Chapter Text
Berlin, 2016
*
Sharon flicked open the trunk of the car, stepping back with a touch of pride, as the outer white ring of his shield caught a sunbeam and threw it back to them. Now that he knew she was related to Peggy, niece though she may be- grand-niece? Did she have any brothers or sisters? He'd never ran into them at the care home...- he saw her in the strong set to her shoulders, the sure way she carried herself.
He hoped, when this was over, they might get to know each other better, as Steve and Sharon, rather than as Captain America and the woman who was assigned to baby-sit him by SHIELD.
"I honestly can't thank you enough for this," Steve said. He couldn't miss the two sets of eyes boring into his back, couldn't miss the feeling of get moving, pronto that had been coursing through his veins since he'd used a paper clip Sam found in his pockets, among lint, to jimmy the lock on the dark blue Bug.
Her smile was small and crooked. "Don't die," Sharon said. "That's how you can thank me." She flicked her gaze over his shoulder, locking onto something momentarily before she studied his face once more. Steve didn't have to crack through her exterior to find worry littering her features."I really don't want to have to speak at another funeral so soon."
Something in his gut twisted, like the Black Panther had somehow reached through the muscle of his abdomen and sank his vibranium claws into his stomach, only to tug. "It'll take a lot more than this to tear me down," he assured her.
"More than a plane crashed in the Arctic?"
"More than a plane crashed in the Arctic," he confirmed softly. "I've got a mission, now. I have someone who needs me."
The little grin hadn't left her features, but it did darken as he concern intensified. She was an agent: he had no doubt she was fully aware just how dangerous any sort of assignment could be, even if his task was more of an, admittedly, extended way to atone for his sins, to atone for what he'd allowed Bucky to endure. Her gaze, once more, fell on a position at his six, where the car was parked. "Be careful out there, Steve."
He raised his hands, offering her his palms as a show of assurance. "No more funerals, remember?"
Sharon leaned in, a soft hand curling to his jaw. She stood on the tips of her toes to press a warm kiss to the space between his eyebrows. "I'll hold you to that," she murmured, patting his cheek amiably, already backing away before he could get his footing and do something decent with his hands, like pat her shoulder to give her a squeeze. He unloaded the gear- Sam's wings, Bucky's back pack, and his suit and shield- and snapped the trunk shut, giving it a slap as a signal she was alright to pull off. In an surprisingly Natasha-esque manner, Sharon tore off with a yelp of breaks, rejoining the world of the free.
"Will you move your feet, Captain Small-Ass?" Sam barked, poking his head out the window with a roll of his eyes. "Chop chop, damn it! This is not the time to day-dream patriotically even if the sun is really doing your jaw a lot of favors."
Steve arranged the load in his arms so he he had his and Bucky's things beneath one arm and Sam's wings in the other. He dangled the silver and burgundy gear from a wavering fingertip. "What's that about my ass?"
The other window, with a creak, rolled open. "It's a good ass," Bucky said, complete deadpan.
Sam barked a laugh and Bucky cracked a smile at Steve's stunned expression. So much had come to the surface these last few days, so many memories he'd tucked away for the nights where the gaping, raw hole that Bucky's absence left felt too new, like it had been a few minutes since that train in the Alps, mere milliseconds since the Helicarriers collapsed in the Potomac. It was thanks to the curl of Bucky's mouth he was able to force himself back to their getaway car, passing Sam his gear through the open window. "Ohhh, baby, I'm so glad to have you back. Falcon's here. It's okay. Shh, what did those big bad government dick-bags do to you?"
Bucky's eyebrow quirked. It could have been nineteen forty-five. Dugan could have just shaved off part of his mustache and a joke could have just been born within that beautiful head. "We need to give you and the suit a little alone time?" (It was not nineteen forty-five. Steve was, if anything, a realist. Even if he was a disillusioned one when it came to the man before him.)
Sucking his teeth, Sam retorted: "See, that's the sort of attitude that's not getting this seat moved up."
His insides were doing something funny. He felt, suddenly, like those clocks in that painting by Dali- runny and goopy and threatening to stretch into a place he knew he must go. Steve offered the black bag up to Bucky, shuddering when their fingers brushed. The bag didn't feel too heavy and, when Bucky tore his eyes away long enough to undo the zipper of the largest section, Steve saw that its depths were filled with neon-tabbed booklets similar to the one he'd found atop Bucky's fridge in Romania. The proof that Bucky remembered him, a million words jotted down in neat, rushed script; newspaper articles and Google images printed off and taped as a reminder of the man Bucky had been and who he was becoming.
He had leaned momentarily against the side of the car, his hands curling over the space where the window would be.
(Sam, bless him, was studying his fingernails and dutifully not looking in the rear-view mirror. Steve made a note to change his name to Da Best Wingman in his phone.)
"Everything there?"
That rewarded him with an owlish blink. "Yup." Bucky wrapped his cybernetic hand around Steve's wrist, catching him before he could pull back and move around the driver's seat. The metal was warm. "Thank you," Buck murmured, so soft Steve knew Sam had no hope in the world of hearing.
Steve gently curled his fingers around the silver knuckles and, though he had no idea just how sensitive it was compared to Bucky's flesh hand, gave it a firm squeeze. "You're worth it, you know. You're worth the whole damn thing."
A pink tongue darted out, dampening a plush mouth. He'd dreamed about that mouth since he was sixteen, since he knew what want was. "I hope you're right."
"I am," Steve said, low and true and fierce. Their eyes locked for a long moment, long enough for Sam to shift, as though the tension between he and Bucky was tangible and it was tickling at Sam's nerves. He had no idea when they'd find the time to be alone again, had no idea if they'd even be capable of making through the hours ahead. He uncovered Bucky's hand, giving his wrist a little twist to grasp at the silver fingers, bringing the chrome set of knuckles to his lips. He hoped Bucky could feel the pressure of his mouth, could maybe detect the way his heart was pounding double-time behind his ribs almost as hard as it would have during an asthma attack. "You've always been worth it, Buck."
With that, Steve gently untangled their hands, but not without a final squeeze, climbing into his seat.
He made an illegal U-turn, accelerating toward the point Wanda had claimed she'd be meeting him with Clint.
The feel of eyes on him, steel-gray and molten, granted him a stronger feeling of protection than any vibranium frisbee had ever done.
It was not nineteen forty-five.
And that was alright.
*