I don't own the Avengers. Or Bucky Barnes.
It might be a one-chapter-every-couple-of-days update schedule. That strikes a nice balance between one-a-day and one-a-week, doesn't it? Yes? I thought so, too.
This is Chapter Two of Four. Welcome to Steve's POV! Hope you like it. It's a little shorter than last chapter, but there's a lot of hurt. And comfort. :)
Next chapter we have Bucky's POV (longer). And Ch.4 is Nat's (even longer again).
Thank you to everyone who's left a review! I love them. They make me smile like a loon. Really. Thank you so much.
You won't be left hanging on this one. I promise.
Steve is aware. He's not aware of much, but he's aware of enough. He knows it's Bucky beside him. He knows that Bucky knows it's him. He can't find it in himself to move, and he doubts Bucky can move either, and he knows that that tenuous connection of shoulder-against-shoulder is the only thing stopping both of them from going completely off the rails.
Past clashes against present in his head, history against reality, assumption against fact. Bucky's dying scream is frozen somewhere in his chest. He can'tbreathe can'tbreathe can'tbreathe but he can, he is, he's breathing. Every inhale chokes him, every exhale burns like fire in his lungs, but he's alive, he's breathing.
And beside him, Bucky is alive. Bucky is breathing.
Some distant part of him is still on alert, ready for action. But he's safe here. He knows he's safe. He can break down with no fear of the consequences.
This is death.
It had to happen sometime.
Dimly he realises that Bucky is muttering under his breath, a nonstop cadence of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 32557038 Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 32557038 Sergeant James. Perhaps it's not surprising. Anything to keep him grounded.
Sometime later, the words peter out. Bucky is silent for the rest of the trip.
Steve feels the jet slow and stop. They must be home. He's aware of gentle words and gentler movements, aware of a change in atmosphere when they step inside. Beside him, despite the warmth of the room, Bucky's ever-present shivering intensifies.
He's aware enough to fight — not a real fight, not violent, but a struggle — when they try to take him and Bucky to seperate rooms. He doesn't break contact with Bucky. Not once.
They curl up back-to-back in the narrow bed, just like their army days, and he smells antiseptic and makes the connection to the medical bay and doesn't flinch when cool fingers sweep sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. At his back, Bucky shivers worse than ever. Worse than those harsh winter nights sharing a tent with the rest of Howling Commandos. Almost worse than when Steve found him in Zola's facility in 1943.
But not quite that bad.
Words fly around them, non responsive and our fault, should have read up and hope this doesn't reverse the — and Steve tunes it out, tunes all of it out, the talk and the movement and the sharp tang of panic, and he listens to Bucky breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
He's shivering too, he realises. And crying. Again. Still? Yes, still. Even seventy years later, he's still crying over Bucky's death.
It's not enough, this back-to-back contact. He can't see Bucky. What if it's not him, what if it's something planted by Hydra, a clone or a hallucination or — or —
Steve rolls on the spot, feels the focus of the room change, discards the information as unimportant. He wraps an arm around Bucky, feels him tremble, tucks his best friend's head under his chin and breathes.
There. That's Bucky. The shampoo is different, an expensive facsimile of the cheap stuff they used when they were kids, but it's Bucky alright. Steve's shivering eases. The tears don't.
That's alright. He can cry. He can cry for both of them.
He knows he's safe. They're both safe. But all the same… Bucky can't protect himself. Even Steve can hardly protect himself now. His head's too scrambled, mind too lost in the haze of terror and anguish and blind shock. But Bucky can't protect himself. At all.
Which means, if push comes to shove, it's up to Steve. His grip tightens.
Bucky stares straight ahead, expression unchanged. He could be carved into stone for all the acknowledgement he gives Steve. They're lying on their right-hand sides; Bucky's left arm, the metal one, lies motionless. Steve doubts he feels it. Doubt he feels anything right now.
Anything but the cold and the pain.
For a second he watches Bucky, half-convinced he heard a noise, a strangled dying moan of pain… but no. There was nothing.
He closes his eyes against Bucky's thousand-yard stare.
Wanda, someone says. Do it now. Carefully.
A slim hand rests on his temple. He cracks his eyes open to see its twin on Bucky's head. Something rises in him, a surge of pain-grief-fear and then irrational rage, don't touch him, don't you touch Bucky, but before he can move-react-protect the world falls away into darkness.
