Before Bucky goes into cryosleep in Wakanda—when Steve brought him here because it's the only safe place he could think of, and T'Challa had offered them asylum—they have time. Just a sliver, but this small amount of time is everything. This time might be all they have left of each other.
On the quinjet, it was easy to ignore their close proximity despite the gaping distance between them. The jet was loud around them, filling the silence. Steve didn't have to look at him. They didn't have time to talk about... well, everything, because Bucky was in pain from having his cybernetic arm blown off and Steve needed to pilot the jet. Bucky knows it could've flown itself. That small fact was better off being ignored. He didn't want to speak about it, either.
"What's in your bag?" He asks Bucky harmlessly one night sat at the edge of his bed. They've been casually chatting, both of them still awake even though the moon is already descending in the sky and preparing for the sun's ascent into another day. What little time they have left between them, for who knows how long. It seems like they both want it to last as long as it can.
To Bucky, though, it's not a harmless question. He's carried the bag with him since Bucharest, losing and then recovering it thanks to Sharon Carter after he'd been taken into custody for the bombing of the UN. The logical conclusion must have been that he had clothes, perhaps other essentials in the bag that he needed.
However, that's not the case.
His lips quirk up, giving Steve a soft smile. "You really wanna know what's in it?"
"Only if you're willing to show me," Steve amends, always the respectful one. Bucky snorts halfheartedly and rises from his spot on the armchair near his bed. He can feel Steve's eyes following him, blue gaze burning into his bare back. They're both aware of what still hangs between them, heavy and tense and questioning—and if Steve's looking at his half-missing cybernetic arm or the collision site where metal meets skin, he doesn't care.
At one point in time, it might've made his skin crawl, being this vulnerable in front of someone. Right now, he's not at his full strength. In fact, he's barely hanging onto whatever scraps of himself he can find. He's battered, he's beaten down, but Steve? God, with the change of clothes someone brought to their rooms and a shower, he's never looked more alive, more healthy. One of the first lessons that had been burned into his brain as his memories were burned out was that showing weakness could only lead to one thing: Death. There could be no weakness in the asset, or else he would be punished and wiped and they would have to start all over.
It has taken Bucky a long time to get it through his head that vulnerability no longer means punishment; that people can look at him and touch him and do him no harm. Here and now, Steve is the sole person he feels comfortable enough to show every weak point, every insecurity, and it doesn't make every single hair on his body rise with tension and fear. Instead, a hot, embarrassing thrum of something runs down his core, heating his cheeks.
He leans down and picks up the black army bag once belonging to HYDRA, now belonging to him, swinging it over his right shoulder and walking back to the bed, this time taking a seat at the edge next to Steve, as close as he'll dare. Bucky's stump of a left arm, covered with a thick black sock that hides exposed wires and metal parts and possibly nerve endings, just barely brushes against Steve's gray t-shirt as he sits, pulling the bag into his lap and unzipping it with only the mildest of difficulties.
"When I started remembering," Bucky begins in the low, rough timber of his, the left side of his face softly lit by the lamp on the nightstand. "I thought I was being manipulated by HYDRA, that they were-they were planting images in my brain, or something. Didn't know what was real and what wasn't."
The man on the bridge, who was he?
You met him last week on another assignment.
I knew him.
He inwardly flinches at the memory as Steve nods, remembering what he saw of him on the helicarrier—how Bucky was trying to come back to himself through the eyes of the Winter Soldier. The confusion and fear battling the brainwashing and control in his eyes, face both distraught and angry at once, caught between what he wanted and what his body, his mind was telling him to do. His face so terribly frightened as he was trapped under a fallen part of the helicarrier, scrabbling as he tried to fight his way out, both physically and mentally.
That had been... had it been two years, now? More? Steve can see that Bucky's no longer afraid, just—accepting. That he can't take back the things he had done while his body had not been his own, but that he can be different and better now that only he is in control of himself. It had been a long process and he had been alone for so much of it. In that, Steve's sorry he wasn't there with him, but perhaps it was the isolation that helped bring him back to himself when there was nobody around to tell him what to do and when to do it. And he's so proud, too, of all of the things Bucky has accomplished since they last saw each other.
"In the back of my head," Bucky continues, thumbing the zipper of the bag. "I had this-this feeling, this knowing that there was more to me than just a soldier. The things I was seeing, I didn't understand them. Not at first. But they felt like a part of me more than my arm ever had, and when they wiped me that day you saw me on the bridge, it... something became clear. It was a punishment, but you had been caught, so my mission was successful. Except that when I told Pierce that I knew you, I saw it in him. I wasn't punished because of the mission, I was punished because I remembered. And I remembered you."
Bucky closes his eyes and has to take a breath, hand clasping tight over the zipper. It's still a little foggy these days, but he remembers the devastation pulsating in his bones, the resignation of losing the only piece of himself he thought he'd ever get. A flash of Pierce's face, him strolling back through the gate as if it had just been another day, ignoring the screams that tore out of the Winter Soldier's—of Bucky's—throat.
He thought he was the monster, for doing the dirty work of a Neonazist organization for seventy years, letting them infiltrate an intelligence agency that was supposed to keep the world safe but instead made it a more dangerous place, nearly killing millions of civilians in the process. He should be the monster, for killing Tony Stark's parents, for nearly beating Steve to death and almost leaving him for dead at the bottom of the Potomac River. For still wanting him the way he does afterwards.
Pierce was the monster. Even if he has to remind himself from time to time, Pierce was the true monster, and the monster is dead. He can haunt him, but he can never lay a single finger on him ever again. He can't take control of his body or erase his mind, and he knows that, he does. For a second, though, it all rushes back in, aching and raw like he's back in the chair with electrodes strapped to his face and chest, teeth clenching down on a mouth guard as he prepares to have Steve taken from him again. He's lost so much, and Steve, Steve—
Steve's hand slides around the back of Bucky's neck, rubbing firm circles into one of the thick knots of tension, to which he lets out a small, non-committal noise and leans back into the touch, opening his eyes again as he feels the tension slowly uncoil. Warmth spreads through his bones; a different kind, so far from the warmth that coats his skin. This warmth is new, tender, untested. It fills up all the cold, frostbitten parts of him all the way down to his toes, lays over every bone and muscle and nerve ending like a soft blanket, a careful touch.
"So after the Potomac, I had no idea where to go, I just knew that I had to get away for a while. I wasn't going to, but then I found this place and I-I asked around, I guess, and found these."
He unclasps his clammy fingers from the zipper and reaches into the bag, gently removing a few of the objects and placing them in Steve's lap, who emits a small gasp at the first sight of them.
"Bucky," he starts to say but doesn't finish as he stares down at them, hesitantly reaching a hand towards one of the items.
"Go on," Bucky encourages, "you can touch 'em, they won't break."
As if from a distance, another body, he watches in silence as Steve picks it up and runs his fingers over it, the breath knocked out of him. His mouth tries to form words, but he's stuck in a trance, reminiscing on what was another lifetime when it was only a few years ago to him. The lamplight catches tears glistening in his eyes. Bucky wants to reach out and touch him, but this is not his moment. This is not for him.
"I-uh, I accidentally broke one of the chains," he explains, "when I first got them. So that's why they're on the same chain. I didn't-"
"It's okay," Steve assures without lifting his head, closing his fingers around the worn silver dog tags.
They're theirs, of course. The first time Bucky held them, it went something like this, save for the fact he was alone. Back when he was lost, when his mind was warring between the man he was, the man he is now, and everything that happened between them, he held these in his flesh hand as if they would burn him. He didn't feel like he deserved to have this sliver of their lives; he didn't even know if he was any small bit the man that Steve fought so hard for, sacrificed everything for. It took him weeks to take them back out of his bag and look at them again, afraid he'd pull them out and reveal what a fraud he was for wanting to take James Buchanan Barnes' name.
Do you think I'm a fraud, Steve? Did I steal the perfect image of your best pal Bucky and destroy it? Do you hate me for it?
He swallows his thoughts down, clenches his hand against his thigh until his knuckles turn white and his breathing steadies. Steve stares at the dog tags a moment longer, and then, in a move that Bucky would've never seen coming, he raises them and slides the chain around his neck, tags clacking together until they settle against his chest.
Bucky gapes, lips parting, but of course Steve would do something like this. He should've expected it, really. James Buchanan Barnes was Steve's best friend, it doesn't mean Bucky is.
Steve looks at him, smiling soft and sweet, and asks, "Where'd you get these, Buck?"
"Just found them along the way," he says vaguely, shrugging off the question as he gestures to the other items for Steve to pick up. Truthfully, he'd stolen them from the National Archives over a year ago and has kept them with him ever since. It was worryingly easy to break in, and he should probably tell somebody about that, but considering they're both wanted fugitives at the moment, he lets the idea go.
The next item he picks up is an old photograph, crinkled and worn and torn at one of the edges. That one wasn't Bucky's fault.
Before either of them can say another word, there's a knock at the door that makes him stiffen. Steve looks at Bucky questioningly, as they're in his room, but he just shakes his head and walks to the door, peeking through the peephole. It's only Princess Shuri, though, so he forces himself to relax as he opens the door.
"Hello, Mr. Barnes," Shuri greets with a warm smile. She's young, only in her teens, but she holds herself with the pride and grace of not only a royal princess, but a scientist, as well.
"You can call me James," he replies, leaning against the door frame and further shielding Steve from view. As selfish as it might be, he doesn't want anyone to impede on the moment they're having more than it just has been. This might be all he gets. He can't let anyone take it from him.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your morning, James, but you asked me to inform you of any new updates," she apologized, "I came to let you know that everything is set up and ready. I've run some tests on the chamber and made some updates to make you as comfortable as possible. I have a few other things I must do first, but we should be ready for you in a few hours. I'll send someone for you."
"No-no, thank you, Princess, but I can find my own way there if you don't mind."
She looks at him for a few seconds, an inquisitive look in her eyes, and then nods. "I'll see you in a few hours, then."
He attempts to send her a smile, but it ends up feeling tight and forced. He moves to close the door as she walks away when she turns around and calls, "Oh, and James?"
"Yes?"
A smile twitches at her lips. "You can call me Shuri."
With that, she leaves, and when Bucky closes the door and turns around, he finds Steve staring up at him with the same questioning gaze Shuri just had, except this time, there's something else behind it.
The same something from earlier floods his cheeks with color and heats his skin, timid but comfortable underneath the weight of Steve's eyes. Reflexively, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, fighting the urge to fidget with something in his hands and instead remaining where he is, letting Steve consume him with nothing but a look and allows the feeling of it to envelop him, swallow him whole.
The air grows thick around them, foreign and still like it's never been before, at least not that Bucky can remember. This is new territory for the both of them, the way Steve stares at him as if he's not only the air he needs to breathe, but the white-hot fire that fills his veins and gives him purpose, fuels his very being. Bucky is the match, the spark that ignites the fire and the kindling that turns it into an inferno, and Steve's rising to his feet now, the trinkets forgotten on the bed, gaze never leaving Bucky's.
He fights his lungs to breathe and wonders if he can do this; if he deserves to do this.
He's not a fool, not anymore, he knows how to spot desire, want, need, and it's so plain and raw on Steve's face as he walks towards him that it scares him, but this is Steve, he reminds himself. Steve, who he grew up with. Steve, who couldn't tie his shoes until he was 13 despite his steady artist's hands. Steve, who stands up to bullies even though he knows he's going to lose. Steve, who took the serum without giving him a heads up and came to his rescue in Azzano a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Steve, who was catapulted through time and lost him time and time again, but still managed to never give out hope for him even when Bucky purposely let himself slip through his fingers.
Bucky's never deserved Steve, not even when all he was, was just James Barnes, Steve Rogers' charming best friend. Nobody could ever be good enough for Steve, so how could Steve ever want somebody like him, who's cheated death so many times it's become second nature, who's slaughtered innocent people with no remorse in the decades he's been asleep, who couldn't even remember his best friend when he looked him in the eyes for the first time in seventy years?
As Steve draws near, his breath hitches, and he gives a minute shake of his head. Steve pauses, questioning but respecting Bucky's wishes for him to stay where he is, so close but thousands of miles away. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't. He is made for war, programmed to kill as efficiently and brutally as possible, to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who dares to cross his path. Steve? Steve is made for greatness, to be a hero. To save those who need it and instill hope in the darkest of moments.
"I'm leaving today," he answers, tearing his eyes away from the man who's still trying to find his best friend underneath everything he has become. He's not there, Bucky wants to scream. I killed him, Steve, a long time ago. He's not coming back, don't you see that?
"I know," Steve says, staring at him so intensely as if he thinks it will make Bucky look back, but all it does is burn him. "That doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything, Steve," Bucky says, lips settling into a grim line. "I don't—I don't want you here. When I go."
For a moment, he says nothing. Bucky dares a glance at him, and what he finds tears at his heart, screams into the space James Barnes used to be. Steve, looking exactly as Bucky feels, fighting back tears with a clenched jaw and shaky breaths, eyes lowered to the floor. He's cold, suddenly, as if Steve had been keeping him warm all this time.
He waits for a fight, knowing Steve won't want to back down from this, of all things. Bucky is taking away his chance to finally say goodbye; to watch as he willingly surrenders himself to cryosleep, sacrifices himself for the rest of the world because of the threat he still poses with the triggers and traps wired into his brain. It's like watching him fall and assuming he's dead when instead he's captured by enemy forces and tortured. T'Challa offered up his home, but Steve still doesn't trust them. As much as Bucky understands that, he can't go through with allowing him in the room.
To his surprise, Steve nods once, and quietly says, "Okay."
Bucky looks back at him again, expecting him to say something else, but he doesn't. "Okay?"
"It's not my decision to make, it's yours," Steve replies, looking and sounding like a kicked puppy. "If you-if you don't want me there, I won't be."
He tries to swallow down the guilt and finds it stuck in his throat, eyes finding their dog tags hanging around Steve's neck. It's not that he doesn't want him in the room, of course it's not that. Hell, Bucky will let Steve follow him anywhere at this point as long as he's not too far behind. It's the why, the what that comes with it. He doesn't know when, but somewhere along the line, Bucky has become more than Steve Rogers' best friend, despite no longer being that person. Because of that, he knows Steve's not going to leave when Bucky goes. He can't do that to him, he can't.
"It's not that, Steve," he says defensively. "You gotta know it's not."
"Then why?" He asks quietly, meeting Bucky's gaze. There's no fire there, no kindling left to fuel it. "Because you just said it was."
"I-" he exhales, running a frustrated hand over his face. He can't stand the hurt look on his face, knowing he's the one who caused it. From the moment they met, Steve has been his biggest weakness. It was his job to protect him, but in this new world, all he's succeeded in doing is hurting him. Which would be the easier, less painful route? Turning him away, or letting him waste away next to Bucky's chamber?
"Tell me, Buck," Steve says quietly, stepping closer. "Just tell me why you're turning me away now, after everything."
"Steve," Bucky warns.
"Just tell me, Buck," he repeats, taking another careful step forward. They're nearly in each other's space, and if he moves any closer, Bucky will be able to feel his breath on his skin. His heart picks up, body thrumming with each step.
"Stop," Bucky nearly begs, nostrils flaring. Steve knows exactly what he's doing, how to get him riled up until he's giving in. Bucky would burn the whole world down for him if Steve asked.
"Please," he whispers, though it's loud in Bucky's ears. "If you don't wanna give me anything else, at least give me this."
As he takes another step forward, Bucky's done for. His hand flashes out and grips Steve's shirt tight, then he whirls around and pushes him into the wall, face so close their noses nearly brush.
"Don't you get it!?" Bucky exclaims, loud and desperate and pleading for Steve to understand, to stop this before it gets out of hand. "I can't let you in there, Steve. If I do, you'll never leave. Why can't you see I'm trying to protect you? I can't-I can't—stay away from me, please."
With that, he lets go, stumbling back and breathing heavily, ripe with anxiety and fear. His hand shakes, so he clenches it, willing this weakness to leave, cursing himself for letting Steve get the better of him. He shuts his eyes tight, hoping that he'll open them and Steve will be gone so he doesn't have to deal with this. How much of a monster is he, to love a man he only causes pain?
His chin wobbles. This is all the time they have left, and he's spending the rest of it fighting with Steve. Fucking perfect. What a great way to go, Bucky.
"Buck," Steve says, and Bucky's nearly falling apart because he's so close again and he's ripped apart, warring between what he wants and what he feels he has to do. "Buck, look at me, please."
I can't, he wants to say. I love you, please don't do this to me. He wants to get down his knees with his forehead pressed to Steve's thighs and beg him to let him go because his name is Steve Goddamn-Stubborn Rogers and he never gives up a fight, even if he loses. He wants to scream and curse until his face turns red and he can't breathe, and then he wants to walk out the door to Shuri's lab and never turn back because he won't be able to handle it if Steve spends the rest of his life waiting for Bucky to return, when, in all likeliness, he's never going to leave that chamber once he steps inside. He'd rather die than allow Steve to hold on to the false hope that he's going to get better, that Shuri and her team are going to find a way to somehow fix the epic fucking disaster that is his brain.
He doesn't. It sticks in his throat as Steve reaches up and tenderly brushes his thumb against the cleft in Bucky's chin and tilts his head to face him, looking back at him with so much desperation and adoration that it kills him, and if he wasn't a super soldier, God-damn him, his knees would be giving in and he'd be collapsing into his arms like a damsel in distress.
"Steve," he croaks. A bright thread of longing pulsates in his chest and unwinds, lacing itself around his bones until they're each set alight; wanting, needing, craving the gentle touch of Steve's fingers when they leave his skin. Then, they're carding through his hair, and oh—
Bucky accidentally lets out a soft noise, to which Steve huffs in amusement and pulls him in by the back of his neck and his waist, his warm, large hands light and unimpeding on his body. He knows he shouldn't; he knows he should move back out of Steve's space and give him all the reasons why this can't happen, but he's racking his mind and he can't remember the last time someone touched him like this—gentle, caring, passionate, without pain or punishment.
He can't remember the last time someone touched him like he's a person rather than a monster.
Reflexively, he clutches the back of Steve's shirt in his hand and digs his face into his neck, slowly breathing him in, listening to his steady heartbeat that used to thump arrhythmically before he'd taken the serum and his heart was one thing on a long list of medical problems. He stays careful with Bucky, not going any further than resting a hand at his waist and running his fingers through his long hair. It's soothing enough that he could fall asleep here like this, standing in Steve's arms.
"I'm sorry," he breathes onto Steve's skin, half-hoping this admission somehow doesn't make its way to his ears, even with the serum. "I just can't let you put your life on hold for me."
"I never said-"
"-I know you," Bucky cuts him off. "You already put your life on hold for two years to go and find me. You deserve to live your life."
At that, Steve presses a little closer, resting his cheek against the side of Bucky's head. Then he says, "You deserve to live your life, too."
Reluctantly, Bucky pulls away, retracting his hand. Steve follows suit after a second of hesitation.
"I might not get to live my life, don't you get that?" He replies. "I've cheated my way out of death and justice too many times to be fair. My mind still isn't my own, for fucks' sake. There are more tripwires and triggers in here than I've seen my entire life, and that's a hell of a long time, Steve. I'm a danger, not just to you but to the rest of the world. I can't be trusted, and if I'm taken into the wrong hands, I might-"
"I'm not gonna let that h-"
"Stop interrupting me!" Bucky exclaims, startling Steve into silence. "You can't protect me all the damn time, okay? And the only place I don't need protecting is in that chamber, so it's the best option. Hell, it's the only option at this point. I go in there, I might not come out, and if someone lets you in there, you might never come out too, okay? And I can't. I can't let that happen."
Steve clenches his jaw—the only sign of anger Bucky's seen from him the entire time. Something in his eyes hardens. "We'll figure something out," he promises.
"What if I don't want to?" He snaps back impulsively, letting the warmth from Steve's skin fade and be replaced by familiar cold. "I'm the one who chose this, Steve, not you. I don't-I don't wanna figure something out, okay? I wanna go in there and hope I never have to wake up again."
"Buck," Steve's voice cracks, desolate. His eyes are cold and terribly sad, as if he had been ravaged by a storm only moments before. "Don't-don't say that."
"Why not, Steve?" He asks, pushing into his space out of anger rather than searching for the closeness. He doesn't understand, and Bucky doesn't know how to make him. He hears him, but he's not listening. "Would it make you feel better if I lied and told you I wanted to live, that I'm hoping Shuri finds a solution soon? I'm not. I'd rather be left to rot."
"Stop," Steve says quietly, "Let's just forget about it, okay? It's late. We should both get some sleep-"
"-I don't want sleep!" Bucky protests, unable to contain the growing fire stoking underneath his skin. He doesn't know where this anger has come from, but anger is good. Anger covers up all the raw, vulnerable parts of him that are weak from Steve's tender words and weak fight.
He raises his voice. "I'm so sick of you acting like I'm him. He's gone, and you can't get that through your thick head because I wear his face and I stole his name. Well I'm not him, you got that? Your best pal James Barnes? He's dead, Steve, and he ain't coming back."
A traitorous tear escapes down his cheek. He's quick to wipe it away, but the crime has already been committed. Bucky tries to be angry, at the world, at Steve, but the safety net of his anger falls short and all that's left is hurt.
Bucky is not James Barnes. And, as much as he lies awake at night wishing to the stars, he's never going to be as good of a man as he was. He's never going to deserve Steve's love like he almost did, and he's sure as hell not going to be able to treat him right. Even now, Bucky's yelling at him, taunting him, pushing him away and pulling him back in because he can't make up his damn mind. He loves him. Damn him, Bucky loves Steve, and he doesn't want to play this game, but he hasn't been a person in so long that all he knows is cold, cold, cold.
Steve stares at him and says nothing.
"What the hell are you waiting for, huh?" Bucky spits. "Say something."
He doesn't. There's enough anger still running through Bucky that he reaches out and pushes him back so that his back collides with the door.
"Say something. Say something."
His jaw works. Bucky stares him down, silently egging him on, itching for a fight he's destined to lose from the start. Anything to get rid of this hurt that tears at him, ripping holes in his lungs, drowning him from the inside.
"You're right," Steve finally relents. "James Barnes died in the war. I know because I watched him fall to a death not even I could escape. I mourned him. I went down in a plane expecting to die but woke up in a whole new world without him, one I know he woulda loved if he'd been given the chance. Just because he's the person you used to be doesn't make all of those facts void. He's dead, and I lost my best friend. I know you're not him. I sure as hell ain't trying to act like you are, Buck, so I don't know what you're getting on about."
Another tear falls down Bucky's cheek.
"Fuck you," he says like he's a child and not a century old, unable to shake the hurt Steve unknowingly caused. "Fuck you, Steve."
"I'm sorry," Steve continues, stepping forward until he's wrapping his arms around Bucky and tugging him backward. "I'm so sorry."
"Fuck you," Bucky hisses, struggling to get out of Steve's grip as the anger dissipates, trying to grip the last remnants but feeling them slip away anyway. A strong wave of sorrow replaces his anger, pulling and pushing him until his bones are sagging and he's falling into Steve's arms instead of struggling against them, giving in to the tears building in his eyes.
All the time they could've had and Bucky spent it loathing himself for not being able to be the man Steve once knew whilst blaming Steve for thinking he could be. All those nights screaming as more and more memories returned and he couldn't stop them, watching over and over as he failed his best friend, first on the train and then again a few years ago. Violence he couldn't stop, the sickening crunch of bone as Bucky's fist collided with Steve's cheekbone. He doesn't know why Steve has the nerve to apologize to him when he's the one who's been doing everything so wrong. He's the only one that should be blamed.
Steve shushes him, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin at the base of his neck. Bucky's body melts into nothing but soft edges and warm skin again. All the fight drains away from him, the embers of his fire doused by the waves of his sea of pain. Neither of them is going to win this fight. He's not sure it was even worth it anymore, or if it was ever worth it. The idea of them both being different people and still being able to be close like this is a constant struggle for him to accept. How can he be capable of love when his body was re-created only to destroy?
"I can't promise you anything," he croaks against Steve's shoulder, wrung out. "The future ain't up to me anymore."
"I never said you did," Steve replies, nudging him toward his bed. It's been a long night for both of them. Bucky's used to running off of little sleep, but he's been going for over 48 hours, and he's quickly exhausted the rest of his reserves, so he doesn't complain when Steve unwraps one of his hands to throw the covers back and helps him to bed. The movements disrupt the objects still set at the end of the mattress, so Steve moves them to the floor, ensuring that they're not kicked off and ruined while Bucky sleeps. The contents don't matter to either of them anymore.
When Steve hesitates at the edge of the bed, Bucky reaches out and grabs ahold of his wrist.
"I'm sorry," he quietly admits, even though they're alone and he can be as loud as he wishes. This feels too intimate, like a Sacrament of Penance admitted within the walls of an empty church, but this time he can't be absolved of his sins. "That I keep leaving you."
Steve shakes his head and starts to say something, but Bucky hushes him, pulling him until he's kneeling and they're face-to-face. "It's not your fault, you gotta know that," he says, allowing the emotions coursing through him to pour through his eyes and spill onto the sheets for Steve to see. "This is a safeguard to ensure I can't hurt anyone else-"
"You're not-"
"You don't know that, Steve. They put stuff in my head to ensure that even if I get away, I'll either belong to them or to no one." Bucky looks down at the hand still holding Steve's wrist, brushing his thumb assuringly against his skin. "Think of it as penance. I gotta do my time somehow."
"You had seventy years as a prisoner, you don't need any more time," Steve protests, albeit weakly. Clearly, he's not going to be talked out of it, but he can't help but try.
"Fine," Bucky backtracks, "then don't think of it like that. Think of it like... like recovering from an injury or something. I gotta get better so I can stand on my own again, be able to do all the things I used to do.
"I gotta get better for you," he finishes softly, looking at Steve with all the affection he can muster, who furrows his brows and frowns, then leans forward and presses his forehead to Bucky's.
"I can't say goodbye to you. Not again."
Bucky closes his eyes and breathes against Steve, ribs aching. "Then don't. That's what I'm asking of you. If you don't say goodbye, it's not a goodbye."
That coaxes a small, amused huff from him, which fills Bucky with a bit of pride. "I don't think that's how that works, Buck."
"I think it is," Bucky hums, nudging him with his nose, but neither of them moves from their positions. "That's exactly how it works."
"You're a pain in my ass, you know that?"
"You act like that's news when you've been a pain in my ass for going on ninety years now, pal."
Several hours later finds Bucky in Shuri's lab, and Steve sitting against the wall just outside. If he strains his ears, he can hear the soft humming of the machine that holds his heart, his home, as he goes to sleep.
He sits there and doesn't move for a long time. When he does, he gets on a jet he doesn't know the destination of and finds it somewhere in himself not to turn back and watch as Wakanda gets smaller and smaller until the jet passes the shield and Wakanda disappears completely.
When Bucky wakes up, Steve doesn't return. Not until the day the world ends.