Eyes of Fire | Bucky Barnes

70

Bucky stared down at the rifle in his vibranium hand like he wasn't sure how it got there. Because he wasn't entirely sure, at least not on part of the small, trinket — one of his dog tags — that was attached towards the end of his gun.

He didn't know how she did it, if she'd attached it herself days ago before he'd been sent to pick out his weapon, or if she'd asked for a favor from someone and slipped it into their pocket.

And how hadn't he noticed it? He'd only been tugging at the tags he'd gifted her mere hours ago, surely he would've felt if one of them were missing.

A sudden thought: the loss of her voice, so close into his ear, rattling around in his skull, a welcome distraction; felt significant and heavier than he could handle. It always did with her, he had learned that long ago.

"Shit," He muttered, leaving all of his promises behind as he returned to the team. They'd congregated along the edge of the field, separated into front men and planning teams.

When Bucky walked over so he could stand behind Steve, they automatically shifted to make room for him. Natasha, having twisted around to eye the newcomer, caught his eye, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't necessarily sure of what the woman was asking, but he gave her a nod.

They were two teams, one to wage the attack on the creatures surrounding the bubble of Wakanda, another to defend Vision—and, if worst comes to worst, kill him.

So much of it was a guessing game, but they would be fine. They always were. It wasn't arrogance that made Bucky think this, but their track history.

Even so, he would not fail. This was not a mission he could botch.

The creatures continued ramming into the protective wall, climbing on top of each other and some even killing themselves to do so. It was chilling, the sight of them.

He silently mulled over the promises he made, how breaking them scared him so much more than running into gunfire — or whatever this was — ever had.

"We have to keep them in front of us," Steve was saying, with such finality that Bucky looked away from where he had been drifting off. He looked over at them, at the leaders who'd gathered at the front line.

"On my signal," King T'Challa murmured into his ear piece. "Open the northwest barrier, section 17."

Bucky could see Steve nodding, approving. He must've been thinking the same thing Bucky had been: T'Challa was reliable, responsible, a genuinely good and intelligent soldier— warrior. If there was such a thing.

So was Okoye. And M'Baku. How strange, these people he'd known for not even two years were more trustworthy than some of the ones he'd known (albeit unwillingly sometimes) for decades.

Funny, that he held everyone at arm's length, yet he ended up here with people he did trust: T'Challa, Steve, Okoye, M'Baku, Natasha, Banner, even Sam—

—and where did that leave him? Did he trust himself? Would he be able to get this done without any fuckups? The only reason he was allowing doubt to creep into the rational was the risks the mission held. How much he had weighing on this.

Sam landed beside him, careful to avoid the cautious gunfire raining on the creatures that did make it through the berries. The younger guy had gotten close, especially in the past twenty-four hours.

"Y'good, Buck?"

Bucky's eyes slid to him, saying what he wouldn't: You really asking that, Sam?

Sam leaned in and said, "How's our lady doin'?"

Bucky wasn't surprised. He saw the way Sam—so analytical, so much smarter than he let on sometimes—worked things out, the gears whirring in his mind.

"My lady," Bucky corrected immediately. He let a small smile form on his face before a thought returned: the thought of her alone somewhere, him unable to protect her... "is safe, I hope."

"She's a fighter." Sam's smile slanted up. "To be with you, she has to be, right?"

Sam mimed a slow, friendly punch at his chest, smiling at him before launching into the air again, leaving Bucky on the ground.

He grabbed his rifle, hitching it up in his hands, a familiar, welcoming weight.

This was going to be hard. But maybe he liked having something more to fight for.