He stared at that machine, a relic that could have come straight out of the war, could have been used to mold propeller blades or the casings of tank artillery; Steve might have found himself in a factory leveraging its impossible weight over and over again in service of his country, if he hadn't been given the serum. Sometimes he wishes he hadn't. Sometimes he wishes the serum had never been invented, that it had only ever existed a dream in the back of Erskine's mind: look at the uses it had been put to over the annals of history.
His gaze shifted from the gleaming arm clamped under the vice, up the bicep and shoulder concealed beneath a ragged shirt sleeve to the hollow eyes that stared back at him from beneath dark strands of hair. He saw Bucky's lips move, though whether he was mouthing words or only taking in air, Steve wasn't sure. Sam was talking and Steve heard every word, answered him as competently as a veteran soldier, as a commander used to dealing with a crisis, but he felt as though it was all very far away, like words came and went as distorted and disconnected as though they were passing through water. Sam was going to get help. He knew someone who could do something for Bucky, who could fix at least one part of the damage that had been done to him, and Steve nodded assent, aware this meant Sam would have to leave them alone. He would stay, of course. He would stay beside Bucky no matter what. He looked at his best friend, weakened and wasted, slumped exhausted next to that machine as though he'd been trapped in it for days, and he knew that Bucky had put himself here deliberately, offered himself like this. It was a surrender.
Then Sam was gone, and Steve came closer, feeling as though the weight of that machine was sitting on his back, crushing down his lungs. He hadn't felt like this since he was small. This inability to breathe.
There was some water in a plastic bottle at Bucky's feet, almost empty; somehow Steve doubted it had been very full in the first place. He reached for it, cataloguing every motion, keeping his eyes on Bucky's face. Opened the cap and brought it to his friend's lips, brushing his jaw with careful fingertips. "Come on," Steve told him, tipping it gradually so that the water slid towards his mouth.
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His gaze shifted from the gleaming arm clamped under the vice, up the bicep and shoulder concealed beneath a ragged shirt sleeve to the hollow eyes that stared back at him from beneath dark strands of hair. He saw Bucky's lips move, though whether he was mouthing words or only taking in air, Steve wasn't sure. Sam was talking and Steve heard every word, answered him as competently as a veteran soldier, as a commander used to dealing with a crisis, but he felt as though it was all very far away, like words came and went as distorted and disconnected as though they were passing through water. Sam was going to get help. He knew someone who could do something for Bucky, who could fix at least one part of the damage that had been done to him, and Steve nodded assent, aware this meant Sam would have to leave them alone. He would stay, of course. He would stay beside Bucky no matter what. He looked at his best friend, weakened and wasted, slumped exhausted next to that machine as though he'd been trapped in it for days, and he knew that Bucky had put himself here deliberately, offered himself like this. It was a surrender.
Then Sam was gone, and Steve came closer, feeling as though the weight of that machine was sitting on his back, crushing down his lungs. He hadn't felt like this since he was small. This inability to breathe.
There was some water in a plastic bottle at Bucky's feet, almost empty; somehow Steve doubted it had been very full in the first place. He reached for it, cataloguing every motion, keeping his eyes on Bucky's face. Opened the cap and brought it to his friend's lips, brushing his jaw with careful fingertips. "Come on," Steve told him, tipping it gradually so that the water slid towards his mouth.