It had been a long time since Steve lived anywhere he could have called home. But the safehouse felt like something close to it when he and Sam brought Bucky there, the three of them battered, tired, Bucky walking between them in his hoodie and jeans with a gleaming silver hand hidden in his pocket. Steve ached to give him a place, a moment that felt like solace and shelter, even if only briefly. His best friend had been deprived of both for too long. When their eyes met Steve thought he could see a little bit of hope in their tired blue-gray depths; it made him want to put his arms around his friend, just keep him close and quiet for a while. There wasn't anything from the past that Steve held against him, not the events on the helicarrier or the two years spent chasing a ghost--all he wanted was Bucky here with him, safe.
Sam offered to take the first watch, and Steve was unimaginably grateful to him when he could lead Bucky into the bedroom and watch his guard come down a little, watch him toe off his boots and run his hands over the bed like he wasn't quite sure how to use one of these anymore. He had to turn away so Bucky wouldn't see the pain that cut through him, mastering himself while he took his shoes off and changed his dirty, worn shirt for a clean one. He propped his shield against the corner, as comforting a sight to him as it apparently was to Bucky. Then Steve turned back to find that Bucky had already laid down, his arm curled under his head. Steve moved quietly towards him, drawn by his friend's silent, watchful gaze, and sat on the bed; after a moment or two he reached out his hand and carefully brushed a few strands of long hair out of Bucky's face.
"You were always doing the same for me," he answered with a smile. Bucky hadn't had a shield to duck behind, but he'd still always been right behind Steve, following him into the line of fire. Covering his six, putting himself in danger to take out the enemies Steve didn't even see. "You remember the war, Buck?" Every memory, every shared remembrance was another pang of happiness, more than Steve had ever thought he'd feel again.
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Sam offered to take the first watch, and Steve was unimaginably grateful to him when he could lead Bucky into the bedroom and watch his guard come down a little, watch him toe off his boots and run his hands over the bed like he wasn't quite sure how to use one of these anymore. He had to turn away so Bucky wouldn't see the pain that cut through him, mastering himself while he took his shoes off and changed his dirty, worn shirt for a clean one. He propped his shield against the corner, as comforting a sight to him as it apparently was to Bucky. Then Steve turned back to find that Bucky had already laid down, his arm curled under his head. Steve moved quietly towards him, drawn by his friend's silent, watchful gaze, and sat on the bed; after a moment or two he reached out his hand and carefully brushed a few strands of long hair out of Bucky's face.
"You were always doing the same for me," he answered with a smile. Bucky hadn't had a shield to duck behind, but he'd still always been right behind Steve, following him into the line of fire. Covering his six, putting himself in danger to take out the enemies Steve didn't even see. "You remember the war, Buck?" Every memory, every shared remembrance was another pang of happiness, more than Steve had ever thought he'd feel again.