He's running. The bastard is running -- or trying to, at any rate -- and Bucky can't even blame him for the impulse, because it's one he knows all too well. The only problem is, there's nowhere here to run. The damn island's only ten miles across, and with the way Steve's built, let alone the he speed with which he moves, he can't go for long before running out of sand.

"No," Bucky says, grabbing Steve's arm again. Neither of them should be alone right now, even if it's their natural inclination to isolate themselves, to fight, to never, ever stop. Were their positions reversed, Bucky doesn't have the slightest doubt in his mind that he'd already be gone, but maybe there's a chance to get Steve to stay. (And if there isn't, Bucky'll end up tracking him, anyway, not out of concern for Steve's safety so much concern for everyone else's.) "You don't."