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“Steve?”
He pushed his hands harder against his ears. No luck.
“Come on pal, it’s just me. Steve, here just-let go,” Bucky’s hands wrapped around his own, trying to pull them away. The metal arm was too strong to fight against, and after a moment of struggle Steve gave up.
He gave up.
“I want to go home,” He whispered as quietly as he could, like it was his greatest secret. Only, it sorta was.
“Ok, ok, sure. The jet will be here soon, it’ll take us home. Mission’s over Steve, we’re going home.”
Steve shook his head, and placed his hands back over his ears. He kept his eyes open this time, to look over at Bucky. He was different now, torn up and pieced back together. Longer hair, sadder eyes. He always seemed just a few precious moments away from losing it completely, but Steve couldn’t judge him for that, not when he was losing it right there on the floor of the empty Hydra base.
“I want to go home, Buck,” Steve pushed out, willing him to understand. Bucky looked at him for a moment, then raised his hand (his metal hand, his dominant hand, because nothing good goes unpunished), and carded it through Steve’s mucky hair. Was there blood in it? His clothes were covered in it. Although, the hand in his hair was nice, so he closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else. Bucky wrapped his other arm around his back, pulling him into a hug. That made it easier, a bit.
Steve leaned in to rest his head against Bucky’s shoulder, realized it was also covered in blood, and broke.
“Please, I just want to go home. That’s all, I just want to go home.”
He cried harder as Bucky pulled him closer. He hid his face in his neck and tried to contain the sobs but they weren’t stopping. Bucky wasn’t saying anything, and Steve realized it was probably because his hands were still clamped around his own ears. He pulled them away to latch onto Bucky’s tac gear, because it’s been 70 years and Bucky still has tac gear and when will this ever end?
“Shh, it’s gonna be ok Stevie, you’re gonna be fine. We’ll be home soon, ok?” Bucky repeated into his ear. Steve shook his head, willing Bucky to understand, and after a moment, he did.
“Oh, oh, Stevie...I’m sorry” He whispered. But this wasn’t Bucky’s fault.
“I want the orders to come already. When’s the war gonna end? I just wanna go home, already,” Steve choked out what he’s been thinking since he was pulled out of the ice. Since he fell unconscious in one battlefront and woke in another. This piece of him that’s been aching since he joined the Howling Commandos, since he first heard about Pearl Harbour. The piece that’s been left hurting since the war started, and never went away even when he was told that they had won. He was still fighting.
All this time, there has been a piece of him waiting for Philips’ letter to come in. To tell him, Thank you for your service in the war, Captain Rogers. We’ve won, sorry for the detour to the future, that was our mistake. You can go home now. The tiny piece was soothed only a little when Bucky hugged him for the first time in the 21st century, all those months ago, metal arm and all. But it still throbbed in his chest now, even as Bucky held him again, stroking his hair and whispering that it would all be ok.
It would never be ok, because neither of them can ever go home. They’d never get the official letter saying the war was done. They’d never see the parades down the street in front of their little Brooklyn apartment, visit Mr. and Ms. Barnes, and tell them We did it! We’re home!, or go out for drinks with the Howlies and clink jugs of beer and watch and laugh as Dum Dum drinks the others under the table, and hear him curse a storm at stone-cold sober Steve. They’d never see any of that, because the war’s not done.
It’ll never be done, and they’ll never get to go home.