Work Text:
The location is just too laughable to be real. It’s like a big bad joke, and Steve already knows it’s not going to end well. He is glad he is alone for this mission; he doesn’t want the others to be involved in this. Sam and Natasha have already been too exposed. They may be trained, competent and actual mortal agents, just like him, but his dumb protective side still flinches with worry when he remembers the red head clenching the gaping hole in her shoulder and the Falcon confessing his wings were ripped off by the Winter Soldier and he fell to the ground like a cold stone. He doesn’t want Clint to go crazy with ideas of revenge, or Tony leaving the Stark Tower alone, in the middle of the night to take care of the threat, neither does he want Bruce to even get involved, because even Bucky wouldn’t survive the rage of the Hulk.
Everyone is pretty free to act like they want since SHIELD needs to be rebuilt from scratch and relevant people are too busy freaking out about the last HYDRA’s tentacles impossibly spread inside various international organizations to pay attention to the little super heroes team.
Beside he doesn’t need anyone to see his weaknesses that much exposed.
America first child may be perfect on the poster, but pride is one of his biggest faults.
And passion. And stubbornness.
And blood that heats too quickly, making him run through New York darkest corners at night, after the ghost of his past.
He is leaning against a warm brick wall, breath caught in his throat, muscles tensed and mind clear of all parasite thoughts for the first time since a gloved hand saved him from the water.
He is in battle mode and it feels good not to think too much about what he’s currently doing or what he should be doing after it’s over.
Two more seconds and he’s leaping into the back alley, shield yanked in front of him to knock his adversary hard enough so he has time to figure if the fight needs to get dirty, or if Bucky will behave enough for him to talk him down.
Behave. He hates himself for thinking of his friend like this. Bucky doesn’t need to behave; he has free will.
Steve wants to believe he does.
But the vibranium meets thin air instead of the hard shape of the assassin and it’s only for his training and good balance if he stays up on his feet, dangerously swaying forward. He immediately looks up to the fire exit above him, his senses warning him he fell into a trap, but it’s too late. The sky is coming down, black and smelling like leather and sweat, the air whooshes in his ears and he’s the one knocked in the head by hard metal, making the world briefly separate in two. He tries to call to him, but a flesh hand comes to press against his mouth muffling the sounds and the right twist of his wrist makes him drop the shield just before a blade is pressed against his throat.
He freezes and frowns.
This is not going to end like this.
He squares his jaw and elbows him in the stomach, but he doesn’t have enough leverage and Bucky doesn’t even budge, only growls against his ear like a warning and sets the blade more firmly to his skin. Steve fixes his eyes on the shield he can only partially see from his position to keep his mind cool and ignore the shivers running down his spine. Too many mixed emotions, anticipation, a weird, twisted kind of joy, determination, anger (against himself, against HYDRA, against Bucky even) fear—
No not fear.
He does not fear him.
Bucky would have killed him already if he had intended to, but it’s been ten seconds already and he is still breathing hard against his hand and he doesn’t need to look at the assassin to know he has a look of confusion and anger on his face. Probably not knowing why he is not able to kill his best friend.
“Listen to me” he tries to say behind the palm pressed against his mouth, and it sounds more like “lifentssumue” but it doesn’t matter because Bucky is not listening.
He lets out a grunt of pain and actually moves away from him. He hears swearing coming from the roof and doesn’t even look up, because the arrow in the assassin’s thigh leaves no doubt about the bowman’s identity.
It’s bad. It’s bad because he doesn’t want to frighten Bucky, he doesn’t want him to think of Steve as an enemy, not after he saw the sparks of recognition in his eyes on the falling helicarrier. Not when he knows Bucky remembered enough to save his life and prevent him from drowning when he could have just escaped and left him to die.
He came here alone for a reason, or a thousand, and he prefers being beaten and cut up, and risking his life if that makes his best friend understand he’s not the enemy. Anything other than falling under his team’s protection and risking seeing him go AWOL again. This time there might be no chance to find him.
It’s been unsurprisingly hard to catch his mark, and he is not ready to lose it, lose him, for the second time in his life. Not when he’s got the chance to turn things around, make the wrongs right. Take Bucky’s place, literally fall for him because it was him that should have fallen this day, and Bucky who deserved to go on with his life. Not when he’s got the chance to change things. Not when God didn’t give up on him and gave him a way to stay alive.
He did it through Bucky’s mind who didn’t forget him and through Bucky’s hand which he felt on him just before his brain gave up and shut down because of too many injuries, too much pain, and too little oxygen.
It meant something.
It has to.
That’s why he doesn’t pick his SHIELD up and instead yells “Everyone stay on your positions! ”
If Clint is there, there is no way Natasha isn’t as well. And the two SHIELD agents plus Captain America going missing in the middle of the night would have JARVIS reporting to Tony. Tony, being his clever self, would have come after them after checking for location. It’s a dangerous place, and maybe Bruce is not very far away either. God, maybe even Sam and Thor, and oh this is bad. This is very, very bad and he can already see Bucky running away and never coming back. Never— never coming—
He takes a step toward his friend but has to double over, his chest constricting and his vision going grey. The floor jumps dangerously at him, but he catches himself with a hand on the wall, refusing to close his wide, pained eyes. He searches for Bucky’ shape above him, because if he shuts the world out for a second and Bucky isn’t there when he opens his eyes again, he is never going to forgive himself. So he looks hard at him, his stomach curling and his breath catching in his chest, feeling his body so heavy and his head so light that he is going to fall over in a matter of seconds, or throw up. Or both.
But Bucky has this look on his face… the lost, unsure look he had after Steve called his name the first time on the bridge. The one he has when he peers through cracks in his programming’s wall and tries to settle down the panic rising in his chest. He grabs the arrow in this thigh and pulls it out of the wound like it’s nothing. Almost absently.
And here they are, Captain America having a panic attack for the first time since he took the serum, with the worst timing possible, and Bucky feeling not-quite-memories pulling at the back of his mind… Quick flashes of blond hair and brittle bones, a little boy having trouble breathing and this overwhelming want, need, to help, to make sure things are alright. The feeling in his stomach, not fear but something close, something that makes his arms act by themselves catching Steve’s weight to lean him against the wall.
And isn’t life just a big joke because Steve remembers Bucky helping him to get up after messy, bloody, ugly fights he always lost the same way, in the same kind of dark alley. Maybe he looked a little more confident in what he was doing, and maybe he didn’t have crazy eyes asking for answers back in the days, or long, stupid, hair that got in his face, but it’s close enough to make a bitter laugh bubble in his chest and passes his lips as pained sound instead.
“Easy big guy, breathe” says an easy voice through the com in his ears and yeah, Tony is there, of course he is, probably flying above them. The only thing that could make the situation worse would be not only his team seeing him in this weakened state he thought he would never know again, but journalists stepping in, attracted like flies to mark XLV, and Bucky running away, for good this time.
So he steadies himself against the wall with his left hand and claps the right one on Bucky’s, forcing it to stay on his shoulder.
“Stay.” He says, his voice strangely even for his state, “Stay. You don’t have to run, you don’t ha- “
He has to pause, his throat closes up, too small for him to talk with that much conviction. He nearly hyperventilates on empty lungs, and how do people breathe again? He feels his best friend going tense and clutches his hand harder, frowning, desperate for him to stay.
“You don’t—“ but the words don’t want to go out, and his brain is supplying endless streams of buckyisgoingtoleaveagainbuckyisgoingtoleaveagain bucky is going to leave again and he cannot think right not matter how hard he tries, the world narrowing down to the touch on his shoulder.
He feels the ground under his butt and thighs, the stars are blocked out again, his back firmly pressed against the wall. He is sitting blind and afraid. Maybe he would have blacked out from too little oxygen in his brain if a familiar weight didn’t kneel between his legs, hands tightening on the fabric of his t-shirt, messy hair pressed against his forehead, grounding him here and now. Maybe not safe, but not lost either.
*************************************
Bucky’s fingers don’t ease up after Steve’s breathing starts to become more even. He closes his eyes and frowns as he tries to prevent his head from exploding. Bucky had to act on instinct, the need to protect being stronger than anything; like a second person moved his body, awakened by the urge. It makes him angry, this loss of control. The last thing he has after HYDRA and SHIELD and handlers and orders and safe houses and everything he knew went under, and he’s been free to walk in a world he always traveled in chains. Questions and thoughts and fears have been ruling his life since then, and it was only for his years of training and reflexes that ensured he survived without going crazy or getting caught.
Do not remember.
Do not stand out.
Or there would be retribution.
Except there wasn’t.
He clenches the muscles of his wounded thigh without thinking about it, and the pain makes him focus.
He lasted maybe a month, maybe two, maybe a handful of days he can’t say; time doesn’t exist outside of missions. Time is a blur, and his damaged mind has trouble understanding it like it could when time was related to targets and weapons and seconds that saved or killed people.
He has survived by mostly stealing money in busy streets, trying to blend in by wearing clothes he stole from a homeless man he beat to unconsciousness first. But he quickly came back to his leather armor and big combat boots. These clothes, if not discreet, are the last familiar thing that didn’t try to break his brain into pieces.
Like the target- Steve did. And does.
He opens his eyes, blinking hard and trying to make sense out of things. His hands curl into fists on the blond’s shoulders and he doesn’t understand why he’s not hitting him.
Again.
That didn’t go so well last time (last time, it’s a weird thought, it means he remembers), and he has ended up saving his life instead of taking it.
This was absolutely against his orders. Wrong and useless, and illogical. He doesn’t like it, even if he knows nobody will punish him in the immediate future and clean his brain with crackling electricity, buzzing machines and syringes that inject liquid fire in his veins. He had been made to obey.
Now not only has he disobeyed, but he doesn’t have anything to follow anymore.
It’s worse than punishment.
“Who are you ?” he growls between his teeth, unable to stop physical contact between him and Steve, wanting to go away, but not wanting. Wanting to stay, but wanting to fly.
******************************************
Steve takes a deep breath, the first one in long minutes, or hours, neither of them know. Steve hears Tony sigh of relief in his earpiece. He remembers that Tony has panic attacks too, so he knows how bad it is, no matter how easy he keeps his tone.
His head is still light and buzzing, it feels like it swells with each breath he draws. Bucky’s weight is a little heavier now, like he’s leaning on him as much as grounding him. His muscles are still tensed. His teeth are still bared. He still looks like he wants to murder him. But there is recognition again in his eyes, more than few sparks; there is a fire there and he can see how it burns him from the inside.
He can’t help himself but throw his arms around him.
“It’s okay, Buck’ ”, he says quietly, voice coming back, chest opening, his body being his again, even if his mind still races too fast with irrational fears.
“ Who. Are. You. ” There is rage in Bucky’s call for truth, and Steve clutches too hard around Bucky’s back.
“Steve. Steve Rogers. And you are my best friend.”
Bucky jerks back, maybe to say no, he is not… maybe to go away, maybe to finally hurt him, but Steve holds on.
“Yes. Yes you are. And you remember. And I’m sorry it has to be like this, but you are. You are Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes… and you are my best friend. You are James Buchanan Barnes. “
His tone is firmer; he’s not asking. He’s giving orders, slipping into Cap’s shoes without even noticing.
His head only slightly buzzes now. He repeats again, the name of his friend. And again. Chanting through clenched teeth, like it’s a spell that will make Bucky come back, like he can erase the shaking of the body against his and make the light come back to the dark blue eyes, make him recognize Steve fully, not through cracked doors and shades. Like it can wipe the Winter Soldier without pain, bring Bucky back and maybe, if he put enough hope into it, bring back everything else. A world that doesn’t turn so quickly. Morning smiles and late night jokes. The smell of dirt and Coney Island. A future that seemed so threatening yet so promising if they could have just made it through the war. A future they shouldn’t have chased so hard.
“You are James Buchanan Barnes, and you are my best friend.”
He feels Bucky relax a little against him, and his voice rise in the dark alley, clear and sure, not leaving any room for doubt. If he believes enough, Bucky will be back. If he believes enough there will be one more miracle.
He doesn’t know if he says Bucky’s name, or a prayer, but it’s all the same to him. He can continue until his voice goes rough, until it fades and his throat hurts, if that’s what will make his best friend come back.
***********************************
And it works.
Because it sounds like orders, and Steve is so sure of himself when Bucky’ head is a field of ruins.
His voice it feels like a clear path through everything that crumbled when the programming started to crack. When he dared to look at the crevices, larger every day; showing him a world too big to handle. Making him feel like he was going crazy with a thousand emotions he never felt before, because he wasn’t made to feel but to shape the world into the form his handlers wanted it to be. And now there is fear and guilt and want, and sadness, and disgust, and wonder, and a thousand more he could not identify, making his head hurt and his chest constrict with imaginary pain if he let himself think about it.
He is broken, probably beyond repair, and it’s only electricity that makes his brain melt that could make him whole again, but it’s not what is needed right now. Steve’s voice grounds him in the present, away from everything scary and disturbing that crawls inside his head.
So he lets go… goes limp against the man who once was his target and now is giving orders, and that doesn’t make sense either but it is more comfortable that way, when he is allowed to follow without questioning.
Steve finally stops repeating the same mantra over and over, his arms resting on Bucky’s back in a soft embrace instead of a cage that prevent him from fleeing. He looks up to see a clear sky and doesn’t bother asking the others where they went. The Avengers have enough brains to know when a dangerous situation becomes safe... Safer. Safe enough to handle (probably) and to leave him his privacy, finally.
He throws his head back against the bricks of the wall and relaxes a little too.
It didn’t go that bad. It came close. Closer. But it didn’t.
And things are not right, not yet. He’s not fooling himself, but they are right enough for now.
With Bucky in his arms and willing to trust his voice because he’s lost anyway.
He doesn’t get up just yet, appreciating being able to touch him without fearing his flight as much as before. It’s light and almost easy and he knows, if he can keep him that way and bring him back to the tower, or anywhere safe, it will be a start. It will be good… or good enough.
His fingers thread into the too long hair, a lost habit coming back… not quite the same but feeling familiar in his hands. Bucky makes a noise and Steve allows himself to believe he was granted his one last miracle.
Nothing is won yet, he’s not even sure Bucky won’t jump on his feet and murder him in a couple of seconds, but it’s okay, because he can hope and he can imagine bringing him home.
Bucky will follow him.
Bucky will be himself again.