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The sounds of the circling helicopter have faded slightly by the time they hash out a plan. When Steve peers out a crack in the concrete, he can see it moving off a bit, but he has no doubt it will be back. "We're probably looking at a small window before they close off all the roads," he tells the others over his shoulder.
"I'll go see if I can find us a car," Sam says. "Stay here. You're both too recognizable right now." As he walks away, he meets Steve's eyes and shoots a significant look back at the room's other occupant.
Steve nods but ignores the implied warning. If Bucky wasn't himself, he would have attacked them the moment his arm was released. Instead, he's sitting quietly on a slab of concrete in the middle of the room, hunched over like he's waiting for another blow, hair hiding his face from view.
"He doesn't trust me," Bucky abruptly breaks the silence. They could be talking about the weather, for all the emotion in his flat voice. "That's good. Smart."
Steve winces, but there's no point refuting something so obviously true. "Sam doesn't know you like I do."
"You mean he's not as much of an idiot as you," Bucky snorts, some life finally sinking back into his expression.
The tone and the look are both so familiar that Steve has to struggle for a moment to control his reaction. After two years of searching and wondering and fearing the worst—that Bucky was lost or dead, that Steve would find him and he'd be a stranger—here he is, sitting close enough to touch, sassing him like the last 70 years were nothing. The whole world's gone to hell and a part of Steve is still so damn happy. It fills him with a hot curl of shame.
Bucky's watching his internal conflict with narrowed eyes. "What is it?"
"Nothing, it's just…" Steve shakes his head, voice suddenly thick. "It's really good to hear your voice, Buck."
Their eyes meet, and Steve drifts over to him as if tugged by an invisible line, takes the unspoken permission to look at him—really look at him, awake and aware and looking back: his clothes have seen better days, ripped and covered in the same unappetizing mixture of blood and river mud as Steve's. They seem worn but not threadbare, chosen for comfort and warmth. His body is as thick and muscular as it was when they met two years ago, so he must be eating well enough. His skin is slightly tan, like he's been spending time out in the sun. The mess of greasy hair and unshaved stubble still feel foreign; Bucky from before had always taken such care with his appearance, always had a comb ready to smooth back any errant hairs, never left the apartment without a smooth face. But the shape of his face is just the same, from the crinkles around his eyes to the straight line of his long nose. He's still the best thing Steve's ever seen.
"You remember me," he says, suddenly needing to hear it again.
Bucky nods, still watching him with wariness.
"For how long?"
"A while," Bucky admits, then grimaces. "But the memories, they come in bits and pieces. You don't—everything was a mess in my head. Is still a mess. I had to write it down to make sense of it at all." He scrubs his hands through his filthy hair, obviously distressed. "Now that's gone too."
Steve imagines Bucky in his sad little apartment, confused and alone, writing down his scattered memories with no context or understanding. He kneels so they're at eye level. "Why didn't you come to me?" he asks, more plaintively than he'd like. "I was looking. I would have helped, I—all I've wanted is to help you, these past two years."
"Steve…" Bucky purses his lips. "The last time I saw you, I put four bullets in you, or did you forget?"
"I remember everything. Including waking up on the riverbank because you pulled me out." Steve raises an eyebrow. "You really thought I'd hold any of that against you?"
Bucky laughs, the sound harsh and joyless. "Oh, I knew you wouldn't. You don't have the self-preservation god gave a gnat, Steve. You think—what, I'd have come to you and just moved in with you and your Avenger pals? One big happy family?"
Steve flushes. That is exactly what he'd thought, in his more hopeful fantasies. A world where his old family could fit in with his new one. Where they could both finally belong.
Bucky's watching him with something like pity; he always could read Steve like a book. "For god's sake, I've been with you less than a day and you're already an international fugitive."
Steve locks his jaw. "Not your fault. You were framed."
"Not the point, pal." Bucky smiles tiredly. "There was never a version of this story with a happy ending. I'm poison now. You touch me and that poison will just spread to you."
Steve's shaking his head before Bucky's finished speaking. "No. No, I don't accept that. Not after everything."
Bucky squeezes his shoulder with his flesh hand, then gives him a gentle shake. "Because you're too stubborn to see it."
"Buck—"
Sam reappears in the doorway. "Hey, you two ready to move?"
Steve flinches, but Bucky doesn't move, doesn't look away from Steve's face as he answers, "Yeah, we're ready." He squeezes Steve's shoulder again before dropping his hand.
"Good, because I got us a getaway car and a rendezvous point." There's a pregnant pause from behind him and then Sam says, carefully, "Cap?"
"Yeah, Sam." Steve takes a deep breath and gets to his feet. "Let's go."