Chapter 2: Steadfast

The feeling of a fist crunching into his cheek was not an unfamiliar one. It was almost too familiar, even if Steve never deliberately started a fight. He couldn't, even if he'd wanted to put someone in their place in the only way that many could understand. He wasn't big, or strong, and he didn't have the stamina or the intimidation to do so. Most of the rest of the boys his age were gaining a bit of height, a bit of breadth. Even Bucky was starting to grow into the lanky legged impression of a colt alongside them.

Not Steve, though. That was the issue.

His back smacked into the wall of the school building, head bouncing on the brick in a painful crack that rattled his teeth. Steve slumped against its support, hands scrambling for purchase. It was a struggle to maintain his footing, but he managed. With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, staggered slightly before raising his hands in fists. Even to himself they looked feeble.

Across from him, Crawson had already lowered his fists, knuckles stained with blood that wasn't his own. He was a big boy, tall and burly and one of the biggest in their class. He'd taken a sudden, more profound dislike to Steve when he'd beaten him in their last test. Not that beating Crawson was any particularly strenuous feat. Just about everyone did. The difference was that Steve was small enough and weak enough to be easily overpowered by him. More than that, he was probably one of only a few who wouldn't complain.

As Steve hefted his fists, wavering on his feet, Crawson rolled his eyes. "You just don't know when to stay down, do you, Rogers?" Raising his fist, his lip curled in a sneer. "Learn you place, will you? Below me." Then he stepped forward with arm swinging.

Steve tried to block the oncoming blow. He tried to dodge, to snap his arm into place between the fist heading towards his gut. He managed, too, but Crawson's strike simply continued through it. A punch to the stomach, an elbow in his jaw, another knee to the gut and his elbow swung in a second downward slam. Wthin seconds, Steve was doubled beneath the eruption of pain. His knees buckled beneath Crawson's force, sinking him to the ground that a detached part of his mind thanked was blessedly dry. It wouldn't do to make the knees of his trousers any more stained than they already were.

He hurt. He hurt from rising bruises that were already blossoming what felt like everywhere on his body. He hurt from the familiar ache in his chest, the tightness in his back, the soreness of his head and his throat and his knees and feet. Pain was not unfamiliar to Steve, but sometimes it was exceptionally difficult to ignore.

But he did. Crumpled to the ground as he was, with Crawson pausing only to stab a toe in his side in a kick before taking a step backwards once more, Steve ignored it. He swept a hand across his face, through the bloody smear across his lip, and thrust the pains to the side. Planting both hands on the ground, with a push that felt like a Herculean trial, he clambered to his feet once more.

Steve couldn't stay down. He never could. If he stayed down as so many told him to, then he would never get back up again.

Blinking, panting as he hadn't even realised he was doing, Steve peered up at Crawson. The bigger boy was staring at his with eyebrows raised as though surprised before he rolled his eyes once more and shook his head. "You really don't know when to stay down, Rogers," he said, spitting at Steve's feet as though disgusted. "Why the hell would you bother?"

Steve struggled to smooth his breathing. Doing so was almost as much of a struggle as it was to climb to stand. "I can… do this all day."

Crawson stared for a moment longer as Steve hefted his fists once more. It was a useless gesture, he knew – he always knew – but Steve would never let them lie. Never. Then Crawson shook his head, muttered a snide, "Well, you asked for it," and raised his own with a swing.

Only to stumble, lurching forwards in a stagger. He half spun towards his unexpected attacker but didn't even manage to fully turn before he was struck. Once in the gut, a smack over the head with an open hand, a leg swept through his own to fling him to the ground.

Steve took a staggering step backwards into the wall as Crawson turned from attacker to victim. Bucky moved so fast it was almost impossible to make out what he was actually doing. He snapped a kick to Crawson's side, another to the hand that swung in a fist towards him. He dodged a kick before darting forwards to grab the upraised leg and topple Crawson to the ground once more. Then he was atop him, smacking him across his head in an open-handed strike and dropping his full weight onto Crawson's chest, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees.

It was over so fast that Steve hadn't even the time to lower his fists before Crawson was truly and thoroughly felled.

Gasping for breath, it was only when Crawson was flat on his back and immobilised that he seem to realise who had attacked him. "Barnes! The fuck are you –?"

"You beating up my friend, Crawson?" Bucky interrupted him, breathing only a little heavily himself. From what Steve could see of his face he looked angry. His eyes were narrowed, lip curled, and his left fist was still raised in preparation to strike.

Something like real fear dawned on Crawson's face. "What? N-no, I –"

"'Cause that's what it fucking looked like."

"No, I didn't – I mean, it was just –"

"I don't think he woke up with a smashed up nose and a black eye. Think I would remember 'cause I came to fucking school with him."

Crawson cringed as much as he could beneath Bucky as Bucky's fist tightened. It didn't descend but it was menacing enough threat as it was. Bucky was smaller than Crawson – quite a bit smaller, even – but he'd already developed a reputation for himself for fighting like a wildcat. Steve didn't know where the inclination and sudden skill to do so had come from, seemingly to have arisen from nowhere, but he didn't question it. Bucky didn't hold back, and what he lacked in professional technique and finesse he more than made up for in determination and resilience.

No one wanted to cross Bucky. In the past few years, the entire school, seniors and juniors alike, had come to realise that. Somehow, he always seemed to rise to the occasion whenever Steve needed him. For some reason, that only made him seem more intimidating to everyone else.

Steve sagged more fully against the wall. He didn't really want to see Bucky bullying Crawson, but in that moment couldn't bring himself to intervene. Not when his cheek throbbed, his nose felt like it was swelling to twice its size, and he could feel the black eye coming on stinging in memory of the blow. That was to say nothing of beyond his face. Steve wasn't so lenient as to overlook Crawson's actions for what they truly were, even if he had fought back. He'd likely have beaten Steve until he could no longer stand if given the option.

All for Steve's stupid pride.

So he didn't step forwards. He didn't call Bucky away from their Crawson, and not only because he knew that Bucky wouldn't do any real damage. It wasn't in his nature to mindlessly attack and destroy. He fought for a reason, for a purpose, and Steve knew without even a touch of arrogance or smugness that he was more often than not the source of it all.

"I – I didn't mean –" Crawson croaked, swallowing convulsively as though attempting to rid himself of fear that twisted his features. "Look, Barnes, I want no trouble with you –"

"Should've thought about that about ten minutes ago, then, shouldn't you've?"

Crawson nodded vigorously, cowering in a way that would have been laughable for the differences in their sizes had anyone not seen how quickly Bucky took him down. Bucky was a force to be reckoned with. "I – I should've. I mean, I will. I won't do it –"

"Better not fucking do it again," Bucky snarled, his resemblance to a wildcat only intensified. Steve could almost see his teeth sharpen. "I'll give you twice as much over if you ever do." Then, with another open-handed cuff of Crawson's head, he climbed off him. It could have been a coincidence that he ended up positioned before Steve as Crawson struggled to his own feet, but Steve didn't think so.

Crawson only spared a moment to glance in Bucky's direction, not even bothering with Steve, before he turned tail at a staggering run and disappeared around the side of the school building. The sound of his uneven footsteps retreated until they were little more than retreating echoes.

Bucky turned back to Steve after a long moment of unblinking staring in Crawson's wake. His expression was so vastly different from how it had been seconds before that it was almost jarring. His brow was drawn in a straight line of worry, eyes widened from their glare and peering at Steve worriedly. In an instant he was stepping forwards, tugging a sleeve over his fingers to and reaching forward to swipe at the blood on his lip. Steve didn't object, biting back a wince as Bucky's fingers proceeded to brush and then press against his stinging nose.

They were both silent for a moment. Steve leant back against they wall of the classroom building, unable yet to bring himself to straighten on his wobbly legs. He held his tongue as Bucky dabbed at his nose, frown deepening as he worked. He didn't meet Steve's gaze until he finally spoke.

"What the hell, Steve?"

Steve sighed. He reached up to wrap his fingers around Bucky's stained sleeve, pausing his tending. "It's not like I did it on purpose. I don't look for fights, Buck."

"Yeah, but you sure as hell don't ask for help, either," Bucky replied. He clicked his tongue. "Why don't you ever just ask me?"

Steve could only shake his head. That was one thing about Bucky that he would be unendingly grateful for: that Bucky never reprimanded him for the fighting and standing up for himself. It was only that he did it alone. Bucky was exceptional even from Steve's mother in that regard.

"You weren't around," he said.

"I could've been."

"What, and skip detention?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't much fancy the cane anyways. I could've slipped it."

Steve huff a chuckle, shaking his head once more. "Yeah, and you would have gotten twice as many tomorrow."

"I still would've looked better than your face right now."

Steve could only offer a feeble smile at Bucky's words. He was probably right. Steve wasn't sure just how bad it was, but he was familiar enough with such confrontations to place it on a scale. It felt like it sat at about a six or a seven. Wonderful.

Sniffing, and wincing as his nose twinged, Steve set to wiping at his face to erase what little Bucky had missed. Bucky took a slight step backwards, fiddling with his sleeves and fingers as though he needed something his hands itched to simply do something.

"Did Watson even tell you what you were in trouble for before you got it?" Steve asked, deliberately turning the topic from himself.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head. "Nope. Said I should've known."

"It was probably because you're always talking."

"Probably." Bucky nodded.

"How many did you get?"

Bucky tugged his sleeves back to bare the knuckles of both hands. He turned his gaze with mild curiosity down upon the reddened skin. It was likely the reason that he'd settled for cuffing instead of punching when he'd leapt upon Crawson. "Ten each."

"Seriously?"

"I know. Unfair, right?"

Steve chuckled, though even that hurt. His bruises were settling now, not quite as sharply painful but still aching. It was a struggle for Steve to straighten from the wall, and he found himself wavering slightly again. Or at least, he was until Bucky stepped wordlessly to his side and slung a wiry arm around his shoulders. He wasn't all that much taller than Steve, but it was enough.

"You should probably do something about that," Bucky said, gesturing vaguely to Steve's face as they began a slow walk in the direction of the school gates. Not a student remained and only the occasional teacher, most clearing from the premises the instant class let out. "Your mom have any cold presses or something?"

Steve paused in step, sparing Bucky a sidelong glance. "She does…"

"But?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "No, let me guess. You don't want to bother her."

Steve frowned, averting his gaze. "Can you blame me?"

"Not really. But she'd want to know." Bucky squeezed his shoulders gently. "Besides, she'll find out anyway soon enough."

Steve was silent. It wasn't because he denied Bucky's knowing words but more because he didn't want to talk about it. Not about his mother, or how showing up on her doorstep would only cause her distress that she couldn't handle right now. Not now. What kind of a son would he be that he would so upset his mother when she was unwell?

Bucky seemed to understand his silence. Steve caught sight of his lips pursing from the corner of his eye, a renewed frown settling on his brow. "Then…"

"It's alright, Bucky. Just leave it," Steve said with a grateful smile before dropping his gaze down to his toes. It was easier if he concentrated solely on walking. "I'll just… I don't know, wait till it's dark or something before heading inside."

It was Bucky's turn to fall silent. Only for a moment, however, because Bucky was never one to hold his tongue for long. "'Kay, then just stick at my place until then. I think… no, I don't know where Dad is at the moment. Don't give a fuck, to be honest, but he shouldn't be around this early in the afternoon. If he is he's probably passed out already."

Steve didn't comment on Bucky's offhanded words, careless as they sounded and, most likely, truly were. Bucky seemed to have little regard for his father – nothing so much as favour, pity or hatred. For Bucky's sake, Steve attempted the same.

Instead, he nodded, affording his friend another grateful smile when he glanced towards him. "Thanks, Bucky. That'd be… thanks. I just –" He paused, dropping his gaze down to his feet. "I'm sorry to do this to you, Buck. Sorry to weigh you down."

"Steve –"

"I don't know why you bother, honestly. I'm hardly worth your trouble."

Bucky didn't respond immediately. Not in words, anyway. Instead, even as they kept their slow, steady pace – compensating for Steve, no less – his arm squeezed slightly around Steve's shoulders. In many ways, that simple gesture spoke more than words. Even more so because Bucky was inclined to chatter his concerns away.

"Not hardly. It's no problem," was all Bucky said. That, followed by a brief moment where he dropped his head to rest just slightly against Steve's. Steve felt his throat tighten. It was a different kind of pain to that he usually experienced, tightness spreading the whole way down to his chest and making it difficult to breathe for a different reason.

They picked up pace as they made their way from the schoolyard and into the muddy streets of downtown, dodging puddles as they went. Somehow, Steve didn't trip over once. He didn't have to look to Bucky, unwaveringly at his side, to know the reason why.

It was crazy. He was crazy.

Bucky knew he was a good fighter. A great fighter, even. There was no arrogance or pride in the knowledge for it was simply fact. A sorry fact that often filled him with self-loathing but a fact nonetheless. Long years had passed since he'd forced himself to learn to protect his best friend from the bastards of the schoolyard, and in that time, any satisfaction for his skills had died.

Bucky could fight and he was good at it. But this opponent? This man in the cat suit with the claws that had to be vibranium for their sharpness? He was very, very good.

The battle raging at the airport had exploded into mayhem. Bucky was instantly grateful that Steve had the foresight to bulk out their numbers before attempting to escape. Bucky worked solo when he could, didn't consider those in his team even when he didn't, but he knew that he would have been quickly overwhelmed if not for Sam, for Clint and Scott and the girl Wanda who looked little more than a teenager. And Steve. Without Steve they would have been overwhelmed in seconds.

Explosions erupted every other minute.

Arrows whizzed through the air to similarly explode alongside the numerous flying figures that soared in an aggressive game of tag.

There were crates and boxes, cars and even the wings of the sidelong planes flung into the air by Wanda with her scarlet, sparking telekinesis and the kid with the spider webs both.

And on the ground, upon the tarmac and swinging blows, dodging and leaping and ducking and fighting, they all fought.

Bucky didn't know how everyone else was managing at that moment. He'd kept a wary eye out for them all at first, but that attentiveness had been discarded when the cat-man set his sights upon him. He was an impressive figure, taller than Bucky and clad in a skin-tight, seamless suit, helmet with peaked ears and all. The narrow, silver eyes that were the only features of his face seemed to glare at Bucky when he'd sped towards him, arm rising to flex flashing claws.

After that, Bucky didn't have time to discern further features. He lost himself in the fight. It was all he could do to keep his head.

The cat-man was fast. He attacked as fast as a super-soldier, arms swiping and slicing the air above Bucky's head as he just managed to duck in time. He threw himself bodily at Bucky, claws flexing and legs tucking for a double kick, and Bucky had to duck and roll once more, darting into flight and skidding around the vehicles and crates that scattered the tarmac just to save himself.

Not that it did much good; the cat-man leapt over them as though they were picket fences.

He attempted to fight back. He even got a good few blows in, thrusting his left hand in an uppercut that snapped the man's chin backwards and caused him to stagger and landing him a push kick to the gut that sent him flying. He managed a double jab to the gut when the cat-man sprung to his feet moments later, striking him to the ground with an axe kick cracking to the centre of his back before springing away. An exchange of punches, dodging the jump kick that soared far too high for an normal human, dropping to a roll and swiping his leg beneath his opponents.

It was fast paced, hectic, crazed. Bucky could hardly keep up with it, let alone monitor the progress of those around him. And the main reason? The cat-man definitely wanted to destroy him. That much was evidenced in the barest exchange they managed, grappling and faces inches apart but for a moment.

"I didn't kill your father," Bucky said, because that fact, that motive, was all he knew of the man.

"Then why did you run away?" the man growled back. Then there was no more time for words, because Bucky was fighting for his life.

He didn't want to kill the man. He was attempting to kill Bucky in turn, but Bucky didn't want to kill him. That wasn't who he was anymore, not who he wanted to be. Everything would always dissolve into a fight, but Bucky could choice how it ended. He could. Or at least, he could to a degree. His opponent seemed intent on taking that choice from him too.

Still, it was better than some alternatives.

A vicious turning kick sprung from nowhere, as Bucky was abruptly distracted by a flying car surfing on red sparks. The cat-man's foot struck him fully in the chest, a snap to the sternum that thrust his breath from his lungs and sent him tumbling backwards over himself. He struck the tarmac, barely acknowledging the smack of his head on hard concrete even as it momentarily blinded him and set a ringing in his ears.

Without paused, even as dizziness swayed him, Bucky rolled to his knees. He managed to half rise to his feet, hand beneath him to launch himself to standing, before the blurring image of the cat-man shot towards him. Reflex was all that blocked the blow to his face, but almost before Bucky could respond, the other arm drew back with claws bared, too fast, so fast, and –

Steve sprung out of nowhere. Somehow, he managed to move even faster than the cat-man, and in a spinning blur crashed into him mid air. There was a tumble, bodies rolling as they crashed to the ground. Bucky was on his feet and sprinting after them before he even considered what he was doing. Instinct more than intention urged him to Steve's aid.

Steve looked none the worse for wear for his brief flight and subsequent collision. He was already back on his feet, throwing himself into a frenzy of attacks. He threw punches and dodged the cat-man's kicks, using his shield as a weapon as much as for defence. He was fast, so fast, that Bucky could hardly see his motions. Incredible, just as Bucky had always thought. It was like…

It was just like him, yet different. Which would make sense.

They were evenly matched, the two of them. That much Bucky noticed in the split-second before he charged to Steve's defence. The cat-man clearly didn't see him coming, for when Bucky snapped a powerful push kick to the centre of his back he was thrown bodily into the air. The Frisbee of Steve's shield soared after him, flung with vicious intent. It struck him even further into the distance like a canon shot. The shield returned from its circuitous route as though magnetised, and Steve grasped it from the air like a striking snake.

Steve didn't spare a moment to glance towards their distant opponent struggling to his feet. He – surprisingly, so surprisingly since this was Steve – hadn't appeared to pulling his punches in the slightest. Instead he spun, panting and eyes wide, towards Bucky.

He was worried. Something in the back of Bucky's mind, some baffled yet knowing part, told him he was worried.

"Thank God," Steve huffed, closing his eyes briefly. "Thought he had you for a second there."

Bucky spared him a moment of blank staring before shaking his head slightly with a frown. "No, I – what do you take me for?"

The beginnings of a surprised yet relieved smile touched Steve's lips, but the wasn't time for it to grow. An explosion struck the truck behind them, then the spider kid shot his webbing overhead. Then there was Natasha flying towards them with a whirlwind of kicks, Clint briefly abandoned behind her, and the man Steve called Tony soared back to reengage in the fight that Steve had clearly momentarily neglected. It all fell to mania once more. Bucky threw himself back into the mad game of attack and defend once more.

He was panting when given his next reprieve. That temporary pause only arose because the little ant-man had drawn a distraction from Tony that sent him sparking and jerking from the air. Bucky found himself spinning and ducking from the cat-man's attacks, lunging into the relative shelter of a plane and crouching from view. Seconds later, Steve appeared barely half a dozen steps found him, similarly crouched.

How long had they been fighting? Bucky wasn't sure. He didn't know, had always struggled with losing his sense of time when in the throughs of a fight. But in that moment of pause, as he caught a glimpse of the black-suited flying man soaring overhead on Sam's tail, it all caught up with him. The fight wasn't slowing and…

We're wasting time.

Glancing towards Steve, Bucky's breathing already slowing, they locked eyes. In Steve, he saw his own thoughts reflected. "We've gotta go," he said shortly. "That guy's probably in Siberia by now."

Steve nodded just as Sam's voice filtered through Bucky's earpiece. "I'm gonna draw all the fliers."

"I'll take Vision," Steve said by way of agreement, his hand rising to touch his ear. Hi peered around him in a constant scan: overhead, under the plane, across the tarmac. "You get to the jet."

"No, you get to the jet," Sam barked in reply almost before Steve had finished speaking. "Both of you. The rest of us aren't getting out of here."

Bucky was watching, Steve so he saw the brief, barely perceivable flash of pain that crossed his face, tightening his eyes even as they continued their darting scan. Bucky felt his own upwelling guilt; it was more a by-product of Steve's pain, but it was guilt nonetheless. He was familiar with that feeling. He'd felt it oftentimes of late.

Before Steve could speak, however, Clint's voice followed on Sam's. "As much as I hate to admit it, if we're gonna win this one, some of us might have to lose it. This isn't the real fight, Steve."

The pain and almost angry reluctance twisted Steve's face for a moment longer. It wouldn't last, though, Bucky knew. He knew because he was of a similar mind. Clint was right. This wasn't the real fight. There was something so much worse waiting for them and if they didn't… if they didn't leave now…

"Alright, Sam," Steve finally said in curt reply. "What's the plan?"

Bucky, maintaining his own rigid and battle-ready crouch, caught sight of Sam as he soared overhead in the moments of his reply. "We need a diversion. Something big."

"I've got something big," another voice – the ant-man, Scott whatever-his-name-was – interrupted in pants. "But I can't hold it very long. On my signal, run like hell. And if I tear myself in half, don't come back for me."

Bucky exchanged a sharp glance with Steve and saw his own incredulity reflected. What the fuck? "He gonna tear himself in half?" he found himself muttering.

"You sure about this guy?" Steve said dubiously, as if they even had the time to ask.

"I do it all the time," Scott panted in reply. What was he doing? He sounded exhausted. "I mean once. In a lab. And I passed out."

Bucky was shaking his head with the urge to curse at the idiocy of people in general as Scott's words faded into something that sounded like chanting self-praise. Bucky tuned it out, glancing his shoulder once more. He could see Clint facing off against Natasha with punches and dodges while he managed to pull off shots at the fliers overhead. Wanda was caught between and dextrously pinning the cat-man to the ground and while launching red shots at the drifting red-flying man Steve called Vision. Sam was drawing Tony and the black-suited man on a dizzying chase into Clint's line of fire, while the spider-kid appeared to be flying behind them when –

A sudden explosion snapped Bucky from his sharp scanning. No, not quite an explosion. It was more… an eruption. A spontaneous combustion. A spontaneous appearance? Bucky didn't know, couldn't put words to it, and could only stare up at what was vaguely recognisable as being Scott in all of his sudden and giant glory. He was huge. How did he…? What was…?

No, Bucky didn't want to think about that. Enough of the world was already turned on its head for him to even attempt to make sense of it.

"I guess that's the signal," Steve muttered from his side. Bucky spared him a glance as he took half a step from their protective cover. What looked like amusement warred with his renewed incredulity upon his face.

"Way to go, tic-tac!" Sam called in an outburst of laughter.

The world really has gone insane, Bucky thought, shaking of his head. That was all he had time for, however, for almost without waiting for Steve's signal, he took the distraction provided and leapt into a sprint towards the hangar.

Bucky didn't look behind him, didn't even look alongside him but to keep a peripheral eye on Steve. He vaulted over a carton of crates, skirted a truck and slid over the bonnet of another before hitting the ground running on the other side. The sound of smashes, of crashes and explosions, of shots striking in dull thuds and resounding pops, chased after them, but Bucky didn't look backwards. They had a mission. They had something that was even more important that ensuring the wellbeing and escape of Steve's friends.

But it didn't make Bucky feel any less guilty for it. These were Steve's friends. God but he was sick of feeling guilty, even if it was deserved.

Steve ran in leaping strides in step alongside him, shield strapped to his forearm and arms pumping. He didn't look backwards either, though Bucky knew he longed to. He was Steve; of course he would want to. That thought tightened Bucky's chest, made him draw a gasping breath where the speed of their flight caused little weariness.

"Steve," he called, as much to be heard over the scant distance between them as because his flaring guilt demanded to be voiced. "Steve, you can't just – you're gonna just leave them –"

"Don't have a choice, Bucky," Steve replied shortly. Bucky knew his shortness wasn't for anger towards him, but it still stung. Steve was hurt, upset, but he ploughed through that pain regardless. "It's got to be done."

"I'll go," Bucky replied as they darted beneath another plane so briefly that the shadow barely had time to touch them. Another explosion and a mammoth cry that must have been Scott sounded behind them, but neither Bucky nor Steve spared it a glance. "You stay behind, help them out. I'll go and –"

"No," Steve growled, low and sharp in a tone that Bucky hadn't heard before. Or at least that he couldn't recall hearing it. Steve didn't break stride as he snapped his gaze directly towards Bucky. He was fierce, almost angry in a way that he had so rarely been in the past. It stilled Bucky's tongue. "I'm not letting you go alone."

Bucky couldn't reply to that. He couldn't even conjure words in retort. Instead, he clenched his jaw, turned back towards the hangar, and set to pushing himself faster.

Barely seconds away was when the watchtower alongside that hangar exploded. The laser that struck it from behind them sliced the top half from the lower like a hot knife through butter. Bucky snapped his gaze up towards it even as he urged his legs to move faster, to stretch further. It was sliding, tumbling, crumbling. No accident could have felled the tower with such perfect timing. Bucky wouldn't have believed it possible if he hadn't seen the work of the red flying man.

Shit. We're not gonna make it. We're not –

"Faster," Steve barked and picked up his pace until he all but flew. Bucky threw himself into keeping stride alongside him, charging for the hangar even as the building collapsed on top of them.

It fell.

It crumbled.

The yawning, groaning agony of falling deepened as it toppled. As it caved. As it was so close that Bucky felt debris shower his head –

Only for it to stop a second later. The shattered walls, fractured glass windows, and splinters of iron all ceased their descend as a hammock of sparking, writhing scarlet wrapped it in an embrace. Bucky didn't need to glance behind him to know it was Wanda. The kid was incredible. She was holding up a fucking building.

Thought left him after that. Bucky pushed himself as fast as he possibly could, skimming beneath the overhanging remains of the watchtower's upper storeys. He couldn't glance behind him to see how the fight ensued, couldn't even spare a second to ensure Steve was at his side. It would have been pointless anyway, because Steve was always there. They flew into the hanger beneath the looming storm of tumbling rock seconds before whatever strength Wanda had to keep it aloft seemed to shatter.

The sound of an avalanche crashing to the ground on Bucky's heels was deafening. But they were through. They were through, but…

"Nat."

Steve's single word was barely a murmur, barely audible, but it would have alerted Bucky to Natasha's presence had he not already noticed it. How was she in the hanger? How had she beaten them there? She must have been en route even before Scott undertook his giant act.

Natasha was a small woman. Short and slender, she was entirely small in he fitted black suit and messy red hair. Bucky wasn't fooled. Not for an instant. He didn't need his memories, both newer and from a time long ago, to know that Natasha Romanoff was dangerous. No one would need it. She breathed deadly like the rest of the world did air. Her simple presence would slow Bucky and Steve more than they could afford to spare.

Except that she wasn't attacking. Natasha stood between them and the waiting plane, feet planted and eyebrows lowered slightly into a sharp line. Her gaze flicked towards Bucky, and he couldn't help but tense slightly, before settling on Steve. "You're not going to stop, are you?"

Steve shook his head. "No."

Natasha sighed in a vexed little huff. "I'm going to regret this," she muttered, raising her hand in a pointing fist.

Bucky instinctively swung his left arm upwards in defence, even as he took half a step towards Steve. An unconscious thought noticed that Steve did the same towards him. It was pointless, however, for the sparking, electric missile that sprung from Natasha's wrist-piece shot directly between them, missing them both entirely.

A grunt drew Bucky's attention sharply over his shoulder, just in time to see the cat-man crumple to his knees. White-blue sparks rippled and darted over the blackness of his suit, seeming to drag him to the ground in spasms.

He must have been fast. Ridiculously fast, to have followed so quickly in their wake, though Bucky already knew as much from their fight. He turned warily back towards Natasha where she was flicking her gaze between he and Steve once more, lips pressed together and arm still raised as though prepared to fire another shot. Why had she done that? Why -?

"Go," she said shortly, jerking her head towards the plane.

Neither Steve nor Bucky needed telling twice. Bucky still skirted around Natasha, half convinced she was deceiving them to shoot them both in the back. She didn't turn to follow their passage, however. As Bucky sprung up the boarding ramp and he turned a final glance over his shoulder, he saw her planted straight and resolute with her back to them. The cat-man was wavering to his feet before her, trembling slightly as he rose. Natasha didn't budge an inch.

Bucky didn't have time to see more than that. Steve had raced ahead of him, mind on the mission in spite of it all, and the ramp was already rising, the engine whirring. Bucky had a moment to see the cat-man make a break for the jet before it hissed closed.

The jet – the quinjet, Steve had called it – was wavering into the air by the time Bucky clambered towards the cockpit. The jet itself wasn't overly large, but it was clearly outfitted in the newest technology that bereft it of the surplus of buttons, cables and flashing lights in exchange for a moderated version. It was sleeker. More refined. It carried a feeling of competency absent in the aircrafts Bucky was more familiar with. He suspected it was likely controlled as much by subtler mechanisms or voice command as physical buttons.

Bucky was fairly certain he would be able to fly it should he have the need, but he didn't bother to offer. It was unnecessary. Steve was already in the pilot seat, helmet discarded and hands darting over the controls as he urged the jet into flight. Bucky lowered himself into the seat just behind him, hunching closely but remaining as silent and unobtrusive as possible. He could have taken the seat beside Steve but… it didn't feel right. Steve didn't comment, directing the jet through the mouth of the hangar just as silently, focused in his muteness.

The jet was fast; that much Bucky could tell with barely glance through the head-up display. He could feel it, knew it, and as he watched the back of Steve's head, the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders as he stared resolutely forwards with the determination of his old captaincy, Bucky felt his guilt resurface once more. With all the speed the jet could muster, they were leaving them. They were leaving Steve's friends, his allies, to escape for what was a necessary reason but was pitifully regretful nonetheless. Bucky hunched further into his seat, dropping his gaze down to his fingers as they grasped one another almost painfully tightly.

Bucky didn't have allies. He worked alone. It was a foreign feeling to consider others as anything but negligible back-up that he didn't truly need. That he was assigned but were more like buzzing mosquitos than helpful aid.

This feeling, this guilt and the concern that he felt more as a by-product of Steve's pain once more, was foreign. Bucky didn't like it. He didn't like it at all, even though such trivialities as like and dislike hardly mattered. But this… this was uncomfortable in a way that he hadn't felt before – or at least not for a long, long time. The urge to apologise to Steve was almost a physical need rising within him.

The jet was chased. That much Bucky could discern from the frantic beeps at the control panel and the brief moments of flashing lights. Steve didn't say anything however, and the beeping faded abruptly moments later, disappeared as though the life was cut from them.

Bucky didn't know if that was a good thing or not. These people, those they had to fight, those who had been Steve's comrades – they were his friends too. No one had said as much but there had been a complete lack of desire to inflict permanent damage. That much Bucky had realised and could only agree with. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't want to kill anyone anymore. He'd seen and done too much of that already.

Silence ensued as they flew, the only interruption the monotonous hum of the quinjet's engine as it maintained its steady flight. It endured for an immeasurable time, and for once in his transportation Bucky didn't fall to the familiar habit of counting the minutes. He couldn't bring himself to try, even avoided the urge to do so in an attempt to veer from the inclination that had festered within him from his years as an asset. He didn't want that – not that want ever really mattered, but in this instance at least, Bucky could tamp down on the urge to fall back into his compulsive habits.

Instead, he gazed at his hands, sinking further into his seat. It wasn't comfortable and he probably could have remedied that problem by straightening, by adjusting the belts tying him in place, but Bucky didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to move. Guilt was certainly heavy. Maybe it would have been better to count the minutes?

He did it for the mission, he thought to himself, the words rising unbidden to his mind. For the mission. To stop the super soldiers. But… Bucky briefly squeezed his eyes closed. But in the end he did it for me. He didn't have to fight his friends. This is Steve. He could have talked them around if he'd been given the chance. But I…

Bucky huffed an exhalation of mirthless laughter before he could help himself, shaking his head. What a noble, loyal fool Steve was. He always had been.

"Bucky?"

Steve's murmur drew Bucky's eyes open. He glanced sidelong towards the pilot seat to see Steve's head half-turned towards him, presenting a glimpse of his straight, resolute profile. Was he frowning again? Worried for those they'd left behind? He would be. That was so like Steve; he was incapable of making a decision without considering the consequences, even if he oftentimes ploughed through them and left those consequences to unfold for themselves. Even if it hurt him to plant himself tall and stand by by his resolutions.

All of a sudden Bucky couldn't help himself. "What's gonna happen to your friends?"

Bucky saw Steve's jaw tighten slightly, his broad shoulders shifting in what wasn't quite a hunch but was certainly discomforted. That was all. That was all the response he let himself show. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it."

You shouldn't have to, Bucky thought, that unshakeable, painful guilt seizing his chest. You shouldn't have to deal with it, to choose. "I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve," he murmured.

Steve turned his head more fully so that he was nearly meeting Bucky's eyes. The worried crease of his brow still remained, but determination warred against it. Bucky wondered if he even knew he wore such an expression. "What you did all those years – it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

That's not what I was talking about, Bucky thought, though couldn't deny that Steve's words elicited a whole new tide of guilt that he'd been battling since D.C. when his memories had started gushing forth. When his conscience had dragged its shattered self from the dregs of his mind and clambered to the surface once more with renewed vigour. How many people had Bucky killed? He didn't want to count, even if he could remember them all. Every. Single. One. "I know," he said hollowly. "But I did it."

Steve glanced momentarily down towards the control panel, his head bowed. When he raised his gaze, when he turned once more towards Bucky, it was with an expression suddenly cleared however.

"Haven't we all? But it doesn't change anything, Bucky. Not for me. Not with you."

Bucky had to avert his gaze first. It was too painful, too hard, to meet the intensity, the openness, and the compassion in Steve's eyes. It hurt.

Maybe he wasn't worth it all. Bucky certainly didn't think he was. But somehow, regardless of it all, Steve stood by his side.