The first few weeks after Bucky left were rough. You ran the gamut of emotions from numb to sad to worried to angry and everything in between. While Bucky hadn't added much noise to the household, the place somehow felt quieter, emptier. The cat sometimes meowed pitifully at the bedroom door or the armchair, like she was looking for him. That always tore at your heartstrings. Once or twice, you caught yourself staring out the kitchen window, half expecting to see him in the backyard training, your fingers always managing to land in the dent he'd put in the sink. Of course, there wasn't much reason for you to tarry in the kitchen anymore, now that you had no one to feed except yourself. It was easier to make a sandwich or a TV dinner with less mess to deal with afterward.
Sam started calling or dropping by a couple times a week when he wasn't busy, which was kind of him. A part of you felt selfish for letting him waste what little free time he had on you, but you knew if you protested his visits, he would give you that look. The same look he used the first time he'd shown up, a week after Bucky was gone, and you tried acting like you were perfectly fine. It ended with you trying to control your sobs as you recounted everything that happened that night and how badly you'd screwed up the whole situation. Everyone, Sam included, claimed that he didn't have any super powers, but you begged to differ, because if that man's empathy and understanding and caring weren't beyond average human capabilities, then you were far more emotional than you cared to admit.
However in the end, you were unfortunately used to people leaving, whether by choice or by circumstance. This time, you consoled yourself with the knowledge that Bucky was alive and, from what you gleaned off Sam despite your fear of outright asking, doing good things like he was meant to. And though you were still hurt by what happened between the two of you and wished you could change how you'd handled things, you still couldn't help feeling proud of him. By the time a month passed, you decided Bucky had a point about how hypocritical it was to expect him to grow and change when you were doing your best to stay static for so long. You weren't necessarily ready for wild nights out on the town with strangers, especially whenever your mind flittered back to twirling on the dance floor and warm breath on your hands and soft lips against yours, but you could start at home. Sam seemed more than happy to help you sort through all the things left over from your sister and mother and grandmother. When you let slip why you decided to clear out the clutter, he gave you a knowing, sympathetic smile and hugged you tight before going back to the task at hand.
While you made good headway over a couple weeks, there were just some things you couldn't bring yourself to part with. There was an afghan of your grandmother's that found a home on the little bench near the front window, its multicolored pastel granny squares a happy reminder of when you'd curl up in her lap in the long-gone rocking chair and gaze at the spring flowers growing in the field across the driveway. An old turntable and some of your mother and grandmother's old records ended up on a shelf in the living room; the ones you and your sister would dance around to when you were little and carefree. Sam's eyes were a little wet when you gave him a few of your sister's old Army things, including one of her dog tags, and some pictures of them together.
Maybe it was because the hurt was too fresh or because you could still imagine laughing, gray eyes and metal fingers against your skin, you never even considered getting rid of the few things Bucky left behind. The massive polar bear usually took up the armchair where the cat would lay against it, though sometimes when you were feeling particularly down and needy, it wound up being clutched to your chest. Two men's dress shirts and a black tie migrated to your room, and if you sometimes found yourself wearing one with the fabric hanging off you almost pathetically in an attempt to feel a little closer to something you lost, you'd probably never admit that to anyone.
Six weeks gone and Sam was called away from one of his visits earlier than expected on official Avengers business. Though he played it off with a cool smile, you could tell in the hard set of his eyes that it was probably something big. You tried not to dwell on what it meant when your first thought was whether or not Bucky would be in danger. Sam left with a box of knickknacks to drop off at the donation center on his way through town and a promise that his next visit would include a shopping trip to find frames for the pictures you were wanting to display. Once he was gone, the box of photos held your attention. You flipped through them, trying to choose which ones you liked best. It wasn't anywhere near as difficult as that night months prior, though your mind kept going back there. You worried your teeth across your lips at the phantom memory of stubble itching the skin there.
The sound of your cell phone going off startled you from your reverie. You twisted around where you sat at the end of the couch, fishing through your pockets, wondering if maybe Sam had forgotten something and was on his way back. When you saw the name on the screen, you froze a moment. Steve Rogers. You hadn't talked to him since before Bucky left. It wasn't as though the two of you were good friends. In fact, the only reason you originally had his number programmed into your phone was if... Your stomach flopped and your heart was beating sick in your chest as you pressed the accept call button. Before you even realized what was happening, you found yourself blurting out frantically "Oh my god, Steve! Is Bucky okay?"
There was a pause on the other end of the line, a sharp, confused sounding intake of breath before Steve's strained laugh. "Well, hello to you too."
"Jesus, Steve, I'm sorry," you sighed, running a hand through your hair and feeling the fool. Obviously, if Steve was willing to laugh, even like that, it couldn't be anything too terrible. "That was incredibly rude of me."
"No, that's okay," he assured. You could almost hear him shaking his head and moving his hand in that placating way of his. "Bucky's... alright. Though he is the reason I called."
Before you had a chance to inquire, Steve continued on, though he sounded decidedly less like that Steve you had gotten a little used to. No, something told you this was closer to the Captain America you'd seen on TV. It did nothing to put you at ease. "We've been called out on a mission. Bucky's coming along as support. But it's his first with the team and it could get dicey out there. I thought you deserved to know."
"Oh," was all you could muster for a moment. The implications, all of them, were ice in your veins as you tried to wrap your head around what he told you. Shifting on the couch, you moved to plant your feet firmly on the floor, suddenly feeling like things were trying to spin too fast. "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate you telling me."
A sigh sounded across the line, heavy with the weight of the world. But it was back to Steve's voice when he spoke again, cautious, but his. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure," you nodded absent-mindedly, but thankful for a chance to think about something else. "Go ahead."
"What happened? Between you and Bucky," he ventured slowly, tone tinged with concern.
The question surprised you, both that he had to ask and that he even bothered. "Did he or Sam not tell you?"
"Bucky hasn't spoken about much of anything outside of training. He was starting to become engaged in things again, now... he's just there. Not as bad as when we first found him, but he's not where he was before he called me that morning. He's trying, there's just... just no real heart in it." You could hear the agitation in Steve's voice, the confused quality to it, desperate to understand. "Sam's talked to him a couple times. But it's not his place to out other peoples' business and I respect that. I wouldn't be asking myself, except..."
"Except you're worried about Bucky," you supplied, a ghost of a smile gracing your lips. "Trust me, I get it and it's alright."
Blowing out a long, shaky puff of air, you tried to figure out exactly what to say. It just seemed so strange and surreal to be talking to Steve Rogers, of all people, about something as trivial as what amounted to a domestic fight. "Did you know he took me to our local Harvest Festival that night when he came back here?"
"Yeah. He'd been planning that date for almost a month. Seemed a little excited about it," Steve replied, sounding slightly curious, like he wasn't sure he was following along quite well enough.
"Date," you repeated with a tired laugh. Of course, in hindsight, that's what he'd wanted it to be. And of course everyone else but you probably knew at the start. "You know, maybe if he'd actually told me it was supposed to be a date, I wouldn't have been so caught off guard when he kissed me."
There was a moment's pause as you took a breath before Steve spoke, trying to summarize what you'd said. "So, Bucky kissed you, but never said anything about the way he might feel about you."
"Exactly," you responded, feeling as if he were finally understanding. "I mean, we sassed back and forth and he flirted. But you told me he used to be a flirt. Hell, he told me he used to be a flirt. For all I knew, he was just... feeling like himself again, dusting off an old personality trait. How was I supposed to know any different? And even if I thought he meant something by it, how was I to know it wasn't just because I was... convenient?"
"Did you not like him?" Steve's question sounded so simple, but was much more complicated. At least, it felt more complicated whenever you asked yourself the same thing during the last six weeks. But what did it matter now, all the complex things you felt, all the time spent questioning yourself? Bucky was gone and you'd missed any chance you had.
"I did like him, Steve. I really did, but I was scared," you admitted as much to yourself as to Steve. You rested your forehead in your hand, elbow propped on your knee, feeling the sting of tears threatening your eyes and the sharp tingle in your nose that you sniffed at gently. Suddenly feeling tired of dancing around the subject, you decided to go ahead and just rip off the bandage. Had to hurt less that way. "We got into an argument after I stopped the kiss. And I only stopped it because... because in the moment I thought it was a bad idea. I was overwhelmed and confused and worried that it was me taking advantage of him. Truth is, I was mostly just scared. Scared he was kissing a memory, an idea, not me. Scared about how easy and right it felt; how much I really wanted it. Because I knew he belonged with you and your team, Steve. He wasn't meant to stay with me. No one stays with me."
You managed to bite back a sob before it could escape your throat, sniffing again and trying to blink away the tears, trying to compose yourself. "Anyway, I guess I shouldn't be as upset as I have been. I'm sure it hurt him when he thought I was rejecting him. And I suppose I did tell him he couldn't stay here forever. I just didn't expect him to leave that night. I didn't want him to go. That morning I was gonna talk to him, apologize, maybe try to work something out between us. But he was gone. Worst part though, it took me a while to find the note he left, so in the first few moments it was just Bucky gone and the car gone. Just like... just like with my sister. I thought... I was just so worried."
"Oh." Apparently, it was Steve's turn to be at a momentary loss for words. Then there was a sharp intake of breath from his end, followed by a darkly amused huff. "Well, I guess that explains why Sam laid into him so bad when he came back from visiting you that first time."
"He did?" You were a bit taken by surprise at that. Sam never mentioned talking to Bucky. Then again, you did your best not to ask too much; maybe he was just trying not to upset you. It was equally as surprising to find out Sam fired off on someone like that. Sure, you knew he got angry, but it wasn't exactly like him to express it with someone he'd been actively trying to help.
"Yeah," Steve replied gently. "They seem to be on good terms now. Sam's still trying to help Bucky out, but I'd never seen Wilson so heated at someone who wasn't on an opposing side. It wasn't a knock-down drag-out fight, but Sam definitely must have called him on it. Neither would tell me why, just that there was an argument and they were dealing with it."
"Can I ask you a question, Steve," you said after a quiet second, imagining what that must have been like. When Steve made a noise in the affirmative, you gave a soft, somewhat bitter chuckle. "Am I a bad person for not being entirely upset with Sam for doing that?"
This earned you an answering, gentle laugh. "No. I don't think so. Honestly, if I'd known about it, I probably would've thrown my two cents in on the matter."
You weren't sure why, but the idea of Steve Rogers, not Captain America or an Avenger, but Steve, Bucky's best friend in the whole wide world, having some sympathy and understanding for you in this situation managed to make you feel a bit better. Like maybe you hadn't screwed things up as badly as you thought. Sighing a little, your eyes roamed haphazardly, landing on the coffee table in front of you. The indents from Bucky's episode still marred the wood there and you reached out to trace them with your fingers. "Might sound silly, given everything I just told you, but I miss him, Steve. I really do."
"Can I tell him you said that," he asked, something a bit knowing in his voice.
"Yeah," you replied quietly. Trying not to think about the fact it could be the last time you might ever get to communicate with Bucky, even by proxy, you added "Yes, please do. Could you maybe also tell him I said to be careful. And to pack a jacket in case it gets cold where you're going."
"I think I could manage that," Steve said and you could almost see his boyish grin. There was the sound of him shifting on the line, then he said in a low tone "I'm sorry. I've gotta get going."
"Okay, thanks for calling," you replied as brightly as you could. "You and Sam and everyone else take care too, alright?"
"We'll try our best," he answered a little more Cap this time. "Bye."
"Bye," you breathed into the phone before the line went dead.
Pulling the phone away from your ear, you cleared the call end message and locked the screen. It landed on the coffee table with a gentle clatter, the toss you gave it not too severe. You sat there a few moments, contemplating the conversation and everything behind it. Bucky was going on his first Avengers mission and Steve thought it and you were important enough that he wanted to tell you. You tried not to think about what Steve might consider a dicey situation. Turning back to the box beside you on the couch, you pulled out the neat little column of pictures from the photo booth, one missing with a slightly jagged edge left behind. Your fingers brushed gingerly over the images and hoped that, even if you never saw him again, Bucky would make it back safe.
Bucky sat alone in the idling quinjet, suited up and ready to go. The call for the mission had been sudden, but he was used to traveling light and already had a bag made up. It's what he'd been training for; what he'd been helping train the others for. Still, everyone else had things to deal with before take-off. Families to call, arrangements to make for their absences. All Bucky had outside of the team he was going with was the little photo booth picture he held delicately between his fingers and the clean scent of the shampoo he'd taken from your house. Every time he used it, he wondered if you noticed it missing yet.
The night of the Harvest Festival, when he teased you about keeping the picture, you naturally assumed he meant to blackmail you. On the contrary, if anyone got a hold of it, Bucky would be the one to use it against. He'd taken it out at least a hundred times since that night, practically had it memorized, but each time it still made his chest tighten like the first time he saw it. There he was, James Buchanan Barnes, the Asset, someone somewhere in between, gazing at you absolutely moon-eyed, like some love-struck idiot. And you, with your bright smile as you sat in his lap, lounging against him easy, nails disappearing into his hair, his arms wrapped around your waist, you looked happy. You looked at home there. Even after six weeks, he could still feel the brush of your fingers at the nape of his neck; could still imagine the warm press of your body to his, the sweet taste of your lips.
"Hey, man." Sam's voice broke through Bucky's thoughts as his heavy booted steps echoed up the ramp into the jet. Bucky looked up to see him with his wings already strapped on, goggles dangling from one hand and a duffel bag in the other.
"Wilson," Bucky acknowledged with a curt nod, stuffing the picture back into one of the many hiding places on his person.
A smile quirked at the corner of Sam's lips as he settled across from Bucky. "She showed me the other pics you guys took in that photo booth. You two are cute together."
"How is she, Sam," Bucky asked, gruff, quiet. It was the same thing every time Sam came back from your place. No preamble, the barest of niceties, Bucky needed to know. Whether it was reassurance that you were okay or the sharp pain in his chest to hear you weren't because of him, it was better to know than not. The first time, Sam tore into him for what he'd done, told him about you barely able to speak for sobbing, about how the way he left was dangerously like your sister and how frantic you'd been. Any lingering feelings of hurt pride vanished and Bucky knew he deserved all of Wilson's animosity and more. He deserved the pain of knowing he hurt you, just like he deserved the nasty memories and the nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat over the last weeks without you there to help him. But since then, Sam had been kinder, more sympathetic, and sometimes Bucky wished he would go back to being angry, it was a much easier thing to deal with than the feeling of misplaced acceptance.
"She's doing okay," Sam replied, understanding in the smile he flashed Bucky. "Her sister's old room is nearly cleared out. She had a couple boxes of knickknacks and stuff she had me take to the donation center. Next trip, we're gonna grab picture frames to hang some of her old photos. I think she's really trying to take her life back."
"Good," Bucky nodded. A pang of something shot through him at the news, but he wasn't exactly sure how to describe it. Pride, relief, longing? Hell, maybe even the bitter taste of jealousy at the back of his throat that Wilson got to be there and he didn't. Whatever it was, he worried his teeth against his lower lip to stamp it down. "I'm glad she's taking care of herself."
There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of the quinjet's engines, and Bucky could only look at the floor between his feet, trying not to think about how you must have felt going through all those old memories on your own; how much he wished he was there to help. Still, he knew Sam's concerned gaze fell back to him well before his teammate began to speak again. "She's doing this for you, y'know? Whatever it was you said to her that night, it made her realize she'd been sitting around scared for a long time. She said if you could work so hard at overcoming what happened to you, then she had no right to put in any less effort. As good as she's doing though, I think it'd mean a lot to her if she heard from you."
"Sam," Bucky said, voice sounding closer to a warning than he intended as he looked up at him. For almost a month now, Wilson had been at this, trying to convince him to go back to you. Sometimes the suggestion was just to call or text you, send a letter, something, but he knew the goal. "You of all people know she deserves a lot better than someone like me."
"Whoa," Sam chuckled defensively with a shake of his head. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees to fix Bucky with a pointed look. "Let me tell you something, Barnes. That girl has been through a lot of unnecessary bullshit in her life, but this is probably the most unnecessary. What I know is that she deserves to be happy. I never saw her more happy than when you were around. And I'm betting she made you happy too."
Bucky narrowed his eyes a bit, unsure how to respond. Wilson knew goddamn good and well that you made him happy, sometimes happier than he had memories to compare to, happier than he thought he deserved. After a moment with no reply, Sam let out an almost defeated sigh before sitting back. "Look, man, she's still got stuff to work through, so do you. All I'm saying is, at the end of the day, you two would probably work better together than on your own."
Silence fell between them again as Bucky contemplated Sam's words. It wasn't that he didn't want to go back. Hell if he didn't think about it at least once or twice a day. But he hurt you, bad, and as much as Sam told him otherwise, he couldn't believe you'd want him back around. Or maybe a part of him couldn't handle being around you knowing you didn't feel the same way about him. Worst of all, if he was being honest with himself, he felt he hadn't earned the right to be in your good graces again. Probably never would. You were much better off without him and his horrifying half-memories and blood stained past.
The sound of someone else approaching drew Bucky's attention quickly. Steve clamored his way onto the jet in all his suited glory, shield at his back, cutting a figure that didn't always mesh well in Bucky's mind. Not when he sometimes remembered a kid who was all bony knees and elbows. Though the bruises and split lips and black eyes felt shockingly, painfully, familiar, even if they didn't last so long these days. Steve gave him a questioning look, full of that concern that could get a little irritating from time to time, but was generally appreciated. If for no other reason than he was almost certain he'd looked at Steve the same way a long time ago. Bucky returned a curt nod, something to reassure his friend that he was alright.
"How'd that phone call go, Cap," Sam asked, a certain solemnity to his voice as he glanced at Bucky quickly.
Steve let out a long huff, anchoring his hands at his waist as he looked at the ground. Then, he pulled the shield from his back to lean against his knee after plopping down in the seat next to Wilson. "Okay, I suppose. Thought she was gonna start cryin at one point."
"Oooh," Sam winced a little and offered a sympathetic pat to Rogers' shoulder. "Good thing she didn't. We both know just how bad you are with women crying."
Bucky watched, somewhat amused, as Steve opened his mouth to protest with a defensive raise of his shoulders, only to falter and shake his head in defeat. Well, at least some things never really changed. "Who'd you have cryin on the phone, Stevie? Your girlfriend?"
"No, yours," Steve deadpanned coolly, Sam's eyes going wide and his lips pursing as if stunned and amused at the same time.
Jaw dropping slightly, Bucky felt his face heat up a little, unsure if the flash of anger in his chest was because of the touchy reference to you being his girl or because it sounded like the phone call upset you. "What the hell, Rogers? You called her?"
"Yeah, I did," Steve nodded with an almost indignant voice. And Bucky remembered that tone. Steve with the moral high ground, a holier-than-thou attitude that got his clock punched many a time. "I wanted to know what the hell happened. You weren't talkin and it ain't Sam's business to tell. So, I asked. And I gotta say, Buck, you're my friend and I love you, but what you did and are doing to that poor girl right now? It's not right."
"If you don't think Wilson put his all into rippin me a new one that first time he came back, then you're crazy," Bucky countered in a grumble. Steve was right, though, and he wouldn't do much to defend himself if Rogers did decide to lay into him just as bad. He'd earned whatever lashings he got. Still, it chafed him a bit raw that Steve would reopen that wound on you, especially after Wilson's report that you were doing better. "That all ya called her for, Steve? Get her to cry after Sam left her in a decent mood?"
"No, it wasn't, actually," Steve informed, jaw set firm, authoritative. "I called her to let her know you were coming along on this mission."
"You did what," Bucky snapped hotly. He fixed Sam with an accusatory look, but Wilson's brow had furrowed, looking none too pleased himself.
"C'mon, Buck, she deserved to know," his friend shot back. "And I knew you weren't gonna tell her."
"Goddamn it, Steve," he growled out, scrubbing a hand down his face. It took everything he had not to grab the little punk by the collar and shake the holy hell out of him, he didn't care how big Rogers went and got himself. And all Bucky could see behind his eyes was you, anxious and unable to sleep, jumping at every phone call you got. Because even if he could convince himself you wanted nothing to do with him then, some part of him knew you couldn't help that fretting nature of yours. "Now she's gonna be worryin herself half to death because you couldn't keep your fuckin trap shut."
"Well, then I guess you're just gonna have to call her when we get back so she knows you're okay," Steve reasoned with a blithe shrug, one eyebrow crooked up. Maybe no one else could see it, but Bucky recognized the superiority in that expression. Steve Rogers, master strategist, little shit, might not have planned it from the get-go, but he was going to force Bucky's hand on the matter.
Glaring hard, Bucky wondered just how much worse of a person he would be if he reached over and slapped his friend upside the head. Not enough to do any real damage, just to knock some sense into his thick skull. Certainly, Sam wouldn't protest too much, considering the exasperated shake of his head. Perhaps Bucky had more of a kinship with Wilson than he'd realized before. But then Rogers finally had the decency to look a little remorseful for what he'd done as he leaned forward with a sympathetic sigh.
"She didn't want you to go, Buck. She just thought you were supposed to," Steve said, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable and familiar, making Bucky's anger falter somewhat. "She misses you, probably even more than she let on, but she asked me to tell you that. She misses you and she wants you to be careful. Also wanted you to pack a jacket, in case it gets cold."
The last part seemed to tickle Steve; an amused smirk tilted the corner of his mouth and was mirrored on Sam's face. Bucky blinked a moment as his eyes darted between the two of them before he snorted and bowed his head, tongue darting over dry lips. Raking his fingers through his hair kicked up the shampoo smell, tightened something in his gut. Stevie wasn't lying. Even still missing hazy bits and pieces, Bucky knew that. It only reinforced the things Sam tried telling him all along. But the jacket comment, like an inside joke between the two of you. Like a shared secret whispered in the dark. Like the tip of an iceberg. Like a promise. He could feel the little spark of warmth in his chest threatening to spread. Maybe… maybe he should at least call you when the mission was over. Just to let you know he was alright so you didn't have to go on worrying. Damned if he didn't miss the sound of your voice.
But the mission had to be dealt with first and Bucky did his best to set everything else aside as the rest of the team quickly found their way to the quinjet, minus Rhodes and Romanoff who'd been called away on other assignments. Steve went over the intel on the flight out. They'd gotten word that an arms dealer was meeting with a couple terrorist organizations to sell high-tech weaponry he'd managed to smuggle from a secret base in the middle of Europe. At this point, the political details didn't much matter to Bucky, and they all fled his mind the moment he saw Steve's jaw working bitterly before he informed the team that the base in question, and thus the weapons, were believed to be leftover remnants of a Hydra facility. Bucky steeled himself against the sick roiling in his stomach, a mixture of fear and hatred and loathing, all vying for top spot. Steve wouldn't meet his gaze, no small amount of shame in the Captain's hard grimace. Everyone else seemed to look sympathetic, even Stark didn't have a smartass comment in that moment. Though he found understanding when his attention fell on the solemn eyes of the Maximoff girl near the back of the jet.
When they landed in a clearing near a river, downstream from the old factory where the targets would be conducting business outside a bustling town, Steve led in the first wave of Wilson and Barton, hoping a bit of stealth might be able to handle things without much incident spilling over. Bucky nearly balked at being left behind to babysit until he took stock of who all remained at the jet. A highly-trained and possibly unstable killing machine who was too close to the situation, a man who turned into a giant green rage monster, a girl who could manipulate objects and minds, and a loud-mouth genius in a flashy metal suit. So, yeah, maybe keeping the heavy hitters on standby wasn't the worst idea Steve's ever had. Besides, Tony had already gone through a round of pouting over it and that had been headache enough.
Being the only one left behind with any real military training, Bucky decided to do a perimeter check to make sure no one would sneak up on them. The immediate vicinity was clear, the only sign of other people was the bridge several hundred yards away, choked with civilian vehicle traffic. Intel on a mission has never been 100% accurate, something Bucky knew from experience. And plans almost never go off without a hitch. When the distant echo of rapid gunfire reached his ears, Bucky wasn't so much surprised as immediately alert, already headed back toward the quinjet before a word was spoken on comms.
"They spotted us," came Steve's voice, breathing a little labored. "More than anticipated. We can't get to the factory. Dr. Banner, I hate to ask this, but we could use a hand knocking on the front door."
Bucky skidded to a stop as he rounded the nose of the jet, Banner already pulling off his shirt and pants. "You got it, Cap. I'm on my way."
"Cap, we've got multiple snipers as well as a few guys with heavy artillery on the roof," Barton informed evenly over the sound of more gunfire.
"Air support on the way, Cap," Tony responded as he suited up. "Wilson, you ready to take wing?"
There were the sounds of a struggle over the comm followed by the somewhat familiar noise of Sam's suit firing up, before he replied "You bet your shiny metal ass."
Banner had already disappeared into the tree line, a booming angry cry shaking the air just as Stark was taking off. Bucky practically itched to follow, wanting into the fray, wanting to get to Steve and help. But Wanda still stood in the clearing, eyes distant, and he knew he couldn't just leave her there even as he heard Steve shouting out orders to the others. It was a look he'd seen before, though nowhere near as intense. Seconds tick by at a snail's pace as he waited, anxious to go, but knowing something must be going on. Finally, she seemed to return to herself and she took a deep breath like she might have forgotten how for a moment.
"Captain," she called out, eyes a little frantic as she grabbed at Bucky, pulling him in the direction the others had gone. He went easily, gun at the ready, as she continued. "A group got past you, armed. They are headed toward the city to take hostages as a diversion so their leader can escape."
"Head them off," Steve order just as an explosion rocked the ground, though Bucky couldn't see it through the thick tree coverage. "We're almost in."
"There's a bridge over the river between them and the city," Bucky finally spoke across the comm. He and Wanda followed the bank, though she had taken to flying above and ahead of him. "There are civilians stuck in their vehicles."
Hatred had won out over fear and loathing in Bucky's gut. The cold flames of it licked at the edges of his mind, practically demanding the crack of bones between his fingers, the spray of blood from a well-placed shot between the eyes of someone who had anything to do with Hydra. But something just as strong kept pulling his thoughts back to that bridge. Lines of cars sitting stationary, innocent people like sitting ducks above the water. Someone needed to get them to safety, out of harm's way before they were either killed or captured. As much as he wanted to fight, take out his aggression on definite bad guys, he also wanted to help.
The teetering in Bucky's brain was finally tipped when Steve's voice sounded again. "Barnes, take Maximoff, clear the bridge. But don't let them get past you."
It was an order Bucky was more than willing to follow through as he doubled his speed. Wanda gave him a quick nod as she flew ahead and any other time Bucky might've marveled at the spectacle, but there was a task at hand. He was nearing the bridge when Stark did a low flyby, nearly buzzing the surface of the water as he turned glowing, helmeted eyes on Bucky to speak. "Took care of the snipers. Gonna fly ahead and take out as many of those guys as I can through the canopy, buy you and Hermione some time to clear the bridge."
"Appreciate it," Bucky huffed in response. Maybe there had been distrust between the two of them in the beginning, largely due to tragic incidents in which Bucky might have played a role. Yet, when all was said and done, there was an understanding and a bit of kinship between them, both knowing what it's like trying to make up for a dark past. And though Bucky would probably never say it to his face, for fear of backlash, Tony was every bit the man his father ever was and then some.
"Just be careful, Gramps," Stark replied flippantly as he took back to the sky. "Don't want Capsicle to cry again."
"Can it, Tin Man. I got this," Bucky deadpanned before pushing himself harder.
Wanda was already at the bridge, urging people to flee their cars for the far side of the river. She was even stronger than when Bucky first met her, but she still couldn't manage all of the civilians at once. So she was doing her best to go from door to door without causing too much of a panic. Bucky didn't have that luxury, but being a rather scary looking guy with a gun certainly had its advantages in getting people to scatter. They had the lingering cars on the road and the first quarter of the bridge nearly cleared out when he heard the faint, but distinct sound of a rocket launch from far off over the chatter on the comm.
"Found him. In pursuit," Steve's voice was suddenly too loud and bordering on frenzied. "But he launched a missile. I think it's headed toward the town. Tony!"
"Already headed that way, Cap," Stark acknowledged as Bucky turned to see him swoop out from the tree line, heading toward the airborne weapon.
"Wanda," Bucky called out, pulling her attention over the crowd of scared, frantic civilians. "You're faster. Get to town, start getting people evacuated. I'll finish clearing the bridge."
She nodded, though finished dealing with the driver of the panel van where she stood before generating a burst of red energy to start flying in that direction. People were scrambling around on the bridge in front of Bucky as he made his way between the cars. A few were stopping at other cars along the way, trying to convince others to get out and run too. Whether it was from Wanda's insistence or his presence, Bucky wasn't sure. And it didn't much matter to him, so long as they cleared out. He herded them toward the other end of the bridge as best he could, short of firing off rounds which he knew would just startle people and make them drop to the ground. Hardly conducive to the plan. As he approached the midway point of the bridge, few stragglers left behind him, Bucky noticed a woman just then opening her car door to see what was going on. He was about to usher her along with the rest when Tony's voice rang in his ear.
"We've got a slight problem," he said, edge of his voice stressed near to breaking. Bucky looked up to see Stark keeping pace with the missile that was headed downriver. "Guidance system is taking too long to hack, so I'm gonna have to go about this the old-fashioned way."
Bucky watched as Tony flew in closer, grabbing part of the assembly and ripping it off. The metal piece went flying off behind him as he reached in and started yanking and tearing at the inner workings of the thing. Suddenly, there was a bright blue pulse of energy and Bucky could see the repulsors and jets and lights of Stark's suit suddenly flicker and dim before shutting off entirely.
"Pa... hell of... pun..." Tony's voice cut in and out as he suddenly started to fall out of the sky. He still had a gauntlet tucked inside the missile, the weight of him pulling the nose of it slightly downward before he slipped off to go hurtling toward the water. "I... ate wat... dings."
The missile had been thrown off trajectory just enough that it wouldn't make it to the city. Of course, the new angle had it pointing straight for the bridge where Bucky stood. Glancing down the length of the road, he saw that most of the people were reaching the other side. But the woman near Bucky was standing frozen in horror, watching the missile grow closer. Quickly, he grabbed hold of her, pulling her behind another vehicle just as the missile made contact. The impact caused the whole bridge to give a violent shudder, the sound of weakened metal and crumbling asphalt muted by the ringing in Bucky's ears. He twisted to block the woman from the shower of debris that was raining down on them. The smell of smoke and melting rock and metal and rubber permeated the air.
Trying to shake off the disoriented feeling, worsened by his mind's sudden overlay of a half-formed memory of ash and rubble, Bucky slowly managed to get to his feet to survey the damage. The missile had struck between two pylons, meaning there wasn't much fear of the bridge buckling and collapsing entirely. Instead, it had taken out a huge chunk of the edge and road. Pavement was slowly eroding, crumbling to follow the cars and debris that had fallen into the river below. Some cars still remained on the bridge, a few on fire, others thrown against each other to viciously crunch metal on metal. Some were teetering on the edge of the impact sight, one even falling over to splash loud into the water.
That's when Bucky finally registered the woman he'd pulled behind cover. She was running toward one of the cars near the edge, screaming while frantically pulling at the horribly dented back door. It wasn't English, but Bucky realized he understood just the same, though he couldn't readily supply the name of the language. "My son! My son!"
Without a moment's thought, Bucky was beside the woman again, shuffling her out of the way so he could see inside. A young boy, no more than seven or eight, was slumped against the far door. He was conscious and looked dazed, though there was a knot forming on his forehead around a small bleeding gash. Bucky tapped the window to get his attention, but when the boy saw him, he started in fear causing the car to wobble on its precarious perch. The mechanical whirr of Bucky's metal arm sounded above the woman's desperate pleas before he anchored his flesh hand on the roof of the car and punched through the glass with one clean motion. Shards sprayed across the backseat, though none managed to further injure the boy who'd pressed himself as far away as possible. Metal fingers, once meant for nothing more than death and destruction, crushed around the edge of the car door. Another whirring and a grunt of determination, Bucky pulled with everything he had and ripped the thing right off its hinges, letting it clatter to the ground behind him. And your voice flittered through the back of his mind.
"...you've basically got a built-in jaws of life. If there were a really bad car wreck, you could pry off a door..."
"C'mon, kid. Let me get you out of here," Bucky spoke, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible. It was difficult with his heart beating wild and using his weight to try keeping the car balanced. He reached into the backseat, but the boy shook his head rapidly and crushed himself against the door. Another crumbling of asphalt caused the car to fall another few inches, shifting the center of gravity. Bucky couldn't reach all the way across to grab him. There would be no anchor and they'd just both topple right over. He tried coaxing him again, this time using whatever language he thought the mother spoke, still not sure what or how he knew it and too desperate to care. "Please. I won't hurt you. Let me help."
The boy looked up at him, still wide-eyed and fearful, innocent and uncertain. Bucky didn't dare breathe over the unsteadiness of the vehicle and memories flashed through his mind. He wasn't just seeing this boy's face, but the little girl in the clothing store, a boy he'd given a piece of chocolate to during the war, the picture of you and your sister as little girls he'd found in your photo box, his sisters with their scraped knees and sticky hands. He'd been forced to do so many terrible things in his life, so much blood dripped from his hands he could drown in it. But these images in his head were good and bright, new ones and ones no amount of wiping had managed to erase entirely. He wanted nothing more in the world in that moment than to save this boy and add another happy face to his memory so desperately in need of them. Stretching his arm as far as he could, Bucky begged, begged the kid to just reach out and take his hand.
Suddenly, more of the road gave way in a sickening crunch and the car lurched over the edge. Despite all the strength the bastardized super soldier serum afforded him, Bucky couldn't hold the car any longer. He watched in disbelief as it plummeted away from him. The screams of the woman behind him echoed in his ears. From the gaping hole in the bridge, he saw the car roll as it fell, splashing heavy into the water upside down. Large bubbles broke the surface as the current splashed over the tires, pulling the vehicle into the depths of the river. It and everything inside was gone in a matter of moments.
Bucky collapsed to his knees, flesh hand digging into the pavement as he hauled the dangling boy up onto the road. In the last seconds before the car fell, the boy's hand had shot toward him and Bucky managed to grip his wrist just in time to keep him from toppling with everything else. He hadn't exactly been gentle about it, but a broken wrist versus a life seemed like no contest. Still, there didn't seem to be any injury and the boy didn't cry out or protest at being manhandled a bit to check. In fact, his arms wrapped around Bucky's neck, crashing his small frame into his chest for a tight hug, still trembling a little in fear. After a moment, Bucky wrapped his right arm around the boy and allowed himself the smallest sob of relief. He'd saved the kid. It didn't change a bit of his past, but he'd saved the kid and possibly more. Just like Steve and the others trusted him to, just like you told him he could. And in the midst of fire and smoke and debris, hope fluttered hard in his chest.
Picking the boy up, Bucky stood to carry him over to his mother. Tear tracks stained her face as she quickly, manically grabbed the boy from Bucky's grasp. She cradled him as best she could, pressing her lips into chubby cheeks and swollen forehead while crying ever harder. It startled Bucky somewhat when she reached out and fisted a hand in his shirt, pulling him down to give him a smattering of grateful kisses to his face and babbling her thanks over and over again. He had to control the little smile that threatened to overtake him at the joyful reunion. But they weren't entirely out of danger yet. Quickly, he urged the woman toward the undamaged pedestrian walk along one side of the bridge.
"Hurry," he said, guiding her and the boy safely around some rubble and twisted cars. She seemed to understand well enough. Her hand gripped the back of her son's head, keeping it tucked in close as Bucky helped her over the railing. "Get to the other side of the river. You'll be safer there."
Bucky stood a moment as he watched her running, finally filling his lungs as she neared the other end of the bridge. The boy peeked up from his mother's neck to look at him, raising a hand to wave in farewell. Raising his in return, he remembered the little girl in the clothes shop again. You'd probably tell him he'd made the boy's whole life and for once he wasn't sure he'd even argue. Spinning back toward the bridge, Bucky surveyed the damage before calling in.
"Missile struck the bridge," he informed over the comm. "Unsure of any injuries or fatalities, but it had been mostly cleared. Stark's suit seemed to malfunction. He went into the water."
"Don't worry, Barnes," Wilson replied. "I fished him out. He's good. Heavier than he looks."
"Must've had one of your breakfasts," Steve chimed in with a winded chuckle. Another wave of relief washed over Bucky at the sound of his friend's voice. "Hulk, Barton, and I are still in pursuit."
"I'm almost back to the bridge," Wanda's voice sounded. "The group from the factory must surely -"
Rustling foliage and crunching steps had Bucky turning on his heel, pulling his gun from its holster. He saw a muzzle flash from the darkness of the tree line a split second before feeling the sting of a bullet tearing through his skin.
