Chapter Text
It’s a nice gun, that much is obvious as soon as he picks it up. And almost full too. Poor fucker didn’t have a chance to use it before he went down, before they all did. Bucky’s already decided to keep it when the guy beside him leans in and says, “You could replace the grip on that. I’ve seen guys do it. Put a picture of your girl back home behind it.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just takes the gun and keeps moving.
But he watches for the material he would need. A piece of windshield or port of a plane would do. And eventually he finds what he’s looking for. The guy who suggested it is long gone, so he doesn’t see Bucky hacking away at the tough plastic, carving until it fits, scuffed and dirty but still clear, onto the side of the stolen pistol. How he cuts the picture, as carefully as he can, to fit beneath it. Pokes little holes for the screws to go through and puts the whole thing back together.
It’s a while before he even has any reason to use the gun. It just stays tucked away at his side, in case things go even more badly than they usually do. When he does finally yank it out and aim for the German scout who managed to sneak too close behind him, he sees Steve’s face a split second before he pulls the trigger.
Steve watches him kill a man.
He doesn’t have time to think until much later, back at the base when the bloodshed is done for a few moments and they’re all trying to get as warm and full and clean as they reasonably can. He resists the urge to take out the gun and look at the picture. It was enough of a stupid risk putting it on in the first place. But it did the job he’d hoped it would do.
It was a reminder that before the war, he would do more than blink and steady his hand at the thought of killing someone. He would have hated the very idea of it. The picture was there to remind him that he used to be the type of man who would laugh easy, who would never even throw a punch unless he had to. Which, if he’s honest, he had to a lot. But it was never easy, not like it was now. Violence was never his instinct. And there was someone waiting for him, if they were both lucky, who expected him to be that man still.
It was penance. Each time he used that gun, he watched someone bleed and scream, and Steve watched him do it and move on and do it again. And when the danger had passed and nerves had settled as much as they could, he would think, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ wondering if Steve would even recognize the man he was now. He would let himself wonder until he fell into the depths of wondering. When he would wonder if it wouldn’t be better if he never had to go home and let Steve see. Then he would take out the gun and see the picture, and Steve’s face would stop the wondering as easily as he had started it.
Dugan’s the first one to see it. Bucky has used the gun three times that week, all nice clean headshots. But it’s the first time in a long time, and as usual, it’s got him twisted up inside. He thinks it’s appropriate; the gun that usually sees the worst, most intimate kills he makes is the one with Steve’s face on it. He’s standing off in a darker corner, just barely out of the incessant rain, smoking a cigarette and looking at Steve. Dugan announces his presence loudly, probably so he doesn’t startle Bucky, but it gives him just enough time to school his expression.
“Who’s that?” Dugan asks when he gets close enough to see. Trying to put the gun away at this point would have been more suspicious than just telling the lie he had prepared.
“My cousin. He’s real sick, and since his ma died I took care of him, when he let me. Stubborn sonofa bitch. He’s just as likely to die during the war as I am.” All but the first part is true, which makes it easier to say, easier to pass off as the whole truth. Dugan stares at the picture for a second longer, then claps him on the shoulder.
“Then you better survive to make it home. Someone’s gotta be there to take care of the kid, or bury him.”
He walks away, leaving Bucky to look at Steve for a while longer until he forces himself to straighten up and shake it off. Dugan is right, of course. No matter what’s waiting for him, he’s gotta try his damndest to get back and take care of Steve however he can. No one else will.
When Steve comes for him in Azzano, too tall and too muscular and wearing some ridiculous outfit, Bucky thinks, ‘Oh, an angel has finally come for me,’ and, ‘of course it’s Steve.’ But before he has a chance to think much more than that, Steve is busting the restraints on the table and hauling him upright, which brings all the pain back to his body and leaves him stumbling as much in horror as from his weakened limbs. Because Steve is at least a foot shorter and definitely not strong enough to support Bucky’s weight, which is what the man wearing Steve’s face is doing now. He can’t get out all the questions he wants to ask, not when they’re running and fighting is going on all around them, so Bucky gets his feet beneath him, because that’s what he does, and he follows Steve. Because that’s what he does.
On the march back, when Bucky hasn’t had nearly enough time to process but enough time to be pretty sure he’s not hallucinating, he demands answers. Steve gives them in a hushed voice, trying not to be overheard, and Bucky struggles to control his own volume at what he gets.
Only Steve would be stupid enough to join the army as sick as he is. Was. Only Steve would be stupid enough to volunteer for an experiment that should have killed him, just so he could fight. But it worked. And now what? He’s here, and he’ll see all the things Bucky thought he’d rather die than have him see, even the echoes of them in Bucky’s face. He needs to be protected from that. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t need Bucky at all, anymore.
Steve seems confused, almost hurt, at how angry Bucky gets. Because he doesn’t know. He can storm in single handedly on the power of his righteous fury because he doesn’t know that sometimes you can have all the men and the high moral ground and better strategy and still lose. Because the other side had better guns. Or the weather took a bad turn, or any little thing went wrong and suddenly your men are dying and your plan is failing and somehow it’s always your fault. Steve doesn’t know because he still believes that the ends justify the means. He still believes in never leaving a man behind, and in the strength of ideals. And all the shit that, whether it’s true or not, doesn’t fucking matter when you’re living the kill or be killed reality of war.
But Bucky doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t explain that he’s angry because he’s terrified. That he doesn’t want Steve to become jaded and bitter like Bucky and everyone else who goes through this. He just calls Steve a reckless fucking idiot, and lets his anger pour out into tearing Steve a new one for dropping, alone, into a Hydra base because he couldn’t stand the idea of not rescuing prisoners.
“I did it for you.”
The words actually stop him in his tracks.
“What?” he hisses. Now it matters that they’re not overheard. Now Bucky thinks of the grip of his gun and how Steve being here is dangerous in a whole other way.
“They said the 107th and you weren’t back but you weren’t confirmed dead either and I just… I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe, Buck, I just had to come looking.”
“You could have gotten yourself killed!” He’s barely fighting the urge to shout now, but Steve stuns him into silence again.
“I know.”
He gives himself a second, just one, to see the open, undaunted expression on Steve’s face. To understand exactly what it means. Then he keeps walking.
Steve on the grip of his gun, small and smiling and millions of miles away; that kept Bucky sane, kept him fighting. Steve here on the ground, strong and honorable and unafraid to die; that will make Bucky kill, could make him throw away everything. With Steve at his side, Bucky will win the war if it kills him.