Steve didn’t believe in ghosts. He was a man of God, believed that some realm existed beyond the one on which he stood ( boots to the ground, anchored by the lupine mountain howl of wind that hooked like icicles into the threads of his suit, tried to drag him back, back, back until he was careening down, down, down and her voice was the only thing left in his ears and then there was nothing but ice, and a horrible, burning pressure in his lungs that begged for air – a cry that came seventy years too early ) but he did not believe in ghosts. So he didn’t like the haunted affectation that seemed to roll off of Bucky in waves, and he didn’t like that sometimes it felt like he was the only one who could see it. On rare occasions, if he turned his head at just the right moment, he could see that same uncertainty in Natasha’s eyes but nobody else had known him. She hadn’t known him, not in the way he had.
But maybe that was why.
Maybe it was just him, his own insecurities flitting between them like anxious butterflies to filter through his open mouth and settle somewhere in his gut. The feeling wasn’t new, but it felt a little clearer when it was just them and the cold and the infinitesimal, but still very real, danger. The soldier tried to urge away his guilt, squinting in the flurry to the down-below, then looking up, mouth a little open, shoulders a little tight.
The weather was worsening. He wondered how SHIELD would manage to extract them if the blizzard didn’t let up, but then that thought brought him to the equally troubling possibility that they weren’t planning to. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, that Steve had flounced into a mission with no clue as to how he’d be getting himself and whatever intelligence he gathered back to safety, but he didn’t like the thought of Bucky’s first day back on the job being punctuated with that sort of in-the-moment thinking. It was fine when it was just him. Maybe because he didn’t care so much about making it back. Maybe because a successful mission did not always mean successful return of soldiers. Maybe because he’d not been made to work with good odds, because Erskine hadn’t created that serum for use on people who cared too much about survival odds.
Steve looked down again, but this time he was grinning, giving Bucky that stupid sideward look, and he didn’t feel so guilty anymore. He was, after all, allowed to think this was a little weird. No doubt he wasn’t the only one of the two reminiscing, and whatever cloven beasts stood in the shadows, whatever Lernaean fiend, a line was still a line. That was still his best friend.
❝ Y’know, I really hate to break it to you, ❞
he managed for a moment to look serious, pointing one finger which pressed, just a little tauntingly, into his shoulder,
❝ But I’m pretty sure you’re older than me. ❞ Afterthought. ❝ Jerk. ❞
And then he was gone, leaving down the side of mountain. This time, nobody was falling. It was getting progressively harder to see, and by the time he reached the bottom he was beginning to fear that their leaving this place may be a mission in itself, though the lessened visibility was favour enough when first that thrown shield met its target with a dull THUNK and then came back to him, and he heard mutters, perplexion, but nobody saw. And then THUNK and THUNK and the snow was a blessing, meant not pussyfooting around, meant when he thought he had them all he probably did have them all and meant if they stayed unconscious he didn’t have to have a moral dilemma about it later. His voice picked up to sound over the wind, which was softer down there, but still vicious.
❝ You first, hotshot ! ❞
