Chapter Text
The smell of lilies and old wood polish filled the church. It was the kind of scent that clung to your throat, sweet and heavy and impossible to swallow.
Steve sat in the second row of pews, shoulders squared, hands folded too neatly in his lap. He hadn’t moved in half an hour. He knew if he did, something inside him might crack.
Sharon was speaking. Legacy. Bravery. Service. The words washed over him like static. He didn't even have it in him to be shocked at who she was. Bitterness rose without heed, the reminder of what the legacy Peggy built had turned into, or maybe always was. Her photograph was front and center, looking as she did in Steve’s memories. Eyes sharp and alive. A mockery of the man who had spent the last two years dead on his feet.
The bench creaked when he shifted, and Sam shot him a quiet, grounding glance from the seat beside him. Steve nodded once, a wordless I’m fine that they both knew wasn’t true.
There was a subtle tightening at the base of his skull, an instinct deeply ingrained and indescribable. Steve tried to ignore it, reminding himself that there were hundreds of people present, and dozens no doubt had their eyes on him. But it grew stronger as time passed, incandescent, a sure sign that it was no ordinary set of eyes watching him.
Steve turned, his breath catching immediately.
At the back of the church stood a man half-shrouded in shadow sporting a dark coat and newsboy cap, he had his head bent, his hair falling to hide his face.
Steve’s heart lurched painfully in his ribs. He had no doubt it was him. After years of searching, decades of separation, it was him. He blinked, and the space was empty.
He was on his feet before he realized it, shrugging off Sam with a quick glance and a murmur of something that sounded like just a minute. He ducked his head as he made long strides down the aisle, ignoring the eyes and cameras that followed him.
The church doors were heavy, the hinges protesting as he swung them open. Sunlight hit him hard, cold and white, and for a moment he couldn’t see anything at all. He blinked quickly, barely catching the movement of a figure at the very edge of the courtyard.
“Wait!” Steve shouted, ignoring the looks he received as he pushed through a sea of black. He made it out of the thick of the crowd, his feet pounding on the pavement. “Wait!” he called again, gaining on the figure now that he could run. “Please, Bucky,” he said softer, reaching for his arm.
Bucky turned, twisting out of the grasp, his eyes flicking up with something resembling alarm.
Steve put up his palms, the intensity of the gaze knocking the wind out of him. His chest heaved like he’d run miles instead of a few blocks, his mind still in denial about the fact that he was here right in front of him.
Bucky looked older, his eyes more haunted. His skin was pale, and there were bags under his eyes that rivaled Steve’s. Tension hummed through his frame, drawn tight like a bow ready to snap. They stared silently at one another as they took in the other’s appearance.
“You’re here,” Steve breathed eventually.
Bucky glanced over his shoulder, shifting his weight before looking back at Steve. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. His voice was rough, like it hurt to use. “I didn’t mean for you to see me.”
Steve’s chest felt too small for his heart. “You came all this way just to disappear again?”
“It’s not my place.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“Since I became me.”
Steve swallowed, taking a small step forward. “You are you, Buck.”
Bucky’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Steve lowered his hands. “Because you’re here. You came.”
He took a step back, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have.”
“Then why did you?”
For a moment Bucky said nothing. His eyes drifted downward before finding their way back to Steve. “She was important to you.”
“She was your friend too, Bucky.”
Bucky swallowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his face morphing back into a careful neutralness. “You don’t have to keep looking for me, Steve.”
“I never had to, I chose to.”
He hesitated, a flicker of emotion crossing his face, something almost like pain or hope. Bucky took another step back. “You can stop now. You don’t owe me anything.”
Steve moved forward. “That’s what you think this is about?”
“I think you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t know when to stop saving people, even when you should.”
“That’s not what this is,” Steve argued, shaking his head, his voice teetering on something desperate.
Bucky faltered. “Then what is it?”
“I-I just..” Steve shrugged. “I just don’t want to lose you again.”
“I’m already gone, Steve.” Bucky looked at him, really looked, before turning and walking away.
For half a heartbeat, Steve let him go. Then his feet moved, catching up to him within seconds. “Just-just give me five minutes, Buck. Please.”
Bucky stopped but he didn’t turn. “Why?”
“Because I’m sick of ghosts,” he answered honestly. “Please.”
Bucky turned, eyes scanning every inch of Steve’s face. Eventually he nodded, once. “Five minutes.”
Steve followed Bucky to an alley out of sight from the main road. It was quiet, empty, and brisk without the sunshine.
Bucky leaned against the wall, arms folded. He looked smaller somehow, like the cold was pressing in on him from all sides. Steve stood a few feet away, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.
“Have you been in Europe this whole time?” Steve asked eventually, starting small.
“For the most part.” Bucky looked down, kicking his boot across the ground. “There’s… pieces of me out there. Files. Names. Triggers. I’ve been trying to find them, destroying what I can.” He paused. “With as many HYDRA casualties as possible.”
“Yeah, I’ve come across a few of those,” Steve mumbled, recalling all of the raided bases he and Sam had been through over the years.
Bucky didn’t answer. His gaze kept flickering around the alley, jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Why didn’t you let me find you?” Steve asked eventually, when the quiet between them became unbearable.
“People around me end up hurt,” he answered, shrugging half-heartedly.
“That’s not your faul-”
“You know what I’ve done,” Bucky cut him off.
“I know what they made you do,” Steve corrected.
“That doesn't change anything.”
Steve scoffed. “Bucky, that changes everything.”
Eventually Bucky looked away, shaking his head. “You can’t fix this.”
“I’m not trying to.” Steve took a step forward. “I told you.. I just don’t want you to disappear, I want to know you’re alright.”
“You don’t get to want things like that," Bucky snapped. “Not with me.”
“Why not?”
Bucky laughed, the sound curling in Steve’s gut. “Because I’m not worth it, Steve.”
“Bucky, that’s not true.”
He shook his head, his shoulders hunched as if in defeat, or surrender. A type of morbid acceptance. “Always the optimist,” he muttered under his breath.
Steve may have laughed if he wasn’t so close to throwing up. “Buck-” He was cut off by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket. He figured it was Sam, wondering where he ran off to. He planned to ignore it but felt three additional buzzes that told him he was being contacted by multiple people.
Bucky’s gaze tracked the sound, staring as Steve fished it out of the pocket of his suit.
His stomach dropped as he read the report, his fingers starting to tremble.
“What is it?” Bucky asked, pushing off the wall.
Steve handed him his phone, watching as Bucky’s expression shifted from confusion to distress to acceptance.
“I told you,” he said, handing the phone back to Steve. “People get hurt.”
“You didn’t do this.”
Bucky scowled. “You think that matters?” He turned, making his way down the alley. He paused halfway. “Goodbye, Steve.”
Steve was already after him, clutching onto his arm. “Let me help, Bucky. Please, I can help.”
He shook him off, eyes flashing with anger. “You’re just going to get yourself killed.”
Steve panicked, using his strength to push Bucky against the alley wall, his hands pressed firmly into his shoulders. “Damnit, Buck. Let me help you.” Steve realized he was begging, but he found it impossible to care. “I’m not leaving you, not again.”
Bucky stared at him, his eyes calculating. “Okay,” he said after a minute, surrender in his tone. He nodded once, shrugging out of Steve’s grip. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Steve repeated, nodding. He stood up straight, forcing his mind into problem solving mood. “Let’s go.” He turned, hooking his arm around Bucky’s as they made their way back onto the street.
“Where are we going?” he asked, weary. Bucky kept his head down and his hands buried inside his pockets.
Steve didn’t answer, weaving them through the traffic on the street seamlessly. They turned off the main road and went through alleys and side streets as Steve mapped the city in his head. A siren wailed in the distance and Bucky flinched. Steve squeezed his arm, urging him forward.
As they moved, side by side, Steve felt something he hadn’t since 1945: not just urgency, not just fear, but a tether. A quiet, steady connection that no alarm, no accusations, no world-ending news could break. They were together. And for Steve, that was everything.