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Steve clings to him in the shadow of the night, with the breath of the cool breeze beating down upon them. A chill runs through his spine as Bucky ruminates on his situation, trying to make sense of what must have happened between shipping out from Brooklyn and then being rescued by a newly serumed Steve from Azzano barely hours ago.
His voice is deeper than before, he’s grown more, the serum that courses through his veins changing the flesh of the man he’s known for ages. Steve is still the same punk he’s always been, the outside simply now matching the amount of fiery passion he has within. He’s gone through what seems like so much without Bucky by his side, and it nags at him a little.
He supposes that he himself has grown without Steve too, but it doesn’t feel as startling to him. Perhaps it’s due to the fact he lived through the pains of growing all over again through seeing the war from the front lines, the stress filled and thinly stretching environment tearing at the very fibers of his being. Being captured, days passed in a blur, melding together, unsure of what was real and what was a passing hallucination. When Steve came, looking torn between relief and being pained with such anguish, he’d thought for a minute he had fallen to death’s embrace.
How wrenching it is to be in this crossroads, he thinks, being held by a stranger who he knows so intimately. It’s a strange sensation, holding a Steve that’s double the size he left at home, one that runs as hot as a furnace, even in the dead of winter. He’d rather that Steve be back in Brooklyn, at least a bit more safe and protected from the horrors that the theatres of war bring, but a small part of him admits that he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to share the burden of this alone.
He supposes that some things never really change, though.
Bucky thinks his scent is still the same, this warm and musky blend that envelops the air around them a little more as he holds Steve closer. It’s the same as always, tucking the curve of Steve’s face into the warmth of his chest and base of his neck. He lets the back of Steve’s head rest against the inside of his arm as he wraps his arms around Bucky and simply lets himself be held like before, if only for a moment.
Steve is still a little the same too. He still has this sweet scent traipsing around him, adorning the soft parts of his neck and wrists. Steve curves into him fully like a flower does to the sun, trying to find from him any piece of warmth that he can in the belly of the chilled night. His lips whisper softly against Bucky’s collarbone, ever seeking for some comfort.
They fell back into their old rhythm immediately, relief being sought out by both of them in the other. Bucky knows that Steve doesn’t need to be warmed up anymore to prevent the cold from catching in his lungs. He still holds him anyway, running his fingers softly up and down the slope of Steve’s back, humming an old sweet tune that he’s rather fond of, thinking back to a better time.
Bucky knows there is no way to know what day may be their last out here. There will be time tomorrow, to strategize and worry and face the woes that the tides of the war will surely bring. Tonight, though, he holds Steve a little closer, savoring the warmth he’s missed desperately as the night deepens.