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They’re sitting in Steve’s cramped little cabin on the Bus, and maybe that’s their first problem. Hiding out alone like this is a really shitty idea - it’s only a matter of time until someone starts asking why - but Steve’s face turned sheet-white when Bucky suggested that they move out to the lounge. The air inside is warm and stuffy and smells like sleep, and Bucky’s eyes are starting to itch with tiredness as he stares down at the book in his lap.
According to Coulson, The Chronicles of Narnia is one of the greatest works of British children’s literature. Bucky preferred Harry Potter. The main villain in this one is a medieval apple thief and the heroes are all Christian missionaries, and they’ve just gotten up to the part where some gullible kid tries to trade all his relatives for a box of evil candy.
Bucky can’t help but think he should have held out for something better. A pile of money, maybe. Or super powers. Edmund Pevensie is completely shit at being a traitor.
Steve had looked so pathetically grateful when Bucky first offered to keep him company through his nightmares. He was whimpering and thrashing again when Bucky got to him tonight, and he’s barely improved in the hour that they’ve been here: he’s still slumped against the headboard, staring off into nothing, twisting his hands in his lap so that his knuckles shine white through papery skin. He hasn’t touched the cake pops Bucky brought back from their last New York stop-over. They’re sitting on a plate by the bedside table, and no amount of pestering has persuaded Steve to try one. Pretty soon Bucky is going to give up on persuasion and start cramming them down Steve’s ungrateful throat.
It doesn’t make any sense. Today was a good day, even by the high standards they’ve been enjoying since they came onto the Bus. Simmons unveiled her new ICER prototypes and Mack made his grandma’s meatballs for dinner and they haven’t heard a thing from Hydra since they cleared out that base last Tuesday.
Maybe that’s the problem. With Hydra so quiet, there’s nothing to keep Steve’s mind off the mess inside his own head.
“Bucky,” says Steve, and Bucky realises he’s stopped reading and is frowning at the page, as if the blurry letters might contain an explanation for Steve’s inexplicable uselessness. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” He sounds tired, though not the kind of tired that means he’s ready to go back to sleep yet. Fuck.
“Nothing,” says Bucky. He scans the page quickly to find his place. “Please,” he pushes on in his best British schoolboy voice, “couldn’t I have just one piece of Turkish Delight to eat on the way home?”
Steve misses the pointed glance Bucky casts towards the cake pops at this point. Steve could learn a thing or two from Edmund Pevensie, who at least eats his fucking candy once he’s pestered people into giving it to him. Soon the cake pops are going to go stale and will have to be thrown out, and Steve will never know how much effort Bucky put into picking out his favourite flavours. But Steve just shuffles closer, close enough that Bucky can feel his body heat through the thin cotton fleece of his pyjamas. His hand brushes Bucky’s on the cover, and Bucky falters a little on his next line.
Of course it’s not good enough that Bucky is sitting in Steve’s bed in the middle of the night reading children’s books aloud in a dumb British accent. Of course Steve is expecting there to be hand-holding as well. Probably he hasn’t even been listening to the story. Probably he won’t be happy until Bucky pats his hair and starts blathering on about how much he loves him, like Steve always used to, never mind the bugs in the air vents.
For fuck’s sake.
“Steve,” he says, and Steve starts guiltily and pulls his hand back. “You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening,” Steve says. His voice sounds wet and shaky, no better than it was when he first woke up. The reading was supposed to make Steve better, supposed to give him a distraction while he pulled himself together. Is Steve even trying to get better? Has he just been sitting here brooding the whole time while Bucky wastes his breath on this shitty book? “Keep going. Please.”
They’re still too close. Steve’s hand is hovering inches away, like he’s steeling himself for a second attempt at making contact. There is a neediness in his eyes that’s almost painful to look at. So Bucky doesn’t look.
Of course Steve would choose now, of all times, to start pushing for what he wants from Bucky instead of nagging for permission first. And a few months ago this would have been a fucking dream: it would be easy, so easy, to take advantage of Steve in a state like this. Bucky could drape his arm around Steve and pull him in, and Steve would sigh like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and relax against Bucky’s chest. His hand would fall naturally on Bucky’s thigh. His breath would be hot and ticklish when he nuzzled into Bucky’s neck. They’d sit like that for a few quiet minutes, soaking up each other’s warmth, and Steve would be happy and comfortable and he wouldn’t mind when Bucky laced their fingers together and guided Steve’s hand higher...
And they would still be on a bugged airplane right under Coulson’s nose. It’s a stupid thing to be thinking. No wonder Bucky hasn’t been able to make Steve better, if he can’t even keep his own thoughts in control.
He’s lost his place in the book again. By the time he finds it Steve has tucked his knees up under his chin and is back to staring off into space, with no sign that he’s even listening to the story.
Bucky keeps reading anyway. It doesn’t make a difference.
-
They stop for a few days in Sicily, where Bucky and Hunter spend a balmy evening following their mark on a leisurely bar crawl around Palermo. Bucky likes Hunter: he’s mouthy and disrespectful and it’s probably going to get him killed one day, but he has a quick sense of humour and a laid-back attitude that makes him easy company in the meantime.
“Seriously though,” says Hunter, propping his elbows on the bar and taking a deep swig of his beer. “Can supersoldiers even get drunk? Accelerated metabolism, and all?”
“Of course,” Bucky says. It’s an odd and slightly unsettling question - but coming from Hunter, who is hardly ever seen without a bottle in hand, it’s probably safe. “Just takes a bit more than usual.” One time, after a tough mission while everyone was still giddy and stupid with adrenaline, Grisha had talked Bucky into drinking his way through no less than three bottles of pilfered vodka. Bucky had passed out halfway through a rousing chorus of Smelo, tovarishchi, v nogu, and afterwards they had all agreed to omit the incident from their mission reports.
“Yeah? Well I’m starting to wonder if our boy back there hasn’t had a bit of the serum himself.” Hunter uses the bar mirror to sneak another glance at the target, who is making short work of his tenth margarita. “Where’s he putting all those? At this rate, I’m gonna be out before he is.” He tips his beer and takes another long pull.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m not carrying you back to the Bus if you get wasted.”
“No fun, Barnes.” Hunter takes another drawn-out swig of beer for show, but he doesn’t actually swallow much. He knows better than to get himself drunk on duty. “Tough mission like this, can you blame me?”
“No one said taking down Hydra was going to be easy,” Bucky says. He takes another sip of his own drink. Behind him, the target has his wallet out and is waving it above his head, calling for another round of drinks for the table.
“Someone’s gotta do it, though,” says Hunter with an exaggerated sigh. A roguish grin comes over his face. “There’s a strip club not far from here, just around the corner. Maybe he’ll stop there next. Our rotten luck, right?”
Bucky grins back. “Unless he hits it off with that blonde he keeps trying to chat up.” It doesn’t look likely from where they’re sitting, but letting Hunter get too excited about his plan is probably a bad idea. Hunter is addicted to tempting fate.
“Nah,” says Hunter. “She’s gonna turn him down, and then he’ll skulk off to find some paid comfort and we’ll have to follow him.” His grin turns smug. “Tell you what,” he says, “if you promise to keep one eye on the prize, I’ll buy us both a lap dance.”
Bucky’s mind supplies an image of a beautiful Sicilian dancer, bare bronzed skin glowing under pulsing club lights, long curls tumbling down to tickle his face as she leans in with a flirtatious gleam in her eye - a gleam that turns to confusion and then horror when her hand falls on his shoulder and feels hard metal through the fabric of his jacket. “No,” he says.
“Oh, c’mon.” Hunter laughs. “It’ll be fun.” He drains his beer, then flicks the last few drops at Bucky and leans in like they’re sharing a moment. “We deserve a little fun. You deserve a little fun. When’s the last time you got any, huh?”
Bucky’s good mood goes off like a light. Hunter can’t possibly think he’s going to answer that. “We’ve got work to do,” he snaps. He sets down his drink with too much force; a little sloshes over onto the bar top.
“Okay, okay.” Hunter sits back, smile sliding off his face like spit. “Sheesh. I was just saying, mate. We could be killing time here for a while before old Noddy back there makes his move.”
But of course, Hunter wasn’t asking because he wanted an answer. Hunter is making fun of him. Hunter already knows, because they both live together in a flying steel trap and it would be impossible for Bucky to keep something like that secret. No one has touched Bucky at all since Steve, and that was a long time ago, before he even met Hunter. He has spent most of the intervening time refusing to have a sex drive at all, and the remaining time - when he really can’t help it - telling himself that self-sufficiency is a thing to be proud of. Bucky doesn’t need anyone. He is, to borrow one of Hunter’s terms, married to his job.
Meanwhile Hunter married Bobbi. Which amounts to much the same thing, except that Hunter sometimes gets laid in the line of duty. Of course he’d want to rub that in Bucky’s face.
Bucky was wrong about liking Hunter. Hunter is a self-indulgent moron who doesn’t deserve half the freedom Coulson gives him.
“Just stay focused,” he snaps, and scowls at their target in the mirror. He tries not to think about the other possibility: that Hunter has picked up on the tension between Bucky and Steve, and is trying to find out more. That he knows, or guesses, where some of that tension is coming from. That he’s wondering why Bucky, faced with Steve’s current suggestible state, would instead choose to live like a fucking boyscout.
Sometimes Bucky wonders the same thing himself.
-
Bucky’s character voices improve with practice. Each of the Pevensie children has their own distinct voice now; the fauns have all turned vaguely Scottish, and the centaurs talk with a sharp Welsh twang that gets a smile out of Steve even on a bad day. The White Witch talks a bit like Sasha, which is a brilliant joke that no one else will properly appreciate. Prince Caspian has developed a very convincing stutter.
The only thing that doesn’t improve is Steve.
-
“We could get waffles,” Bucky says.
They’re heading east along Dunes Highway, out towards the state park where the Bus is waiting to pick them up. A Chicago stop hadn’t been part of Coulson’s itinerary, but Bucky was desperate: Steve didn’t sleep at all last night, and this morning Bucky could hear him sobbing over the sounds of his shower.
And if Bucky could hear, then obviously so could everyone else. Letting Steve off the Bus was a risk, but leaving him to fall apart in front of everyone was worse. Today’s field trip was a last resort.
(“Hot dogs,” said Coulson, and behind his implacable gaze there was a flicker of something that set Bucky’s pulse racing as he faced Coulson over the stern expanse of his desk. “Really. You want me to turn the whole Bus off-course and pull up in the middle of Illinois so that you can get hot dogs.”
“They make ‘em with special pickles,” said Bucky. He very carefully did not break eye contact.
“Special pickles,” Coulson echoed. The words hung between them for several stretched-out moments. “Fine,” he said at last. Worn down by Bucky’s pestering, or the prospect of dealing with more of it. “You can tell May to bring us down outside Chicago.”)
Bucky will deal with the fallout when it happens. After a long night of fighting to keep Steve distracted - and failing miserably - he doesn’t really give a shit if Coulson makes him pay for it later. At least the hot dogs were good, even if Steve was terrible company for most of the trip.
Steve is a little better now. He’s stopped shaking, at least. But he’s slumped low in the passenger seat and his eyes are still red and watery, and Bucky has the awful feeling that he’s walking a tightrope and that one wrong step could send Steve crashing back over.
“We just ate,” Steve says. He doesn’t look at Bucky; his face is turned towards the passenger window, gazing out at nothing.
“Skye says Chicago waffles are great,” Bucky insists. Skye also says that Chicago hot dogs are disgusting, which Bucky has now proven empirically false, but they can hash that out later. Right now the important thing is keeping Steve calm, and waffles are one of the calmest things Bucky knows. “We might not be back in the States for a while, so we should make the most of it.”
But Steve only shakes his head. His hands clench and unclench in his lap; he parts his lips like he’s about to talk, but then he sucks in a tiny breath and closes them.
Bucky tries again. “Or there’s a gas station past the next turn-off. We could grab some donuts for the road.”
“I’m not hungry,” Steve says.
“Of course you’re hungry.” Steve forgets, or doesn’t give a damn, that Bucky knows exactly what it’s like to live with a serum-enhanced metabolism. Bucky is already hungry again, and he didn’t skip breakfast like Steve did. He’s starting to lose track of the number of times they’ve had this argument. “Come on, I’ll buy.”
“No,” Steve says flatly.
“I’ll even get you some of those disgusting ones with the coconut -”
“No.”
Bucky’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He keeps driving. They need to do something, but Steve will probably freak out if he turns the car around now. He tries turning on the radio instead. Steve’s jaw clenches, shoulders hunching in further as if to protect himself from the noise. Bucky changes the channel. Same result.
Bucky is running out of ideas. Soon they’ll be back on board the Bus and everyone will see the state Steve’s in, and it will be worse because they’ll all know that Steve has just spent a stress-free afternoon on leave in Chicago with nothing worse to upset him than the queue at the hot dog stand. Bringing Steve into the city was a stupid idea. They should have stayed on the Bus, should have found a quiet corner and a good book to read, and maybe after a while Steve could have snuck away to sleep it off and nobody would have noticed because Steve is always off by himself. But of course Bucky thought he could do better, and now he’ll be lucky if Coulson doesn’t take one look at Steve and consign him to the Playground on the spot.
Maybe, with the mood he’s in, Steve will try and refuse. And Coulson will smile his calm, humourless smile and order Bucky to bring Steve under control…
“Bucky.” Steve’s voice is urgent, panicked, and Bucky looks at the speed gauge and realises how fast he’s accelerated. He forces his foot to ease off the gas pedal.
“You need to eat, Steve,” he says wildly, because that’s the last coherent thought he can remember having. Of course Coulson won’t arrest Steve in front of Bucky. He’ll do it in the dead of night, whisk Steve away while Bucky’s sleeping, and maybe he’ll admit it the next morning or maybe he won’t. He’s not going to take the chance that Bucky will try and do something stupid. He knows by now, has to know, that Bucky might. “You’ve barely eaten all day, you were picking at your hot dog -”
“Bucky, pull over.” Steve is pleading now. “Please, just...just stop the car. Please.”
They pull up on a narrow dirt strip by the roadside. Steve is out of the car before Bucky can pull together a single thought. He slams the door behind him and storms up over the embankment, his gait unsteady, hand on his stomach like he’s about to throw up. As soon as he’s out of view of the road he sits down on the grass and buries his face in his hands.
Bucky approaches cautiously, and crouches down beside him. Steve’s shoulders are starting to shake again and his breath is coming in ragged little sobs.
“I’ll slow down,” Bucky says. Steve is always fussing about speed limits, but he’s never freaked out this bad before. “Or you can drive for a while.” Of course Steve can’t drive, not when he’s shaking like this, but what else can Bucky say?
“I’m sorry,” Steve chokes, which doesn’t even make sense. Nothing Steve does is making any sense. “I’m fine, I’m sorry, I just...I just needed some air, that’s all.”
The windows. Bucky should have put down the windows instead of fucking around with the radio. God, he’s an idiot. He has run out of things to say; anything he says is going to be wrong, so he just sits down at Steve’s side and pulls up tufts of grass and watches Steve shake like a leaf in the wind. He has no idea what to do next. Steve has always been the one who’s good at comfort, but now it’s Steve who needs it and all Bucky can do is make things worse.
He reaches out his good hand to touch Steve’s shoulder. It’s what Steve would do, probably, if it were the other way around. Steve lets out a tiny sigh, and so Bucky does it again, patting gingerly and feeling Steve’s muscles tremble and twitch under his hand. He feels clumsy, unpracticed, and he’s waiting for Steve to wince and pull away - but instead Steve leans into the touch and says, “I’m sorry.”
Bucky says nothing. Incredibly, Steve’s breathing is starting to even out. He’s still tensed up, but he shuffles a little closer and lets his head droop down on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky holds his breath and forces his body to stay very, very still.
They sit like that for a while. A gentle breeze ruffles Bucky’s hair and blows a few strands into his eyes. He blinks quickly and tries to ignore it. Probably he deserves to be uncomfortable after sending Steve off the deep end like this. Steve is calm resting against him, and he doesn’t dare break the spell by moving.
But then a few more strands blow into Steve’s face, and Steve shakes his head and brushes them away with a shaky little laugh. He sits up straight, and reaches out to tuck Bucky’s loose hair behind his ear.
Bucky jerks away, forgetting all his stillness in one irritated moment. But Steve’s face doesn’t crumple again. “Bucky,” he says, and his voice sounds quiet and clogged and weird. He gazes intently at Bucky for a minute, eyes red-rimmed but dry, and then turns his face away sharply. All of a sudden he looks painfully embarrassed.
“We should get moving,” Bucky says. He’s not going to ask what unexpected miracle has made Steve start responding to his efforts, after a whole day of beating his head uselessly against Steve’s brick wall of misery. There is every chance that trying to move him now will break things all over again - Bucky hasn’t forgotten California, and Steve’s abortive plans to abscond from SHIELD in the middle of the Mojave Desert the last time they went on a road trip together. But Bucky’s temper is starting to fray. His brain throbs dully behind his eyes. This might be the only moment of cooperation he gets from Steve, and he needs to make the most of it.
“Just a couple more minutes,” Steve says, and Bucky has to bite his own tongue to stop himself from snarling. Steve still isn’t looking at him. “You’ve been so patient with me today,” he murmurs.
“You’re fine now,” says Bucky. He’s not sure whether it’s a statement or a question. “Coulson will be getting impatient.”
“Yeah.” And Steve’s voice has definitely stopped shaking now. But he’s still staring fixedly at the ground in front of him, tense and still like he’s waiting for something important, and Bucky doesn’t know what it is and he can’t think of a single fucking reason why they couldn’t be doing this in the car.
A few more silent minutes pass. Then, just as the restlessness is starting to overwhelm him, Steve looks up. “Come here,” he blurts.
“Come here what?” There’s approximately six inches of space between where they’re sitting; if Bucky comes here any more he’s going to be in Steve’s lap.
Which is exactly where Steve is gesturing. “I don’t…” Steve breaks off. He swallows. “I never take care of you any more,” he says.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because I’m fine.” Bucky’s not the one who’s been crying in the shower, or pitching a fit whenever anyone tries to speak to him. If Steve wants to deflect his problems he’ll have to find another target. “But I won’t be by the time Coulson’s done with me, if I don’t get us back to the Bus on time.” All the colour drains from Steve’s face. “I’m joking, Steve, fuck. What the hell’s wrong with you this time?” Things were going so well for about thirty seconds there.
“Nothing.” Steve grits his jaw. He looks like he’s steeling himself for something incredibly unpleasant. “Come on, Buck,” he says again, and this time he shuffles closer, opening his arms in a coaxing gesture completely at odds with the rest of his stiff body language. “Let me take care of you. I don’t mind.”
He might as well be offering to pour Bucky a glass of water. But it’s that all-too-familiar jaw clench that gives Steve’s game away. Or maybe it’s the set of his shoulders, or the dark red flush that’s creeping up his cheeks. In one sinking instant everything clicks into place. And it’s all so ridiculous that for a wild second Bucky wants to throw back his head and laugh. Steve isn’t trying to deflect his problems onto Bucky. Steve is coming onto him.
For fuck’s sake.
Bucky scoots away and pushes himself to his feet. Steve’s face is a picture of confusion and hurt and frustrated need. But in the heat of the moment, after weeks of wondering how he’d fare in the path of temptation, Bucky doesn’t even have to think. Steve’s bleak, resigned expression is doing all his work for him. Steve wants to touch Bucky because there are no cliffs for him to jump off, no convenient live grenades for him to throw himself on. Steve has officially managed to make handjobs unappealing. Steve is a fucking bottomless pit of misery and Bucky is so, so sick of him.
The pressure in his skull is turning into a proper headache. “We’re going back to the Bus,” he snaps, and for the first time all day Steve doesn’t bother to argue. “Now. Come on.”
The drive back is suffocatingly quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t think about what Steve just did, because if he thinks about it then he’s probably going to do something stupid.
Steve hangs his head and stares down at his lap and says nothing.
-
The thinking comes afterwards.
Steve locks himself in his cabin as soon as they get back and goes peacefully to sleep for once, or maybe he’s just pretending - Bucky doesn’t check. He brushes off the team with a few grunted excuses and retreats to his own room. Hunter shows every sign of wanting to say something, which is the last fucking thing Bucky needs after a day like today.
His headache lets up a little once he’s alone, freeing up plenty of extra room for all the thoughts to knock around. Away from Steve’s contagious aura of gloom, it’s hard to be sure that he made the right call. Steve looked sick at the thought of touching Bucky, but it could have been for show - after all, Steve was the one asking. Maybe he just needed something else to think about. Maybe that grim look would have disappeared once he’d gotten his way, would have melted into something softer: want and willingness and shaky relief as his hands reached for Bucky’s belt.
It would have been so easy just to let it happen. And afterwards, as they lay in the grass while Bucky caught his breath, Steve would have looked right at him with those stupid red-rimmed eyes and thanked him for the distraction -
Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
But of course all that is wishful thinking. Steve always hated touching Bucky; he’d have hated it all the more once he snapped out of whatever weird needy episode had come over him back there. Bucky made the right call. He acted like a proper friend - like a gentleman, he thinks, with a curl of his lip - and Steve will be awkward as hell tomorrow morning but at least he won’t be a trembling wreck. Or if he is, at least it won’t be Bucky’s fault.
Probably that thought should feel better than it does. Mostly it just irritates Bucky more than ever.
For once, though, Steve sleeps through the night. Bucky does not. He’s restless and frustrated and tense as a bowstring, too full of seething resentment to even jerk himself off properly to work off some of the pent-up tension.
The next morning, Steve greets him at breakfast with a tired, nervous smile. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, and pours himself an extra-large bowl of Fruit Loops. “Can you pass the milk?”
Bucky pushes the pitcher across the table without a word, but not before he seriously considers drowning Steve in it.