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The smell of antiseptic hits Steve's nostrils the moment they step off the elevator and he has to force himself not to flinch. The logical part of him -- the part that has survived battle after battle, that has faced down aliens for god's sake -- knows there is nothing here to be afraid of. But every time he enters this place, every time he even passes by it, that logical part of his brain decides to go for a hike, leaving Steve with a stomach full of knots, a heart that's just about to bust out of his chest, and an ache deep inside him that he doesn't have a name for, but that'd he'd give near anything to never feel again.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and focuses on the figure by his side. He and Sam had sat down with Bucky last night, after Tony had reminded them that the vaccines were required for all tower residents, dammit, supersoldier, alien and otherwise, and Dr. Cho would only be in town for one more day, so they'd better get on it. Bucky had listened to Sam's explanation, eyes darting from his knees to Steve's face, and nodded, his expression, as always, an impermeable mask.
It's been six months. Six months since Bucky had shown up in the Stark Tower lobby, gaunt and covered in grime, his eyes feral. Six months of therapy, of legal strategy and confounding PR meetings, of stacks of paperwork a mile high, and no illusions of sleep. At the end of it all, though, Stark’s team had accomplished a miracle. Not only was Bucky legally free, his mind was once again his own.
His eyes are calmer now, but they are no less haunted. Steve may be a man out of time, but Bucky is a man out of himself -- no longer the Asset, but lacking a new identity to take the Soldier's place. The programming is gone, but so are all of his pre-Hydra memories, lost behind a veil that so far, refuses to budge.
He doesn't remember Steve, not really. But he knows somehow, instinctively -- and Steve needs to make it to a church somewhere sometime soon so he can say thank you properly to whatever powers made this possible -- that Steve is important, that Steve is safety, is home. When Steve is near him, the storm in those cerulean eyes temporarily quiets; tightly knotted muscles loosen just a tad. When Steve touches him, carefully, slowly, his movements always telegraphed from afar, Bucky does not pull away.
"I'll be right there with you," Steve says now, softly, watching Bucky's shoulders curl in on themselves the closer they get to the medical wing doors. Bucky nods, just once, chin length brown locks shielding his face like a curtain and takes a step toward him. When Steve presses his palm to his upper back, he pauses, leaning into the touch.
The doors part before them and Steve's stomach twists into a tighter knot. Not now, he thinks, desperate, not yet. Later, he’ll grit his teeth and push away this cannonball that’s steadily rolling towards his tear ducts. Later.
Right now, Bucky’s by his side, looking just about as miserable as Steve feels for far better reason than his own and that is, has to be, the only thing that matters. “Just a few minutes, okay?” He says softly. “A few minutes, and we’ll be all done.”
Bucky glances at him, just for a moment, and Steve’s heart breaks at the raw, uncontrolled fear on that beloved face. He reaches for him, but before he can wrap an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, the smaller man squares them, staring straight ahead as he walks quickly to the exam table and hops on. Steve swallows the lump in his throat and follows.
There’s a tray by the table, covered with a flimsy piece of paper that does little to conceal the two syringes beneath. Dr. Cho stands behind it, and Steve squashes the panic that’s threatening to turn his muscles into goop and nods to her.
He doesn’t see her returned greeting. Bucky’s eyes are fixed on some spot just over Steve’s shoulder, his back ramrod straight, his breaths even. The Asset does not feel fear, he’d told Steve early on. Now, Steve is oddly reassured to see his white-knuckled grip on the exam table.
“Buck,” he says softly, stepping purposefully into his line of sight. Arctic blue eyes meet his, and there’s still more Soldier there than Bucky, but his grip on the table eases enough not to split it in two.
Steve takes another step just as Dr. Cho reaches for the first syringe. Bucky’s facial expression remains unchanged, but Steve can see the wall of ice in those eyes start to melt, can see the panic peering through. Slowly, as if unsure it’s allowed, the metal hand curls into the front of Steve’s shirt. Steve’s arms move of their own accord then, resting on Bucky’s shoulders briefly before wrapping themselves around him. “C’me here,” he whispers as his fingers card through the dark strands. “C’me here…”
He expects Bucky to tense up, to push him away even. Instead, a hot forehead presses against his shoulder as he leans into Steve’s embrace, metal fingers still fisting around his shirt. Dr. Cho motions to the arm that’s still gripping the exam table, and Steve places his hand over it. He rubs his thumb over the callused knuckles a couple of times, then takes the hand gently in his and brings it to his shoulder. “Hold onto me, okay?” Bucky grabs onto his shoulder obediently, forehead pushing into the crook of Steve’s neck. Steve wraps his left arm around him. “Just a few more seconds, pal.”
“I’m going to swab your arm, okay James?” Dr. Cho asks softly, her tone kind. “A little cold, that’s all.”
Bucky inhales sharply when the alcohol touches his skin, and it’s all Steve can do to not get up and get the two of them the hell out of there. Tony’s warnings are fresh in his mind though – about Hydra and their biological weapons, about new superbugs that even the serum wouldn’t protect them from – and so he stays put, tucking his chin so that his cheek slots against Bucky’s.
“Right here with you,” he whispers. Bucky moves his head a little, brushing the side of his face against Steve’s.
“All right, here’s the first one,” the doctor warns, and Steve closes his eyes, unable to make himself look. He feels the figure in his arms tense, feels his breaths grow shallow, coming in soft, quick puffs of air against his neck. The grip on his shoulder tightens; metal fingers grasp onto more fabric. Steve holds him close, rubs gentle circles into his upper back as his fingers card through the dark strands.
“You’re doing great, Buck. Almost done now, almost…”
“One more to go, James,” Dr. Cho chimes in.
Bucky presses into him and Steve tightens his hold on his back. “I’ve got you.”
He seems calmer when Steve is talking, so Steve talks, whispering soft words of comfort into the warm cheek. They’re in Stark Tower, he says, and he’s safe, and he’s doing so good. They’re almost done now, just a couple more breaths… And then it’s over, but Bucky shows no signs of wanting to pull away, and Steve can’t bring himself to make him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dr. Cho replace the tray with another, and his stomach plummets. He needs to get Bucky out of there, now, needs to collect himself, to leave Steve Rogers behind and put the Captain forth. That’ll inevitably cost him a week’s worth of nightmares, but he can deal with those in the privacy of his own bedroom.
He’s about to move his hands back to Bucky’s shoulders when Dr. Cho speaks up. “Shall we take care of yours next, Captain Rogers?”
Steve’s breath catches just for a second as he fights to keep his voice even. “Can I come back in a few minutes, actually? Just want to walk James back to our suite.”
The form in his arms stirs, and Steve finds himself looking into wide blue-gray eyes. The fear is gone now, but there’s turmoil there, wave upon wave breaking over rocks as he searches Steve’s face. Steve averts his gaze.
“You’re afraid.” It’s a statement, not a question. Steve freezes. He’s spent much of his life hiding this, ever since a doctor chastised him for crying back when he was seven years old. And he shouldn’t be surprised that Bucky can see right through him, he shouldn’t, but Buck’s not himself right now and he was trying so hard…
Warm, slightly callused fingers cup the side of his face, gently nudging him upward. “Steve.” He keeps his eyes locked on the floor, ashamed. “Stevie.” The nickname knocks the wind out of him even as something akin to hope flickers in his chest. “C’me on, look at me, punk.”
Steve looks up sharply. He must be hallucinating, he must. But the eyes that meet his are more familiar to him than his own, and they’re clear now, and calm. A gentle thumb traces his cheekbone in soft, reassuring strokes. “Buck?” he croaks and leans into that touch, still not quite believing.
“It’s still hard, huh?” Bucky says quietly and Steve feels his defenses crumble. He can’t lie to this man. He won’t.
“You… you remember?”
Bucky frowns. “Not everything. But I remember you.” Steve can feel the tears gathering and makes one last attempt to hold them back. “I remember sitting with you, waiting for the doctors to come in.” Steve nods. Bucky would stick to him like a plaster, wouldn’t stop yapping for a second, telling him one stupid joke after another, for as long as he allowed it. “And then you’d always kick me out, just before…”
The pull to look away again, to hide, is strong, but his need for Bucky is stronger. “I knew,” Steve’s voice is suddenly hoarse, “I’d fall apart if you were with me. And I didn’t want… Didn’t want you to see how weak I...”
Bucky’s eyes are kind. His flesh palm cradles Steve’s cheek again as the metal one grasps his bicep. “I could never, have never thought you were weak. You’re the strongest person I know, punk. Always have been.”
This time, Steve doesn’t try to stop the tears. “Jerk.”
Buck shakes his head, pulling him closer. “C’me ‘ere, you fool.” He’s still perched on top of the exam table so their heights are even, and Steve doesn’t pause to think. He steps into Bucky’s arms, burrows into him. When the first sob breaks through, he hides his face in the crook of Buck’s neck, breathing him in. Bucky smells like Brooklyn in the spring, like sunshine and youth, and hope. Like home. And Steve, well, he’s been scared, and alone, and homesick for so long, and he never thought he’d have this again, ever…
It feels like falling, letting go this way, like tumbling off a plane with no parachute in sight. But there’s a warm, familiar hand at the base of his neck, and a tender, unyielding arm wrapped around his back, and for the first time in years, he knows he’s safe.
“Stevie, pal,” Bucky’s voice is soft against his temple and Steve can hear the apology there. “Do you think we can try? Or should we come back?”
Steve’s abdomen clenches. Fuck. He’d forgotten where they were for a second, why they were there. His breath hitches as the fear creeps in again, its cold tendrils weaving their way through him. God, he hates this. The tears sting extra hard as they roll in this time, and try as he might, he can’t fight them off.
“Shhhh,” Bucky bends his head a little so their cheeks touch and Steve pulls closer. “I know, Stevie, I know...” Nimble fingers card through his hair, soothing, and Steve thinks that may be, just may be, he can do this.
“I want it over,” he whispers and hates how his voice breaks.
“Okay. You wanna sit down?”
Steve shivers. “No, like this… please.” Close. With you.
Bucky nods, cheek brushing against Steve’s. His hand leaves Steve’s hair and covers his bicep instead; makes a couple small circles there. “Put your hand on my shoulder, Stevie.” He does as he’s hold, dragging an arm that’s suddenly heavy as lead, and shaking to boot. His knees feel weak, and he wonders momentarily, whether sitting wouldn’t be a bad idea after all. As if he’s reading his mind, Bucky clasps his thighs around his hips, holding him up. “I’ve got you, pal. I’ve got you.”
“Buck…” The name’s a sob, a prayer. Don’t let go. Please don’t let me go.
“Right here, Stevie. Gonna stay just like this, okay?” The metal palm strokes his back, and he wonders, bemused, at how this appendage, this thing designed to kill, can be so fucking gentle. There’s a sound of paper tearing and the smell of rubbing alcohol fills Steve’s nostrils. He tries to inhale, but can’t; it’s Arctic water all over again, filling his lungs, suffocating him… “Hey, hey, shhhh…. Stevie, breathe with me.” Bucky’s fingers are back in his hair and Steve can feel his chest expand beneath him. “C’me on, deep breath…”
Steve forces himself to try again and is rewarded with a lungful of Bucky’s scent. It’s like a warm blanket on a freezing night and he exhales just so he can breathe him in again. “That’s it,” Bucky whispers, fingernails scritching gently against Steve’s scalp. “You’re doing great. Just like that…”
Dr. Cho says something, and then there’s something cold and wet on his skin, and Steve has to use every last bit of restraint to stay put. Bucky leans into him and it’s his voice that warns Steve of what’s next, pulling him tight as he can into his own body.
The sonofabitch hurts. It’s a stabbing, deep pain, like someone stuck a knife in his arm and is slowly twisting it side to side. It makes his heart pound and his eyes water, and breathing, well, he’s not actually sure he can do that at all right now. He’s dizzy, and nauseous, and weak… But the worst of it, that sickening sense of loss, of aloneness that he dreads more than any amount of pain, that’s not there this time. Instead, there’s the warmth of Bucky’s cheek against his and his scent surrounding him. There’re fingers buried in his hair and that beloved sandpaper voice in his ear. Bucky wraps himself around him like a cocoon, cradling his ridiculous, oversized body as if he were still five feet tall, and Steve melts into him, lets himself be held, really, truly held for the first time in decades.
The second one’s easier than the first. He breathes through it, following the movement of Bucky’s chest like he’d done during asthma attacks years ago. He clings to Bucky’s touch, his voice, letting them ground him. When the pain spikes, he squeezes Buck’s back and immediately feels himself being tugged closer, deeper into the protective nest of his embrace.
Another breath, and it’s over. Dr. Cho, bless her heart, tells them that they can take all the time they need – she’ll see others in a different office. She says something about a private exit in the back, one that’ll get them to their floor unseen. Bucky thanks her, his tone warm and sincere and so him it sends Steve’s heart hammering all over again. Steve mumbles his thanks from the crook of Buck’s neck, unwilling, for now, to pull away.
Bucky isn’t ready to let go either. As soon as she’s gone, a warm nose nudges Steve’s cheek (Steve thinks, absurdly, of a mutt in their old neighborhood that’d sidle up to them and nuzzle under their hands, demanding attention). He moves his head a tad and Bucky slots himself against it, burrowing into Steve’s shoulder.
Later, Steve will ponder the irony it all – of how the moment he dreaded gave him what he most wanted in this world. Of how the root of his fear in the first place was probably tied to the man in his arms – because back then, when he was sick all the time, needles meant that he might have to leave this life… might have to leave Buck.
Later, they will lie on Steve’s bed facing each other, and whisper words they had waited more than eight decades to speak. They will finally erase that invisible line they toed, but never crossed because crossing it could have meant being parted permanently. They will learn each other’s bodies the way they already know each other’s faces – better than their own.
But for now… For now, Steve holds onto Bucky and lets himself be held as they breathe each other in.