Chapter 22: Not Without You

"I'm sorry you were dragged into this," Steve told Sam from the makeshift hospital bed. They were back in the room next to Bruce's lab, and the doctor was currently patching up the wound in Steve's side.

His shirt was laying on top of the overnight bag against the wall, and the air conditioning from the vent gave him a chill.

"Don't be sorry. I got to go on an op with the Avengers," Sam grinned. "I'll be floating high on this for a while."

"Well, I'm really sorry he broke into your place and attacked you." Steve threw a look at Bucky on the other bed set up next to his.

Bucky didn't seem at all apologetic as he sat perched on the edge, back straight, his gaze shifting periodically from Steve to a point on the wall. He was still far too pale, and there was something fragile in the way he held himself that made it obvious how tenuous he felt about the situation.

"Yeah, well, not the best way to start the day," Sam said, "but he didn't hurt me…much…and it was for a good cause. Plus, if I am on some kill list, it's in my best interest to help you take them down."

That was true. Project Insight. Bucky had provided the gist of it—a Hydra kill list, an algorithm to identify and eliminate threats. The Avengers were on that list, along with hundreds of thousands of other names.

"That's our priority," Steve said. They'd barely had a chance to lick their wounds after the alien attack, and now there was another threat—an old one he'd thought was gone. "Well, thank you again."

"Anytime. You have my number, if you ever need anything. I'll leave you two to rest."

When Wilson left, Steve turned to Bruce. "I don't need to be here."

"You'll heal, but do me a favor and just stay here for a bit so you don't pop anything open." Bruce finished with the bandage and leaned back in the chair. "You and Clint make terrible patients." He jerked his head toward Bucky. "Take a lesson from your friend. Model patient, well, almost."

Yeah. Steve met Bucky's steady gaze. It was still weird to see him so distant, almost blank. After his emotional breakdown at Camp Lehigh, he was back to being stoic, wordlessly letting Bruce exam his visible injuries and clean him up, but the wet clothes stayed on. The moment Bruce tried to unfasten the vest, a metal hand wrapped around his wrist.

"Bucky, you took some pretty hard blows back there. Why don't you get out of those wet clothes and let Bruce give you a good once over?" It never hurt to try again. Sitting in damp clothes couldn't be comfortable.

Bucky stared at him flatly.

"I'm gonna take that as a no," Bruce said. "I have to go check on Clint, but the tech will be in shortly with something to eat for both of you."

"Thanks." Steve was starving. Bucky had to be, as well.

A few minutes after Bruce left, a petite woman with gray streaks in her dark hair entered pushing a cart with two trays of food. She gave him a nervous smile.

He pushed himself higher in the bed, suppressing a grimace the motion caused in his side, and offered her a reassuring grin. "Thanks."

He took the tray, set it on his lap, and peered down at his chicken breast and baked potato. Bland but healthy, and he wasn't even in a hospital. He knew for damn sure there were tastier options in Stark Tower. Gee, thanks, Doc.

He glanced at Bucky's plate. Mashed potatoes mixed with diced chicken. There was a triangle of pita bread and a plastic spoon on the tray. At some point, they'd have to figure out how to get Bucky to eat more solid foods.

The woman pushed the cart over to Bucky as Steve took a bit of his chicken breast. It was salty and whatever spice the cook had tried to use gave it an almost metallic taste. His stomach grumbled, so he forced down another bite.

Bucky used the pita bread as a utensil and scooped up a chunk of the potato-chicken concoction. He scrunched his nose when he put it in his mouth, then leaned forward, sniffed it, and spit it out. He was off the bed in a blur, metal hand on the woman's throat as he shoved her into the wall.

"Hey!" Steve flung himself off the bed and grabbed Bucky's metal wrist. "Let go of her, Buck!"

The woman was wide-eyed, clawing at the hand, her gaze darting to Steve in a silent plea.

"Buck, let go of her."

She dropped an arm and Steve saw her reach for something around her back. It felt wrong. Anyone else would be continuing to claw at the metal arm choking them. He intercepted as her hand came back, his fingers snatching the gun from her hand and crushing the barrel.

"Who are you?" Steve leaned in. "Bucky, ease up, we need her to talk."

The metal arm loosened just enough for the woman to gasp, "Heil Hydra."

Bucky released her, then sent a right hook into the side of her face. Steve caught her as she crumpled and checked her pulse as he set her on the floor. She was alive.

"She put something in our food?" Steve pushed to his feet. "You knew?"

Bucky gave a curt nod.

"I should have known, too." Steve glanced at the discarded plate on the floor. "It tasted weird, but…. This place is secure. At least, it should be." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Jarvis, who is the woman in the room with us?"

"Her name is Anabelle Tranton, born in 1979 in Atlantic City, New Jersey, a member of SHIELD since 2002, Registered Nurse. Security Clearance Level 4. I have already alerted the Avengers."

There was suddenly a gun in Bucky's right hand and the plates on his metal arm shifted as he looked up. His entire body somehow went from fluid to coiled in the space of a heartbeat, without any change in posture.

"Easy, Bucky." Steve held up his hands. He probably should have warned Bucky about Jarvis. Hindsight, and all. "Jarvis is a computer."

Steve thought that would be comforting, but it wasn't. He could see it in the quickening of Bucky's breath and the expansion of his pupils.

"Like Zola?" Bucky grunted, metal arm whirring.

"No, no." Shit. Steve hadn't made that connection. "Jarvis isn't anything like the Zola computer. He was never a human being. He's just a program–"

"That's an oversimplification, I must say," Jarvis responded.

He, or It—Steve wasn't sure how to refer to the AI—almost sounded insulted.

The door opened and Natasha rushed in, her gaze immediately dropping to the woman on the floor. "What happened?"

"She tried to poison us. Bucky figured it out." He glanced at his friend. Bucky was eyeing Romanoff intently, jaw set firmly.

"It's impossible to separate the SHIELD folks from the Hydra ones," Natasha said.

"Then no one from SHIELD gets in here again, not even Fury," Steve said.

Bucky grabbed the front of Steve's bicep and strode toward the door. Steve let himself be pulled along as he glanced back at Nat. "Let everyone know. SHIELD stays out."

She nodded. "Where are you going?" just before he was pulled into the hallway.

"Buck, you wanna tell me where you're taking me?"

Bucky glanced back at him—wide eyed and tight-jawed. "If Hydra captures me, they'll control me. I need to leave." He released Steve's arm but stayed close, standing with his back to Steve as he surveyed the hallway. "You're a target."

"Bucky, one security breach doesn't mean—"

"I need to leave." There was no negotiation in that tone.

"Okay," Steve said gently. Bucky was obviously terrified. There was no way in hell Steve was going to let him disappear again. He'd follow him to wherever Bucky needed to go to feel safe, and if Hydra did come for them, they'd have to go through both of them. "Where to?"

"Away."

"Okay, I'll come with you, just let me grab my overnight bag, first. Okay?"

Bucky glanced back at him and gave a curt nod. Steve turned, and Bucky shifted in front of him, his movement as smooth and quiet as a shadow on the wall.

With a sigh, Steve gestured. "Lead the way."

With another nod, Bucky moved forward, back into the room. Romanoff stood, phone in hand, eyes questioning. Steve gave her a shrug as he threw on his shirt, then grabbed the shield and blue duffel bag near the bed. He spotted a first-aid kit on a cart near the wall and stuffed that into his bag.

"We're heading out for a while. I'll contact you when I can." He reached into the outer pocket of the bag and pulled out his cell phone to tuck it in his pants when Bucky's metal hand snatched it from his grip and crushed it.

"Okay, no phone." Steve lamented as Bucky pulled him back toward the door.

"Steve…" Natasha began, reaching for something in her pant leg pocket.

"It's okay, Romanoff. Do not engage." He held up a placating hand. "I've got some cash in the bag, but do you have any on you? I'll pay you back."

She nodded and withdrew a clump of folded bills and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said as he was ushered through the door. "I'll be fine. I'll get in touch when I can." He yelled.

Then they were in the elevator. Steve hit the ground floor button, then retrieved his shoes from the bag and slipped them on. He was still in his uniform bottoms, but the rest of his uniform, along with a few other clothing items, were in the bag. For that, he was grateful. Otherwise, he'd find himself walking the streets of New York with Bucky bare chested and barefoot.

On the street, Bucky broke into a run and Steve followed. His side ached but not enough to slow him down. Bucky never got more than two feet ahead of him, even though he didn't glance back. His gaze remained focused ahead, but when Steve eased up to avoid a pedestrian, Bucky slowed and spun, giving the startled woman a hard glare, then grabbing Steve's shirt and yanking him forward.

Bucky's brain seemed to be in flight mode, which was preferable to fight mode. So far, the only person Bucky attacked was the Hydra agent. They took a few corners, went down an alley, then another, and finally ducked into a door on the side of a brownstone building with a busted lock.

The place inside looked like it used to be a bar, with broken, dusty chairs and tables strewn amongst trash and cobwebs. A long, dirty bar counter was on the right, with broken glass all around.

Bucky headed back, and Steve followed. It got darker the deeper they traveled, and Steve almost tripped as he followed Bucky almost blindly down steps. A hand on his chest was the only thing that stopped him plummeting.

Then they were in a basement. A tiny window set high on one wall was the only source of light. It was just enough to let Steve make out the nest of blankets piled on the floor against the wall, with the bag Bucky had taken from the tower a couple days ago on the floor next to a wooden chair.

"Is this where you stayed?" Steve asked.

Bucky walked to an industrial metal cabinet against the far wall and slid it two feet along the wall. The thing was massive, too heavy for a normal human to move, and Bucky had managed it easily with one arm. Everything he'd seen about Bucky so far indicated he was as strong as Steve.

A messy hole about two feet wide was set into the wall where the cabinet had been. Reaching in, Bucky pulled out a gray backpack, then unzipped the front compartment and withdrew a handgun.

"Here." He grabbed the muzzle and held it out to Steve.

"No, I don't need that."

"You do." Bucky shoved it closer.

"No one knows where we are. We're safe from Hydra for now, Buck. Relax."

"It's not for Hydra."

It took Steve a second to process the words and figure out the meaning beneath them. He wished he hadn't. He wished he could live in ignorance and never have that image in his head, because once there, it would always be there, in his memories, as a possibility that he would never, ever let happen.

"No." He turned away in a pretense of surveying the room.

He heard the deep breath Bucky took, the clink of his metal arm, and then the slide of the metal cabinet being returned to its position. Another clink of metal told him Bucky had set the gun on top of the cabinet.

"The activation sequence…." Bucky began.

"I know." Steve had left the red book in a safe place in Stark Tower. Tony was the only other person who knew where it was.

"I won't be able to refuse."

Steve turned to him. There were so many questions he wanted to ask now that they were alone, but he didn't know where to begin, and he wasn't sure how much Bucky remembered. How much would he ever be able to remember? But one thing was certain—Steve wasn't ever going to put a bullet in Bucky's head. He'd never let it get that far.

"Do you know me?" Steve asked. "Beyond what I've told you, do you remember our friendship?"

Bucky shifted his gaze to a point on the wall just to the left of Steve's head. "I don't know."

He couldn't believe that, not after everything Bucky had done. "Why'd you rescue us?"

"I remember the train."

"In the Alps?"

Bucky nodded. "I fell."

"Yeah." That day sprang fresh in his mind, an intense flash of white and cold, bitter wind against his face, ice in his chest. He dropped to the chair. "The Russians found you?"

"You were there, but you left."

Something wild and wounded twisted in Steve's chest. "I'm sorry, Buck. God, I thought you were dead."

"I heard you. The man said you left me for dead."

"What?" The words made no sense to Steve. "What man?"

"Inside a tent. He held a knife to my throat, put a hand over my mouth, but I heard you."

A slow tide of horror rose up from Steve's gut and into his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. "The Russian base camp?" he croaked.

Bucky bit his lower lip, eyes distant, then said, "I think so." He squeezed his eyelids and dropped his head, hands scrubbing his skull, fingers bent into hard claws.

"Hey." Steve was on his feet. "Bucky…are you saying that you were there, in the Russian base camp, when I showed up with the Howlies and…." he stopped to suck in a deep breath because the air in the room suddenly felt too thin, "...asked them to keep an eye out for your…"

…body.

Bucky had been there, not just alive but conscious? Steve hadn't led the Russians to his friend, but that was suddenly little comfort, because he had a chance to save Bucky and didn't.

His knees gave out and he found himself back in the chair. Now he had another image in his head, one he'd never get out. Bucky, injured, desperate, hearing his voice, listening to him give up and leave. "Oh, God, Buck, I didn't know. I thought they were acting squirrely, I just…I just assumed it was because of politics." He never even considered the possibility that Bucky had survived the fall, and that was a mistake he could never undo.

A strangled sound pulled him out of his head. Bucky was curled in the corner on the nest of blankets, knees up, hands on his head, muted sounds gurgling from his throat. Steve was across the room in a second, on his knees in front of his friend.

"Hey, we don't have to talk about this." He placed a gentle hand on Bucky's leg.

The reaction was instantaneous. Bucky swung an arm out that Steve barely managed to dodge, then skittered down the wall until his back hit the metal cabinet. He looked at Steve with wide eyes that darted around the room, his chest heaving.

"It's okay," Steve said, keeping his distance, his tone gentle.

He didn't know what Bucky was seeing—the train, the Russians, or something else—but Steve felt out of his depth. Bucky needed help. Professional help, but with Hydra having infiltrated SHIELD, there was no one outside the Avengers they could bring in.

His mind went again to the brain scan. How much could Bucky recover from that? Would he ever get all of his memories back? How functional would he be?

He couldn't stand the thought of Bucky institutionalized for the rest of his life. Seeing the strong, vibrant, cocky guy he knew huddled and terrified on the floor hurt to his core. If it came down to it, he'd buy a place in the middle of nowhere big enough for the two of them where Bucky could recover in peace, as much as possible given the damage to his brain.

Hydra had done this. Steve sank to the floor, his back against the wall, and stared at the friend who would've had a bright future, if not for the war, if not for his best friend asking if he'd follow him into the jaws of death.

Not for the first time in his life, he had the urge to find every last member of Hydra and tear them apart. They'd even managed to infiltrate Stark Tower. He was lucky he'd only had one bite of the food. What had they put in it? Bruce was probably analyzing it right now. Whatever it was, it had to be unique if they expected it to work on supersoldiers.

Bucky watched him quietly, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders and the fear in his eyes melting to something that reeked of self-reproach. Steve decided they'd had enough talk of the past. Remembering seemed to hurt Bucky, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

"We're going to need things," Steve said. "Food, water. What do you say if we stay here tonight, then find a hotel room that takes cash, clean up, make a supply run?"

Bucky nodded once.

"Okay then." Steve sighed and got to his feet. He set to work on the next pile of blankets, shaking them and batting off the dust, then laying them out straight. It wasn't much in the way of a bed, but he'd slept in worse places in the army.

The sun was setting outside, casting a dim orange glow into the basement. Once the sun set, they'd be stuck in the dark. He got to his feet and tried the lightswitch on the wall, but as he suspected, the place didn't have electricity, so within an hour, they'd be stuck in the dark.

He went to his pack and pulled out the cash, counting quickly. Three hundred and ten dollars. That would be enough for a crappy motel room for a couple of nights and some supplies, but it wouldn't get them far. He had his wallet and the credit card Fury had gotten him, but he knew that was trackable, and with Hydra being deeply embedded into SHIELD, he couldn't risk charging a motel room.

He might be able to risk using it at a store for supplies, or hitting a bank ATM machine, as long as it wasn't anywhere close to where they were holed up. Hydra would only know where he'd used it, not where he went afterward. He hoped.

Modern technology was still a bit of a mystery to him, though he was figuring it out faster than he thought possible when he'd first realized he was seventy years in the future. He still didn't know half of what it could do, though, so he probably shouldn't take any risks, not with Bucky. Hydra wasn't getting their hands on him again.

Their current situation wasn't ideal, and he'd have to figure out a way to check in with the Avengers that didn't spook Bucky. Even with the infiltration into Stark Tower, Steve still thought that was the safest place for them both. Now that they were onto Hydra and SHIELD, they could ramp up precautions, limit access to critical floors to just the Avengers, and…well, he was sure Stark would have ideas. Good ideas.

There was also the matter of Project Insight, and though Stark was all over that, Steve needed to be in on the fight. It was Hydra. He couldn't leave anything to chance. They had to go down, for good this time.

However, he didn't want to risk losing Bucky again. He'd promised staying or leaving was Bucky's choice, and he'd honor that promise. If Bucky needed to run to feel safe, then they'd run. Maybe, with a little time, he could warm Bucky up to the idea of returning to a more secure place, even if it wasn't the tower, because they couldn't live in abandoned buildings or cheap motel rooms for long.

Bucky hadn't moved, but the tension had left his shoulders, and his legs were sprawled out on the floor. His hair had dried into a chaotic mess, and his clothes were no doubt still damp. He couldn't be comfortable.

"Bucky, why don't you get out of your clothes and let them dry out? I have a pair of sweatpants in the bag you can have." He could pick up a few cheap T-shirts and pants tomorrow, or maybe ask Natasha to grab a few things from his apartment. From what he knew of her background, she would have no trouble avoiding a tail if Hydra was watching.

Bucky pushed to his feet and stripped quickly until he was completely naked. Steve took the opportunity to survey the injuries on his friend. The beginnings of bruises peppered Bucky's torso on both sides, and a shallow four-inch gash carved a line on his right side. Considering he'd soldiered a path through Hydra's defenses at Camp Lehigh and gone one-on-one with three enhanced combatants, he got off lucky.

Bucky placed his gear on the chair, draping the tactical vest on the back, and took a step back and eyed Steve, as if unsure what to do next. Even when they lived together, Bucky had never walked around the apartment nude—close to nude, but he always had a towel, long johns, or boxers to cover himself.

Steve tried to keep a casual air, but inside he was vibrating, struggling to contain the swell of rage as he thought back to the discovery of Bucky's injuries on the Quinjet in Siberia. How many times…? He pushed away the images his mind conjured, along with the ones carved into his brain from the horror-show stack of photos, and focused on slow breathing—a tip from Bruce when he'd mentioned how many punching bags he'd torn through—and pulled out blue sweats from his bag.

"I can tend to the gash on your side," Steve offered.

"It'll heal," Bucky said.

Steve sighed and handed over the pants. "Here you go. We're about the same height." Now.

Bucky slid into them. They were the perfect length, if a little loose in the thighs.

They'd never been able to swap clothes when they lived together and there was an eight-inch height difference between them. After Steve took the serum, he grew almost a foot and ended up a few inches taller than Bucky. Whatever serum Bucky had gotten gave him a few inches. He wondered about that—why and how he had grown so much—but the man who could tell him died in front of him a long time ago.

Well, it wasn't so long ago in his mind, and he was still getting used to that. In his mind, it was only a few months ago when Bucky was at his side on the battlefield and only a couple of years ago when they were sharing an apartment and spending the holidays with Bucky's family. Back then, their biggest worries were paying bills and finding dates.

Bucky never worried about finding a date for himself. It was finding a nice girl who'd give his pocket-sized roommate a chance that proved the challenge. As for the rent, Bucky's boxing wins kept them afloat, especially during the end of the depression when work was hard to find.

If Bucky hadn't confronted Johnny and Vinnie that cold day after school, Steve's life would've turned out very differently. He probably wouldn't have lived long enough to meet Erskine. He'd have bulldozed his way into the TB ward to say goodbye to his mom, and that likely would've been the end of him. If that hadn't gotten him, working in a factory and living alone probably would've killed him. He was always one bad asthma attack away from death.

So, now their circumstances were reversed, and Bucky needed him. He'd fight all of Hydra with his fists and shield if necessary, then he'd find a way to get Bucky whatever help he needed.

"Are you tired?" Steve pointed to the makeshift bed. "It'll be dark soon." He needed to empty his bladder before bed, but he didn't want to leave Bucky for too long. The bar had to have a restroom. Even if the water was turned off, there would be a urinal. "I'm gonna find the bathroom. Do you know where it is?"

"Upstairs."

"Would you show me?" He wanted to keep Bucky close.

With a nod, Bucky led the way up the dark staircase and then hooked a right into a doorway. The bathroom was almost pitch black, save for the sliver of a window high in the ceiling that let in an ounce of light. It was also filthy. The floor was covered in rodent droppings, and what looked like dried human feces was smeared on the cracked mirror above the sink.

Steve peed as quickly as he could in the urinal. Bucky did his business as well. Glad to have that task behind them, Steve was more determined than ever to find a motel room tomorrow night. Even a dive would be a step up from this cesspool.

The basement was almost completely dark when they returned. Steve wasn't sure about the sleeping arrangements. The blanket was big enough for both of them, and if they were back in the 40s in their apartment or on the battlefield, he wouldn't think twice. He and Bucky were always comfortable with one another. Hell, they were practically inseparable as kids.

But Bucky didn't remember most of that, might not remember any of it.

Steve removed his clothes and slipped into a pair of cotton pajama bottoms he retrieved from the bag. He took a moment to inspect the bandage on his side. It looked okay, with no signs of bleeding.

"You take the blanket on the floor." Steve rolled up his uniform bottoms to use as a pillow. "I'll sleep by the wall."

"Nyet." Bucky pointed to the blankets.

Steve paused at the sudden switch to Russian. The language sounded strange coming from Bucky, who'd always been a proud Brooklyn boy, then a proud sergeant in the United States army.

"Yes," Steve said. "I run hot."

Bucky tilted his head, studying Steve. His gaze fell to the bandage, then he walked to the wall near the door and laid down, his back pressed against the surface, and closed his eyes.

"Okay, Bucky. You win." Steve slid beneath the blanket, trying not to think about where it came from.

Sleep didn't come easily. His brain wouldn't shut down. He listened to Bucky's slow breathing across the room, tried to focus on it to clear his head, but all it did was send his thoughts into the past, of nights when he was sick and Bucky slept by his side afraid he would stop breathing.

He wished he knew what was going on in Bucky's head. When Bucky broke down at Camp Lehigh, Steve dared to hope that meant his friend was coming back to himself. Why else would he have risked his life to rescue them? But while it was obvious Bucky remembered bits and pieces of his life before Hydra, it was also painfully obvious that whatever memories he had weren't complete, probably weren't even in any real context.

Bucky's reactions were all over the place, unpredictable and chaotic. One minute he was a perfect soldier, the next he was crumpled on the ground sobbing. Then stoic. Then huddled in a corner, terrified.

He'd seen guys in the war go through something similar—shell shock—but at least they knew who they were and who their friends and family were. Bucky didn't even have that. How confusing and terrifying must this all be for him?

Hell, it was confusing and terrifying for both of them. Having Bucky so close physically and yet so far in every other way was a special kind of torture. There was nothing he could do about their situation at the moment, so he tried to quiet his mind in hopes of drifting toward sleep.