itsbuckybitch:

(Bingo card/masterpost)

Steve puts the quinjet down on an empty stretch of tundra in the middle of god knows where. This far south, the snow has melted away; tall sheets of wiry grass ripple away from their landing site to the distant horizon. Somewhere behind them, the JCTC will be setting up a perimeter at the Siberian base. They’ll be gathering evidence, interviewing Tony and T’Challa, combing through the old files archived there. It won’t be long now before they start their pursuit.

A fine mist of exhaustion has descended over Steve’s eyes. It doesn’t matter if the JCTC are right on his tail, breathing down his neck; he needs to rest.

In the back of the quinjet, Bucky sits slumped in a shadowy corner on the narrow storage shelf where Steve left him. He’s asleep, or maybe unconscious. A thin string of bloody spittle hangs from his lower lip, dripping red down the front of his jacket. The stump of his left arm is a mess of torn wires and jagged plating. He needs first aid, but Steve has no idea where to start.

“Buck,” he says softly.

Bucky opens his eyes and blinks at Steve, sluggish and disoriented. His pupils are dilated – concussion, maybe. God knows he was hit hard enough. “Where are we?”

“Russian Steppe, I think,” says Steve. He can’t remember the last time he lost track of his coordinates like this. He’s been flying on autopilot, navigating on nothing but his own blind urge to get as far off the grid as possible. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. What a stupid question – of course Bucky’s not okay. He’s drooling blood, his fucking arm’s gone. “We’re stopped.”

Steve’s eyes feel scratchy when he blinks, dried out by too many days on next to no sleep. Every minute they spend grounded is a minute the government could use to catch them up, but he’s so tired that he’s run out of anxiety to spare for the thought. He needs to sleep – but first he needs to look after Bucky. “Hold your head still. I’m going to check your pupil response.”

Bucky’s eyes drift closed again. “Think I’ll just sleep this one off.”

“You could be concussed.”

“And what are you gonna do about it if I am? Stay out of my face, Steve.”

“Not until I’m satisfied you won’t fall into a coma while I’m asleep. God, I don’t know why you’re always like this.”

Bucky cracks an eye, just barely. “Always?”

“Since we were kids,” says Steve. Getting annoyed won’t do him any good. “One time we were playing ball with the neighbour’s kids, and one of the older ones knocked you down. You brushed it off and stayed out playing for hours. When you finally went home, your mom had to cut your pants off you because it turned out you’d bloodied your knees so bad that the fabric got all stuck in the wounds.”

Reminiscing about the past has always been a surefire way to get Bucky’s attention. But the magic doesn’t work this time, and Steve’s concerns about the concussion are deepening. A few silent moments pass, and it becomes clear that Bucky isn’t going to say anything. “Okay, fine. Tell me what year it is.”

Bucky’s mouth flattens to a thin, irritated line. “Two thousand and fuck off.”

“Why are you being like this?”

Bucky opens his eyes again, but he doesn’t look at Steve. His gaze is downcast; his throat bobs. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “It’s 2016, Matthew Ellis is is the president, the Sokovian Accords are signed and sealed and the whole world wants us locked up or dead. I’m banged up, but I’m not brain damaged and I don’t feel concussed. My memory’s no worse than usual. Can I go back to sleep now?”

The dim light and dark bruises make Bucky look gaunt and vulnerable. If Steve feels tired, Bucky must be worse. He’s been fighting for his life since Romania. Steve makes one more valiant effort to remember that.

“Come sit in the passenger seat, at least,” he says. “You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

“I’m fine here.”

He could just admit that he’s in too much pain to move. Part of Steve wants to cry with frustration. “It’s only a few steps,” he says, as gently as he can manage. “It’ll be worth it. I’ll help you.”

“You’ve done enough.”

“Bucky,” says Steve through gritted teeth.

At long last, Bucky looks up and meets Steve’s gaze. There’s blood caked in his eyebrows and dirt and grime smeared all over his skin and forget tired, his eyes look dead – dark and bleak and drained of all life. “You’ve done enough,” he repeats without inflection.

If only he could think straight, Steve would know what to say in response. He’d see the guilt behind Bucky’s prickly bravado, the hopelessness, the self-loathing. He’d sit down on the bench beside him and wrap an arm carefully around his shoulders and tell him he doesn’t regret a single decision he made if it meant getting Bucky out alive.

Later, when he watches the glass frost over on Bucky’s cryo tank, he’ll blame himself for not speaking when he had the chance.

But right now, with the prospect of sleep dangling inches in front of him and Bucky’s sullenness the final obstacle, Steve doesn’t have the patience or the strength to see it through. “Fine,” he says. There’s a first aid kit in the overhead locker; Steve tosses it down on the bench in easy reach of Bucky’s remaining arm. “I’ll be up front if you need anything.”

The pilot’s chair, thank god, reclines almost horizontal. Steve falls asleep the moment his head hits the backrest.