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It hurts Steve more than it probably hurts Bucky, even though Steve's not the one covered in blood. Steve's pain is not a pain of bleeding cuts and throbbing headaches, possible concussions. Sure, his arm and shoulder are pretty sore after trying to hold down the helicopter, but that pain is nothing. Steve's hurting because Bucky is trapped and helpless, and not because of something HYDRA did, not directly. Steve barged back into Bucky's life and now there are explossions and blood.
Neither of them wants any of that, but it's following them no matter where they go. It's following Steve.
It's following Captain America.
Steve's standing in front of the huge metal vice, towering above Bucky—Sam cautiously watching everything from close enough to step in if needed. Leave it to Sam Wilson to be ready to throw himself in between two serum enhanced soldiers if Steve needed help.
Steve doesn't.
His mom's name was Sarah—and then there were the damn newspapers in his shoes when the Brooklyn winter of 1925 gnawed at the world with its freezy teeth. They are memories, once lost and then brought back on to the pages of notebooks. Memories Bucky struggled to recall one after another while Captain America was saving the world.
It hurts Steve, seeing Bucky hurting.
He takes a step forward; more senses than hears Sam's uncomfortable shuffling behind him, and lowers himself into a crouch.
Bucky squints his eyes and avoids looking at Steve as Steve releases him from the vice. More shuffling in the background indicates Sam doesn't approve. Sam doesn't say it aloud though, and Steve's grateful for that. He's got this moment of silence when he touches the metal arm that had nearly killed him two years ago, nearly crashed him just the other day—neither happened and Steve is still here because the mind and body controlling it doesn't belong to an enemy but to the most important person in Steve's whole life.
(Being able to read Steve's thoughts, Sam would be, most likely, shuffling his feet in objection. Hell, a part of Steve wants to do the same. The thing is, Bucky is the most important person in Steve's whole life. Bucky connects Steve to everything he used to be. Before the serum, before the star and spangled uniform and the shield. Steve has missed that part of himself, and now he can't let go when it's almost within his reach.)
The moment the grip on the metal arm loosens, Bucky jerks it roughly from under Steve's hand. A hint of a warning flashes in his eyes.
Steve steps back, leans against the cold, dirty wall.
Now it hurts for different reasons. Selfish ones.
He's not allowed to touch. They fought each other and they saved each other's life. Steve dragged Bucky's body out of the river two hours ago, holding Bucky tight against his chest. Now Bucky shies from his touch.
Bucky's voice is raw and low when he tells them about the others, others like him—worse than him; Bucky everything but tells them how bad all this is, how it's all going to end in a catastrophe and a bloodshed. How his worst nightmares are quickly crawling out of the darkness. There are layers and layers of unspoken in those words, too. He doesn't want to fight, but now he doesn't have a choice, once again.
When you join the army, personal choices are rarely something you can take the liberty of making.
Steve knows well their war has lasted way too long already, but they're not done fighting yet.
A moment later Sam goes outside to make a call, leaves the room with one last glance over his shoulder, meaninfully holding Steve's gaze for all two seconds. It's enough, and Steve answers with a small nod. He's fine. He will be fine.
Then Steve turns to Bucky again.
Takes in his slouched shoulders, both arms resting defeatedly on his bent knees. The blood trickling down his temple and cheek, down over his jaw. Dripping on the shirt Bucky is wearing.
The first touch makes Bucky jerk his head up. Steve's fingers as much as graze over the hurt spot, brushing away hair so Steve could take a better look. The external injuries look bad but aren't severe. Most likely no stitches needed either.
"Now you know how I felt in the summer of 1935," Bucky mutters, almost gruffly.
Steve sweeps a thumb gently over the biggest cut, feeling for any glass shreds and finding none. He glances around the abandoned factory hall, as if there were any chances to spot a perfectly clean first aid kit there.
"You came home all bloodied after some asshole bashed you with a plank."
"I gave him a punch too," Steve objects.
"And broke two fingers while doing so." Bucky's voice picks up a tiny hint of amusement. Like before when he spoke about Steve's mom.
Good old times.
Simple times—though it didn't feel simple when they lived through them.
Steve allows his fingers linger for a little longer against Bucky's skin. He's hardly touching Bucky at all.
And then he almost forgets to breathe. "You kissed it better then," Steve whispers, letting the words be lost, in case Bucky didn't remember that part.
Finally, Bucky looks up, meets Steve's eyes. Steve's fingers have frozen in place and as Bucky's head moves, they smear blood down Bucky's cheek.
Bucky's blood is on Steve's hands. All of it.
That hurts Steve the most.
A corner of Bucky's lips quirks up. "You could kiss it better now, too."
At the jagged doorframe behind Steve's back, Sam clears his throat; the sound sending Steve three steps backwards, away from Bucky, the touch, the whispered—what was it?—a promise?
"I've found him," Sam says. "We should go."
It's not time to kiss anything better. It's time for things to get much, much worse.