Said goodbye, turned around
And you were gone, gone, gone
Faded into the setting sun
Slipped away
But I won't cry
'Cause I know I'll never be lonely
For you are the stars to me
You are the light I follow

I will see you again
This is not where it ends
I will carry you with me
'Til I see you again

- "See You Again" by Carrie Underwood

Jail, it transpired, was very boring. The intake process was long and drawn-out, full of waiting and filling out paperwork and waiting some more. Finally, Bucky was given some bedding and led down a hallway to a tiny cell. After the guard locked the door behind him, he was left completely alone.

The cell that would become his home for the time being was cramped, with just enough room for a narrow bed, a tiny desk and stool bolted to the floor, and a toilet with a sink built into the tank. There wasn't even a window, just a single fluorescent light overhead. The only way to tell time in there was when they brought meals to him, and when the light in his cell turned off for eight hours at night.

Bucky got used to his new routine very quickly. The food was bland and uninspiring, but he dutifully ate all of it whenever they brought it around, quietly thanking the guard who brought the tray and came back to collect it. Once a day, usually in the morning, he was taken down the hall to a room where he could use a telephone for a short time.

The only person he ever called was Steve. The calls were recorded, of course, but he didn't care. He wished those short phone calls would last forever. He would close his eyes and press the receiver against his ear as hard as he could, trying to imagine that he was anywhere other than here. He soaked up every word Steve said, memorizing the cadence of his voice and basking in the warm affection so he could play it back for himself in the silence of his cell.

They never had much to say other than ensuring they were both up to speed on the latest developments in the extradition process. But Steve always made sure to say something reassuring, and Bucky did his best to sound positive—just so Steve wouldn't worry too much. And each phone call ended with a simple I love you. Bucky liked to imagine that each time Steve said that, a shiny little coin dropped into his hand. He was hoarding them, a comforting weight growing heavier and heavier in his pocket. He wouldn't spend them yet, just hold onto them as insurance against the uncertain future.

Most days, Bucky would get a visitor in the afternoon. The guards would handcuff him and lead him through several corridors to a little room with a table and two chairs. The visitor usually alternated between just two people. The first was McFayden, who would bring paperwork for him to sign and updates on how things were going. Those visits were often rather brief, but McFayden always made sure Bucky had everything he needed and answered any questions Bucky had.

On the days McFayden didn't come see him, Steve would visit instead. Bucky lived for those hour-long visits. He counted down the hours until the next one, measuring the time after the lunch tray was picked up by pacing back and forth in his cell and counting the steps.

Steve was allowed to hug Bucky when he entered the visiting room, and again when they said goodbye. Other than that, they had to sit on opposite sides of the table, unable to touch except to hold hands. It was so far from the closeness Bucky had grown used to, but anything was better than the long hours alone in his cell. Bucky clung tightly to Steve's warm hand and memorized every tiny shift in Steve's expression.

Bucky had a creeping feeling that this was just the calm before the storm. He wasn't sure how long it would be before they could hold the trial, and even then...he didn't really like to think about what could happen. He wasn't sure if the jail he'd be transferred to in New York would be the same as this one, or how often he'd be able to call Steve or see him in person.

Just in case, he stored up as many of these memories as he could. If he'd ever taken Steve's friendship for granted, he knew that now he never would.

Steve was growing to hate the interior of his hotel room. He was sick and tired of staring at the same four walls, the cheap art print on the wall, the view of the buildings across the street. He felt imprisoned in this room, with nothing to do but stare at his phone, stare at the TV, stare at the ceiling... But every time he started thinking in those terms, he felt guilty for complaining. Bucky was literally a prisoner, and he had it much worse.

Whenever Steve had to leave the hotel, he faced a veritable mob of reporters and cameras, everyone clamoring for a statement or a photo since Bucky was out of their reach. Steve answered a few of their questions, in the futile hope that they would stop bothering him, but it only seemed to make them more voracious than ever. The questions grew increasingly impertinent, ranging from What makes you say Barnes is innocent? to What will you do if Barnes is found guilty? to What is the nature of your relationship with Bucky Barnes? As if any of that was their business at all.

Soon, Steve just tried his best to ignore them. None of them seemed to want to hear his assertion that Bucky was innocent anyway. He didn't like to leave the hotel and face the horde of reporters unless he had to, so he ended up spending the majority of his time cooped up in his hotel room.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a whole lot Steve could do to help Bucky. For now, they just had to wait for the authorities to work through the red tape and arrange Bucky's extradition. McFayden explained that the process was especially complicated because of the security concerns with such a high-profile case.

In the meantime, Steve visited Bucky as often as they would let him. Bucky was allowed to wear his own clothes in jail, so on his first visit Steve brought over the few items of clothing Bucky had brought on this trip. He wished there was more he could do than just sit and talk to him.

Those hour-long conversations were the bright spot in these days filled with fear and uncertainty. It was reassuring to see Bucky, unchanged even in such an unfamiliar place. He did his best to smile and keep their conversations upbeat despite their cheerless surroundings, and he held Bucky's right hand in both of his the whole time they were together. Steve hoped that those visits encouraged Bucky at least a little and reminded him that he wasn't alone.

Steve also looked forward to the daily phone calls from Bucky. They were short, and there often wasn't much to say. But they were daily reminders to both of them to keep hoping for the day when they would be together again outside the prison walls.

Still, there were many hours that he and Bucky couldn't spend together. Steve did his best to fill those hours with useful activity. He spent a lot of time on the phone, calling attorneys in New York that Sam researched for him in the hopes of finding one that would be right for Bucky. It was a frustrating, disheartening search. By now, everyone had seen coverage of the bombing on the news. Most of the attorneys Steve spoke to seemed convinced of Bucky's guilt already, and spent most of the call talking about potential plea deals. A few quickly declined or even hung up on him as soon as he explained who he was and why he was calling. He kept crossing names off the dwindling list, trying not to lose heart. Maybe the next one I call will be the one... The next one... The next...

Steve looked forward to his calls home much more. Every evening, he would call to check in on Sam and Jake. Though Jake never said much, he seemed to be doing well. Sam showed off the drawings he'd done, talked about how much fun they'd had on the basketball court, and told him that Jake had said he liked hot dogs and dinosaur-shaped macaroni and cheese. Jake just blinked expressionlessly, neither confirming nor denying anything Sam said. Even though he knew Jake probably wouldn't be much more demonstrative in person, Steve found himself missing his quiet, timid little boy more and more each day.

Another subject he and Sam discussed often was where they would move when Bucky was brought back to the States. Once it was determined that Bucky would be sent to a prison in New York City, Steve decided he should probably go ahead and find a place to live there, even if Bucky wasn't going to be in prison that long.

"It would be nice to move back to Brooklyn," Steve said when he brought up the idea to Sam.

On the screen of Steve's phone, Sam raised an eyebrow. "Can you afford a place in Brooklyn?"

"Well...yes, actually." Clearing his throat awkwardly, Steve averted his eyes. He never liked bringing this subject up. It was strange enough for someone with his background that he didn't really like thinking about it either. "When I was in the ice, I was considered MIA. And then when they found me...they, uh...well, they kind of...owed me seventy years of back pay?"

Sam blinked several times in quick succession as he absorbed this. "Wait, so...how much is that?"

Steve mumbled something, pretending to be fascinated by the view out the window.

"EIGHT MILLION?" Sam roared, the view from his camera wheeling about wildly as he dropped his phone. Steve could hear him hastily apologizing to Jake and reassuring him before retrieving his phone from where it had apparently fallen face-down on the floor.

Once they had calmed down again (Jake perched on the far edge of his chair and watching Sam with wide, wary eyes), Sam spluttered incoherently at Steve. Finally, he managed to choke out, "And here I was feeling sorry for you and letting you mooch offa me—and you could've just bought your own mansion and I coulda freeloaded all this time!"

"Sorry..." Steve smiled weakly. "I...didn't know how to tell you... I've donated a lot of it, but...there's just so much, I never know what to do with it all..."

"Dude, you might as well just buy a whole apartment building..."

On their call the next day, Sam seemed to have recovered from his shock somewhat. Once their conversation turned toward finding an apartment in Brooklyn again, Sam casually said, "Well, just make sure you get an apartment with four bedrooms, then."

Steve frowned. "Four? Why?"

"To make room for me after Bucky gets out! Well, I guess three would work if you're planning to share with Bucky again..."

"What? No, Sam, you already have a house in D.C..."

Sam shrugged. "Not anymore. Called my realtor yesterday."

Guilt swamped Steve as he took in Sam's cheerful grin. Yet again, Sam was prepared to set aside his own life just because they were friends. "No...you have family back there; you shouldn't—"

Sam's smile softened. "What makes you think you're not family too? Besides, who else is gonna watch Jake when you go visit Bucky? Admit it, Steve: You'd just crash and burn on your own."

And how could Steve argue with that?

During the long days spent waiting in his hotel room, Steve ended up watching much more television than he usually did, especially in the morning when it was too early to call anyone in America. So while he waited for Bucky's call each morning, there wasn't much to do besides flip through the channels or do more research on his phone. Often, he would go down to the hotel's exercise room while it was still deserted and run on the treadmill or lift some weights, just to expel some of the nervous energy building up in him. It wasn't as effective as a workout in the Avengers' gym would have been; he never felt like he could really push himself, for fear of breaking the equipment. And as soon as anyone else ventured into the exercise room, Steve retreated to his room again before they could start staring at him.

Most of what Steve watched during these long, anxious days ended up being the news. It didn't really help him get his mind off Bucky; every news channel was understandably obsessed with the whole fiasco. Every time he turned on the TV, they seemed to be talking about something related to the bombing—updates on the progress (or lack thereof) in the investigation, discussion of the Accords, interviews with survivors of the bombing. And there were plenty of photos and video clips of Bucky leaving the embassy, and of Steve or McFayden on their way to or from the jail. Steve hadn't seen any sign of the photos taken in the embassy, for which he was grateful.

The hardest thing to watch was the families of the ones who had died in the bombing. Each time one of them made a statement in a press conference or an interview was a harsh reminder that Bucky wasn't the only victim of this attack—or even the worst one. He might be behind bars, but at least he was still alive. And Steve missed him terribly, but at least there was a good chance that Bucky would be free again soon, and he could visit him in the meantime. That was more than some could say.

It was extremely frustrating to Steve that there was nothing he could do to hunt down the real culprit and bring him to justice. It wouldn't bring back the people who had died, but maybe it would at least bring some closure to their families. And most importantly, catching that man would mean that no one else had to suffer this way.

But because of the Accords, he had no choice but to sit back and watch the news. Being a civilian again was even more frustrating now than it used to be.

Among the people who had died in the bombing, much attention was given to King T'Chaka of Wakanda, who had been addressing the U.N. when the bomb detonated. In the days that followed, Steve heard a lot of reports about how the tiny African nation was mourning their leader, and the succession of the throne to his son T'Challa.

Steve didn't know much about Wakanda except that it was where vibranium came from. He watched with interest when Prince T'Challa spoke at a press conference before returning to Wakanda for his coronation. Even though he remained poised and controlled, he had to pause for a moment before saying, "My father's death...is a grave loss to me and to my people. I will strive to uphold his legacy in the years to come." When someone asked him what he thought should be done with Bucky Barnes, T'Challa simply said, "I am grateful to everyone involved in the investigation of this attack. I only wish to see that justice is done."

For about a week after this appearance, Steve heard little more about Wakanda. Then reports came trickling in of T'Challa's succession, which apparently hadn't been quite as smooth as expected—something about a coup or a rebellion; Steve wasn't entirely sure. But as soon as T'Challa secured his position as king, he made an announcement that he was opening the borders of Wakanda, which had always remained closed to foreigners.

"Wakanda will no longer watch from the shadows," T'Challa said the next time Steve saw him on TV, "We cannot. We must not. We will work to be an example of how we, as brothers and sisters on this earth, should treat each other. Now, more than ever, the illusions of division threaten our very existence." He looked directly into the camera, and Steve felt as if T'Challa were looking right at him. "We all know the truth: More connects us than separates us. But in times of crisis, the wise build bridges while the foolish build barriers. We must find a way to look after one another as if we were one, single tribe."

Steve wondered what T'Challa would say when it came time for Bucky's trial and the evidence showed that he wasn't the one responsible for the bombing after all. He wanted to believe that T'Challa would be able to accept Bucky's innocence. The last thing they needed was the king of an entire country believing that Bucky had killed his father.

Naturally, Steve assumed that T'Challa would remain a face on the other side of a TV screen. But when Bucky had been in the London prison for almost two weeks, he discovered that he was wrong about that.

On one of the days Steve wasn't planning to visit Bucky, he was surprised to receive a call from McFayden asking him to join him at the prison that afternoon. Normally, Steve had to wait a day or two in between visits, so he quickly realized that something must have changed. He fretted to himself for the whole ride, trying to prepare himself for anything.

Once he'd made it through the stringent security check, Steve followed the guard to the room where he usually visited Bucky. McFayden was already there, waiting for him, and they had barely greeted each other when another guard brought Bucky in.

After they had all settled down at the table, McFayden looked between both of them with a serious expression. "There has been a...development in your case, Mr. Barnes, and I wanted to discuss it with both of you. I've talked before about the snags we've run into in negotiating your extradition—namely, the question of security. Concerns have been raised regarding the potential danger of moving a man with enhanced strength and a metal arm across the Atlantic."

Steve gripped Bucky's hand tightly. "But he's been cooperating fully. He hasn't caused any problems—"

"Precisely the arguments I've been making," McFayden said with a placating gesture. "But it seems the CIA still isn't convinced, and as they're the ones who will be moving Mr. Barnes, I'm afraid that's not good enough. The favorite method of transporting you seems to be a sort of cage with shackles that would send an electric current through your metal arm to immobilize it."

Bucky shrank back in his chair, swallowing hard. Steve saw how wide his eyes were, how pale his cheeks looked in the harsh fluorescent light, and he had a feeling he knew what Bucky was thinking about. It was too much like the Chair. Faced with being locked into a chair with metal restraints charged with electricity, even if not enough to hurt him... The memories would overpower him, and everyone around him would turn into the Hydra agents who had tortured him. He'd probably fight back. He wouldn't be able to help it. And that would only throw more fuel on the fire, proving that everyone who said he was a heartless monster was right.

McFayden smiled apologetically. "I didn't think you would like it. Thankfully, we've been offered an alternative from a...rather surprising source." He pulled out his glasses and leafed through the folder he'd brought with him, pulling out a piece of paper that he slid across the table to Bucky. Steve couldn't read it very well upside-down, but it looked like a letter.

"King T'Challa of Wakanda wants to help the CIA move you safely to the U.S. He's offering the services of his top technical engineer to find a way to remove your arm in the least invasive way possible."

Steve and Bucky both stared at him.

"But...why?" Steve finally asked. "Wasn't his father one of the casualties? Why would he want to help us?"

"According to this letter," McFayden said, nodding at the piece of paper, "he wants to speed up the process as much as possible so that justice can be served for the ones who lost their lives that day.

"The CIA are amenable to this compromise," McFayden continued. "If your arm is removed, they will not need to take extraordinary precautions when transporting you, and the transfer can be carried out as soon as your procedure is done. The choice is yours, Mr. Barnes. But I should warn you that if you don't like either of these options...it may be quite some time before an agreement can be reached."

Steve met Bucky's gaze, and he could see that Bucky was no more excited at the prospect of staying in this state of limbo than he was. But neither of the other options were very appealing either. Sitting in this electric cage thing would be traumatizing at best...but to lose his arm all over again? Steve could only imagine how hard that would be. Even the smallest actions would become complicated, if not utterly impossible, with only one hand.

McFayden took his glasses off and said gently, "If you need to think about it or talk it over with each other..."

But Bucky shook his head, his jaw set with determination. "Let's get it over with. They can take my arm off."

Steve drew in a sharp breath. "Buck...are you sure...?"

Bucky gave him a half-smile, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Anything that'll help things move quicker. Besides..." He looked down at his left arm, opening and closing his metal fist on the table. "I'm happy to get rid of anything Hydra gave me."

Bucky knew he'd made the right choice. The only choice. He thought he'd probably go crazy if he had to wait in this jail much longer, his future hidden in a fog of uncertainty. And the option of being carried halfway around the world in an electrified cage was not an option. Just imagining it made him want to back into a corner and fight off anyone who got within range of his fists. He couldn't trust himself not to hurt someone in that situation.

The only option left was to let them take his arm. He told himself that he didn't mind. He told Steve that it would be a relief to get rid of it. But when the moment actually came and he was led to the jail's medical wing for the procedure itself, he caught himself wondering why he'd ever agreed to this.

Bucky's skin crawled as the guard led him into a little room with a hospital bed, the back raised enough so he could sit up. He focused on breathing deeply as the guard directed him to get up on the bed and take off his shirt, then cuffed his right hand to the railing. I wish you were here, Steve, he thought. But they hadn't let him stick around for this.

A comforting weight settled on his shoulder. I'm always here, Buck.

He didn't look over at Stephanos, but Bucky found he could breathe a little deeper. Just don't let me lose control, he pleaded silently as the guard opened the door and spoke to someone outside. Don't let me hurt anybody.

The nonexistent hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. You've got nothing to worry about.

The guard stepped outside, letting three people enter the room and then closing the door behind them. To Bucky's astonishment, he recognized the woman leading them. "Sharon?" he blurted out.

Sharon Carter gave him a little smile, stepping forward and grasping his right hand in an awkward sort of handshake. "Good to see you again, Bucky. Though I wish it was under better circumstances."

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked dumbly.

"My boss needed someone to act as an escort today. I volunteered." She gave him another smile—brief, but kind. Bucky felt inordinately grateful that there was at least one friendly face in the room.

Sharon turned, getting down to business. She gestured towards the other two who had entered the room. "This is King T'Challa and Princess Shuri of Wakanda. She'll be removing your arm today."

Bucky turned his attention to the others. T'Challa wasn't exactly what Bucky had imagined an African king to look like; he wore a simple but well-tailored black suit, his only accessory a thick ring on his right hand. Standing at his side was a girl—just a teenager, from the looks of it—whose clothes were much more casual. She wore her long, dark hair in narrow braids that were pulled back neatly, and she carried a large bag slung over one shoulder. Both of them eyed Bucky with nearly identical expressions of wary resignation. Bucky was surprised at how young Shuri seemed to be. Was she really the top engineer of Wakanda?

And she was the princess. The king and (he assumed) the next in line to the throne, shut in this little room with the man everyone thought had blown up the U.N. He looked between the two of them and Sharon. "Isn't this a...security risk? I mean...don't you need more guards in case I...try something? Not that I'm going to," he hastily added.

The ghost of a smirk crossed T'Challa's lips. "That would be very ambitious of you."

"There's a SWAT team on standby if you want," Sharon said to T'Challa.

But the king waved his hand casually. "That will not be necessary, thank you."

T'Challa took up a position by the door with his hands clasped behind his back, almost like a guard. As if he were confident in his ability to take matters into his own hands and subdue Bucky himself if need be. Bucky wouldn't have expected something like that of a monarch. Didn't kings usually have security guards for their security guards?

Another thought occurred to him, swiftly banishing the surprise. He'd already been worrying about whether he should say something—and what he possibly could say—to T'Challa about his father. But now he also faced a young girl who had lost her father that day too. Somehow, that made him feel even worse. Even though it wasn't his fault, he understood the position they were all in.

A tense silence closed over the three of them in a moment that seemed to last an eternity. But there were words burning on Bucky's tongue, so he finally cleared his throat and managed to say, "You...You don't have to...believe me. But I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore." He forced himself to meet T'Challa's eyes, then Shuri's. "I didn't kill your father. I get it if you...hate me, or something. But...I thought you should know."

He couldn't tell what either of them thought of this. They shared a look, a silent communication that only siblings could achieve. Then T'Challa nodded to Shuri, silently telling her to begin.

Sharon gave Bucky another encouraging smile, pulling over a chair from the corner. She sat down on Bucky's right side, positioned just far enough away that Shuri could slip past her if necessary, but no farther. Every time he turned his head to the right, Bucky would be able to see her immediately.

Maybe Sharon didn't mean it this way—maybe she was just curious and wanted a good spot to watch the action—but Bucky felt a swoop of gratitude at the comforting gesture. It was exactly what Steve would have done if he'd been allowed to sit in on the procedure. Well, he probably would have sat closer and held Bucky's hand the entire time, whether he was in the way or not.

Part of him wanted to ask Sharon to hold his hand anyway, but...he had no idea how she'd respond to that. They barely knew each other. So, instead of risking the awkwardness, Bucky just gripped the railing his hand was cuffed to and tried to prepare himself for anything.

Shuri approached Bucky's left side, wheeling over a little table that she adjusted to the right height for him to rest his arm on it. In an instant, she transformed from an uncertain teenage girl into a professional as she began to examine his arm.

Not much was said as she went about her work, except when she asked him questions about how much he could feel or what he remembered of the installation process. Bucky answered as best as he could, but he didn't know much about the technical side of things. They hadn't exactly bothered to explain in any great detail how his arm worked, they just fixed it when it malfunctioned. The entire time, Bucky was aware of T'Challa's sharp eyes watching his every move. He didn't say anything, just watched, his brow furrowing thoughtfully from time to time.

Shuri spent a long time examining every inch of Bucky's arm, using various measuring instruments that Bucky had never seen before. At one point, she pulled out some small spherical device that seemed like a kind of handheld X-ray machine. Bucky watched curiously as a transparent image was projected in the air above his arm, displaying an intricate network of wires and circuits. Was that what the inside of his arm looked like?

When it came time for her to actually start taking the arm off, Shuri asked him whether he wanted localized anesthesia or to go under completely. Bucky didn't even have to think about it. The last thing he wanted was to be completely defenseless when a stranger was digging around in his arm. Even if she didn't do anything to hurt him, the mere thought made his skin crawl.

The process was a long one, as he'd known it would be. Shuri worked with delicate tools, much smaller and more precise than the ones Hydra had always used on him. She kept on tutting to herself at the apparently inefficient design of his arm as she carefully dismantled it. At first, Shuri started removing the metal plating encasing his arm, but soon she turned her focus to his shoulder, ignoring the rest of the limb.

Bucky wasn't sure what he'd expected his arm being detached to feel like, except that he'd assumed it would be painful, even with anesthesia. Instead, he felt a strange sort of prickling somewhere around his shoulder, a sudden jolt all the way down his arm, and then...nothing. Even though Shuri had told him not to move, Bucky tried to wiggle his fingers a little.

His hand lay on the table, an inert lump of metal.

It took even longer for Shuri to completely detach the arm. But eventually the whole thing sat on the table next to him, no longer attached to his body. For the first time in seventy years, he was down to one arm again.

He still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Bucky craned his neck around, watching as Shuri sprayed something on his shoulder. It seemed to be a kind of resin that created a smooth, translucent seal over the pieces of metal still stuck in his shoulder.

"The arm was connected to a network rooted deep in your chest," Shuri explained as she worked. "I wouldn't be able to remove it all without cutting deep into the tissue, so I only removed the external portion of the arm. This seal will keep water and contaminants from getting inside your body."

As Shuri stepped back and began putting her tools away, Bucky looked down at himself. He felt (and looked) lopsided, like he was going to tip over to the right if he wasn't careful. Now his left side was more or less a straight line; he didn't even have a stump of an arm, just a shoulder covered with bits of metal, twisted scars, and that translucent seal.

Bucky looked up at Shuri and said quietly, "Thank you."

Shuri gazed back at him for a long moment, as if reading something in his eyes. Then she slowly nodded, slid the dismantled arm into her bag, and headed for the door. T'Challa joined her there, then turned back for one final look at Bucky.

For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something. Instead, he just opened the door and followed Shuri out.

Bucky leaned back in the bed and let out a breath. He felt lighter now, and it wasn't just because one of his arms was gone.

As the guard returned to the room, keys jingling, Sharon walked over to shake Bucky's hand again. "Good luck," she murmured before hurrying out the door after T'Challa and Shuri.

Bucky smiled a little to himself. He could see why Steve liked her.

As the plane took off from Heathrow Airport, Steve leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes with a weary sigh. The trip that was originally supposed to last two nights had ended up taking two weeks, but it was finally over.

At the same time, Steve knew this was just the beginning. He wasn't sure how long it would be before the trial was set, but he knew a crime as big as this one would take a long time to untangle. Especially when an innocent man was the only suspect they had.

But at least they were making progress. Once Bucky's arm had been removed, they'd finally got the transfer underway. Bucky was somewhere in the air ahead of him, on a different flight under heavy guard, making its way back to New York. Steve wasn't allowed to know too many of the details.

Cracking his eyes open again, Steve looked at the empty seat next to him. Two weeks ago, Bucky had been sitting beside him. They'd whiled away the hours by talking about Jake and their plans for the future, just trying to keep their minds away from their grief over losing Peggy.

He had no one to talk to this time. No one to hold his hand and keep reminding him to look ahead, to hope for the future. Now he had to do that all on his own.

Steve curled his hands into fists on the armrests, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. By sheer force of will, he pushed aside the fog of gloom. Staying hopeful wasn't just about his own peace of mind. Bucky needed him to stay strong. So did Jake. He wasn't going to fall to pieces when his family needed him. Especially when that would make him even more of a burden to Sam, too.

So instead of feeling sorry for himself, Steve did his best to focus on the bright spots in the future. There was to be a hearing in the next couple of days to discuss bail. Steve didn't care how much that ended up being; even if he had to pay every cent he owned, he would hand it over in a heartbeat to bring Bucky home. And once that happened...it would be okay. They'd just have to wait for the trial, but it would be so much easier to be together in the meantime.

Then there was the matter of an attorney. Steve pushed aside the memories of dozens of disheartening phone calls he'd made over the past couple weeks. He still had a few names on the list, some last-minute additions that Sam had dug up for him. They were all rather small law firms that probably didn't have any experience with such a daunting case...but Steve refused to lose hope. He would find the right one soon. He would.

And in the meantime, he was going home. Steve pulled out his phone and found the latest few photos Sam had sent him. His heart softened, a little of the anxiety melting away, as he looked at a picture of Jake sitting in a bubble bath, his dark hair sticking up all over his head like a porcupine. He was giving the camera (and thus Sam) a puzzled frown.

Steve chuckled softly to himself, zooming in on his son's face. He missed Jake. He'd tried not to dwell on it too much, because every time he thought about Jake for very long, he felt his absence like a knife in the heart. It was silly—it had only been two weeks, and Jake probably hadn't missed him at all. But even two weeks was too much for him. He'd already lost four years' worth of memories and watching his son grow. He didn't want to miss any more.

And there would be more. Steve consoled himself with that thought. Things would be messy with Bucky for a while still, until they got his case straightened out. But he would always have Jake. There was so much more to teach him, so much more to show him about the world. So many opportunities to prove how much he loved him.

His phone screen went dark, and Steve turned to look out his window instead. The sun shone bright on the carpet of puffy clouds below the wing of the plane. Far below those clouds were the cold, turbulent waters of the ocean. Maybe it was raining down there, as the clouds rolled in and blocked out the sun.

But up here, the sun shone bright and clear in the azure sky. The clouds stretched to every horizon, white and clean like a blank canvas just waiting for the first brushstrokes of the future.

Steve reached under his shirt and pulled out the chain he wore around his neck. He clasped Bucky's ring tightly in his hand. Brother, I am eternally yours.

He knew the future would be fraught with many unexpected and unpredictable difficulties. But as long as that promise remained true, he knew he could face them all.

Be strong, and let your heart take courage,
all you who wait for the Lord!

- Psalm 31:24

Author's Note: Thus ends Part 1! Many thanks to everyone who's made it this far, and as always, I would love to hear your thoughts on the story. You can reach me here or at griseldabanks dot tumblr dot com!