"Didn't trust myself to keep it together," Steve murmured as he crossed over to the empty bench and slid in next to Bucky, close enough that their shoulders were pressed together. Steve wanted the contact - needed it, even, but wasn't sure how to ask for it beyond simply encroaching upon Bucky's personal space.
I wasn't scared until now, Steve wanted to say, but suddenly I'm fucking terrified - only those words seemed to get stuck in his throat. It would be worse if he admitted it out loud, gave voice to the coiled fear inside of him. Better to just keep it to himself, pretend everything was fine.
Bucky made that easy, at least, with a crack about Steve's eyes that had Steve mustering up a weak smile for him. "Yeah, well," he murmured, "I'm plannin' on wearing whatever they tell me to this time - my stylists will be over the damn moon. Won't care what they'll have to do to get me looking good." It wasn't worth it, after all, for Steve to dig his heels in over the little things. Once, that had been all he had, but now - now he had the revolution. He had the possibility of real change, even if he wouldn't live to see it happen, and he couldn't risk derailing that. Couldn't risk Bucky and Peggy, either, because it was no secret now that they were with him. Anything Steve pulled would surely come down on their heads, and so Steve planned to behave. And that began with following his stylists' instructions.
He hated it, hated the idea of obedience with every fiber of his being, but it was worth it if it meant keeping Bucky and Peggy safe. Worth it, if it meant preserving what tentative steps they'd made toward revolution.
A soft, sad sigh escaped Steve, and he settled a bit more firmly in Bucky's direction, pressing against him for some kind of comfort.