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They're on T’Challa’s jet when Bucky first mentions it. Steve doesn't think anything of it because Bucky's in pain and, god, his arm and there’s blood and Steve can't even try to believe that he means it.
“I wanna go back in cryo, Steve.”
“Lift your head, I gotta… shit. Buck, there's so much blood,”
“Steve…”
“Bucky, please. I gotta stop the bleeding.” He calls out to T’Challa about a medical kit and rushes around the jet while Bucky lies there, the pain in his shoulder and his head unbearable. He remembers the light, that blinding light and then agonising pain. The smell of burnt metal and the taste of blood on his tongue. Bucky knows he's ruptured nerves that were connected to his arm. He wants to cry about the phantom feeling of an arm where there isn't one. It's a familiar feeling from a memory he doesn't remember all of. He remembers the cold smell of the ice. The smell of rust, his blood, in the air. He remembers soldiers and bodies with no faces. He remembers being kept for a long time before there's a saw and a familiar face. A face that terrifies him but he can't move.
Bucky takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate on where he is. The clean smell of the jet, oil and metal and Steve. Steve is here. He remembers Steve. But then he’s not sure if he does because there's so much, so many different feelings and memories. He doesn't know how much he actually remembers or how much he wants to remember. Steve is still moving around the jet and Bucky looks down at the burnt, twisted and frayed metal of his arm. He tests out trying to move what's left of the limb and screams out as his nerves flash blindingly white with pain.
Steve is next to him immediately, carefully touching the metal and holding it still.
“Don't move, you're gonna make it worse. Fuck. Bucky…”
“Steve, please… I need…”
Steve pushes Bucky's hair back from his face, dark and matted with dirt, sweat and blood. He looks at Bucky with such endearing eyes that are swimming with sadness and pain that Bucky moves his right arm to touch Steve's arm.
“Steve… your shield.”
Steve looks away and shrugs.
“I’m not worth it. I’m not worth this, Steve.”
Steve sighs and looks behind him to where T’Challa is sat, he purses his lips and turns back to Bucky, resolved.
“I dropped the shield because maybe I’ve carried it for too long now.” He pauses, hands hesitating, “When I first took up the shield, it was to storm a Hydra base and save you. You were the reason I picked up that shield. And you were the reason I dropped it. It was give up the shield, or you.” Steve’s hand strokes through Bucky's hair again and down to the side of his face, “I choose you.”
“You're still sappy.” Bucky croaks with a short chuckle, wincing as his body moves.
“Only for you.”
Steve caresses Bucky's cheek softly before moving his hand, reaching into the box next to him and pulling out various pieces of gauze and cotton wool.
“I still wanna go back in cryo, Steve.” He says as Steve wipes at his face.
“Not now, Buck.”
~
T’Challa takes them to a medical centre in the middle of a jungle. It's sleek and modern compared to the natural world that surrounds it. There are masses of high tech equipment everywhere and the best medical staff according to T’Challa. Steve doesn’t know what half the equipment is. He doesn’t even think to ask.
They wheel Bucky off in one direction and take Steve in another to assess what injuries he has. He’s already started healing and there’s not much they can do apart from set a few fractures and clean up the blood on his face.
He’s not allowed to see Bucky yet.
T’Challa comes in to let him know that they're trying to clean up Bucky's arm and minimise the pain. He’s got several damaged nerves and it's going to take a while, even for him, for them to repair. Steve feels his stomach twist with worry and tries to convince T’Challa to let him see Bucky.
Two hours later Steve walks into Bucky's room, both of them looking slightly cleaner than what they did. Bruises still littering their faces. Steve can't take his eyes off the one on Bucky's face from Tony’s boot and he clenches his fists to try to calm himself.
“You don't clean up as nice as I remember.” Bucky jokes and shifts slightly on his bed.
His arm is wrapped in some sort of plastic bandage which is wrapped around his upper torso to prevent him from moving it. He can see the dark bruises on the skin where it's seared to the metal arm. It makes Steve feel sick.
“You ought to look in a mirror, Buck.” He tries lightly and Bucky smirks at him, gesturing with his right hand slightly and letting Steve know he wants him closer.
Steve sits in the chair next to the hospital bed and gently takes Bucky's hand in both of his. He lets the worry show on his face and Bucky frowns at him for a second.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I had my arm blasted off.”
“This is my-”
“Steve if you want me to punch you, then please, finish that sentence.”
Steve lowers his eyes to their hands and swallows around the lump in his throat.
“I thought I’d lost you all over again. When I saw your arm and then all the blood and… I couldn't lose you again. I refuse to go through that again.”
Bucky moves his hand gently from Steve's and touches Steve's face, “ ‘s still not your fault.”
Steve presses Bucky's hand to his cheek and leans into it, sighing in relief and exhaustion.
“I know we haven't had much time to talk things over or figure stuff out but… you do know don’t you?”
Bucky’s lips twist in a soft smile, “Why do you think I pulled you from the river? It was the first memory that came back.”
It's another memory, a memory of a memory where there's fire and metal and the screeching of engines locking and the crashing of metal frames. There's the sound of fists hitting flesh and the whir of a metal arm that hits an already broken face again and again and again. Then there's that soft look in clear blue eyes. The croaking voice of Steve as he utters the words that had once been said to him. Then there's the memory of a tiny version of this man in front if him, face softened by youth and eyes swimming with pain and loss. Then there's soft playful laughter and a playful threat and that version of this man, his mission, is closer than his memory says he's been and there’s a want in his stomach he didn't think much of until now. So he pauses and he remembers, Steve . And god, what had he done.
But now Steve is here and he shares the same smile with Bucky and closes his eyes tightly. Steve can feel his chest tighten pleasantly and looks back up at Bucky.
“You're the only thing that got through all the brainwashing. You had to know that. Nobody else. Just you.”
“Buck,”
He smirks and uses his hand to guide Steve closer.
“I ain't asking, Rogers.” An accent and phrase that slips so naturally from him that it startles them both for a second.
But Steve doesn't need another hint. He surges forward, stopping just short of Bucky's lips and then gently pressing his against them. Bucky fists at Steve's t-shirt and presses back once before pulling back a little,
“I don't remember a lot. Things still come back in pieces and I’m not him anymore, Steve. I’m not the same Bucky.”
“I’m not the same Steve.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
Steve kisses Bucky again, pressing a little harder, just the way he wanted to when he was 15 and realised he didn't want to kiss any girl as much as he wanted to kiss Bucky. Just like he wanted to the day his mother died and they had been messing about with the couch cushions. Bucky moans softly and moves his hand into Steve's short hair, tugging slightly and making Steve groan into the kiss.
Steve stops the kiss, brushing his lips softly against Bucky’s before trailing down his neck slightly, kissing gently at the bruised flesh of his shoulder where it meets metal.
“I wanted to kill him,” Steve admits while planting another kiss on the scarred and bruised skin, “I got up and saw you there, on the floor and your arm… and I honestly wanted to kill him.”
The anguish in Steve’s voice wrenches at Bucky. He knows Steve is punishing himself for even thinking about killing Tony. Bucky knows that kind of guilt all too well.
“But you didn't.” He says reassuring Steve,but his mind twists and he thinks, but I did . In at least one way, he did .
~
Steve visits Bucky every single day like clockwork, sitting with him while doctors and various other medical staff take notes from monitors which are only hooked up to Bucky one at a time. A physiotherapist comes on the third day and helps Bucky start moving from the bed, working on sitting up without two arms and balancing once he's up.
On the fourth day they take Bucky away to clean up the mess that's left of his metal arm. Bucky doesn't say anything to Steve that day, not even a smile. Steve comes to visit him to find a soft black sleeve covering the end of the metal stump. He kisses Bucky’s shoulder softly and tells him he loves him.
When Steve visits on the fifth day T’Challa is there talking to Bucky, who stops mid sentence as soon as he realises Steve’s entered the room. There’s an awkward pause and then T’Challa leaves them, making a comment about getting things ready for Bucky. It doesn't take long for Steve to catch on to what he's talking about.
“So… cryo.” Steve starts, not knowing where the he'll he’s going with this but it's a start.
Bucky nods and pulls himself up into a better position, sat up against the pillows.
“It's what I want.”
Steve let's the pain hit him and he chokes around a smile, “But I just got you back,”
Bucky looks away for a moment, his hand clenching into a fist around the sheets. When he finally looks up his eyes are watery and pained.
“I know, but it's too much Steve. I’m still dangerous. Whatever they did to me, whatever they did to create the Soldier, is still in my head. T’Challa has the best psychiatrists and doctors, and well, you name it he’s got it. And he's got them working on how to fix me.”
“You don't need fixing, Buck.”
“The wrong word, the wrong situation or touch could send me off again.” Bucky can feel the lump rising in his throat as he chokes around the words, “I don’t want to hurt you again.”
Steve doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to argue with Bucky but everything in his body is telling him to fight this. He can’t say goodbye to Bucky again. He can’t do it. But it’s his choice. After all this time doing the whims of Hydra and everybody but himself, he deserves to make his own choices. And Steve can’t fight that. He can’t stop Bucky from making a decision for himself. So he simply says,
“Alright.”
~
Steve jumps at the hand on his shoulder. A gentle touch but he hadn’t expected to be disturbed. T’Challa gives him an apologetic smile and takes the seat next to Steve. He glances at the cryo chamber which holds Bucky and then at Steve.
“You should get some rest.” He says, and when Steve quirks an eyebrow he continues, “I say that as a friend. Not a King.”
Steve smiles and murmurs, “Thanks,” but his eyes drift back over to Bucky.
They’d said goodbye in Bucky’s room before they went downstairs. Steve had tried not to hug Bucky too tight. Had tried to not to let the tears burning in his eyes fall. But Bucky had pulled him just as close, just as tight. Had looked at Steve with watery eyes before kissing him softly; the last one for a while.
He’d put on a brave face when they were in the room with the cryo chamber. He’d asked Bucky if he was sure and had watched with an ache in his chest as Bucky climbed in, lay back, smiled softly at him and then closed his eyes.
He looks so peaceful, Steve thinks. Despite the bruises and cuts on his face. He looks younger too. Like Bucky before the war. Steve doesn’t say anything else to T’Challa and he takes the hint, leaving Steve alone.
Steve sits there for a bit longer, his eyes drifting over and over Bucky until Steve can’t bear being so far away. He stands and crosses the space, hand raised before he really knows what he’s doing. The glass is cold under his palm and he flinches slightly. It holds memories of ice and a bone deep chill that Steve still has nightmares about. But he lays his palm out flat and wishes he could reach in and touch Bucky. Just to push that stray strand of hair away, or to check the cuts on his face. Anything at all. He just wants to be with Bucky. And he hates that he can’t.
His head falls forward, forehead pressed against the glass. He waited 70 years to find Bucky. He had to give up 70 years of his life to get Bucky back. He had to give up a life with Peggy and everything he’d had waiting for him at the end of that war. Consciously or not, he’d waited.
He could wait a little longer.