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After their grand and dramatic arrival at camp, Steve was whisked away from Bucky’s side in short order. The figment of unexpected victory gone--or so his friend still seemed--Bucky fell back into his usual role more out of the need for something to do with himself than any real desire to root out those men of his who might have survived their ordeal, Azzano to the factory to a thirty mile march through enemy territory. He liked the guys in his squad perfectly well. Found two of his riflemen, Privates Jefferson and Walsh, plus another two from their squad, Kelly and Towers. Corporal “Dum Dum” Dugan made six of the twelve of them--a better percentage than he’d expected.
He was sore more of his guys hadn’t made it--they all were, ultimately, Jefferson looking especially guilty as Bucky ushered him to the medical tent. He’d been caged with Burke, their squad’s other Corporal, and blamed himself for the man being taken just a couple days into their imprisonment. God only knew why, and for all that he should Bucky didn’t have the chance to ask, all too aware he was, by rights, one of the men who should be getting looked over already, after spending however long on that table himself under blades and needles and sick-sweet whispers of promise in accented English. Soon as he was sure Jefferson would be seen to, Bucky bolted, making the rounds again and this time asking about the members of his squad who hadn’t made it: Privates Morgan and Killian. McNevin had died in the battle, Bucky had been next to him when he went down, and McBride, Bucky’s direct CO, had been killed even before that.
While he was concentrating on all that, Steve must’ve gotten himself out of the clutches of the Colonel and been looking for him, because when Bucky turned a corner past the mess, there he was: huge, hulking, heroic. Startled and then smiling.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he said by way of greeting, and then frowned. It was as mighty on his new face as it had always been on the face Bucky knew. Steve was recognizable, bones heavier under his skin but just as stubborn, nose just as big and slightly crooked from the first time Sarah’d not been there to fix it for him. For the hundredth time in just a few days, Bucky thanked God for that if nothing else. “Checked with the medical officers first. Said you hadn’t come by. You shoulda gone to see ‘em, Buck, you were--really hurt when I found you.”
The whole time Steve talked, big, hopeless hands flailing in the air as they walked side by side to the back of a big tarped-off stage, Bucky just--watched him. Stared hard and worked his jaw behind pressed-closed lips, trying to find words he could actually use without sounding--angry. Which he was, but the last time they’d seen each other, the last real talk they’d had before Bucky opened his eyes on that table and found the center of his world hovering over him with nervous eyes and hothothot hands had been...
Well, between the shouting and the kissing, it had been a verifiable disaster. Steve hadn’t been able to go with him to the station, to say goodbye with his family, because he’d had his own places to be. There was a lot of time between bouts of being shot at by Nazis in which a man found himself being very frank about a lot of things he might never have otherwise admitted. For instance: Bucky was goddamn sore about losing that chance to talk. That anticipated train station goodbye might have been a romantic cliche, but it had been held in his mind as a memory to cling to during the hardest days yet to come. To Bucky’s mind, it was meant to serve as the last bastion against the despair familiar to any soldier on the front lines. Something to keep close, look back on with the satisfaction that while he was fighting, Steve was safe, at home, with the rest of Bucky’s family.
Instead, he’d gotten a hasty goodbye at the door of their apartment when a black car came to pick Steve up before Bucky had even dressed. No chance to resolve what had broken between them the night before, no goodbye hugs, no words of motivation or reassurance. Bucky hadn’t gotten his You’d better come back home speech from the person it would have meant the most from: the person he made into family, instead of part of the family he’d been born to. In exchange, he got to hold onto his crying sister for an extra few minutes, which wasn’t exactly soothing or inspiring. More than that, he was the one who had to give the rest of the Barneses the news that Steve had gotten into the army, which they all knew meant he would surely die.
The letters he’d planned to send Steve had fallen by the wayside: he didn’t know where to address them. When he tried just sending it to the camp Steve had mentioned he’d be training at, he’d been told it wasn’t currently in use by the Army, and so he’d been clearly misinformed. That letter was still in his pack, where-ever the hell that was.
Steve’s face crumbled in front of him, hands falling to his sides, and Bucky realized he’d missed--God knew how much of the conversation Steve was trying to make.
Hands clenched at his sides, Bucky shook his head and admitted, “I dunno what to say to you.”
Steve flinched, and the motion was just the same as it always had been, sharp and defensive, shoulders hunching up as he pulled back. But his shoulders were too big, and there was nothing in the world that could knock Steve over now--except, maybe, for that red-skulled Nazi asshole in the factory. “Bucky,” Steve said softly, big, soulful eyes catching his gaze after a second’s resistance. “I’m still me. Promise.”
Biting his cheek, Bucky crossed his arms over his ribs. They’d been sore yesterday, his arms, and damn near unbearably painful three days before that, with needles being stuck into them, but he felt fine now, and when he’d checked early that morning he’d seen that most his bruises were gone, and the needle marks with them. “What’d they do to you, Stevie? Where’d you go? Goddamn Army told me you hadn’t actually joined.”
“I joined the Army, Buck, I just didn’t serve with them. I was with the SSR--Strategic Scientific Reserve, and there was the bond sales circuit too. I wasn’t doing anything at all like being in the Army, even though my name’s on all sorts of lists now. Reaching up to his collar, Steve hooked a chain on his thumb and fished out dog tags. Stepping in, Bucky grabbed the tags and ran his thumb over the embossing. Steven G Rogers, it read, 987654320.
“That’s not a real ASN,” he accused. “And you’re not a fucking Protestant.”
Steve wrapped one huge, warm hand around Bucky’s and it was the first time in hours Bucky realized he was actually cold. Gooseflesh ran down his arms, shiver wracking his spine, and he pulled back, out of Steve’s grip, and pretended not to see the hurt.
“Told you, wasn’t real Army,” Steve said after a minute, and tucked the tags back into his coat. “Got these from the SSR, based on my last admission form where I lied and said I was Protestant, in case that helped. The zero at the end is because I was Subject Zero for the super-soldier serum. Agent Carter told me they’ll be getting me new tags issued soon, since I’ll be doing field work--”
As much as the world had been shifted on its axis, as much as the ground had fallen out from under his feet when he slid off that metal table and fell damsel-like into Steve’s massive arms--that was how much everything overcorrected. The whole world around Bucky snapped into precise colors, sharp and clean lines, brilliant details, crisp sounds. Like new paints, new clothes, a new record on a new phonograph.
Voice entirely flat, eyes locked on Steve’s face, he said, “You what.”
“I’m proven now,” Steve said, like that made any sense, or was any kind of real goddamn reason to continue to go on risking his neck when he had a perfectly stupid, perfectly safe gig as Captain America. “So they’re willing to send me out to fight Hydra--”
“Go the fuck back to Brooklyn,” Bucky snapped, and knew it didn’t make any sense, knew he was pointing in the wrong goddamn direction, but the gesture came to him with the words, with the glare he knew had sent new boots scurrying out of his way. So he pointed, and he scowled, eyes narrow and breath tight in his chest. “You go home today, Rogers, you get the fuck back where I fucking left you, safe--”
Already shaking his head, Steve said, like explaining to a kid, “Buck, if I wouldn’t stay out of the fight when I was ninety pounds and five feet tall, you really think I’ll do it now that I’m healthy? Able?”
Swallowing hard, teeth bared, head spinning, Bucky let his arm fall, and then stepped in close and said, hot and fast and furious, one hand grabbing Steve’s sleeve, “If you love me, you’ll go home.”
Steve’s whole face shut down, except his eyes. Open, bleeding fucking wounds, the windows to a soul that was breaking a little more. Bucky’s fault again, like it had been every day in Brooklyn when he didn’t notice. Only difference was that he could see it now. Know it for what it was. “You don’t get to say that to me,” Steve said quietly, firmly. “You don’t get to be mad at me for loving you and then try to use it against me when it suits you. You’re better than that.”
Steve was right. He was always goddamn right about Bucky, and it was one of the most annoying things about him. The tightness that lived in Bucky’s chest, the fear that had unwound a little when they made it to camp safe and sound, coiled back up like a living, furious thing and nested behind his heart and lungs. It would become every bit as vital an organ during the rest of the war, something to he used to keep Steve alive more than himself. Terror clawed up his throat as he imagined what was in store: Steve pelting across battlefields, ducking between explosions, trying to use a goddamn metal shield as a defense against heavy artillery. Shutting his eyes against the images didn’t help: they seared themselves into his eyelids, playing on tight loop. Steve being shot, Steve cornered in a foxhole, Steve getting his limbs blown off, Steve being captured and laid on a steel table and cut open over and over, maybe this one will last longer than a day--
It wasn’t until Steve grabbed at him that Bucky realized he’d been falling, and he twisted out of Steve grip--too much, too strong, too big to be a comfort--hitting the ground with his knees and then toppling down onto his ass, shaking hands in his hair and biting nearly through his lip to keep quiet as he ducked his head defensively. “Bucky,” Steve gasped, dropping down beside him. “Bucky, Bucky, oh God--”
Hot hands cradled Bucky’s face, a gentle thumb on his chin as a warning before moving up to his mouth and pushing his lip sideways, out of his teeth.
“Breathe,” Steve said, begged. “Breathe, please, sweetheart--”
“Don’t call--” he choked.
“I know,” Steve interrupted, sounding heartbroken “Christ, just let me take care of you for one minute, will ya?”.
Bucky laughed once, sobbed a bit after that. “You’ll die,” he bit out. “You will die Steve. I can’t let you die.”
“I won’t, Buck,” Steve swore, “I can take care of myself.”
“You’ve never,” Bucky started, and then swore and turned his head to rest on Steve’s shoulder, pressing his face against the filthy leather of Steve’s jacket. “You don’t know what it’s like out here,” he said instead, hoping the change would go unquestioned. It did, for once. Steve was too worried about him to care what he almost said.
Steve's hand worked its way up, into his hair. Fingernails scraping along his scalp, and that at least was somewhat familiar, a gesture Steve had picked up from his mother, sweet and soothing. Sarah had done it all their lives, scooping them up when they cried and running her hands over their heads, sliding gentle, carefully-short nails against their skin in random patterns or small prayers. When they’d been too big to lift, she did like Steve was doing then, holding their heads on her shoulder and making soft noises of love and comfort. All at once, he missed her immensely. More than his own mother, who was at least alive and safe in Brooklyn. Warm in the apartment with his father and sisters.
“I’ll be alright, Bucky. Got God and science on my side this time, instead of both of ‘em bein’ against me.”
“I hate you sometimes,” he confessed, slumping in Steve’s arms. If anyone came by, they could just say he’d passed out from the march back. It was mostly true, anyway. Steve hadn’t slept in the three days they’d been marching, so neither had Bucky. He wasn’t sure Steve had noticed, too thrilled by being looked at like someone with all the answers instead of dismissed offhand. “When you’re too stubborn for me to keep you safe, I hate your guts.”
“I feel the same way, jerk.”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky choked. Face buried in Steve’s shoulder, not looking in his eyes, it was easier to admit. “I shouldn’t’ve said that, earlier, about your feelings. I just don’t want you here. I never wanted you to be in danger, Stevie, and now you’re in more danger than you’ve ever been and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t gotten captured--”
“Jesus, Bucky, that’s not your fault. That’s not at all your fault!”
“Half my men are dead. I’m the highest ranking officer left from my squad.” And he was going to abandon all of them to follow Steve. They both knew it: wherever Steve went out there, on the front, Bucky would follow even if it meant being branded a deserter. Even if it meant prison when--if--he made it home. Bucky released a wet laugh and muttered, “End of the line. End of the line, right, pal?”
“You don’t have to,” Steve whispered. “Gonna be doin’ real dangerous stuff, Buck--you don’t have to come. You can stay with your guys, or--yanno, if you tell then what happened after you got taken away from the rest--”
Bucky pulled back instantly, almost flinching away. From the words, from the reminder, from the suggestion itself. “Steve, no--”
“--might even let you go home, Buck!”
“ Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky snapped and shoved him hard. Steve jolted back, probably more from shock than anything else. Bucky wasn't strong enough anymore to make Steve move unless Steve wanted to be moved. Staggering to his feet, Bucky shook his head and pointed down at his friend--his brother in everything but blood, every way that could ever matter. “You’ve known me your whole life. You tellin’ me you really think I’ll let you do this alone?”
Steve’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes darted away from Bucky. Then he took a breath, deep and even, and squared his jaw and his shoulders, pushing to his feet and rising to his full and still-startling height. Meeting Bucky’s eyes, he said in a low, almost tortured voice. “Know you won’t, Buck. Just don’t wanna be the one who gets you killed.”
“Anyone gets me killed, it’ll be me,” Bucky told him firmly, fiercely. He had more than enough experience on the frontlines to know how Death worked in a War like what they were in. Didn’t matter who your team leader was, in the end, or what mission you were sent on. A soldier died, it was between him and Death. Nothing anybody--not even a stubborn cuss like Steve Goddamn Rogers--could do to stop it.
It was not a lesson he looked forward to watching Steve learn.