"Easy," Steve murmured, seeing the flex of those gleaming metal fingers out of the corner of his eye; but it didn't seem to be panic or the beginning of an attempt to break free. Bucky was still, almost painfully unmoving, except for his head tilting back a little for the water. He wondered if the massive weight on that metal arm hurt him. If he could feel it crushing down, a pressure that would have pulverized flesh and bone, but had chosen to trap himself under it anyway. He wondered just how long he had been here beneath it, waiting for Steve and Sam to come. Two years, Steve thought, drinking in the sight of him as he lowered the bottle back to the floor. Two years.

Steve didn't trust himself to answer yet. He looked at Bucky, touched his shoulder briefly, his cheek; then he pulled away and turned his face before Bucky could see his mouth pull tight and his eyes get brighter--there was a burning in them, and a block in his throat that he swallowed down. He couldn't. He just couldn't fall to pieces in front of him, or let it show that this was devastating--his friend, his best friend since childhood, closer to him than a brother, a man he'd loved and missed for decades, whose ghost trail he had been chasing for two years. He was here, Steve told himself, controlling his expression, his body language. Not well, but here.

He cast around for something to sit on so he wasn't looming over him, and found another of the metal crates, dragging it over with harsh scrape against the floor. Steve sat down, meeting Bucky's gaze. "I'll help you. You know that, don't you?" That had to be why Bucky had called him here. There had to be at least a part of him that knew that. Steve swallowed, putting his hand over Bucky's right hand.