And even though I'm walking through
The valley of the shadow
I will hold tight to the hand of him
Whose love will comfort me
And when all hope is gone
And I've been wounded in the battle
He is all the strength that I will ever need
He will carry me
- "He Will Carry Me" by Mark Schultz
Monster. Scum. Filthy. Helpless. Powerless.
Bucky sat on a boulder near the entrance to the Hydra base, his backside getting colder and colder. But he didn't move. He just sat there numbly, watching the others as if from a thousand miles away.
He'd woken to a splitting headache and the sinking knowledge that it had happened again. Zemo had spoken the Words, ripped away his control, and he'd hurt someone again.
No...not just 'someone.' Bucky caught sight of Sam carrying Jake into the Quinjet nearby, and quickly averted his eyes. But not quickly enough to keep from seeing the blood.
What kind of man hurts a four-year-old child? Let alone his own grandson? Now he'll always be scared of you—as he should be. Monster.
That wasn't you. You didn't choose to do that. Zemo forced you to hurt him.
And you couldn't resist. There's nothing you can do. Nothing you can ever do. You've been twisted so much, you're dangerous even with only one hand.
Bucky's eyes followed Steve as he walked over to the new kid—Peter, that was his name. That hastily-bandaged cut on Steve's arm was his fault. So were the bruises on his face, the torn lip... He could still feel his knuckles colliding with Steve's cheek...Jake's skinny arm clenched in his hand, the way the bones crunched as he yanked it at a horrible angle...the scream of agony...
Distantly, he realized he was shivering. He wasn't sure if it was because of the stiff breeze blowing the snow around, or because of the harrowing memories filling his mind.
Peter was clutching his right side, which was leaking blood past the weird spiderweb covering his wound. Had he done that too? He couldn't remember...
"Hey, I-I'm really sorry," Peter was stammering at Steve. "When I pulled that knife out of Zemo's hand, I...I think it cut Jake's...Jake's neck, and..." He swooned, and probably would have fallen into a snow drift if Steve didn't catch him.
"Whoa, there," Steve said, setting him back on his feet again. "Don't worry about Jake; he's going to be just fine."
"But...it was really dangerous...I should've..."
Steve gave Peter an encouraging smile that made Bucky's chest ache. "You've got heart, kid. And you did really well today. Now go let Sam patch you up before you lose any more blood."
"Yeah...Yeah, okay..."
See that? Brad sneered in the back of his head. That's what a true hero looks like. Protecting, not threatening. Peter helped Steve, while you ripped apart everything he held dear...
Steve turned to look at him, and Bucky hastily dropped his gaze to his hand, dangling limply over his knee and trembling with the cold.
He hates you. He looks at you, and all he can see is how utterly you've failed him.
He's concerned. He knows what you're going through right now, and he wants to make sure you're all right.
The voices in his head were deafening, somehow more real than anything around him. Bucky was vaguely aware of the others walking to and fro, discussing their plans. Sam reassuring them that Jake and Peter were on the road to recovery, though they needed to get to a hospital before Jake's enhanced healing made his bones heal crooked.
Your fault your fault your fault your fault...
They were talking about him. Discussing what was to be done with him. They stood just a few paces away, occasionally glancing his way—especially Steve, who looked like he was trying to include Bucky in the conversation. But it felt like they were talking about someone else, so he didn't say anything.
Besides, it wasn't like he deserved to ask anything of them. No matter what he wanted, someone would always be able to just come along and use him. So how could he know what was best? He was just a weapon. You didn't ask a knife if it wanted to go on the shelf or not. You just put it back where it belonged, then took it out when you needed it again.
That's not how they see you, Stephanos whispered in one ear.
But it doesn't keep it from being true, Brad whispered in the other.
T'Challa was talking about what he would do with Zemo. Since his crimes of breaking Bucky out of prison and kidnapping Jake had happened on American soil, he would hand Zemo over to the U.S. authorities, though depending on how they handled the matter, he might demand extradition to Wakanda instead.
But then, what about Bucky? It might not have been his choice to break out of Rikers, but he still faced all the charges that had put him there in the first place. T'Challa offered to take Bucky with him, make sure he was safely incarcerated in Rikers again. Steve argued...he was getting agitated...Sam put in his two cents, pointing out that they needed to prioritize getting Jake to a doctor...
What was the big deal? Bucky knew he wasn't going to see the light of day after this. It wasn't like he deserved to, anyway. Why couldn't Steve see that? It was pointless to resist or pretend they had another choice.
"I'll go," he finally said, his voice hoarse from disuse. Everyone immediately fell silent and turned to look at him, but he just stood up and stared blankly at their feet. "I'll go with him. The only other thing you could do is go on the run. And that's not an option. So I'll go."
It sounded like a choice, but it wasn't. Not really. But it was probably the only thing that could get Steve to relent at this point. Steve didn't argue anymore, and that was that. Their plans were fixed.
T'Challa left to fetch his jet on the other side of the mountain, and Sam went to check up on Jake and Peter. Which left Bucky alone with Steve.
Steve stepped closer, and Bucky's heart clenched with fear. He kept staring at the ground, because he couldn't stand to look into those eyes and see...anger. Disappointment. Disgust. Rejection.
And yet...did he deserve any less? None of this would have happened if not for him. He'd hurt Steve, he'd hurt Jake, so if Steve decked him right now, it would be no more than he deserved...
"Buck..."
Before he realized what was happening, Steve closed the space between them and threw his arms around him. Bucky froze in the tight, warm embrace—a sensation he hadn't felt since that last time in London. It was so familiar, so comforting after months of the cold, harsh world he'd been living in...
No. He didn't deserve this. Not after what he'd done.
Bucky planted his hand on Steve's chest and tried to push him away, tried to step back out of Steve's embrace. But Steve didn't let go. If anything, he only clung tighter, his grip so strong it almost hurt. "Buck...please..."
Like the flip of a switch, all resistance fled immediately. Even if he didn't deserve it...Steve needed this. And even though it made him hate himself a little more...he wanted it too. He wanted to just melt into the warmth and security of their embrace, to let himself believe that he was worth it. That he was wanted, that he was needed, that somehow the broken, mangled mess of his heart could still do some good.
So he buried his face in Steve's shoulder and wrapped his one arm around him, grabbing a fistful of Steve's uniform. Steve turned his head, his beard tickling against Bucky's neck, and gave him a clumsy, almost desperate kiss.
A shiver ran down Bucky's spine—from the warmth this time, not the cold. No one had touched him like this in so long. Not even Steve had. The only touch he'd experienced had been rough, violent, uncaring. "How long has it been?" he whispered.
Steve clutched him tighter, fingers catching in the tangle of Bucky's hair. He drew a shuddering breath and said in a choked voice, "Too long."
Somehow, even though those words stabbed at him like a knife...they made it easier to breathe. They were proof that somehow, inexplicably, Steve didn't hate him. He'd missed Bucky...he wanted more time... Nothing Bucky had done had changed that.
And the voices were silent. He didn't know when the last time was that he'd been himself, without the constant chatter of the voices every waking moment. Bucky closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of being in the safest place in the world. Oh, how he'd missed this...
He should say something, shouldn't he? Try to apologize...but no amount of words could make up for what he'd done to them. If he had a whole day, it still wouldn't be long enough to think of everything he needed to say. Not when there were so many unspoken words still hanging between them from the past few months. The last time they'd spoken, they'd argued. He'd said things he regretted, especially now when it was plain to see that he had no right to criticize Steve for any of the choices he'd made. Steve shouldn't have sent Jake away, because he'd sent him right into the arms of Zemo.
The tangle of words caught in his throat. There was too much to say, and they had no time at all. Bucky could already hear the engines of T'Challa's jet approaching.
Steve pulled back just far enough to look Bucky in the eye. Bucky's gaze immediately latched onto Steve's cheek, red and inflamed. He ducked his head and let go of Steve, the shame welling up in him like bile. But Steve nudged his chin up to catch his eye again, not letting him look away. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His lips were trembling, tears filling his eyes.
Why? Bucky wanted to ask. Why do you care so much when all I ever do is hurt you? But his jaw felt like it was wired shut. His own eyes were dry, but he didn't think he could have spoken those words if there was a gun to his head.
Steve reached under his shirt and pulled out the chain hanging around his neck. And there, swinging in the cold air, were the dog tags and a ring. A silver and black ring twisted into a mobius strip. He couldn't read the words engraved inside, but he knew what they said: Brother, I am eternally yours.
Steve took Bucky's hand and slipped his forefinger through the ring, not bothering to take it off the chain. When Bucky looked down at the hand holding his in place, he saw the matching ring on Steve's finger. It was still there, after all this time. After everything that had happened.
He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten?
But...just because he'd forgotten...that didn't mean the ring had disappeared. Steve had carried it with him, all the way across the world, because the promise held true whether there was a metal band around their fingers or not.
I don't deserve you...but I'm yours. Bucky curled his finger around Steve's, his keen hearing picking up the sound of the metal clinking together even as the wind kicked up around them.
Steve threw his free arm around him, pulling him in for one last hug. Bucky only had one hand, so he clung to Steve's with all his might, burying his face in the warm space between Steve's shoulder and his neck.
They didn't know when they would get a chance to do this again. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe forever. Bucky clutched at every fleeting second, though they ran through his fingers like sand.
It was all he had. It was all he could give.
"It's okay...it's okay, baby...Daddy's got you...you're going to be just fine..."
Steve kept up the constant stream of encouraging whispers to the small boy in his arms, even though Jake had fallen into an exhausted sleep an hour ago, helped along by the pain medicine Sam had given him. Once he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop—or rather, if he stopped murmuring these gentle words of encouragement, he was sure he would just end up screaming instead.
He'd barely been able to keep it together as he'd reluctantly let go of Bucky and watched him walk into T'Challa's jet. The only thing that had kept him from collapsing in the snow and breaking down completely was the knowledge that they needed to get Jake to a hospital.
But now that he sat in the back of the Quinjet, Sam having seen to all of their wounds, making steady progress back to New York, it was impossible to keep the tears at bay. They rolled steadily down his cheeks, dripping from his nose and creating a wet spot on Jake's shirt.
He'd had Bucky back. He'd been right there in his arms, for the first time since that horrible day in London...and they'd had no time. Steve kept thinking of things he should have said. An apology for that argument the last time they'd spoken. Reassurances, in blatant language that not even Brad could mess up, that he still loved Bucky no matter what.
Instead, he'd barely even been able to say a single word. All he could do was cling to Bucky and cry. It wasn't fair. It had been months since he'd been able to so much as hold Bucky's hand, weeks since they'd even seen each other at all. And when they were finally reunited, everything was marred by violence and fear.
A tiny whimper of pain startled him from his dismal thoughts. Brushing his tears away, Steve looked down and saw that Jake's eyes were open again, swimming with tears of pain. "Hey, buddy," he said shakily, reaching for the pain medicine and canteen he'd set within easy reach. Even that small movement made Jake gasp and grimace with pain.
"Sorry, sorry...here, drink this." He helped Jake take a drink and swallow the amount of medicine Sam had shown him, wincing in sympathy for every expression of pain. "That's it...that's my brave little boy. Everything's going to be okay, Ja... Everything's going to be okay."
Within minutes, Jake's eyes were slipping closed again. Steve gently brushed his thumb over Jake's cheeks, wiping away the tears and sweat. His face looked pinched and pale, huge circles under his eyes making him look like an old man in a four-year-old body.
Jake had been through so much. Not just in the past few days, but across his entire short life. None of it had been his fault. There was so much he didn't understand, because he'd never been taught. And he suffered because of that.
Steve's eyes strayed to Jake's broken arm, which was still smeared with dried blood. Brownish-red stains were caked in the cracks of his palms, in his knuckles, under his fingernails...
Not for the first time, nor the last, images from that old video flashed before his eyes. Gabriel, kicking and struggling as his tiny life was snuffed out. Jake, dispassionately counting the seconds as he smothered his baby brother to death. Vino, filming it all on a handheld camera like a home video.
Steve's heart lodged in his throat, making it impossible to breathe. How could he even begin to process everything that had happened? How was he supposed to know what to do now?
He bent over his son and pressed their foreheads together, letting the tears flow. He cried for the ache eating away at his heart. He cried for Bucky, already miles away. He cried for Gabriel, eliminated because he wasn't up to Hydra's impossible standards.
He cried for Jake, who had been taught to kill before he'd ever learned to live.
Peter woke from his exhaustion-induced nap with a crick in his neck and an awful taste in his mouth. The taste was easily taken care of with the canteen Sam had practically shoved down his throat when they'd taken off, but the crick in the neck was probably here to stay for a while.
Sighing, Peter looked across the Quinjet to Steve, who sat exactly where he'd been when Peter had nodded off, holding Jake carefully so as not to jostle his broken arm. Steve's eyes were open, so he probably wasn't asleep...but he didn't exactly look awake either. He just stared unseeing at the floor, eyes red-rimmed and puffy from too much crying.
At least he wasn't actually crying anymore. Seeing Steve sitting there, slumped over and quietly crying...well, it was like when Aunt May cried. Peter hated that. It was okay when she was going through an entire box of tissues while watching Return to Me. A bit annoying, but then the movie would be over and all was right with the world. But when she really cried...like in the early days when he'd come home and find her sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing her heart out because she'd absently set one too many places at the table...or when he'd wake up in the middle of the night and hear her trying to muffle her tears in Uncle Ben's pillow, and he'd realize that it was their anniversary...
Yeah. Watching Steve cry was a bit like that. Only weirder, somehow, because Steve was so big and strong and cool.
But then...he had every right to cry. Peter kind of wanted to cry too, when he thought about that video they'd seen...
Swallowing hard, Peter pushed himself to his feet, grimacing as his side protested the movement. He made his way to the cockpit, sliding into the copilot's seat next to Sam. At first, he'd intended to curl up with his knees against his chest, but that proved too painful, so he just reclined the seat a little instead.
"Hey, kid," Sam said, glancing over. "How you holding up?"
"I'm okay, thanks." Peter bit his lip, fiddling with a stray thread in his sleeve. He noticed that Sam didn't even have his hands on the controls. He was just sitting there, staring out at the blanket of clouds as the Quinjet did all the work for him. "Um...Mr. Wilson?"
Sam looked over with a little grin, though his eyes looked sad. "Just Sam is fine. What's on your mind?"
"I'm...I'm sorry." He ducked his head, catching a glimpse of the neat bandage peeking through the hole in his hoodie. "You guys told me not to come, and I just totally ignored you...and you were right. This was...I-I guess I'm lucky I walked away with just this..."
"You're right," Sam said bluntly. "You were crazy lucky you didn't end up in worse shape than this. Which is exactly why we didn't want you to follow us, by the way. So maybe think about that next time you're tempted to stow away to Siberia, yeah?"
Peter nodded glumly, feeling about an inch tall.
"But you're also the only reason any of us are still alive."
Peter looked up in surprise to find Sam looking at him with a small smile. He almost looked...impressed?
"You got some crazy reflexes, Peter. And you might even be stronger than Steve. More than that...you didn't hesitate when we were in danger. That's important if you're gonna keep doing the whole superhero thing. So, thank you. For saving us."
Woah...wait wait wait...the Falcon says I did a good job? Heart lightening, he said hopefully, "Does this mean I'm an Avenger now?"
Sam frowned. "What? No! We're not even Avengers."
"Oh, right..."
Sam rolled his eyes, but the silence that fell between them was a comfortable one. Like...Like they were teammates. Friends? Maybe?
"Hey," Sam said after a minute or two, pulling out his phone, "gimme your phone number, just in case. I can give you Steve's, too."
"Just in case?" Peter fumbled his phone out of his pocket and nearly dropped it. "Oh, you mean like for superhero stuff or whatever...?"
Sam just smiled and took Peter's phone. "Or whatever."
Peter's heart did about a thousand somersaults when he got his phone back and stared at the two new contacts. Sam and Steve, just sitting there in the list like they were ordinary guys he'd met at school or something. "Whoa..."
"Trust me," Sam said, looking pleased with himself as he entered the number that Peter falteringly gave him. "Give Steve the slightest hint you want some advice, and he'll go all Dad Energy on you."
Peter peeked over his shoulder at Steve, who was now murmuring soothing words to Jake, who had begun to stir again. "He's...He's a good father, isn't he?"
Sam glanced back as well, his smile softening. "Yeah. He may not always know what to do...but he loves that kid with all his heart. That goes a long way."
Peter nodded absently. It still kind of boggled his mind, trying to reconcile the helpless little kid with a broken arm, someone Steve and Sam both clearly loved so much, with the one who had stabbed him, and who had apparently killed a baby. Well, Jake had been through a lot. Peter wasn't clear on all the details, but he got the gist of it—the bad guys had been teaching him to do bad stuff, and he couldn't say no to them or they'd probably kill him. Kind of like with Bucky. It wasn't his fault. But poor Steve, to have two people he cared about in that situation...
"I don't know your aunt," Sam suddenly said, "but I bet she loves you just as much."
Peter looked over at Sam, his cheeks growing warm under his calm scrutiny. "Uh...yeah. Yeah, I know she does."
"I think you should tell her. About the whole Spider-Man thing."
His first impulse was to protest vehemently, but Peter found he didn't have the energy for it. Instead, he sat back with a sigh and wondered what Aunt May was doing at that moment. What time was it in New York, anyway? What day was it?
Unbidden, the image returned to his mind of Aunt May slumped on the kitchen floor, tears pooling behind her glasses...but this time, it was because of him. Because he hadn't come home. And she had no idea why.
Brushing his hand across his eyes to banish that mental image, Peter reluctantly said, "Yeah...you're right. And I should probably tell Ned, too."
"Ned?"
"Oh...my best friend. He's covering for me—I told him to say I'm spending the night at his place. So I should probably explain why I keep blowing him off and then showing up the next day with a black eye..."
He swallowed hard, wondering if they'd be upset once he told them the truth. Would Aunt May freak out when she learned that her nephew was fighting criminals in his spare time? Would Ned be angry that he'd kept this a secret for months?
Hugging himself to suppress the jitters, Peter muttered, "I think I'd rather fight Zemo than tell them who I am..."
Sam chuckled softly. "Well, you've already done one of those things. How hard can the other one be?"
Peter couldn't keep from smiling a little at that. "You know, you're not too shabby at the whole 'fatherly advice' thing yourself."
Sam held up a finger. "Uncle. I'm the fun uncle, thank you very much."
Well, Peter knew a thing or two about uncles. And yes, Sam seemed to fit the bill. Peter settled back in his seat, feeling a bit better than he had before.
Your wound is as deep as the sea.
Who can heal you?
- Lamentations 2:13
Author's Note: I'll never forget the experience of writing the first scene in this chapter. Most of it was written over the course of an hour or two, via texts between NewMoonFlicker and me. At first, I wrote it with a lot of dialogue back and forth, but then NewMoonFlicker challenged me to rewrite it with no dialogue at all. The final version is a combination of the two. I think that's an invaluable exercise for a writer to attempt, conveying everything that needs to be conveyed without letting the characters say anything they're thinking or feeling.