Steve brings pictures to the hospital. It's a private room, Fury has assured them, and Bucky is already there, waiting. Steve walks into Tony's room, stumbling over nothing, and has to lean on the wall in the hallway for a long, hanging moment before he can close a fist around the door handle and go in. He tries to look at it like a stranger: posters on the wall, pants strewn on the floor where Tony had kicked them off and not bothered to pick them up. There's a workbench along one wall, and Steve realizes dust lies heavy on it, on the tools, the half-finished robotics. His heart beats dully in his chest, a thumping of guilt: how has he not noticed? When was the last time he sat with his son and told him he loved him?
He brings three pictures, standing with one foot out of the house, one foot in, looking down at the frames in his hands. He decides, finally, one of Rhodey and Pepper and Tony with linked arms, still in school uniform. A thought niggles him-they'll need to be called-but he loses it again, looking at Tony's shiny paper smile. One of Tony and him, sweaty after their morning run, Bucky's finger blurring in the frame, one of Bucky and Tony playing basketball, out of focus as they move around each other, sweating. There's another, three of them at Bucky's last birthday, laughing with pointy paper hats, but when he gets to the car he drops it, the glass cracking, and is overcome with nausea. He leaves it in the driveway. His hands shake on the gearshift.
/
Bucky is sitting in the hallway, in a cheap hospital chair, and for the first time Steve's hands hover over him, unsure. There's grey in Bucky's hair, just a few hairs at the temples. He tells Tony they came in when Tony's driver's license did. Steve had kissed the strands this morning, pressed his lips against Bucky's smiling mouth. Steve looks at Bucky now and can't imagine him smiling ever again.
"I was waiting for you," Bucky says. Steve has seen him hurt, bleeding, tortured, vengeful, furious. Under great emotion his accent comes through, rough edges. His voice is wooden, and he hasn't looked at Steve yet. "we should go in together."
/
Steve drags on a running shirt and dodges Bucky's playful fingers. "I gotta meet Tony," he says, letting Bucky tug on his shorts, pull them lazily low on his hips, kisses Bucky a little dirty. "I'm late as it is."
"I'm taking him later to look at NYU," Bucky reminds him. "I know MIT is sniffin' around but there's no reason our boy can't stay close."
"MIT is pretty close." Steve fixes his shorts and makes a hand motion for Bucky to toss him a towel for later. "And he'll have the pick of any school he wants."
Bucky snaps the towel at him playfully. "How'd we get so lucky?"
/
Steve has blood under his fingernails that isn't his. He sits at Tony's bedside and listens to the beeps that tell him his son is still alive. The chair creaks under his weight and his nostrils feel dried out, scorched with bleach smell, sickness. The six inches between his armrest and Bucky's feels like six hundred miles.
He stands so abruptly his chair topples over with a bang. Bucky doesn't move, his eyes fixed on Tony. "I have to go to the bathroom," he says.
He scrubs at his fingers in the sink, desperate, but little specks remain. Before he can think it through he sucks them from his nails. He tastes pennies on his tongue, Tony's blood, and barely has time to get to a toilet before he vomits once, twice, his ears ringing. He spits twice and runs his wrist under the tap.
/
"I was afraid of this part," Tony says, rasping. "What kind of a failure can't even get this right?"
"Things are gonna change kid," Bucky promises, "we'll figure this out."
Tony looks like he's going to cry. Steve waits, for a sarcastic quip, an inappropriate comment, black humour. "I'm sorry," Tony says instead, and Steve can barely hold himself back from bolting.
/
Pepper and Rhodey are sitting in the hallway. Rhodey scuffs the sole of his shoe against the cheap fake tile until it squeaks, over and over again. Pepper stands when she sees him. Her eyes are puffy and her hair pulled in a loose knot with more strands out than in. Her hands are full of papers.
"I've researched everything thoroughly," she assured him, pushing messily stapled articles into Steve's hands. He looks down. Suicide Prevention Through Young Adulthood one article reads, another After An Attempt, Care and Support. Automatically, his hands close over them. His throat works but nothing comes out.
"Pepper," Rhodey says quietly, and pulls her back down to sit beside him. She leans her face into his side. "We'll wait here," Rhodey tells Steve and Steve struggles to respond. They're Tony's friends, practically his secondary adopted children, and he should be able to do something more than lay a hand on Rhodey's shoulder and squeeze gently.
/
Tony's eyes are still closed, and Bucky has scooted his chair closer to his bedside, his hand twisted in the bedsheets. Steve's heart skips. "Hey," he says, crossing the room quickly.
"He's sleeping," Bucky says. He reaches behind him and pulls Steve's chair up next to him. "What've you got there?"
Steve looks at his hands, where Pepper's papers are still clenched. "I'm not sure."
Bucky looks at him for the first time since Steve's screamed for an ambulance. "We'll make it through."
Steve slumps in the chair and takes a deep breath. "Yeah?"
Bucky's arm lands on his shoulder, his fingers scratching through Steve's hair. His other hand tangles into Steve's. They wait for their son to wake up. "Yeah," Bucky says, "until the end of the line."