“I need to see you,” Steve says. “We’ll fix this.”
“…Steve,” Bucky starts, the name sounding weird to Steve’s ears. Like Bucky rolls it on his tongue, testing out the sound. He hasn’t heard him say it in years, not even during their brief encounter and the fall of SHIELD and HYDRA weeks earlier. It’s a step towards recognition, Steve thinks, and another step towards the deep end, bottom dropping from his stomach at the thought of Bucky. “Can’t do that.”
Steve toes off his boots, pulling off his shirt. “About seventy years too late. I’m—”
Steve hesitates, shifting the phone to his metal hand. He wipes his face, frowning at the foreign texture and three days worth of beard. “Buck, you gotta let me try.”
“You’re my mission,” Bucky hisses, Steve’s own voice pitched low in anger. “The only reason you’re still alive is because—”
“Because you’re my friend,” Steve points out.
Bucky groans. “Thought you’d get some sense.”
“You know me,” Steve says wryly, trying not to stare at his—Bucky’s—reflection in the dresser mirror.