Archive of Our Own

It takes a couple of weeks, but things slowly start to go back to as normal as can be around Stark Tower. Steve finds to easier to let go of Natasha now that he knows the truth behind what it was, and he begins to put it all behind him. Of course, it still hurts knowing that he’d been played so easily and that he never really meant anything to her, but he gets over it, albeit slowly. 

Bucky is always there for him and Sam helps too. Steve is more than thankful for the two of them. Bucky sits up with him a lot of the time at night when neither of them can sleep, shooting the breeze and helping one another keep a clear mind. Sometimes, if they happen to pass out and Steve wakes first, he’ll find Bucky sprawled across him in his sleep. Steve doesn’t mind one bit, and more often than not slides an arm around the other’s waist and pulls him closer. 

He can’t deny that the closeness is what really helps him let go of Natasha. Bucky is familiar. Even if he isn’t the same person he’d been in the 30’s, even if they don’t seem to fit together the way they used to, it’s familiar. Everything from the way Bucky’s breath feels against Steve’s neck, to the way he still manages to tie their legs in knots. Steve always smiles when he wakes up with a warm, solid weight on his chest and long dark hair tickling his nose. 

Steve also can’t deny the fact that it’s things like that — the sharing a bed, even if it’s supposed to be completely platonic — is what makes him just that much more confused. Yes, Natasha was gone, and gone for good, but that didn’t mean that he had to move on so quickly. But god, did he ever want to move on with Bucky. He spends more than one restless night with his arms holding tight to the sleeping soldier, longing for more. And he could have it if only he could just convince himself to say it out loud.

Of course, Steve never tells Bucky about the few dozen times Steve had woken up like that. Instead, Steve had just disentangled himself from Bucky’s limbs and crawled out of bed for his morning jog with Sam. 

The team undergoes a couple of minor missions, Steve leading the way the entire time, and Bucky falling easily into his old position as Steve’s right hand man. Capture a few criminals here, find and disarm a bomb threatening to level half of Manhattan there, grand adventures to normal folks, but everyday events in the lives of The Avengers.

At Tony’s urging, they keep Bucky under strict orders to remain unseen in the field. More often than not he’s positioned as a sniper, perched high above and far away from the action, his face and steel arm masked and covered to prevent his identity from being known. There are a few more instances similar to the foiled bank heist, covert operations that rely on the art of stealth — A skill Bucky possesses in spades – in tandem with one or more of his many other skills, like explosives ordinance. In these instances he’ll usually be sent in alone, other times he’s given Natasha to work with but the end result is the same: Quick and silent extraction before he can be seen. 

Most days, however, the team is lucky enough not to be needed. Most days, the lot of them spend their time relaxing in the common room, playing boardgames and cards. The rest are quick to learn not to play poker with Bucky or Natasha, who both have the most unreadable faces knows to man. Steve himself tends to win every game of Risk they play, while Tony kicks everyone’s ass at Monopoly. 

They spend a fair amount of time together, which, though he finds a little difficult, Steve enjoys. The team feels like one big family, something Steve never had as a kid. Yes, it’s a little — perhaps a lot — awkward with Natasha, but Steve manages. They remain on polite terms, as best they can, and never let their personal relationship get in the way of the team or any missions they have to work together.

But he misses her. He misses the nights they spent together, lost so far in pleasure and bliss that neither knew which way was up. He misses the feeling of her skin under his fingertips. It’s for the best. Steve tells himself as he cleans up the dishes from a group meal in the common room. As much as I want it, Natasha and I just aren’t ever going to work. She belongs with Clint, that’s clear enough to see. And Bucky’s right, there’s more than just her out there.  

Steve sighs and continues to dry the dishes, mind wandering off of it’s own accord. Perhaps moving on won’t be so difficult. A voice in his head tells him, as his eyes wander over toward where Bucky sits, between Bruce and Tony.

He’d never told Bucky that the night things with Natasha had come crashing down around him, that he’d been awake when Bucky had poured his heart out. He never told his friend that he’d felt the cool, gentle touch if his metal fingers across his cheek, or the warm press of his lips to Steve’s forehead. For days after, Steve had tried too find some way of bringing it up, of letting Bucky know that he wasn’t alone in feeling that way. But an opening never came, and Steve kept forcing the issue aside. 

Besides, what could he even say? Do I tell him that I love him too? Do I even feel that strongly, or is this just some passing crush? No, of course I do, always have for Christ sakes. He thinks, adverting his eyes back to the task at hand. He picks up a plate and dries it slowly, eyes out of focus. What he said, Bucky only voiced because he thought I was asleep and wouldn’t hear. If I tell him now — weeks after the fact — that I heard every word he said… I don’t think that would end well. 

His mind is reeling through a hundred different scenarios of how such a conversation would play out, when a sharp whistle and laughter catches his attention from across the room. “Earth to Cap? Hello!? Do I need to get the old man some hearing aids?” Steve hears Tony saying when he shakes the thoughts from his mind. 

“What?” Steve snaps out of his thoughts and back to the room full of people.

Tony laughs and shakes his head. “We were just discussing the Gala, while you stood staring at the cupboard door like it was telling you the answers to life’s greatest questions.” He says with a grin. “You’re going, yes?”

Steve nods, tossing his towel down onto the counter. “Yeah, Pepper won’t let me out of it.”

“Excellent!” Tony says with a wild grin. His eyes turn to Bucky then. “What about you, Leather Rebel?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, scared. “I… No. I don’t think that’d be a good idea.” Bucky replies flatly. Steve can sense the way his entire demeanour changes when faced with the threat of large social groups. “I think I’ll sit this one out.” 

Tony’s eyebrow shoots up again. “You can’t just not go.” He says. “It’s Christmas!”

Steve can see the way Bucky’s eyes darken over even more a Tony pushes him harder. “I don’t like Christmas.” Bucky says, almost too flatly. 

“What!? How do you not like Christmas!?”

“I just don’t.” Bucky snaps. Steve knows he’s getting agitated, and the last thing they need now is for Bucky to slip. He’d been doing so well lately, after all. Not one missed step on any mission since the first one he’d gone on, not a single lapse in judgement. He’d even been enjoying outings with Steve and the others. To the point where he could go without having to spend the entire night before heaving his guts up into the toilet in a fit of debilitating anxiety.

“Leave him alone, Tony.” Steve says firmly. “If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to.”

Stark looks between the two, his eyebrow still arched. “Geez, I didn’t realize how touchy old people are sometimes.” Tony mutters to Sam, who just rolls his eyes and tries to suppress a laugh. 

But Steve can see that Bucky is far less amused. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheeks, and his arms are folded defensively over his chest, the sleeves of his hoodie tugged down over his hands. Dark strands of hair have escaped their pony-tail and fallen into his eyes, making him look more like a brooding teenager than anything.  

The afternoon wears on. Sam and Bucky head to the gym and Tony has an appearance to make at some big party across town. Left to his own devices, Steve makes his way back to the apartment alone. He sighs when he enters the empty space, disliking the silent stillness of it. It wasn’t often that the apartment was this empty, but when it is, Steve often feels himself slip. “Jarvis, can we turn on some music?” 

“Of course, captain.” The building’s A.I chimed in. “Shall I begin with the artist you last listened to?”

“That’d be nice, Jarvis. Thank you.” Steve replies before a slow, sad song that had been one of a list that Sam had given him begins to play.

“Just a bunch of songs I have a habit of listening to when I go through a break-up. Give it a try, sometimes music helps get it all out.” Sam had said. And he hadn’t been wrong.

Steve heaves another sigh and sits himself down at the kitchen table, and hauls his sketch book towards himself. He’d been working on a portrait of Peggy from the first time they’d met; when he was smaller than she was, and her bright red lips and pin-up hair style had turned the heads of all the recruits in Erskine’s program. So far, he’d gotten all the details of her face roughed out, and he’d started in on adding more definition to them. But each time he started working, he almost immediately became distracted by something else. 

His eyes would wander across the room to where each of the painted portraits of the Howling Commandos hung on the wall; each of them immortalized in acrylic paint on canvas, encased in custom frames with a little gold plaque with their name, date of birth, date of death where applicable and rank. Steve had spent hours on each one, days even, making sure that the details were photograph quality. All but one. There was one portrait missing. The one he’d ben slaving over when Natasha had come to take him for his tattoo. 

Bucky’s. 

Steve still had the partially completed painting in the back of his closet, though it had become a forgotten piece once Steve realized that Bucky was still alive. And now, he had the feeling that Bucky wouldn’t appreciate seeing his face hung on the wall with all the others who, save for Dum Dum Dugan, were dead.

He sighs and picks up his pencil, fleshing out the area around Peggy’s mouth a little more, humming along to the song that played over the apartment sound system. Before he knows it, his mouth is forming the familiar lyrics as his hand moves across the page, completely lost in the melody and the methodic task at hand.

“Maybe there is a god above

But all I’ve ever learned from love

Is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night

It’s not somebody who’s seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken 

Hallelujah” 

“Forgot you could sing.” A voice from the other end of the table compliments, jolting Steve back into reality. Bucky smirks at him from his seat. “I ever tell you that have a helluva voice?” 

Steve huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes. “We were, embarrassingly, part of a barbershop quartet. You weren’t bad yourself, you know.” He replied, the corner of his mouth tugging up a little bit. Still aren’t either. Steve thinks. Most times Bucky showers, he has music playing to keep the room from being too silent, and every time Steve can hear his voice joining that of the singers of the bands he likes. Back then, it had been deep and soothing. But now, there’s more grit to his tone that Steve assumes is intentional, as he tries to emulate popular metal vocalists. And Steve has to admit, it sounds good. Very good. “How was your evening with Sam?” He asks to keep conversation going.

Bucky shrugs and folds his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat. “Good.” 

“Just good?” Steve asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“He and Tony kinda ganged up on me again. Sam says he’s got a date lined up for me, if I want to go to Stark’s party and Stark was pretty adamant that I be there. He said something about ‘Taking one for the team’? But if you ask me, I’ve taken plenty for a team; just so happens it wasn’t this one.” Bucky says and Steve detects a hint of bitterness in his tone. “I dunno, Steve. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ve got a really bad feeling about the whole thing.” 

Steve glances up at him from where he sits and sees the intense fear in Bucky’s eyes. “It’s fine, Buck. You don’t have to go. Tony doesn’t care that much. I skipped out on my fair share of his parties anyway.” Steve tells him with a small smirk. “Besides, you aren’t missing that much. If anything, you’re lucky that you won’t be bombarded with cameras and politicians and starlets.” Steve shudders at the thought of having to deal with several of his least favourite kinds of people, and realizes just how much he’d rather just stay in with Bucky and watch a movie with some Thai food take-out from the restaurant down the street. “Hey, if you don’t want to feel alone, I’ll stay home with you.” 

“Steve…” Bucky almost whines running his hand through his hair. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, Steve locks his eyes with Bucky. “I’m just looking for an out. I really don’t want to go either.” He confesses with a sigh before going back to work. “Besides; you and me, we’re a team now. A package deal, just like it used to be. You don’t get one without the other.” 

Bucky laughs at that and some of the stress seems to leave him. “What, so I’m your sidekick now?” 

“You saying I was yours?” Steve shoots back with an easy smile. 

“Of course you were, ya punk.”

Steve snorts with laughter. “Jerk.” 

“Yeah yeah, you love me.” Bucky laughs. Steve smiles again and turns his gaze back to the paper before him. They sit quietly for a bit, Bucky watching Steve sketch for a while before letting his eyes move around the room. “Can I ask you something?” He says. 

Steve glances up again and nods. “Shoot.” 

Bucky nods towards the Commando’s memorial wall in their apartment and once more folds his arms over his chest. “I noticed the first time I was ever in your place; back before… Before I was me again, when I was still more him. You got all the guys up there…” His voice trails off and Steve looks up again, already having some kind of a feeling about what Bucky was hinting at. 

“Don’t get offended. I was working on yours before you came back. But I never finished it.” Steve tells him, honestly. “It’s in my closet. Go take a look if you really want to.” 

Steve turns back to his sketch and Bucky sits silently for a minute. Curiosity must have gotten the best of him, because not long later, Bucky gets up from the table and pads quietly down the hall to Steve’s room. He returns a minute later carrying the half-finished painting in his flesh hand. “Jeez, Steve…” Bucky breaths. “Did I really look like that?” 

Steve lays his pencil down then, and closes the sketch book before taking the painting from Bucky’s hands. “You still do. Granted, your hair’s a helluva lot longer, and you don’t shave as often… But, I can still see it.” 

Bucky’s eyes are moving across his own portrait like it’s a painting in some modern art museum that no one really understands, and leans in closer to it. “God, what was I here? Eighteen?”

“Twenty-five or there about. Same age you were when we started with the commandos.”

“Huh.” Bucky laughs, shaking his head. “Gatta hand it to ya, kid. Those art classes really paid off. You got some talent.” Steve feels a blush creep up into his cheeks and shrugs the compliment off before getting up from the table. He looks thoughtfully at the empty easel in the corner of the living room, in front of the big window that gets most of the suns light during the day, before he crosses the room to place to incomplete painting in its proper place to be finished. “So,” Bucky continues from where he stands, leaning his palms against one of the kitchen chairs as he watches Steve. “Why didn’t you finish it?”

It takes a minute before Steve can formulate a proper answer. But, as hard as he searched for the words, he found none that made much sense. “I guess it got put on the back burner when you came home.” Steve tells him, not knowing what else to say. “I mean; who needs pictures when you have the real thing, right?” Bucky arches an eyebrow and walks across the room to take a closer look at the portraits on the walls. “I guess working on these were my way of coping with the loss. Everyone up there — minus Dum-Dum, he’s still kicking around — are gone, and what little pieces are left are in the Smithsonian with my old suit. Waking up here, alone… It was hard. I had no one.” Steve can see the way Bucky’s shoulders slump a little at his words and knows that Bucky more than understands his pain. “But yours…” He takes a deep breath, trying to force the pain out of his voice. “Buck, I grieved your death for months before I went under. I bargained with God, pleaded with the Devil, prayed to any deity that would listen to get you back. I blamed myself for letting you fall. I fell apart… Couldn’t speak your name without welling up; so to have to sit there and paint your face? It was like reliving all my worst nightmares over and over for hours on end. Having to bring to mind every detail was the most painful thing I’ve ever done.”

Bucky ducks his head. “It wasn’t your fault, Steve.” 

Steve swallows heavily, mouth suddenly more dry than he remembered it being. “I’ve heard those words every day I’ve been awake since you fell. But it doesn’t feel any truer. If I was faster… If I was stronger… “

“Cut it out.” Bucky says with his voice equal parts stern and sincere. Steve looks up, to see his friend standing closer now than he had been, blue-grey eyes filled with something bordering on sorrow and hurt. “It. Was not. Your. Fault. I fell because I was reckless and only cared about watching your back and didn’t think about how difficult it was going to be to fend off a blow from that… Thing.” Bucky shudders as the thought and Steve watches his metal hand clench in a fist. “But hey, I’m here now. I’m alive. You’re alive. We’re alive. Everything’s fine now.”

“Hardly.” Steve says with a humourless laugh before he can stop himself. Bucky gives him a look and Steve returns it with an apologetic one of his own. But there’s something deeper in the look in Bucky’s eyes that Steve can read clear as day. “Do you want me to finish it?”

Bucky look away then, eyes turning back to the wall of heroes in their apartment. “That guy who should be up there… He’s long gone too, Steve. I may be here and things might be as close to normal as they’ll ever get, but; I’m not him anymore. Just like I’m not The Winter Soldier anymore. That guy died in Switzerland protecting you.” His hands slide into the pockets of his jeans as he stares at the blank space where his own portrait should be. Steve feels a stab of pain run through his heart as he listens to Bucky talk about himself in such a way. “That guy, the one who everyone calls a hero… Captain America’s right-hand-man, second in command… He belongs up there. He should be the one you remember.”

It’s hard for Steve to breathe, for all the emotions running through his body and mind at this point in time. But he understands what Bucky is saying; they needed to stop living with the unattainable dream of things magically going back to what they were before the war. They both needed to put the past to rest. If that meant having to put the portrait of Sergeant James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes up on the wall… If it meant having to look at that intensely familiar face every day… Steve would do it. If it would help Bucky deal with the person he’s become through all his hardships and struggles, Steve would do it. If being reminded of the good that still lives somewhere inside him was what Bucky needed, Steve would do it.  

“Ok.” Steve says quietly. Bucky looks up at him then, and a small smile graces his lips, and Steve can’t help but return it. “I’ll finish it.”

They spend the rest of the evening watching movies that they’d both missed in their years spent frozen, chatting idly about the little things they missed from when they were kids, laughing about things they both remembered from times long gone. Steve could hardly remember having a better time with anyone without having to even leave the comfort of his couch. Steve’s sprawled out across the couch, while Bucky is curled up in the love seat with his head resting on his right hand. Steve can see the peaceful smile on his lips from here, and it puts him at ease, knowing that despite the differences, they can still find comfort in one another. It’s late into the night when Steve finally dozes off with Snow White playing in the background. 

In his sleep, Steve dreams. The details are all vague, but he can smell cigarette smoke and taste whiskey. Feel rough, callused hands and smooth cold steel on his skin. He feels his back arch, sees the way his own mouth falls open in pleasure. Images move in and out of one another too quickly for Steve to distinguish one from the other, but all he knows is he can hear low laughter and soft moans.

Steve wakes with a start to find the room dark and utterly silent and a warm quilt draped over him. He’s groggy and has no idea what time it is. His phone has gone missing and Steve hardly knows where he is. He hardly even remembers falling asleep. When he finally manages to haul himself off the couch to find his phone on the kitchen table, he realizes that he’s supposed to be meeting Sam extra early today. Why he insisted on five am runs this week, I’ll never understand. Steve thinks as he goes to change from the previous days clothes. 

He meets Sam outside the tower at five sharp, bundled up in a pair of heavier track pants and a hoodie. “Morning, Cap!” Sam says, as they set off on their usual route. “How was Bucky after last night? He seemed a little edgy when he left the gym.” 

“He’s adamant that he’s not going tonight.” Steve explains lightly as he jogs beside Sam. The slower pace does nothing for him, but Steve likes to keep up with his friend for a little while before letting himself get the workout he needs to start his day. “And I told him I’d stay behind if he wanted some company.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh as they take a right down towards Central Park. “C’mon man. You guys HAVE to go! Don’t leave me all alone! That and I set you both up with a couple of real nice dates. You’re gonna love ‘em, I swear.”

Steve rolls his blue eyes. “Are you gonna tell me any more about her? Like, I don’t know, maybe a name?”

“Not a chance, Cap! I have a feeling you’ll know when you see ‘em. Obviously your type that way.” Sam explains, not really offering any more than vague descriptions. 

This had been going on for weeks, ever since Steve had ended things with Natasha. Sam had spent most of their morning jogs praising this woman to the highest heavens, gushing over how she’d overcome so much since coming back from overseas. So Steve was lead to believe that she was one of Sam’s therapy groups, which was likely why he wasn’t able to divulge the information Steve wanted. So he played along, despite the nagging suspicion that whoever this woman was, she’d just let him down too.

What good is a woman when it’s Bucky you want? His conscience taunts. She won’t feel right either… Just like Natasha didn’t feel right. 

Steve shakes the thoughts away and follows Sam down a popular running trail in the park. “My type, huh? How do you even know what that is? I don’t even know what my type is!” 

Sam looks over at him with a grin as trots alongside Steve. “I have a feeling, is all. Worse comes to worst, you don’t like ‘em and don’t call the next day to meet again. That’s how blind dates work, man.” 

Despite still being rather unsure of the idea, Steve decides there’s little harm in trying, and they finish their morning routine in silence. Steve laps Sam seven times around the park, each time getting cussed out by The Falcon as he runs past. It’s only six-thirty when Steve gets back to the apartment, and Bucky is still sound asleep in his room; Steve can hear the soft snores coming from the open door. So he cleans up as quietly as he can and sets about making breakfast. 

It’s going for eleven when Bucky finally shuffles into the kitchen. “Morning.” Steve says with a pleasant smile. Bucky just grunts in reply and pours himself some coffee. “Sorry I passed out on you last night. I dunno the last time I slept.”

The other shrugged his flesh shoulder and sat himself down on top of the kitchen counter, watching as Steve pushed some eggs around in a pan. “No problem, Cap. You looked beat anyway.” Bucky replies, his voice still thick with sleep. “You needed some rest; big night tonight after all.” Steve looks up at Bucky, who’s watching him with those impenetrable grey-blue eyes, and shivers.

“Right, the Gala.” Steve mutters separating the now finished eggs onto two plates, forcing himself to rip his eyes from his friend. “Still adamant you’re not going?” He questions lightly.

Bucky shakes his head. “It really isn’t a good idea. Fuck, it’s hard enough for me to sit in the same room as all the Avengers at the same time. I doubt sticking me in a room with five hundred of Stark’s closest friends would end well for anyone.” Bucky says, hopping down from the counter to sit at the table, where Steve has placed the two plates. “And don’t you even dare think that I’m letting you out of going. You have a date.” 

“So do you!” Steve retorts, placing plates of bacon, pancakes and toast on the table between their usual spots. Bucky fixes Steve with a pointed look and spears a pancake with his fork as Steve sits. “Fine, I’ll go. Just stop looking at me like that.” He laughs. 

Breakfast is spent in pleasant conversation, and Steve feels right at home. Bucky tells him about the progress he’s been making in his hypnosis sessions with Dr. King, and how he’s not nearly so in the dark about his own life anymore. Of course, there are still things that he can’t recall completely, especially when it comes to the dozens of missions he was sent on for Hydra, but he’s getting better. He remembers a lot from the thirties, a little from the war too. He also tells Steve about some of the upgrades that Tony wants to make to the arm, which Bucky isn’t entirely on board with, because he’d be without it for several days. 

“It’s not that I don’t like the idea of being able to feel with it, I just don’t think I could deal with being… You know… Put under…. While he removes it.” Bucky says, his whole body shuddering at the thought. He gets up from the table and picks up the empty dishes, dumping them in the sink. Steve can understand that. Bucky had been reluctant to do anything with the arm that involved him having to undergo anaesthesia, fearing that he’d come to in yet another different decade. Even when Stark or Bruce would have to do something that involved making any kind of incision, Bucky stubbornly would remain awake, even if his jaw clenched so hard that Steve feared his teeth would shatter. 

They chat idly as they tidy up the kitchen, discussing the team and various missions Steve had undergone with them. He tells Bucky all about The Battle of New York, and about the crazy looking other-worldly creatures that Thor’s brother Loki had unleashed. Eventually, Bucky prods at him enough that Steve tells him about the few dates he’d gone on in the past few years and each time, Bucky would snort at the description of the woman. “I swear, Rogers, you still have the same type: Dark hair, blue eyes, pretty in a not-so-delicate way. Same kinda dame you used to fawn over back in school. Jeez, Even Peggy fit the bill.”

Steve feels his cheeks grow warm and laughs it off. “Yeah, I like brunettes. Sue me.” 

From the corner of his eye, Steve can see the way that Bucky bites down on the side of his lower lip while he smirks, his eyes going dark for just a split second. He knows that look, has seen Bucky give that look to girl after girl until one finally followed him out into the alley behind a USO hall for a little privacy. He’s always come back with a different, though equally as dirty smirk on his face, and his previously perfectly combed hair a little less perfect beneath his uniform hat. Steve’s mouth waters, wanting nothing more than to seize the other by the hips and shove him against a wall and proceed to kiss the grin off those lips. He hastily shakes the thoughts and averts his eyes. 

Steve is about to reply when the apartment doors slide open and Pepper saunters in, two suit bags draped over her arm. “Afternoon fellas.” She says pleasantly, passing the top bag to Steve. “That’s the suit we picked out, tailored properly to your measurements. I have an appointment booked for you at Dickson Hairshop down on the Lower East Side; Tony says they’re good, very old school. There’s a car waiting for you in the garage to take you there.” Pepper explains, before passing Steve his coat, which had been hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. When Steve doesn’t move, she fixes him with a look that says ‘NOW, Captain’ and he takes his jacket from her. “Dinner starts at seven, cocktails and dancing at nine.” He hears he call to him as he leaves the apartment. 

As promised, a sleek black mustang waits for him in the parking garage beneath the tower, one of Tony’s staff waiting beside it. “Miss Potts has asked me to ensure you arrive to your destination on time, Captain.” The young man of maybe twenty-five explains as he opens the door for Steve, who rolls his eyes. He was capable to getting there himself, but he won’t try and protest. Instead he slides into the car and lets the driver take him where he’s supposed to go. 

The barbershop reminds Steve of the little one on the corner near where he and Bucky used to live. Of course, back then the two of them could scarcely afford a proper haircut, so they’d often do it themselves. Inside, Steve is greeted by a pretty girl with a full sleeve tattoo on her right arm and silvery blonde hair. She leads him to the chair where his barber will be working, not being at all subtle in the way she checks him out and Steve feels himself blush. The barber is a tall, broad man with blond hair and an immaculately groomed beard named Jamie, and Steve is reminded even more of the thirties. Even the guy’s haircut fits with the time, not to mention the bow tie and suspenders. Then again, the kids these days like to wear them ironically. Steve thinks to himself as the barber drapes a cape around his shoulders and sets to work. 

“How would you like it cut? Any restrictions?” Jamie asks, looking into the mirror at Steve, sizing up his face, the angles of his face, the shape of his jaw. Steve can tell that he’s been doing this for a while.

“Maybe something a little more modern?” Steve suggests.

The barber nods. “I know what you need.” He says with a grin, as he sets to work.

The atmosphere of the shop is like nothing Steve had ever seen. The staff is so full of energy and laughter, all of them covered in more tattoos than the people who’d worked in the tattoo parlour Natasha had brought him to. Upbeat punk-rock plays over the speakers, and Jamie sings along as he works. Steve takes a liking to him, particularly his pleasant attitude. They make polite conversation as Jamie works his magic, scissors moving faster than Steve thought safe. After he’s finished with the cut, Jamie tips Steve’s chair back and preps him for a straight razor shave. 

I forgot that this was a luxury these days. Steve thinks, closing his eyes while the barber gently scrapes the edge of an extremely sharp blade along the underside of his throat. He relaxes for the moment, letting the professional do his trade. Jamie tilts his head this way and that, making sure to leave no trace of stubble along Steve’s jaw and cheeks, never once nicking the skin with the blade. It’s an interesting experience for Steve, who had more than once sliced too deep with the blade he’d had in the apartment, leaving himself with little scabs here and there. 

Once Jamie wipes any excess foam from Steve’s face, he uprights Steve’s chair and sets to styling his hair the way it should be. By the time the cape is removed from his shoulders with a flourish, Steve feels like he’s looking into a mirror to the past. The back and sides of his hair are clipped neatly — though not too short— with military straight lines, fading perfectly into side-parted top that’s pushed up and back off his face. Jamie gives him a look that asks what he thinks. “Looks great.” Says a flirty voice from behind him. Steve looks over his shoulder to see the same pretty girl from the front of the room, her green eyes staring him down with a smirk as devious as Bucky’s on her bright red lips. “That style really suits you.”

Steve gives her a grin in return. “Thanks.” He says, getting up from the barber’s chair. “It really does look great. Thanks, Jamie.” Steve says, as he shakes the man’s hand. The pretty girl leads him back to the front of the shop where Steve pays for his services. 

“Thanks! Have a great day now.” The girl says, passing Steve the receipt. Her lips tug up in the corner again as Steve flashes another small smile in her direction before he turns to leave. It’s not until on the drive home that Steve notices a handwritten note on the back of his receipt: 

Emilia, 555-3069

- Call me!

Steve rolls his eyes with a flattered smile, before slipping the bill into his pocket. He knows he’ll never call her, no matter how into him she seemed to be. 

Upon entering his apartment, Steve is once again struck by how quiet the place is. “Bucky?” He calls, kicking off his shoes beside the door. “You home?” He gets no reply, and assumes that his friend has simply gone to the gym, or to the shooting range to kill some time while the others are at the Gala. Steve shrugs and heads into his room to change. 

Pepper was right when she’d said the suit had been altered to fit me precisely. Steve thinks as he tucks his black button down into his pants. Everything moulded to his body comfortably, and not one article fit too snugly. By the time he gets his tie tied correctly, and his favourite watch buckled around his wrist, it’s nearly six-thirty and his phone is buzzing on the dresser.

Valet is in the parking garage. 

-P. 

He smirks at Pepper’s compulsion to arrange everything, but none the less heads out once again. The ride to the hotel in which the gala is held is short and the car pulls up to a red carpet, lined on either side with press and fans of The Avengers. With a deep breath, Steve puts on a smile and exits the vehicle, his ears assaulted with screams and cheers of the hundreds of people who stand out in the cold to get a glimpse of their favourite heroes. Steve meets and greets with the fans as he makes his way inside, posing for pictures and signing autographs as people hand him things to sign. A small, shy boy holds out a plastic, toy shield and Steve stoops down to sign it for him before he then scoops him up into his arms so the mother can snap a picture on her phone. The little boy throws his arm around Steve’s neck and hugs him tightly. “Thank you, Captain America!” He says gleefully before Steve sets him back to the ground. He ruffles the boy’s hair kindly before moving along, but can hear the little voice excitedly saying to his mother “Mom!! Did you see!! Captain America picked me up!! When I grow up I’m gonna be just like him!”

Its little things like that, that almost make this job worth it. Steve thinks with a glance over his shoulder at the kid. 

Inside the gala hall, people from all over the world mingle with drinks to hand. The room smells of pine needles and cinnamon and everyone’s mood is jovial. A massive Christmas tree sits at the back of the room, decorated with white lights and little figures of each of the Avengers, while a replica of Steve’s shield sits atop it where a star should go. Beside the tree is a small stage with a podium where Tony will give his yearly speech to encourage the masses to donate sums of money to one of his many charities. A large white backdrop which displays photos of both The Avengers, and Tony working with the charity programs he funds. Circular tables lain with white cloths and silver cutlery fill the empty space, though a square section is left open to serve as a dance floor. Off to one side is a long, mahogany bar staffed with no less than four bartenders.  

Wreaths and strings of lights hang from the high ceilings, and even the crystal chandelier is decorated in the Christmas fashion. Centre pieces that look like miniature Christmas trees sit on every table too. It makes Steve smile knowing that Stark has pulled out all the stops to make this place look as good as it does. 

Steve spots Sam leaning against the bar, chatting with a gorgeous blonde in a green silk dress and makes his way through the crowd towards him. “Hey! Cap! You made it!” Sam calls, once Steve is within earshot. “Come over, have a drink on me.” 

“Hey, Sam.” Steve said with a small smile. 

Sam passes him a crystal glass of a dark amber liquid before turning to the woman beside him. “Steve, this is Lauren. Lauren, I’d like you to meet Captain Steve Rogers.” 

The woman’s eyes scan his form up and down, and the pupils of her startlingly green eyes dilate when Steve extends a hand to her. “I never thought I’d actually get to meet you.” She fawns, clearly flustered at the sight before her. “I mean, when Sam here said I’d be meeting The Avengers, I thought he was joking!”

Steve laughs and shakes her hand with a pleasant smile. “No need to get so flustered, ma’am. I’m no different from the rest of the people in the room.” 

Lauren blushes prettily and takes her hand back, before turning back to Sam. “I’ll be back in a minute.” She leans up to press a light kiss to Sam’s cheek before moving gracefully through the crowd of people.

“New lady?” Steve asks, taking a sip from his glass. Whiskey, older vintage, clearly one of Stark’s personal reserves, Steve notes to himself. Sam shrugs and lets his eyes follow the path that his date had taken. “She seems like a real charmer.”

The Falcon grins at that. “Lauren’s a doll. I’ve been seeing her for a few weeks now, I guess. Really smart, tough as nails too. Not afraid of anything.” He smiles fondly and looks back to Steve. “Find your date yet?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and leans against the edge of the bar, looking around at all the people milling about. “Can’t say that I have. I’m starting to think that you’ve been lying this whole time just to get me out of the apartment.” Steve chides with a hint of a smirk. “Is she even here?” 

“Should be.” Sam replies over the lip of his glass. “But if you’ll excuse me, I see that they’re starting with the finger foods.” The Falcon grins once again before leaving Steve where he stands. 

Once again on his own, Steve looks about the crowd. He can easily pick out the members of his team, all of whom are surrounded by throngs of adoring fans and dignitaries looking to shake their hands. Thor and Jane Foster are up near the Christmas tree, talking to The President and First Lady; Sam, who had found both Lauren and the food, was stopped by several men in military dress blues; and Clint and Natasha were in the middle of the dance floor, waltzing gracefully along with the other couples there. Steve has to bite back the urge to go and give Natasha a piece of his mind — again — but seeing the way she looks at Clint it all started to make sense. Even from here, Steve can see the look of adoration in her eyes as she peers up at Clint through those long, thick lashes. And Barton, he returns that warmth and love with a gentle smile. 

Well, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be, after all. Steve thinks to himself, taking another sip from his whiskey. Maybe they’re all right in telling me that I need to just forget about the whole ordeal. If Natasha can be happy with somebody else, I’m sure I can too. He sighs and continues to scan the room. 

“Now, what’s a handsome thing like you doing standing here all by his lonesome?” Asks a voice off to Steve’s left, startling him from his own mind. He turns his head to see who the speaker is, and is met by a set of piercing blue-grey eyes, ringed with dark lashes. The woman smiles, her red lips turning up prettily in the corners. “Don’t tell me you’ve come without a date, Captain.”

Steve returns the smile, feeling his ears grow a little warm. “I’m actually supposed to be meeting somebody here.” He explains to the stranger, who arches a neatly shaped brow. “Blind date.” 

She laughs lightly, pushing a stray dark brown curl off her neck. “And you didn’t get a picture? Please. I know you’re not from this decade, but really?” She teases, clearly not too concerned with who she’s talking to. “Sergeant Ana Chaplin.” The woman says, raising a hand in a salute.  

That explains it. Steve thinks dryly, before extending a hand to shake hers instead. “Captain Steve Rogers.” He says, out of pure habit, even though she clearly already knows who he is. Everyone here does. “But please, just call me Steve. No need for formalities here.” He watches as her cheeks blush pink before lowering her salute and taking his hand, shaking it with the firm grip of a soldier. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” She replies, seemingly without thinking, letting go of his hand. Steve watches as she turns towards the bar and flags down a bartender, who then passes her a martini. “So, Steve, are you really here alone, or is there some super-spy I should watch out for.”

“All on my own.” Steve replies with a half smirk. “I wasn’t kidding about the blind date.” 

Ana looks up at him with eerily familiar eyes and a smile toys with her lips. “I find that hard to believe; you, THE Captain America, having to resort to blind dates? Jeez, I know at least twenty women who’d throw themselves in front of a bus for a chance with you.” She laughs once again, and Steve likes the sound. It’s a soft, warm, low yet feminine sound. 

“When it comes to that department, I’m a fish out of water.” He replies, a light hint of self-loathing in his voice. He waves the topic and leans against the bar once more, finding himself feel much less awkward around her than most women he’d met before. She didn’t try and treat him like some huge celebrity, didn’t even really look at him much differently at all. She could very well be the girl Sam’s set me up with. He thinks, glancing over at Sam, who’s now looking back with a concerned expression. He turns his attention back to Ana who’s been watching the couples on the dance floor waltzing to music from The Nutcracker, played by a full orchestra that Tony had apparently hired as entertainment. “How about you? Here alone too?” 

Ana shrugs a bare shoulder, and Steve watches the way the blue silk evening gown moves gracefully with her. “I was elected by the Wounded Warriors association here in the city to come and accept the cheque Stark is giving us.” She says nonchalantly. 

“Wounded Warriors?” Steve questions. 

“It’s an organization that helps vets who’ve lost limbs with the cost of rehab and prosthetics, as well as lending support and counselling to those of us who can’t cope too well.” Ana explains, turning her eyes back to Steve. He regards her curiously, telling her silently to continue. Instead, Ana reaches down and hikes the hem of her dress up, exposing her left leg. To Steve’s surprise, it was a prosthetic piece from her knee downwards. “Happened on my second tour in Iraq, I took a round from a 50 Cal to the knee. Four of us were out and we got ambushed, the round hit me while I was fireman carrying a private who took a bullet to the stomach.” 

Steve’s eyes widen slightly as she speaks, feeling instantly guilty for no particular reason. “I am so sorry.” He says, at a sudden loss for words. 

Ana smiles warmly up at him and sips her martini. “No need to be. I’m alive, and my soldier pulled through just fine. The military gave me an honourable discharge, and a purple heart for the deed.” She beams with pride, before brushing the topic aside as if it were no big deal at all. “Anyway, I was supposed to bring the soldier who I’d saved, but he ended up having to bail. His wife is eight and a half months pregnant, so he didn’t want to leave her. No big thing, I told him I was sure to find someone to keep me company.” Her eyes glimmer in the lights overhead and Steve, for a change, picks up on the invitation she extended.

Steve’s lips quirk up at the corner and he finishes off his drink, before ordering another. “Care to sit of a while?” He asks, waving towards the table near the front of the room reserved for The Avengers and their plus-ones. Ana nods, and Steve extends an arm for her to take, before leading her through the sea of bodies. Ever the gentleman, Steve pulls her chair out for her, earning a small giggle at the gesture. “Tell me more about yourself. Where are you from?” He asks, making conversation. 

“New Jersey born.” Ana answers. “Grew up all over though… Military Brat and all. My dad served too, so I guess it runs in my blood.” She leans her arms on the table and turns her body to face Steve, legs crossing under her dress as she does. The pair talks idly for some time, discussing various common interests like movies and literature. He discovers that Ana is somewhat of an artist in her own rights, though she works more with camera and film than pencil and paper. Steve finds her easy to talk to, and the flow of conversation last forever. But Steve can’t help but notice the way her eyes always wander off to the dance floor. “You ever gonna ask me to dance, or does the leg freak you out too much?” She chides with a playful smile. 

The challenge in her voice is too much to pass up and Steve gets to his feet, and extends a hand. “I warn you, I’m not much of a dancer.” He says with a grin. It wasn’t a lie. Ana laughs at the jest and gets to her feet, letting him bring her to an empty space on the floor. He rests a hand on the small of her back and she places one on his shoulder, their free ones clasped together lightly, then slowly Steve begins to lead her in the familiar, formal steps. They follow the flow of the couples on the floor around them, both moving gracefully. 

Ana looks up at him through lowered lashes. “And you said you couldn’t dance.” She says with that same playful smirk on her pretty mouth. 

Had things been different… Had Bucky never come back… Steve feels that Ana could have been the one. Sure, he’d only spoken to her for an hour or so. And yes, maybe they had only just met. But there was something about this woman whom he barely knew that felt all too familiar and homey. But she isn’t the one you want either. His conscience tells him. The one you want is up in that apartment all alone. The one you want is probably sitting on the couch, waiting for you to come home. The one you want wants you back, but you’re too scared to let yourself feel it.

Steve pushes the thoughts aside and continues to waltz around the floor with the woman in his arms, doing his best not to let his eyes wander over to where Natasha and Clint are. 

From the back of the room, Steve hears voices raise and cameras snapping pictures. “He’s here! Mr. Stark is here!” Voices whisper around him, as everyone cranes their necks to get a better view of the billionaire. Steve shakes his head, knowing that Tony is probably already overwhelmed by a hundred reporters and photographers trying to get a quote or picture for tomorrow’s paper. Ana doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with the commotion, and keeps her focus on Steve and Steve alone. 

“People get so worked up over some things.” Ana says with a roll of her eyes. Steve snorts and nods, turning in time with the others around them, so Ana was facing the doorway now. He watches her eyebrow quirk up as she takes a glance over his shoulder at the crowd who’s amassed around Tony. “Who is THAT?” She asks with a note of curiosity. 

“Who’s who?” Steve asks, looking over his own shoulder. 

“Tall, dark, and broody over there, trying to skirt around the media vultures.” Ana says, and Steve’s eyes search the crowd to find who she’s looking at. 

Sure enough, there is a figure doing his best to avoid the eyes of the press; dark sunglasses over his eyes despite being inside, dark hair, a suit of pure black. Steve feels his jaw drop and his eyes grow VERY wide. “Bucky?” Steve says lowly. He looked… Almost like himself. Tall and broad, his handsome face clean shaven for the first time in what seemed like months. His hair was bound at the back of his head in a messy little ponytail, some strands of hair near his face had spilled from it, and he’d tucked them behind his ears. Suit, shirt and tie were all jet black, and cut to fit his frame perfectly. He kept his left hand in the pocket of his pants, knowing that the glint of steel in the light would certainly attract unwanted attention. Steve’s mouth watered a little at the sight. 

Ana looks back to him. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat and looks back to Ana apologetically. “Can you excuse me?” Steve asks politely, feeling flustered all of a sudden. Why was Bucky here? He’d said a million times over the past couple of weeks that he was NOT going to take part in the Gala, what changed his mind? Who was he here with? Where in the hell did he get that suit!? Ana nods politely and removes her hand from his. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes, I promise.”

“Take your time, Captain. I’m here all night.” Ana drawls with what Steve was assuming to be an alluring smile. But he wasn’t getting the feeling she was intending to give, his mind was focused solely on the man across the room.

With a nod, Steve leaves her and pushes through the crowd, who step out of his way easily. Some of them try and catch his attention, but Steve hardly hears them; he just needs to get to Bucky. He can’t see Bucky’s eyes through the shades, but he has a feeling that they’re on him, he can feel the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up like they always do when those eyes are focused on him. He’s a few paces away when Bucky’s lips turn up into a smile. “Hey, pal.” He says easily. “You look pretty sharp.”

Steve’s mouth goes to form words, but he falls short and instead exhales the breath he’d been reserving to speak with. He looks his friend up and down, and his mind dives into a thousand and one different scenarios that all involve each and every piece of that suit on his bedroom floor. Finally able to form words, Steve feints a grin. “You’re one to talk. Pepper pick that out for you?” 

“Damn straight. God knows I’m pathetic with this kinda think.” Bucky replies. 

“And the sunglasses?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Tony’s idea. Taking a page from his book, I guess.” He replies, nodding towards where Stark is chatting with several media bodies, sure enough, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. “My face is pretty recognizable, no thanks to that damn exhibit.” He drawls with a half-smile. “What have I missed?”

Steve’s eyes can’t be pulled from the sight before him, so he squeezes them shut for a second, blinking several times to remind them to stop staring at Bucky. “Uhh, nothing really? Some dancing, thats about it.” Steve tells him. 

“And your date?”

“What?”

“Where’s your lady?” Bucky asks with a cheeky grin. 

“Oh!” Steve says. “Sitting at our table, I think. Wait, Buck… What are you doing here? I thought you said you didn’t want to come because of the crowd.”

Bucky shrugs again, but Steve can see the way his jugular pulses a little faster than usual. “Figured I should see what the fuss is over before I refused it outright. Not like I can’t leave whenever I want, anyway.” He says, feigning a casual tone. Steve has a feeling that behind those glasses, his eyes are darting all around the room, searching for potential targets or imaginary people on his tail. “Drink?” 

“Oh god yes.” Steve says under his breath while he leads Bucky over towards the bar. 

The commotion dies down a little bit, and an attendant takes to the microphone to ask the crowd to please take their seats. Drinks in hand, Steve takes Bucky over to the table reserved for the team. Ana looks up with a flirty smile. “Oh so you did come back!” She laughs. “Who’s this?”

“Ana, this is a good friend of mine; James.” Steve tells her, not using the nickname that people would have likely remembered from the Smithsonian exhibit. James was a common enough name these days that Bucky could have been just about anyone behind those shades. He sits down beside Ana, drinking half his whiskey in one gulp, suddenly missing the ability to get drunk. “James, this is Sergeant Ana Chaplin.”

Ana extends a hand to Bucky, who shakes it kindly, before taking a seat on Steve’s free side. “Nice to meet you, James.” She says kindly. “Just call me Ana.” 

Bucky gives her a charming smile, one that had wooed its fair share of women back in the day. “You as well.” He says kindly. 

Their attention is drawn away from one another when Tony gets to his feet from the other side of the table and climbs the stairs to where the podium sits on stage. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests, Mr. President and the First family. Welcome to this year’s annual Stark Industries Christmas Gala. For anyone who may not be aware, my name is Tony Stark, the C.E.O and founder of Stark Industries and your emcee for this evening’s event.” Tony begins, hands resting casually on the glass podium and he addresses the crowd. “I do not come before you this evening to ask for investment in Stark Industries, nor do I come before you to demonstrate any new and innovating technological advances.” Stark points a finger jokingly at Pepper, cracking that signature smile of his. “Though as Pepper can attest, I most definitely could stand here until the end of days talking about just that.” The crowd gives a modest laugh as Pepper nods emphatically. “No, I come before you tonight with a simple request that I know everyone here is capable of granting: Give back.” Tony waits a beat before going on. “Stark Industries prides itself on giving back and we do as much as we can with what we have, but we cannot do it alone. We need your help and I come before you tonight to humbly ask for that help.”

Steve feels Bucky’s elbow in his ribs and leans over to hear his friend snicker. “And here I thought Stark didn’t have a charitable bone in his body.” Bucky whispers, making Steve snicker under his breath. 

Truth was, Tony did. He spent more of his own money doing what he could to help those in need than he did on himself. He’d do things completely out of the goodness of his heart when the mood struck him; just last month Stark had convinced Steve and Thor to don their uniforms to go and visit the sick children in a local hospital. Steve had then seen firsthand how the faces of those poor, suffering children in those little beds lit up like New Year’s fireworks when they laid eyes on their heroes. Tony, Steve had learned through the course of their new found friendship, was actually a very charitable guy. 

Steve turns his attention back to Tony on stage, still addressing the crowd, who seemed to be hanging on his every word. “— and while people might see The Avengers as great heroes and protectors of the Earth and even beyond in some instances, we too have to ask for help from time to time. So, I not only come before you as Tony Stark to ask you tonight to donate to one of our many worthwhile and fruitful charities, I come to you as Iron Man as well.” 

Tony clears his throat and glances down at the podium. “Because we might be superheroes who fight great evil, but there are some things even we can’t fight with our powers. Captain America can’t fight cancer with his shield alone, the Hulk can’t smash world hunger beneath his mighty fists and I can’t put an iron helmet on the face of mental illness and make it stronger. With your help and your generous donations tonight, we can make a difference. So please, in the spirit of the holidays, give back.” The room stands and erupts in applause for Tony Stark, cameras flashing all the while as he waves at the gathered mass while stepping away from the podium.

“Tony’s a gifted talker, I’ll give him that.” Bucky notes to Steve.

“The man is a born leader alright.” Steve agrees with a sigh while looking Bucky over again and instantly feeling bad for not giving Ana the same treatment. As Tony finds his seat again servers emerge in white tuxedos pushing carts topped with covered plates of food heralding the start of a very expensive turkey dinner. Over the course of the meal the Avengers and other guests sharing the round table with Steve talk cordially amongst one another. Tony shares some jokes, Steve is asked to recount some tales of the Howling Commandos and the team collectively recalls some of their earlier missions together. Every now and again Steve shoots Bucky a look, to see how his friend is faring and so far Bucky is doing fine behind his dark glasses. No one is addressing him as Bucky or even asking him any questions that could give his identity as Bucky Barnes or the Winter Soldier away. After the dinner plates have been cleared away and the tea, coffee and dessert are being served Tony asks for the lights to be dropped once again and resumes his place at the podium.

Bucky leans over to Steve. “What’s going on now?”

“Tony’s going to give the people a little bit of a show; he does this every year with the Avengers.” Steve answers with a smirk.

“No one’s going to ask me to go up there are they?” Bucky looks around nervously.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, you’re under the radar, remember?” Steve reassures him.

“-We have been working diligently as a team to bring a greater sense of safety to the populace.” Tony is stating to the gathered people. “It is at this time that I’ll introduce you to this team, men and women I consider my friends and my family.” 

Tony one by one calls each of the Avengers to the stage, starting with the ravishingly dressed Black Widow and shortly after her is Hawkeye. The Falcon is called up next, with Bruce Banner on his heels, stopping at the microphone to say “I’m here tonight on behalf of the Hulk; he regrets to inform you he won’t be able to make an appearance.” Much to the laughter of the audience members. It’s Thor that’s called next and finally Captain America himself. Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder and leaves him for the stage. 

“As you’ll recall,” Tony begins once the team is assembled. “A little over a year ago, SHIELD was found to be a sub branch of the Hydra agency; the agency that Captain America and the Howling Commandos were sent to destroy during World War II. The world was lead to believe that with the death of their leader, Red Skull, that Hydra was put to rest for good. But that was not the case. Splinter cells continued to function worldwide, laying low enough to fly beneath the radar — so to speak. But once again, thanks to Steve Rogers, alongside Natasha Romanov and Sam Wilson, Hydra has once again been put down. And this time, it will be for good.” Tony recaps, while the projection screen behind them shows pictures of the team. “It was during that mission that we first encountered the legend that was The Winter Soldier.” 

Steve freezes on stage, his eyes shooting back to Tony, then down to Bucky who has gone very still. “Stark!” Steve hisses. A subtle gesture from Tony shushes him before he continues. 

“The Winter Soldier; the deadly weapon controlled by the hands of Hydra and The Red Room for seventy years. Some believed him a ghost, others a myth. But as we learned, he is very real. The identity of the soldier was closely guarded by Hydra and their commanders for decades, but now they are gone. And the Soldier — The Soldier is our greatest achievement yet.”

Steve keeps his eyes on Bucky, who he can see fidgeting in his seat even from here. 

But Tony shows no concern as he continues his speech, acting as if the man he was talking about wasn’t even in the room. “You see, the soldier is no weapon. He’s a living, breathing human being. A man forced to do horrible deeds for the people who held him for all these years. Kept complacent through the brutal process of brainwashing and reprogramming, the soldier served. And when his captors fell, he was freed. Freed from the life he’d been forced into and granted the most simple of rights we all take for granted: Choice.”

Tony steps away from the podium, microphone to hand as he gets wrapped up in his own speech. “Why am I telling you this? Am I trying to scare you? No, the exact opposite, I am here to show you the work of Stark Industries in the field of mental illness. If we can help this young man and reverse decades of damage, imagine how many we can help with your generous donations tonight. It is with that sense of pride that I call to the stage, my friend and teammate; Sargent James Buchanan Barnes — The Winter Soldier.”

The faces of those in the audience below are a mix of great concern, and disbelief. Several people snort with laughter, clearly assuming that Tony has finally lost all his marbles, or that the shrapnel around his heart suddenly shot north to his brain. But at The Avengers table, Steve can see the way Bucky sits whip straight, his jaw clenched tight in fear. This was not something Bucky could handle; being put on display. Steve had read his file, he knows how his masters would parade him around before potential buyers like a show-dog, and can only imagine the mental breakdown Bucky is warding off right no. “Are you out of your mind!?” Steve hisses again.

Once again, Tony dismisses Steve’s concern with a wave of his hand. Below, at the table, Steve watches as Pepper gently nudges Bucky to his feet. Bucky swallows and removes his sunglasses, tucking them neatly into the jacket of his suit before moving stiffly towards the stage. His face is flat, and does not show the fear that Steve knows he’s feeling as he climbs the few stairs to stand beside Tony. 

Those in the audience simultaneously gasp as the well-known face of a hero long presumed dead joins the line of heroes before them. From the corner of his eye, Steve can see that the backdrop behind them now displays a photograph of the mural of The Howling Commandos at the Smithsonian exhibit; Bucky on Steve’s right hand side. Tony reaches to Shake Bucky’s hand, and the other man meets him half way. As their hands clasp — Tony making special effort to ensure Bucky uses his right hand — the crowd erupts. Questions and voices fly at them from a million different directions and Steve sees the way Bucky’s eyes dart from one place to another, trying to find just one person with some kind of weapon. Just one person who looks like they’re here to take him back to Hydra. 

Bucky had confessed to Steve weeks ago that his biggest fear nowadays was somebody taking him away again. And for all their assurances that Hydra was gone, that Pierce was dead, and that nobody was going to ever again force Bucky to do those horrible things again, the soldier still trembled at the thought of going into the crowded streets. He still had minor panic attacks walking through the halls of Stark Tower and all its employees. The fear that any one of them could snatch him from his bed, and force him back into cryostasis ran too deep in him. 

The soldier steps back in line beside Steve, assuming the classic ‘at ease’ posture; feet apart, hands clasped in front of him — right over left to hide the steel. “Bucky,” Steve says lowly enough so that only the intended ears could hear. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine.” Bucky answers curtly, the waver in his voice betraying his true feelings. 

“Stay with me Buck, you’re doing great.” Steve praises, hoping that he can somehow put a lid on the other’s anxiety before it bubbles out of control. 

Bucky nods once, turning his attention back to Stark, who was now answering questions from media personnel, who had surged from the back of the room to the front of the stage. “People, people, please!” Tony calls, and they begin to quiet down. “Yes, the man you see before you is exactly who I say he is. He is an American hero. He is an allay. And most importantly, he is an Avenger. The details will be brought to you all during a press conference in the new year. But for now, please, save your questions.”

It’s then that Steve sees an out. The other members of the team start to file off the stage, and make a point of forming a wall in front of Bucky as they lead the soldier from the stage. Tony continues to answer a few questions, and few people seem to even notice the hasty exit of the team. Steve guides Bucky to a quiet hallway where the restrooms are located. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Steve asks, noting the look on fear in Bucky’s eyes. 

“I’m ok, Steve. Really.” He replies, taking deep breaths. “I just really was not expecting that.”

Steve gives him a sympathetic look. “If I’d known that was Stark’s plan —“ 

“He would have done it anyway.” Bucky mumbles. The brunet drags his shaking right hand through his hair before he re-ties it at the back of his neck. “You know Tony; can’t do anything that won’t cause some kind of uproar.” He tries to joke, and only makes Steve’s heart sink a little more. “C’mon. I’ll be fine, I promise. And you still have your date out there.” 

Doing his best to believe what his friend is saying, Steve follows him through the people and back to their table. It’s there that the two are bombarded. It seems as if everyone in the room wants to snap a picture with Captain America and Bucky Barnes, two of the nation’s greatest heroes. Many more approach Bucky to shake his hand and offer words of praise. Even Ana, who’d been so open with Steve had stood at attention and saluted Bucky as if he were her commander and chief before asking his hand. 

Steve watched closely, and could see the way the sudden surge of attention began to affect the other man. The back of his neck began to grow damp with sweat, and his right hand trembled like a leaf in the wind. But he would not leave. Bucky kept a neutral face as he spoke to several dignitaries, all of whom thanked him for his service to the United States of America. That of all things, Steve knew, made Bucky uncomfortable. He knew that Bucky didn’t think that all the good he’d done before the fall could ever counter all the bad he’d done as a slave for Hydra. And there was no convincing him otherwise. 

When a lull in the flow of people comes, Steve steps up beside his friend. “I need some air.” Bucky says, his voice threatening to break. Steve just nods and leads him out the emergency exit closest to where they stand. Once out in the cool night air, Bucky allows himself a deep gasp. “This is too much…” He mutters, doubling over with his hands on his knees. “Steve, I can’t do this. There are so many of them —“ Steve can see the way the other’s chest has started to rise and fall quicker than before. “Too many people — Strangers.”

“I know, buddy.” Steve says, putting a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I… I have… I need…” Bucky stammers, fighting down the urge to panic. Steve has seen the contorted look on his face before, knows the telltale signs that his friend is about to snap. 

“We can go, it’s ok. We’ll get you home.” Steve tells him. He waves down a young man in a black valet vest, who had been out behind the building for a cigarette. “Bring my car around back, and tell my driver to enjoy the party on my tab.” He tells the kid, who nods once and jogs off to do as Steve asks. “Buck, stay with me, you’re ok.” He urges again. 

It’s a painful sight; Bucky doubled over, gasping for air as if he’d run a ten mile race, shaking uncontrollably. Steve hadn’t seen him this bad in months. The first few times he left the apartment, yes, but for the last few months the soldier had been doing very well. He blames Stark, and his foolish idea of putting Bucky on the spot like that, though he knew damn well what that could do to a person with such crippling social anxiety. 

The valet pulls the car around the building as Steve had asked and opens the door for Bucky, who almost tumbles into the front seat while Steve hops behind the wheel. He passes the kid a fifty dollar bill and wishes him a good night before he drives off. He makes glances towards his friend every few minutes and feels his heart rip open a little more each time. He’s running both palms up and down his thighs to wipe the sweat from them, and gripping at the seat so hard his knuckles turn white. His jaw is clenched, working itself so hard that Steve can practically feel his teeth grinding. “Hold on, Buck, we’re nearly home.” Steve assures him as they turn off the highway. 

By the time they reach the elevator in the basement parking garage of Stark Tower, Bucky’s anxiety has only increased. Steve can see the way his eyes have grown wide and frightened, pupils contracted to two tony black dots within rings of ashy blue. The trembling has turned into full on shaking, and Bucky clenches his fists so hard that his nails drive into his palm, drawing blood. There are beads of sweat on his forehead now, running down his temples as the elevator takes them up to their floor.

Steve ushers Bucky into the quiet of the apartment, watching in despair as his friend almost rips his tie in his haste to loosen it around his neck. His eyes are still huge and wild, his chest heaving with each rattling breath. Bucky fumbles with the top button of his shirt, and Steve can see the struggle and panic on his face, so he steps in. “Hey, you’re safe. It’s ok. You’re ok.” He says gently, undoing the knot of Bucky’s tie and pulling the soft black silk from under the collar of his black dress shirt. Bucky’s eyes lock with his, and his right hand grips Steve’s forearm as he reaches back up to pop the top button of Bucky’s collar open. “Just breathe…” 

Bucky’s still shaking, more violently now than he had been in the elevator. Steve can feel fear and panic rolling off him in waves, and he understands. What Tony had done was not exactly something that Bucky was ready for. Being the centre of attention among a small group was hard enough for the troubled soldier; let alone being singled out in front of nearly five hundred guests and press members at the Gala. Steve gets it; crowds are hard for his friend. Despite being over flinching at too-loud or too-sudden noises, and being able to handle himself well enough in the streets of New York, Bucky could not stand being in a large crowd such as the Gala. 

“Stay with me, Buck.” Steve says gently, sensing Bucky slipping further and further back into his own mind for the first time in months. “You’re ok, remember? It’s just you and me here. That’s it.”

“Just you and me…” Bucky repeats in a hushed voice, his hands clutching Steve’s arm still. 

“That’s it.” He promises. “Just us.” 

Several tense minutes pass before Bucky’s breathing calms, and the shaking subsides to a slight tremble. Steve keeps his gaze locked with his friend’s, watching as he battles his own mind in silence. He manages to lead Bucky to the couch, and sits him down to let him relax. Steve sits across from him on the coffee table, Bucky’s flesh hand not letting him go. But he doesn’t mind. After a while longer, Bucky’s grip relaxes and he shudders one final time. “I’m sorry…” He starts, taking his hand back to drag it through his hair. “I didn’t mean to take you away from the party… From your date.”

Steve shrugs. “I didn’t really want to go to begin with.” He replies honestly. “How are you feeling?” 

Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut, and his hands still tremble, as do his lips. “Anxious. On edge.” He says, struggling to keep a lid on it.

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve asks. 

The other shakes his head quickly, releasing a held breath. “No. No, it’s fine. I’ll be ok.” He says, even though Steve can see the way he’s still visibly shivering. “I just needed to get out of there. Too many people… Strangers.”

Steve nods. “I understand.” He says, getting up from the couch to fill the tea kettle. He takes a mug from the cupboard beside the over-head range and places it on the counter, then rummages about the same cupboard for a box of herbal teas that Bruce had once given him. “Why’d you agree to go, anyway?” He asks, before he can stop himself. From the minute Bucky had walked into the Gala — looking too close to his old self — Steve had wondered that very thing. For weeks, Bucky had been adamant that he was having no part in the Gala, and Steve had understood that well enough; he feared having a panic attack that could be caused by a massive crowd. 

Bucky shrugs in response, still breathing deeply to calm himself back down. “Pepper is a hard woman to say no to.” Is all he says. The tone of his voice tells Steve that he wants to be pushed no further than that, so Steve nods silently and pours the boiling water from the kettle into the cup. He drops a Kava tea teabag into the water and lets it sit for a minute before bringing the drink to his friend. Bucky eyes it questioningly.

“Give it a try. Bruce gave it to me after I first woke up to help with the stress. It helps.” Steve says as he sits down beside Bucky on the couch. The other man tentatively takes a sip, cradling the steaming cup between his hands. Silence washes over them, though Steve keeps a close eye on Bucky. Slowly, his tense shoulders relax, and the fear leaves his eyes. His mouth works itself from the tight line it had been pulled into, and his breathing slows to a normal rate. Steve can still feel the tension running through his friend, and gently extends a hand to rest on Bucky’s right shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. 

Bucky’s lips tug into the ghost of a smile at the contact. “What was her name?” He asks.

“Sorry?”

“Your date.” Bucky clarifies. “What was her name again?” 

Steve laughs, having almost completely forgotten the woman he’d spent the majority of the evening dancing with. “Ana.” He replies. 

“What was she like?”

He thinks for a moment, trying to recall the details of the brief conversation he’d had with her. “She was real nice. Served two tours in Iraq before she was honourably discharged after getting shot in the knee… Lost the lower part of her right leg. You’d never tell though, not with how gracefully she moves. Very polite, respectful, the kind of woman you settle down with.” Steve smiles to himself, eyes downcast for a moment. “You’d like her, I think.” 

Bucky shrugs again. “Did you at least get her number?” He asks. Steve can tell that he’s trying to deflect the conversation away from himself, to subsequently avoid having to talk about all the little things that had happened at the Gala which had caused his panic attack. He often does this when he knows that the conversation is likely going to end up getting heavier than either of them would like it to be. 

“No.” Steve replies, honestly. “I didn’t ask.”

The other man snorts, shaking his head. “Well, then I suggest you leave now. You might catch her before she leaves, thinking you left her for someone else.” There’s a heavy, sarcastic tone in Bucky’s voice that Steve doesn’t recognize; something more sinister and his dark than his usual brand of sarcasm. And the way Bucky avoids looking over at Steve starts to hurt. 

I did leave her for someone else. He longs to say. I left her for you. 

He never says it. Instead, Steve just fixes Bucky with a look and raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I want to call her?” He hates how Bucky had so easily turned the tables on him. 

Bucky sighs heavily and sips his tea. “Why would’t you? From what you said, she seems like a great gal.”

It dawns on him in that instant. “You’re jealous.” Steve says, in near disbelief. The thought itself was almost laughable; Bucky Barnes, jealous of Steve Rogers? No, that wasn’t possible. Most of their teenage years had been spent with the situation turned on its head, and Steve the one going home early in a fit of jealousy. Steve had never gotten any of the looks from dames that Bucky got, their eyes never went glassy and lusty when they looked at him like they would when they saw Bucky… Not until after Erskine’s serum, anyway.

That’s not why you got so jealous, you little shit. His conscience sneers. You were jealous because he wasn’t giving you those half-lidded looks. You were jealous because he wasn’t pressing those lips to your neck, dancing real close with you, with those hands a little too low on your back. You wanted Bucky, and you couldn’t have him. You wanted him to look at you the way those girls looked at him. Steve swallows thickly, trying to shut his brain up, even though it keeps screaming at him… Screaming all the things he could’t ever let Bucky know.

He can remember just one other incident he’d seen the same look on Bucky’s face; the pinched, hurt expression coupled with darkened eyes. It wasn’t long after he’d saved Bucky and the rest of the newly-formed Howling Commandos. The lot of them were hanging around in an old bar, drinking and enjoying the few hours of freedom from the fighting and horrors that were war. Peggy had walked in, wearing that fitted red dress and all eyes fell on her, but Peggy only had eyes for Steve. It wasn’t hard to miss the way Bucky’s once somber look had brightened in that instant, only to return when Peggy shot him down for Steve.

Bucky’s voice draws Steve back to the present. “Yes, Steve. I’m oh so very jealous of your date.” Bucky drawls, the same sarcasm still oozing from his every word. 

“Would you knock it off?” Steve all but snaps in frustration. “Look, I get it if you don’t want to talk about what happened at the Gala, but don’t turn this into an interrogation of my love life — or lack thereof. This isn’t why we’re sitting here.” 

Bucky’s shoulders slump a little. “I’m sorry.” He says through another heavy sigh, before he takes a calming sip from his tea. He’s quiet for a while, staring out the big window across the room. Steve can see the way he wrestles with himself in his own mind, fighting the urge to lash out while resisting the way he wants to lose it again. “I probably shoulda just stayed home tonight. I didn’t want to ruin your night.” He says, finally. “I mean, I didn’t want you to have’ta bail on your date just because I can’t handle myself anymore.”

“And how many dated did you skip out on when my asthma acted up too bad at a dance hall, huh? How many times did you leave a girl disappointed because you felt like you had to come home to take care of me?” Steve asks. Bucky just shrugs in response, hands turning the cup around nervously. “Don’t worry about it, Buck, really. I don’t care about that stuff.”

Bucky nods, but Steve can tell he’s not at all convinced in the things he’s saying. “I just don’t want to hold you back, is all.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You do realize that we’ve had this conversation before, right?” He says, almost laughing at the deja vu he’s experiencing. 

“Yeah. Too bad it was always the other way around.”

“And what was it that you always told me?” Steve asks.

Steve watches the visible corner of Bucky’s mouth quirk up in ever so slightly. “Don’t worry about it, Punk. There’s a dozen more like her out there.” He quotes, verbatim of what he’d said a thousand-and-one times all those years ago. Bucky laughs quietly and drags a hand through his no longer neatly combed hair, and Steve smirks somewhat triumphantly. 

They sit in silence for a while, and Steve keeps a close eye on Bucky. His shoulders relax, and the tension slowly filters out of the muscles in his neck. The trembling in Bucky’s hands subsides, and finally, Steve allows himself a breath of air. He hates to watch Bucky struggle like this. He used to be so social, the life of every party. Of course, Steve knows that things are so vastly different now and they’d both gone through so much; Bucky more so than anyone else he’d ever known. He understands more than anyone why Bucky despises crowds, why he smiles less often and never really laughs anymore.

But he can’t help but miss that smile, the cocky one that used to get him in trouble with some dame’s boyfriend. And that laugh, the loud, reverberating sound that used to fill their apartment with so much warmth. He misses the glimmer in those gorgeous eyes, and the way Bucky always shone so brightly. But most of all, Steve misses the utter lack of restraint between them. There was never any tension hanging in the air, no threat of ever saying the wrong thing, or overstepping boundaries that Steve wasn’t aware were there. Back then, you never had to worry so much about keeping your hormones in check. His conscience chides ruefully. But all you can seem to think about now is how badly you want him.

Bucky lays his empty mug down on the coffee table and rests his elbows on his knees, hanging his head so that his hair falls into his eyes. “You aren’t wrong, though.” Bucky mumbles, all the previous darkness gone from his voice. 

“About what?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow in question. 

“About me being jealous.” Bucky explains. His eyes are trained on the floor beneath his feet and his hands start to ring themselves nervously. “But not of you… I was jealous of her.” Bucky swallows, and Steve already knows where this is going. “This should have been said so many times, so many years ago but I couldn’t do it. I was too scared. I didn’t want to say it, because if it was out there, it became real. If it was real, I had to deal with it. So I bitched out and drowned it with booze in women. I hated it; every minute I spent with ‘em… Every time I was in ‘em, watching ‘em ride me… They never felt —“ He inhales sharply, as if he realizes that he’s rambling and bites down hard on his lower lip. 

Steve closes his eyes. “I know, Buck” He says, voice quiet. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

“No, I don’t think —“ 

“I heard you before… That night; when Nat and I ended it for good, and you came to keep me company? I heard every word that you said when you thought I was asleep.” Steve explains. 

Bucky goes eerily still at the revelation. “You weren’t?” 

“No.” 

“Oh.” Bucky almost whispers. His hands ring themselves nervously, not sure of what else he could possibly say, and an uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Steve can’t escape the crushing weight of the situation; Bucky had willingly told Steve of his feelings, in fewer words, but had confessed everything nonetheless. And Steve, well, he still couldn’t say anything. He feels as useless as he had been before, with his eyes closed and body poised for sleep. As much as his heart screams at him, kicks at his chest and throat, begging for Steve to just tell Bucky he feels the same, his brain shuts it up with an irrational fear; this could just be another rouse. He’d fallen for Natasha’s false promises of something good, and he’d wound up more hurt than he’d ever been. His muscles urge him to reach forward and take Bucky’s hand, rub his back, something to show that he at least has some tiny sense of how deep this situation runs. But he can’t. He can’t. It feels like an hour passes by when Bucky sighs, head dropping forward even more. “I’ll just… I mean I guess I…” He sighs and gets up from the couch, and shuffles down the hall to his bedroom. 

The door closes and locks behind Bucky for the first time in months. Steve kicks himself, hard, for being so stupid. That was his chance! The chance he’d been silently praying for since he was fifteen! And he’d just blown it. Typical. Steve thinks in his usual, self-deprecating way. I either say the wrong thing when I’m expected to say nothing, or I say nothing when I’m expected to say anything at all. This is why I can’t have nice things… Steve thinks with an exasperated sigh. He gets up from the couch and heads off into his own bedroom. He needed to make this right. He needed Bucky to know that he felt the same.

Thoughts of what he could do race through Steve’s mind as he paces the floor of his room. If he were most people he’d walk down the hall and beg Bucky to open the door so they could talk about it. If he were most people, he’d break down and just confess everything. If he were most people, he’d take Bucky in his arms and hold him close, maybe even let himself finally press a gentle kiss to those gorgeous lips. 

But, Steve is most certainly not most people. He’s not that brave, even though he knows that the threat of rejection is minimal. He knows that Bucky would welcomes him with open arms, but still, Steve can’t bring himself to utter those simple words. God, it was hard enough writing it down. Steve thinks, as he changes out of his suit and into a pair of blue flannel pyjama pants and a white t-shirt. Wait! I wrote it down!!

Steve drags his old footlocker out from underneath his bed and quickly enters the code on the lock, before sitting down on the edge of his bed. The people at The Smithsonian had given it, and the few meagre personal belongings in it back once Steve had come to. The curator said that some of the ‘artifacts’ had been perhaps too personal to share in such an exhibit as the one they had created for Steve and the Commandos, so they’d been kept in storage, just as they were. It didn’t hold much anyway, just the few little things that Steve had carried with him from their apartment over to war with him; a battered sketchbook and a dented tin case with a few scraps of charcoal and graphite, a read-to-death copy of his favourite book, and a now antique razor with a fancy Mother-Of-Pearl handle. The last had been a gift from Bucky, before he’d shipped out… 

“Just take it, Stevie. I ain’t gonna need it where I’m goin’. It was pa’s… He gave it to me before he died, said his pa gave it to him. Well, I ain’t gonna get to have no son of my own to give it to, so you take it to give to yours. But you listen here, if money gets tight, you pawn this off. I don’t want you gettin’ cold and sick just ‘cause you don’t wanna part with it. I need you to stay alive… For when I come home.”

Steve can still hear the sorrow in Bucky’s voice as he’d spoken those words, the regret in having to leave Steve behind. And now that he really thought on it, Steve realized that there was probably more that Bucky wanted to say, just never did. He flips the blade out if the handle and turns it over in his hand, inspecting the edge. Shockingly, it was still pretty sharp. Steve smiles a little and sets those things off to the side, so he can get to the two things he’d been searching for. At the bottom of his trunk lays a thin photo album, bound in red leather with a large, fancy R stamped on the cover and inlaid with gold leaf. It had been his mothers, and one of the few possessions Steve made sure to keep with him wherever he went in the world. He gently lifts the cover of the old book and smiles down at the faces of his much, much younger parents who beamed back at him. It had been their only wedding photograph, and it was a beautiful one at that. His mother was radiant and his father looked strong and proud. He gives it a long, sorrow filled look before turning the pages of the album carefully.

Each page that follows contains pictures of Steve, little drawings he’d made his mother as a child, little notes he’d written. Within a few pictures, a little Bucky joins an even smaller Steve, and together the two of them grow into teenagers. It was no wonder that Bucky was depicted as much as Steve in the album; Sara Rogers often said to the two of them that Bucky was the second son she had always wanted but was never blessed with. She loved the way Bucky took care of Steve when she was sick, and incapable of doing it on her own, and the way that Bucky protected Steve from all harm. Once she died, Steve made sure to keep adding to the album; little sketches from art school, a strip of photos from a Coney Island photographer. In the final few pages, Steve had preserved the letters Bucky had sent him from Europe. Of course, they were brief and just enough to let Steve know that he was still alive, but those few words had meant the world to Steve. 

The final two pages contain a single picture of Bucky in full uniform, taken the night before he’d shipped out, as well as the final letter Steve had received before he’d undergone the experimental serum that had turned him into the warrior he is now. Steve runs his fingers down the faded black ink and yellowing page as he reads Bucky’s messy scrawl: 

Dear Steve,

How’s tricks? I know you hate the short little letters I’ve been sending, but it ain’t so easy scrawling a message in a trench. We’re in France now, and it’s not so bad. They pulled me back to base a couplea days ago; bullet got lodged in my shoulder, but the field surgeon got it out just fine. They got my laid up for another few days, just to make sure I don’t get no infections, but then it’s back to the front. Not gonna lie to ya, Stevie, getting shot ain’t fun. Too bad it wasn’t bad enough to send me home. I’d give anything to see that stupid face a yours.

I really hope you’re doin’ ok, pal. I know you always say you’re just fine in your letters… But don’t go spairin’ my feelings none. I know it ain’t all roses back home, neither. Remember what I said about that razor, and sell the damn thing. You gotta keep yourself fed, Stevie. And keep that radiator fixed. Told you I don’t want you gettin’ cold. I ain’t there to warm you up now.

Well, Steve, I have’ta wrap it up now. Doc says I need my rest before they ship me back out. Keep safe, buddy, and don’t even think about comin’ over here after me. I ain’t worth it. 

Be seein’ ya soon,

B.

Steve had never gotten to send his reply, before Erskine had recruited him for his program. But as he looks back into the trunk, the old, equally as yellowed envelope that contains said reply lays at the bottom. Steve gingerly picks up the letter and sighs, knowing word for word what he’d put on the page inside the still sealed envelope. It had been the hardest letter he’d ever written, just knowing the emotional impact it carried. 

With a final, deep sigh, Steve gets to his feet again. Quickly, he finds an old shoebox and places the letter and the photo album inside it. Along with those things, Steve places a square box that’s covered in a gold foil, knowing what the packet contains is something that doesn’t belong to him anyway, not really. He closes the lid of the box and tapes a quickly jotted note on the top, before he brings it into the kitchen and sets it on the table. Steve knows that this is a half-assed attempt at solving the issue he’d created earlier, but he hopes that somehow, it would work.