Steve intentionally slowed his pace as they approached the camp.
Bucky had long ago returned the leather jacket to him, though it was more ratty scraps than anything at this point. The recovering lab-rat still shivered through the cold nights whenever they were able to rest, but old habits die hard.
Steve needed to cover up that stupid costume or he'd be a walking target. Nobody knew if he was bullet-proof, not even Steve himself, and Bucky didn't really want to find out by tempting fate. He'd just deal with being cold, thank you very much.
Everyone formed loose ranks. They'd been through hell the last few weeks: marching through damp and cold, dodging (and occasionally finishing) fire-fights, and going for days without food - once their salvaged rations were gone. Everyone was foot-sore and exhausted, and several were badly wounded, but there was unspoken agreement amongst them. In the end they were soldiers and they would arrive like soldiers: heads held high.
Bucky walked just to Steve's left, determined and quiet. He tried to return the reassuring smile Steve gave him, but he couldn't quite manage it. That he still felt god-awful, cold, and sick was his own well-kept secret. It didn't matter much. He'd rest, he'd recover, and he'd be fine.
It was Steve he was worried about.
Steve really shouldn't be here at all. This wasn't a bad neighborhood, it was a goddamn war-zone. He might have become a superhero somewhere between the Expo and the HYDRA base, but as far as Bucky was concerned, he was still just a naive kid from New York City who has no business throwing himself into danger like this. Steve was going to get himself killed… IF he didn't get court-martialed and tossed into a stockade for the rest of his life first...