bakerstreet | ( picture prompt meme )

The corner of his mouth pulls, settling into a thin smile. Steve's sorry, when this isn't anywhere near his fault. The whole world's after them now instead of just the few that wanted the Soldier back in captivity. Somehow, that feels simpler.

He knows what he'd rather have, and being next to his oldest — only — friend is near the top of that list. James meets Steve's eyes, unflinching. The regret hurts, but he swims in enough of it to float. 'I'm not sorry, either.' For acting to save a target's life. And deeply, immeasurably glad that the bottom line is someone in the world chooses him, no matter what. 'I wish it didn't mean this.'

He gets up when the plane evens out, fetching the first aid kit, and gesturing to Steve's gloves. 'C'mere. I want a look at 'em.'

Whatever it is Steve's looking for seems to fade in the face of Bucky's smile, slight though it is. Even if it comes from a humorless place, Steve'll take it. Every time. He holds Bucky's gaze for a long moment, lets the air of that shared confession hang between them until all Steve's got left in him is a gesture. Reaching out, he places his hand on Bucky's shoulder, touch light and reassuring. It says more than he can put into words.

The quinjet does well keeping them level, maintaining speed and altitude, so Steve releases the harness, follows Bucky's progress. When Bucky returns with the first aid, Steve feels something loosen in his chest, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "'M fine," he protests weakly, extending his hands. It's all a well-practiced argument, honed over many years of the losing side of fistfights. Not for the first time tonight, Steve wonders if they're occupying the same space in memory.

He removes the gloves regardless, peeling the leather from his swollen hands. The skin has split over his knuckles, red and angry, but the blood's at least dried. Steve pulls a smile, looking sheepish. "Okay, it's not as bad as it looks."

Touch is sandpaper, and comfort is always too close to pity. He tolerates it because it's Steve, but shortens it to as much as he can manage. Memory is clear: they used to do more than this, inseparable, but he wants nothing muddied and no one near his body.

At least there's not more of an argument over the patching of wounds. He opens the kit one handed, sets out the gauze and solution, looking at how best to tear the sterile wrapper open with his teeth.

'Not as bad as it looks,' he echoes, with disbelief. Starts dabbing at the knuckles. 'Pal, you better tell me they made a cure for stupid like they got one for polio.'

He exhales through his nose, his expression softening by itself, remembering what he doesn't consciously exercise. Better to let it be. 'Anything broken?'

Even without the metal limb, even injured to the degree that he is, Bucky moves with a distinct purposefulness. Steve doesn't jump up to assist him, and doesn't ask, either, instead flexing his fingers to test the severity of the wounds.

Laughing dryly, he shakes his head. "Still something you live and die with, far as I know. If you ask me, 'the future's still got a ways to go." There's humor in his voice, strained in an effort to mask the bitterness underneath. It's easier to deal with it in here, though, with nothing but cabin pressure surrounding him, and the solid presence of Bucky at his side.

With the dried blood gone, it becomes clear Steve's dealing with minor injuries. On his hands, at least. "Might be," he winces slightly as he straightens. "My side. Could be a cracked rib. I'll be fine." Sounds more like a cocky brush off than it is - he's dealt with worse and gone on fighting. Looking up at Bucky with concern, he softens his voice. "Hey. What about you?"

He hums quietly in amusement. Mask or not, all that's left is that kind of stark honesty; they both meet it. He cleans away the blood and sets down the biohazard bag. They'll need to burn it the second they touch down, and he has a feeling T'Challa will encourage that. Nobody should get their hands on Steve's blood or his own. Wakanda doesn't need something like the serum anyway, judging by how fast and strong their Panther is.

'I could use a hand,' he says, deadpan. He reaches out to press his fingers against Steve's side, listening for where the break might be. 'Not to worry, with my record, I'll get a replacement.'

Like this, their rapport is something worn and familiar, old roles they both seem to slip into with ease. Steve tries his hardest not to get used to it - so many things in the world are too temporary. Steve smiles back anyway, despite himself.

There's a beat and then Steve almost groans, halfheartedly rolling his eyes. "Buck." But the question raised is a good one - what now for Bucky and his missing prosthesis? The former Steve considered as soon as he'd dropped the shield in Siberia. The latter, well. The query is outstanding.

Steve's eyes are on Bucky's shoulder, where gnarled, twisted metal and wiring remain. "Does it hurt?" Stupid question, but he's got to know.

He's got to know. Amusement at Steve's exasperation fades, and James' own mouth twists, trying to arrange an explanation. There's no real haptic feedback. He doesn't technically feel anything with it except pressure. In a sense, there was pain, but pain, like memory, is information. It can be categorised, as he does, into meaningless, and damage that requires immediate attention. One limb gone isn't ideal, but the rest of him is working fine.

'No,' he decides. 'It just feels missing.'

The lack of an immediate answer means it isn't so black and white. Steve had often wondered the same about Vision, if pain was felt solely to provide realistic limitations. Of course, the jury was out on whether or not Vision even had those. Limitations are for flesh and blood.

Steve's eyebrows raise with the answer, at the poignancy of it, how Steve feels that in his bones too, even if they are all present and accounted for. He nods, looking stern. "Doesn't mean the rest of you isn't."

They'd taken a hell of a beating back there. They each have the bruises to show for it. And through the pain, Steve's able to appreciate the struggle of every unlucky son of a bitch Tony's ever faced in that suit. Standing, he's hesitant to put another hand on Bucky's arm but does it anyway. The touch is brief, just to get his attention. "May I..." Check, that is, but he doesn't say it.

There's little need for reassurance, from the place of a friend or a commanding officer, but James offers him a nod. He can't think of a good reason to say no, and he can't question Steve for wanting to make sure he's combat ready. Assent is turning his torso towards Steve and offering the mangle of wires and metal for his inspection.

'Don't touch it,' is all he says.

Steve's brow furrows as Bucky turns, offering him a closer look at what remains of his arm. It's a painful reminder. More than anything, all Steve can feel is the pang of guilt that accompanies the knowledge that Bucky had lost his arm in the first place. Shaking off the sting of snow from his skin, Steve clears his throat, shakes his head.

"What I mean is... the rest of you." He won't touch without permission. Not like this. "Are you hurt?"

'I'm fine,' he answers, automatically. He's looking away from Steve, slowing his breaths. It's a vulnerable position even in front of someone he trusts more than he trusts anyone, and there's been two years of being stringent about where that vulnerability surfaces.

It's not the answer Steve really wants, is what occurs to him a microsecond later. Steve doesn't think in terms of parts or sensory information, even if he understands pushing through pain.

'I'll be fine,' he amends. The arm was mechanical anyway, it's supposed to be regularly replaced. The rest, the serum will handle it. Though —

'Zemo had a book. Red, with a black star on the cover. We need to find it.'

Bucky's insistence seems like either stubbornness or deeply ingrained training, and either way, there's an ironic parallel even Steve can't ignore. All he does is nod, accept this less than suitable answer as something he probably deserves after all those years of doing the same. When Steve smiles again, it's with an air of faint amusement. "Sounds like neither of us has anything to worry about, then," he returns lightly.

Nothing to worry about but Bucky's ghosts, the specters of past horrors. "A book," Steve repeats, mind wandering back to Germany, to what had happened in that CIA cell before Steve thought to burst in. "What's it for? What'd he want with it?"

'It's a manual.' The base in Siberia might as well have kept nuclear weapons, the build and security level certainly had suggested as much. There's more than one, but this floating loose is the immediate problem, and a clearer purpose than heading for Wakanda is. James doesn't expect a safe base of operations, it'll be a temporary stop at best. He's not good at staying in one place, too restless, and too accustomed to the process of survival, Steve or no Steve. 'He used it to set me off. You think he'll tell anyone else how?'

Likely no, or Zemo would be in a very different place right now, but even so.

A manual.

The words make Steve's jaw clench. A manual is a set of instructions, a list of actions to take. Impersonal, technical, and mechanical, not something used to manipulate a person. He turns to look out the cockpit window, allowing the passing oceanic scenery to recenter himself. "From the sound of it, Zemo was waiting a long time just to get us right where he wanted. Guy like that doesn't just give away the intel he works hard to get. It was personal."

Which should probably trouble Steve more than it does, but this is the price the Avengers pay for their high-profile heroics: they'll make more enemies than they could ever know about.

"T'Challa didn't mention a book on him." T'Challa hadn't said much about Zemo at all, other than the fact that the prince had him in custody and the man would be extradited to Wakanda to face trial. And at the time, Steve had been in absolutely no position to challenge the fact. Or care. He had other things to worry about. "You think he stashed it away somewhere?"

It's quiet out there, but something scratches in his mind painfully. James reaches out for him, fingers resting on Steve's shoulder briefly. Sit down, it's okay, we're okay. He's not, and as long as this exists: the books, the brainwashing harness, the fucking chairs, it'll be a present fear. And after they're gone and no one alive remembers, it will follow him. But the we matters more than that.

'It's possible,' he says. It would be with the CIA. Carter seemed willing enough to help them out if Steve can place the call. If T'Challa has it, he foresees a very interesting conversation ahead of him. Steve's the one who did the talking there: James wasn't too keen on going back near a man who not a few hours earlier had been very eager to rip his throat out. 'Can we make that our priority after we break the others out of wherever they are?'

( picture prompt meme )

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