Steve was being followed. The air around him was sticky with the feeling of being watched. He could’ve been paranoid; the kind of trepidation that burrows into bones. But he couldn’t afford to take the gamble —he’d accrued a lot of enemies, so few friends.
Down the block, halfway to the grocery store, the sky threatened rain; like the clouds knew something he didn’t. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he glanced over his shoulder. Nothing looked out of place on the city street. (Not New York, not DC—something smaller and sleepier in which he was hoping people could forget his face. It wasn’t home, but it was somewhere to lay low.)
Evidently not, though, because someone was definitely tailing him. Thunder rolled and Steve wondered if he shouldn’t have come out today at all; but he had this horrible habit of waiting until there was no food left in his apartment before he bothered remedying the situation.
On edge, only picking up the essentials, he kept his head down, kept his face off the cameras, paid with cash—he was never there. A ghost.
On his walk home, he saw it. The flash of a black jacket ducking into an alley. It was only a flicker of a motion, something so quick he could have imagined it. Steve faltered a step before deciding, against his better judgement, to go after it. (It could have been anyone, but he knew who he wanted it to be.)
He peeked down the alley. Confronting his shadow; A figure stood with his hood up, leaning nonchalantly against the side of the building. The sky opened up and frigid rain spit down.
Steve’s heart thudded to a painful halt, because he recognized the way the figure moved. He’d know him anywhere.
“Hi, Buck,” Steve said, hesitating in the mouth of the alley.
“You doin’ okay?” Steve tried again.
Silence, but he’d turned so Steve could see his apprehensive face. Cautious. Defensive. Tired.
If Bucky was trying to kill him, he would have already. Steve was alone, after all. (Always fucking alone.)
Steve swallowed. “You could come back with me—get out of the rain?” What he wanted to convey was more along the lines of, ‘please, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been running, too. Let’s go home.’
Steve took a few steps closer only for Bucky to match his movement with a step back.
The last thing Steve wanted to do was corner him, but Bucky’s back was to the chain link fence. And before he could ask if Bucky was hungry, or cold, if he needed anything, he’d taken off—disappeared into the foggy, gray morning.
It killed him, thinking it would be this way forever— that Bucky would always be a fingertip’s-breadth too far to reach. What killed him most of all, though, was the way it didn’t feel like an accident. If he’d seen Bucky—Bucky had wanted to be seen.
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
