Chapter 1
Only the light above the counter was on, creating stark shadows that sprawled their way across the kitchen, over tables and chairs, and into the dark corners, as if they were trying to run from the light. Bucky didn't mind. He quite liked sitting in the dark, a remnant of his past life of stealth.
Outside, blinding light split the black sky every few minutes with loud cracks. Heavy rain drummed against the window, and he watched the drops join together into thin streams only to cascade down the glass wall, creating intricate patterns in their wake.
It had been less than a week since that day in New York, but so much had happened in those days.
Somehow, Valentina had gotten the tower fixed in record time. He had no idea how she'd managed that. Shoddy workmanship probably, and if the roof fell in on him in the middle of the night, she could be sure to hear about it. They'd all been moved in just as quickly, each with their own personalised room, especially designed ‘just for them…’. At least, that's what the press release she’d put out said—In reality, they were dull grey boxes with a bed haphazardly thrown in the middle, and it didn't take Bucky more than a peek to realise he greatly preferred roaming the empty tower to staying in his new bedroom. Instead, he spent the nights exploring the different nooks and crannies of their new base. Knowing the ins and outs of the place would probably come in useful one day.
This night, his midnight walk ended up in the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but he did take one of Alexei’s beers from the fridge where it had been carefully hidden behind yesterday’s leftover meat stew, and was now slowly sipping at it as he watched the city below.
Footfalls approached in the hallway and he tensed, prepared, honing in on the sounds. It only lasted for a second before he relaxed and sank back towards the back of the chair.
“Walker,” he acknowledged without even turning around to look, causing the steps to halt at the threshold.
“Bucky," Walker replied, his voice still thick with sleep, “How'd you know it was me?” He tried—and failed—to stifle a yawn before heading over to the fridge and pulling it open, letting the extra light spill across the room.
“I have ears.” He twisted in his chair to face John, taking another sip. Alexei truly had an awful taste in beer. “Everyone's footsteps sound different. Different heights, different weights equals different sounds. It's not exactly rocket science.”
John swayed where he stood—barefoot, clad in a white shirt and striped pajamas bottoms—rubbing his eyes. “Wow…. Cranky. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, didn't they.” He shuffled over to the table where Bucky was sat with another of Alexei’s beers liberated from its hiding place in hand, and plopped into one of the empty chairs. Using the edge of the table, he opened it and took a swig. He immediately scrunched his face at the terrible taste, and a shudder ran through him.
They stayed like that for a while, sitting in a mostly dark kitchen without a word, watching the rain. The street was too far down for any sounds to make its way to them, so the only thing other than rain and distant thunder breaking the silence, was the occasional clink of glass against wood whenever one of them picked up their bottle.
Bucky was the first to speak.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?” John looked at him, his eyebrows raised and confusion in his eyes.
It had been on his mind for days now, constantly there in the background, even through the chaos of their life as The New Avengers. God, he hated that name… He wanted to know what had been going through John's mind when he did what he did. He wanted to know why.
“In the fight,” he elaborated, “here at the tower, when Bob caught my bullets mid-air and decided to fling them right back at me. I was dead, and then you jumped in front of me. Why?”
It wasn't because of their deep and loving relationship, Bucky knew that much. They didn't get along, and that was okay in his book. He didn't get along with many people in fact, so why would he get along with the guy who tried to replace Steve? But still, he needed to know why.
“I don't know—” John shrugged his shoulders and took another swig of his beer, this time with only a twitch of his mouth when he swallowed. “We were in the middle of a fight and I'm a soldier. It’s just instinct, you know.”
“Don't feed me that crap,” he scoffed, “I've been a soldier since your grandfather was in diapers. Instincts, sure, to an extent. But a soldier in active combat always analyses, every moment, every second of the fight, and you were too far away from me for it to have been instinct. So why?”
John didn't say anything, but Bucky could see his brow furrowing, partly illuminated by the low lamplight.
“If you didn't raise your shield in time, that would've been it,” Bucky kept going, his tone stern. He noticed John’s gaze begin to flit back and forth around the room as if unsure where to look.
“Well, I did raise it in time, didn't I, so what's the big deal?” Downing the last third of the beer in one big gulp, John stood up. “I'm gonna get some sleep.”
He turned and Bucky watched him walk away, placing the empty bottle by the sink on the way.
“It was a suicide mission, John,” Bucky called after him. John froze in the doorway, facing away from Bucky. It was almost imperceptible, the way his shoulders sank ever so slightly, but Bucky didn't miss it. “But you already know that, don't you?” he continued, his tone becoming softer.
“What does it matter?” The tone of his voice was flat and empty. He turned his head but stopped before he was far enough for Bucky to be able to read his face.
Well—Fuck! Where was Sam Wilson the Therapist when you needed him…? He'd know what to do, what to say. Bucky on the other hand? No, he'd gladly go up against ten super soldiers in hand to hand combat before having to have this conversation. But, he was the one who was there. He was the one who'd brought it up in the first place. And, most importantly, this wasn't something he could simply ignore. If he did, then what might happen the next time they had to enter the fray.
“Why wouldn't it, John?” he asked, fully focused on the back of John’s head, his own beer left forgotten on the table.
John still didn't move a muscle. “It's my role.”
“What d'you mean? What's your role?”
“It's what a shield is meant for. It has no purpose on its own, other than to take the hit aimed at something else.”
“And what if the shield shatters?”
“Then it’s fulfilled its duty.”
No time was given for Bucky to respond before John walked off, leaving him alone in the kitchen yet again. It lit up with another boom of thunder following soon after, masking the receding footsteps of John disappearing back to his room.
A shield? Was that all he saw himself as? Did he think the rest of the team thought the same? Team... It felt strange, calling them that, but that was what they were now—Including John.
Bucky sighed. He looked at the beer standing next to him, suddenly losing all appetite to finish it. After all, Bucky’d been there. He knew what it was like when it felt like your life was worth nothing at all. Tomorrow morning, before the others woke and started running around the place and causing chaos, he'd try to talk to John again. He'd shown some interest in Bucky’s bike, so maybe he could suggest taking one of the extra motorcycles in the garage and get out of the city for a few hours. Just to clear his head and hopefully talk some sense into him.
And if John says no, then he'll simply find another way. Because he'll be damned if he just leaves it be when he could've helped.
There, in the dark, Bucky’s thoughts began to drift, remembering someone else he once knew. Someone who'd thought similarly of themselves as John did. Someone he loved and missed immensely.
Maybe John Walker and Steve Rogers weren't so dissimilar after all.
Chapter 2
Next morning, 7am
The rain and thunder had already past when the sun eventually rose, leaving the air smelling fresher and cleaner than it had done in ages. Bucky had stayed up to see it, the sunrise, still sitting at that same kitchen table and watching the city slowly wake. People and cars battled for dominance down on the street below, but Bucky barely noticed with John’s words still milling in his head. They were still gnawing at him, making him uneasy. The way they’d been said, the way John had looked and sounded so… So sure that what he said was true. Bucky knew full well how unwelcome his meddling would be, but what other choice did he realistically have? Hopefully John had had enough time to cool off a bit by now, and so; After muttering a few well-chosen curse words for what he was going to have to do, Bucky got up and left for John’s room.
Every step echoed loudly as Bucky made his way down the hallway, bouncing back and forth between the grey walls until it sounded like there was a small army marching to war. Hopefully it wouldn't be quite as bad as that, but who could really tell. John did have a bit of a temper after all, and he was a super soldier.
Actually at his destination, Bucky stood there awkwardly for a few moments, and once again the thought crossed his mind; Would it be better to simply let it be and walk away?
After all, judging from he'd seen only a few hours earlier, John clearly wasn't very interested in talking to him, and he very much doubted he'd be any more forthcoming, trapped and cornered in his own bedroom. And besides, it wasn't as if Bucky was the kind of person people generally opened up to. Maybe he had been once upon a time, but that had been taken from him so long ago he barely even remembered. Yes, that was probably the better option. He'd leave it for now, and if anything else came up—If John said something more, or if Bucky noticed anything strange at all, then he'd take action. Find someone who was qualified. Someone who wasn't him.
He half-turned, ready to leave it, and began to walk away when he heard those same words again, playing in his mind on repeat.
…no purpose…take the hit…fulfilled its duty…
He stopped mid-step and sighed heavily. No, this wasn't something he could just choose to ignore, no matter how much both of them wished he would. Walking away would serve neither of them.
The door shook from the force, the muscles in his jaw tight, as he pounded on it. If John wanted him to fuck off, then he would simply have to say so to his face. After getting no response he knocked again, this time even harder. There would be no way John could fake ignorance by this point, but still nothing. The door remained closed in front of him. He tried the handle. Locked. Of course it was… Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder just to make sure no one had sneaked up on him without his knowledge, he grabbed the handle with his vibranium hand and pushed downwards. It didn't take much before the entire thing began to crack from the pressure, and a few metal pieces clattered at his feet, echoing eerily down the corridor—He could've probably done that with his flesh and blood arm, honestly—Now unlocked, he pulled the door open, but only wide enough to silently slip inside and quickly pull it closed behind him. It creaked, but stayed somewhat shut despite its protests and broken locking mechanism.
Golden rays shone in through the windows, masking some of the dreary grey of the walls and floors with patterns of light and shadows.
He looked to the bed, hoping to find a snoring John passed out there, and it would all be fine. But the bed stood empty. Meticulously made, without even the smallest crease—Bucky recognised the military precision from his own room. It was a hard thing to shake, even after leaving.
The rest of the room was almost as empty as the bed, once again reflecting Bucky’s own. Just like him, it didn't seem like John had brought much of anything to make the room his in any noticeable way. Not like Yelena’s giant guinea pig cage with elaborate tunnels running through her room, or Bob’s many bookshelves he's been working on filling up, one book at a time—Not to mention Alexei’s…shall we say, well-stocked bar.
No, this room didn't have any of that. It was a place to sleep, nothing more. And judging by the bed, even that didn't seem to be the case at the moment.
“Georgina,” he hailed as he walked across the rug-less floor, still looking around for any clue of John’s whereabouts.
There was a short, electronic-sounding signal, and a monotone voice came over the speakers, “Yes, sir? What can I assist you with today?”
Georgina; Their new A.I. assistant. The one Valentina insisted on having incorporated into every part of their tower and lives. It was still something Bucky was struggling to get used to. Sure, even he was aware it wasn't even close to the sophistication of real Stark Tech, but for someone who grew up with static-riddled radios, and movie projectors that tended to catch on fire every now and then, it was still not the easiest thing to wrap your head around. But it was convenient, he had to admit.
“Can you tell me where Walker is?” Bucky asked. Most likely she would say the gym, or maybe a part of the tower Bucky wasn't familiar with yet. Either way, finding him was the easy bit.
A low buzzing started, sounding like a swarm of invisible bees were in the room with him, but Bucky didn't react. The first time it’d happened, they thought Georgina was broken—a piece of faulty equipment due to Valentina's reluctance to actually spend money on them—but they quickly realised that it was her thinking sound. Whenever she processed any of their requests, the noise would come back without exception. This quirk had quickly made Yelena affectionately nickname her BeeGees, and she'd spent the next two days singing Staying Alive at the top of her voice, driving everyone else to the edge of insanity.
A few seconds later, the buzzing stopped and Georgina spoke,“John Walker is not on the premises.”
Not on the…? That wasn’t good. Bucky turned in a circle, as if half-expecting John to magically appear behind him if he just looked hard enough. But, of course, there was no John there. Bucky was alone, and the room felt even emptier than when he entered.
“What do you mean ‘not on the premises’?” Bucky asked, “Where the hell is he then?”
“Unknown.”
“Well, then… When did he leave?” His pulse quickened with every unhelpful answer.
“John Walker left the premises at 4:06 a.m.”
The watch on his wrist showed 7:18. Three hours, give or take, since John decided to leave, right after cutting their conversation in the kitchen short. When the thunderstorm was still in full swing, and the rain same down in buckets.
But if there were no way of knowing where he went, what could he really do then? Bucky turned to his left, and something caught his eye. On the otherwise empty bedside table, aside from the preinstalled reading lamp that was the same in every room, lay something that must’ve belonged to John. A photograph, he realised, and rushed over to pick it up. He'd take any clue, regardless of how small. Smiling up at him was John, dressed in camouflage gear and noticeably younger. John’s arm was resting on the shoulders of the man standing next to him, smiling with the same carefree look on his face. They looked happy. Bucky had briefly seen this side of John, right when they first met. Back before the man standing next to him in the photo had—
Before Lemar Hoskins had died.
The many smudged fingerprints at the corners of the glass told him all he needed to know. Bucky wasn't the first person to pick this photo up in the last few days.
…no purpose…
“Georgina,” Bucky marched out of the room and straight for the lift, leaving the door wide open behind him and still staring at John’s smiling face as he walked, “I'm leaving. Have my motorcycle ready to go.” He placed the photograph in his jean pocket, with the thought that it might come in useful.
The rest were still asleep—Expect maybe Ava who was already away on a mission and completely unreachable—but if he were to wake Yelena and tell her what was going on, he was positive she would come with in a heartbeat. Same with Alexei and Bob. None of them would hesitate. But he knew John. Well… He knew John better than the others at least. God, how sad was that? Bucky, who refused his attempts at friendship when they first met. Bucky, who had soon after become his enemy, only to now be perhaps the closest thing to a friend he had in this tower. It truly was a messed up arrangement they had going on here, all of them.
“Tell the others nothing about this, do you understand?” Not yet anyway. Bringing the whole gang seemed to be a good way to overwhelm John, and possibly make everything worse.
“Yes, sir! Understood. Your motorcycle is ready for you in garage three, sir.”
He stepped into the lift and pushed the button taking him down. The silver doors closed in front of him with a clatter, and he felt that familial lurch in his stomach when the cabin began to descend rapidly.
If you wanted to find someone, all you had to do was to understand your target, something Bucky had all too much experience in. But this time, he reminded himself, it wasn't Hydra controlling him. This time he wasn't on a mission to kill. This time, it was him—Bucky Barnes—helping a teammate. A friend.
Stepping out into the garage he was glad to see that Georgina had done her job, and jumped straight onto the bike without hesitation. At least he had a lead, however small, and then he'd go from there. John did have a few hours head start on him, which wasn't ideal. If he'd just… Why hadn't he simply stopped John from walking away like that? He'd done nothing.
…fulfilled its duty…
Bucky pressed the accelerator, and was off.
Chapter 3
Last night’s rain still lay dark on the road in front, making the motorcycle’s tyres slip back and forth on the slick asphalt underneath him. Yet, he sped between morning commuters, weaving in and out between cars like a madman, refusing to slow down for anything. The clock was ticking, and he was losing the race. It was a long-shot, but what else could he do? Sure, he could waste his time tracking John’s phone only to end up with nothing but lost time. There was no way John would be so stupid as to bring anything that was able to be easily traced. If he truly wanted to disappear, he knew how to. Disappear… Bucky’s breath hitched at the word. Disappear in what way, though? He pushed the bike harder, grasping at the thinnest of straws hidden in his pocket as he raced down the road, hoping he wasn't too late.
It didn't take more than an hour or so for him to reach the place, a simple but cosy house, tucked in between almost identical ones on either side. A few neighbourhood kids—roughly the same age as Sam’s nephews if he had to wager a guess—looked at at him with wide eyes when he pulled up in front, their street football match immediately forgotten about in favour of this curious stranger getting off his motorcycle and walking up to knock on the door. Whilst waiting for someone to reply, he took a few moments to look around. The yard was well kept with soft grass and colourful flowerbeds. Several large rose bushes, all in full bloom, lined the pathway behind him and along the sides of the house.
A thick floral scent weighed heavy in the air, and the dark red colour contrasted starkly against the white walls. He closed his eyes at the sight. Red on white... Red—Fuck! He didn't have time for this. Not now.
The snow creaks underneath his feet as he walks, loud in the otherwise quiet landscape, only accompanied by the heavy panting in front. A young boy—no more than twelve—is ahead of him, running as fast as he can, struggling against the snow that comes up past his shins. His brown hair is speckled with snowflakes. The boy looks over his shoulder with pure terror filling his young eyes—Looking so much like his father did, before Bucky was sent to their home. The boy stumbles, flails for a moment, and falls face first into the snow, letting out a whimper on the way down. He walk up to the fallen child and places a boot between thin shoulder blades, stopping him from getting back up. Bucky raises his gun. A second goes by, and the snow around them is no longer white.
Air burned in Bucky’s lungs, his breaths coming in short, uneven bursts that made the entire world spin. There were so many. So many like that boy. All dead because of him. He couldn't breathe! Somewhere, still lost between cold snow and red roses, Bucky’s hand brushed against something. Something flat and paper-like, and not at all like the rough texture of his jeans. Important. It was important! But why? His fingers closed around the object and pulled it out to see what it was. If he saw it, maybe he would know. Maybe he'd remember. Two men, soldiers, standing with their arms around each other and smiling. Their faces were familiar. Bucky knew them. Especially the taller of the two.
Leaves rustled softly next to him from the breeze, the distant laughter of children playing, and his jeans against the palm of his hand. Slowly, reality began to return, replacing the snow and letting it turn to his past where it belonged. Back to where it was merely a memory.
The door opened, and a man in his early sixties appeared, stood there looking at him with a guarded expression on his face.
“Mr Hoskins?” Bucky was hunched over, his face red with embarrassment and trying to steady his breathing, the memory of the boy’s lifeless eyes still staring up at him from the snow still vivid in his mind. He stood back up, extending one hand, quickly hiding away the picture with the other.
The man did not take it, but instead gave him a small nod. “You're Bucky, aren't you?” It was posed as a question, but it was clear by the tone that an actual answer wasn't expected. He knew who Bucky was, and why wouldn't he when Bucky had been there at the time his son was killed. It felt like a lifetime ago already.
“I would like to offer my condolences. I didn't know Lemar for long, but he seemed a good man.” In truth, Bucky didn't remember much about him, other than he seemed like a capable soldier, and a loyal friend. Other than that, he was just a face in the crowd. Another casualty in this brutal life.
“He was.” Mr Hoskins voice was collected, calm even, but those two lone syllables seemed steeped in the unfathomable pain of losing a child. “He talked about you, you know. The man who'd fought by Captain America’s side. He admired you.”
What could Bucky even say to that? And did he really have any right to? How many others across the world were forced to carry that same pain because of his actions. Because of what he’d done. Hundred? Thousands? And here was a father, telling Bucky that his dead son had admired him. For what? The seconds stretched on, with the men doing nothing but stare at each other in silence.
But this wasn't about dead children. Not about Lemar, nor about boys lying dead in the snow. Bucky was here for a reason, and one reason alone; To find John. And that was what he was going to do.
“I'm looking for Walker,” Bucky explained, “He left the tower without notice, and hasn't reported back yet. We simply want to know where he is.”
“Not here, he isn't,” Mr Hoskins replied, crossing his arms across his chest.
The door opened a little wider, and a woman walked up next to the man. “Is this about John?” The urgency with she asked gave Bucky the sense that she knew why he was really standing on their doorstep. And it wasn't to offer his sympathies.
“Have you seen him, Mrs Hoskins?”
Chewing on her lower lip, as if weighing her options, she looked to her husband who shook his head in response.
“Did he come here?” They didn't didn't trust him, but they knew something, and Bucky needed them to tell him. “We're starting to get worried, and just want to check he's okay. That's all,” he lied.
“We have to tell him, Bill.” she eventually said, almost pleadingly. “Something isn't right, and you know that.”
“We don't know anything,” he countered, sounding unconvinced.
“Yes, we do!” Anger sharpened her voice and the muscles in her jaw clenched as she argued back. “Something is wrong, and since Lemar isn't here anymore, it's up to us to help him now.”
“He doesn't need our help, Audrey. He's damn superhero, for God’s sake. Why would he need us? And we don't even know for sure it was him.”
“Please,” Bucky interrupted, the smell of the roses making his head swim with images of blood. Time was running out, and he was still no closer to knowing where John was. “We need to—I need to find him. Soon, before he—” He cut himself off, not ready to let that sentence finish. He cleared his throat, “It's important that I find him, quickly. Do you understand?”
With a sigh, Mr Hoskins lowered his head and took a step back, gesturing for his wife to do as she pleased.
She stepped away from the door and her husband, instead joining Bucky on the paved pathway out in front.
“He didn't come by, but we did see him. At the cemetery. We go every week to leave flowers. Lemar loves flowers, so we...” She swallowed, and tears glittered at the corners of her eyes. Softly, she cradled one of the roses in her hand. It swayed slowly in the wind as she let go. “When we got there this morning, we saw someone standing by his gravestone. We were so far away, and it was hard to fully make out, but—I swear it was John! I'd know him as well as I would my own son. But when I called his name, he didn't even turn to look at us. Nothing. By the time we reached the grave he was already gone.” She placed a hand on Bucky’s arm and locked eyes with him. “Something isn't right, is it?”
“No, it isn't.” He didn't look away, placing his own hand over hers, their eyes were locked. “But I'm hoping I can fix it.”
The sun—Shining down and warming the wet ground—was high in the sky by now, a mocking reminder of how much of a head start John had on him. He could've gone anywhere, in any direction, and the odds of Bucky finding him at all were getting close to astronomical.
“Is there anything more you can tell me?” he asked, “A special place you think he might go? Somewhere he used to go with Lemar, maybe? A place they went when they wanted to get away for a while.”
“Oh, they went to so many places together. They were practically inseparable those two. I wouldn't know whe—” Her eyes widened, and Bucky could see her worry turn to fear at the realisation. “Lemar did tell me about one place…”
Chapter 4
Abandoned and forgotten where it had been dropped in the dirt, lay Bucky’s bike. Its worn wheels, now spinning loosely in the air after having kicked up a huge dust cloud when Bucky jumped off, creaked meekly behind him. He approached slowly, his hand outstretched in front of him as he was cornering some kind of scared animal, cautious of any sudden movements from either of them that might result in tragedy.
“John…” The same burnt dust he was walking on coated Bucky’s throat, making John’s name come out scratchy and hoarse. John didn't acknowledge him, but Bucky saw his posture tense at being spoken to, aware he was no longer alone.
Stretching out deep below them, painted in endless hues of reds and oranges from the setting sun, was a vast, empty landscape. An uncaring and barren wilderness that was, in a terrifying way, stunning. Looking at it, Bucky couldn't deny that. He could see why John had chosen to come here of all places, and it wasn't hard imagining two young soldiers sitting by a campfire, talking about anything and nothing, laughing and spending countless warm summer nights out here under the stars together, away from the rest of the world.
A long time ago, Bucky used to have that too, back before it all… But he lost that part of him, just as John had.
The big difference though—the thing that set them apart—was that Bucky, miraculously, got Steve back. Even if it was only for a short amount of time, he got him back. The chances of that had been slimmer than slim, astronomical even, and the likelihood of it happening again, this time for the man standing in front of him… Bucky knew that was a hopeless wish that would never be granted.
But this couldn't be the solution no matter what.
“John, please step back,” Bucky pleaded, watching John silhouetted where he stood right by the edge, with his back to Bucky and facing the emptiness.
“Why?” His left foot lifted off the ground and he began to dangle it over the abyss, letting it dip beneath the lip of the cliff. If he let gravity take over, then…
“You know why.” Bucky took another step closer, which meant getting one step closer to the edge himself. “Not even the super serum can make you survive that fall. You'd be dead.”
John’s shoulders began to shake and, for just a moment, he thought John was crying, but quick realised his mistake. A chill ran up Bucky’s spine hearing him laugh, quiet and coldly, at Bucky’s warning. There was still a fair distance between them, too far for Bucky to be able to do anything if John made that final decision. He needed to close that gap. If he couldn't convince John to walk away, to come back to the tower with him, then that was the only other option.
“I figured it out.”
“Great!” Bucky said casually, trying to keep John occupied whilst sneaking closer. “Why don't you tell me all about it, when we've gotten back at the tower. We can steal a couple more of Alexei’s beers and see if he notices.”
A patch of loose gravel crackled underneath Bucky’s boot, and he cursed silently under his breath. The noise must've alerted John to his plan, who whipped around and locked eyes with him.
“Don't!” John growled and his eyes flashed dangerously. The way he swayed back and forth, looking as he might topple over at any second made Bucky freeze in place with his breath stuck in his throat.
“Why d'you come, Bucky?” he spat, cocking his head to the side and eying Bucky with that same, feral glare. “We're not friends. You don't even like me, so why are you here? Just go home, and leave me alone. This doesn't concern you.”
“You're right,” replied Bucky, trying to sound calmer than he was, “We're not friends. Not really. I don't do friends. Haven't for a long time, in fact. But if you think this doesn't concern me, then you've lost your mind.”
Something at the corners of John’s eyes caught in the sun. A faint glitter, before John broke away from his gaze.
“And if the others knew, don't you think they'd be here?” Bucky continued, “Don't you think Yelena would stand right here beside me? And Alexei? Ava? Bob?”
If John chose to believe him or not, he couldn't tell, but it wasn't hard to make the claim sound genuine. It was the truth, he was certain of that. And any one of them would’ve been better qualified to be there than he was. He knew that as well.
“They saw what you did in New York. You went into the Void with us to save everyone. They will remember that.”
“And I'll remember getting my best friend killed.”
Bucky had never asked—None of them had—After New York, Bucky never asked the others what they'd seen in the Void, just like no one had asked him. It wasn't as if any of them had a rosy, joy-filled past they were bursting to talk about.
But there had been no real reason for Bucky to ask John. Without asking, without actually knowing, Bucky assumed he knew one of the things John had had to re-live. And who knew how many times…
“You didn't kill him, John. You didn't ‘get him killed’ either. We're soldiers, and so was Lemar. It's a part of our job. Losing someone is… It hurts and, if you let it, the guilt will eat you up from the inside till there's nothing left.”
“I was meant to protect him.” It was almost nothing more than a whisper now, but Bucky’s enhanced hearing caught every word. “I promised his family I would, and I failed.”
“And I know he wanted to protect you. Do you really think this is what Lemar would want? ”
John began to laugh again, louder and more frantic this time. “I guess we'll never know, will we? He's gone! Gone because of me, and that will never change.”
A bird—the first sign of life Bucky had seen out here—flew overhead, startling them both. Seizing the opportunity of the unexpected distraction, Bucky took four quick steps more, hoping they'd go by undetected.
That hope was immediately squashed by John’s threatening voice.
“Stay back!”
A few pieces of the rock broke away at John’s feet, clattering down the abyss behind him as he leaned backwards over the edge.
“I don't want to fight you, but I will if you try to...” He trailed off into silence, leaving words never fully uttered hanging in the air between them. If you try to stop me.
“What you said in the kitchen, it isn't true. Your purpose is more than what Val says it is. Now, please… Just, step this way and let me be the shield for once. You don't have to anymore.”
“I’m just doing you all a favour.” The utter hollowness of John’s voice made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck raise.
John exhaled, and Bucky watched on in horror as his face contorted into a grotesque imitation of a smile before taking that last step backwards, disappearing into the emptiness, and Bucky’s fist closing on nothing but air in the place where John was no longer standing.
In a moment shorter than a heartbeat, Bucky made his decision. This was not the way it would end, he would not let that happen. Bucky pushed off the ground where he stood, following John over the edge in a sprint.
The world was upside down, it was sideways, it was a blurred whirlwind of arms and legs and rock and sky and—There, still far below but racing towards them at a terrifying speed, was the hard, deadly ground. But before figuring out how to slow them down, he needed to catch John, otherwise it had all been for nothing. John was below him, tumbling through the air. If he could just reach! Bucky’s fingers found the back of John’s shirt, the fabric slipping in and out of his fingers when he tried to gather it in a more stable hold. Probably alerted by Bucky’s hand on his back, John tried to wrench away, almost making Bucky lose his grip. He was yelling something, but the deafening roar of the wind in Bucky’s ears drowned out the words. The tone however, was clear; Anger. Fury, most likely aimed at him. But Bucky didn't let go. The hold he had wasn't much, but it was a start. He pulled at the shirt, hoping that if he could only get a bit closer, then he could—An outcropping in the cliff face, jagged and sharp, struck Bucky’s side, and the familiar pain of broken ribs shot through his body. Despite the pain, he gripped on tighter, finally managing to pivot both himself and John around so they were parallel to each other. The ground was getting dangerously close, and Bucky slid his right arm ‘round John’s chest and, with every ounce of strength he could muster, slammed his metal arm into the rough cliff next to them in a last ditch effort to slow their descent, his hand tearing a deep scar into the mountain as they kept going down.
It worked! They were falling slower now, slow enough to probably survive, Bucky figured, but the landing would still hurt. A lot! If they walked away from this with only a few broken bones each, Bucky would consider them lucky. He took a deep breath, tensing every muscle in preparation for the impact, and tightening his hold on John. At the very last second, he kicked both feet against the cliff wall, pushing them away from it in the hope of avoiding the worst of the broken rocks at the mountain base, and using the movement to turn their bodies so that John was the one furthest from the ground.
…
…
…
Stones and roots were digging through the leather of his jacket and into Bucky’s skin. His back was pressed down into the dirt, with John’s back against his front, making breathing a struggle, only managing short and painful gasps from the combined force of the fall and John landing on top of him. Dull pain echoed faintly through his body, probably too stunned for it to truly register, but his arm and legs seemed to be unbroken and functional. Some good news…
Something warm and wet in his hair told him he was bleeding, and he most likely had a concussion judging by the way black dots danced at the edge of his vision. Bucky looked up at the blurry sky, partly obscured by John’s hair in his face. Pink clouds slowly disappeared over the mountain’s edge where they'd just been.
“GET OFF! FUCKING LET GO!”
John shoved an elbow into Bucky’s side, making him wince at the splintered ribs moving in his chest, painfully grinding against every nerve they could reach and setting his whole side on fire. But pain had never been an excuse when he was the Winter Soldier, and he would not let it be one now.
With practised expertise, Bucky grabbed hold of both arms and wrestled them against John’s chest. Trying to break free from Bucky’s hold, but now deprived of the use of his arms, John began to kick. More of that sun-burnt dirt whirled up around them as John’s feet found purchase and pushed off the ground, throwing his weight sideways in an attempt to roll off. Bucky moved with him, positioning his own legs around and above John’s, locking them firmly in place and unable to move. John might be strong, but Bucky had subdued thousands, and he knew just how to do it.
“It'll be fine, John. I promise it will.” He wasn't sure if John even heard him as he thrashed around, straining to get free. “Please come back with me, and we'll show you.”
More blood, Bucky thought, when something began to drip onto his face, assuming it was from another, as of yet undiscovered injury one of them had sustained in the fall. But when he felt the taste of salt on his lips, it was only then he understood what it truly was. Tears, trailing along John’s temples, finally spilt over after being pent up for far too long.
“LET G—” A sob tore from John's throat. “Let go… let me go…” he begged Bucky between ragged breaths, but there was no longer any force behind his words, nor behind his movements. He went limp in Bucky’s arms, his whole body trembling as he wept.
“I'm not letting go, John,” he whispered, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back into the dirt for a moment, trying to catch his breath through his burning throat.
He was unsure how long they stayed like that, but when Bucky opened his eyes, the sky was no longer blueish pink. Instead, it had turned to a dark purple and the first brave stars had come out of hiding. The air around them had cooled, and the unmistakable scent of night was making its way into Bucky’s nose and reminding him of how long the ride back to New York was. They really should get moving soon, before the others reported their absence to Val. Not that any of them enjoyed talking to her more than necessary, so they would probably wait a bit longer, but eventually they were going to have to. They couldn't all do what Bucky did and go full bloodhound whenever they needed to track each other down.
“Walker, you with me?” Bucky asked, mostly to be polite, fully aware that John was awake and alert from hearing his breathing and heartbeat clear as day from being so close.
Without responding, John tried to sit up. It wasn't aggressive—not like his previous attempt to flee—but slow and calm. Bucky loosened his grip, letting him get up. With John’s weight off of him, Bucky followed suit and sat up. Blood-crusted hair hit his cheeks when he moved, and his head was throbbing. Yet, he kept a close eye on John through the corner of his eye, ready to leap into action if needed. But John was sitting calmly next to him with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head in his hands. The way his shoulders rose and fell with even breaths told Bucky the worst of it seemed to have passed.
Bucky shuffled onto his knees and, with the metal arm, pushed himself off the ground. A thunderbolt of pure pain shot through him, and his hand shot to his side in a futile attempt at holding the broken pieces of bones in place. A low wheeze escaped through clenched teeth as his knees nearly buckled underneath him.
Apparently noticing the state he was in, John rushed up to him, ducking underneath Bucky's arm to support his weight and prevent him from crumpling to the ground.
“How bad is it?” asked John, concern written all over his face.
He looked as awful as Bucky felt, with his hair clinging to his forehead, matted with sweat and having turned few shades darker by the dust stuck to it. His shirt was torn in several places, and his face was covered in dirt, expect for where the tears had washed it away, leaving light coloured tracks which all converged at the same place—tired blue eyes, rimmed with red.
“Had worse,” Bucky tried to reassure him and whilst that wasn't a lie—he definitely had been worse off—it didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell.
“Can you walk?” Looking between Bucky and the cliff they needed to get back up, John seemed to fall back into his regular rhythm—the soldier tackling a problem, already strategising the best route for them to take, with any trace of the broken man Bucky had tried to talk down, gone.
Shutting it all out in favour of focusing on the current obstacle wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism in the long run, something Bucky could attest to from personal experience, but it would have to do for now. As long as he managed to get John to come back with him, he wasn't about to argue the how. Not even if it meant playing up his injuries just a bit. The rest he would have to deal with later, when they were in a safer position.
“With a bit of help, I think I can manage.” He took a limping step forward, but made a point of letting most of his weight lean heavily to the side where John stayed practically glued to him. He continued, “By the way, I'm pretty sure I saw where Alexei has whole case of that awful beer hidden.”
It was faint, so faint even Bucky’s sharp ears barely heard it, but there a was a small chuckle next to him, and when Bucky turned his head to see, John was smiling. It wasn't a huge grin by any means, but a sense of hope settled in Bucky’s breast at the sight.
He started their long trek up the cliff, still with his arm firmly 'round John’s shoulders.
“Let's get back home.”
End.
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