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“I can’t lose you, Buck,” Steve whispers, as if he were giving Bucky a secret they both didn’t already know. “Not after everything. Not—“
“Steve.”
It’s calm. Collected. Steve can’t help but examine his expression, to see if there’s something else there in the hard stare of Bucky’s gaze. He’s self-assured, knows exactly what he wants. It’s the face of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, the belief he's doing right settling into every hard line of his face.
And Steve is hit with a memory of a man draped in an army uniform, shoulders pressed back, envelope gripped tight in his hand. The thought of begging that man to stay was useless. Switch Bucky’s place with Steve, there was nothing Bucky, or anyone else, could’ve said to change his mind.
His selfishness has tapped out; he can’t keep Bucky from what he wants, what he needs. If Bucky believes this is the best plan of action, Steve won't deny him of the chance to save himself.
A sigh escapes Steve, his brows pulling forward in a way that’s almost painful. “I know, I know. I just need to make sure there are other options before putting you back under. That has to be the last resort.”
“It is the last resort.” Bucky smiles, but it’s devoid of anything but grief and guilt and pain. “I don’t know who else has my trigger words. Until there’s a way to get rid of these— these words up in my head, I’m a danger to everyone. To you. I’m a walking time bomb, Steve, and I’m not going to let anyone use me to kill anyone. Not again. Not if there’s something I can do to stop it.”
And that, is as they say, is that.
“I’ll let T’Challa know the plan then.”
-
Everything is rage and hate and pain.
He would’ve taken the world by its throat. He would’ve beaten it until it crushed beneath his hands, burned it until it was scorched and desolate, would have stopped at nothing, uncaring of the consequences of said actions.
He knows what that makes him. He knows who he is, or rather, who he isn’t anymore.
The world mourns Captain America.
-
It’s going to take several days before they set up a proper chamber for Bucky, one that's secure and equipped with superior defenses courtesy of the country of Wakanda. Unsurprisingly, Steve is grateful - it gives him a wave of relief knowing that this extra time, these extra safeguards, will ensure Bucky’s safety. It’s even more comforting to know it is T’Challa who will be overseeing the protection of his friend.
(He tries to ignore the sinking, nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach. Tries to pretend that he isn’t just handing Bucky off to someone else, like he’s a thing to pass on to the next person.)
“I wanted to thank you for everything you’re doing,” Steve says, his fingers mindlessly running against the leather chair in T’Challa’s office. “It means a lot to me.”
T’Challa’s sat across from him, looking at him with a kindness in his dark brown eyes. Of course, they both knew T’Challa didn’t have to take either Bucky or himself into his country. It was dangerous now. Steve Rogers was a wanted man for crimes against the world, and James Barnes was wanted for his crimes for the past seventy years. There would be no mercy for anyone helping to defend terrorists.
Yet, here they were.
Only a few days ago, Steve had seen the grief and the pain there, the thirst for revenge. Only a few days ago, Steve had worn the exact same expression.
“I understand, now,” T’Challa replies, his voice soothing. His hands are clasped tightly together, his own thumb smoothing over his own knuckles in small circular movements. It's a comforting motion, a nervous tick perhaps. Steve pretends not to notice. “My own pain was used against me by that man. I do not enjoy the knowledge of what I could’ve done—what I wanted to do—in the name of my father.”
Steve understands. He wishes he didn’t, but he does.
“You’re only human,” Steve offers.
The words don’t offer Steve himself any comfort; it doesn’t return the part of himself he lost. Maybe it will offer some ease to T’Challa - it’s all Steve could hope for.
“I am supposed to be a King to my people, a protector as well. I cannot afford to let myself be brought down to that level again. That hatred, it does good for no one.” T’Challa shakes his head slowly, his grip tightening on his hands — his skin pulled tight around the knuckles. “Hate does not make a good King. My father firmly believed this.”
Steve wants to tell T’Challa that he’s sure he will make a great King just from that sentiment alone. Except, he feels this isn’t a moment where T’Challa wishes to be comforted, merely just wants someone who understands him and to listen to him. Sometimes, that’s all anyone can ask for when they’re feeling low.
“I agree,” Steve says instead, looking him over. “But, T’Challa, what we did does matter, I’m not saying it doesn’t. I just think it’s more important on what we do after. I think that’s what makes us who we are.”
“I enjoy the sentiment, Steve,” T’Challa says, polite and unyielding. “But I do not agree. Not completely, anyway. I believe the dark things we do are just as much apart of us as the good things. We have to carry both weights on our shoulders —especially us. We Kings do not get to choose which weight we carry and which we drop.”
Steve has never really considered himself as kingly before, but the sentiment still rings true. He had taken the mantle of Captain America, the promise to be the embodiment of truth and justice and freedom. To save those from the threat of evil, to be a bringer of light in a dark time.
Yet he was not just Captain America. He was also Steve Rogers, a kid from Brooklyn who never wanted to see someone bully the little guy. Thinking about the horrors he’s seen, taking action had seemed so black and white then. Now everything was colored, right and wrong was muddled. How many people needed to be hurt to uphold Steve’s morality that seems to be obsolete now?
Apparently too many.
How could he live with the things he’s committed in the name of what is good and right?
He leans back, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm along the wooden desk. Everything feels heavy on his shoulders, and Steve can feel the pulsing beginning of a headache behind his forehead.
“You’re a wise man, King T’Challa,” he says, a fond look on his face despite the sharp hurt behind his eyes. “Your people are lucky to have you.”
“And your people as well, Captain.”
-
Steve finds himself staring at the door, hands shoved deep within his pockets, urging himself to be brave enough to knock. He doesn’t know why his hands aren’t listening to his brain, or why it’s so difficult to so much as knock on Bucky’s door, but it’s taking longer to do so and Steve is feeling more and more ridiculous for it.
Before he changes his mind and turns around and retreats to his own guest room, the sounds of the locks unlocking alerts him. Then the door opens, and there’s Bucky standing there. He smells of soap and utter cleanliness, with damp hair that sticks to his forehead and the back and sides of his neck. He’s wearing a bathrobe, one of the arms hanging limply at one side.
Steve makes it a point to not look.
“What? You heard me breathing from behind the door?” Steve asks, quirking a brow at his friend.
Something akin to amusement is present as Bucky rolls his eyes, turning his body as an invitation for Steve to enter his room. Steve enters just as Bucky replies, “No, I looked from the peephole, wiseass.”
Steve chuckles, a little breathy air escaping from his nose, just as Bucky gives a semblance of his old smile.
For a moment, Steve feels younger and scrawnier, everything surrounding them feeling more at ease.
Sometimes, Steve aches for this. Moments of normalcy are few and far between for someone like him - for people like them. There were only ever two people that could bring this type of nostalgic ache, this want for going back home, this light inside that only made Steve shine brighter.
One of them is dead and the other is about to be put under again indeterminately.
If Steve were a different person, he would say it was unfair. Being the person he is, he adds it to the weight that’s threatening to break him with docile acceptance and minimal complaint.
He may not have known what he was signing up for back on the Atlantic, but he did know what he was signing up for being Captain America.
“Whatt’ya need, Steve?” Bucky asks, his brows furrowing slightly.
Steve takes a seat on the edge of Bucky’s bed, fingers laced together over his lap. He doesn’t know what exactly he needs, but he knows it brought him here to Bucky’s room. That’s a start.
“I don’t know,” Steve says honestly. “To see you, I guess.”
Something softens in Bucky’s features, just as he takes a seat next to Steve. There’s a space between them — physically and metaphorically. It’s just something that happens when a best friend loses touch for seventy plus years, Steve figures, but it doesn't help the feeling of how wrong it is now. To look at them now and then and realize just how much has changed.
Bucky’s gaze is on him. Steve's pulse quickens, just slightly. It makes him feel as if he’s being analyzed and examined, but he’s not sure what it is Bucky’s looking for. He’s unsure of what Bucky will find too, and maybe that’s why his palms are beginning to dampen.
Then, as simple as ever, Bucky says, “I take it you have questions. I know I do.”
Steve raises a brow; the sound ding ding ding goes off in his brain. Amazement flows through him at how much Bucky knows him, even if he doesn’t fully remember him anymore. “Yeah?” Steve asks, turning his head towards the other. “Shoot.”
“Did they freeze you too?” Bucky asks, his lips pressed together like he regrets asking the moment the words left his mouth. He presses on, however. “To bring you to the future.”
He shakes his head. “No, I crashed a plane.”
“Oh.” Bucky raises a brow, surprise written all over his features. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
An unexpected chuckle escapes Steve again. It surprises even himself, but it feels good to enjoy these seemingly small moments. He, of all people, knows how fleeting these bits of time can be. It's important to savor them, because he never knows when the next disaster will appear.
Steve sighs, his fingers spreading along his knees as he presses his lips together. Bucky did ask for how he made it here, and the least he could do was explain the best he could from what he remembered the agents from S.H.I.E.L.D. told him.
“I crashed the plane because it was carrying weapons of mass destruction heading straight for American cities. The plane went down in the Atlantic, the water was freezing,” Steve says, his gaze returning back to his hands, repeating the same story he gave to S.H.I.E.L.D. agents repeatedly. “I must’ve been able to survive somehow, due to the serum. I did freeze, but it - it wasn’t the same as cryo-freezing.”
I had a choice, Steve thinks to himself. Part of me wanted to.
Perhaps the worst part is that this may have been the first time he admitted it to himself. He almost did, to Sam, back after the mess of Washington D.C. when they finally had a chance to talk about aspects of their lives not world-catastrophe related.
Sam had said at some point during their search, “I struggled real bad with depression, man. After Riley died, after the war. I still do.”
They had never talked about this back in Steve’s day. Veterans were heroes, they were celebrated, and they wore painted smiles and waved to the cheering crowds and kissed their loved ones. Nobody talked about the nightmares, the screaming fits, the shock and jolts and jumps. The war was over, and they were supposed to be done fighting.
Steve was quiet, placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed - wanted to let him know it was okay. That this was a safe place for him.
“I used to entertain the thought of ending it, got real close to it too at one point,” Sam had confessed, looking right at Steve. The confession made everything in Steve go cold, like he was submerged again at the thought of Sam struggling — of the huge possibility of Sam not making it here, today. “But I didn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“I dunno,” Sam said, sighing. “Maybe I thought I had more to do — thought about my family, they definitely had something to do with it. Truthfully, Steve, I don’t know if there was a reason for anything. Sometimes I think things just are as they are, and we all gotta deal with our crap.”
Currently, he wrung his hands together - uncomfortable with the realization. He could feel Bucky watching him from the corner of his eyes, and Steve wondered what he saw.
Steve Rogers, a hero who had saved the world.
Steve Rogers, a broken man who only had so little left in the world.
Steve Rogers, a punk kid from Brooklyn.
“I would’ve figured that museum would’ve said something about that,” he says, less robotic - hoping to make it sound like a joke, but it’s off kilter.
Sometimes it’s difficult to shake off the looming memories: ice biting into his skin, the lack of oxygen, the soul-crushing fear of never seeing Peggy, the grief of watching Bucky die. The final feeling of peace once he finally let himself rest.
How okay he was with letting it all end.
Bucky, surprisingly, shifts in his seat. Steve glances at him, noting the way he’s deliberately not looking at him before he regains composure. If it were another time, if Steve’s stomach would finally settle instead of twist in on itself, he would’ve found this amusing.
With a sigh, Bucky bluntly replies, “I wanted to hear it from you.”
His tone of voice is so honest - so raw - it reminds Steve of when Bucky would find him beaten and bloody in an alleyway. If Steve closes his eyes, he could hear Bucky ask him, What the hell were you thinking? It wasn’t to scold, because Bucky knew Steve would have never listened to him, to anyone really, even if his life depended on it if Steve believed what he was doing was right. It was something else entirely.
Sometimes, it’s difficult to not let the past take hold of the present.
“It’s getting late,” Steve says, a hint too formal, gripping his thighs tight before he stood slowly. It wasn’t a total lie, but it definitely was an aversion, and he knew Bucky knew it. “I should probably go back to my room.”
Bucky stood, rolling his eyes as he looked right at Steve with a look Steve couldn’t quite place. “You don’t have to,” he says, tone of voice unreadable. “The room’s big enough for the both of us. But, y’know, I’m not going to force you to stay.”
In another life, Steve would understand what Bucky would have meant by asking him to stay. He already knows how the script plays out: Steve is miserable, Bucky asks him to stay out of kindness or out of pity or out of both, Steve would vehemently refuse, and he would have ended up sulking alone in a shabby apartment made for one. Here and now, the characters had changed - they've grown up - and Steve didn’t know what this could mean.
He knew Bucky, before, and there were glimpses of the man he grew up with in this new version of himself. It was exhilarating at times to relearn Bucky, terrifying at other points.
Steve didn’t know which was which at the moment.
Finally, he says, “Alright.”
Neither of them says a thing when they get ready for bed.
-
He dreams of cold and snow. The stinging bite of below freezing temperature water hitting his skin feels so real, he swears he can feel himself choking on it. He feels himself struggling, trying to fight for air, for warmth. Then suddenly it’s gone - something not as cold, more chilled than anything, and metal surrounding his body like a tomb.
He lays flat on his back, pinned by his own mind. There’s a dull sense of panic, a familiarity, but he can’t pinpoint what’s the exact cause. All he knows is he needs to move, he needs to—
A roar vibrates through his skull, and when he moves his head all he sees are flashes of red, white and blue blurring together in his vision.
Then he sees himself staring down at him, bloody, suit torn and shredded. It’s Steve, but it’s wrong - like a distorted, rabid version of himself. Steve raises his shield over his head, crashing it into his own skull over and over as he screams his throat raw, blood staining his vision. He can hear the sound of his own bones crunching and grinding in his ears - he can feel every damn hit to his head.
“I’m sorry, Tony. But he’s my friend.”
-
Steve wakes with a start. Sweat is pooling along the crevices of his body, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. He blinks awake, checking the blurry time on his watch — his eyes still tired from sleep. Pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, he rubs and rubs, trying to forget the sounds and sense of panic he felt only moments ago.
The dream was fading quickly from his mind, but the horror was ingraining itself into his bones. He can still hear his own echoed, rabid screams.
“Steve?” It takes him a moment to realize it’s Bucky’s voice, and his gaze moves upwards - still finding it difficult to navigate in the dark—until he sees Bucky’s slightly shadowed form leaning over the side of the bed. He relaxes, if only a morsel, trying to contain his breaths from gulping inhales to something along a more normal scale. “Steve, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, but his voice feels too tight and raw. Steve clears his throat, running his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. Firmer, he says, “Yeah. Just a bad dream. Nothing to worry about.”
He thinks he sees Bucky nod, but it’s difficult to tell with the darkness surrounding them. For that, Steve is grateful. He doesn’t want Bucky to see him like this; not when Steve knows he has his own demons he has to face.
They both lay there in silence again, the room buzzing with activity from the both of them being awake. It’s difficult to ignore, but Steve doesn’t wish to pretend it’s not there. In fact, it brings him a sense of calm knowing Bucky's right here with him. Minutes pass before Steve’s able to settle into a normal breathing pattern, his heart rate slowing to a steady pace. It’s too cold, suddenly, but he's fine with that.
“You’re awake,” Steve says once he feels his voice won’t betray him.
For a moment, it doesn’t seem Bucky’s going to respond. Then, he says, “Same reason as you.”
Steve wonders how many nightmares Bucky has had to deal with in the recent months. Alone, as well. He wonders if Bucky’s like Steve and swallows down the traumatic memories until it’s nothing more than just a quiet whimper, or if his nightmares make him scream into the night.
“You can come up,” Bucky says, and when Steve looks up towards the bed, Bucky’s no longer looking over. He’s laying flat on his back from what Steve could see from the floor. “This bed’s big enough for the both of us, and the floor looks uncomfortable as hell.”
Nothing in Steve screams to refuse. In fact, something tugs at his chest, the urge to join him nearly overwhelming.
Steve tries not to think about it.
He grabs his pillow and comforter from the floor in his arms, moves along the other side of the bed before he settles against the soft mattress — passing the edge of the comforter towards Bucky who takes it silently, without a problem. Steve glances at him, able to see more of Bucky now that he’s more awake and he’s closer to the other.
There’s an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. To make sure he’s here with Steve, that this isn’t just another screwed up dream.
“You’re staring,” Bucky says, quietly. It’s a little mumbled with the fact his arm is draped over his face, but Steve is close enough to make it out perfectly. His cheeks heat up, and once again he’s grateful for the darkness. “Was your dream about me?”
Some part of him wants to deny. Another part wants to admit it wasn’t completely about Bucky and to just not worry about it.
Steve sighs, sounding old and worn. “Yes, and no. It was just a mention.” A part of him feels nauseous as he remembered seeing his own face, holding the shield above his own head. “It was mostly about Tony.”
A part of him felt reminded of all the times they spent the night at each other’s homes, when they were young and no one batted an eye for it. Where Steve and Bucky would share their fears to the dark and to each other, where they’d laugh quietly into the night because they were supposed to have fallen asleep hours ago, where it’d only been them against the world. He was so much older now, but it didn’t matter much. Sometimes anyone ever needed was their friend.
Now was no exception.
There was a chuckle from Bucky, but it sounded wrong to his own ears. “I still don’t know why you think I’m worth all this trouble, Steve. All your new friends and yet you’re here with me. You gave up everything.”
“Because I love you, Buck,” Steve replies so fast, so sure, he doesn’t even register he says it until a few moments after the fact.
It’s silent again, and Steve’s face feels as if it’s on fire. It didn’t feel like the wrong thing to say, now that he thinks about it, because there’s nothing false about it. Anyone looking at them, anyone who knew Steve, would know it to be true. No one could deny Steve Rogers loved Bucky Barnes, just like no one could deny the sky was blue or that sun was warm and golden.
But this felt like some sort of confession, sprung upon Bucky with no warning. Bucky was still learning him, and here Steve was, saying these words with so much attached weight to them. It felt as a sort of guilt trip, but that's not what Steve had intended at all.
“You don’t love your other friends?” Bucky asks, his tone softer than it’s been in God only knows how long.
“Not like you, Buck,” Steve replies, so cautiously. It feels as if he doesn’t trust his own words, or maybe he just doesn’t trust how it’d affect Bucky. Not really, anyway. “Of course I love them, and I’d die for them no question. But it’s different between you and I. For me, anyway.”
He doesn’t want to expect anything from Bucky, but his heart pounds ferociously against his ribs despite this, threatening to break them. Steve’s not sure exactly what he wants. Maybe all he needs from this is for Bucky to know he’s not a burden in Steve’s life. That, despite everything—all the guilt, pain, and fighting - there was one good thing to come from all of this.
Bucky says nothing for a good ten minutes.
Perhaps, it’s okay. Steve’s not sure what he would respond with if he did say something.
“I’m going to bed,” Steve says quietly, trying to be soft. He turns to his side then, closing his eyes - feeling warm and right for the first time in months. “G’night, Bucky. See you in the morning.”
Before he falls into another dream, Steve hears him:
“Goodnight, Steve.”
-
The T.V. blares loudly in the morning, the channel set on CNN. T’Challa stands, plaintive, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the flashes of clips and images on the screen. Bucky sits next to Steve on the couch, face unreadable. All three of them are quiet - eyes fixated on the screen, unblinking. Steve’s stomach churns at the sight of his picture followed by the tagline:
STEVE ROGERS, CRIMINAL AT LARGE.
A reporter with dark brown hair, and a soothing voice repeats the same message every hour:
“After Captain Rogers’ outright refusal to signing the Sokovia Accords, Rogers had aided and abetted known terrorist, James Buchanan Barnes, who was accredited with over a hundred assassinations of known political figureheads.
Not only has Rogers committed those acts, he’s also been accounted for those dead in Wakanda, hundreds of thousands of dollars in willful destruction of private and federal property, and has caused serious injuries to those who were working to apprehend Barnes in Bucharest.
A search is currently underway to take Rogers and Barnes into custody.”
Steve doesn’t look at any other man in the room, but he can feel the occasional glance on his form. He stares, unblinking, watching the path of destruction he’s left behind show on the screen.
It’s the least he could do.
Then, a white man with a dark mustache appears, and Steve instantly recognizes him. He sits up a little straighter, staring at Thaddeus Ross at a live press conference.
A reporter in the crowd asks him, “Can you tell us what it is you intend to do when you find Captain Rogers?”
Every muscle in his body feels coiled, ready to spring.
“That is a very simple answer to a very simple question: Captain Steve Rogers deserves to be brought to justice,” Ross says, so self-assured. “Just like every other American, Rogers is not free from committing heinous acts. His allies are currently behind bars in a prison suited to their needs, waiting for trial, and Rogers and Barnes is not exempt from that. Actions have consequences — it’s as simple as that.”
The television shuts off, and then the screen is black. Steve turns his head to see T’Challa holding the remote then carefully setting it down on the table with ease.
“There’s no reason for any of us to be dwelling on this. It will benefit no one,” T’Challa says, voice calm and unwavering.
“Agreed,” says Bucky.
Steve merely places his chin in his hand, fingers gripping his jaw momentarily as he takes a moment to recompose himself. His teammates, his friends, were locked away in some obsolete military base probably as he sat in this chair like a coward - hiding from the government, from the world, from everyone.
Anger ran through his veins, flooding and tainting everything with the need to lash out. Not at anyone in this room - no, the only one he wished to punish was himself.
“I need some air,” Steve says, ignoring everything but the pounding beat of his heart in his ears.
-
Bucky finds him by one of the indoor fountains easily. He doesn’t hesitate as he sits next to him on the edge of the fountain, says nothing for the first few minutes. Both of them sit in silence for a good few minutes, the only sound is the dribbling of the water behind them, the echoes and patter of guards-women walking through the palace.
Golden rays shine through the glass above them, painting the room to make it look like it was glittering gold.
“It’s nice in here.” Bucky sounds like he’s in awe. Steve watches as Bucky looks around the room - the decorations placed along the pillars, the benches surrounding the fountain that’s placed in the center of the room, the potted plants placed precariously around them. “Really says royalty.”
“Yeah,” Steve replies, lamely, he might add.
Words felt difficult to use. He knows how he sounds to his own ears, but he wonders if he sounds just as pathetic to Bucky.
Silence falls over them once again. This time, however, something feels different - there’s no comfort where it had been once before. It’s barely noticeable, at first, but the longer it goes on, it’s more gratingly obvious there’s something else.
Steve wonders just how much he can take before he breaks.
“T’Challa says the cryo-chamber will be ready tomorrow,” Bucky says then, quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. It takes a moment for Steve to register the words, then another to understand exactly what it means.
Everything shifts.
Steve’s chest feels too tight, suddenly too difficult to breathe. He closes his eyes, trying to keep himself composed. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job too, until he feels his eyes burn behind his lids, an overflowing threat of tears spilling.
“I thought we had longer,” Steve says, his voice too tight, and he hates the way he sounds.
There’s no hesitation when Bucky responds, “Me too.”
Sighing, Steve pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes - rubbing them hard enough a blooming pain began to erupt behind his eyes. Everything feels too hot, the tears threatening to spill. Steve doesn’t remember the last time he’s fully allow himself the privilege.
A part of him wishes the tears would spill, to feel that sense of release. They don’t.
An arm wraps around his neck, and Steve immediately wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle - partly to balance him so he doesn’t fall into the water, partly because he desperately wishes to hold him in his arms. His nose presses against the space between Bucky’s neck and thick shoulder, breathing him in. Bucky’s warmth radiates through his shirt, and Steve can’t get enough.
Steve wants to remember all of this. Wants to remember the feeling of arm wrapped tight around him, unwilling to let go. Wants to memorize the tickling sensation of Bucky’s long, dark hair brushing along Steve’s forehead, his temple, his cheek. He wants to remember his scent, the undeniably gentle warmth of him, the rise and fall of his chest.
Everything ached.
He doesn’t know what’s worse: saying goodbye or being unable to. He's had both with Bucky. Yet if anyone asked Steve, they both were unbearable.
-
They don’t leave the others side for the rest of the day. They explore the palace together where they’re permitted, eat with each other in the kitchens, and spend a little time with T’Challa before leaving him to his Kingly duties.
When the day ends, Bucky follows Steve to his room instead.
For one day in the past several decades, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are inseparable once again
-
Neither of them sleeps.
The darkness envelops both of them, but it’s not difficult for Steve to tell the difference between actual sleep and pretending to be asleep. He’s slept with the platoon of men, knowing just how difficult it is to sleep when you’re afraid.
He wonders if Bucky’s afraid for the days to come.
Or, maybe, that’s simply just him projecting his own fears onto Bucky. The fact neither of them have a plan to fix the problem eats away at him slowly, makes him wonder how long it’ll take before he sees Bucky in the flesh again.
“Steve.” Bucky’s voice is so quiet, but it still shocks him anyway. The silence had been such a constant; he hadn’t expected Bucky to speak to him until the early morning.
Turning his head just slightly, he merely responds with, “Yeah?”
Another long silence comes from Bucky. For a moment, Steve believes Bucky might have just said his name in his sleep, or he had mistaken a noise for his name. Desperation could make a man hear whatever he wanted. However, he sees Bucky’s eyes trained on his in the darkness, could see the furrow of his brow, the twitch of his lips.
Steve waits patiently. He has all the time in the world; Bucky does not.
“Steve, I wanted to tell you earlier,” Bucky says. Flashes of the past few days pass in Steve’s mind, wondering what time earlier could mean. “I knew we didn’t have enough time, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting for… Jesus, who knows how long? But I can't not tell you.”
Slowly, Bucky shuffles closer to Steve, his face merely inches away from his own. If they still, Steve’s sure he would be able to feel Bucky’s breath against his cheek.
“Steve, I love you.” Bucky’s so serious, so sure, Steve feels something punch his gut. “I have all my life.”
Maybe the universe enjoys tearing them apart, making sure that just when they find each other - the other gets torn away. Maybe the universe has always intended that for them.
But the universe does not know Steve and Bucky. It doesn’t know that they will always find each other again.
Steve cups Bucky’s cheek, pulls him in and presses his lips against his own and everything alights. Bucky stills for a moment, and before Steve can even consider being drowned by his own doubt, Bucky returns the sentiment ten-fold, kissing him back with a hunger that’s been held back for years. Every nerve feels alight, his head feels dizzy with it, and he tugs Bucky closer to his body so they’re chest to chest.
For one night, the universe aligns itself together, and Steve feels whole.
-
By the time the morning light shines against them, Steve has mapped out every inch of Bucky’s body to memory. He brushes his fingers against his the bare skin of his back, feeling each breath he takes. Bucky’s arm is draped over Steve’s chest, his nose pressed against his shoulder, mouth hanging open.
He’s the most beautiful man Steve’s ever seen.
This doesn’t fix anything. Bucky’s still broken and leaving and Steve’s still broken and staying, but sometimes that human connection - the thing that undeniably binds everyone together, binds them together - is enough to make the destruction of their world a little more bearable.
Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand. Bucky squeezes back.
-
“We’ll see each other again,” Steve promises, ignoring the presence of the scientists surrounding them. All that matters is the both of them, right here and right now.
Bucky nods without hesitation. He’s so sure of Steve, so sure of that promise, it almost makes it easier to say goodbye. Almost.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Bucky responds, looking him over intently before he decides to settle his gaze. A small hint of a smile forms on his lips, something glinting in his blue eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
For a moment, they’re back in time.
Steve leans in and presses a kiss to Bucky’s lips, his hands on his hips, thumb brushing along the other’s hip soothingly. It starts soft, like a promise, but it turns into something more desperate - a goodbye and don’t go and I’ll miss you all in one.
When they pull away, Bucky’s eyes are glossy and red, and Steve’s sure his are the same.
“Can't promise you that,” Steve whispers against his lips, giving him one final kiss before tearing himself away. "I do act pretty stupid with or without you."
Bucky laughs - a quiet, barely there thing - yet Steve can't help but smile. At least he managed this before he sends Bucky off.
It’s time.
-
One moment Bucky’s awake, here, and vital. The next, he’s frozen in time, the beginning of a sleep he won’t wake from unless someone else chooses it.
Steve’s quick to wipe the tears from his cheeks.