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“Capsicle, you’ve got incoming--”
“How long?” Steve grunts, smashing the edge of his shield into the faceplate of a Chitauri who thought it was a bright idea to come at him from the side while he was seemingly distracted. Unfortunately for him… it… its buddy is already down for the count and Steve’s reflexes are sharper than ever with the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
“Five minutes, give or take. You still got civilians in your quadrant?”
“Affirmative. Police haven’t cleared this area yet and the barricade is a mile east of us.”
“Widow and Barton are close to your position, they could swing around and--”
“Yeah, Stark, hold onto that thought for a second,” Steve interrupts. Stark splutters his indignation down the line but Steve ignores him, tugging off his helmet as he squints at what’s happening down the street. Sweat trickles down from his hairline into his eyes and he irritably swipes it away, a little convinced that the gesture will also serve to wipe away what he’s seeing. But no, that’s definitely a man -- at least judging by the breadth of his shoulders and general body shape -- single-handedly facing off against a trio of enraged aliens.
There’s a cluster of men and women, all of them sporting lab coats and clutching handfuls of files or expensive-looking equipment, huddled amongst the ruins of a storefront, their attention caught and held by the man decked out in black tactical gear slipping past the guard of a Chitauri and planting a knife in its side, armor be damned. And he’s got a -- a metal arm. Sure, why not. It’s not the most mind-boggling thing he’s seen today. And anyway, it could be body armor, something not unlike Tony’s suit, but -- no, Steve doesn’t think that’s the case. The arm moves too fluidly, far too reminiscent of a flesh and blood arm for the metal to simply be a casing.
Steve did a cursory search into modern-day prosthetics while studiously ignoring the hundred-page briefing SHIELD had saddled him with when he was dumped in that remote cabin, because contrary to Stark’s barbed comments Steve wasn’t half-bad at adjusting to modern amenities. Point being, he knew enough to confidently say that a prosthetic like that wasn’t anywhere on the market; no, it would have had to come either straight out of Stark’s labs or it was SHIELD’s. Which means he has an ally out here aside from his rather unconventional teammates. That’s something.
Finally refocusing on Stark’s continued tirade over the comms, Steve runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair and adjusts his grip on the Shield. “Won’t be needing that assistance after all,” he says, which gets Stark to shut up for all of two seconds before he’s back to demanding who died and made Steve leader, and -- Steve isn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole, so he waits a beat before addressing the rest of the team. “Barton, Widow, you guys keep doing what you’re doing. I’ve got a friendly here. Looks like SHIELD’s out here with us on damage control, I’ll get one of their agents to help me move civilians.”
Steve’s been standing still too long, and he jumps into action once he catches sight of another Chitauri hefting its gun higher to aim.
“SHIELD has agents on the ground?”
“Apparently,” Steve replies, a little breathless, as he swerves to just barely avoid the incoming blast.
Natasha hums thoughtfully, or at least Steve thinks it sounds thoughtful. He can’t really get a read on Natasha and it would normally bother him ( will bother him once has the downtime to decompress and process everything, if that’s even possible) but right now it’s hardly more than a faint buzzing at the peripheral of his thoughts.
“Good to know,” is all she says after a few moments of contemplative radio silence. Steve takes the cue to consciously tune out the ongoing chatter of his teammates and lifts a hand to signal the man, calling out a greeting as he does.
The man abruptly stops, and Steve would find that strange if not for the rush of panic that settles in at the realization that the man has stopped mid-swing with a Chitauri barreling down on him, his wide-eyed gaze turned away from the danger and lingering on Steve. But he needn’t be worried because the Chitauri’s momentum carries it straight into the man’s raised fist, and the impact drives the metal into its chest cavity with a sickening crunch that’s audibly even all the way over where Steve is standing. He blinks, shocked, but the man only withdraws his hand and lets the alien crumple, lifeless, to the ground. The man shakes out his fist but otherwise the whole of his attention seems to be fixed exclusively on Steve. Seeing as how distractions result in casualties, Steve tries to remedy the situation by jogging closer, side-stepping downed Chitauri and throwing a reassuring gesture towards the terrified civilians.
“Hey,” Steve says, a genuine smile curving his lips. He offers the man a quick, sloppy salute. “Thanks for pitching in with the civilians. And the, uh, other situation,” he adds, nudging the alien corpse beside him with the toe of his boot. “I appreciate the assist.”
The man stares at him, saying nothing. Steve blinks again, his smile faltering; was it something he said? Is he being too polite? He’s noticed people are a lot more blunt nowadays, but politeness can’t really have gone out of fashion, can it? Or, worse, is this like his introduction to Coulson? Steve couldn’t deal with being moderately famous during the war (he’s still surprised Peggy forgave him for acting like such an inconsiderate ass), and he is way out of his depth now that he’s become a living legend -- propped up with decades of patriotic propaganda and existing as a mouthpiece for agendas he never would have tolerated had he had any agency to deny them. He’s just -- Steve. But that’s not who people think of when presented with Captain America.
Maybe the man can’t talk with the mask he’s wearing? It’s not the most plausible explanation given everything he’s seen in this modern age, but it’s much more appealing then the thought that this man is starstruck by Steve Rogers .
Steve’s just about to suggest they get back to work to cut this awkward moment short when the man takes a jerky step forward, as if pulled along by strings, and tilts his head at Steve.
“What’s your name?” His voice is rougher than Steve was expecting, like he smokes a coupla packs a day; Steve knew plenty of people back in… back Before who sounded like they gargled glass on the daily, so he’s fairly familiar with the cadence of it, but somehow it doesn’t suit the man in front of him. Could be the mask is distorting his voice, though Steve can hear his breathing just fine through it...
Nonetheless, Steve stands a little straighter at the question, wishing he’d thought to put his helmet back on; his current uniform is eight shades of ridiculous, but it’s infinitely easier to put up a front and act the part of Captain America when he’s hidden behind the red, white and blue. This man isn’t a fan, then, which is something of a relief, but it casts some doubt on his identity as a SHIELD agent. Then again, SHIELD likes keeping secrets; it wouldn’t surprise Steve if they cherry-picked who had clearance to learn of his return from the dead.
“Captain America,” he says firmly, extending his hand, which the man summarily ignores as he takes another step closer, then another, until only a few scant inches separate them. Steve fights the urge to shuffle backwards, or throw himself back into the fray as an escape; he’s no coward, and he’s never backed down from a fight in his life. He’s not gonna start now, whatever this man tries.
But the man doesn’t look like he’s gearing up for a fight. His eyes are wide, his stance uncertain. He watches Steve with the intensity of a predator stalking prey, though he doesn’t make any movements for the multitude of weapons Steve can see on his person. He’s just… looking. For some reason.
“No,” he says after a moment, and Steve can hear him swallow thickly before he tries again: “No, that’s… Your name , what’s your name ?”
“...Steve. Steve Rogers.” Steve pauses, casting a look over the man’s shoulder at the group of civilians. They’re whispering among themselves, too low for even his enhanced hearing to pick up over the general chaos around them, and they keep sneaking glances at the two of them. It dawns on him that he’s wasting time on pleasantries and that he has a job to do here, namely minimizing the already too-high death toll. He turns his eyes back to the man and offers a grin, hoping it’ll be better received than before. “We’ve got a lot of civilians waiting for us, pal; you mind helping me get them underground? Subway tunnels are probably the safest place for them to be right now.”
There’s only a brief pause this time before the man is nodding, tugging a knife free from a holter on his thigh, flipping it expertly and closing the fingers of his metal hand around the handle. The thrill Steve feels at the sight is… unexpected, to say the least, though he’s always had an admiration for competent people. Peggy made such an impression on him at Camp Lehigh finds it shocking that he didn’t propose to her on the spot. So this is… different, but not bad, he supposes. Not the time for it, though, so he shelves the thought (and the tingly feeling he gets) for the time being, shooting off another salute before he turns around and starts searching for civvies hidden in the rubble.
Steve dials into the task so thoroughly that he doesn’t realize the man -- agent, probably -- has joined him until they’re nearly on top of one another. Steve spares a glance to where the group of scientists (or lab techs, or whatever) had been only to see they’re out of sight, hopefully below ground. He’s in the middle of hauling a slab of concrete off the legs of an unconscious woman and the addition of the man’s metal arm (which Steve openly ogles because it’s practically a work of art, though he quickly flushes with shame and averts his gaze when it hits him that people don’t appreciate being gawked at too much) makes quick work of the task. Carefully scooping the woman into his arms, Steve doesn’t have to dig deep to turn a grateful smile on the man, who’s back to staring at him (maybe he shouldn’t be so ashamed of his own looking) with an unreadable expression… though that could be attributed to Steve not being able to see the lower half of the man’s face.
“Didn’t catch your name before,” he says as he hands the woman off to a doctor who’d volunteered to watch over the critical patients who couldn’t make the trek down into the subways; Steve’s made them as safe as they can be, sheltered in the blown-out remains of a shop with a handful of armed veterans Steve couldn’t convince to join the masses in the subway tunnels.
He’s not expecting a quick answer (isn’t really expecting much an answer at all, what with SHIELD agents always keeping things close to the vest, and he’s pretty much a stranger no matter how much of his history people know), so he’s taken aback when the man blurts out, “Bucky” with barely a breath of hesitation. And Bucky looks equally as gobsmacked to have given that response, pale and washed out, his eyes practically bugging from his head. Confused, and a tad worried, Steve claps a hand on his shoulder and quirks a friendly smile his way.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” he says, utterly sincere despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of their introduction. He’s made friends in worse conditions (the war hadn’t exactly been a fucking picnic, though there had been less extraterrestrials -- as far as Steve knew, anyway) and if nothing else his mother raised him right. She’d have given him quite the baleful glare if he were anything resembling rude to a man who’d done nothing but help him since they met, and Steve never could last long against a look like that from Sarah Rogers. Still, his next words catch in his throat as Steve levels another curious look at Bucky. He squints, feeling like he’s picking at the edges of a memory he can’t quite bring into focus. “We haven’t… This is our first time meeting… right, Bucky?”
Whatever answer Bucky might have given is lost to an explosion that erupts from across the street. He and Steve are thrown from the blast, and Steve hits the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs. Sharp pain pierces his side -- cracked rib -- blooms from the back of his skull -- mild concussion -- copper pools across his tongue -- bit through his cheek -- and there must be a myriad of soon-to-be-bruises mapped over his skin from the starbursts of agony he feels from every limb. There’s gravel biting into his cheek, scraped over the ground, dust in his lungs and caking his face, his lips.
Shit.
Steve can feel his various cuts and scrapes bleeding sluggishly through the tears in his uniform; they’re shallow, already healing, but the sensation of skin and muscle fibers knitting themselves back together is almost worse than the sting and ache of the wounds. Everything is manageable, though, so, after rolling onto all fours, Steve shoves himself upright, lifting his head to blearily scan his surroundings (and again he’s cursing his decision to abandon his goddamn helmet). He picks out the shivering, dust-covered forms of the doctor and his guards, as well as the less-defined shapes of her patients in the background. Another building’s been reduced to a charred husk, with the accompanying debris dispersed haphazardly throughout the street.
Beyond the ringing in his ears he hears the hum of a foreign engine and a glance at the sky confirms his suspicions: a Chitauri aboard one of their gliders flies overhead, no doubt the source of the blast. Muttering curses under his breath, Steve lunges for his shield (only knocked a few feet from him, thank God) and takes a second to calculate angles and trajectories before he flings it skyward; a satisfying thwack resonates through the static silence right before the Chitauri topples from its perch with all the inherent grace of a ragdoll in flight. It smacks onto the asphalt a heartbeat later as its glider continues unerringly into the side of a skyscraper, bursting in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
The shield ricochets off a street sign and Steve leaps up to catch it on its way back to him. He’s glad to have the reassuring weight of it on his arm again and he grips the straps with bruising strength for a count of five, pacing out his breaths accordingly. Right. Can’t let that happen again. It’s bad enough he risked civilian lives with his inattentiveness, what would he do if Bucky--
Shit. Bucky .
Steve’s eyes flicker between the too-still bodies on the street, the people he hadn’t been in time to save, his heart in his throat. (Don’t be Bucky, don’t be Bucky, don’t be Bucky) Nothing like black tactical gear stands out to him, no glare of sunlight catching on a metal arm. That’s… good, isn’t it? No news is good news, or something. Platitudes like that don’t do much in the way of subduing the crackle of panic that crawls over Steve’s skin, though; he needs to see Bucky’s face for that, see that he’s alright and relatively unharmed. Steve coughs out what feels like a pound of dust before he’s able to get his voice to cooperate, and he’s just managed to call out the first syllable of Bucky’s name when he’s bodily tackled back into the rubble.
The impact doesn’t jar him nearly as badly as the explosion and he’s quick to throw his weight around, flipping them over so that he can pin his attacker; only they keep on rolling until Steve’s flat on his back again and then there are hands -- human hands, he realizes with a jolt -- patting restlessly at his face, his hair, over his uniform-clad torso. Once the shock wears off it becomes abundantly clear that Steve isn’t in danger; it’s just Bucky, crouched over him and… searching him for injuries? That’s new; Steve hasn’t had this thorough a pat-down since that time he had half a Hydra base come down on him. Not bad, though, not bad at all. A bubble of warmth expands in his chest at the thought of Bucky worrying about him, Captain America. There were days back in the war when even Peggy thought him indestructible, so this blatant concern for his well being is… nice. Good. Definitely something he could get used to, even if it’s coming from what basically amounts to a perfect stranger. Hell, that might make it even better.
“Buck,” he manages past the sandpaper lodged in his throat, “Buck m’alright, I swear.”
He doesn’t mind the weight of Bucky straddling his thighs, which -- really not the time for that particular train of thought. Mindless of his protesting muscles, Steve brings his hands up to wrap around Bucky’s forearms, stilling his frantic ministrations for the moment. Bucky growls out something incomprehensible (it might even be Russian; Steve only learned enough in the war to make passing conversation but he remembers the rough-hewn sound of the language well enough) and presses against Steve’s hold, though not with enough force to break his grip. He’s as dusty and battered as Steve, save for the metal arm, which doesn’t appear to have so much as a dent in it. His hair’s a mess, flaked with bits of concrete and asphalt and what might be dried blood, although Steve wouldn’t bet on it being his. Steve has the unprecedented urge to spend an hour washing every last knot and bit of debris from that hair, and then the follow-up urge to wrap Bucky in the softest blanket he can find followed by his own body. He blinks and while the urge dies down it doesn’t disappear altogether; rather it sits in his chest, nestled under his rib cage, ready to be plucked out and acted upon at a moment’s notice.
Ain’t that a helluva thing to discover about himself at a time like this.
“Buck,” he says again, softer, tightening his grip just enough to make sure he has Bucky’s ears. “It’s okay, I’m okay.”
As if to negate Steve’s assurances, Bucky’s hands drop to his sides, deft fingers sliding against a long slash that curves up along his ribs. Steve can’t help but smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing briefly.
“They’ll heal quick,” he promises. “But thanks for the concern, pal. Now, what about you?”
Bucky cocks his head in a clear gesture of confusion, and that… that’s not right.
“That explosion hit you, too, Bucky,” Steve reminds him, a touch firmer as he shifts his hands to grip at Bucky’s hips, angling him back so that Steve can sit upright without dislodging him. “Were you hurt anywhere? Your head okay?”
Bucky doesn’t protest as Steve cups the back of his head, feeling for gashes or bumps and finding precisely none. He doesn’t protest, but he also doesn’t look like he quite understands why Steve’s bothering. Brows furrowing, Steve returns the favor from Bucky and checks him over, top to bottom, for any breaks or serious wounds. He’s relieved that his search comes up empty, but unease is steadily unfurling in his gut because Bucky is docile and compliant, following his instructions without a word. It’s not like Steve is thinking of hurting him, for God’s sake, but… there’s no reaction, no curse or murmur even when Steve knows he’s pressed into a bruise. Bucky doesn’t make a sound except to let out a questioning note when Steve finally takes his hands away.
Steve hesitates a moment, then pushes through his reservations and reaches around to unclip the fastenings of Bucky’s mask. It falls with a muted clunk into Steve’s lap.
One might think Steve would be prepared for almost anything at this point, having lived through the hell of World War II and survived crashing a plane into the ice only to wake up decades later to square off against sadistic creatures from outer space. One would be insanely wrong in that assumption, because Steve is rendered speechless at the sight of Bucky unmasked.
Bucky is beautiful, easily the most attractive man Steve’s ever seen in person. And he’s used to appreciating beauty no matter what form it takes; he’d been fascinated when drawing both women’s supple curves and men’s sharp angles alike. Blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, chiseled jawline, full pink lips in a perfect cupid’s bow — Bucky looks like he belongs in a painting, no less than one of the masters’. And he’s… familiar, strangely, but to Steve’s addled mind it’s far more important that Bucky is gorgeous on a level Steve can barely comprehend and this is not the time for this, goddammit.
“Bucky, seriously, you’ve gotta tell me if you’re hurt anywhere.”
“I… The Asset is functional. Minimal impairment.”
Steve’s eyes go wide. The what is what ? “Buck, that’s not what I--”
He doesn’t get much farther than that, as in the next second Bucky is shoving him by the shoulders until his back hits the ground again, and then Bucky’s whirling around, a gun Steve hadn’t even noticed in his hand and pointed at Natasha. She’s got her own gun aimed at Bucky’s forehead, her expression shuttered, mouth pin-straight and eyes cold and distant.
“Natasha, what the hell?” Steve hisses, digging his elbows into the road to leverage his upper half up, fixing his patented Captain America is disappointed in you glare on her, though to disappointing results. She merely cocks a bow, tilting her head in a way that says she’s heard him but doesn’t care to acknowledge his presence at this juncture. A muscle ticks in Steve’s jaw, jumping with every grind of his teeth against each other.
Natasha barks something in Russian and Bucky responds with a snarl, the plates of his metal arm recalibrating as if in echo of his agitation. Natasha’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. Bucky growls something else, lower in pitch and longer than his first answer. Whatever he says has Natasha pursing her lips; the most Steve can glean from it is the word captain , which -- it doesn’t take a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist to know that’s about him.
Natasha stares for another long moment, unyielding, before she slowly lowers the barrel of her gun; Bucky reluctantly does the same at Steve’s quiet urging. With the threat of imminent death apparently having passed, Steve maneuvers himself out from behind Bucky and takes up a position in front of him, arms folded tight across his chest, shoulders squared. Natasha, unimpressed, holsters her gun and folds her own arms, her stance loose but wary.
“I’ll need you to explain how you managed to get the Winter Soldier to follow you around like a lost puppy.”
“The Winter…” Steve shakes his head, baffled. “You mean Bucky ? He’s with SHIELD, isn’t he? Why would I--”
“He’s not with SHIELD, Captain. He’s a ghost story, credited with over a dozen assassinations in the last fifty years, several of which have been key American political figures. SHIELD’s been chasing him for years but the only lead they’ve had on him is that he has a metal arm. Like what your friend is sporting,” she adds, jerking her chin at Bucky. Steve doesn’t turn to look at him, not willing to give Natasha the impression that what she’s just told him has him rattled. And it -- of course it does ( the Winter Soldier, what the fuck ), but he’s not going to let Natasha shoot Bucky because he’s confused .
“I didn’t do anything,” Steve eventually admits, his shoulders sagging minutely. Behind him he hears Bucky shift his weight, and then there’s a soft, momentary touch between his shoulder blades; Steve feels the warmth of each of Bucky’s flesh and blood fingertips through the fabric of his suit and somehow he can breathe a little easier. He doesn’t dwell on it, though; there’ll be time for all his tangled feelings later. “Nothing to get Bucky to trust me, I mean,” he adds to Natasha’s bland look of expectation. “He showed up out of nowhere, guarding a group of what looked like scientists. I thought he was with SHIELD and roped him into helping me round up the civilians in this area. I just… told him my name, who I was. That’s all.”
Bucky presses closer, his chest bumping into Steve’s back, and murmurs quietly, something in Russian for Steve’s ears only. Or, it would be if not for the comms device in his ear; across from him, Natasha’s hand twitches, not for her gun but just -- twitches. Steve might have thought he’d imagined it if not for the glare he gets from Natasha a moment later.
“You’re gonna have to teach me Russian,” Steve says on impulse, his traitor tongue making a move without his say so. He’s not even sure who it’s directed towards, Natasha or Bucky, but Bucky huffs what might be a quiet laugh at his back and Natasha’s blank expression loses a hint of its ice, so Steve decides it doesn’t matter.
“Fury’s either going to be ecstatic about this development,” Natasha says pleasantly, “or you’re going back on ice, Captain.”
Steve trusts his instincts, he always has. He hand-picked the Howling Commandos based on those instincts, agreed to Erskine's experiment based on those instincts. He got into every back-alley brawl, every bar fight, every stand-off with every bully in Brooklyn based on those instincts. And he hasn’t regretted a single one of those decisions. His instincts say Bucky’s a good man despite whatever hell makes up his past; and he can’t forget the hot spike of fear he felt in his gut when Bucky seemed oblivious to his own pain. That isn’t… normal, it isn’t a skill one develops because they want to. There’s more to Bucky’s story than Natasha’s letting on, or maybe more than she knows, Steve’s sure of that. He wants the time to unravel that story and like hell Fury’s gonna get in the way of that. Steve may have agreed to join the Avengers, but he did it because it was the right thing to do -- he doesn’t owe Fury anything, and even if he did he’s pretty sure any and all debts would’ve been squared away when he took a nosedive into the Arctic for his country.
“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says with a wry smile. “I’m backing Bucky either way.”
From there the matter of Bucky’s identity is dropped in favor of re-engaging the current enemy and preventing what civilian casualties they can. Steve’s opinion of Stark changes drastically when he’s willing to lay down his life for the sake of saving the city and Natasha’s opinion of Bucky at least shifts into favorable territory when he mows down an entire squadron of Chitauri by himself (and, to a lesser degree, when he saves Steve’s life by dragging his ass out of the way of a runaway glider).
Steve can’t say for sure what’s going to happen next. Fury’s finally caught wind of what Steve’s been up to on the battlefield and from what Natasha tells him, it’s inevitable that Fury’ll want a sit down with the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t know what’s going to become of the Avengers, if they’ll split apart from here and go their separate ways, or if this is the beginning of something good.
When the dust settles there are a few things that Steve knows for certain, though. One, they did it: they closed the portal and stopped the invasion in its tracks. Two, Thor’s promised to ensure that Loki is brought to justice in their home realm of Asgard. And three, whatever ghost stories Natasha spins about Bucky, he’s a good man and he’s earned Steve’s friendship.
Oh, and apparently? Bucky’s living with him now. He really doesn’t know how that one happened (he suspects he lost some time due to Bucky’s frankly obscenely long lashes), but he’s not complaining. They’ll figure things out from here and Steve’s willing to do anything he can to help Bucky.
All in all, he has to admit that he might be starting to like the future.