Steve watched Bucky slump to the floor, the pain and exhaustion taking an obvious toll on his body; his hands flexed with the instinct to go to his friend, to help him, lift him up. It was his place to do that now, he thought. In giving himself up Bucky had accepted it as much as Steve had. They were for one another, pain and strength to be shared, and so Steve went to him, crouching down to the floor beside him, and reached out to gather him into his arms. He expected him to be heavy, with the weight of that metal arm and his body too weakened to help, but instead it was all too easy to lift him: Bucky felt hollow in his arms, like a bird freed from its cage. Gentle, but implacable, Steve gathered him close, cradled him as he stood and put his back to that machine and took Bucky away from it. There wasn't far to go; he went to a corner of the shop where a shaft of dusty light fell from the grimy windows, where he might at least get a better look at his friend, and Steve settled down to the floor with his back to the wall and Bucky in his arms, cradled against his body.

In the light, Bucky's face looked even more starkly pale and wasted, his cheeks hollow and the shadows under his eyes dark and smudged. He cupped a hand to his friend's cheek, brushing the arch of the bone softly with his thumb. "Off your feed, huh," Steve murmured, echoing the same gently teasing thing Bucky used to say to him when he was sick and had lost his appetite. He settled Bucky against him, guided him to rest his head on his shoulder, and for a moment felt such perfect happiness at being permitted to hold him that his heart thumped painfully in his chest.