This is basically copypaste from a tumblr rp between reventum(me) and brooklynrooted(RonnieSilverlake on Ao3). It's been cleaned up and edited for typos and glaring gramatical errors, but essentially it's how it happened. Every line break indicates a new post (thus, a perspective change). Posted with her permission because FFN doesn't have the co-author option.
This was started on May 26th, 2014 and is set around that time, about two months after the events of Cap2.
(Also, side note for those waiting for me to update Bitter March: I'm really sorry, but it doesn't look like it's happening.)
There were plenty of places HYDRA agents used as dead drop and safe house locations, plenty of supposedly abandoned buildings that the general populace just walked right on by without knowing their true purpose. That creepy top floor apartment that seemed empty but occasionally voices or footsteps could be heard from; that abandoned warehouse that even the most determined vandal couldn't get access to; a boarded up shop that never went up for sale despite the complaints it gathered. Dead drops, safehouses. Places for agents to hole up and wait or drop off valuable intel for their handlers. Now that the agents were scattered, however, and the handlers were no more, what use were they?
Probably more useful than most thought, provided you knew how to get into them. Most had sophisticated locking mechanisms that required either a code or a keycard to open. The one he had chosen to break into, however, was a grimy top floor bedsit with little more than a padlock that someone had tried to take bolt-cutters to - with no luck, obviously.
In response to this…minor setback, Bucky had merely left the door swinging half-off it's hinges - though he did try to close it as haphazardly as he could behind him. The insides of the apartment - and he used that word very loosely - smelled worse than he did, and he hadn't had more than a basic wash in over a month. Wrinkling his nose at the offensive odour of damp and mould and who knows what else, he shoved his hands into the battered coat he was wearing. He wasn't sure he wanted to touch anything in the place, let alone stop the night.
Still pulling a face, he entered the grimy little bathroom and hesitating to touch the filthy faucet for a moment, tested for running water. He wasn't surprised to learn there wasn't any. With an annoyed grunt, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror, taking in the growing beard he'd have to attack with a knife again. But when his attention was drawn to the hair hanging in greasy strands around his face, it was instead pulled to the sound of the door moving and the floorboards creaking outside. So much for being alone.
Are you in? Two taps on the earpiece. The floor squeaked no matter how cautious Steve was, and frankly, he wondered what exactly he was doing here. Not that he wasn't enthusiastic about breaking into old HYDRA safehouses and potentially capturing some of their agents (he was more than enthusiastic, in fact), but this kind of thing seemed to be what Natasha was much better suited for. Steve preferred face-to-face fights, not creeping after people in shadows. Well, there would probably be fighting soon enough, if anyone was here (and if their intel was correct, someone had to be). Steve wondered, while taking another step, whether there was any chance of finding someone important in a place like this; completely run-down and stinking. Surely their officials would be in better protected places, not somewhere that even Captain America, who notoriously lacked subtlety, could break into without a problem.
There seemed to be a bathroom of sorts, its door ajar, and there was a subtle movement that Steve rather sensed, instead of saw. There was a split second of contemplation, where he wondered if there was still a possibility of not having been noticed – but of course, that was a fool notion. He took yet another step into what could hardly be called living room, and –
… then froze into place, staring at the sliver of the man's face he could see from the cracked mirror. If there was a list of things he expected, this was the very last on it; he had been looking, of course, fruitlessly and with diminishing hope, between missions like this one – and then here he was, at a time when, for a change, Steve hadn't been thinking of him at all.
He didn't seem to be able to say anything at all, for some godforsaken reason. On the other hand, he didn't have a lot of illusions left either, about how many ways this could go, if Bucky still didn't remember anything. Steve took a deep breath, and tightened his grip on his shield, waiting for the other to make the first move, whatever it would be.
Bucky had gone completely still, unmoved from where he hovered by the sink but the difference in his posture was absolutely marked. He had been practically casual when he entered, now he was anything but. Every muscle, every fibre of his being was in use to keep him utterly unmoved. His gaze had slid to the door he'd left ajar and he took a single, slow step backwards out of the direct line of sight and adjusting his angle slightly so he could see through the crack along the hinges. The low light from the grimy, boarded-up windows didn't help visibility, all he could see was legs.
He shallowed his breathing, just listening to the footsteps and the way the owner moved across the floorboards. Heavy boots, Over 200 pounds, easily. Male. And given the fact there was now a smell in the air that was cleaner than the surroundings it suggested the man wasn't some opportunistic homeless bum looking for somewhere that wasn't a back alley or overpass. He probably wouldn't be scared off easily.'Damn'.
The footsteps had stopped and Bucky caught his own reflection, gaze flicking back towards the open door. He'd been spotted. So much for the element of surprise. His movements slow and deliberate as to cause as little noise as possible, he pulled out a pistol from where he had stashed it. The intruder didn't need to know it had already been emptied on an earlier excursion, he just wanted them to run so he could vanish in the opposite direction.
With a quick glance at the hinges of the door and mentally cursed when he realised that they were set so the door swung inwards, since when was he so sloppy? Bucky set his jaw and, with one swift and fluid movement swung around the door, raising his arm to point dead center at -
…Steve Roger's forehead. This time he froze for an entirely different reason, the snarl on his face dropping as recognition hit. He didn't relax his aim when his heart shuddered, nor did he let the tremble of shock ease his posture. He simply fell still and silent, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
Not enough time had passed for Steve to exhale and then draw another breath again, and there was a pistol pointing straight at him. In what felt to him like a painstakingly long minute, but was probably just a fragment of a second, he contemplated his chances of raising the shield in time to block a probable shot. (Two percent? Three? Fuck.) It was probably better to try to duck; he'd still be hit, but he had survived being shot by Bucky three times already, so as long as it wasn't a headshot, he'd probably survive. Not that being shot at was generally high on Steve's priority list – but what choice did he really have?
"Do we really have to do this again?" he tried, but, for the most part, he wasn't really expecting a response. Bucky had refused to actually respond to him last time, too.
On the other hand, after he'd shot Steve and beaten him to an inch of his life, he'd also jumped (or fallen?) after him, and pulled him out of the water. Steve only had vague recollections of that, second-long glimpses and impressions; a cold hand gripping his shoulder with what felt like more than human strength, a piercing gaze from behind locks of drenched dark hair. There had been nobody else nearby, that he was sure of. "If you really wanted to kill me, you would've done it last time."
The most painful thing about the bluff was that Bucky would have seen through it in a moment. This man, though? Steve had to try his luck. After this much time, after everything, the war, HYDRA, the ice, getting his best friend back only to learn he didn't actually get him back after all… did he really still have things to lose?
There was no point in pulling the trigger, even if that had been his intention in the first place. Bucky had been expecting a police officer or some unseasoned rookie army private with orders to clear out whatever leftover HYDRA bases they could find. In a small, idle part of his brain he had to wonder why they hadn't scouted this place out sooner and he figured it was too small and too unimportant. That didn't answer the more prominent question as to why Captain America had chosen this particular little hovel to flush instead of one of the more lavish safe houses. There was a small bubble of anger building somewhere in his subconscious but he wasn't entirely sure who it was aimed at yet.
He didn't respond to the question. He hadn't even blinked since locking eyes onto his target and the tremor that vibrated in his chest never reached his gun arm. The only movement Bucky made was the slow clenching and unclenching of metallic fingers at his side which was more a habit than anything else. He had deepened his breathing, slow and even rather than the shallow ones he had been taking.
The world had dropped away. There was no grimy little shithole around them, no malodorous atmosphere or creaky floorboards. They were still there, clogging his senses, but in that moment it was like a pinhole focus. Just him, the man in front of him, and the bluff that he had just spoken. It was almost ironic.
"If I really wanted to kill you," he began, his voice hoarse and broken from lack of use, "this gun would be loaded." Despite admitting that the clip was empty, Bucky still kept it aloft. It was, in a way, acting like a shield. A barrier to keep Steve at the distance he was, because he certainly didn't want him any closer.
There was a tiny, irrational part of Steve that felt like laughing. The situation was, frankly, nothing short of surreal; face to face with a HYDRA assassin, who also happened to be one of the most cherished people in Steve's life, in a run-down rathole filled with filth and more things broken than things whole, having an empty gun pointed at his head. Well, presumably empty. It was better not to assume anything; the other could, by all means, just be waiting for him to lower his guard, and then shoot him, to make sure he doesn't even think of jumping out of the way. It was a bitter feeling, to have to think this cautiously, but as of now, Bucky was enemy, and Steve had no intentions of relinquishing his hold on the shield. Quite the contrary, he gripped it just a little tighter, his shoulder tensing as he raised it a little, feeling sluggish and rigid.
He'd had so many things in mind to say when he finally found Bucky – and yet, now that they were right in front of each other, unexpectedly, nothing came to mind. It was stupid, and irritating, and most of all, it caused a desperate sort of feeling to tighten Steve's chest to a point where he felt like he could barely breathe. Selfish and shameful it might have been, there was a part of him, buried deep, that thought he would have gladly given up everything the serum had ever given him, if he could just have things go back to how they used to be in exchange.
(Although, then again, that wasn't a very good solution, either. The way things used to be, Bucky had always had to drag Steve out of trouble, and if there was a certain upside to having gained strength, it was not having to be a burden on others like that anymore.)
He took a step forward, tentatively. If they were going to have to circle each other, then so be it. This was a chance he had been waiting for for a long time; he wasn't going to let it go out the window. "Why isn't it, then?" he asked in a low voice. His stance was still defensive, in spite of having begun to close the distance. Of course, he could guess the answer as to why the gun was still pointed at him, even if empty; if it were anyone less experienced, or less ready to fight, than Steve, they might have tried to escape, and then think it good luck that they avoided getting shot at. On the other hand, Steve still wasn't sure whether the pistol really was unloaded – it seemed that Bucky was the one better at bluffing, but really, that was no big surprise.
He allowed himself a small, hesitant, barely noticeable smile. "If you don't want to kill me, then what?"
His thoughts were running too slowly. Normally he would be two or three steps ahead in situations like these but as of right now, Bucky was struggling to keep them moving. They dripped slowly, like molasses, and all he could do was react. He was running purely on adrenaline and force of will; working off of his fight or flight instincts that had, up until now, proved to be an effective plan. But that train of thought had become derailed when faced with an unknown variable. Steve was an immovable object and Bucky was lacking the energy- both physically and mentally - to go against him.
Subtly, he weighed the gun in his hand and tried to work out the amount of force he would have to throw it with. As quickly as that notion appeared in his head, he dismissed it as foolish. A sign he wasn't thinking clearly. If only the man would get out of the way of the damn front door. But even if Bucky ran, would he be chased?
Bucky moved on instinct when Steve stepped forward, moving slowly towards the boarded up windows. He didn't want to end up backing into the bathroom with no way out. He pursed his lips, angling himself away into a more defensive posture. "Ask the HYDRA agents at the last safe house." His reply was terse, his throat dry and scratchy. If his fuzzy, jumbled memories were anything to go by, this was the first (somewhat) civil conversation he had had in a long, long time. It was almost laughable when he considered the partner.
Steve was smiling at him. If he didn't know how to read the man's face he wouldn't have noticed - and the very fact that he did know how to read his face caused him to frown. It was as natural as breathing - that was what alarmed him. "I'm still trying to figure that out."
He didn't miss the way Bucky's eyes darted from him to the door and then back; nor the way he was edging towards the window. If he needed proof that he really hadn't been bluffing, and he had no means of actually shooting him, well, there was the proof. Bucky may have been more than confused at this point, but Steve knew what it was like to be cornered. You lost the ability to think clearly – you did things you really didn't want to do otherwise. If Bucky felt threatened (and he clearly did, which Steve really couldn't help with how things currently were, even if it felt like a stab in the heart), he would harm Steve if he could, simply to get himself out of the situation. He would have already done so, if he had the means.
Steve forced his shoulders to loosen slightly; he'd been so tense, he only realized now that his muscles were going to seize up between his shoulder blades if he didn't relax a little bit. He didn't lower his guard; he was still fully alert, his eyes trained on the other's every single movement – but he did lower the shield slightly, as some sort of makeshift peace offering (and he could only hope it wouldn't come across as an insult; as if he was underestimating Bucky, or something like that – although, if Bucky still remembered their fight on the helicarrier, he'd know that Steve choosing not to fight was the farthest thing from an insult). "I don't want to fight you," he said in a low voice, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible. "I don't want to make you fight me, either," he added then, remembering the fact that he hadn't wanted to fight last time either, but it hadn't made a lot of difference. "If you want to leave," fuck, Steve, are you an idiot?! he chastised himself, are you honestly going to just let him go? "I won't stop you." Apparently, he was an idiot. He wanted to help Bucky – god, he wanted it more than anything. But he couldn't help someone who did not want to be helped. It had to be Bucky who made the first move; Steve could only meet him in the middle. And if there was anything Steve swore on, other than doing anything and everything in his power to help, it was that he would not force Bucky's hand in this. There had been so many people already who had done just that to him – it was exactly what caused him to end up where he was right now. Being forced.
"If you want to leave, I'll make sure nobody else stops you, either," he added then, to show that he was being honest. It would have been foolish to assume Steve had come here either, even if Bucky hadn't caught sight of the earpiece hidden under a mop of blond hair he'd combed over his ear shell. And Bucky was no fool; neither was the Winter Soldier.
"But you don't have to," he finally finished, "and I'd really rather you stayed."
Bucky fought, tooth and nail, against the internal struggle to take another step backwards. He wasn't used to giving ground; he took ground. He pushed and pushed until there was nothing to push against. You had to get out of his way or get mown down, that was how the Winter Soldier operated. But that wasn't him anymore, at least not how he wanted to be. And once he had started to give ground, he found it was hard to stop. Back away, run off, go to ground and hope they don't follow. It was utterly pathetic and he hated himself for it, but he felt he had no choice.
But there was Steve, giving him a choice. Yet another thing he wasn't used to. The tremble in his chest finally reached his arm and the gun wavered as he watched the shield lower - not by much, but enough. His whole body twitched slightly, a flinch at the opportunity to run that he so desperately wanted to take. He let his arm drop, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he tried to compartmentalise and asses the situation.
The door was right there but to get to it he would have to pass the immovable object. And while Steve was a man of his word (and the logical part of his brain kept telling him such) when you have been fed nothing but lies and deceit for so long it became hard to distinguish fact from fiction. The man wouldn't be alone either, the earpiece he hadn't noticed before, 'sloppy, so sloppy,' and the way he clarified that no one else would stop him proved that. Bucky didn't know if his team would listen either. There was a strong nagging doubt that they just wouldn't let the Winter Soldier vanish.
His feet had rooted to the floor as that stubborn streak kicked in, a scowl darkening his features as he squared his shoulders and tossed the empty gun aside. His chest heaved, deep but rapid breaths taken as if he was steeling himself for an onslaught, fear and obstinance at war and threatening to tear him apart. But he was never a coward and he wouldn't let himself become one. "Why?" It wasn't really a question, it was a barked out demand. He wasn't even sure what he was asking. So many questions and not enough answers. There probably wasn't answers to half the tangled knot of questions in his head.
Why? Well, fuck. How was Steve supposed to answer that? There were just too many things to say, and none of them things Bucky would have understood, not with the way he was now. To start off with, which part was he asking about? Why Steve was letting him go, or why he wanted him to stay? Or was it about something else altogether?
Steve let out a small sigh, but resisted reaching up to rub at his cheek as he thought. It was usually an unconscious habit, but with how on edge Bucky was at the moment, he didn't want to give him an excuse to think Steve was reaching for a weapon or something, and just scram because of it. Now he was keeping both his hands at his sides, the shield barely covering his right hip, and certainly not anything above. Perhaps it was stupid, putting so much blind faith in things working out; in Bucky actually choosing to listen to him – but if so, then so be it; then Steve was stupid. He'd been told so before, he'd been told by none other than Bucky himself, back when he would continuously get frustrated with how many fights Steve had landed himself in. Fine, he was stupid. But he sure as hell was also loyal, and that was what mattered, didn't it?
He let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding in when Bucky finally threw the gun away. It meant he was given at least one chance to explain, to answer that actually inexplicable question, to maybe make sure Bucky stayed this time, to maybe start putting things together, putting them right.
"I suppose… it's like an order."
He was a bit surprised himself at having had those words leave his mouth; but at the same time, he grasped them, like a drowning man would grasp onto a floating plank of wood in the middle of the ocean. Maybe this was a terrible idea, making such a horrifying comparison, but this way, maybe he could at least make Bucky actually understand the reasoning behind it. Natasha had told him – with a bit of prodding, of course, and not very eagerly, but ultimately, she had told him – how you were made to carry out your orders when they were given by the Red Room. What kind of punishment there would be if you didn't. How, after a while, even the thought of disobeying was as painful as the actual repercussions would have been. It was reminiscent enough of what Steve himself felt like.
"An order that I just have to fulfill, no matter what," he continued in a somber voice full of conviction. "Because of everything about us that you don't remember, but I do. I can't fight against you, Buck… literally can't – I can only fight for you, because giving up on you would be worse than anything anyone else can do to me,including you."
Confusion, irritation, anger; all flashed over Bucky's face in the span of a few seconds. He wasn't exactly sure what he was expecting to hear as an answer to a question he couldn't define himself. For what it was worth, he could have asked what the meaning of life was, because right now that was about as close to a definition as he could get. There was so much ground to cover, so many puzzle pieces missing. And even the ones that he had didn't seem to fit properly. There was too much haze, too many rough edges and broken parts. And all of it was stained red.
Had his stomach been anything but empty, he would have felt a strong urge to bring it back up at the spinning vortex in his head. But he retained his composure, for the most part at least. He was still breathing perhaps a little too deeply, the adrenaline from the initial rush before fading as he stood still. He was strongly regretting not taking that offer to run simply because it meant he wouldn't be standing still.
He listened intently, though his gaze drifted elsewhere. It had fallen down, past the smooth edge of the shield at Steve's side and into a grimy nondescript corner; unfocused yet concentrated at the same time. He didn't like the answer that arrived, but he understood. He wished he didn't, but he got it, and it earned a grimace. "Stupid, stubborn fool," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.
He needed to move. Not run, not dart out the door as he probably should have done. No, against his better judgement he hissed out his frustration and turned to pace the narrow living space. The wooden table in his way ended up forcefully pushed towards whatever that thing masquerading as a couch was, a dull whine of wood on wood as it protested the sudden movement.
Bucky paused, frowning in thought at the table before turning abruptly turning back to Steve. "Why are you here? What possible reason would you have in an unimportant shithole like this?" It wasn't the most burning question he could ask, but it was the one that seemed to make the most sense to ask. At least that way he could try and begin to figure out what was going on. If he ever would.
Bucky's reaction was unexpected, but now Steve really couldn't resist smiling. Thankfully, Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head, and by the time he was looking at Steve again, he had rearranged his features into what was hopefully neutrality. Even if Bucky sounded different, the words he spoke were familiar, and that was enough to make warmth well up in Steve's chest for a few seconds. He was grasping at straws, he knew that well – but he was damn well going to take what he could get. "So I've been told before," he noted lightly, watching the other move across the room.
The table ended up being pushed out of the way, next to the couch that had obviously seen better days. Frankly, the smell of the entire place was beginning to wear down on Steve; he wished they could just leave. Bucky wasn't going to leave with him, though, so that was out of the question for now, as Steve had no intention of letting him out of his sight.
He followed him with his eyes, taking the sight of him in; the stiffness of his shoulders, the ease with which he walked regardless. It was actually a little awe-inspiring, how carelessly he seemed to move across the room, the floorboards not so much as squeaking under his feet. By the look of them, Steve had thought they'd flat outbreak if he stepped on them, and he'd leave a foot-sized dent. He'd never been much for subtlety…
He only raised his eyes to meet Bucky's when the other spoke again. This was probably a better question (or, at least, more direct), but all the same, Steve wasn't quite sure what exactly to say. "I'm… not quite sure," he said tentatively, and now he was rubbing at his cheek without even realizing he was doing it. "I don't always know what kind of place I'm being sent to. I knew enough of what was essential to know, but – well, I admit this isn't quite what I expected."
He didn't sound the least bit regretful, though. Maybe it was an 'unimportant shithole', but all the importance Steve needed was in front of him.
Bucky huffed out what was the barest ghost of a laugh at the answer to his question, shaking his head. "You and me both." His right hand came up, massaging the spot between his eyebrows as he paced. The movement helped him think, it shifted the cobwebs in his head and caused the fog to lift. He may have been able to sit and wait hours for a target but right now, moving was one of the few things that gave him clarity - or as near as he could come for the moment. Movement, action, it stopped his thoughts from slowing down and lingering. So he paced, and he thought.
"Shit, it stinks in here." His nose wrinkled,as the smell of grime and mould finally started to get to him. If anything, it smelled like something had died long ago and no one bothered to clean up after the body had been removed. He would never have been able to stop the night in this place, as had been his original intention. He probably would have just looted what he could and left.
Ignoring Steve for the moment, Bucky approached the windows and gave the grimy, rotted planks the once over. They looked, for all the world, as if they would just crumble at his touch and he was surprised that they had something resembling substance as he pulled them off, one by one, with the dull creak of nails being pulled from where they had rusted in.
"Who are they?" He asked over his shoulder as he forced the latch and opened a window from a position where any watching sniper wouldn't be able to target. "The people in your ear," he added, for clarification, taking a deep breath of the clearer air that rushed in. The light that came in with it didn't make the bedsit look any better, he noticed as he looked back at Steve, if anything the place looked worse in the daylight.
Steve continued to follow Bucky's movements with his eyes, but decided to keep out of his way for now. The need to move was familiar; it was something he had always marveled at, to be honest. Someone who felt the need to have constant movement to work well, and yet such a good sniper, which had oftentimes left him in need of no movement whatsoever, sometimes for hours on end. He did that perfectly, too. Steve couldn't help the smile now stuck on his lips when he heard the other laugh. Frankly, he hadn't been convinced Bucky still knew how to laugh. To be proven wrong in that case was more than marvelous. It was palpable hope itself.
In spite of what the others probably thought, what Bucky seemed to have thought when he'd gotten so angry with Steve for insisting they knew each other, Steve had no illusions about how this could turn out. He wanted Bucky to remember, yes, but he didn't, in fact, just want his old friend back. He knew damn well how impossible that would have been. The Winter Soldier had irreversibly left his imprint on Bucky's soul, and even if he remembered "Bucky", the mixture of the two will have changed him forever. That was fine with Steve. Really, if he thought about it, he would have just been fine with it if Bucky got the chance to pick his own future. Steve wanted to cut the chains binding him to HYDRA, forcing his hands to do their horrendous bidding, first and foremost. What happened after that was up to the Lord Almighty. Steve wanted Bucky to have his memories back, because he believed he'd be better off with them, but if, after everything was said and done, Bucky wanted nothing to do with him, well – he'd come to terms with that. Probably. As long as Bucky was no longer an asset of HYDRA, unable to find his own path.
He realized he had spaced out for a moment when Bucky spoke again, and he frowned at the implications of that. Was he really that careless? It was easy not to feel threatened by Bucky's presence, but he had to remind himself that even if the circumstances were odd at the moment, the Winter Soldier was most likely still there. He tapped the earpiece. Steve, you're quiet, she murmured in his ear. "I'm fine," he murmured. "Stay where you are. I'm good." He looked up again. "Two of Fury's men…" He would have said S.H.I.E.L.D., if it weren't for it not being existent anymore. "And the Black Widow." He raised an eyebrow, wondering if Bucky remembered Natasha. They obviously had some sort of history Steve had never asked about, and Natasha never explained.
Now that there was something resembling a semi-decent light source illuminating the hovel, Bucky was able to properly take it in. It was, as expected, totally useless. Usually there would be some kind of hidden room or at least a safe in one of these places, but there was absolutely nothing there. It was just a securely locked, run down, abandoned rat hole. He'd been given false information.
There was a faint hint of panic, tickling at the back of his head, as he ran over that last detail. He kept his face completely clear of emotion, but he was running over scenarios in his head. And the most prominent question was had he walked straight into a trap. Was he that out of sorts, that distracted by his own head, that he let himself be cornered?
Bucky watched, with a growing suspicion, as Steve spoke into his earpiece. He didn't even bother to let his expression drop when the man looked back up. While there was a faint recognition at the name 'Black Widow', deep in the back of his memories, it was the first name that triggered a response. "Fury." His expression darkened, staring hard at Steve. The leather glove on his left hand creaked from the pressure of metal fingers digging into it as two words rang through his head and caused his jaw to clench. 'Mission failed.'
He wasn't angry, which surprised him. But he felt cold and distant. Had this been any other time, the repercussions for failing were severe; now there was nothing left but nagging doubt. Bucky blinked twice, letting his gaze drop off to one side. He never missed, so how had he failed? Subconsciously gnawing on his bottom lip, he frowned as he ran everything back through his head.
"Where did you get the intel on this safe house?" His eyes flicked back to Steve, returning to his previous train of thought. He was missing something here, among many other things. Something important. He just couldn't quite work out what.
Steve hadn't actually looked away from Bucky while he'd been talking to Natasha, so he didn't miss the way his expression shifted, and he took note of it with an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. Still, it was the lesser of two evils; he couldn't possibly have Natasha bursting in here at a completely inopportune moment. Besides, it wasn't like he had been expecting Bucky to trust him. (Hope for, maybe, but expect? No.) He took a deep breath, then exhaled again. No matter how he looked at the situation, even if Bucky seemed to have relaxed just a little bit (enough, at least, to have turned his back on Steve while he'd been opening the window), this was a full stalemate, and Steve was getting restless, wishing they could move, not just physically but figuratively, in any direction.
He hadn't forgotten that Fury had also been, at one point, a target of the Winter Soldier, but now he cursed himself inwardly. What a rookie mistake! If he'd had a little less self-control, his face would have been burning. Nobody was supposed to know Fury was alive. Steve would have never actually spoken about him, were it not for that hint of trust he'd placed in Bucky, in the hope that things might go upward from here.
There was a definite limit to revealing things, though, and that line needed to be drawn here. He looked at Bucky almost remorsefully, but his face lacked uncertainty when he replied again, and he didn't need Natasha's urgent whisper of Steve! in his ear either to know what his only option of a response was.
"You know I can't tell you that. For all we know, even if I'd really like to believe otherwise, you still work for HYDRA."
There was a rising sense of panic edging it's way into his consciousness, a tickle running up his spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the man opposite. Though, if Bucky was totally honest, perhaps it had more to do with him than he wanted to admit. His own safety he didn't care about, he knew he could fight his way out of most situations, but there was an ingrained need to get Steve away from trouble. He couldn't explain it, didn't quite know why yet, but he couldn't ignore it's presence.
Bucky's attention had wandered, wishing for better light and a clearer head. He should have given this place the once-over as soon as he got in. Foolish, amateur error. He was better than that.
And he wasn't happy with Steve's reply either, taking a step towards him. He glared, jaw tense and teeth gritted, as he let his voice drop to a growl. "Stop thinking in protocol for a damn second, Steve." There was no threat, quite unlike his posture. Only urgency.
"Look at this place. I was led here by a HYDRA agent." He ground out the words, keeping his voice low. "This isn't a safe house. This is a trap. For me." He emphasised that last word. "And they may have leaked the location to whatever your group is calling themselves on the slim chance that they might net the big fish as well."
Steve found himself stiffening when Bucky said his name; and not even because it was the first time in decades that he'd said it, but because of the urgency in his voice, the tone indicating there was something, something important, that Steve had forgotten, and it was coming back to bite him in the ass.
"Why would they lead you here if they wanted to capture you?" he asked, trying to assess the situation better. He didn't like the thought of such a bad mess-up; it could jeopardize everything. "Wouldn't they be under the impression that you'll go back anyway, when," he swallowed, but he didn't falter, "when you finished your mission?"
Perhaps the Winter Soldier had been under surveillance. It would have made sense. On the helicarrier, Bucky had seemed a lot more hesitant. Maybe he'd retained a few fragments of their meeting on the bridge; maybe they thought he wasn't safe to leave alone anymore. The thought made him both happy and frightened, which was an odd combination to feel.
As for the other half of the story, "I had no idea you were going to be here. I don't see how I could be baited with something I'm not told." Still, there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he'd missed something, some vital point, and this feeling made his throat constrict almost painfully. Getting Bucky back wasn't the only thing at stake anymore. "Nat, are you listening to this?" he asked, tapping his finger to the earpiece again. "Nat?"
Silence. "Natasha."
Another couple of seconds, and then he lowered his hand, staring at Bucky with a mixture of anger, frustration, and helplessness. "Well, fuck."
Bucky let out a frustrated growl, balling his fists at his sides and resisting the urge to punch Steve for being so dense all the time. Perhaps it was his fault for not being clear from the get-go. Perhaps he should have come out with a big flashing neon sign that read 'NOT HYDRA'. Or perhaps neither of them were thinking clearly enough to see the threat right under their noses. Or in their noses, rather, given the stench of the place.
"Oh for the love of," he huffed out, sagging slightly. "They want to capture me because I've been off their damn radar since the Potomac." He fought to urge to rush with his explanation but he did take a slow step forward, his hands up to show he was not making any threat by the move. "They know I'm not going back willingly, I made that perfectly clear when I killed half a dozen of their agents a few weeks ago."
Bucky paused, letting his hands drop, a sombre look creeping onto his features. "Just because you were kept in the dark, doesn't mean your superiors weren't. Does Fury tell you everything, or just what he thinks you need to know?" He frowned, chewing on his lower lip. "How desperately do your CO's want to take me in, I wonder? Enough to walk their best man into a trap?"
He fell silent as Steve got no response on his earpiece, his heart starting to thump in his chest as the adrenaline levels began to spike again. "We need to go. Natalia can handle herself but we need to get out. Now."
Well, okay, this was new to Steve, and he hated that a lot. Had he really been deluding himself all along? "You know Fury has no personal reason to like you, but I've made my intentions pretty clear to him." Fury didn't know how to be honest, really. Both times Steve had uncovered something huge and dirty about S.H.I.E.L.D., he had been forcing Fury's hand in it. But damn it, Fury owed him, at least a bit. If it weren't for him and Natasha, HYDRA would have eaten S.H.I.E.L.D. up. That had to count for something. Or so Steve had thought. Perhaps Fury thought the debt was paid when he let them uncover S.H.I.E.L.D. after everything was said and done. Still, Steve and Natasha were his best agents, as of now; not counting Hill, of course, but Hill was a different category of her own. Would he have risked both of them? Steve thought he wouldn't have. But alas, right now, there was no way of knowing whether he was right or wrong.
"This has nothing to do with them," he declared finally, having made up his mind. "It has to be HYDRA." Everything, every damn shitty thing that had ever happened to Steve, all came back to HYDRA, didn't it? He felt like swearing again. There was still nothing coming in through his earpiece, and he would have lied if he said he wasn't desperate now.
At Bucky's last sentence, Steve's heart skipped a beat. Seriously? He grit his teeth in frustration, remembering the last time he had dragged Natasha into a HYDRA base. She could handle herself, all right, to a certain extent, but, given past experiences, he wouldn't have put it past their enemies to stage another explosion. And no matter how much he hated the thought that he was practically forced to choose between two precious people, he knew what was the right thing to do. "Absolutely not," he said through gritted teeth; and already, he was turning towards where he'd come from, shield raised as he edged towards the door, towards where Natasha was supposed to have been stationed, waiting for him.
"If HYDRA wants you, you're right, you probably should leave, as quickly as possible." A part of him felt like dying, saying that. It was like plummeting into the Potomac all over again. "I'm not leaving without Natasha." If Bucky remembered what Steve was like, even just a little, he would know it was not about disrespect, or underestimating the Widow. It was about the fact that the sheer thought of abandoning the people he cared about was unacceptable.
Bucky stayed silent as he watched the gears in Steve's head turn. It wasn't a slow process, the man was too smart for that, but it felt like forever. The trap was closing, that was becoming clear, and he'd been stupid enough to walk them both into it. If he had gotten himself caught alone, that was one thing and he would've accepted that he was utterly stupid. He had been making nothing but schoolboy errors all day - all week if he was honest - and now it was biting him in the ass.
But it wasn't just him, not anymore. It was Steve and his team and heaven knows who else that had gotten involved. And it was all on him. 'Damn it,' he should have run in the first place. Especially considering that Steve had seemed to have grabbed the bull by the horns and made up his mind on who was to blame. Of course it was HYDRA, it always was, but a great deal of the blame lay at Bucky's feet.
He watched, utterly dumbfounded, as Steve turned to leave. The sheer stubborn, bull-headed nature of the man left him floundering - but not unsurprised that he had chosen to go after Natasha. He found he had no immediate reply and he ended up just stood in silence. Now it was his turn to make the clock tick slowly.
With a severely irritated grumble as he came to a decision, Bucky shook his head and unzipped the thin, dirty jacket he wore over the Winter Soldier uniform he had barely taken off for god knows how long, tossing it aside. He pointed a metal finger directly at Steve. "You are a stupid, stubborn son of a bitch with a death wish." He dropped his hand, letting out a frustrated groan and gesturing towards the door. "Lets go find the Widow and sort this goddamn mess out."
Steve wouldn't have admitted to it out loud (not right at this very moment, at least; maybe later, when their lives weren't on the line), but seeing that sort of determination on Bucky's face, seeing him toss the jacket aside – at that moment, he'd mentally crossed his fingers, no shame – it was a stone falling off his chest. Relief flooded him, and it took him a moment to squash it down; it was far too early to feel relieved. And still, as Bucky pointed a finger at him, berating him for his behaviour, it was all Steve could do not to laugh out loud. "Yeah, but you knew that already, didn't you?" he replied with a smile, before turning towards the door again.
He listed all of their possible options while he closed the distance between himself and the door. He didn't look back, but he was fairly certain Bucky was right at his heels, and that was perfect that way; he was quick and deadly, but he still wasn't bulletproof, and Steve was the one with the impenetrable shield, plus neither of them knew how many enemies were around. He just didn't like this silence at all.
Natasha wasn't where he'd left her, but that much had already been obvious. On the other hand, he couldn't see anyone else around either, not enemies, or the other two agents. He had a very bad feeling about this. And – hell, he could have won the lottery with skills like that. The moment they were both out the door, there was something of a rumble, and cracks began to appear in the wall. "… How many floors up are we, again?"
He didn't need this, not really. Had hadn't eaten properly in days, hadn't slept in more than snatches here and there and now he was headed into a fight he could have - should have - avoided. And yet, despite all that, he couldn't bring himself to feel any resentment towards the situation. He should've felt angry and utterly annoyed, but there was a strange buzz mixed in with the adrenaline. An excitement he couldn't place. He'd have to think on that later because no answer was forthcoming at present.
Bucky had made a note of every door and every exit on the way up the stairs in the ramshackle apartment building. There were some that were obviously vacant but others seemed to have life, and the low-income residents had obviously tried to make the best of their surroundings. Which is why the rumble, far below that sent cracks ripping up the walls at lightning speed. He never looked at Steve when the question was asked, instead he leaned over the stairway railing and swore under his breath.
"This building has nine floors and a basement," he began, his voice distant as he tried to put things together in his head. "Only thing above us is the roof. We're high enough for that to be a problem," he nodded to the crack just as another deep rumble shook the building. "Whatever you're planning, Cap, now's time to get it in motion. We don't have a lot of room for manoeuvre."
Nine floors was not a lot compared to the height he'd jumped last time. He was contemplating it; the shield would take the fall, and if he was quick enough, he could turn it over and then he wouldn't have to care about whatever collapses on him afterwards. It had done the job for him and Natasha, after all. However, he was fairly certain the idea wouldn't go nearly as well with Bucky – five minutes ago, he was pointing a gun at him, so there was no way in hell he was going to willingly go along with this, even if for some godforsaken reason he was at least still here, having decided to aid Steve, rather than just escape on his own. Maybe he was a little worried about Natasha, Steve had no idea. He seemed to have remembered her, at least; he had called her Natalia.
He had no time to dwell on any of that, though; the cracks in the wall are getting deeper and deeper. "I've jumped off higher places," he noted, partially just to see how Bucky would react, but – yeah, no. His expression was pretty clear on that. However, Steve was also clear on not leaving Bucky to his own devices in a collapsing building, so without another word, he headed for the nearest flight of stairs, as quick as he could, trusting the other to be right at his heels.
They were already three levels down when he first heard voices filtering out from some of the apartments. He stopped abruptly, maybe a little too abruptly, too. There were now cracks everywhere; it was a goddamn miracle the building was still standing. He couldn't even bring himself to say I didn't know there were civilians in here – the thought itself was horrifying and shameful; this was his fault, never enough information, always a little too trusting, trusting enough to be careless. If these people died, it was going to be his fault.
"You go on ahead. Find Natasha, if you can. I'll be behind you." He sounded more convinced of that than he actually felt, but he'd had a whole underground bunker blown on him; he could get by.
A rumble, a crack. A groan from the walls and plaster from the ceiling. Rinse, repeat. They were trying to bring the entire damn building down on their heads and it was enough for Bucky to wonder why the hell they'd do that. If they were trying to capture either of them, this was not the way to go about it. Perhaps HYDRA had just got sick of being picked off and given the run around and decided it was better to cut their losses. He wouldn't blame them if that was the case.
Bucky was never more than two steps behind Steve as they hit the stairs, taking them two or three steps at a time. The smell of rot left behind them now exchanged for concrete dust everywhere. He was so focused on getting out that he almost missed the signs that Steve was going to put the brakes on. Very nearly crashing into the back of the man, he skidded to a stop, dodging around into the hallway to avoid a collision.
He threw an accusatory look back at Steve but the man's attention was elsewhere. Frowning, he followed the man's gaze to the civilian apartments and let out a frustrated growl. There wasn't many and not all were occupied and of course Captain America was going to try to save them. Of course he was. There was a spike of anger at the order and Bucky turned on Steve. "Like fuck that's happening."
Cursing as he stalked off down the hall, he kicked in the first door with ease before moving on to the next. It would be up to Steve to get these people motivated because he'd be damned if he was going to.
It seemed that every step, every turn was a surprise. Or, well, maybe Steve was just a little too cynical now. Either way, Bucky was a constant surprise, refusing to just leave him behind for the second time in a row. Steve didn't have time to contemplate the hows or whys right now, though. He followed as quickly as possible, entering the apartment Bucky had just kicked the door open to, and finding a family of two huddled together on the floor. "Out!" he yelled at them without thinking. "Get out! What are you waiting for? Run!" He couldn't possibly carry them down five floors, not if he wanted to get to others. He ushered them down the stairs in front of him, looking into other apartments with open doors. He could always see Bucky's back just ahead of himself; never out of sight, but not slowing down either. By the time they were on the second floor, Steve had five people right behind him, all running for dear life.
And that was when the cracking finally stopped. Shit. Steve had to decide in a matter of two seconds; he whirled around, and broke the closest two windows with his shield and an elbow. There was no choice. "Jump!" They were maybe seven, eight metres high. If they could avoid the building itself falling on them, they could get away with a few broken bones. He grabbed a hold of the smallest child, and jumped himself, through the broken glass and the debris, curling himself protectively around the boy and aiming the shield towards the ground.
They plummeted into the ground, and then everything came down all at once. He barely had time to roll over and hide them both under the shield; he hoped, at the back of his mind, that Bucky had found somewhere safer to jump, because this was plain stupid, he had to go in the direction where the wall followed, didn't he? He also hoped Natasha was still fighting somewhere, and not buried under blocks of cement. It was hard not to think back to Zola's bunker, the terror welling up in him as he held her as close as possible, darkness falling upon them as they were buried alive. This seemed to last longer, but maybe it was only his imagination.
Every kick seemed to be stronger than the last as Bucky worked out his frustration to the point where the last door on the third floor actually ended up hanging from it's hinges from the force. He had no explanation as to why he was doing this, given the fact he was just given his second run in as many minutes and still refused to take it. But there was just something that said 'no'. A deep part of his consciousness that dug in it's heels and simply refused to leave Steve in a situation like the one they were in. He wasn't a hero, but he'd be damned if he would let one down thanks to his own stupidity.
Bucky had vanished into an apartment, one of the last on the row, simply because there was a mess of red hair sprawled out on the floor. There was no time to alert Steve to the fact he had just found the woman he refused to leave. He had his fingers pressed to her throat, checking for a pulse, when the cracking stopped. There was a pulse there but there was absolutely no time to rouse her - if he was even sure he could. Instead, he muttered an apology and hefted her over his right shoulder.
In a stroke of luck, the living area window was lined up almost perfectly with a window in the building opposite and, with a grimace, Bucky backed up. He charged forward, the ground falling out from under him as he launched through the glass, his left forearm up to shield his eyes from the debris. His landing was sloppy, considering he couldn't roll and he was carrying what was essentially dead weight on his shoulder. He staggered, caught himself before he toppled over, and straightened. The room he had landed in was empty, but well furnished. Panting hard, he lay the prone Widow onto a nearby couch and bolted for the door.
Natasha would be fine there, he hoped. Steve was the more pressing issue. He didn't bother taking the flight of stairs, he simply lumped over the railing and dropped down two flights in the center. He grunted when he landed but broke out into a run all the same, skidding to a stop when he reached the pile of rubble where a wall once stood. "Cap!" It was a barked summons that ripped at his throat, unused to the volume or the urgency. "Steve."
Something was digging into Steve's back. He tightened his arms a little, and the child he was holding let out a soft moan – good, he was alive. They were okay. He pushed himself upwards, using the shield and his own back to push the rubble off them; slowly, painstakingly, he dug the two of them out. It was hard to breathe, and he was faintly aware of a deep cut in one of his thighs that was, by the feel of the warmth gushing down on his leg, bleeding profusely. When he was finally able to stand, throwing enough rocks off of them to breathe freely again, he looked around. He thought he had heard Bucky call his name, but the first thing he spotted was a woman; apparently the child's mother, for the boy immediately scrambled for her, away from Steve. It had to be a miracle that they were both alive – they seemed to be the only ones, too, which sent a horrible pain down Steve's spine, tightening his throat.
The next thing he saw was Bucky himself, this time. He wore a harassed expression Steve couldn't really place anywhere in his mind, but then, it was probably because he felt oddly light-headed for some reason. "Hey. I'm good," he called, exhaling noisily. Where was everyone else? Natasha? The other two agents? The enemy?
He willed himself to step out from the heap of rubble, and an unexpectedly sharp pain shot up his hips. He looked down, and that was when he realized he had half a pane of a window, a big, jagged piece of glass, steadily embedded in the back of his thigh. "Just what I needed." His uniform was more or less bulletproof, but kevlar did nothing against knives and other sharp close-range instruments. He leaned down and jerked the glass out; of course, now it was going to bleed even more, but at least it could start healing up as well. If he hadn't been eager to get out of here before, he surely was now.
Finally, he managed to free himself fully, and he staggered to Bucky's side, knowing he would get at least a severe look of disapproval, if not straight being told how stupid and reckless he was being again. He decided to cut before it. "Let's find Natasha and get the hell out of here."
At the sight of Steve, and a kid that scrambled over the rubble to his mother, Bucky visibly sagged. The adrenaline in his system was only going to last for so long and he was starting to run on empty. But, despite the concrete dust everywhere - including halfway to his heaving lungs - he forced himself to stay standing and alert. Though he was distinctly unimpressed by the state of Steve and his somewhat unfiltered expression of worry was replaced by a tired glare.
He coughed once, spitting out the tacky ball of phlegm that came up with it and groaned as the ache of jarring himself on landing started to set into his knees and hips. So much for being in peak physical form, he felt as if he was going to break down at the end of all this. At Steve's call, all Bucky could do was nod and roll his eyes, waving a hand dismissively in his direction as a way of saying he could see that.
There was a crowd gathering, too many staring eyes. Mercifully, most of them were on Captain America as he limped over. There were, however, far too many lingering stares on the shiny metal arm and it made him utterly uncomfortable. Still, he leaned slightly to get a look at the troubling stream of blood that ran down the back of Steve's leg. "I hope you don't expect me to carry you, I'm going to have my hands full enough."
He shook his head and made to go back to the building he had managed to jump into, managing to move and still give the appearance that his energy levels were anything but rock bottom. "I found Natalia before the place collapsed. She's out cold though."
Steve was expecting the glare, and frankly, it didn't even look threatening, but rather just said I'm so done with everything. Which Steve could certainly sympathize with, and then that was only about the events of today, not taking into account the fact that Bucky looked so much more exhausted than Steve felt, even in spite of his leg injury.
Speaking of, he did have some bandages somewhere in a pouch. It was rather makeshift, technically just a piece of cloth he tied around his thigh as strongly as he could; he was fairly certain that he half cut off his own bloodstream, and his foot would be feeling cold in a matter of minutes, but that was sort of the point of stopping the bleeding. He was also aware of the eyes staring at them, but, for once, he didn't feel the need of standing around and trying to explain away the damage. Fury could do that – it was partially his fault they landed in such a shitty situation; either for not being informed enough, or omitting facts on purpose. (Either way, he was definitely going to get to know just how pissed Steve was about all of it.)
He tried his leg, and decided it was safe to put his weight on it, then he looked up at Bucky, once again taking in his appearance. He didn't look hurt, but he did look like he was on the verge of passing out. "I don't think you should carry anyone, as a matter of fact, in a state like that," he noted, though he did wonder for a moment what he'd meant by his hands being full. Then Bucky began to walk away, and Steve caught up to him, eyebrows furrowing. "Out cold?! What happened to her?" He was glad that she was at least alive, and it seemed that she had Bucky to thank for that. He hoped it wasn't inopportune to feel relief now, because he was too weary to quench it again.
As they stepped back into the room where Bucky had left Natasha, he stared at her for a moment, then he gave him a lopsided, thin smile, though he was unsure if the other actually saw it, and finally said, "I'll carry her." What he actually meant was thank you.
For the first time that he could remember, Bucky could feel the weight of his arm dragging on his shoulder. He had been tired before, some of the Winter Soldier's missions had been long and physically gruelling, but never had he felt as if he'd never get up again if he was to sit down. That's why he kept moving, that's why he couldn't stop because if he stopped he feared his legs might collapse out from under him.
Despite the exhaustion that ate away at him as the adrenaline subsided, he still scanned every detail of the rooms they passed through. His eyes never lingered on one thing as he checked the stairwell and the landing afterwards. He doubted that this building was a trap like the one next door. He hoped the damn thing wasn't, at least.
The apartment he had left Natasha in was a civilian's home, simply furnished but now looking a little worse for wear considering he had destroyed the window on the way in and the door on the way out. The Widow hadn't moved, as expected, and the owners hadn't returned. That last point made him feel surprisingly guilty - more so than the fact people had lost not only their homes but their lives in the next building.
"Hell if I know," he huffed out, shaking his head. "She was flat out on the floor of an apartment when I found her." The chair next to the couch the Widow was on looked exceptionally tempting, but instead he rolled his shoulders with a grimace and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He barely reacted to the faint smile and simply shrugged at Steve's comment. "Yeah, whatever you want." He was too tired to argue about anything anyway.
Steve crouched down to check Natasha; she didn't move when he pressed his finger under her chin to check her pulse – still running, but weak; had she been poisoned? Knocked out? – there was no sign of blood on her anywhere, but they didn't have time for him to do anything but scoop her up in his arms, not only because God only knew how many HYDRA agents could still be around, but also because Bucky looked like he was going to collapse any moment, too. This really wasn't looking good.
"Come on, then." His leg was stinging, but he'd had much worse, so he paid it no heed. Natasha's limp body in his arms was more or less covered by the shield he'd pulled onto his arm, but he let Bucky exit the building first, given that he was the one with hands left free for reaction. It clearly showed the fact that the adrenaline was wearing off, that it only occurred to Steve when they were already moving down the street, away from the entire mess, that Bucky wasn't actually armed either. Thankfully, nobody seemed to be nearby. It bothered Steve – this entire mission was lousy, there wasn't a single part of it that wasn't lousy, there were so many open ends and unanswered questions; but he was too worried about his two current companions to think of the rest; the other two agents, the enemy.
Some of his questions, shockingly enough, got answered, though. It didn't take them long to get out of the small town; on the edge of it, the small helicopter that had brought them here waited, and there were the two missing agents. While Steve was rather relieved to see them alive, he was also more than pissed at them just up and leaving. As it turned out, Natasha was the one that had sent them back, when she realized who Steve was talking to. They were now eyeing Bucky with more than just a little suspicion, but Steve made it quite clear that everyone present was on the same side – that, and there was the more urgent matter of finding out what was wrong with Natasha.
Second-to-last, Steve was already holding onto the handle of the door of the helicopter when he turned back to Bucky, suddenly uncertain. "You're coming, right…?"
Bucky watched impassively as Steve gave Natasha a quick once-over, a hand lifting to run through his hair and scratch at his scalp as he dragged the long, tangled, greasy strands out of his face. He said nothing as Steve picked up the Widow but his gaze momentarily lingered on the makeshift bandage around then Captain's thigh, frowning slightly and doubting if either of the was in a fit state to be going through these shenanigans.
But he made no protest as he lead the way, never letting his guard drop in case of an ambush. Though quite what a knife and a metal arm would be able to do in the hands of someone running on fumes against HYDRA agents with guns was beyond him. They'd all be captured or they'd get killed, either way, he wasn't going to go down without a fight - gun or not.
That train of thought was, however, proven unnecessary, as they were left alone as they moved towards the edge of the town. And despite the exhaustion and Steve's injury, they weren't exactly moving at a slow pace. "They've never outright tried to kill me before," he noted, idly. "Guess I pissed them off."
The helicopter, and the agents waiting nearby, were another hurdle. While Steve walked on with the downed Widow, Bucky's pace slowed until he ground to a stop away from the group. The agents eyed him with just as much suspicion as he did them and he pursed his lips as Steve turned back to him. "'M I under arrest?" His posture had become defensive, attention switching between Steve and the agents. Not for the first time today, he simply didn't know what to do.
The question halted Steve. It was not what he expected, and for a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. Of course, the answer he wanted to say was no, but maybe it was a bit more complicated than that. He was pretty sure Fury wanted to capture the Winter Soldier, and if it turned out Steve had a hand in letting that not happen, he was going to get it from him. On the other hand, Steve and Natasha had pretty much disassembled S.H.I.E.L.D. – perhaps he was just a little too confident now, but he didn't think there was a lot he couldn't get away with.
Overall, it came down to one most crucial thing: that Bucky was more important to him. It was conflicting, yes, but he couldn't lie to himself – at this point, there wasn't really anything he wouldn't have done for him. "No, you're not," he said firmly, before he could have thought more about it. The two agents looked at each other, but neither of them spoke, and even then, Steve was having none of it.
"You two," he pointed a finger at them, "have pretty much fled – yeah, I know you were ordered to, but the fact stands – while we had a goddamn building explode on us. If it weren't for Bucky, I probably wouldn't be in one piece right now, and Natasha would most definitely be dead, so there's that. We'll fly back to DC, you'll get her somewhere where she can get help, and we…" He looked back at Bucky. Suddenly, he felt the rest of the strength just leave his legs; he ended up sitting down in the open doorway of the helicopter, fingers digging into his thigh as if that would make the pain more bearable. The plea was clearly visible in his eyes; he just wanted to get out of here, and he didn't want to leave his best friend behind – it had already happened more times than it should have.
"We're going home."
Bucky didn't quite know what to expect for an answer. If he was perfectly honest, he half expected the two agents to take over the situation and declare him an enemy. He wouldn't have even be surprised if they had opened fire on him - and he was too damn exhausted to do anything about it. So when nothing happened, it left him with an empty sense of unease. Ultimately the end result would rest on Steve's shoulders, and if the man was simply going to follow his superior's orders or not. The memories that trickled through told of a defiant man willing to break regulation and defy orders to do the right thing. Which was fine, but Bucky had no idea what the 'right thing' was anymore.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, though it was more the tone and the expression on Steve's face that was the cause, rather than what was said. He was so determined and it was so familiar that Bucky had to pause. It seemed to surprise the pair of agents just as much and he would have found their reaction amusing if he had the energy.
He let his gaze drop to the floor as Steve talked. The way he spoke it made him sound like some kind of hero when he was anything but. 'Only did it to keep you safe.' But there was no will to argue, no fight left in him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve sit in the doorway and his attention was pulled back to him. He pursed his lips and was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping off to one side again in thought.
There wasn't much left for him to lose. With more confidence than he felt, and more energy than he really had, he approached where Steve was sat. "Okay." It wasn't very loud and was mostly to himself. But he nodded and held out a hand. "Okay."
Steve wasn't really worried about the reaction of the two agents; he was the senior agent in the group (well, him and Natasha, but she was currently out of commission), and he was sure his orders would be followed. There was also the benefit of this food chain of ordering them, where they could just put the blame entirely on Steve later on, if there was going to be trouble about how things went down. Maybe Steve was a little overconfident on the matter of how much he could get away with, but, then again, he really was just too exhausted at this point to care.
All in all, the only uncertain factor in this equation was the question of how Bucky would react – but thankfully, he seemed to be fine with the turn of events. Truthfully, there was a small part of Steve that had been worried Bucky would just turn around and leave if he was told he wasn't under arrest. Perhaps he only decided against it because he was too tired for it, too; it could still happen later – but really, with the way Bucky looked right now, Steve decided that resting was priority for both of them, and whatever came afterwards, would be easier to deal with.
He took the offered hand with a grateful smile – and it wasn't until he pulled himself to his feet that he realized he did need the help; his right leg was visibly trembling, and it took both of his hands holding onto the door handle for him to be able to pull himself up into the vehicle. He waited for Bucky to get in too before falling into one of the seats, and as the engines roared to life, he pressed his palm against the blood-soaked fabric around his thigh, wondering if he should dare unwrap it. Most of it was a brilliant shade of crimson red now, but as far as he could tell, it wasn't bleeding so profusely anymore; not enough to drip down to the floor, at least.
He leaned back, and closed his eyes, reaching up to rub at his temples; maybe he couldn't get ill, but he could feel the beginnings of what was probably going to grow into a raging headache.