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This has gotta be the stupidest thing Bucky's ever done.
That's really saying something. There are a whole lotta people who would say Bucky's life has been filled with stupid decisions — the past couple years of it, anyway.
But, the thing of it is, he's also spent the past few years getting backed into corners. The thing is, shit's been hard, and Bucky has — he hasn't exactly been in control of most of it. Bucky's gotten shoved into situations he didn't ask for or cause, and he's been doing his damndest to manage the fallout.
So, all of that? It feels like a different sort of thing. It feels different than this thing he's doing now. It feels different than this thing he's walking into with his eyes wide open, and completely of his own free will.
Because this? This is something he's doing because he wants to. This is something he's doing because he desperately wants to. And that? Yeah, that makes this unbearably and unfathomably, stupid.
Bucky's sitting in an empty warehouse by the water, and he's waiting to get his heart broken. He set himself up for it.
It's —
He really should have left, and he should have left it alone. That would've been the smart choice. It's what he should've done.
But sometimes, Bucky thinks he'd never stood a chance.
Sometimes, Bucky thinks he's always been walking toward heartbreak, right from the start.
The start, being five months ago, the day he'd run into this guy — the guy.
Bucky'd been working. He'd turned a corner and discovered a blond guy holding a can of spray paint and writing on the dingy alley walls. The guy had looked up at the sound of Bucky's footsteps, and Bucky'd found himself being stared at by massive blue eyes. The guy'd been wrapped in a pin-covered jacket, there'd been a scowl on his face, and Bucky'd fallen for him before either of them had said a word.
His pins and buttons were political, like the art he scrawled on bricks and subway cars. He always smelled like paint. His hair was messy and constantly fell in his eyes. He was shorter than Bucky, thinner too, and delicate featured. He talked like he was filled with fire, and he had a voice so deep it often sent running through Bucky.
They ran into each other three times before their first kiss, one that quickly turned messy, desperate, hot, and, maybe, a little bit dangerous.
(But they were both used to danger.)
They didn't get the chance to peel other's clothes off until their sixth meetup, but they fucked for the first time a week before that. They wedged themselves into a dirty corner with broken glass at their feet. They kissed as if they didn't want to know what would happen if they stopped. Their hips were pressed together, grinding, and their cocks brushed with each pass. Those artist hands, big and skilled, were sitting firm on Bucky's hips, and a knee was planted between Bucky's thighs.
Bucky'd felt plugged in and electric. It'd seemed wildly impossible for it to be so blindingly intense even while they were wearing clothes. He hadn't understood how the layers between them didn't disappoint him or dull the sensations building between them.
The friction had him gasping and groaning, sounds that were kissed silent and then swallowed. Bucky wasn't sure he'd ever been so quite so aware of the throbbing of his own cock or the pressure and heat of someone else's.
They'd collapsed against each other as they'd come, breathing heavily into each other's shoulders. Bucky'd still been shaking, and there'd been a strange sort of rush to getting off with his pants still on. He'd been dazed thinking about how no one had ever made him feel so damn good without really touching him —how, honestly, he hadn't felt so good a lotta the times someone had touched him. He'd been floating on it when he pulled his head up for more kisses. There'd been sweat on the back of his neck. His skin was sticky in places and more than a little gross, and it had been fucking perfect.
The next time, and so many times after that, they'd found hidden places — better walls, armchairs, blankets, mattresses. They found places where Bucky sank to his knees. They found places where those artist hands wrapped Bucky's cock. They found places where that deep voice called Bucky, baby, and whispered pretty things and dirty in his ear while they fucked. They found places where they learned each other's bodies — maps made with fingers, lips, and tongues. They found places where Bucky sunk back on those mattresses and got taken apart.
There had been joints shared on rooftops and fire escapes and smoke licked out of each other's mouths with lazy grins. There had been laughing at themselves, at the world, and at things that weren't funny at all. There'd been long afternoons when they'd found each other and not separated until long after night fell. There'd been endless feeling conversations where an artist would talk about giant things, and Bucky would try to say things back that were big enough to match.
It'd all repeated, week after week: talking, laughing, kissing, fucking more talking, more kissing — an extended loop in the hidden spaces of alleys, back lots, basements, and abandoned buildings.
And, five months later, Bucky's in love.
(He's been in love.)
Bucky's in love, and it's so very stupid.
Bucky doesn't even know the guy's name.
The guy doesn't know Bucky's, either.
(Stupid, see?
It's so damn stupid.
It's a walk right toward heartbreak.
It has been from the start.)
It'd made sense when they first met. Early on — there are plenty of people who've got names Bucky doesn't know. Some of 'em are other guys he's fooled around with. So it wasn't new or unusual. Bucky didn't think much of it for a while. By the time he did, they were used to addressing each other with whispered endearments, and their hands intimately knew the feel of each other's skin. They had stores of private knowledge, just for them, and Bucky'd tell himself that he'd rather have that, anyway. He'd tell himself it was better that way. Bucky's also — The world's never seemed to have a lot of room in it for guys that look at guys like Bucky does, so he's used to — Bucky's kisses have been secrets since he was sixteen. He knows how and when to hide.
Besides, these days? Bucky's got no business falling in love with anybody. He's got awful debts owed to terrible people. He's got only one way to pay them. His family is outta state and safe now — what's left of his family, anyway — and Bucky oughta be staying solo. Because doing this? This life? Working for these people? It's a fast track to ending up dead or in jail, and Bucky's always known that. So he's got no right to be — who the hell is he to be telling people his name and inviting them too far into his life?
And a graffiti artist who talks like a revolutionary and paints his politics on buildings and trains? A guy like that's got no time for romance. He's not looking for it. He's got bigger and better things to do. He's damn sure got more important stuff to keep on his mind than Bucky, and that's okay. That's how it should be.
So they've never asked each other for names or any other personal details. They talk all the time. They talk about a million things. They just don't ask about that sorta stuff—names, families, living situations, histories, neighborhoods, none of that. The guy pronounces and chooses his words like he's Brooklyn born and raised, but Bucky doesn't know that for sure.
(That's not totally true.
Bucky'd been asked one question. Just the one.
The first time they'd kissed, the guy had pulled back. He looked at Bucky with serious eyes, and he said,
'You're not married, are you? I don't mess around with married guys," biting at his lips a little, and furrowing his brow.
These days, Bucky gets to see him smile a lot. It didn't happen nearly as often, all those months ago.
"Nope, not married," Bucky'd said, shaking his head.
"Alright then," the guy said, leaning back in.
He smelled like paint, and his hair felt soft in Bucky's hand.
And they never pressed each other for any other information.)
It's been okay that way. Sure, Bucky's in love, but he doesn't live a life where doing anything about that is an option, anyway. So, really, what's it matter?
He coulda just kept on stealing his moments of happiness with this unbelievable guy, and he coulda kept on not knowing his name. Bucky'd have been able to sustain that for a long time. Really. It woulda broken his heart in the end, but he'd have walked slowly toward that heartbreak. Bucky'd have handled that alright. He'd have seen it coming. He'd have had it under control.
Now, he's running toward heartbreak. He's throwing himself at it.
He can't walk slow. Slow's not a choice. Bucky's been told he's gotta —
They — his bosses — they told him has to —
And he just can't, is the thing. Bucky just can't.
But that's not up to Bucky, of course. He can't actually walk in there and refuse. That's not — if telling these people no was an option, he'd have done it years ago.
So he's fucked. He's completely fucked, and it's pushed him into action.
Like hurtling himself down a hill.
It's the reason he's sitting in this warehouse, hoping against hope that the guy he's in love with reads the note Bucky slipped into the pocket of that jacket — hoping he not just reads it, but that he responds like Bucky wants him to — that he meets Bucky here.
They don't do that. They don't meet on purpose. They just — they run into each other. Sure, they run into each a lot. And okay, they've learned each other's schedules by now, so it's sorta on purpose, but — but they don't talk about it, ask about it, or plan it. That's not how this works. There are no expectations. There are no —
It's not like that.
It's like this: A lotta the time, when they linger for a while after they fuck, there's kissing and there are whispers. Bucky's gotten long descriptions of his own features. He's heard all the details of his skin, hair, face, lips, eyes, muscles, hands, thighs — hell, even his ass and cock, as they're seen by an artist. And he knows, Bucky fully knows, that the guy he's fallen so hard for finds him hot. Bucky's certain this is — that it's been fun and convenient, and that there is a lot of genuine attraction between them. If that's all it is for one of them? Well, there's nothing wrong with that, and honestly, Bucky assumes it's the case. It's not as if Bucky's ever given any signs that it's not exactly what it is for him.
So, Bucky's not expecting anything. That's part of what makes this so very stupid. That's why Bucky's sure he's waiting on nothing. That's why Bucky is sure he'll sit here and wait, and wait, and no one will ever come. That's why Bucky is sure he'll sit here until his heart is shattering, and see? He shoulda left it alone. Fuck, this was such a bad choice — the last thing Bucky oughta be doing when he's already in a terrible situation is set himself up for —
The warehouse door creaks open, and Bucky startles so hard he almost falls off his cement block seat.
"Hello?" that familiar deep voices call out.
"Hi," Bucky says, blowing out a long breath. His palms itch. He thinks he's —
This is already more than Buck was counting, and he swallows down an almost dusty feeling in his mouth about it.
His nerves are frayed. He runs his hands over his jeans, but it doesn't do much to soothe them.
Shit, he knows he shouldn't —
Here's another thing: His note hadn't exactly said, things have gone all to hell for me, and I kinda need to tell you that. And maybe I gotta tell you some other things because I might never have another chance after today. No, the note Bucky left could easily be interpreted as, hey, I found this great place we could fuck.
Maybe he should have meant that.
Maybe he should just leave it at that. They could do that. They could have one last time together —
"Hey, are you alright?" the man Bucky's in love with asks. He's crossing the floor, and the frown on his face is growing with every step closer to Bucky he takes.
Bucky really thought he had a better poker face than that.
He could swear he normally does.
"Yeah, I'm — thanks for coming," Bucky says, balling his hands into fists. It does nothing to calm the itch or his nerves.
"Of course," Bucky's — no, not Bucky's — artist says. He sits down on a cement brick next to Bucky and fixes worried eyes on him. "What's going on?"
"It's — I know you've probably. I know you know I work for some people who are," Bucky runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Don't work for 'em 'cause I want to. It's — my family — I had to. It's a long story? But I gotta, you know, illegal shit, and —"
"I mean, I sorta guessed a little, and I don't — it would only bother me if it put you in some kinda danger," the best guy Bucky's ever known says. He puts a hand on Bucky's leg and squeezes it. "Are you?"
"Yeah?" Bucky admits, wincing. "Yeah, I think I am. They told me I gotta do something that's too — that I can't do. I can't, but that's — I also can't say no to these people. Not exactly allowed to refuse. So uh, I know people just kinda disappear around here all the time. Maybe you wouldn't have thought nothing of it, but I thought maybe you'd wanna have a warning or —"
"Whoa, whoa, wait," the graffiti artist who Bucky misses already says. His eyes are huge, and he swivels his body toward Bucky more fully. It makes a piece of hair fall over his left eye. "What do you mean 'disappear?' You can't just — there's a gotta be — how can I help?"
"You can't — I have to get outta town. That's all there is to do," Bucky shakes his head. "These people. There's no — I do this, or I'm gone. My only choice here is if I go my way or theirs."
"But, there's really no way to — there's nothing?" the guy Bucky fell for on sight says. His eyebrows pull together and his eyes narrow like he's trying to puzzle out a solution. "I — you don't want my help?"
"Didn't ask you here for help," Bucky says. He bites his lip. "Like I said, I thought maybe, hoped maybe, you might care if I disappeared? And uh, I figured before I did, there was something I should tell you 'cause I'll never get another chance. So, okay, it's — I'm Bucky. Meeting you has been just about the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I guess I thought you deserved to finally know that."
There's a sharp intake of breath, and startlingly blue eyes go wide.
Then a large hand comes to hold Bucky's face, and the now familiar smell of paint hits his senses.
"Hi Bucky. I'm Steve, and I'm in love with you," Bucky's artist — Steve, Steve, says. He's looking at Bucky with an expression Bucky is tempted to think is something, something pretty close anyway, to awe.
And Bucky understands the feeling. He understands, because he's never heard a better string of words in his whole life than the words Steve just said.
Bucky kisses Steve, and Steve presses back into it instantly. It feels like a declaration, a request, and a claim. Bucky drowns in it. He's high. He's drunk. He's floating.
"I'm in love with you," Bucky says, breathless when they pull away. He sits a hand on Steve's neck.
"Don't disappear," Steve says, shaking his head. His hand is still firm on Bucky's face. "Please don't disappear on me."
"I can't do what they want me to. I can't, Steve,'" Bucky says, half shuddering at the idea and half reveling at saying Steve's name for the first time. Steve's eyes flash when he does, as if maybe he likes how it sounds coming outta Bucky's mouth, too.
"No, no. You're not going to," Steve says. He runs a thumb across Bucky's cheeks. "It's gonna be okay. I know you've gotta be scared, but it's gonna be — talk to me, alright? Where were you gonna go? What's your plan?"
"I don't know — I," Bucky folds into the touch when Steve's other hand comes up to run through his hair, light pressure on his scalp that feels amazing and incredibly soothing. "Day by day for a while, I guess? Don't got a car or nothing, and I don't got the cash to throw together for even a piece of junk to get on the road. I wouldn't anyway, and I wanna wire at least some of the money I got on on hand — family — 'cause who knows when I can again, you know? And then —"
"I can sell what I've got. It's not much, but the pawnbroker on my block knew my Ma, so he won't underpay me for shit. Should be able to get a car and through at least a couple weeks. We'll figure it out from there," Steve says. Bucky's head pops up, and his jaw drops. Steve shrugs s a shoulder at him. "Don't need any of it if I'm leaving, right?"
"You can't just —" Bucky says, but he melts at the kiss Steve presses to his lips.
"Sure I can," Steve says, fingers still moving against Bucky's scalp. "Why the hell not?"
"You live here," Bucky says. His voice comes out strained. Steve shakes his head.
"So do you," Steve says, kissing his forehead. It makes Bucky's knees weak even though he's sitting down. "And we'll come back. We'll find a way. I don't know, maybe there's something that'll be better for us to do if we're not here, somebody we can contact long distance without being traced. We'll get there, but right now? You're not safe, so we have to leave."
"I can't ask you to do any of that," Bucky says, shaking his head slowly.
"Good thing you didn't ask then, huh?" Steve says, lips tilting up. "You said you hoped I might care if you disappeared? This is me caring, Bucky."
(Oh, Bucky wants to listen to Steve saying his name on repeat for the rest of his life.)
"That's — okay, but these people. This is dangerous shit. If they ever find me again, if they track me down? They won't," Bucky breaks eye contact and turns away from Steve for a second. "They're not exactly gonna leave me breathing, and if you were with me? They wouldn't let you walk away."
"Was that supposed to scare me off? Make me not wanna come with you? Because if it was, it backfired," Steve says, using his hand to gently bring Bucky's face back toward him. "Made me wanna stick even closer to you."
In some ways, Bucky guesses that makes sense.
Steve's a fighter.
Bucky's known that from the day he met him.
(Once, two months ago, they'd been laying on this dingy couch in a falling down storage unit they liked to stop in, occasionally — one of their hidden places. It's got holes in the ceiling and half the windows are missing glass, but it'd been a good spot to get privacy on decent weather days.
They'd been stretched out on the couch, still sweat-slicked and a little red. The wind had picked up outside, and Bucky'd grabbed Steve's jacket off the floor for Steve to throw around his shoulders.
Steve had been shirtless with his jacket on his arms, and Bucky'd been running one hand over Steve's pale skin while the other had been fiddling with a few of Steve's pins.
"You ever — people ever give you trouble about any of this?" Bucky'd asked, thumb running over the queer liberation pin.
"Don't need other people for trouble. I can make plenty on my own," Steve said, laughing, and then leaning forward to nibble gently at the skin on Bucky's neck.
"Yeah, I know that. You are trouble," Bucky agreed, grinning. "But you knew what I was asking."
"Sometimes people got something to say, sure. But it's nothing I can't handle," Steve said, shrugging a shoulder.
"I'll bet," Bucky said, letting a hand tease slowly over Steve's ribs. "It don't ever scare you?"
"Nah," Steve said, shaking his head. "People all over the world get away with saying and doing awful stuff all the time, you know? I figure if I can hit a couple of 'em back sometimes? Get a few swings in? Make a few bullies shut up for a damn minute? That's a win. It's the least I can do."
Bucky'd bitten back the urge to tell Steve how brave that sounded, and he'd bitten back the urge to ask Steve if he was at least careful about it. Bucky really did believe Steve could handle himself, it was only that — It was only that, sometimes, Steve showed up with fresh-looking bruises or angry-looking scrapes, and once, he'd disappeared for a whole week and a half. Steve said he'd just had a cold, but Bucky hadn't known — a week and a half seemed like an awful long time for a simple cold, so Bucky hadn't known how worried he oughta be. He hadn't known how worried he was allowed to be about a guy he knew so painfully well, but whose name he didn't know.
"I get that," Bucky'd said, grabbing for one of Steve's hands. He'd brought Steve's knuckles to his lips to kiss them one by one. "And, hey, if I'm ever around? I can throw a punch or two. I'm also not too terrible at first aid."
Steve had smiled at him, one of those smiles that make him look impossibly beautiful and that also make Bucky's heart feel sorta fragile.
"That's real good to know," Steve said, eyes intent on Bucky's face.)
Steve's filled with fire and fight. So maybe Bucky shouldn't be so surprised he's putting up a fight about this.
But no one's ever offered to — wanted to — fight for Bucky. No one's ever been on his side. Not like this.
He wasn't expecting Steve to be.
"I'm not gonna — I won't lie to you. That sounds appealing," Bucky says, swallowing hard. "You're, shit, Steve. The thought of never seeing you again has been killing me. I don't want that. I want — but you — are you sure about this?"
"I wouldn't say it if I wasn't," Steve says. He moves his hand out of Bucky's hair to cup Bucky's face on each side before kissing him solidly again.
"Working for these people — I've done a lotta stuff that's — " Bucky says, feeling Steve's breath on his cheek when their foreheads lean together.
"And you don't have to anymore," Steve says. His hands move again, this time so that both of them are cradling the back of Bucky's head.
Bucky's never felt so safe in his entire life.
That doesn't make any sense. He knows that. He's sitting in a broken-down warehouse getting ready to go on the run from people who will not hesitate to kill him.
He's not safe.
He feels safe.
"It really don't — it don't bother you that I did that kinda thing?" Bucky asks, putting his hands on Steve's legs.
"It bothers me that you were forced to," Steve says. His hands are so warm against the back of Bucky's skull. "And I wanna help, alright?"
"Okay — I," Bucky takes a long breath. "Yeah, okay."
"And besides, I'm a criminal by choice," Steve says, grinning just a little. "Got no room to judge anyone."
"That's different," Bucky says quickly, shaking his head. The motion makes his forehead roll against Steve's. "Not the same kinda illegal. You do good shit, get a message out there. What you do? Your art? Your words? That's stuff people should be listening to and seeing. It's important."
Steve kisses him, hard and unexpected enough that Bucky gasps against Steve's mouth.
"Thanks, but most people don't see it that way," Steve says, pressing another quick kiss into Bucky's lips. "Don't think anyone but you has taken me, or my art, seriously in years."
Bucky blinks.
That doesn't make any sense at all to him. He doesn't understand why everyone wouldn't be mesmerized by Steve the instant he opened his mouth. He doesn't get why Steve wouldn't catch the attention of any room, any street, any city. Bucky can't figure that out at all.
"People should take you seriously. Fuck 'em if they don't," Bucky says, and Steve laughs, smile so close to Bucky's mouth that when Bucky leans forward to press their lips together again, it feels like the most natural thing he's ever done.
The kiss turns longer and picks up a palatable heat. Steve's hands grip the back of Bucky's head. It feels a lot like Steve never plans to let Bucky go. Bucky wouldn't complain.
Steve scoots further forward as Bucky's hands slide higher up Steve's legs. Steve licks at Bucky's mouth and Bucky's lips open to it, folding into Steve the way he's done from their very first kiss.
Steve shifts again, enough so that he can climb halfway onto Bucky's lap.
"Let me come with you," Steve says in a whisper, barely breaking from their kiss.
"Yeah — yes," Bucky says, moving one of his hands to set it on Steve's back, under his jacket. "Yes."
Steve settles down on top of him, and his tongue slides back in between Bucky's lips. A second later, he's tugging gently at Bucky's hair. Bucky sighs at the feeling, pulling Steve closer.
Bucky runs his fingers up Steve's spine. Steve grinds his hips down against Bucky's, a lighten bolt shock of friction that makes Bucky dizzy.
The kiss gets headier, the room around them gets hotter, and Bucky gets dizzier — and then Steve pulls back. Bucky's got a hand under Steve's shirt, and Steve's got a hand fisted awfully tight in Bucky's hair. Bucky's hard, and he can feel that Steve is, too. They both seem to be having trouble catching their breath.
"Bucky, Bucky, baby," Steve says. Bucky's brain commits the words to memory instantly, so he can keep them forever. The hand Steve has been cradling the back of Bucky's head with moves, and Steve runs his thumb over Bucky's lips. "God, we gotta — we don't have time enough right now. I got a whole half a room to sell. We gotta go."
"I know," Bucky says, breathing fast and letting his mouth fall open at Steve's touches. "Shit, I know."
"I'll make it up to you," Steve says, leaning down and sucking at Bucky's neck for a few seconds. "We get that car, we get going? Once we're somewhere safe, we're gonna pull over, okay? We'll get outta state and then find somewhere private to break it in. You can tell me how. Whatever you need, I'll do it right there in the car. You want me to blow you? Or fuck you? Or hell, maybe both?"
Steve says it lightly, a little bit teasing, not quite a joke, but not all the way serious either.
It paints a picture in Bucky's brain, anyway.
It paints this instant, vivid picture in Bucky's brain — he can see them on a backseat, probably shitty, peeling vinyl, bodies not quite fitting, limbs tangled, position awkward, discomfort not mattering at all, moving together, the smell of paint, Steve's hair falling around his face, and that look Steve gets in his eyes when —
"Please, shit," Bucky says, all on an exhaled breath and before he thinks about the words. Steve grins at him, bright and beautiful, in that way that makes Bucky's heart feel fragile.
"You got it," Steve says, kissing Bucky's lips again, fast, like a promise. "Whatever you want, baby. As soon as we're outta here."
"Okay," Bucky says. His heart is racing. For a lot of reasons. He nods. "I uh — I got a bag to grab and all, but I wasn't gonna do that until right before I head out. Don't wanna clear out my space too early, you know? Wouldn't look good if anyone comes around and — so, do you need help getting your stuff to the pawnshop?"
"Need it?" Steve asks, reaching for one of Bucky's hands and lacing their fingers together. "No. I don't need help, but if you're offering —?"
"I'm offering," Bucky says, squeezing Steve's hand.
"Then that'd be great. Let's go," Steve says, placing one more kiss on Bucky's lips and laughing. "I've always wanted to get you back to my room."
"Lucky day, then," Bucky says, laughing too, as they disentangle themselves, standing up slowly and heading out of the warehouse.
"Kinda feels like it," Steve says, squeezing and then dropping Bucky's hand.
"I know what you mean," Bucky agrees, as they approach the exit.
It's a strange sensation, walking and knowing with every step that you're heading toward your whole life changing.
(But not walking toward heartbreak.
At least not today.)
"Steve?" Bucky says, pushing on the door and squinting into the sun.
"Bucky?" Steve returns, smiling. It's smaller out here, but in a way that makes it look more private, not less genuine.
"You're keeping the jacket, right? Not planning to sell that, are you?" Bucky asks, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking in step with Steve as they hit the sidewalk. Steve arches an eyebrow at him.
"I don't think I could give this jacket away," Steve says, sounding amused. "But glad to know you like it so much."
"Well, mostly," Bucky says, looking around to make sure there's no one nearby and dropping his voice to a whisper. "I just really like you, but yeah, I do like the jacket, too."
Steve's eyes are a shade of blue that Bucky's never seen before, not ever, not any other time in his life. He could probably stare at them forever. He thinks he'd still be amazed by it if he looked at Steve for decades.
"I can live with that," Steve says. He bites his lip and ducks his head before he adds, "hey, thanks, you know? For telling me. For not just disappearing."
"Thanks for caring," Bucky says back, casting his eyes up as they round the block. "And for all this. For coming with me."
"I think," Steve says, whispering even softer as people come into sight a block or so ahead of them. 'That's what you do for people you love."
Bucky's breathing goes all off-kilter again, and it stays that way until they reach Steve's building.
Eleven hours, an uncountable number of kisses, six back-and-forth pawn shop trips, four cups of coffee, three whispered I love yous, two and a half hours of sleep, two showers, one money wire, and one stack of cash used to pay for one shitty car with peeling paint later, they're driving across the border into Pennsylvania.
Bucky's got a hand on the steering wheel. Steve's got a hand on Bucky's thigh.
The car smells a little bit like paint.
Bucky's got no idea where they're going.
Bucky's terrified.
Bucky's never felt so safe.
Bucky's in love.