded himself that that was his name. Obviously the Captain wanted something. “I have a friend. Stark. You remember Howard?”

“No.”

Steve grimaced, said, “Probably a good thing. Anyway it's his son, Tony, good guy very strange. He's a scientist. Well, mechanist, but Bruce hangs around him a lot and Bruce is more of a scientist than Tony and—anyway they can help. Figure whatever this is. This. Figure this thing out. Okay? I'm sure of it. Just, let me help.”

Bucky stared at him. “Can't move, can't hide, too big. M'clothes don't fit.”

“I know,” Steve said as Sam returned.

“Here, put these on,” Sam shoved a pair of sweatpants and a loose overlarge sweatshirt towards Bucky who stared at them for a moment uncomprehendingly. “They should fit over that baby bump you've got going.”

Baby bump? Bucky glanced down. He wondered. Men couldn't get pregnant, right? Was he pregnant? Had he almost killed his baby all these months, holding a gun, debating shooting himself? Oh, he hadn't been eating right either. What if he was pregnant? Was he killing the unborn fetus within him by eating such shitty food? He felt another surge of tears, of depression, well up on him but Steve quickly wrapped him up in his arms, whispered words in his ear until he was calm enough to put clothes on.

Steve kept one hand wrapped tight around Bucky's flesh and blood fingers, curling and twining themselves together. Bucky could remember something like this, something like this with panted breaths and heated skin. His checks flushed.

He followed Steve.


It turned out he was pregnant. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner estimated about seven to seven and a half months along, somewhere within the third trimester at the least. To Bucky this didn't mean much until Tony shoved a Stark Pad under his nose with details about pregnancy and trimesters and useful terms which left Bucky then confused on the timetable because that didn't match up.

He was certain of it.

Steve ranted, raved, punched and destroyed things. He swore he'd destroy all of HYDRA for doing this, and that he'd tear apart whoever touched Bucky in such a way. It was oddly endearing, but wrong.

“It doesn't. No one at HYDRA touched me. Like that,” Bucky said, haltingly. Steve paused, turned.

“What?” he looked pale, ashen white and off kilter. Tony offered Bruce some popcorn. They both watched the side-show, for what could this even be with Captain America loosing his infamous cool and his would-be plucky side-kick turned brainwashed assassin, suddenly pregnant, ends up on their doorstep?

“We should market this,” Tony said to Bruce.

“Tony,” Bruce facepalmed.

“What? We totally should.”

Steve frowned once he regained his balance. His brows furrowed. He asked, a little weak, “How long. How long did they have you active, Buck?”

“Two months, give or take,” Bucky shrugged, his flesh and blood hand stroking his swelled stomach as he stared at it. A child. How strange was that? He only looked up when there was a crash of equipment and Steve was laying on the ground, dazed. “Is that comfortable?” he asked. “It doesn't look comfortable.”

Steve was pale with a slight sickly tinge. He said, his voice almost hysterical and breathless, “I think I knocked up my best friend in 1945.”

Tony dropped the popcorn, his jaw dropped. He looked between Steve and Bucky and then said, “Didn't see this coming.”

Bruce snorted. “I did.”

Bucky just stared at Steve, entirely uncomprehending of what that meant. He stroked his stomach again, and sort of smiled. He kind of liked this idea, of his body and hands soiled in blood and death creating life instead.

Bucky cooed at his stomach, almost too quiet to hear. Bruce and Tony exchanged glances.

“Too cute?”

“Yup. Too cute.”

“We must be dreaming, right?”

“Nah, our life is just this crazy.”

“Oh. Yeah. Pass the popcorn?”

“Sure.”


It happened before that final mission in the winter of '45, but no one knew until late 2013 just what, exactly, happened.