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"But I don't," Steve began, the words stuck somewhere in his chest, under his sternum, wrapped like vines around the cage of his ribs. Rumors and whispers about the specter of the Winter Soldier had been just that; grainy, half-formed images on the edges of videos and reports of an unnamed someone. Maybe something. But this was flesh and blood and breath forming clouds in the frigid wind just an arm's length away.
Steve's heart rattled again as his eyes caught on a dim gleam of silver and the sharp points of a blood red star. His hand was up and reaching before he realized he'd moved and a metal hand half-covered with a dark glove swatted it away before it made contact.
Like he was nothing but an irritation.
It should all mean something. The body armor, the tactical leather and buckles, the weapons strapped down and locked and loaded, all within easy reach. Was that a grenade? Steve knew he should be afraid, but all he felt was overwhelming grief, confusion and a shimmer of hope that nothing was absolute. Maybe not even death.
Sensing eyes on him, Steve looked up into the others' face, through strands of dark hair scattered in the frigid wind and felt cold slice through him. Too cold to be out without a coat, in just your shirtsleeves, the memory of a voice from long ago chided in his mind. It carried with it memories of shivering Brooklyn winters and the smell of worn wool wrapped about him from the chill.
You'll catch your death, it said, with the ghost of a smile.
"Bucky," he breathed, feeling like his voice should have been louder before the wind whipped it away.
Hard blue eyes stared back at him from behind smears of dark paint shadowed wide like the sockets of a skull. For a moment that cold calculation faded into soft recognition and the Soldier's lips parted, the ghost of a name slipping away before it formed.
Steve reached out again, waiting for another block, but when there wasn't one, he touched fingertips to stubbled jaw, feeling skin like ice. The hair that tickled the back of his hand and slid along his wrist sent a shiver down his spine. Cold like deep, dark water and ice filling his lungs.
Another sharp wind carried with it the hint of snow, their breath colliding in frozen gusts. Gloved metal reached up and pulled Steve's hand away before the man stepped back, just out of reach, eyes cutting up to look at the clouds sliding against each other in the darkness above.
"Storm's coming," the Soldier murmured.
"Bucky-" Steve began, stepping forward, but the Soldier stepped back, eyes sliding into anger.
"Who the hell is Bucky?" He growled, silvered hand hovering as if it wanted to find the pistol strapped to his thigh.
"You are," Steve said, but it was lost in a howl of wind. "YOU ARE!" He shouted, but the Soldier was backing away, posture crouching into defense, too-long waves of hair obscuring his face. The Soldier's hand raised, pistol trained at Steve's head.
A flash of lightning made Steve wince, his eyes shutting tight and hands coming up to shield himself as thunder exploded around and through him, shaking and rolling…
Steve lurched up and blocked hands reaching for him, head full of ice and wind until his vision cleared and red hair was retreating around a stricken face.
"-nightmare, hey, you're okay, you're safe," Natasha was saying, ducking away from his flailing. "Just a storm coming."
Steve sat up from the couch he vaguely remembered camping out on for a few minutes of shut-eye, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"You okay?" She asked, holding out a bottle of water, eyes carefully neutral.
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "Sorry. Bad dream."
She nodded in reply and he wondered if he'd called out for Bucky in his sleep. But she said nothing more, only turning away and toward a night-darkened window, where beyond, rain pelted the glass.