To touch
“It’s not exactly up to regulation, but what do you think?”
Steve raises his head to look up from the maps he’s been studying. They are currently in a British army base, situated in London’s undergrounds. Bucky is standing in front of him, looking expectantly at him. His arms are outstretched to show off his new dark blue peacoat.
What does Steve think? He thinks the material looks sturdy and warm. He thinks the color isn’t exactly camouflage, but still dark enough to not stand out or be spotted easily. He thinks it’s just the right fit, not hanging off his shoulders or restricting him by being too tight.
He thinks about how the coat hugs his middle, not as thin as when he found him, strapped to a table and barely conscious, but not as built as he had been before he shipped out either. He thinks that the blue of the coat brings out the blue of Bucky’s eyes, a color Steve hadn’t been able to see a few months ago, but a color that has quickly become his favourite ever since Bucky opened his eyes to Steve’s pleas in an Austrian Hydra facility. He thinks about how the fabric would feel under his touch, if he would be able to feel Bucky’s warmth, or if the material would safely conceal it.
None of these thoughts he says out loud. Instead he lets his eyes roam over Bucky’s body one more time. “What, you’re in the navy now?” he asks with a smirk.
Bucky drops his arms and rolls his eyes, already turning away. “Why do I even bother with you Rogers?”
“No, no Bucky, wait”, Steve laughs, going after the other man, and getting a hold of his wrist, turning him back around. “Here, let me get a better look at it.”
Once he’s facing him again, Steve placed both hands on Bucky’s shoulders before letting them slide down his arms, grabbing the brunette’s biceps, just to hold a part of him. The coat was by no means soft, but there was something soothing about the touch. But maybe that was just Bucky’s presence.
“You look great Buck”, Steve says softly. Bucky looks almost bashful at him and, by god, his eyes. Steve could drown in them. But he knows he’s not supposed to have these kinds of thoughts. So he takes a step back and lets go of Bucky’s arms. He’s trying to sound cheerful as he says: “I bet the dames back home would fall over themselves if they saw you like this.” With these words he’s turning his back to Bucky, facing the maps again.
He hears a quiet “oh” behind him, followed by a mumbled “yeah, of course”. When Steve looks back Bucky doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead his head hangs low, focusing on the seam of his coat, which he is worrying between his fingers.
Steve immediately knows he said something wrong, even though he doesn't know what it was. Wasn’t this what Bucky wanted to hear? Steve always thought Bucky was a bit vain, especially back in Brooklyn, when he got ready for one of his dates. Nice shirts, shined shoes, and slicked back hair. And always, right before he left, he went to Steve, a smile as bright as the sun, asking: “What do you think?”
And Steve would look him up and down, always thinking about asking him to stay in, but instead telling him with a weak smile: “You look great Buck. I’m sure the girl will love to walk on your arm.”
And Bucky would smile even brighter and always offer: “You could come along, you know?”, which Steve always declined, but wishing Bucky a nice evening anyway.
Steve thought Bucky was looking for this kind of familiarity away from home, but apparently he was wrong.
He is about to say something, asking Bucky what’s wrong, when someone knocks sharply at the door. Bucky immediately schools his features into a neutral expression, letting go of the fabric between his fingers. Steve sighs internally before he calls: “Come in.”
The door opens and Dugan steps into the room. He shoots a quick salute towards Steve. “The truck is loaded and the men are ready to head out, Captain.”
Steve nods. “Good, we’ll meet you and the others outside in ten.” Dugan salutes him again, turns around and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Steve’s eyes go back to Bucky, who was now straightening out his coat.
“Well, I better go look that everything is in order.” His tone sounds chipper, but Steve has known him for too long to fall for it.
“Buck”, he says softly before the other man can reach the door. Bucky stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn around. Steve comes up to him and squeezes his shoulder in a, what he hopes, reassuring way. “It’s a good coat, Buck. You really do look great.”
“Thanks”, Bucky whispers, still not looking at him. He clears his throat and finally turns to face him with a smirk. “Now get your important maps. Can’t have a Captain without his strategy”. He gives Steve a two fingered salute and winks. Then he’s out the door. And if Steve needs a few seconds to get a grip on himself and move again there’s no one there to notice.
What starts in this room becomes a habit for Steve somehow. Meaning that, whenever he can get away with it, he’s touching Bucky. Only briefly of course, as a reminder or a check that Bucky is ok. When they get out of a fight, when Bucky returns from his sniper position, right before they storm another Hydra facility. A quick pet on the back, a squeezed shoulder, touches that won’t raise suspicion. If Bucky or some other Howlie notices it, they don’t say anything.
The feeling of Bucky’s coat gets ingrained in his brain this way. It’s only natural; Bucky wears this coat almost all the time and all of Steve’s touches land on Bucky’s upper body. The texture and his friend become inseparable in his mind. He’s pretty sure he could recognize the fabric from touch anytime. If he concentrates really hard he could almost feel it between his fingers, even when it’s not there.
Just like now. He could feel the fabric in his hands, so surely it must be there. He could feel it! Bucky must be here!
Except that he isn’t. Steve doesn’t have the coat in his hands. He isn’t touching Bucky. He couldn’t grab him the one time it would have mattered. He couldn’t hold him. All he had to do was… He just watched as Bucky slipped away, becoming a dark blue dot in the snow of the Alps, and then becoming nothing. He has been so close. If Steve had managed to stretch a little bit further he could have grabbed his arm, his sleeve. But he hadn’t managed. And he could still feel the fabric of Bucky’s coat between his fingers, he could still see his face just as the railing broke off, he could still hear his scream.
The train isn’t moving anymore. Steve doesn’t know when it stopped or how long he has been clinging to that metal bar. He has his eyes fixed on the gorge. There are voices talking, but Steve doesn’t hear what they’re saying. All he could hear is the whistling of the wind and an ongoing scream inside his head.
Suddenly someone grabs him by the back of his uniform and yanks him back into the train. He doesn’t let go of the railing, so he rips it out in the momentum. He expects to fall backwards, but there are hands everywhere, keeping him on his feet. He doesn’t want that. He wants to fall to his knees. He wants to break down. He wants to jump after Bucky. Someone steps into his line of vision. It’s Morita.
“Captain”, his voice sounds steady and firm, “we got Zola. Jones, Dernier, and Falsworth are holding him and the German soldiers. We did it.”
If he is waiting for a reaction from Steve he’s gonna wait a long time. Steve’s eyes are still fixed to the hole in the train. He’s still holding that metal bar way too tight. Morita follows his sight and then turns back to Steve. “Did Barnes…”
He doesn’t finish his question and looks at someone behind Steve instead. Steve doesn’t answer. He wouldn’t know how. Morita swallows. “I’m… Look Rogers, we got Zola, but the Germans are probably closing in on us. We have to go back. We need to report back to base.”
Somehow this is what makes Steve snap out of it. No. No, that’s not what they need to do. They have to… They must…
Steve shakes his head, finally letting the metal bar clink to the ground. “I have to look for Bucky”, he says, suddenly determined. Dugan steps forward then. He must have been the one to pull Steve back.
“Come on Cap. You know there’s no way that he-”
“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT”, Steve shouts. “I HAVE TO GO LOOK FOR HIM! HE’S JUST OUT THERE… HE FELL BECAUSE I…” He pushes Dugan out of the way to get to his shield. The shield. Bucky helt it before he… “I have to get him, I have to bring him home. He’s just out there because of me and I… I can’t leave him there. I can’t…”
“Steve!” Morita’s voice cuts off his rambling. Steve’s head snaps towards the other two. Morita steps in front of him, laying both hands on Steve’s shoulders to ground him. “Steve”, he repeats, softer now, “Barnes is dead.”
Steve gasps and his vision becomes blurry. Suddenly it feels like his asthma is back, only ten times stronger. Bucky can’t be… No. Somewhere in his mind he knows that it’s true, but he can’t allow himself to think that Bucky is… He can’t. Because he can’t imagine it, him being here and Bucky not. That’s simply not how it’s supposed to be.
Morita swallows, but carries on. “I’m sorry Steve. He was my friend too. I also would like to bring him home, but we’ll probably need weeks to find hi-... his body. You know we don’t have the time. We have to keep going.”
“But I… He can’t… I have to”, Steve tries again, the words barely coming out. He isn’t even sure what he’s trying to say, his protest is so weak.
“He’s gone, Steve”, Morita whispers. “He’s gone.”
Steve screams as his legs give out under him and his knees hit the metal ground hard. He screams until his lungs are empty, tears running freely down his face. When he inhales sharply the winter air burns him from the inside. Eventually the screams turn into sobs and there is nothing left inside him for the frost to burn. Eventually he’s just empty.
He’s just numb. He just functions. They get back to the base. They get back to London. He reports to his superiors, he nods or shakes his head at the right time. He has no idea how he does it. He drinks, but he doesn’t get drunk. He tries. Again and again.
After the numbness comes the rage. Steve is no stranger to anger, but he never experienced this kind of rage. And now he has a body that can handle this rage, that he can use. He doesn’t know how many he kills on his way. He doesn’t care if he gets killed. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
So when his plane flies towards the ocean he’s ready to welcome death. All he can think of is ‘Bucky’ as ice and snow (his teeth, his smile, his laugh) breaks away to light blue (his eyes, he is finally allowed to drown in them). He barely feels the cold as he closes his eyes, enveloped in dark, familiar blue.