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He doesn’t remember falling. Or getting hit. Or being pushed out of harm’s way. One second there was the roar of gunfire and concrete dust, the next—white noise, a sharp crack, and the world tipped sideways. When he came to, everything felt wrong. Heavy. Slow. Like his brain was wading through syrup.
When he opened his eyes, there was a face staring at him. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. And a stubbled jaw tight with worry.
Bucky’s chest hitched. “…Steve?” he whispered. "What're you doing here, Stevie?"
Walker froze, hands planted on either side of Bucky’s injured head as he stared down at him, chest heaving with adrenaline from saving Bucky from getting majorly hurt.
The name landed like a blow he didn’t have the right to flinch from.
“No—hey,” He said carefully, kneeling closer, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch. “It’s okay. You took a bad hit. You’re safe. I got you, Buck.”
Bucky frowned, eyes unfocused, pupils blown wide. His gaze searched John’s face, softening in a way John had never seen directed at him before. “You came back,” Bucky murmured, relief spilling into his voice like something fragile finally set down. “Knew you would, Stevie. You always come back for me.”
John swallowed. This wasn’t anger. Or accusation. This wasn’t the cold, measured hatred Bucky usually wore around him like armor.
This was trust.
And it terrified him.
“Easy,” John said, gentler than he’d ever meant to be. “Don’t move. Medic’s on the way, Bucky. Just please remain still...”
Bucky reached out slowly and caught the sleeve of John’s uniform with shaking fingers. “Don’t go,” he said. Not commanding. Not sharp. Just… scared. “Please. Don’t leave me again, Stevie.”
Something in John cracked. He should’ve corrected him. Should’ve said I’m not Steve. Should’ve shut this down before it turned into something cruel. But Bucky looked at him like he was home. So John stayed. He let Bucky talk through the haze—half-memories, half-confessions. About Brooklyn. About trains and guilt and the way Steve used to look at him like he was worth saving, even when the world said otherwise. Bucky mumbled about their childhood and how desperately he wished he could go back.
John listened. Quiet. Still. Letting every word carve its place. With his chest aching.
By the time the medic arrived, Bucky’s grip on John’s sleeve had tightened, his thumb brushing back and forth in an absent, intimate motion that made John’s breath stutter.
“You’ve gotta let go, Bucky,” John said softly.
Bucky blinked up at him, confusion swimming back in.
“…You’re not,” he realized slowly. His hand fell away. His face closed off, walls slamming back into place with brutal speed. “You’re not Steve.”
The hurt in his eyes was sharp enough to draw blood.
“No,” John said. Honest. Steady. “I’m not.”
Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy with everything that shouldn’t have happened.
Then Bucky turned his face away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Must’ve hit my head harder than I thought.”
John stood slowly, heart pounding like he’d just committed some unspoken crime.
“Yeah,” he said. “Guess so, Barnes.”
But days later—after the concussion cleared, after the apologies and the distance—Bucky still found himself watching John. Listening to the baritone of his voice. Not because he thought he was Steve.
But because for one terrifying moment, when the defenses were down, Bucky had learned something about himself.
He could still fall in love.
And John Walker wasn’t sure whether he deserved the way Bucky now looked at him—or whether he was doomed to always be the man someone else was seen through.