Chapter Text
"How long? How long this time, Bruce?" Tony’s eyes were closed, and his hands were cupping the pained, tight face of Steve Rogers, but his words were directed at his partner and bond.
Clutching the remains of his tattered shirt to his chest as the fabric knitted itself back together, Bruce closed his eyes and thought. A grimace crossed his face as he answered somberly, "An hour at least, Tony."
Minute by minute, the two men watched as Steve’s face evened out, and his body ceased its trembling. When his breathing finally steadied, he opened his eyes and blinked slowly. “Tony?” Steve's throat was dry, his voice raspy, and his head was pounding. "What happened? Where are we?"
Releasing Steve, Tony took a shaky step backwards into Bruce's embrace, who curled his arm protectively around the shorter man's shoulders. It was Bruce who answered Steve's question. "It's a safe house on our side of the Border. You zoned out again, Steve, this time in the middle of a fight. Luckily we'd already taken out most of the Hydra Sentinels, so Tony and I finished the rest of them off. Once Clint and Nat got the Guides away, it went down easy."
Steve pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, applying pressure in the hope of relieving his headache. The reprieve from the pain was brief, returning two-fold once he removed his hands, bringing with it a wave of nausea. Bile rising in his throat, the Sentinel fought against the urge to vomit, not succeeding. The next few moments were spent with Rogers hunched over, one hand flat against the peeling paint of the wall, emptying the meager contents of his stomach onto the stained floor.
When he was finished, Steve raised one gloved, trembling hand to his mouth, wiping away any traces of sick. He could do nothing about the overpowering, sour taste in his mouth, though, or the sickly-sweet smell, and within seconds he felt the nausea returning. Falling to his knees on the floor, Steve Rogers doubled over, dry heaving, and began to cry out.
Instantly, Tony Stark was at his side once more, kneeling beside him. "No, no, no, buddy. Come on, not again, Cap. It's alright, breathe. Focus on me, don't leave us again, Steve." Tony had placed one hand on the back of Steve's neck, his words a constant flow, and slowly, minute by minute, Steve began to come back to himself.
"I'm sorry, guys," he muttered at his companions. It was getting worse, and Steve knew it. Before, he used to think he was one of the lucky ones, gifted with all of his senses heightened. But now, like this, without his Guide? Now, it felt more like a curse.
"You should go lie down," Bruce said. "There's an old sofa in the other room, and it's relatively dark and quiet. See if you can get some rest."
Steve stood, slightly dizzy on his feet, and nodded to his friends. Tony was still kneeling on the ground, and Steve patted his shoulder as he walked past. Shambling steps carried him to the other room, and with a heavy sigh, Steve threw himself down onto the ratty, old sofa. Briefly, he considered taking off his sweat dampened uniform, but then decided against it. The fabric of his garments had been developed by Tony, with Steve's overactive Sentinel senses in mind. It was likely far more comfortable than the dirty, scratchy, surface of the couch beneath his back.
Try as he might, however, sleep eluded Steve, as it often had since he had lost his Guide. Bucky, his partner, his best friend and lover, and the other half of his soul. They had shared something special long before Steve underwent "the procedure", as he called it now, and found out he was a Sentinel. The moment Steve had awoken in the underground lab, he had felt the cold seeping into his bones, the smells of the antiseptics assaulted his nose, and the too-bright lights seared his vision. He had risen from his bed, and had been on the verge of some sort of an attack, standing in the middle of the room with his hands pressed to the sides of his head, when the door had opened, and Bucky had walked in, bringing with him warmth and peace.
Steve's memories of better times were interrupted though, when the sound of Bruce and Tony whispering in the other room reached his ears. Even through the closed door, it sounded as though they were standing right next to him.
"Are you sure he can't hear us, Tony?" Bruce was questioning, the worry clear in his tone.
"Well, maybe not positive, but yeah, pretty sure. I just... I can't even imagine what he must be going through. And honestly it scares the fuck out of me, because if something ever happened to me, who the hell would take care of you?"
The sounds of soft kisses and the press of slightly moist lips drifted into the room and Steve smiled despite his discomfort. Though he was without Bucky, Steve would never begrudge his friends the soulbond they shared with one another. Bruce had been out of control when they found him in the ruins of what used to be Harlem, having been cornered by a Hydra unit, whom he had killed single handedly. Bucky had still been with them then, and he had shouted a warning when Bruce, in his Hulk form, had smashed through the window of a derelict building where innocent civilians had been hiding.
Steve and Bucky had watched in awe as Tony's touch had turned the giant, raging, monster back into a man, who passed out in the former billionaire's arms. Stark had carried the stranger back to the Quinjet, refusing to hand him off to either Bucky or Steve, who could have hefted the man's weight with ease. Within days, Tony and the man, who they came to know was called Bruce Banner and was a Sentinel with rare power, had bonded. The Guide who had always insisted that the idea of true bonds didn't exist, had found his Sentinel, it would seem.
Feeling close to zoning again, Steve shook his head to clear it, and focused once more on the hushed conversation coming from the other room.
"- a stop gap at best. We were lucky this time, Bruce. One of these days, Steve is gonna zone out permanently, and there's not a damn thing we'll be able to do about it, except put him out of his misery. "
"Don't talk like that, Tony. You know I love you, but sometimes you're just so damned pessimistic I wanna knock you out. There's still a chance Bucky is out there somewhere, and we're going to keep raiding these re-education centers until we find him," Bruce finished vehemently.
Tony scoffed. "You're telling me you think Barnes is still alive? Brucie, how naive are you?”
“We haven’t found his body yet. Until we do, he’s alive as far as I’m concerned.”
The truth was, his friends had no idea of the hell Steve was going through. It was more than just a Sentinel in need of his Guide’s comforting touch. Every part of his life was so wrapped up in Bucky and the love that had always been there. If he were being honest with himself, it was difficult to remember a time before the war and the life the two of them had carved out for themselves...
"Stevie, I told ya to quit throwing the blankets off, pal. You're gonna get worse, and then what am I gonna do?" Bucky sighed exasperatedly, tucking the covers back underneath Steve's rail thin frame.
Steve thrashed weakly on the thin, lumpy mattress in an attempt to once again divest himself of the offending cloth. "Can't help it, Buck. It's too heavy, and it itches." For some unknown reason, Steve had extremely sensitive skin, and the problem was only compounded when he was ill. "Just get it off of me." The small boy ran his hands down his arms, across his chest, trying to rub the discomfort away.
"Shhh, it's alright," Bucky murmured as he slid beneath the blankets with the smaller young man. Tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it away, Bucky Barnes pressed his bare chest flush against Steve's back, left arm coming around to encircle the scrawny chest, palm resting with fingers splayed just over the other boy's heart. "I got you, punk. Breathe for me, okay?"
Concentrating hard on the sweet, dulcet tones of Bucky's voice, Steve felt himself begin to calm. It happened often, Steve having what Bucky called one of his panic attacks. The only thing that could keep Steve tethered to his sanity was Bucky, be it his voice, his touch, sometimes even just the scent of Bucky's pillow or coat.
Both boys had lost their parents in the early days of the war, when the first Hydra terrorist attacks had been carried out on U.S. soil and across the world simultaneously. To say that the powers in charge had been woefully unprepared for such a coordinated attack would be an understatement. So many thousands were killed, many more rounded up and placed in forced labor camps, like Bucky’s mother. The boys had watched from inside a hidden space in the wall, Bucky’s hand clamped tight over Steve’s mouth, while Mrs. Barnes, the last of the adults in their life, had been dragged away at gunpoint.
After that, the pair was reduced to hiding in terror from the waves of soldiers that Hydra belched forth relentlessly. Steve and Bucky had nobody but each other in those days. Those were the days when there was no food and no electricity and no water, no law and order. When Bucky was scared shitless to have to leave Steve alone because he never knew when one day he might come back and find his best friend dead. But he had to do it, because if he didn't, they wouldn't eat and then Steve surely wouldn't make it. So Bucky crept out into the city, dangerous as it might be, and he scavenged, or he stole. In the beginning, he was caught a few times, so he was forced to learn stealth, moving silently through the shadows, a ghost who took only what he needed and never anything more.
Other times, he bargained for goods, though he would never tell Steve with what. The younger boy always suspected Bucky must have paid with the only currency he had, himself. Because those were the times Bucky would come home, his arms laden with treasures, like water, or a couple of cans of Sterno, cookies, cold medicine, or dried fruit, and once, even a whole bag of butterscotch candies, Steve's favorite, the package still unopened. He'd dump them down in front of Steve, whose job it was to sort through their supplies and ration everything out evenly, though the older boy would always find a way to sneak some of his share back into Steve's pile no matter how hard he protested. Then Bucky would strip his clothes off and climb into one of the sleeping bags he had salvaged, bloodstained and torn, from an abandoned vehicle, and not talk for hours, feigning sleep, even though Steve could tell from his breathing and soft, muffled, sobs that he was wide awake.
It was always cold, and damp, the city blanketed in thick clouds that blocked out the sunlight and played havoc with Steve's compromised immune system. The young men never had enough to eat, and they worried every day that one of the Hydra patrols that frequently swept the bombed out city would find them.
The night before they finally left Brooklyn; in the basement of the derelict apartment building they had hidden in, Bucky kissed him for the first time.
"I can do this, Buck. I promise I won't slow you down, and I'll pull my weight. Just... don't go without me. Don't leave me behind." Steve's voice had been so quiet, and afraid. He was worried that Bucky would decide he'd be better off without him, that he stood a better chance of surviving alone.
"What the hell are you goin' on about, punk? How could you ever, in a million years, think I'd leave you? God, you're so stupid sometimes, Rogers!" Bucky had taken hold of Steve's shoulders then, his grip painfully tight, sure to leave bruises on the pale flesh. "Truth is, Stevie, I need you more'n you need me. If I didn't have you, I'd have given up a long time ago. What would be the point of it all?"
Steve had looked at Bucky then, seen the unshed tears of desperation in his eyes. They weren't little boys anymore. He was eighteen and Bucky a year older. But somehow, his friend looked younger and more scared than he ever had in all the years he'd known him. "I'm sorry, Buck. I know you feel responsible for me, and you'd never shirk your obligations-"
"Obligation? Are you blind on top of everything else?" Bucky looked uncertain for a second, his bottom lip caught between his teeth while he mulled something over. Then, obviously deciding he might as well go all in, plunged onward. "I love you, Steven Grant Rogers. Always have, always will. You're everything to me." And then, Bucky had lowered his head and pressed his full, red lips to Steve's, hands coming up to cup thin cheeks. A surge of energy pushed through the small body, and he felt stronger and more alive than ever. Steve lifted his hands to bury them in Bucky's thick, brown hair, fingers tightening around the strands...
"Cap?" Tony’s voice jolted Steve from his memories.
"Yeah, Tony, I'm awake," he answered with as much confidence as he could muster, and desperately trying to keep the pain from his voice. Cap... even that epithet had been given to him by Bucky.
"Oh, good. Listen, I hate to disturb your rest, but Sam's here with the transport. He says there's some important information we all need to hear, so we're headed back to the Tower."
Steve nodded and waved a hand at Tony dismissively. When the Guide left the room, closing the door gently behind him, Steve struggled to stand up. Once again, he felt his senses going into overdrive. The rumble of the Quinjet's engines reverberated in his ears, and the ground hummed beneath his feet, the vibrations becoming less and less subtle by the second.
With a low keen in the back of his throat, Steve covered his ears with his hands, needing to keep the sensations out. The Sentinel could feel his body begin to shake, and the roiling in his gut returned, churning and bubbling, his body a volcano threatening to expel all his vital organs in a violent burst. So, he'd been right. It wasn't just the zoning out anymore. Over time, his body would begin to betray him again. The height, the size, the physical strength he had gained when he consented to be a guinea pig for Howard Stark would all come to nothing, because the time when he would no longer be able to function was fast approaching. Provided he didn't go insane first, of course.
Laboriously slowly, Steve made his way outside the dilapidated structure, joining his fellow SHIELD agents. They were gathered close together in hushed conversation, but they quickly ceased talking when he drew near. If Steve's head hadn't been pounding so furiously, he could easily have made out what they were saying, but as it was, he didn't even notice them going silent around him. In fact, he wasn't even aware he had reached them until a light touch to his forearm made him flinch.
Tired, red rimmed, pale, blue eyes looked out from a drawn face. Sam Wilson sucked in a heavy breath, shocked at the state Steve Rogers was in. When they had met, Steve had only just lost Bucky, and his grief had been immense, but he looked even worse now. Sam put his Guide abilities to use with Steve, talking to him in a low, steady voice. In a matter of minutes, the tall Sentinel's eyes cleared a fraction, and the blue in them shone just that much brighter.
Maybe it was because Sam had lost his bond too, but of all the Guides in their unit, Steve had responded best to him. There was no way anyone would ever mistake them for a true bonded pair, though. It was in the way Steve sometimes seemed to lean away from Sam, even when he was in desperate need of a Guide, and in the feeling of guilt that flicked across his features every time Sam pulled him out of a zone. The last few times he had attempted that, Sam had needed the assistance of both Tony and Clint Barton to get Cap back.
Once the four men were safely aboard the Quinjet, Steve gratefully accepted the hypo filled with a white liquid he couldn't remember the name of. He remembered what it did though. It offered a deep, restful, sleep, and Steve found he needed it more every day. He ignored the worried looks of both Tony and Bruce, who sat side by side on the bench opposite the one where Steve lay. Sam strapped him down to ensure he'd be safe on the flight back, and then gently turned Steve's head to the right, penetrating the skin and vein in his neck with the needle, depressing the plunger and releasing peace into the Sentinel's bloodstream. A sigh, and a softly whispered, "Bucky," escaped Steve's pale lips before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he drifted off to sleep.