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Bucky's stomach drops when the Widow steps in front of the Quinjet. This is it, then: the true end of the line. She doesn't have to fight to kill—just delay long enough for the others to arrive. He might be able to take her, but not without hurting her bad enough she won't be getting up again. And Steve won't be able to stomach that. Not to save the world, and certainly not to save himself.
And maybe that would be for the best. Let Steve see him for the monster he is. Except the truth is Bucky couldn't stomach it either. Not anymore. And even if he could, he's not ready to destroy the part of Steve Rogers that still looks at him like he's worth something.
But instead she lets them go.
Even as they're running past her and she's shooting the man in the catsuit full of electric pulses, he can't quite believe the luck. "Only you, pal," he murmurs as Steve squeezes past him into the pilot's seat. "How you keep convincing these suckers to follow you, I'll never know."
Steve rolls his eyes. "It's a real mystery."
The two flying suits aren't far behind as they lift off. Bucky could probably have flown this thing if he'd had to—all sort of skills are still floating around in his brain that he doesn't remember until he needs them. But Steve seems familiar with the controls, and a part of Bucky he's not proud of is selfishly grateful the decision of whether or not to fire on Steve's friends is out of his hands.
But whatever god has always smiled on Steve is apparently on the clock today, because the missiles they're both expecting never hit.
"I think we're clear," Steve says quietly, after a few minutes with no sign of the other side on the radar. Bucky doesn't have to see his face to read his mind: Steve's wondering what must have happened to stop the pursuit. The not knowing is eating him up inside.
It's been so long since Bucky worked with anyone else at all—much less anyone that wasn't a disposable warm body to hand him weapons—that it takes a moment for the unfamiliar feeling to make itself known: concern. He feels concern for the ones they left behind.
"What will happen to your friends?" he asks after a moment.
A pause, then: "Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it." It's Steve's most confident and determined voice, which means he's actually completely full of shit and has no idea what he's going to do.
This is Bucky's fault. Take him out of the equation and Steve's friends would be working together right now to stop the larger threat. Instead they're tearing each other apart, tearing Steve apart. All because Bucky had been careless. He'd been caught. He'd lost control of his mind again and now he's drawn Steve into his mess.
In the space of a single day, absolutely everything he'd spent two years desperately trying to avoid had come true.
"I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve," he says before he can stop himself.
Steve breathes in sharply and turns to look back at him. Bucky very deliberately doesn't meet his gaze. "What you did all those years," Steve says after a fraught moment, sounding like he's feeling his way through a minefield. "It wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."
"I know," Bucky agrees. That's the thing about getting his memories back. He got all of them back. The smell of his father's aftershave, the smell of his own head frying. His mother's laugh, the feel of Steve's bony little shoulder under his arm. The piercing hiss of the cryofreeze, the agony of every bone in his body being systematically broken, just to see how long they would take to heal. He remembers every excruciating moment of not being in control of his own mind.
It just doesn't change anything.
Looking at Steve now is another form of torture, but he forces himself to meet his eyes and will him to understand, even though he knows he won't. "But I did it."
Steve clenches his jaw. Bucky knows he wants to argue. "I did it, Steve," he repeats. "And I have to live with those memories. You don't have to like it, but you do have to let me carry it."
Steve breathes heavily through his nose, visibly reining himself in. "Hydra did it," he says finally. "You carry what you have to, but I won't let you be punished for it any more than you already have. I can't, Buck. I don't have it in me."
Bucky sighs. Because of course he doesn't. That's the whole problem.
There's silence as Steve fiddles with the controls, then stands up. "The autopilot is set, but it's gonna be a couple hours." He raises an eyebrow. "Want to see what Tony packed to eat on this thing?"
It's an olive branch, and Bucky unbuckles his straps, grateful for the subject change. Standing makes his bruised ribs twinge and he lets out a small grunt.
Steve catches it, turns back sharply. "Are you hurt?"
"Nothing serious," Bucky assures him. Steve looks concerned still, so he keeps his voice light. "But I think I'm gonna be cleaning sticky gunk out of my arm for a month. Who the hell was that kid in the red pajamas?"
It works. Steve's face brightens. "No idea," he says with a disbelieving shake of his head. "But he's from Queens."
"No kidding?"
"Yeah, small world."
It turns out Tony Stark packs very well, even when he's on a rushed mission to arrest his friends. In the back of the jet, there's a backpack strewn open on the bench with some abandoned clothes, a half empty bag of Doritos, and what looks like a high school chemistry textbook falling out of it. Steve eyes the latter with a muttered "Jesus, Tony," before turning to open compartments stocked with juice, protein bars, cookies, fresh fruit, and—
"Caviar?" Bucky asks, blinking at the small container.
Steve makes a face. "I don't understand why anyone eats that stuff."
"You're sure making time with some real swells these days, Rogers," Bucky says, dropping the caviar and taking a bite of an apple instead.
Steve huffs out a laugh. "Jesus, I missed you." Bucky freezes. "I missed you so much, Buck. You got no idea," Steve says again, heartfelt, his dopey face suddenly wide open with emotion.
"Think I got some idea," Bucky says softly. And he'd promised himself he'd keep his distance, but this is too much. Even the strongest man has to have his limits, and Steve's big eyes have always been Bucky's. "Shit," he mutters. "C'mere."
Steve lurches forward like he'd just been waiting for Bucky to say the word, lets Bucky pull him into a hug. They both shudder a little at the contact. Steve's arms feel familiar and strange at the same time. No one has touched him like this since 1945: neither gentle nor violent. He breathes out slowly, letting himself relax into the embrace. Just for a moment. He can have this for a small moment and still walk away.
"God," Steve says in a muffled voice, pressing his face against Bucky's neck.
"Nope. Still just Bucky."
Steve's arms tighten around him. "Asshole."
"Wouldn't have me any other way, Rogers."
"Damn straight." When Steve finally pulls back, he leaves his hands gripping Bucky's arms, tight and grounding. His eyes are red. They stare at each other for a moment. "Buck," Steve says, helpless, and tips his head forward to lean their foreheads together. Bucky closes his eyes. This, too, is a moment he can allow himself to have.
"Do you—is this…?" Steve asks, not moving. His breath feels hot on Bucky's cheek. He falters, obviously unable to voice it, and Bucky instinctively steps into the gap.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and reaches a hand around the back of Steve's head, gently pulling until their mouths can meet.
For a moment, they just breath in tandem, and then he's kissing Steve, or maybe Steve's kissing him—this kiss jumbles together in his head with a thousand others: fourteen years old, fumbling awkwardly on Steve's bed on a stifling hot summer afternoon; pressed against the kitchen counter in their tiny apartment, heads swimming with cheap whisky to celebrate Steve getting a commission; desperate in the dark the night Bucky got his orders; a tent in the freezing mud across enemy lines, quick and quiet while Dernier makes the rounds outside.
Steve makes a muffled noise, and Bucky pulls back just far enough to look at his face. His hair's standing up a bit in the back like a fluffy chicken. His lips are red and glistening as he stares back at Bucky, eyes wide and wanting. Bucky gives him a gentle push and he falls obligingly backward until his back's against the wall of the jet, legs spread in invitation.
Bucky presses up close and shoves his thigh between Steve's, rutting against him. His ribs protest, but he ignores it as Steve's head hits the wall with a thunk, exposed neck appealingly flushed. Bucky wastes a precious second wishing he could follow that blushing skin all the way down, but shucking their uniforms would take too much time, so he settles for sucking at his throat.
Steve exhales, hips jerking once, hard. Bucky holds his shoulder against the wall with his left hand, reaching the other down to open the fly of Steve's uniform and slip his hand inside. "I got you," he mutters. "I got you."
Steve's dick is a familiar thick weight. He gives it an experimental stroke, spreading the slick wetness from the tip down its length, and is rewarded by Steve's low moan. Steve's fingers tighten on Bucky's hips, and then he's fumbling with the clasps of Bucky's combat fatigues and pulling his dick out too, lining them up side by side and gripping them both with his big hand.
They're both panting. The smooth skin of Steve's dick rubbing against his feels like full technicolor compared to the faded black and white of his memories. Steve is biting at his bottom lip in concentration as he squeezes them together in long, slow strokes, careful of the hard edges of their gear. Bucky reaches down to wrap his flesh hand around Steve's, sliding harder and faster until it's almost too much stimulation. He drops his head down and gasps into Steve's shoulder, unable to keep looking at him. The fabric of the uniform is rough against his cheek; it smells of sweat and blood and smoke, like Steve and home.
Steve's massive chest heaves. "Buck," he gasps urgently, then shudders and comes, spilling over both their fists. Bucky raises his head to meet him in a messy kiss, swallowing Steve's moans. Steve's hand spasms once and then Bucky's coming too, in silent gasps, the pleasure ripping through him in an unexpected wave. Steve strokes him through the aftershocks, until they're both left rung out, panting into each other's mouths.
After a long minute, Bucky pulls himself up, grabs a t-shirt hanging out of the locker next to them and wipes his hands, then dick, tucking himself back in. He hands it to Steve, who makes a face and does the same before dropping it on the floor. He wonders if it's Stark's shirt and bites back a half hysterical laugh, turning away from Steve to hide it.
"You all right?" Steve asks quietly, coming up behind him.
Bucky shuts his eyes. Reality is creeping back in. "We shouldn't have done that," he offers, after a minute. "Your girl."
Steve stiffens. "That's not—we're not." He stops, then says tiredly, "Honest to god, Buck, I don't know what that is. Or could be. I like her, I do. But we haven't made any promises."
"Don't see what's so complicated about it," Bucky says, turning around. "Good woman, risking her freedom to help you. No triggers in her head. You could do a lot worse."
"Stop it," Steve says, annoyed. "This isn't about Sharon. This is about you thinking you know what's best for me, same as always."
"Just don't go thinking this—" Bucky gestures between them, "is a real life."
"Maybe I tried real life and it's overrated, you ever think of that?"
He's got his stubborn mule face on, and Bucky can't help himself, kisses him hard just to wipe it off. "Anyone ever tell you're goddamn fool?"
Steve grins, pleased as punch to be insulted, which Bucky's pretty sure just proves his point. "It may have come up recently." He looks like he's going to say more, but a beep sounds from the front of the plane. "We're entering Russian airspace." He frowns. "I should go monitor…"
"It's fine, go."
Steve clasps Bucky's shoulder. "Whatever real life is, I don't want it if you're not in it," he says seriously. Then he turns and heads back to the cockpit.
Bucky breathes deep and lets it out slow. Maybe it was inevitable, really. He couldn't hope to pass through Steve Rogers' orbit and not get caught by it. Maybe he should just stop fighting the urge.