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"Hang on," Steve mutters, stumbling over the uneven ground. "Just a little further now."
He clumsily rights himself, pushing off from the wall with the hand not wrapped around Bucky's waist. Every bone in his body is screaming in tired protest, but they're nearing the entrance to the facility now; he can just see the muted glow of light coming from up ahead. A little further and then they'll be in the safety of the Quinjet, and then… his mind shies away from the gaping uncertainty of his plan after that. The truth is they have nowhere to go, no refuge that will take them, no friends left to call on.
Bucky makes a noise that could be a grunt of acknowledgment or could just be an involuntary reaction to the jostling. He hasn't spoken since they left Tony behind, although he's at least alert enough to keep his good arm curled around Steve's neck, limping just enough to prevent Steve from outright dragging him. But only just.
They turn a corner and the doors to the facility are in front of them, opening onto the barren wasteland of Siberian wilderness outside. They didn't bother parking the Quinjet far from the entrance. He can already see it just over the ridge.
And he can see the Black Panther standing in between it and them.
Steve staggers to a halt, heart speeding up. This is bad. This is very bad. He's not entirely sure he could take the King of Wakanda on his best day. Right now, he can barely hope to slow him down.
"Bucky," he warns, not taking his eyes off of the threat. He keenly feels the absence of his shield. In his peripheral vision, he sees Bucky slowly raise his head, feels him stiffen. "Get to the jet," Steve orders, swallowing his despair. "Crawl if you have to. I'll distract him as long as I can."
"Steve," Bucky rasps, voice hoarse and filled with the same hopelessness Steve feels. He coughs. "No. You have to let him have me."
"Shut up," Steve hisses. "Shut your—that's not gonna happen." The thought that he's come so far only to fail at the very end burns like bile in the back of his throat.
Bucky shakes his head, fingers clutching weakly at Steve's collar. But before he can argue, T'Challa calls out, "Captain Rogers!" He's holding his mask in his hands, but instead of putting it on, he slowly bends to lay it on the ground, then raises his hands in front of him palms up, razor sharp nails retracted. "I no longer wish to fight either of you."
Steve hesitates. From what little he knows of him, it seems unlike T'Challa to use deception in order to defeat an opponent. But desperation and rage has clouded the judgment of many a good man. He's currently wearing the blood and bruises to prove it.
"He's got us beat, fair and square," Bucky says wearily, reading his mind like he always has. "No need to lie."
Steve purses his lips, but Bucky's right, and they can't afford to linger. Bucky's wounds need treatment, and Tony's down for the moment, but he won't stay that way forever. He steels himself and limps them both slowly through the open doors. T'Challa watches them approach, not attacking but not moving out of the way either.
"What do you want, then?" Steve asks cautiously when they're a few feet away.
"To make things right." Instead of the controlled rage Steve had seen on his face in Berlin, there is only deep sorrow.
"Bucky didn't set that bomb. It was all a set up, to get us here."
He expects argument, but T'Challa merely nods. "I'm aware now, of Colonel Zemo's involvement. He's in my custody, and will face justice for all those he has harmed."
All the breath leaves Steve's body in a rush, and he almost staggers in relief. Only Bucky's reassuring weight pressed against his side keeps him steady.
"I also understand what his true plan was, and how well he succeeded." T'Challa says, eyeing the doors behind them. "Stark?"
"Alive," Steve says. "But his suit's damaged." He sees again the look of betrayed rage on Tony's face, the shocked fear when Steve raised the shield over his head, and asks roughly, "Can you—please, can you make sure that he—?"
"I will see to it that he safely leaves this place," T'Challa promises. "But you must both leave now." Steve nods gratefully, but T'Challa continues, "I would offer you the sanctuary of Wakanda, if you choose to accept it."
Steve gapes at him, but it's Bucky who speaks up into the silence. "Why?" he asks. "Why would you risk that? We're both fugitives now."
T'Challa considers them for a moment. "Because it is the only way to end this cycle of vengeance and violence. And it is the right thing to do, what my father would have wanted."
Steve finds his voice, tightening his grip on Bucky's waist. "Your Majesty. Thank you. I can never repay this debt."
"The debt is mine, and I will pay it," T'Challa says. "Now go. I will make sure you are expected."
Steve nods and pulls Bucky over to the Quinjet, lifting him up with a pained grunt. When he looks over his shoulder, T'Challa has already disappeared into the facility.
They're both breathing heavily from the exertion of getting up the steps. Now that the immediate threat has passed, whatever reserves were keeping Bucky upright and moving seem to have disappeared, and he leans heavily on Steve, head lolling as small tremors shake his frame. Steve drags him over to the closest bench and lays him down as gently as he can. Bucky's face is white and creased with pain where it's not covered in blood, and sweat beads his forehead.
Steve rips his helmet off. "I have to get us out of here," he tells him, but finds himself hesitating. "Are you—will you be...?"
"M'not dying. Rogers," Bucky pants irritably. "Go fly the damn plane."
Steve swallows down the impulse to say You promise? and clasps his good shoulder for a second. "I'll be right back," he says instead, then heads to the cockpit.
As soon as the plane's in the air and the autopilot set, Steve hurries back to the cabin. Bucky's eyes are closed, but his chest is moving, and the fingers of his remaining hand are clutched at the gaping hole where his other arm should be. Steve had thought the arm a hateful reminder of everything that had been done to Bucky against his will, but seeing him without it, weak and in pain, is even worse.
"Bucky," Steve says, dropping to his knees beside him. He feels helpless. "Tell me how to help."
"The nerves," Bucky wheezes. His eyes open, but they're glassy and unfocused. "They're all live, feels like I'm on fire."
"Okay," Steve says, even though it's the furthest thing from. He thinks somewhat hysterically that Tony's expertise would sure come in handy right about now. "Is there a switch? Has it been damaged like this before?"
Bucky winces. "Yes. Not exactly like this, but… you have to disconnect it. On the inside."
Steve swallows. "Right. Okay," he says again and reaches up to turn on an overhead light. The Quinjet is well equipped for medical emergencies of all kinds, and also tools to help repair damage to Tony's suits. He's seen it done enough times before. He can do this. He has to do this.
He quickly gathers what he thinks he'll need and adjusts the spotlight to shine on Bucky's shoulder. But when he reaches for him, Bucky's remaining hand grabs his wrist, squeezing urgently.
"Howard," he croaks. "You knew." It isn't a question.
Steve swallows, feeling all his grief and horror rise up all over again, and ruthlessly squashes it back down. "I knew enough," he admits. "It doesn't change anything."
Bucky shakes his head. The look on his face is terrible. Steve thinks of all the possible arguments he could make—that Hydra's at fault, that hating Bucky won't bring Howard and his wife back, won't undo Tony's broken childhood. That even if it would, Steve could still never hate him. But he knows none of that is what Bucky wants to hear.
"Buck," Steve says, bending down to meet his eyes. "Tony was wrong. I made my choice and I don't regret it."
Bucky grimaces. "Never did know what was good for you." But he lets go of Steve's wrist.
Steve leans in to examine Bucky's arm. It cuts off just below the shoulder in a mess of jagged edges. When he touches it, the metal is still warm from the blast that ripped it apart. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then looks at Bucky again. "You ready?"
Bucky's face has steeled as it always did when something scared him but he was bound and determined to do it anyway. Steve saw that expression at the train sending him off to basic, on the front planning missions, in the half second before they kissed for the first time. He squeezes Bucky's other shoulder, and Bucky nods sharply.
Exploring the inside of the arm is delicate work, and Steve's intensely aware of his own aching body, and how long it's been since he slept. Bucky sits through it with gritted teeth, hissing once when he accidentally makes contact with the wrong wire, but otherwise laying in rigid silence. Steve very deliberately doesn't think about where he learned to endure pain without protest or movement.
"All right, I think—I think I've got it," Steve says finally, and silently prays he's right.
Bucky goes, if possible, even more stiff. "Do it," he growls.
Steve breathes out and makes the cut. Bucky immediately screams, whole body spasming before going abruptly, horribly still. "Bucky? Buck!" Steve cries, alarmed. What was he thinking, trying to do this himself instead of waiting for help? He thinks of the hundreds of miles of absolute nothing they're currently flying over and feels a deep well of panic rising up.
But then Bucky shudders and meets his gaze. "M'all right," he gasps. "I'm all right."
"Christ," Steve says, closing his eyes and lowering his head. He feels dizzy with relief. After a moment, Bucky's good hand clumsily pats him on the head.
"You did good, Stevie," he murmurs, and Steve laughs, slightly hysterical.
"You absolute fucker," he says. He brushes Bucky's hair out of the way and leans over to brush his lips across his sweaty forehead. "Never do that to me again."
Bucky's good hand finds his and clutches it to his chest. "Cross my heart."
Steve squeezes his hand before staggering to his feet to rummage in the jet's medical supplies. He returns with a bottle of water and a pair of pills. "For the pain," he tells Bucky. "Made for me, so they should work on you. They won't knock you out, just dull it a little."
Bucky hesitates, but nods, so Steve gives them to him, then lifts the bottle to Bucky's lips, supporting the back of his head with his other hand. Bucky makes a face but obediently swallows and drinks. The fact the he's allowing this without protest is confirmation of how poorly he must be feeling; he never could stand to be mother henned. When he's drunk his fill, Steve takes a swig himself, pouring the rest on a cloth and using it to wipe at the blood caked across the lower half of Bucky's face.
"You're a damn mess," he murmurs.
"Hate to break it to you, honey, but you're not looking so fresh yourself."
Steve chokes back a laugh and sees Bucky's mouth twitch in response. "Guess we're a matched pair, then." He finishes the left side of his face and moves to the right, swabbing as gently as he can, mindful of the bruised skin underneath. "You hurt anywhere else?"
Bucky considers for a moment. "Ribs are definitely cracked. Leg's a little fucked. Nothing that won't heal." His gaze sharpens, and Steve feels as absolutely pinned by it as he always has. "You?"
"Just banged up," Steve assures him, and pats him on the cheek. "I'll live."
Bucky looks at him solemnly. "You'd better."
They reach Wakandan airspace several hours later, and despite everything, Steve is still half-expecting to be blown out of the sky. But true to his word, T'Challa's people are not only expecting them, but direct Steve to land the Quinjet at the palace, a complex of tall, majestic buildings curving out of the jungle in honeycombed spires of stone. It would be breathtaking if he wasn't so completely exhausted.
"You ready for this?" Steve asks Bucky, standing before the closed hatch.
Bucky had dozed fitfully for most of the trip, and the rest seems to have allowed his healing factor to kick in. He's standing on his own, albeit walking with a heavy limp, babying his ribs, and listing to the side a bit to compensate for the missing weight of his arm. He nods.
The warm jungle air is a shocking change from the freezing winds of Siberia and the climate controlled interior of the jet. Steve immediately feels overdressed. A small delegation awaits them on the platform. None are holding weapons, which he counts as a good sign, but the group is flanked by a trio of women in red with shaved heads who he has no doubt would be quite lethal with just their bare hands.
"Captain Rogers," an older woman in a lab coat steps forward. "I'm Dr. Kibore. King T'Challa sent word that you and Sergeant Barnes might require medical attention."
"I'm fine, but his arm…" he trails off. What wrong with Bucky's arm is starkly obvious.
"Of course. This way, please."
She leads them through several sunlit corridors to a medical lab with white walls and sleekly modern instruments. A small team of medical staff waits inside. Steve feels Bucky tense beside him, but he steps through the doorway without hesitation.
Steve allows another member of the staff look him over and clean the cuts on his face while the doctor questions Bucky about his injuries, but politely refuses anything else. As the man turns away with a skeptical look, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection in a metal cabinet across the room and winces. No wonder they don't believe him; he looks like he was hit by a train—or a metal fist powered by an arc reactor.
But there's no point mentioning his head is pounding and his torso feels like one massive bruise. Time will heal it better than anything the doctors can do.
Bucky has been quietly complying with every request, that disconcerting stillness coming over him again. But when the doctor asks him to remove his tactical gear, he pauses, clearly struggling with removing the buckles one-handed.
"I can—" Steve offers, stepping forward.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Lend me a hand?"
Steve snorts, "Been saving that one for a while?" and begins carefully undoing the various straps and buckles holding Bucky's armor on. Underneath, his chest is littered with abrasions and rapidly darkening bruises, and Steve sucks in a breath, meeting Bucky's eyes. Then the medical team is swarming in, and Steve backs out of the way.
After a few minutes, they direct him to a scanning bed. Bucky hisses as he lays down. A delicate laser beam makes several passes over his entire body, lingering on his left side, and a hologram pops up above the doctor's work station, detailing the inside of the arm.
"Captain Rogers," Dr. Kibore says, sitting down in front of it. "This may take some time. There are quarters set aside for you, if you'd like to rest."
Steve doesn't move. He's certain now, that they can trust T'Challa's word, but the thought of leaving Bucky out of his sight, vulnerable and alone among strangers, strikes a deep cord of unease through him. Like he'll vanish in a puff of smoke the minute Steve's left the room.
"Go on," Bucky murmurs. "You're swaying on your feet."
"Am not," Steve protests, scowling. It's as blatant a lie as every time they'd had this same exchange growing up—Jesus, Steve, sit down before you fall down—which had only ever made him more determined to keep doing whatever it was Bucky wanted him to stop.
Bucky just rolls his eyes. "Rogers, I'm serious. You stink. Go take a shower—and a nap."
Steve glowers, aware he's acting like a child, but unable to stop himself. "Fine." Bucky salutes him as he leaves the room.
One of the intimidating women who met him on the platform leads him to a set of rooms more befitting a visiting dignitary than a pair of international fugitives. Rich, colorful fabrics adorn the stone walls. The tall ceiling is decorated in ornate carvings. In the first bedroom Steve looks into, an open veranda overlooks the lush green of the surrounding jungle, and a cool breeze rustles the sheer curtains around an actual four post bed.
"I trust this will be adequate," his guide says impassively, while Steve gapes, feeling every inch the country bumpkin.
"Yes, thank you. Wait!" he calls, as the woman turns to leave. "My friends in Berlin. Do you know—?"
She pauses, taking his measure. "King T'Challa is looking into it. He asks that you wait for his return."
Steve forces himself to nod, closing the door behind her. Once he's alone, he sags, leaning against the door. It's been less than a day since he left Sam, Clint, Wanda and Scott on that tarmac. They're probably still in custody awaiting charges. He tells himself there's nothing he can do right now but make it worse. Tries to believe it. He feels impossibly weary.
After a long moment, he forces himself to move. Eying the clean upholstery on the nearest chair, he carefully strips down in the middle of the room, suppressing a groan as he bends down to unlace his boots. His ripped and bloody uniform looks out of place lying crumpled in a heap on the beautiful mosaic floor. Steve idly wonders if the staff will be able to repair it and then remembers with a rush that there's really no point.
Twenty-four hours ago, he was Captain America. Now for the first time in 70 years, he's just plain old Steve Rogers again. He thinks he should be more upset about that than he is, but right now he just feels empty, like a dread weight's been lifted, but there's nothing yet to fill the space where it lay.
He takes a deep breath and resolves to think about it after scrubbing off the layer of grime and sweat coating his body. But the warm water lulls him and he ends up nearly dozing off under the spray, unable to concentrate on much except the worries swirling around in his head—about his team, how to keep Bucky safe, where they'll go when T'Challa's hospitality runs out.
Finally, he forces himself to turn the water off. Standing naked and dripping, he takes a quick survey—no longer actively bleeding anywhere, ankle tender but able to bear weight, ribs aching but not broken, jaw swollen but not dislocated—then trudges out of the spacious bathroom on lead feet, finding a pair of comfortable sleep pants in a drawer. He lays down on the bed and thinks he'll just close his eyes for a moment.
Except when he opens them again, the room's completely dark and Bucky is standing in the doorway.
For half a second, Steve is transfixed at the sight of him, forgetting the last two days ever happened. Then he flicks on the bedside light and catches sight of the empty space where Bucky's left arm should be—an empty space now covered with a discreet black cap.
Bucky takes an exaggerated look around and whistles appreciatively. "Well, we ain't in Kansas anymore, that's for sure." He's wearing pants like Steve's and nothing else.
"Bucky," Steve says dumbly, aware he's only half awake. He sits up. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough, Dorothy Gale." He shoots Steve a pointed look. "Good thing I'm not trying to kill you anymore. Your situational awareness is shot to hell."
Steve scrubs a hand over his eyes, not bothering to explain that his brain had never really gotten with the program where classifying Bucky as a threat was concerned. "Your arm, is it—?"
Bucky slowly limps over to him, shrugging. "Better. Doc's got me all patched up." He looks freshly scrubbed as well, wet hair hanging tucked behind his ears.
"Good, that's… that's good," Steve says, feeling suddenly awkward. He tries not to stare, but it's hard, so hard. He's like a starving man in the desert, standing right in front of the oasis, but forbidden to go in. Steve gives up the battle after a moment, lets his eyes drift across the hard planes of Bucky's stomach, lets them linger over the divot of his hips just visible above the waist of his pants. His mouth goes dry.
When he finally drags his gaze back up to Bucky's face, he's watching Steve just as intently. The moment hangs, pregnant with potential.
Bucky blinks first. "Well," he says, a trace of uncharacteristic uncertainty in his tone, "I just came in to say goodnight. I'll let you get back to..." he gestures at the bed.
Before he can consciously think about, Steve's hand shoots out and grabs Bucky's wrist. "Stay. Please." He pauses, then hurriedly adds, "I mean, only if you want—"
"Yeah, okay," Bucky says, and sits down next to him, body close but not touching. Steve can feel the heat radiating off of him. It's the first time they've been alone together without an immediate crisis, and he's struck with a sudden shyness, unsure of what to say or do now that they're not running for their lives.
Without warning, he breaks into an enormous yawn, and Bucky laughs softly, giving his shoulder a light push. Steve obediently lays back down, heart speeding up. But instead of joining him, Bucky stands up.
"Oh," Steve says. "I thought—" He flushes, because of course Bucky hadn't meant he'd stay the entire night with Steve. He'd spent two years avoiding Steve.
"Calm down, I just gotta get something." Bucky limps out of the room and returns a minute later dragging his combat gear, which he drops on the floor beside the bed after extracting a gun and several knives, placing them on the bedspread one by one. "Push over," he orders Steve, then drops down into the space he vacated, closest to the door. He hands Steve one of the knives, puts the other on the bedside table, and tucks the gun under his pillow.
Steve raises an eyebrow. "Expecting trouble?"
Bucky smiles without humor. "Doesn't matter if I expect it or not. Always finds me anyway."
And what could Steve say to that? Even when they were kids, Bucky had never gone looking for a fight. That was Steve's job, but Bucky followed him in, got his knuckles bruised for his trouble, every time.
His heart twists. "Bucky, I'm sorry. I know you didn't want this."
"Oh, you know, do you?"
"You were making a life for yourself in Bucharest." Without me hangs unspoken between them. "And then I dragged you back into the fight."
Bucky turns to stare at him incredulously. "You set that bomb? Send that hit squad after me?"
"That's not the point."
"Seems like it kind of is."
Steve groans. "Could you just once let me apologize without being a massive ass?"
"Could you once apologize for something that's actually your goddamn fault?"
They glare heatedly at each other for a moment—Steve cracks first, mouth slipping into a smile. Bucky ducks his head, eyes crinkling with silent laughter. "Rogers, I swear to god…"
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't recognize me if I wasn't making you crazy."
Bucky shakes his head ruefully. "Ain't that the truth." He pauses, then says, roughly, "I read about Carter. I meant to say before. I'm sorry."
"You remember her?" Steve says, surprised.
Some complicated emotion passes over Bucky's face. "I remember lots of things."
The grief of Peggy's loss feels like it's been compressed, somehow, shoved into the larger maelstrom of every other disaster over the past few days--nearly losing Bucky again, Tony's pain, the loss of the team, letting go of the shield. But now he feels it surging back, fresh and new. He wants to say that at least he'd been prepared to lose her. But the truth is he never could have been. A part of him thought she'd live forever, on strength of will alone.
Bucky lays down on his right side, facing Steve, and, after a moment's hesitation, Steve mirrors him.
"She was... just the same, Buck," he confesses. "Full of spit and vinegar. Memory wasn't always so good, but when she knew me, she really knew me. Sometimes after I woke up... felt like she was the only one who did."
Bucky looks at him for a long moment. "We're always forgetting you, aren't we?" he says softly. "Me, Carter... the whole goddamned world forgot Steve Rogers under that shield."
Steve can't answer over the sudden lump in his throat. And wasn't that just like Bucky, to see right to the heart of things?
Bucky props his head up on his right hand, letting him take a moment to compose himself, then asks, too casually, "You tell her about me?"
"Yeah." Steve forces a smile. "She was glad, Buck. I mean, not that you'd suffered. But glad you were alive, that I might find you again."
The last time they looked at each other from this angle, it was in their tent in 1945, the night before the train. The Alpine wind had howled all night, and Steve had barely slept a wink, full of nerves and excitement. He'd wanted to get his hands on Zola so bad, his teeth had ached with it. Bucky'd spent that day quiet and reserved. Steve hadn't thought much of it at the time; after Azzano, it wasn't unusual for him to have days where he was a little lost in his own head. It was normal, Steve had thought. Considering everything he'd been through.
Now, he thinks about that night and wonders how much dread Bucky must have felt, knowing he was headed off to face his tormentor again in the morning. But he'd done it anyway, without a word of protest. Because Steve had asked. And all of his worst fears must have come true—far worse, probably, than he ever could have imagined.
"All right, quit looking at me like I shot your dog," Bucky says gruffly, but Steve thinks his eyes look a little shiny. "It's late. Go to sleep."
"I'm not tired," Steve says, just to be contrary, and immediately spoils it by yawning again.
Bucky huffs a soft laugh. "Go to sleep, Stevie," he says, gently, and turns of the bedside light.
Steve's breath catches. He listens to the rustle of the sheets as Bucky shifts position and tries to will his heartbeat back into control. Sleep doesn't find him for a long time.
When he wakes up the next morning, the other side of the bed is empty. The morning sun has lit the room with a pleasant glow, and the breeze coming through the window brings the sounds of birds chirping. For a moment, the last few days feel like strange dream. Then Steve stretches, feeling the itch of new skin scabbing over cuts and bones knitting themselves back together.
When he gets up, he find Bucky in the next room, dressed and intently working his way through a plate of fruit, only half of which Steve recognizes. When Steve sits down across from him, he wordlessly slides a tablet over. Steve raises an eyebrow.
"Courtesy of our hosts," Bucky says, taking a bit of something that sort of resembles a plum, except bright orange. A bit of juice runs down his lip and he absently wipes it off. His face is mottled in bruises still, although his cuts also look like they've started healing over.
Steve looks down at the tablet to stop himself from staring, and then find his attention immediately sharpen. Multiple news sources are reporting on the dust up at the airport. Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Scott were arrested; Rhodey had apparently been injured and airlifted to a hospital in the states. Other headlines proclaim Zemo the real UN bomber, now taken into custody.
"The Widow's in the wind," Bucky says. He's watching Steve with knowing eyes. "Got a warrant out for her."
"Because she helped us," Steve says, guilt twisting in his gut. "They're all in trouble because they followed me." He puts his head in his hands. "Clint's got kids, Buck. Sam's Nana is going to kill me."
Bucky just looks at him.
"I have to help them," Steve says, hearing the desperation creeping into his voice and hating it. "I have to—" He stands up, pacing over to the window and back. "I have to go back."
"Steve."
"You should stay here. I'll take the Quinjet, see if I can…" he trails off, not sure what the next step is.
Bucky folds his arms across his chest. "You can't help them if you're in the next cell."
"I'll figure something out," Steve says stubbornly. "I always do."
"Fine," Bucky agrees, then leans over and punches him in the ribs. The hit doesn't have quite the force his metal hand would have, but it's still hard enough. Steve bends over, wheezing. "Your friends beat the shit out you," Bucky says, watching him without sympathy. "You try to help anyone right now, and you'll just be a liability."
Steve raises his head to glare at him, catching his breath. "You're an asshole."
"But I'm not wrong." Bucky stands up. "Sit down and eat something."
Steve frowns. "Where are you going?"
"They want me back in medical." He limps toward the door, tossing over his shoulder, "You go near that plane, I'll hunt you down and beat you myself."
Bucky's gone most of the day. Steve goes searching for him around noontime and they share a lunch of rice and a delicious meat stew before he disappears back into medical, leaving Steve to wander aimlessly, willing his body to heal faster and refreshing news sites for more updates on Rhodey or the others.
The Wakandan capital city gleams in the distance, no doubt a bustling metropolis. But the palace is quiet and peaceful. The wing where they've been housed is either normally sparsely inhabited or has been deliberately emptied for their stay—the few people he does see seem unsurprised by his presence, but Steve doesn't try to stray into more populated areas. He's fairly sure his every move is being monitored, and that any attempt to enter an area he shouldn't be in will result in the swift appearance of a guard.
Bucky reappears for dinner, only grunting in acknowledgment when Steve tells him his name has been cleared for the bombing, true to T'Challa's word.
"Bet they're all still looking for me, though," he says and Steve can't deny it. Bucky's quiet life under the radar is over.
"What did you do, these past two years?" he asks, curious.
Bucky shrugs. "Moved around a lot at first. Went to see your museum exhibit in Washington."
Steve flushes slightly. "It's a little over the top."
"Nah," Bucky says, meeting his eyes. "Seemed about right."
Steve clears his throat uncomfortably. "Guess they'll be closing it down now, anyway. Considering." He means for the words to come out lightly, but given the look Bucky shoots him, his tone missed the mark. "What'd you do for funds while you were on the run," he asks to change the subject.
"Knocked over a few Hydra safe houses. Figured they'd be too disorganized to notice for a while. You were keeping them busy."
"I was looking for you," Steve says. "I thought you might be going after them too."
Bucky shakes his head. "Didn't want to fight. Just wanted the screaming in my head to stop."
Steve aches to touch him, but keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't have the right. "I wish you'd come to me." Bucky opens his mouth and Steve cuts him off, "I know why you didn't. I still wish…"
"Me too," Bucky says quietly.
The next day passes much the same. Steve's ribs feel less tender, and Bucky's limp has gotten less pronounced. But he's still sequestered with the medical staff for large swaths of the day, and frustratingly close-lipped about the reasons why.
"I'm fine, quit hovering. They're just helping me with some other stuff," he had said, scowling, when Steve worried that he was more hurt than he let on.
"But why—"
"Steve," Bucky snapped. "I'm fine, I said." And Steve backed off, hands raised palms up, watching as he walked away.
His inquiries about T'Challa's return get equally vague answers from the palace staff, and the news from Berlin has nothing new regarding the charges that have been leveled against Sam and the others, or where they're being held. They do report that Scott Lang has a daughter and a criminal record, which is more than Steve knew about him when he asked him to risk his freedom and his life to help him. He aches to reach out to her or Sam's family or Laura Barton. But he knows it would only put them in danger and compromise T'Challa.
There's nothing about Sharon at all, which isn't really a surprise. It's not like the CIA would announce disciplinary action to the public. He tries to tell himself she made it through okay, but his gut says she's one more person who got burned having his back, and it gnaws at him. The sole good piece of news is that Natasha still remains at large, but it's a poor consolation.
When Bucky returns to their rooms that night, he barely looks at Steve before disappearing into the shower, and Steve feels his resolve harden.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Steve says when Bucky comes out, dressed for bed.
Bucky stops short, then slams his hand down on the table. "Goddamnit, Steve."
"I'm not going to run in without a plan. But I can't just sit here twiddling my thumbs anymore while my team is in trouble."
"You're going to get yourself caught, is what you're gonna do!"
"I'm not as helpless as you think I am," Steve says, maintaining a firm grip on his temper. "If I was, I wouldn't have lived this long."
Bucky stalks over and shoves his shoulder, hard. "You're alive by the skin of both your teeth and mine, and don't you think I don't know it, pal."
"Buck—"
"You leave here, you're not going to help anyone but Ross. And then I'm gonna have to come after you with one fucking arm, and they'll have me too. That what you want?"
"No," Steve says, alarmed. "Bucky, you need to stay here, no matter what happens. They're not going to hurt me. I can't say the same for you."
Bucky shoots him a withering look. "Well, that's too bad, because if you think I'm leaving you to rot in some secret prison, then you're the one whose memory is busted."
Steve drops, boneless, onto the bed, all the fight leaving him in a rush. After a moment, Bucky sits down next to him. "I can't do nothing, Buck," he says. "You know I can't. Never been much good at being helpless."
Bucky sighs. "Don't be stupid," he says gently, sliding his arm around Steve's shoulder. "We're gonna get them out. You think I'd leave a man behind? But we're gonna do it smart."'
Steve shakes his head. "You don't want to fight anymore," he protests. "And I respect that. I can't let you—"
Bucky snorts. "You don't let me do shit. Your fight's my fight. They might have fried my brain, but they couldn't cut that part out. Besides," he says, squeezing Steve shoulder, "might not be so short handed soon, if the doc has anything to say about it."
"What?" Steve looks up, surprised. "That's what you've been doing all day?" He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself until that moment, but part of him had been sure Bucky was just avoiding him, blamed him for the mess of his life.
Bucky nods. "Figured you wouldn't stay put for long. Turns out they've got some prosthetic tech of their own. Trick is matching it to the stuff already buried in my nervous system."
On impulse, Steve reaches over and gently runs a hand over Bucky's metal shoulder. Bucky sucks in a breath. "Can you feel that?" Steve asks.
"Pressure, hot and cold, no actual sensation. But they got it all deactivated now." Bucky sits back against the headboard and considers Steve for a moment before nodding at his left shoulder. "I remember this, you know."
"What?"
"Not having the arm. It took them a while to build it, after they first found me. Didn't have the cryo chamber yet either. So they just kept me locked in a cell with my rotting stump for company." He shrugs. "You get used to it after a while. You can get used to almost anything if you have to live with it long enough."
Steve swallows hard. "I know," he admits. "Natasha found a file. There were... pictures."
Bucky tenses. "She shouldn't have shown that to you."
"I wanted to see it. I had to know, Buck. What they did to you. What I let them do when I left you there."
"Oh, here we go." Bucky rolls his eyes. "I didn't crawl up out of my own grave to listen to you do penance for Nazis."
Steve sputters. "That's not what—"
"That's exactly what, don't start with me, you insufferable martyr."
Steve flops over onto his back, throwing his hands up in the air. "Fine, nothing's my fault! I don't owe you a damn thing and all my choices have been flawless. Happy?"
"Fuck no. You wouldn't know a smart decision if it punched you in the face."
"Bucky," Steve protests. "You know that's not fair. Sometimes the best decisions punch me in the face."
They grin at each other for a moment, and Steve feels overcome by a rush of helpless fondness. It must show on his face, because Bucky's eyes soften. "Hey," he says, voice going husky and deep. "C'mere." And Steve doesn't need to be asked twice, knows that particular tone deep in his bones, from a hundred different nights. He'd crawl over broken glass to follow Bucky when he uses that voice.
Steve shifts over until he's on his knees above Bucky, leaning down to cup his face. "Hey," he murmurs, and kisses him once, gentle and chaste. His heart's about beating out of his chest. He hadn't been sure Bucky would want this again.
Bucky hesitates. "You don't—if you don't want... "
"Oh, I want. Believe me, I want," Steve says fervently.
"I'd understand, is all," Bucky presses on in a rush, nodding at his empty shoulder.
Steve sits back, blinking at him. "Why would that matter?"
Now Bucky won't meet his eyes. "It's just not the same as you remember."
And Steve doesn't mean to laugh, can see that Bucky's being sincere in his concern, but he can't help it. "Idiot," he says, leaning down to nuzzle at the groove where Bucky's flesh meets the metal of his shoulder. "You didn't care when I grew two feet overnight. You really think I'll mind about this?"
Bucky laughs shakily. "Well, when you put it like that…" he murmurs and lays back, spreading his legs so Steve can settle in between them. His damp hair spreads out on the pillow, clean and silky soft when Steve runs his fingers through it. Steve takes a moment to look his fill, logging the changes—the terrible scarring around his shoulder plate, the tiny wrinkles that pop up around his eyes when he smile. Despite everything, or maybe because of it, he's still the most beautiful thing Steve's ever seen. He smooths his hands down Bucky's flank, learning the feel of him all over again.
"Still sore?" he asks, thumbing across one of the fading purple marks on his ribs.
Bucky shivers lightly, eyes hot and intent on Steve's face. "Be gone by morning."
Steve hums, "No time to waste, then," and bends down to press his lips to the abused skin, tasting salty sweat and traces of the soap Bucky must have used to wash. Bucky's breath hitches; his fingers tangle in Steve's hair, stroking the shell of his ear, and Steve has to sit very still and quietly breathe, just for a minute.
Bucky lets him, skimming his hand over Steve's brow, tracing the line of his eyebrow, his cheekbone. When Steve looks up at him, Bucky cups his bruised cheek and gently pulls. Steve stretches up to kiss him again, careful to rest the weight of his body on his hands rather than Bucky's still healing ribs, but Bucky's hand curls into the hair at the back of his neck and his right leg wraps around the back of Steve's thigh, pulling them flush together. Steve moans at the contact, rubbing helplessly against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness Bucky's cock through the thin cotton of their sleep pants.
Bucky hadn't bothered to shave, and his stubble is a pleasant burn as Steve nuzzles his cheek, pulling back to suck at the hollow of his throat, enjoying the choked off little noises escaping Bucky's mouth. He mouths at Bucky's jaw, his lips, his cheek, hips rocking in a lazy rhythm. Bucky traces Steve's slick bottom lip with his finger, and Steve obligingly opens his mouth, sucking it in.
"Look at you. So goddamn pretty," Bucky murmurs. Steve feels his ears go hot, flushing with pleased embarrassment. He closes his eyes and hides his face in Bucky's shoulder for a moment.
When he lifts his head again, Bucky cocks an eyebrow, breathing heavy. "Sorry, am I keeping you up?"
"Yes, actually," Steve says with his most serious face, and Bucky groans, "Awful, awful," and then, "Christ, I missed your smart mouth," and his hand is tipping Steve's head to kiss him again, nipping at his lip, then licking inside. And Steve lets him, he'll always let him, but now he has something else in mind.
"Hold on, I wanna—" he slides back down Bucky's body, running his palms over the hard line of his clavicle, down the curve of his breast, the meaty muscle of his abdomen, all the best beloved parts of him. Until finally he pulls the waistband of his pants down, exposing his rigid cock. Bucky sucks in a hissed breath between his teeth.
Steve quickly strips both their pants, then lays back down naked on the bed, resting his head on Bucky's hip to nose at the tender crease of skin between his groin and inner thigh. He palms Bucky's cock, giving it a few sloppy strokes. Bucky gasps, Steve and oh and Steve takes that as encouragement, licking a stripe up the underside before sucking at the tip.
Bucky's hand fists in his hair, then slides down to cup the back of his neck, clenching rhythmically as Steve finds his pace. "Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Steve, god," and then he's only making wordless noises as Steve swallows him as deep as he can.
He missed this, god, he missed this so much. The taste of him, the feel of Bucky's hip under his hand, slick with sweat, stomach quivering with the strain of not bucking into Steve's mouth. He'd happily bury himself here, drown in musk and sweat, listening to Bucky's panting breaths from above, and never come up for air again.
Bucky gasps, "Steve, I'm gonna come, gonna—"
Steve moans, sucking him slow and deep. When he glances up through half-lidded eyes, Bucky looks absolutely wrecked, red faced and wide-eyed—he meets Steve's gaze and then he's coming with a groan and a great shuddering breath, hand clenching almost painfully in Steve's hair.
Steve swallows it down, milking him through the aftershocks until Bucky’s head finally falls back, spent. After a moment, his cock slips out of Steve's mouth. Steve rests his forehead against Bucky's slick, heaving belly, ignoring the pull of his own pressing arousal.
"Jesus, c'mere. Get up here," Bucky says, voice husky, hand pulling at Steve's arm. Steve obeys, scrambling upwards and Bucky kisses him, hot and breathless, clumsily maneuvers him until he's resting on Bucky's left side. Steve drops his head onto Bucky's shoulder, placing a line of sloppy kisses across his throat. His hips are thrusting, mindlessly rubbing his erection against Bucky's hip; he thinks he could come just like this, overwhelmed and touch drunk with the feel Bucky under his hands and his lips, bodies pressed together like pieces of a puzzle.
But then Bucky's got him, jerking him with firm, fast strokes. His hand is slick with his own come, slick on Steve's aching cock, gripping him with exactly the right amount of pressure, the way he knows Steve likes it best. "Bucky, oh oh oh," Steve moans, feeling himself babbling but not able to stop. Bucky murmurs, "Yeah, sweetheart," and twists his head to kiss any part of Steve's face he can reach. "Come on now, let it go."
Steve whines high in his throat, and comes, hiding his face in Bucky's shoulder as he shudders through it, open mouthed and gasping. Bucky keeps stroking him until Steve has to pull away, the sensation too much. He flops onto his back, feeling stupid with satisfaction, body tingling all over. Bucky turns his head to look over at him, face more relaxed than Steve's seen it since they both woke up in the future.
Maybe it's wrong to feel like this when the world's going to hell all around you. In this moment, Steve can't bring himself to care.
In the morning, a message wakes them up: the king has returned, and he has news.