Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Captain."

Steve blinks, long.

He lifts his eyes to the person opposite to him, dark tailored suit and pinned back hair, greying prematurely.

"Yes?" he asks, ring finger still covering his mouth as his palm holds up the weight of his jaw.

"You haven't said a word since you got here," she replies with a poisonously sweet smile.

"Was just listening to what everyone had to say," Steve lies, and it's the first of many he'll tell today.

A panel. Steve’s on a panel of experts. Security experts. He doesn't even fucking know why-- he's never been very good at predicting which new being was going to fall out of the sky and try to kill all his friends.

"Nothing to add?" Though her tone is friendly, her eyes unsettlingly held no emotion.

"Have a feelin' you all know what I'm gonna say," he replies.

There's a sigh at the end of the long table, clearing one's throat from the other. Steve's stare remains steadfast.

“Captain Rogers. Steve," she-- Councilwoman Murray, he suddenly remembers-- says with a tick in her voice, pleasantly. "What we're proposing-"

"I know. I heard you," he says, calm as ever. "You want to set up a base in space with weapons of mass destruction in case an event like the Blip were to happen again. While I appreciate your patience, Councilwoman, here's where you're going to have to put up with me because I'm gonna tell you what I've been sayin' every single time we've met: it doesn't make sense."

"It is for international peace," she sighs.

It became very clear in the first meeting that his beliefs don’t align with the rest of them, but they've committed and so has he. No matter how many people slid him deals under the table or offered him positions like president, his opinion wasn't going to shift.

"A base that falls under American jurisdiction, run by American soldiers, using American produced weapons, serving under the orders of an American government, serving on the basis of, and I'm quoting your proposal here, threats against the citizens of the United States of America." Steve arches a brow. "Doesn't sound real international to me, especially when you're planning on vetoing anyone who doesn't agree. Just a scare tactic to the rest of the world."

Another suffering sigh. He can see a smile threaten to creep up on Mona’s face.

"Besides, it's quite the budget you've allocated to this project," he continues, pushing forward the document. "I think it'd be better spent on the millions of people you say you're glad are back. Last I heard, they’re still waiting on the resources you've promised."

With the last word, there's a faint sense of deja vu warm in his chest. He's sure he's brought this up elsewhere, but he can't pinpoint where. It’s hard to remember how he gets from one place to another. Or is it hard to pay attention? He can’t tell the difference anymore, it didn’t matter much.

Years, he has to correct himself.

Everything looked the same as it did six years ago. The last thing that he remembers adding to the decor was a framed picture of you and him at a baseball game before it all went to shit in Germany. That sat on the mantle, too.

He walks past it every morning, diverting his eyes to the kitchen before he catches sight of it and the pit forms in his stomach again. Still, he can't find it in himself to remove it.

Steve drags a razor across his cheek. It cleanly wipes away the foam, leaving behind clear skin, neat. Some days he just used soap when he couldn't open the shelf and reach for the shaving cream.

He turns his head down to slosh the razor around in the water. He remembers when he used to like the sound, thought it was fun.

There is red when he lifts his head back up to the mirror. Piercing red.

“It’s not that easy, Rogers.”

“Isn’t it?” Steve shoots a glance at the head of the table. "Seems pretty damn easy to me to decide what the money should go towards, and it's not the next tax write-off for the megalomaniac who's funded the doughnuts for this meeting."

The member’s jaw tightens and he sinks back into his seat again. The room’s quiet, an amalgamation of awkward stares and rolling eyes.

Because of course, Steve didn’t understand the problem. Steve didn’t understand the politics of it all.

Steve's just there 'cause Captain America has to be.

There's a thin line of blood when he lifts his head back up to the mirror. It races from about half his cheek down to his jaw, bright crimson changing to a dull red as it dilutes.

Steve stares at it for several moments. His watch ticks, reminding him that he may be frozen but the world was still spinning around him. But it was 5am and he's got nowhere to be for at least three hours.

When he drags his stare away from the nick and to his eyes in the mirror, he remember how the air used to get sucked out of the room. The same clocks used to stop ticking.

There was nothing there. He was not there. It was empty and he looked back at himself, tired eyes and glowing skin.

But now everything goes on as it did before. There is still nothing there, not even him. The air is still heavy in the bathroom and the watch keeps ticking.

Steve uses his thumb to wipe away the blood, and keeps going.

“Coffee, Captain Rogers?”

It’s a steady little routine they’ve fallen into. Mona asks him, always at precisely the right time, whether he would like a cup as they walk towards one of the many assigned conference rooms that day.

He told her yes once, and she committed his order to heart. It wasn't a big feat-- black, with no sugar and no cream-- but he appreciated it all the same. He carelessly downed it like a shot, ignoring the s as it goes down his throat.

Steve gently turns her down today, however. She quickly rats off a list of people he has to meet, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in the process. He nods dimly, knowing that she'd send him a text with all the details anyway.

“You have to meet with Mr Langstaff at 12, and Mr Estrada at 1:30 to decide your press release. Y/N demands that you pick up the phone, and you have dinner with Mrs Madron at 8 at the Ritz about the ambassadorship.”

Steve's ears perk up, head snapping towards her. “What was that?”

“You have dinner at 8 with Mrs Madron at the Ritz,” Mona repeats slowly, deliberately.

“No, before that.”

She flips a page back on her notepad before reciting, “Y/N demands that you pick up the phone.”

Christ. 

Steve swiftly skims through his phone, brows furrowing when he finds nothing. It takes a second to hit that if you were to call him, it probably wouldn't be to his work number. The work phone had a few texts and missed calls he hadn't responded to yet. He would be meeting them in the next few days anyway, what was the damn hurry?

From Y/N
Been a few days, you around?

From Y/N
Mona says you're busy so I'm not gonna call, but I left a message with her. Don't feel pressured to respond immediately, it was mostly a joke

From Y/N
Just lemme know if you're good

Fuck.

He curses softly under his breath, before pressing a button and holding the phone up to his ear.

He ignores the people walking past, some doing a double take when they see him standing in the middle of the hallway on a random weekday.

“Y/N,” he says in greeting the second you pick up. "Hey."

“Steve,” you reply equally as quick. “You all right?”`

“'M sorry, it's been a while since I checked this phone. I‘m fine.”

He can hear you exhale slightly at the other end, and the snap of elastic on your skin. He waits patiently outside the conference room for the people to start filing in, but he estimates another ten minutes before they do.

“Sorry, Stevie, didn’t mean to worry you,” you say, prying the gloves away from your hand, “It's just-- the last time you missed a couple'a calls, I had to find out you’re enemy of the state from the receptionist.”

“No, I get it. I forgot to respond, it's my bad.” He keeps his phone on silent these days. The only communication he really responds to with urgency is what Mona deems critical.

 “We still meeting up for coffee today?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose hard. Of all the things to slip his mind in the middle of all the legal jargon and fundraising efforts.

He sneaks a glance at his watch, and then back at the meeting room where an assistant was placing glasses of water in front of seats, and back at his watch.

“We don’t have to, if you’re not up for it,” you remind him in the lingering silence. “I know your schedule is busy these days.”

He had conferences, and dinners, and calls to ignore, and people to scorn, because if he wasn't fighting, then he's gotta be doing more to be helping people out, right?

“4pm, at Whole Latte Love, wasn't it?” His eye catches Mona’s, who swiftly flips through several pages of her notebook to write down his new plan. “I’ll be there.”

“You sure?”

“‘Course.” The corners of his mouth lift softly. "Can't wait."

“All right.” He can hear the smile in your voice. It’d been a while. “See you there.”

The call ends with a soft click. His posture immediately stiffens again.

Mona’s attention is still on the notepad when she says, “Guess that cancels the video call with Jepsen at 4:15.”

______

He pulls the brim of his cap even lower, if that was possible, fully intending to cover up his untrimmed hair. It didn't work very well; whatever was too long for the cap just stuck up in strange angles given how tight the hat was.

The smell of roasting coffee beans was intense, and a little hard to take in. He had been here loads of times before, but those visits had thinned out and the gaps in between each had increased exponentially over the last few years.

When he scours the area, all he sees are booths occupied with people speaking in hushed tones. It serves to remind him again that the world seemed a lot quieter now.

Six years ago, he couldn't take a step down a street without hearing cries for missing sons, aunts, friends. Then, of course, there was silence. Almost deafening, as people slowly picked themselves up, tried to make sense of the life they were living now.

It continued even when the Snapped were back. The parades were loud and the parties even louder but everything seemed muted. Almost like they expected the returned to leave again, cautious about how much energy they spent celebrating something that could disappear in an instant.

The chair scrapes against the linoleum floor, pulling his attention away from his lap.

He doesn't even know when he sat down.

“Please, don’t look so surprised.” You don’t go for a greeting, instead, taking note of the slightly dilated eyes. “Only you would wear a cap indoors and think it’s a good disguise.”

Steve glances around discreetly. “No one else noticed.”

“What, that you look like you want to hide?” You snort, laying all your stuff on the table after taking a seat. “Yeah, they did. Hi, by the way.”

If they did, they didn’t say anything.

"Hi," he says back. "You look good."

You narrow your eyes at him, before your face breaks into a small smile. "I didn't realise disarray and chaos was pleasing to you."

He shrugs. "You make it work."

Your head ducks with a smile and a small shake. “Did you order anything?”

"Not yet."

“Do you want to?” You pour over the menu in front of you even though you’ve been here before with him so many times you know exactly what you want. “Coffee, black, no sugar, no cream?”

Even though he declined Mona on the same offer, he takes you up on yours. It's always been hard to say no to you.

You quickly flag down the waitress, giving her your orders and a big smile and revert back to Steve.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” you say, leaning forward on your elbows. “How’s everything going?”

It hasn’t been on purpose-- well, it was-- but no one had really heard from him in a while.

“You know,” he draws out, “a lot of conversations with a lot of… interesting people.”

“Snobs?" you offer. "Uptight?”

“That's one way to put it.” There’s humour in his words but only a wisp of it on his face. “They’re thinkin’ of holding another carnival in a month.”

“What, like one obnoxious parade wasn’t enough already?”

“That’s what I told ‘em. But elections are coming up and the guy wants as much publicity as they can afford.” He restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Tell me you're doing better on your side.”

“It’s like middle school all over again, Stevie.” The corner of your lip stretches thin in annoyance. “Ever since the return, everyone’s been fightin’ over desks and projects that we completed while they were gone.”

One of the most reputed labs in the world, some of the most formidable brains of nature and endless arguments over whose table gets to face the window, and who gets to sit nearest to the water cooler for better access to office gossip.

"Jesus," he says, before a familiar voice pinches him. Don't take the Lord's name in vain.

"Gets better."

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

The conversation gets cut short when the waitress sets down a cup in front of him and fills it nearly to the brim. It already smells better than the garbage they serve at the town hall, and he certainly could use a cup to make up for the fifty hours he'd spent awake so far.

"Thank you," he tells her before turning his attention to you. "Better how?"

“Well-- better is actually pretty subjective. Positions are shuffling around, people are moving.” You bite your lip. “They offered me a new job.”

He smiles for the first time that day, a big-toothed grin. "They did?"

"New title. Just fancier words for a person that runs that joint." You blow gently at your beverage, shoulders rising and falling nonchalantly. "Pays real well. Lot more access to resources, grants. Everything."

"Sounds like a dream," he says carefully, noting the lack of eye contact.

“I’m not sure if I’m gonna take it, though."

There it is. “Why?”

“Don't know if I want to." You shrug. "They only floated it by me a while ago, and it's pretty under wraps, so I have time. Don't have to answer 'em right away."

"Is there something going on?" If he'd somehow managed to miss it while doing God knows what, he'd never let himself forget it.

"No, there's nothing," you reassure. "I just don't know if I wanna do it."

Steve inclines his head. You expertly dodge it with a clearing of your throat. 

“Sam told me the new compound’s been coming up okay.” God, he hadn’t seen Sam since the time he came back from returning the stones to their rightful place and that had been a few months ago.

“Yeah, almost done, actually. Most of the stuff’s been moved already.” 

All the way across the country, far away from New York and its bi-annual alien attacks. Pepper had had enough after the compound got wrecked again, ordering for a complete shift to preserve whatever was left from the destruction.

“Do you think I can score a designated parking spot?”

“You can try."

"Or you can." You grin at him. "Put in a word for me."

Steve clicks his tongue. “Don't think it'd do any good. No special privileges, even for employees.”

“Damn it,” you curse under your breath and he lets out a small chuckle. “You think they’d throw free parking in with the healthcare.”

 "Did you get yourself checked up?" She eyes him, top to bottom.

"Bucky had a look."

"So, that's a no, then," she says flatly. "When was this?"

"Two days ago."

"And you're completely all right?"

"Steve?"

He forcefully zeroes his focus back on you. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Your head quirks, but you let go of it a second later.

"I asked how you were." You twirl a stirring rod around your hot chocolate, letting its warmth seep into your palms through the cup as you hold it up. “If you were holdin’ up okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been good," he says, lips stretched into a tight smile. “Keeping myself occupied.”

 Steve purposely takes a long sip of his coffee, avoiding the furrow of your eyebrows. It makes his stomach lurch a little, and he raises his cup to his lips again to avoid thinking about it too much.

“You get any time off at all?”

“Sometimes.” Before you can question, he counters, "Do you?”

"I've had vacation days buildin' up for years now. Got nowhere to use 'em." Your eyes dart about the shop before landing on him. "Which is actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Steve peers back in question, setting the cup down.

“What if I were to ask you-” you begin casually “-if you’d wanna maybe get away for a while.”

He only waits for you to continue.

“I was thinking we could take a road trip.”

A road trip?

Steve voices exactly that.

“We’ll get a car, drive it down to wherever you wanna go. Texas, Washington-” you speak a little faster, leaning forward to take his hand in yours “-hell, even fuckin’ Florida, I don’t care. I’ll plan it out, I’ll take care of everything."

His eyes flit down your hand on his, swallowing thickly. A break. A break. The idea makes his head spin and a laugh bubble out of him incredulously. But as soon as it arrives, it dissipates, leaving in its wake hesitancy and 'I'm sorry, I don't know if I can'.

“Why?” he asks instead, to squander any outright denial.

Why? He wants to smack himself in the head. Because best friends do that. Best friends take road trips together and host dinner parties and tell each other what’s on their minds and don't hide things, life-changing things.

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze softening. “I miss you.”

Steve feels the familiar sickness in his stomach, the same pit that forms every time he walks past the framed picture of you both in the morning.

“A road trip,” he repeats, testing it out for himself.

“A month, you and me. We're not leaving tomorrow or something, don't worry. Still gotta apply for leave and take care of some stuff, it'll take a while." Your eyes brighten when he doesn't immediately shoot it down. “I’ll even let you pick the music.”

“My taste isn’t that bad," he deflects offhandedly.

You give him a half-smile in response. “What d’ya say, Stevie?”

“A month?” Steve asks again, knowing that he was about to send Mona into an absolute panic.

“Just one," you swear.

A road trip. Across a country he was named after, one that he had never seen, save for in a state of destruction and despair.

"I'll have to check," he says. "Can I let you know?"

It's like you deflate, only by a minuscule amount but he catches it.

"Of course. No pressure, okay? It was just an idea."

"I know," Steve says quickly, flipping his hand so that it covers yours instead. "I promise I'll see what I can do."

You nod, a little uncertain before a smile overtakes your face.

It isn't a no. It isn't a flat-out refusal but he knows. He’s been pulling away and this is another attempt atit.

A cruel part of his mind says that it’s easy, it makes it easier for him and you later on.

"Something to eat?" you query, settling back into your seat. "I could go for some food."

The logical part says it’s because he’s a damn coward.

__________

Day slips into night and night slips into early morning faster than he anticipates.

If he didn't sleep, he didn't have to relive it all over again and the choice, therefore, was glaringly simple.

His phone shudders to let him know there's only 15 percent of battery left. Only then, when his neck cranes to reach around for his charger does he notice the time.

4:13am.

Steve stares at the phone for a while.

The light hadn't even come in yet, but with all the blinds in his house closed, he doubts they would have.

He blinks when he feels the familiar burn in his eyes.

4:15am.

Then he's made slowly aware of the dull ache in his neck he can easily attribute to sitting in the wrong position for too long. 

Did he eat dinner?

4:18am.

Steve stares at the lock screen. An urge suddenly tugs at his brain.

Change it, or change his phone, or remove the cover. Or throw it at a wall.

By the time he locks it again, it reads 4:21am.

He thinks it's good enough to get a shower in.

__________

"A road trip?"

"Yeah." Steve rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"Thought you left that life behind with your plastic dinner plate."

Steve winces at the thought of his ill-fitting velcro suit. “Shut up.”

"Suppose your metal dinner plate deserves the same honour," Bucky muses, looking down at something off-screen. "Are you getting a tour bus?"

"Just a car, m'afraid," Steve says wearily. "Maybe on the European leg."

"Tell Y/N it broke my whole heart when I didn't receive an invite in the mail for this trip."

Steve sighs. "Might wanna hold onto your tissues. I'm not even sure I'm going." 

"And why the hell not?"

"I don't know." He squints when Bucky ducks out of view, leaving him open to the attack of bright daylight through the phone. "I'm not sure."

"About what?" Bucky yells to be heard from off-screen.

"Got work to do."

Steve chews on his lip, letting his eyes close for a second in the silence.

There's a loud thud, and Steve opens his eyes to Bucky dropping a stack of files on the table in front of him. Brown, some sealed and others with corners softened from overuse.

"You're avoiding it," Bucky says flatly.

Steve's eyebrows furrow, more so in indignation than anything. "I am not."

"Shut the fuck up, Rogers," his best friend of many-- almost too many, he's beginning to think-- years tells him without even thinking twice. "What's your excuse this time, huh? Back pain? Senior's night at the country club?"

"Jesus Christ, Bucky."

"When's the last time you took a vacation?" Bucky's image is clear through the phone with no pixelation whatsoever. Steve can't imagine it's the same from his end, what with the crappy WiFi and sitting in the darkness of his bedroom.  

He blows out a breath. "Well, if you count th-"

"If you say the time you were frozen, I'm gonna hang up."

Steve shuts his mouth.

Bucky pauses to read something and Steve takes the opportunity to kick off the shoes he hadn't bothered removing before laying down.

Bucky peers up at the screen for a second. "D'you know where the-"

"Manila folder. Under the testimonials list," Steve completes.

He doesn't even look surprised, just nods and picks up the correct file before flipping through it.

"Have you gone through them all?"

"Should I?" Bucky asks wearily. "I mean, I lived through them, y'know."

Steve sighs, scratching his cheek, wincing when he comes across the tiny scab. "You need to go through the files, Bucky."

"I'm kidding," Bucky clarifies with a roll of his eyes. "You'd think people would cut me some slack after being imprisoned for sixty years, but no. Can't joke about torture, can't joke about forgetting what I had for breakfast."

Steve stares at him through the phone.

"It was eggs," he says slowly. "I had eggs. And juice. Orange."

The thin sheets rustle under Steve as he sits up straight. "This is why I'm not going on that trip."

Bucky drops the file he was holding with a loud scoff. "Now hold on there, Rogers. Don't you fuckin' act like you've got babysitting duty.."

It should be too early there for Bucky to be this confrontational and it was definitely too late for Steve to argue back. He makes a mental note to call him at midnight next time, but the bastard would probably be up and about then too. He wonders if Bucky ever sleeps.

"I'm not." Steve exhales. "I'm not. I'm just not going to leave you in the middle of your trial prep, Buck."

"In the middle of?" Bucky voices back incredulously. "There isn't even a trial yet and there is nothing more left to prep."

"There's gotta be more-"

"But there isn't," Bucky cuts him off. "Steve, we’ve been at this for years. We've gone through everything. Murdock's done it thrice, Nelson's done it, like, six times, bless his soul. Look at this file, Rogers. I've been through it twice since last night."

Steve's own copy of all the material sat at his desk, highlighted and annotated. The way the case was being dealt with was unusual, but the case itself was unusual. He didn't really know enough about the legal system to argue either.

"The only reason we're waiting is so that I can take some time off before we let the government know I'm here," he reminds. "Otherwise we're done, we just gotta get my ass back to the States and we're ready to go."

Steve bites the inside of his lip, out of Bucky's sight. The angle isn't very flattering. He's long given up on trying to look presentable.

"It's not right."

"Look, Steve." Bucky picks up a file again. "You've done enough. I can handle a month."

"A month and a half, maybe."

"Even better." He gives him a sly smile. "Shuri says if she has to see your dumb face moping around here anymore she's gonna get you banned from entering the country."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't mope."

"Sure ya don't. Gettin' sick of it m'self, gotta tell you," Bucky says blankly. "T'Challa's got all these people working on the case. Figuring out a timeline. Once we tell the authorities I'm here, I either gotta surrender myself or get extradited. Either way, I won't be back for another few months at least."

Steve says nothing.

"Go on your little road trip. Stop worrying 'bout me." Bucky shifts in his seat. "Technically I'm on vacation, too."

Steve says nothing.

"Once I'm back, you can help me move into my jail cell, how about that?"

Steve's silence only intensifies.

"You're a ray of sunshine," Bucky says. "Love how you can take a joke."

"Bucky."

"Steve," he mocks, voice low. "I've been on my own since '45. I can handle it."

Even if he doesn't mean it like that, Steve feels an ache shoot through him in embarrassment. Bucky doesn't notice; he probably didn't even realise what he said.

"Plus, it's not the stone ages. I'll call you if I need anything, but I'm tellin' you, there's nothing. You've seen all the evidence. Only thing that's left is prepping for the stand, and they're only doing it after the therapist gives them the go-ahead to start poking in there." His index finger points to his temple.

Bucky's hair had grown long enough to curl lightly at his shoulder blades. He usually kept it tied up and out of his face but it hung loose today, forcing him to push back strands that kept covering his eyes as he read. Even through the phone, Steve could tell he looked better, dark circles faded significantly.

"They'll call you too. Grill your ass 'bout how much you love me."

"I don't."

"Should be easy then," he replies breezily, leafing through a folder. “Did you know I was apparently in Paris at some point? You’d think I'd remember the tower, but no. Turns out I just got stabbed.”

“Buck,” Steve says sternly.

“Sorry, sorry.” He holds up the file. “I got shot too.”

"Bucky."

"Just go." Bucky grins. "You can come back here and look at all these fun numbers.”

Steve shakes his head, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes. The last two times he'd been to Wakanda, he had nothing to do. He met Bucky's goats. Ate a tomato he grew (it was still a little green but Bucky was damn proud of it. Best tomato Steve’d ever eaten). The rest was the same as the last few visits.

"If you don't wanna go for some other reason-" Bucky sneaks him a glance -"then don't. But don't let it be 'cause of me. Hell, I'd join too if I wasn't across an ocean. And gotten an invite."

He thinks it’s something to consider once Bucky can walk freely.

“You’re not doing a bad thing, Rogers," Bucky adds, tone a little more gentle this time. “You’re not a bad person. Stop beating yourself up about this and just go.”

Wasn’t he? He wasn’t a good person, that’s for sure. 

Who the fuck even is he anymore?

"You sure?" Steve asks warily, the unease still lapping at him. 

"Get me a souvenir," Bucky says. "Bet it'd look great next to my prison bed."

___

"Captain?"

Steve's eyes snap towards the person in front of him. Dark suit, hair brushed back.

"Yes?" he asks again and ignores the feeling that he's done this before.

"I asked if you'd gotten the email for the fundraiser."

Steve's eyes glance towards his left. It's almost like Mona reads his mind because she's already halfway through pulling out a folder from an even bigger folder.

"We did," she confirms. "We'll let you know about his availability. June is a tough month."

Steve looks down at his glass of water, determined to not let it show on his face that he's got no fucking idea what she's talking about.

The water ripples as Steve lifts it, but if someone were to ask, he isn't sure he ever drank it or not.

___

Steve stares at the red on his skin, wondering where it came from. It stretches down his skin like a long, raw scar before diluting at his jaw.

God, didn't that happen yesterday? Did he cut himself again? Or--wait, was it the day before yesterday? 

Where was the fucking shaving cream– why was he shaving without shaving cream?

His phone chimes with a text alert from Mona. He sees from the home screen that it's a schedule for today. It started the same as always, with her cheerful 'Good morning. Here's the plan for the day'. And usually, it could be boiled down to meeting people he couldn't stand, people he was still treading the fence about, and lunch.

When he looks up at the mirror, the red has begun to dry, forming little crusts that cracked when he opened his mouth.

Steve blinks and it's gone, and there's a wet towel on the sink.

Dinner is something. Chicken. Rice. Something healthy, there's some greens in there. He watches some sitcoms and laughs when the laugh track plays even when the joke isn't all that funny.

He eats his chicken and wonders whether 2am is too early to take a shower.

"You got any food in you or is that all you’ve been taking in all day?” He makes a mention to the cigarette that was almost halfway done.

“Jeanie managed to get us some soup. Should last us a few days if we divide it up real nice.”

“We got some extra bread.”

“Nah, Rogers.” The teen flicks the tail end of the smoke, getting rid of the extra ash. “We’ll be all right. Save that for another day.”

Steve jolts up when the familiar feeling of falling hits him. But the couch is still underneath him and the TV's moved on to another late-night rerun. The laugh track is mundane but feels like it's directed at him.

The plate clangs on the ground-- he's glad he's invested in metal ones after the first few times it happened.

He rubs his eyes, hand reaching out for his phone.

3:30am.

Steve pulls on a jacket and some well worn sneakers. It can't be too early for a run.

___

“Captain?”

Steve snaps back. “Yes?”

___

Dinner is lunch? Pasta? 

No, he ate rice for lunch. 

2:00am.

Why the fuck is he eating dinner at 2am?

___

“Rogers?”

“Please, it’s Steve,” he repeats, shaking hands with a polite smile.

“Steve. Thank you for the advertisement you did for us. Sales really rocketed.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Steve feels the scab on his skin. Scraped again?

___

5:20am.

Steve laughs with the laugh track.

Was this who he was? Laughing at some joke he wouldn’t be able to remember even with a gun to his head?

He shovels another soon of cereal into his mouth and discards the rest in the sink.

___

“Captain?”

“He’s not available, sorry,” Mona cuts in curtly as she walks swiftly beside him. “You can schedule a meeting with me, though.”

Steve looks at her when they round a corner. “Who was that?”

“Um–” Mona scrolls through her tablet. “Senator–”

___

“5am is not too early for a run,” he repeats to himself in assurance under his breath, tugging his shoes on. 

He stops to look in the mirror and it is empty. There should be dark circles and stubble and pale skin from not seeing the light of day. His skin glows. There is hardly a line on his face.

“Shave when you get back,” he says aloud, and his voice is hoarse from hours of unuse. 

He swaps out the elevator for the stairs, bounding down quietly. 5am was still early for his neighbours. 

He pushes open the door to his apartment and--

It is pitch black.

Steve takes a step outside, head turned up to the sky. 

It is dark, cloudy and deafeningly silent.

Steve’s eyebrows pull together.

He digs his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

2am.

He thought it was 5.

___

“Captain–”

“My opinion isn’t going to change, Senator.”

“What?” 

Steve’s attention drags him back to harsh fluorescent lighting and the smell of astringent hand sanitiser.

“I said you’re free to go.” The doctor flips the pages on his clipboard. “Good as new.”

“Serum, am I right?” he tries for a joke. It’s not even funny. He feels like a sitcom.

“Miracle of science.” The doctor graces him with a smile that seems almost pitiful. “Just try to get some sunlight. Your vitamin D’s a little low, but you’re cleared.”

“Great,” he says. Cleared for what, exactly?

___

“Mona.” Steve rubs his temples.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

___

Steve watches his food spin around in the microwave. 

It goes on endlessly, for ages and ages. He's mesmerised.

It finally beeps and he yanks it out.

He takes a bite. The center is still cold.

___

“Captain–”

“Senator.”

“It’s Councilwoman,” Mona whispers from beside him.

“Councilwoman,” Steve corrects. “My apologies. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“We’ve all been there.” She smiles kindly at him. He thinks she’s one of the only people he likes. “Now about your tweets, we’d really appreciate if you didn’t go against the organization that’s been, you know–”

He thinks he doesn’t like her.

Steve’s attention returns to his phone as she rattles on about why he should lend his public support to some fucking businessman who had stakes in some place for some reason. If he tweeted against him, it was probably for good reason.

You’ve sent him a meme.

The corners of his mouth curl up slightly.

“So we believe it’s in everybody’s best interest that you–”

“No,” Steve says resolutely, gaze rising up again. “My condolences, but I don’t think I’ll be doing that. Now can we continue to more important issues?”

___

Steve tries a drama for once, instead of a comedy.

Three episodes in and he has no idea what the hell has happened so far.

He checks his phone. 

12:43am.

Too early for a run. 

He gets ready for a shower.

___

Steve walks out, towel around his waist and hoodie covering his chest. His hair is slicked back, still dripping water down his back. 

His phone chimes with another notification.

1:40am

From Y/N
(image attached)

Steve waits for it to download, one hand on his waist.

From Y/N
Why on earth are you awake this late?

From Steve:
Could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have work tomorrow?

From Y/N:
Don’t you have an interview with CNN tomorrow?

Steve’s eyebrows furrow as he looks up, racking his brain to remember if he did have something lined up.

From Steve:
How do you know my schedule better than me?

From Y/N:
They tweeted about it, Steve

From Y/N:
Why are you up?

He smiles, barely listening to his dinner spin around in the microwave.

From Steve:
Got in late.

From Y/N:
Go to sleep

From Steve:
You first.

From Y/N:
What are you, my dad?

From Y/N:
Kidding, I’m going. Have fun in your lil interview. Give me a shoutout

From Steve:
Keep your ears peeled.

From Steve:
Goodnight.

From Y/N:
Better not see you awake after this, Rogers

From Y/N:
Goodnight. Talk to you tomorrow ily

Steve pulls his eyes away from his phone when the microwave beeps dramatically.

He pulls his food out carefully. It’s the worst looking slice of pizza he’d ever seen, but he drops it onto a plate anyway and walks toward his couch.

2:00am.

He’s seen these reruns before. Twice, actually.

Steve takes a bite. It’s stone cold.

The laugh track plays again. His lip twitches. 

Steve takes another bite and swallows it down without thinking too much. 

He switches the channel. Someone advertises something he doesn’t want. 

He switches the channel. His face. The channel changes faster.

Steve takes a bite. Winces and chews slowly, purposefully. The channel switches.

Laugh track. Steve bites the crust. His face.

3am? 

The plate’s discarded. He’s got a box of cereal. The channel switches.

Steve takes a spoonful. Advertisement. 

Interview today. Fuck. 

He takes a bite. Parade promo. 

___

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

___

Channel switches. CNN? Who the fuck was he talking to?

Steve chews on muesli. 

Laugh track.  

He swallows. Advertisement. Laugh track. He laughs.

Muesli. Interview at 9. 

____

Steve drags the razor over his chin. 

He swishes it around in the water, and there is red that mixes with dissolving foam.

____

He checks his phone. Muesli. Steve laughs.

It’s been half an hour. It’s still 3am.

Steve chews. Advertisement. 

He laughs. Muesli. He laughs. Swallows. 

Laugh track. Spoonful.

____

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

___

Dry pizza.

Steve laughs.

Steve pulls on his shoes and checks the time.

___

Something suddenly flips in him. He doesn't have a name for it.

Laugh track.

___

Fuck.

___

To Y/N:
Let's do it. Road trip. I'm in.

Steve exhales, tucking his phone into his pocket before he could send a retraction.

It was done now. 

He couldn't go back.

___

It hardly takes a few seconds for the notification to ring out in an empty apartment.

____

From Y/N:
Fuck yes. You won’t regret this.

Steve stares down at the phone, knowing he will.

As much as he wishes this trip is for you and for the two of you only, he knows it is simply one small part of it. 

Mostly, it drags him out of he darkness and into a spotlight. There was no turning back now, he couldn’t hide it behind absence. 

There is still time, though. To somehow conjure up a way to tell you about the dreams and the docks and the sun on his face. Of dog tags and disinfectant on his torn skin and toffee from corner stores.

It gives him time to tell you he’s thinking of going back to the past.

He watches the desolate road in front of his apartment, biting back a wry smile. "Very funny."

"Sorry. Couldn't help myself," she says and then adds something else he doesn't catch.

"What'd you say?" He squints at the bars-- he had full network.

"I said, we've only got clearance for a month and one week," she says, louder. "And that's after a lot of negotiating. So please try to make it back by then."

"Gotcha," he says, studying a cyclist that rode past him leisurely. "How are you gonna keep busy?"

"I've got my ways," Mona replies. "Oh! Last thing before your vacation officially starts--"

A sleek, black SUV pulls up in front of him in true movie fashion. The window rolls down to reveal your face complete with a bright smile and sunglasses, both out of place for this time of the morning. Still, he can't control himself and  his own lopsided smile grows at the sight.

"Too late," Steve says, waving to you before making his way around the back of the car. “Think it just did.“

"Just a document, I swear. Captain Ro-"

"It's just Steve, Mona." He sighs, balancing the phone between his shoulder blades as he leaves his two duffel bags in the trunk. “We've taken care of all of it. Even if I disappear tomorrow, it'll be fine."

The hecticness had slowed to a crawling pace, anyway. He put in a few extra hours, pre-recorded several videos for the public for various hypothetical scenarios, and in general seemed like he had done most of what he could from his position.

He made tired, but overall sincere, promises to return immediately if aliens landed up in the city again, or if Mona sent him an SOS. The latter was more of a priority.

"Okay, first of all, please don't do that,” Mona adds quickly. “If you’re planning on disappearing, then-"

"I was kidding." Sort of. "I'll sign the thing."

"Great!” He watches the white light on her face change to blue she switches apps. "Now, I know I said that was the last thing but-"

"Hanging up on you now." He closes the trunk firmly with a thud.

She lets out an exaggerated exhale before looking at him.

"I was just gonna say send me a postcard. I like the old, weird ones."

"I will keep that in mind," Steve promises. "Bye, Mona."

"Bye, Captain Rogers."

"Steve."

"Captain Steve," she replies swiftly before the screen goes dark, leaving him to stare at himself.

He shakes his head lightly, tucking his phone into his pocket and makes his way to the passenger's side.

"Hi," you say as he peers in through the window. "You ready to get this thing started?"

______

A map spread wide, arm to arm, takes up most of the space in the front.

"Why am I looking at this again?" he asks in delayed clarification, nevertheless not tearing his eyes away from it.

"For directions."

"Yes, but why?" The paper rustles as he folds it up in half neatly along the creases. "Last I checked, we still got GPS."

You have a firm grip on the steering wheel while your posture is relaxed back, one elbow leaning out the window.

There is an anticipatory curl in the corner of your mouth, and he’s lead to believe he is entirely too predictable in the kind of questions he asks.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right,” you reason, as he follows a trail down the printed road with his index finger. It’s a long way to go. "Like all the movies."

"Were these movies made after 2005?"

"You know, now that you mention it, they were in black and white," you say thoughtfully before turning to face him. “Are you absolutely sure you’re not hungry?”

“Positive. Had a good breakfast.” He can’t really see you through the obstruction of the map, but mostly he’s glad you can’t see him because he was still getting used to outright lying to you. “I got us some bars, just in case.”

“What bars?"

"Nuts, fruits. The usual. Oats."

"Stevie," you say in bewilderment, and he pulls down the paper to look at you, "I love you, but we’re not eating health bars on a road trip. Sam would have my head if I let you.”

“You might wanna avoid telling him about the protein shakes, then.”

“You did not.” Shock turns to horror at the idea of several containers worth of whey in his secondary duffel bag.

“Didn’t I?”

“No.” It takes no longer than a second to settle on. “You wouldn’t.”

The traffic you’ve spent half an hour in already graciously allows you to move a few inches forward. He wonders how long it would be till the skyscrapers and billboards would be swapped for a stretch of nothingness, a bright blue horizon and cloudless sky.

"Besides, even if you did," you continue, even though he thought the topic had already run its course, "once we start picking up all the unnecessary touristy shit at every stop along the way, I will not hesitate to throw your protein powder out first to save on space."

Steve smile reappears. "How much are you planning on buying?"

"Buddy, I got a whole other bag just for that," you draw out in a sing-song voice. "I'm gonna single-handedly fix this economy."

There’s a sharp reminder that flashes through his mind, leaving in its wake a sudden unsettling feeling that combs its way through him.

He should check if the list had made it with him on the trip. The stupid, godforsaken list.

"I wanted to get some stuff too," he says in an effort to placate it.

"Yeah? What stuff?"

"I’ll show you later," Steve waves off, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. "It's just some stuff from ‘round the country."

"Like memorabilia?"

"Kind of." He powers through the image of the torn notebook paper, a incomplete list in unruly handwriting, pressed between the folds of his pocket out of his brain.

"Sounds cool," you say. "We'll get 'em all."

“Why are you here, Captain?” she asks finally.

“You know why, doctor.” Steve's cheek leans on his fingers, leaving behind indents.

“It’s a part of your deal, I know,” she says, “but why are you here?”

Steve snaps the map up again, keeping him out of your sight before his eyes shut tightly.

“Where’s our first stop?” he musters as normally as he can.

“Given the state of this traffic, it'd be for lunch,” you reply, staring straight out at the line of cars in front of you. “After that it’s Pittsburgh. There’s this art museum I wanted to check out.”

Steve realizes he's been clenching his eyes too hard once the spots start dancing in front of him, forcing him to relax them.

“Art museum?”

“You like art, don’t you?”

“I do.” A heavyweight paper sketchbook and a set of good pencils were staples of his luggage. “But I didn't know you were into it now.”

“I mean, I've definitely developed an eye for the finer things, Steven. Art included.”

"Yeah? You got a favourite artist yet?"

"I don’t know if you’ve heard of this guy. He's kinda niche," you reply. "Bob Ross."

“Oh?”

"Big fan of the way he hits things with a brush. Very good use of space."

It's enough to make him laugh, dismiss the disembodied thoughts floating around in his head for a moment. He lowers the map and folds it up before tucking it back into the glove compartment.

Steve shifts in his seat again to pull out his phone, deciding to make himself useful by at least finding a good place to get lunch.

"According to the ratings, the nearest res-" he cuts himself off when he turns to look at you and finds a big grin on your face as you look out at the road ahead.

"What?" he asks instead, slightly confused.

“Nothing.” The smile on your face doesn’t let up. “Just been a while since I've heard that laugh."

_________

Steve’s been to one gallery since he was out of the ice.

For a man whose hand itches while his mind stalls, it’s criminal that the only time he had the opportunity to was on an undercover op.

It's strange how similar it all felt now, blue baseball cap covering his hair, oversized jacket with his hands shoved deep in the pockets and shoulders hunched to make himself smaller.

But this time, his low profile isn’t to trail a HYDRA operative. It was to avoid a seemingly unlikely confrontation in a silent hall. The crowd is sparse and scattered where available, but he supposes that was normal considering that it was a weekday evening.

You had gone in search of a map again, leaving him to his own devices for a few moments.

The place was gorgeous. A mix of both classical and modernism; high ceilings held up with marble pillars, art painstakingly carved into stone, grand staircases, and murals lining the walls, whereas the galleries were sleek, with plain white walls with strategic lighting, and labyrinth dividers.

Steve breathes in deeply, finding notes of aromatics they’ve used to enhance every human sense. If his being could fracture into shards of glass, he knew that the minute bits would be art, the ones that slip by unnoticed until you realize what filled in the gaps between the more significant pieces.

"Turns out they've got tours," you say, coming to stand beside him. "But they focus on specific artists or like, themed ones like the ‘Effect of Labor on Art’. Told 'em I'd ask you and let them know."

"Maybe we could just walk around for a while?" he proposes instead. A tour this early already seemed too restrictive, like he was following a schedule when he'd just managed to escape from one.

"That's what I was thinkin' too." You tap his shoulder lightly with a thin, folded brochure. "So I got us a map and a few directions from them to get started."

"Where to first?"

You narrow your eyes playfully at him. “How much do you know about contemporary art?”

“Haven't really had time to study it,” Steve replies. "I'd say roughly the same as you."

“So… not much.”

"I thought you had an eye for the finer things in life," he reminds as you begin leading the way.

"Oh yeah, I can definitely tell if it's fine or not." You grin. "Rest is obviously up for interpretation."

"So-- contemporary art first?"

You look down at the map where a little number indicated where you were. "Contemporary art first."

_____

Admittedly, this style of art isn’t really up Steve's alley, but he likes looking at them all the same. The symbolism isn't always decipherable, but he admires the flair and the subjectivity. Every piece of art had a bit of someone’s life in them, and it took a great deal to part with it from the kind embrace of your mind and leave it on a canvas.

His own sketches of Nat’s coffee cup on the window sill of their safehouse in Montana, or the view of Wakanda from the hall outside Bucky’s cryo chamber took a lot longer than some of the other quick doodles he’d leave on paper napkins.

"Art is subjective and all that, but I tell ya this, I got a lot to say about some of them."

Some of the pieces had colours that were striking, bold. Looking at them alone raises his spirits, even to the smallest degree.

Steve smiles slightly. "What does your fine eye make of it?"

“Of this one? It's... interesting,” you say, pausing in front of an acrylic on linen. Splashes of every shade of mustard in shapes, strokes, lines hiding lavender symbols at the back, highlighted by notes of black. "Very strong narrative."

Steve silently waits for an explanation.

“It’s about the artist’s love for her niece. There’s lavender for the nursery she helped paint, yellow for her love and the black’s representative of her troubled relationship with her sister,” you explain, eyes never leaving the painting. “She wishes she could see her niece more, be a part of her life but her sister isn’t having any of it. It’s why there’s such little lavender in the grand scheme of things, always hidden by a lot of black.”

Steve lingers at the picture, following every word you say with the intent of connecting it with what he can see. He knows you're talking about of your ass, but it was mildly impressive.

His eyes flicker towards you.

"Like I said," you finish, "very strong narrative."

“You just came up with that on the spot?" Steve asks instead.

“Who, me? Lying?” You scoff. “Never.”

His jaw clicks as it slides to the side before returning to its position, eyes trained on the floor with a shake of his head. He tries his best to hide his smile before looking back up at you.

The next few ones are observed in silence before you move on. You don’t provide your analysis, even though he waits for it, shifting focus between you and the art.

By the third one he realizes that you probably weren’t going to unless he asks. But he missed your voice. He could do with a little more of it.

“You got anything to say about this?“ he asks, face stoic as he points to one that from afar looks like oil pastels on paper. It’s scribbles upon scribbles of different colours, drawn without any restraint. "Strong narrative?"

He watches the corner of your mouth quirk up.

“Messy, non-linear narrative," you correct, head leaning to the side. "The creator was clearly thrilled about something. A lot of colours, messy. Man was having the time of his life.”

Steve feels a laugh bubble up to his chest. “Right.”

“These little circles here-” You point so confidently to the corner of the canvas, it almost sounds convincing “-they represent the magic mushrooms he was on while painting this.”

That was definitely… an opinion.

"Very insightful," he agrees, following you as you throw him a wink over your shoulder. “What about that?”

“This one’s easy.” You stop in front of a blank canvas. There’s a thin square of red outlining the boundary, but it’s bare except for it.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Wait, read the description first,” you encourage, pointing at the label at the side. “I wanna see if I’m right.”

“Unnamed, by Flo Dyer, is a prototypical minimalist abstraction.” A whole lot of words for a canvas full of nothing. “The visual and tangible characteristics of the piece pushes the interpreter into a journey of self-discovery.”

“Obviously,” you say. “Duh.”

---

The gallery is divided, each hosting works from different eras, Impressionist and Post-Impressionist. This, he has a little more experience. He'd read a few books, talked to kids who had enough money and time to get into art school, to have his mouth slightly agape the minute he steps in.

The detail and care in every restored painting hanging on the wall takes whatever words he could have from his throat, rolls them up and blows them into the wind. He wants to extend a finger forward, brush up against it and feel history under his skin. But he can’t, so he settles on watching from afar.

He wordlessly spends time in front of each painting, breathing in the passion and love of people who lived centuries before him.

The longest time he spends is at the portrait of a sleeping woman, head draped delicately over her forearm. You don't say anything, only sitting patiently beside him as he loses track of the evening.

It reminds him of the light through the window falling on the mattress pushed up against the wall. Slow afternoons and her sleeping figure under it, back turned to Steve. He wonders how the heat didn't seem to phase her.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, eyes not leaving the art.

Steve's attention snaps back to you, blinking away slow afternoons and the blanket left at the foot of the bed.

“Albert J Moore.” He can hear his own voice muted as it replies. “Acacias.”

Steve wants to ask if you can feel the same sense of peace that washes over him the longer he watches it.

He hopes you do. It’s a feeling he wants to float in for as long as he could.

___

Roaming around the museum on his own wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Steve liked seeing which ones you had a visceral reaction to, whether it be awe or criticism. Whatever facts he knew, he’d rattle off and you’d listen attentively as if his word was gospel. Each gallery with its own collection had something for him to linger at a little longer, and sometimes he explained why but others he couldn't.

The next gallery he enters, he enters through a small path until he comes to a stop in front of one piece in specific. Even without glancing at the name, he can tell the artist; it was so distinct.

Steve knew the works of Edward Hopper. Had seen them cited far more often these last few years than any other artist, but this is the first time he’s seen one in its original form.

Sunday, it’s called.

Sunday by Edward Hopper, 1926.

Oil on canvas, it has the almost sepia-like laziness that comes with the end of the week. Warm colours dip in and out of shadows, it paints the curbside of a road lining rows of closed shops.

In 1926, Steve was 8. A spunky, spitfire eight that by May, had already been in and out of the nurse’s office four times.

Eight-year-old Steve still remembered his ma asleep on the mattress that was usually reserved for his frail bones most of the week, until the weekend rolled around and she got two hours to herself on it for a nap. He left the apartment to find something else to do, somewhere else to let off some energy that came with pent up defiance at the world residing in his blood.

On Steve’s curbside, the shops weren’t closed for the weekend. They were ‘Sorry! Closed for Business’ on weekends, weekdays, months, years. Sometimes a new owner flipped over the cardboard sign to welcome people in, and flipped it right back after a month.

Edward Hopper’s curbside has a man in the forefront. There’s a cigarette in his mouth, and his arms are closed in a way that shuts him off from the world. In the deserted, empty street this man--

The man looks at him and Steve feels seen, as though his stare has pierced through the seven walls of defense that lines his chest.

The man looks at him and he knows. The man knows.

Steve feels it in his heart first, before it makes its way up to his throat like a rush of bile. His cheeks pain, ache. It’s a feeling he thought he got over a long time ago as everything unrelentingly went on.

He feels out of time.

“You know this one?” you ask when he doesn't make any movement,

"No." His answer is short, mumbled.

“What are you lookin’ at?”

His soul, it feels like. Bared out there for the world to see how much of a damn liar he is. The man and his cigar don’t look at you. They pierce through him and him alone.

Your gaze follows his. “He seems lonely.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice comes out hoarse, “he does.”

“’Least he’s got a smoke.” You’re optimistic, too radiant for a portrait like this. He’s glad that it doesn’t affect you the way it does him; at least he knows that you have nothing on your conscience to have exposed to the world like this.

The man has a cigar and Stevie has a shield.

And they’re both alone.

___

It takes you linking your arm with his for him to finally pull himself away from the painting, but the walk to the next gallery is spent with him wishing it would stop searing itself stronger into his brain each time he closed his eyes.

The final collection is at the far end of the hall, in a separate room altogether. Accessible only if you wanted to, which was good. Saves people from an uninvited gloom.

Pain and Perseverance: A Glimpse Look into the Darkest Years

He knows what it’s about. You do, too, which is why you turn to him hesitantly.

“We don’t have to go in,” you say, standing near enough to him for his enhanced hearing to catch your heartbeat. It tethers him, connects him to a living, breathing being.

“I think we should,” he replies, steadfast to the point it was almost robotic.

There is only one other person in the room with you both, and she isn’t paying much attention to him, so he takes off his cap in reverence.

It’s fitting how silent and closed off this part of the museum is to the rest of the world. A tribute to those who wouldn't be able to set foot into this room.

Your hand slides out from his and he lets you go gently. He knows you’re around, so it’s okay. He knew the second you'd walked in that you'd need space to process each piece on your own.

He quietly makes his way through the fifteen paintings and photographs, mulling over each one for a few seconds at the very least.

There’s one in all black, two birch wood trees on a hill with nothing else in the distance. Another blurry picture of a single armchair left to collect dust from years of unuse in the corner of an old age home.

Steve doesn't dare to swallow the heaviness in his throat. There is anger, regret, helplessness in the walls around him. But all of it stems from the same miserable channel- a single, desperate sadness.

He lands up at the final piece on display, a glass box standing tall. The woman from earlier is still there, unmoving.

Steve doesn’t disturb her, only stays a step away from her and instead stands in front of painting of comfort, of two men so close their necks entwined with each other.

“Sorry.” She clears her throat to get his attention, giving him a misty smile when he turns to look at her.

“Please,” he says, earnest and kind, “take all the time you need.”

“Feels like I’ve been here hours.” She inclines her head towards the casing. “There’s something about it.”

He only waits for her to finish. A few minutes of silence later, she takes a step to the side, allowing him a little space to stand beside her and see for himself what she had stopped at.

It’s a sculpture, a kid made of metal, with spangly arms and a tiny head molded rustically like years of weathering had done a number on him. His arms wrap around his knees, hugging them close to his body as he dipped his forehead in the valley they formed together.

Its emotion lays in its simplicity- anything more than what has been made would have been too much.

There’s a pull that doesn’t allow him to tear his eyes away from it. The only time he does is to read the artwork label, to gain a little more insight.

“Heartbreaking, isn’t it?” the stranger asks from beside him. His silence and the pit in his stomach is enough to answer.

Berta Pedrero (b. 1976)
Despair, 2020
In memory of her son, Mateo J. Pedrero.

He hopes she’s all right. He hopes she made it out all right.

If he dared to, he would shoot a little prayer into the sky for her son, wherever he is, but he stays grounded, eyes on the sculpture because he remembers he has forgone that right a long time ago.

The stranger beside him walks off after a few more minutes of silence. He can feel your hand slip into his, and he holds on, tighter than usual.

Steve continues to stare, long after she’s gone.

___

You read out the description from the pamphlet, the idea behind the execution and the artists who made it possible as Steve walks silently beside you.

“Took three years to curate it,” you inform him. “Fifteen different countries. They’ve included a quote.”

His gaze flicks to you, clearing his throat as he asks, “What is it?”

You wordlessly hand it over to him and he scans the page until it lands on the quote at the bottom.

The poets write of tragedy, not to honor the sorrow,
but to remind themselves that something survived it.
-A.J.

Steve exhales, jaw tightening as he reads through it again.

Though the sentiment is strong and he feels it in his bones, he discards his pamphlet on the way out. He already carries the weight of the world on his back, and he tries not to add the weight of the words to his pocket.

-----

"Okay, Rogers." You clap your hands together, rubbing your palms as you shift in your seat. "Prelude to the big event. Spill.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. "This wasn't the start of the road trip?"

"Nope. That only starts once we get to the first official stop. This is just the introduction. The prequel, if you may."

"Ah," he says from across the booth. "It was... impressive."

"Please note that at the end of this trip, you will be filling out a form on the overall serve so that we can improve our experiences for next time.” You sound exactly like some of the sales people he’s met, chipper yet monotone.

"Can't wait." Steve picks up his glass of water, avoiding your sight. Next time. "As if the very comprehensive survey you sent wasn't enough."

"You chose to be friends with a scientist. I had to check all the variables and preferences before I planned a trip."

"What did my fabric preferences have to do with the road we're taking?"

There's a wicked twinkle in your eye. "Just checkin’ those boxes, Rogers. Like I said, all variables"

The kitchen doors open, and Steve hears the crackle and sizzle from inside for a few seconds before they swing shut again. The brief opening is enough for the smell of meat grilling to overpower the scent of lemon pies in display domes, stale coffee and freshly mopped floors.

"What is it then?" Steve asks as you push a large glass towards him. "The trip you’ve planned?"

You look up at the waiter, giving him a quick smile as he leaves two milkshakes on the table.  

"Route 66."

His eyebrows knit together in recognition. "The Mother Road?"

"You've heard of it." Your smile widens.

"Yeah, they started constructing it when I was a kid. I thought it didn't exist anymore."

“Technically it doesn’t,” you admit. “But I’ve done my research. We’re just following what it used to be. Old highways and signs and all that.”

He hums in agreement. “And if we get lost?”

“I got a couple of flare guns in the trunk,” you dismiss. “I’ll get you to California, Stevie, don’t you worry.”

He doesn’t doubt it.

“So,” you say, wiping your hands on your napkin before unlocking your phone and sliding it towards him, “We stay at the motel down the road tonight, get an early start tomorrow.”

Steve's reply is cut short before it even begins when someone comes to stand beside him.

"Here you go," the server drags the last syllable out, placing two hefty plates in front of you both. "Enjoy."

Steve thanks him courteously before says before eyeing what you'd convinced him to order.

“To the first burgers,” you hold up a fry, “and many more to come.”

Steve pulls the plate towards him where it joins his still untouched vanilla milkshake.

"No healthy stuff, you said?" He peers up at you.

"‘Least not for the first week,” you reply determinedly. "Relax. You can get back to the oat bars next week."

“I haven't only been eating protein shakes and nut bars,” he protests. “Microwave dinners. They aren't the healthiest, they should count.”

"I thought you hated those." Your eyebrows knit together. "Isn’t that why you cooked?"

Steve's voice immediately drops to a mumble. "Haven't had the time."

“She still pickin’ up those extra shifts?”

“Double this weekend.” Steve fidgets with a newspaper.

“How’re you gonna keep yourself fed?”

“I can cook.”

“Cereal ain’t a meal, kid.”

If you notice the shift in his tone, it's quickly distracted by the way he pushes a fry around the plate.

“Jesus, Rogers, it’s not gonna kill you.”

“I’m old.” Nevertheless, he pulls the glass towards him. “We can’t write off anything.”

You snort. “Just drink the milkshake, Stevie. It’s good for ya.”

Burgers, greasy, well-salted fries and exorbitantly large glasses of milkshakes; it’s probably the most American Steve’s felt in a while. The minute he takes a bite from it, his body sinks down with a content sigh that has you grinning.

“Tomorrow, the first stop; Chicago, right?” He takes another bite from his burger, watching you scroll through pictures of the motel for him.

“Yep.”

“We got plans there?” The food shouldn’t taste this good, but it does. Probably one of the better establishments you were going to encounter on this trip but he can’t really be bothered by the implications at that moment.

“I got a few ideas.” You pull your phone back before returning to your meal. “But mostly we’ll be figuring it out as we go. Survey results dictate that we don't follow a tight schedule.”

"Today we're in Morocco. Next week we'll be in Lebanon," she sings slowly. "After that who knows?"

"Depends on where we're needed next." He takes aim and throws his dart.

Beyond all the restrictiveness and tediousness, he was just really fucking tired of them.

“You know," you pipe up, observing his features for a second, "you’ve been doing this thing a lot."

“What?”

“Spacing out.” Ah, fuck. “You did it back there, at the museum too.”

Steve simply shrugs, head turned down to his plate. “It just happens."

“How long?”

As long as you'd known him, he had always been attentive, on his toes, waiting.

“A little while.” He can pinpoint exactly when and what had lead to it. Studying through window blinds, old uniforms, and all of a sudden his path for the future started to get less clear.

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“Not specifically."

You pause. "Does anyone know?”

Steve’s next exhale comes at a delayed pace.

"You'd be the first."

Your lips press together in a thin line, deep crevice between your eyebrows.

"I've just been tired lately," he deflects. It wasn’t a whole lie, but it feels wrong. He had time. He had time. He has to remind himself that he had time.

Steve continues quickly, “I'll be fine. Look, I'll be gettin' loads more sleep now anyway.”

He leans forward to steal a fry off your plate and it works to an extent. There's a small smile that pulls at one side of your face.

"Steve."

"Sweetheart." He cracks a smile. “I'll be fine, I promise. What have you been writing lately?”

The swift subject change has you furrowing your brows, and then a sigh when it registers. However, you drag yourself forward to take a sip from your milkshake.

“Nothing,” you admit. “Haven't written in a while.”

It’s the silence that lingers in the air that prompts you to go on.

“I dunno.” You twirl a fry around the plate. “Been hard to find something to write about.”

Steve finishes off the last of his burger, wiping his hands down on a napkin.

“When was the last time?”

Your eyes squint in contemplation. “Six, seven years ago?”

“Can I get y’all anything else?” the server chirps from beside the booth, refiling your glasses of water, while balancing a tray in another.

You look at Steve and he shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just the bill, please.”

“Sure thing,” he says, setting down a plate with a slice of pie. “Enjoy.”

You glance up in confusion. “I think you have the wrong table.”

“It’s on the house.” It’s clear who it’s for, though the answer remains up in the air.

Steve sends the man a side-smile. “Appreciate it.”

The server nods, before leaving the both of you alone.

“Told you your stupid cap isn’t going to do anything.” You laugh when Steve pulls it off his head and sets it down beside him, running a hand through his flattened hair.

“Just got us a free piece of pie, I’d say it has some use.” He passes you a spoon and pushes the plate so it’s in the middle of you both.

“Right, because it’s your fashion sense that won them over, Steven.” You break a piece of the crust. ”Lift your leg up, show ‘em your slacks. Maybe we could get an extra slice for the road.”

He laughs, partly at you and partly at the absurd amount of whipped cream on the pie itself. It was generous, to say the least, and melting all over the still-warm filling. Pretty as a picture.

“Fuck, that’s good.” You sigh, chewing thoughtfully. “I need to earn free food privileges if this is what I’m missing out on.”

“The pie’s the better end of the deal.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth. “A lot of the time it’s beer bottles with your face on it.”

“Classy,” you reply, having seen exactly what he was referring to. “What's next? Your face on underwear?”

Steve's silence and his failing ability to hide a pained smile has you faltering in your movements.

"Really?"

"I've been shown pictures," he complains. "From what I know, they're not sold as a collection or retail line."

"Which means they're customized," you continue, fingers pinched together explanatory. "Does that make it better or worse?"

Steve's nose scrunches and he hides his distaste with a spoonful of pie in his mouth. "You tell me."

He’s a little grateful that you don’t shy away from pulling his leg. Makes him feel normal, like he was more than a concept; if there was something so hilarious about Steve as an ambassador for patriotic fireworks then it means that he hasn’t lost himself completely.

“What’s an average person gotta do around here to be inspiration for horrifying underwear, huh?” You send the last piece of pie his way. "Get printed on cereal boxes, et cetra et cetra."

“Get kidnapped, maybe.” He accepts it without an argument. “They’ll stick you on a couple of milk cartons.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he sends you a sly smile in return.

"Invent something.”

“Hell, maybe I will.” You wave your spoon around dangerously. “Get my name in a textbook.”

“You could do that,” he agrees. “You'd have the resources from the new job. A whole team under you, funding.”

You narrow your eyes at him. "Very smooth, Rogers."

His smile comes back bashful. “Why don’t you want to take it? I thought it’s everything you’ve worked towards.”

“It is.” You collect foam off the side of your glass with the straw, a distraction from having to look at him. “I’m just not sure I’m ready for it.”

“Is it the job or something else?”

Your lips press together, curling inward, but you don’t respond. It tells him he’s clocked you scarily fast.

“Job’s mine whenever I want it,” you say, eyes still trained on anything you could fiddle with. “I’m just not sure I’ll ever be ready."

Steve only slips his hand into yours the same way you did at the museum and squeezes. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and he returns it before you shake your head in an attempt to change the mood.

“I’m not kidding about the slacks, by the way.” It immediately relieves some of the tension that had settled in comfortably.

"Yeah, hold on, I'll lift my leg up," Steve affirms, clearing his throat.

“Damn right. Let’s see if we can score another flavour, I know you get hungry at night.”

He forces himself off the bed sharply. Skin stretched tight over his knuckles, they press into his closed eyes hard enough to have the familiar white dots rock across his darkened vision.

Grounding was a no-go. It didn't mean he could give up on finding a way to centre himself again.

So, he runs through his routine in his head-- wake up. Brush. Shower; he can feel his hair stick to his forehead, so he knows he's done that.

He's still in his sweatpants, though. Did he leave the room that morning? What the hell was the time again?

“Stevie." Your knock comes at the door like a shot. "You up?”

He lets out a shaky breath, clenching his eyes close for another second before he shakes himself out of it.

“Give me a minute,” he calls out, pulling a shirt over his head, his sneakers on his feet and grabbing his duffle bag.

Pull yourself together, Rogers.

Steve pauses at the handle, shaking his limbs before pulling on a straight face. There were too many locks on this damn thing-- and he'd done up every single one of them.

He wants to scoff. Which attacker of his would be kind enough to use the front door?

The entrance creaks open on rusted hinges, revealing you with two paper cups, a box of something that swiftly makes up for the stench of musty carpets, and an excited grin.

Regardless of how shit his morning had been so far, a soft smile effortlessly makes its way onto his face at the sight.

“Breakfast,” you hold up the box, “and your usual.” You extend a cup out to him.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He takes the weight off your hands, swinging his own bag over his shoulder. “Where’d you get this?”

“I was up early,” you say, moving aside as he shut the door behind him. “Complimentary breakfast didn’t look too good so I got us some from the bakery. It’s bagels.”

The coffee’s a blessing considering how long he was up last night, tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress with hair damp from sweat since the air conditioning unit gave up on him about midway through his attempt to beat the possible reappearance of his stupid dream.

He makes a small sigh of relief when it hits the back of his throat, further going on to wish that the headache would clear itself up without much of a hassle.

“You got the keys?” You drop the trunk shut, making your way over to the passenger’s side.

They jingle as he holds it up, climbing into the front seat. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, typing in a quick response before placing it in the cup holder.

To Bucky:
Not yet.

Steve rolls his neck to get rid of the stiffness before starting the ignition.

___

By the time the car pulls into the city, the sun has shifted from overhead and was steadily moving towards the horizon.

Time had slipped past smoothly on stops for lunch and to let Steve stretch his legs out, maybe even take a short walk. You'd insisted heavily on taking spending a while more so that he could have some respite from being behind the wheel that long, but he promised you that he was fine.

At the diner, Steve finds himself doodling absentmindedly on a stray napkin as he listened to you talk. A plain road and an adjoining footpath, desolate. But the water stain from his glass smudges the ink, and there is nothing left to do to save it.

The evening shines golden, and when he does opt to lose the faded blue baseball cap for a few minutes, so does his hair in the light. A song plays at a steady volume from the radio, the playlist a balanced list of road trip essentials, occasionally mixed in with hits from previous generations for him.

"Navy Pier’s close by.”

“Navy Pier’s a tourist trap.” Your feet were propped up on the dashboard. It doesn't even occur to him to go into a spiel about how the car was rented. “Reddit told me.”

“Then let’s go someplace else.” Steve catches your eye through the rearview mirror, tinted by the sunglasses that are perched on the bridge of his nose. “What’s on the list?”

"Well, first thing's first, you're gonna have to pull up near Adams Street," you read out to him.

"What's on Adams Street?"

Your mouth twists into an easy smile. "You'll see."

______

It's a pole.

More specifically, an inordinately decorated and obviously well-loved signboard marking the historical beginning of the route.

Stickers littered the entire length of it, and those who could get to the actual board on top have snuck a few on there too, right under the lettering.

You squint at a few questionable choices of content, but overall think it's pretty neat.

"I got us one too," you inform him.

"Sticker?"

"Close enough." You pull out a small stack of pale yellow sticky notes and hand him a pen. "Go on. Sign it."

He complies, and you fill the remaining space with your signature before peeling it off the top and pressing it proudly to the pole. It'd probably rip away within the next hour from the wind, but it hardly fazes you, so he adopts a similar approach.

"Welcome," you announce, voice deep, "to the beginning of the end."

Steve raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't outright question your choice of words. Though it was absolutely a joke, he can't help the vine of discomfort that suddenly creeps up the walls of his stomach.

"Go stand there so I can take a picture." You wag a finger at the sign.

"What about you?"

"Someone's gotta take the picture, Steven."

"Why would I stand alone?" Steve questions. "We're here together."

"Fine," you relent, eyes scouting around until your sight lands a few seconds later.

Steve watches you bound over to someone, thumbs hooking onto the buckle of his belt to give him something to hold onto.

The guy you speak to dons a beanie with necklaces drooping well down to his chest, a black oversized t-shirt and similarly oversized pants.

Steve had done a video with a bunch of teens a while ago where they dressed him in something familiar, but no component made a lasting impression on his wardrobe choices. Contrary to what the publicist had said, he wasn't sure how that helped his public image-- but whatever.

A few seconds later the guy's nodding in agreement and you jut your thumb out in Steve's direction.

"Okay, c'mere," you tug Steve towards the pole, sliding an arm around his waist.

Without any thought, his arm goes around your shoulder, giving it a short squeeze, bringing a dizzying smile to your lips.

"Any chance of you takin' that non-disguise disguise off?" you whisper to him.

On one of the most crowded streets, in the middle of the week at what was nearing rush hour traffic?

"Nope," he replies, volume low.

"Cheese!"

You grin. Steve puts on a polite smile.

____

Three hours later and Steve's been dragged up and down the Magnificent Mile in search of odd trinkets or maybe to scoff at high-end stores, fed copious amounts of popcorn and a hotdog. His metabolism thanked you for remembering.

He's seen the gigantic metal bean, and the outside of Wembley and ate another hotdog. You'd already bought two knickknacks to take back home, true to your promise of singlehandedly reviving the recovering economic system. It makes him think your threat to his non-existent protein powder may hold true.

"We can check out the stadium, or maybe Millenium Park?" you suggest, scrolling rapidly through your phone, eyes unable to stop reading even for a second.

"Both of them sound good," he replies, a faint flush covering his cheek.

"I'll have to check if they're open, though," you wonder, like you're making a note to yourself. "Maybe we could go check out the inside of Sears instead."

The sun had finally gone down, and Steve's fingers thrum against the wheel as you run every option out loud. The traffic light blinks red and he increases the speed of the AC.

"We've got another day here, right?" Steve inquires when you list another three landmarks to yourself.

"What was that?" Your eyes snap up to meet his.

His brows raise in amusement. "Maybe we should save something for tomorrow."

Questioning gazes melt away into slightly embarrassed guilt when you finally notice Steve's hair tousled and lips a little darker.

"You're right," you admit sheepishly. "I got a little carried away."

A reassuring smile curls at his mouth. "I think it's sweet."

"So that leaves dinner." You choose to ignore the heat climbing up your neck. For the sake of your sanity, that is.

The traffic lets up for a few seconds and Steve brings the car to a crawl.

"Where to?" he asks.

You hum, looking out the window. "I got an idea, but I'm gonna need to talk with someone first."

_____

Steve waits by the car, arms stretching over his head tightly as he watches you chat spiritedly to the security guard at the entrance of a random clothing store.

The man laughs at something you say and your shoulders rise and drop, one palm balanced on your hip. The guard points to something in the distance, explaining something with exaggerated hand gestures in the form of directions and you hang on to every word, nodding at timed intervals.

If he wasn't aware that you had just met the man, he'd have thought you'd been friends for ages by the way he chuckles and beams at you.

Steve's phone buzzes, and he's momentarily torn away from the sight.

From Bucky:
you ARE going to, right

He swallows back the lump that suddenly appears in his throat, but he finds himself typing out a response agonizingly slow, letter by letter.

His thumb hovers above the send option as he reads, and then re-reads the sentence.

"Okay, so here's the plan."

Steve's eyes snap up to yours, and he locks his phone, sliding it back into his pocket.

"Xavier there says that trying to get to the top of Sears is pointless. Huge crowd at all hours, and it'll be closing soon now anyway."

"Right." Steve clears his throat to get rid of the itch.

"That building there, however-" you make a mention with your index to another high rise a few ways down, but starkly visible against the night sky-- "we can walk into the bar, get a drink and get basically the same view without the two hour wait time. Sound good?"

"Sounds great."

"Cool. Keys," you request and Steve tosses them to you without question.

"Thank you!" you call out again to Xavier who gives you a small wave in return.

_____

The music and laughter were raucous around him, energy pulsing through the air with every beat that reverberates through the floor. It’s such an acute contrast to the quiet keyboard clicking of office hallways and hushed whispers in boardrooms.

The ‘Leave your sad shit outside’ sign at the door probably had something to do with the kind of crowd the establishment attracted. That, and the several colourful illuminated signs, brazen humour and purposeful graffiti in the industrial, neon-style bar.

You were off on a little sidequest; the last he had seen of you was when you were talking to the bartender. He has no idea how you do it. He'd basically held conversation only with you today and he was already at his limit.

Instead, Steve was tasked to go find a seat, which he did, relatively close to the whole view of the city. The game playing the flat screen TV from the bar reflects in the glass, and Steve peers at it occasionally when his attention is stolen by the sound of a blender or clinking of ice.

It’s a lively little place and for a second, he remembers what it’s like to just relax.

Dugan's moustache had a thin trail of foam beginning to attach itself under it.

Steve eyes him in question as he raises his second pint of the night.

"Well, I’ll always fight. But you gotta do one thing for me," he lets the proposal hang in the air.

Relief floods his system, not shown on his face as the one corner of his mouth still remains upturned.

"What’s that?" Steve inquires.

The man slams down his empty beer mug and a refreshing exhale.

"Open a tab."

“Alcohol.”

Steve's attention springs back to you when you set down two pints on the table rather loudly, the bar stool scuffing against the floor as you take a seat.

When Steve's eyes lift from the pale, strange liquid to catch yours, you make a mention with a shoulder.

“Courtesy of the boys over there.”

He follows your line of sight to a group of men watching both of you intently.

“I have a feeling this isn’t meant for me," he comments.

“I did tell them I had a hot friend.” You blow them a small kiss and a wave, and they don’t look very happy about the turn of events. “It’s their fault that they just assumed.”

"Should I bother saying thanks?”

“Somehow I don’t think they wouldn’t like that very much, Steve.” You push the glass to him, expertly navigating around the untouched plate of nachos that Steve had been valiantly guarding. “Also, it’s basically nothing. Can’t get drunk if I’m driving tomorrow.”

“You know I can't get drunk, right?” He accepts it from you, leaning forward on his forearms. "You should drink if you want to."

"I do. I also remember promising you that I would most certainly find a way around that." You pop a chip in your mouth with a grin on your face.

"You got hold of some Asgardian stuff?"

"No." You scoff at the idea. "I've never even met Thor. Feels a bit rude to be having him pick me up something from duty free, no?"

Steve scoops up some guac with his fork. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"I bet. But nah, if I'm doing it, I'm doing it from scratch." You watch him, jaw resting on your palms. “And either way, we’re taking turns driving. What fun would it be if I just passed out in the passenger's seat?”

“You’d miss all the cows.” There were so fucking many of them. He thinks he's seen more cows on this trip so far than he has his whole life.

“I’d miss all the cows,” you repeat, a grin on your face.

Someone laughs loudly into a set-up for a live band, turning it into his personal karaoke bar, stumbling over words and half singing a Tina Turner song into a switched off mic. His friends holler back the lyrics, a few hands in the air to wave about.

“We could spend another day here,” you offer, pulling his attention towards you. “Like, even if we don't finish tomorrow, we could check out the stuff we missed day after.”

“Anything you want to do, I'm down with,” Steve says in true honesty, because while it still feels locked away behind a window he doesn't have a key to, he can understand why you chose this place. It’s magnetic, a vibrant kind of bliss that was difficult to find these days.

“You sure about that?” you ask slowly, the smile never leaving. "Doing anything I wanna do?"

He raises an eyebrow, setting down the pint when the mischief finally surfaces.

Your head tilts towards the stage where the group from earlier had all crowded on in support of their friend.

“No way.”

“I know you got a set of pipes in you, Rogers.”

“Yeah, no one said the pipes were good. City’s been through enough.”

“Whatever you say, buddy,” you tease, scooping another chip into your mouth and dusting your hands off. “Still think your cover of Doris Day beats the original.”

“I bet you do,” he says dryly, eyeing you as you relax into your seat. "Can't be the cause for Miss Day turning over in her grave tonight."

Your eyes dart about for a while, observing the people around you.

Steve takes a sip of his-- well, whatever this was. His mind hasn't really zeroed in on what he was consuming.

His mind floats back to his initial promise. Hell, you didn’t even have to go anywhere after this. He’d be more than happy spending it in the car as long as the glint in your eye still remained the way it was right now.

"Do you miss it?" you ask, soft smile on your face at the chaos on stage. "Being able to get drunk?"

"Sometimes." He pushes around a small chopped piece of tomato around the plate. "I didn't do it often, but it was all right. Don't miss the throwing up part though."

Your nose wrinkles. "Yeah, no, agree. Worst part about getting drunk and high every day was cleaning the bathroom the next morning so your roommate doesn't complain, even when you can barely stand straight yourself."

Steve's eyes flicker over to your face for a second at the mention of that part of your past.

You, however, gloss right over it. "What about the rest of it?"

Steve's sight lands on the table and the strange burn mark on the wood.

"I don't know. Some parts, I guess, but I've never really thought about it."

It creeps up at times when he least expects it, leaving him wondering why he misses the feeling of being tired after a five-mile run. He wonders if it'd be easy, too, when he sits in another board meeting, to get out of these meetings if he'd somehow gone back to his pre-serum self. They probably wouldn't even want him there.

The thought is all too tempting, sometimes.

"What about you?" he diverts.

"I don't really remember much from that era," you admit. "Which is good, I think. It's mostly a big blank, I missed out on a good coupla years."

"If it helps, we both kinda did." Steve takes another slow sip from his drink.

"Oh, yeah." You poke at his forearm across the small table. "Twinning."

He gives you a tiny smile, and you toss another chip into your mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully.

"What do you wish you were around to see?" you ask, watching the lights shift from pink to blue to purple on Steve's face. "The advent of the internet? Full House?"

He doesn't think he's ever been asked this before. It's mostly always just about his workout routine or his comment on a new government fuck up.

"Drive-in theatres," he replies after a while. "Always thought that woulda been fun."

It's not an answer you expected, but you're still quick to say, "Those are still around, you know."

"Yeah, just never found the time." He shrugs.

"Let's go now," you announce, dusting off your hands and making a show of standing up. "C'mon, I'm pretty sure they have late-night screenings."

He'd agree except he'd slept for a total of maybe ten hours in the last week, and whether he liked it or not, the lack of shut-eye had begun to take its toll on him. The idea of staying up till 2am when that was usually when he caught his troubled half hour of sleep before shooting awake again didn't look all that great right now.

Steve chuckles. "How does tomorrow after dinner sound?"

"Sounds perfect," you agree. "I'll look for tickets. It'll be fun."

The stupid-- what he expects is completely dopey-- smile on his face refuses to leave, no matter how much he can feel his cheeks strain or mind wander.

"Do you want something else to drink?" you ask pointedly towards his pint.

Steve looks at your half-empty mug and his nearly full one.

You watch as he downs it like pure water in three strong gulps.

"That was terrible," he lets you know, placing his mug down.

"Well, I mean--" you gesture to it vaguely-- "it was free, so I can't imagine it was really the best quality drink they have to offer."

"Fair enough." Steve pauses. "Next round's on me."

_____

It’s a walk and a half to get you back to the car, all the way in the parking 96 floors below.

“You think you can walk straight?” He has an arm around your shoulder, keeping you close.

“I’m not a lightweight, Steven. Have a little faith.” You roll your eyes but you keep his arm around you all the same.

“I believe ya.” He receives a shove in response, more for the satisfaction than an actual attempt to push him away. ”What? Swear I do.”

You huff in disbelief but inch closer to him than you had been a few seconds ago, all the way until you reach the place your rented SUV had been parked.

“Motel's, like, ten minutes away." You reluctantly separate from him so that he can grab the keys from his pocket. "You know the directions?"

"What's the name of the place again?"

You squint while trying to recall before giving him the right name, and he fishes out his phone to enter it into the GPS.

"Coward," you sing. "Use the maps."

"Y'know, the motel was built after the 1800s," Steve replies, jabbing in his password.

"I'll have you know the map was revised in '02, thank you very much."

"1902?"

"Oh, hello. The man who carries around a compass suddenly has a lot to say about primitive tech now."

Steve grins, and offers no rebuttal.

The screen opens to the last page it was on before he'd hastily shut it.

From Bucky:
you ARE going to, right

The light buzz he'd collected just by being around infectiously happy people disappears almost immediately.

Steve's eyes raise from his phone to meet yours. The look in your eyes is purely sanguine, lips lifted in contentment and a hum on your tongue, the last song playing as you left the bar as you looked around the parking lot, waiting for him to open the door to the car.

"Found it yet?"

"Just a second," he says, voice coming out very slightly strained. "Signal's bad in here."

"So much for your fancy shmancy, anti-map technology." You scoff good-naturedly at him. "Do you want me to check?"

But Steve's barely paying attention. In fact, he gets then exactly why he’d been avoiding your calls. Why he'd rescheduled and cancelled hangouts more times than he could count and why visits never lasted too long.

The minute he sees you, it’s all he can think about. This is what he knows will rest in his mind for days to come.

Bucky was right, he'd been avoiding it for as long as he could. And you didn't deserve that.

"Got it," you respond, holding up your phone. "Leggo."

Before he can even compute what's going on, Steve's hand encases yours, causing you to taper off in your attempt to open the car door.

You narrow your eyes playfully. "I've told you before, Steven, I can open the door for myse-"

“I need to tell you something,” he interrupts, all but blurting his words out.

It catches you by slight surprise, but you drop your hand from the door and spin to face him.

"Okay. Tell me what?"

Steve stares at you like an idiot, wondering how the fuck he got this far and what to do with it now.

It'd been more progress than he'd made in months. This was beyond the erased messages he'd meant to send and leaving in a haste before he could feel it bubble out of him on movie nights.

You wait for him to go on, a small smile on your face. Whatever effect the alcohol had, he knew it'd worn out a while ago; this happiness was just you from a good evening. God, he already fucking hated what was about to happen.

The overwhelming urge to just fucking lie and tell you it’s about how he had a good time, or about the kid from his block or just anything other than-

“I think I wanna go back,” he says stoically, a little too loudly to just shut up all his other thoughts.

You tilt your head in confusion, arms pulling over your chest.

“To the bar?”

Fuck.

That was a second chance. He could still get out of it.

He swallows hard, words at the tip of his tongue faltering.

Steve couldn't just fucking lie to you again, could he?

Should he?

“Steve?”

“To the forties,” he falters. “I think I’m going back to the forties.”

He watches with bated breath as the words register in your brain.

When it finally does, the world feels like it's moving through quick sand, deathly slow and sinking.

It altogether stops when your smile disappears.

You'd turned in your keys to the reception the next morning, chucked your bag into the trunk and got into the driver's seat without a single word. The only exception was when you asked mutely if he was hungry or not. Steve had followed with a pounding headache and a string of unread messages from two of his friends.

Breakfast is silent.

You thank the waitress when she refills the mugs of coffee, but your eyebrows knit together the second your sight turns back down to your plate.

Steve's reclined in his seat, one hand aimlessly pushing around some scrambled egg. The booth is pushed up against large fingerprint-smudged windows, overlooking the front where the car was parked somewhat haphazardly. He keeps his ear trained for the jingle of the bell overhead each time someone new walks in and the clinking of spoons stirring against coffee cups.

"Anything else I can get ya?" she asks, eyes flitting between the both of you.

"We'll let you know. Thanks." You give her a small smile. Steve does the same.

She leaves, not before throwing another look over her shoulder at the both of you. He wonders how obvious the contention must be for her to take notice on a packed morning like this.

He should ask. He knows he should ask, but the question curdles unrelentingly on his tongue, leaving his mouth bitter.

He could text Mona and get the next flight out of here, make sure that all the expenses were compensated and covered. Take steps to ensure you never had to see his face again, if that’s what you wanted.

He shovels a spoon of egg into his mouth. It feels like sandpaper going down his throat.

Steve lifts his gaze briefly, catching the same troubled expression. You hadn't fared too well on breakfast either.

He should ask. It isn't fair to wish for a trip after this.

He swallows through the dryness in his mouth and the nausea in his gut.

"If you-"

“How long have you-"

Genuine surprise flashes across both your features, but he recovers quicker, nodding for you to go on.

And so you ask, "How long have you been thinking about this?”

His mouth opens and shuts in slow succession. He’s not stupid; he knew this conversation had been inevitable and the timer had started ticking the second he’d confessed. Yet every single possible sentence he had rehearsed and re-rehearsed dissipated on the spot, leaving his mind blank and undefended.  

“Since I got back from returning the stones.”

He watches your face screw up as you calculate it in real time, and the subsequent realization that it had been a few months ditzes across your eyes for a millisecond. It looks hauntingly like heartbreak, before stoicism reworks itself onto it.

“Who knows about this?”

“Sam and Buck.”

You scoff slightly, head shaking. “And you didn’t think you should mention it to me too?”

It’s one of the only things he’d been thinking of for months. The more he did, the less he wanted to do it. And as it always had, it still sounded like a pathetic goddamn excuse.

"I did," he says. "I promise you-- I didn't mean to keep it from you this long."

"But you did," you refute. "You did keep it to yourself this long. You waited till we were on a trip together to tell me."

"I think I wanna go back.”

You tilt your head in confusion. “To the bar?”

He swallows thickly, praying that he doesn’t lose confidence.

“Steve?”

“To the forties,” he completes. “I think I’m going back to the forties.”

"What?" you ask. "As like, a day trip or?"

"No," Steve wants to crumble at the way your face slips into confusion. "To stay."

"To stay?" He can almost see the gears turning to make sense of this. “You mean--”

Steve nods silently.

"What-- how? And-- and why?" you ask, letting go of his hand. "Steve, what are you talking about?"

"I..." he trails off, forced to combat the sudden cold your hand retracting from his had left behind.

You wait for an answer, an explanation, something.

Steve just balls his hands into a fist in his jacket pocket.

There is nothing. With each passing second, your confusion morphs into something that makes his stomach clench uncomfortably. Betrayal? No, he had seen betrayal. This was-- Christ, he isn’t even sure.

"Sweetheart--" he tries, but you shake your head.

"We'll talk about this later," you say, clearing your throat and straightening your posture. "Not tonight. Not like this."

"I didn't-"

"I think I wanna go back to the motel now," you say quietly, taking a step away from him. "Let's just go. Please."

If he thought the world was quiet before, he has no idea what to say to it now.

You didn't once bring it up on the drive back, nor when he dropped you off to the safety of your door.

He left his window open wide and, in the midst of darkness, developed a dependence on the late night check-ins pulling up the hotel to distract him each time his spiral deepened.

Didn't matter much though. Each time, it picked up at the same place he'd left off: the look on your face the minute it registered what he said.

He'd flip to the other side, to a cooler part of the sheet, and to a fresh smell of cheap detergent. And it went on and on and on.

In the last hour before sunrise, he did manage to doze off.

That is, until the same stupid fucking dream had him bolting upright again. And just like the last few weeks, it’d progressed a sentence or two beyond the previous time, leaving him scrambling to get rid of it before he was forced to remember.

His mind wanders and he thinks, once again, that his memory is a curse.

"If we hadn't come on this trip," you begin, trying to keep your voice steady, "when were you planning to tell me?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I was waiting for the proper time. For it to make sense."

It doesn’t seem to be enough, which, fair enough.

"Steve, would you have told me? At all?"

At that, his muscles stiffen and he no longer leans back. "I would. Swear it to you-- I wouldn't just disappear. I woulda told you, some way or the other."

You search his face for any betrayal of his statement, but you weren't going to find any. Steve doesn't move either, not until you knew he wasn't lying to you, not now.

Your fork sets down with a quiet clang, and you finally break the stare. He watches you take a sip of lukewarm coffee, wincing when it goes down your throat.

When nothing follows immediately after, Steve goes back to pushing his eggs around the plate. His toast stales, firm to the touch and the coffee’s weak froth had floundered miserably to the middle.

“Why?” you ask suddenly.

Steve’s gaze doesn't shift from the plate, and the writing on it. He thinks it’s the diner name engraved on it, but it was harder to register when they all looked like meaningless shapes.

“Something’s been different,” he lets out, “Ever since I went back to the 70s to get the particles, something’s different. I thought it'd sort itself out after I got back and started workin' but it's been that way for months. Hasn't left.”

“Different means therapy, Steve,” your voice is a little louder than it was a second ago. “It means- I don’t know- dyeing your hair or getting a piercing. Going back to the forties?”

He doesn’t anticipate the shift from anger to desperation. The feeling of nausea worsens, joining the growing pit in his stomach.

“I did go to therapy.”

“Yeah, for a month before you walked out and never went back,” you counter. "And I get it, sometimes therapists fuck up, or you both don't click, or sometimes traditional therapy isn’t for some people. But a few sessions isn't enough, not for something like this."

A quick glance at the wall. A note of the time.

The doctor’s head tilted slightly, staring intently at him.

“Do you feel restless, Steve?”

“And that- the spacing out,” you wag a finger at him. “They’re all related to this?”

His head draws a blank, much like it does these days when he tries to think too hard about it.

“Can we talk about this later?” Steve's lips purses inwards. “Your food’s getting cold.”

You stare at him wordlessly and he ignores his worsening headache to meet your eyes.

Finally, you pick up your fork and continue eating.

---

Steve has his eyes closed, focusing on the low vibration of the window. He’s certain that if he opens his eyes again, he'd go right back to looking at you in anticipation for any kind of reaction.

A thin thread of guilt laces itself through him at the fact that you're driving today. He’d have taken up the responsibility if it meant you had time to think without having to pay attention to the road too, but he also knows you like having something to do with your hands when you’re contemplating something.

There’s a thin crease between your brows and your grip on the steering wheel was tight. You’ve been chewing on your lip for a while now.

You haven’t even looked at him once since you’d gotten in the car.

He’s tried, he really has, to not make it obvious he was peering at you because surely, that would only add more pressure to an already bad situation.

Still, he can't help himself, not when it's you. It’s pathetic, really. Even though he's sure you’ve taken note of how many times he’s looked at you in the past hour.

And so he glances over at you again.

Nothing has changed in the last fifteen minutes, no life altering difference. Same brows pulled tight, lip caged between your teeth.

“You’re gonna pull a muscle, Rogers,” you mumble. “I’m not gonna jump out of this car, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He turns back to the road, slightly embarrassed.

But your words only serve to remind him of his original hesitation, and this time, he doesn’t really want to wait till it’s too long.

"I can look up flight timings," he says. "We can get on the next one outta here."

Your frown deepens. "What for?"

"We don't have to do this trip," he says softly. "I know you've got a whole plan laid out, but I can take care of all the cancelling and refunds."

In an act of grace, you finally look at him from the corner of your eye. "Do you want to?"

"It's not up to me."

"Okay, but do you want to?" you repeat.

He's silent for a while, following your gaze as you turn back ahead.

"No," he confesses. "But it's not my choice. You should decide."

"It's settled then." You barely take any time to decide. "If you don't want to, and I don't want to, then I guess we're gonna keep going."

Steve looks at you, lines visible on his forehead. "Are you sure? We don't have to."

"I know we don't," you say, "but I want to. So unless you don't want to join me, I'm just gonna keep driving to the next stop."

It beats down on his chest suddenly-- the overwhelming urge to just lay it all out there and apologize. For everything, but beginning with flinging this at you suddenly without any kind of preparation. You deserved better than a random Chicago parking lot.

But Steve bites his tongue, and looks out the window instead. His apology had to be better, more thought out than his reveal at the very least. A simple 'Hey, look, I'm really sorry' wouldn't suffice.

“I wanted to make a stop,” you say, eyes trained on the road. “Not exactly a detour, but it isn’t along the main route”

“Where is it?”

“A few miles out. It's not really a tourist spot. You don’t have to get out of the car if you don’t want to.”

That only piques his curiosity more, but he waits.

The sky’s a brilliant, bright blue and there’s a trail of smoke from an plane flying overhead.

Steve wonders what it’d be like to lie under it, eyes closed and heart free. As his imagination dares to run wild, he sees you beside him. He hopes you’d be there beside him.

Summers in Brooklyn were humid. His hair plastered to his face and his cheeks were flushed pink and he remembers Bucky’s mom’s lemonade sticking to the back of his throat.

Rebecca smacked her brother upside his head when he doused himself in water on his front step like a moron, getting all three of them drenched for no reason.

It was a happy memory. Brooklyn was a happy memory.

He feels too tall for his skin, now.

"There are Skittles in the glove compartment if you want," you tell him. "You'll have to make do with those until we get some proper snacks."

Steve opens the compartment with a click and reaches in for the bright red packet.

He tears it open carefully so as to not scatter them everywhere. The car was rented, they probably didn't appreciate lone Skittles under the seats when you returned it.

He stretches it out to you first.

You look at him and Steve unknowingly catches his breath, then down at his hand holding out the sinfully sugary candy.

It feels like a test. He doesn’t know of what.

Your fingers reach in, gathering a few before turning back to the road.

Steve lets out a breath quietly, picking up one to chew on.

Purple. It tasted like grapes.

____

It takes a while before he sees what you were talking about on account of it being well outside the main city.

Acres of land cleared out to make place for a park that housed giant marble walls, several feet high. Well manicured lawns and pathways to navigate the stone labyrinth, with benches in front of each in case you wanted to sit there.

He knew that they had come up in several places all over the country. He had been to a few himself, but never longer than a few minutes.

"They're startin' to take it down," you voice. "San Francisco's nearly done. Started pretty late over here."

“Are they replacing it?” he asks, the Wall of the Vanished becoming larger as you neared it.

“I think so.”

Now that the people who were lost had returned, all the cities and towns that had put up their names in remembrance were tearing it down. For those who didn’t make it back, new memorials were set in place. Smaller, but just as meaningful.

"But in case they don't, I just wanted to pay my respect," you continue.

“You knew someone here?”

“I did.” You pull into the parking space. "It's not gonna take long.”

"Okay."

You pause with your hand on the door handle. “You don’t have to come with. I know this can be a bit... much."

He knows. “I want to.”

You scan his face once, biting your lip before opening the door and letting yourself out.

Steve watches you go for a second before pushing the door and stepping out.

Walking through the stones felt roughly the same as it had always been.

The day in background was blissfully unaware, childlike and happy, while the etchings on the walls were solemn and cold.

The exhibit here was smaller. The ones he had seen in New York and Washington felt like it stretched on endlessly, but it was probably because he had painstakingly combed through it for specific names.

You don’t wait to see if he follows, but you're aware he's there half a step behind you at all times. You take your time stopping in front of each, quickly running through every person’s name in search of who you were looking for.

"What letter are we searching for?" Steve asks.

"V," you say, moving on to the other side. "Vlaslov."

Steve takes another wall, running through Vernon's, and Vasquez's. They weren't in exact alphabetical order. Names were added well after construction went underway once more people were realized to have disappeared.

“There you are,” you let out at last, from two stones away.

Steve follows your voice to find you looking straight ahead at a name, perfectly at your height.

“Found you, you miserable bastard.” It’s fondness that he detects in your tone even though the words were vulgar.

Yegor Vlasov, he follows your gaze to. It rings vaguely in his head as one he recognizes from somewhere.  

“Wish I could leave him something. I’d pour him some of the damn tequila he liked so much.”

Flowers and any kind of memorabilia had been banned since the thousands of wilting bouquets each week had become tedious to clean up day after day. The stench of beer on grass was only manageable for about a month.

But the alcohol is clue enough for him to suddenly piece it together.

“Work, right? You used to work together?” Steve watches you you reach forward to touch the engraving. This stood crisp and sharp, unlike the others whose edges has becomes very slightly smoother. “I remember you telling me about him.”

“Yeah.” Your face cracks into a smile. “One of the best scientists I knew. Never stuck around in one place too long, so he moved here for research a couple of years ago, but he stayed in touch occasionally. Told me he'd save me Cubs tickets if I ever came down here.”

Though he should be glad a smile had finally made its way onto your face since its disappearance nearly a day ago, there is still sadness that lies just beneath the surface.

“Were you close?”

“Just work friends.” You drop your hand down. “Maybe if he stayed on a few more years, we’d have been actual friends. He didn't have any family so he spent a lot of time at work. Real mad scientist types. Genuinely insane."

"He sounds fun." The corner of his lip curls up.

"Oh, he was," you say with a quick laugh. "When the lab heard he disappeared, we did some shots in his name. Then sent the bottle on a homemade rocket to who knows where."

"What?" Steve asks in confusion.

"Long story," you dismiss. "But then when they all came back, he didn't. Guess he was one of the other ones. Wrong place, wrong time."

Your voice tapers off towards the end of your sentence.

His thumbs hook onto the buckle of his belt, slowly taking a few steps back to give you some privacy. After all, it was the inescapable tragedy of war that lingered under his feet when the clouds moved above a clear day.

"Okay, let's go," you say, voice quiet.

Steve lets you lead the way. The winds rustle, and in the distance he can see a couple standing in another corner of the park, hand in hand.

His mind flashes to the memorial back home. The names on the walls he recognized.

A gravestone in a quiet corner of the cemetery.

Steve's glad that when he flinches, no one is around to see.

---

It goes without saying that you haven’t talked much since the memorial.

Steve asks if you’re okay.

You reply with an airy “Just peachy", and don't bother to elaborate.

The AC whirs, and you turn down the offer for more Skittles. He simply rolls up the pack and leaves it in the glove compartment again.

He honestly believes the sugar made his migraine worse-- that or the fact that he’s been running on a incredible four hours of sleep.

Steve picks up his phone to check how far the next rest stop is so he can take over driving.

Lunch is takeout from that morning’s diner. There's no protest when he gets a salad to go, and a sandwich. You just get whatever the waitress recommends, mind elsewhere.

You pull over on the side of the road for a break when you spot a tree with branches spread wide enough to cover the hood of the car, since that was where you had opted to eat your food on top of.

Steve joins you, needing a respite from the closed space, but maintaining a respectable distance from you.

You stretch your arms above your head. Steve leans against the car as he checks his unread messages.

Mona’s sent him updates and reports and everything in between. He checks a few of them, mouth twisting at particular content, and shoots her a few texts back. Most of it he’s aware she's more than capable of handling on her own, and it’s further proven by the fact that she hadn't asked for his opinion or anything.

What she does ask is how the trip is going. He elects to reply to the text after that.

“Is the country falling apart without you?”

“It’s holding on.” Steve looks up. “For now.”

You nod, taking a sip from your bottle before tightening the lid back on.

The afternoon stretches lazily on, the heat climbing. He shrugs off his jacket, ties it around his waist.

Steve only manages about half his sandwich before he packs it back up. Maybe you were right about the burgers.

Above all else, Steve ignores the strange pangs of craving at the back of his mind.

He tastes phantom sugar on his tongue, so he deduces it to be something sweet. Something tells him he's tried it before-- it was too familiar, but he couldn't place his finger on it.

"You sure that’s enough?" you question, watching the sandwich find its way back into the box. "It's really a scenic route. There’s not a lot along the way and we're only gonna reach at night. Your metabolism's gonna go haywire."

"'M not really hungry," he says in assurance. "I'll just eat the rest if I am."

"You’re not gonna get hungry?" you push.

“If worse comes to worst, I’ve got the Skittles. Nutrition, if I ever seen it. "

It's not exactly funny, but it has you pushing back the whisper of a smile before you clear your throat in defiance and hop off the hood of the car.

You offer him a bottle and he takes it, extinguishing the rising warmth spreading through his body with cold water.

It goes back to silence, only dry wind occasionally and the click of the car unlocking. You stretch your arms above your head one more time, rotating your wrists.

"Are you okay?" he asks again. Force of habit.

"I'm fine, Steve," you reply. "I should be asking you that."

His eyebrows pull together in confusion. "I'm fine."

You don't say anything, only continue to look at him for a second or two more before breaking the stare to walk to your seat.

“I'll drive,” he offers immediately.

You tug open the door and get in the driver's seat, leaving him to watch.

"Not today." Your head ducks out of view and into the car. "You look fuckin’ exhausted."

Steve pulls his bottom lip between his teeth when you start the engine, kicking a pebble resting near his feet one last time before opening the door and climbing back into his seat.

With nothing else to do, he pulls out the GPS on his phone and enters the destination, intent on helping on navigation at the very least.

“Says you gotta take the next exit off this highway,” he parrots back to you when you pull the car back onto the road.

You give him a hum in acknowledgement and he leans back into his chair.

Steve keeps himself occupied enough. The further you drive, the more he calculates the distance between the next bus stand and New York in case you suddenly decide to send him along his way in an uncharacteristic move.

"Steve."

"Yeah?" He perks up. "Next turn is-"

“Get some sleep,” you say, the edge in your voice jaded. “I’ll wake you up when we reach.”

"No, it's fine, I'll get some-"

"It's a straight road. The thing is voice enabled," you cut in. "I will be fine. Sleep."

Steve exhales through his nose when you don't show any inclination of changing your mind. He leaves his phone in the cupholder.

He shifts his whole body towards the door.

The AC’s turned down low, but the air outside is too hot to have the windows down.

He had read of how drastically the weather changes along this route, and to come as prepared as possible because you never knew what could hit you. For now it felt like summer was going to stay a while.

You’ve let a podcast on at the lowest volume on to fill the silence. He listens for a while, but soon the words start fading in and out, and he can barely remember what they said last.

He leans his head against the glass.

Trees blur past.

He slips into darkness.

“What have you been drawing?” she asks again, picking up the book.

“Just some ships.” Steve looks back out at the water. “Nothin’ special.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Polite as always, there’s a hint of gentle curiosity in her eyes.

He wordlessly gestures for her to go ahead, and she flashes him a smile before doing so.

Steve doesn’t know what about this is different, but he’s sure this is the prettiest she’s looked in a while.  

“You did all this now?” She traces a finger lightly over the sketch, making sure not to smudge the intricate lines.

“Yeah.” He switches between looking at her and the drawing, trying to get an analysis of her judgment before she hands it to him.

She turns to him with half a glare, unimpressed.

His eyes shoot open, sucking in a breath sharply.

It takes him a second to adjust his heightened hyper-vigilance to where he was-- not the docks, not the sunset, but an SUV-- and a second longer to let go of the seat he held so tight in a white knuckled clench.

The car wasn't moving. A swift look to his right and he realises you’re not in it either.

Steve rapidly unbuckles his seat belt, almost ripping it off it in an attempt to get rid of the weight that was pressing down on his chest. He sits up straight, shoving open the car door to get some air because fuck, the atmosphere was suffocating.

He remembers to breathe in, one, two, and out, one, two, three, four and count to ten mindfully.

His eyes stay open, however, as he glances around, but his chest rises and falls in exaggerated motions.  It works, but only after he does it twice, hands on his hips.

Once his spine straightens out again and he begins to make a move towards the car to grab the bottle, is when he sees that he’s at a gas station. There’s a little store adjoining and once he squints, he can see you over at one of the aisles through the storefront window.

Steve lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, sinking back into his seat, gripping tightly onto the bottle as he chugs the remaining water.

"Fuck," he curses, pressing into his temples hard.

He can't remember the last time it had been this bad, but he also hadn't fallen asleep in a small space any time recently, buckled to a seat. It had been about eighty years, give or take.

You were still checking out boxes, still within his sight. He wonders how much of his outburst depended on the split second thought that you had just left him here.

He mumbles something else to himself and it’s more so just to get his brain to calm down again.

Like every time, he resorts to the one activity that gets him more bored out of his skull than anything else. It’d become an unhealthy habit by now. He hates that he checks it ever morning as soon as he wakes up.

Arm still numb from sleeping on it, he scrolls through his notifications. He swipes away the emails from various reporters and agents and promotional messages and goes straight to his messages.

Govt. Reallocates Defense Budget, to Announce New Welfare Policies.

Jesus. His lips press into a straight line, partly impressed.

Mona’s sent him a Bitmoji in celebration. He sends her a balloon emoticon.

Right as he clicks out of the chat, someone else sends him a text with an attachment.

It’s a picture of a window. A tiny plant sits on the wall overlooking a a gorgeous view of a lake, but the whole image was a bit blurry.

To Steve

stop ignoring me. dick.

Against all circumstances, Steve's mouth twitches into a trace of a smile.

“Didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again, Rogers,” his best friend doesn’t hesitate the second he picks up the phone.

“My phone wasn’t exactly falling off the wall from your calls either.”

“You know me-” Bucky grunts slightly as something drops to the floor “-Mr Popular an’ all that. I was too busy havin’ a life.”

“Right.” Steve snorts. “Who fed your seventy cats while you were away?”

“Oh, fuck off.” He laughs, however. He’d been doing that a lot more recently. Steve thinks it's a good look on him.

“How you been, Buck?” He pulls his one arm across his chest, keeping an eye on the little store and your silhouette moving between the aisles.

“Like I said, busy.” Another object lands with a thud. “I have been left in charge of a fern.”

“Congratulations,” Steve says, smile growing on his face. “Who bestowed that honour upon you?”

“Oh, you know. The king of this country,” Bucky’s voice is muffled through the phone. “It’s a gift. Since I'm now officially therapy cleared.”

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"Yeah, graduated class of '24. Got the go-ahead to start poking around in there and not have me go murder mode, at least immediately," Bucky says casually, but Steve can hear the slight elation in his voice. "Woo hoo."

"Shit, Bucky.” Steve breathes out. “That's incredible."

"It's all right," he says. "They're having me move out of the hut and into an apartment. Getting a head start on readjusting, reintegrating-- somethin’ like that."

"You're moving?" Steve questions in mild surprise. "I coulda helped you, you know."

"Nah, I'm saving that favour for the penitentiary."

Steve winces at the thought. "You're not going to jail, Bucky."

"I know, I know. Sorry. 'M supposed to stop making those jokes. Apparently, they're not good for my self confidence or whatever.” He shrugs it off. "Murdock's flying in next month."

"Yeah?"

"He says he wants to take the whole thing slow, to make sure I was ready," Bucky says. "Told him to buy me dinner first."

Steve's face breaks into a grin. "I don't think you're his type."

"Bullshit. I'm a fuckin' sweetheart, I'm everyone's type." Bucky scoffs. "And I know you've been avoiding me, by the way."

"Why would I be avoiding you?" He knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Because-" The sounds from his end make sense now; boxes sliding across floors and tape being ripped off cardboard. “I asked if you told Y/N yet.”

Steve bites his lip before releasing it. “I did.”

There’s a silence at the other end before Bucky asks more seriously, “How'd it go?”

“Wouldn’t say it went too well.”

“I’ll bet. Pissed, huh?”

Steve sighs. “Has a right to be.”

“Y/N's gonna come around. I hope.”

Steve watches you walk towards the register.

"Did you?” he asks.

There is no response from Bucky’s end until a chuckle comes back, sounding a bit distant. Sad, almost.

“Took me a while, too, Stevie.”

At least his friend doesn’t lie to him. Steve chews on the inside of his lip, a furrow between his brows.

“Just give it some time. It'll be okay,” Bucky pipes up again. “Or, you know, this trip’s gonna be awkward as all hell.”

A corner of Steve’s mouth raises in a half-smile. “Still wish you were invited?”

“Fuck no.”

Bucky says a few more blasphemous things and Steve bickers with him for a few more minutes before the former says goodbye. The unsaid promise of a call soon hangs in the air.

When he looks back at you, you’re talking animatedly with the girl at the register the way old friends do when they run into each other after years. She says something and you laugh, nodding along.

He likes that-- how you find friendships wherever you go. He doesn’t have the same privilege, but he doesn’t hold it against those he encounters, given that most circumstances when he meets them are less than ideal.

He’s just glad the time he crashed in and shattered half the equipment in your lab wasn’t the first and last time you spoke to him.

It takes another few minutes for you to wave at her and grab the brown paper bags before walking out and to the car. You open the backseat and leave most of the stuff there, all the while balancing a large cup of something.

“You should eat.” You don’t wait for an answer, tossing a pack of trail mix at him. “That’s probably the healthiest thing in that store.”

“Thanks.” Steve watches you clamber in. “D’you know her?”

“Who?”

His gaze shifts from yours and towards the cashier, head lifting pointedly in her direction.

“Oh, no.” You pull on your seatbelt, clicking it into place. “I've never met her before.”

“Just looked like you did." Steve quietly tears open the packet of food and tosses a fistful into his mouth.

“I have friends in weird places.” The car switches on, pulling out of the station. “This store just ain’t one of them.”

He looks at you questioningly, before his face twists at the unwanted raisin that ends up in the pile.

“You meet people at conventions,” you say dismissively. “You never know when contacts from Zloda or Madripoor come in handy.”

Strangely, he remembers Tony saying the same thing years ago. Guess it just came with the job.

“And also-” You twist your body to reach into the backseat, shaking a magazine out of a cover before tossing it into his lap.

He holds up the glossy copy of Gardening: 4427 Brilliant Tips & Ideas to examine it.

“What’s this?”

“I know you like to read, Steve.” You readjust in your seat. “This was the least offensive one I found.”

---

The motel room doesn’t reek of stale cigarette smoke. The smell of clean sheets and carpets, and mothballs was predominant but frankly, he’d take it any day.

Steve leans his body against the headrest, freshly showered and mostly full from a few bites of some salad and a steak.

His TV is kept running in the background as noise, but his attention strays between the sketchbook on his lap and several other undefined thoughts that floated in and out at their will.

His hand absentmindedly sketches out basic images. Wildflowers on the side of the road, gas pumps, feet propped up against the dashboard.

He steadily keeps track of the minutes in his head, counting down to your arrival. It had given him enough time since you'd checked in to get dressed and ready.

“There’s a show I booked a while ago. It’s a band that does covers of modern songs in old genres. Swing and stuff.” You glance at him. “We don’t have to go.”

Steve can imagine why you’d think that, but he’s quick to reply, “No. No, let’s go.”

The look you give him is doubtful, but he nods again.

"It sounds great."

"Okay," you hesitate. "I'll see you at 7."

There were a few minutes left, but it was sufficient for his mind to play on loop bits and pieces of the conversation from that morning.

Steve had gone to therapy, but you weren't wrong in your call out either when you said it hadn't been nearly enough.

He'd seen firsthand how men suffered when they couldn't accept help. Hell, he'd gotten certified himself and was a counselor for a while till he stopped for reasons that outweighed his altruism.

But he was given a task. It was simple, glaringly so. But he hadn't finished it. And for that alone, it doesn't feel right to go back yet.

“I was told it’s the only way they’d let me come in.”

“To help with the aftermath, you said?” she clarifies, looking at the three total lines she probably had on him.

"Yes,” he replies. “Relocation, search and rescue for people missing after the battle.”

“Right, the Battle of Earth.” Dr. Nasser writes something down. He follows the movement of her pen. “We haven't talked in too much detail about that.”

"Steve?" You knock twice on the door. "You ready?"

"Coming," he calls out, sending one last glance down at his doodles.

Amidst the gas station and the gigantic marble walls is a familiar wooden pathway in front of a store. He frowns at it for a second before shutting his book and pushing off his bed.

He gives you a quick greeting when the door opens to reveal you, arms tucked awkwardly over your chest.

"Sure you wanna do this?"

"Absolutely," he affirms, closing the door behind him, all the while trying to place where he'd seen that particular background.

____

The crowd is buzzing by the time you get inside.

It's lively chatter, smiling faces and excitement all around.

Steve is sure he drops the energy of the room just by walking in, like some undead spirit.

You, however, have a tiny smile on your face the second you step in.

The lobby outside the actual theatre is fucking fancy too; gold accents, marble pillars and chandeliers from tall ceilings. Long staircases along the side lead to the upper floors.

"This is supposed to be a theatre?" Steve asks. "A theatre for movies and shows?"

"The creators wanted to make a palace for the people," you explain, following the flow of people walking up the stairs. "Apparently it's haunted."

"To be fair, that's what they say about all joints older than twenty years," Steve replies.

The kid in his apartment-- Meskill, his name was-- maintained that it was haunted too. Mrs McKinnon didn't take kindly to being sprayed in the face with ‘holy water’ from Walt’s kitchen tap and being told to 'leave this mortal coil!'. It explained why he never received a knitted scarf but Steve did.

"Bet you'll be a lot nicer when the instruments start to float, Rogers," you dish back distractedly, still in awe at the majesty of the place.

Steve shrugs, too occupied trying to figure out all the influences that had inspired the architecture of the place to realise it was the first real crack at a joke you'd made all day.

Greek, Roman, Baroque, Byzantinian, Venetian was what he'd counted so far.

"Why do you do that?"

Steve looks at you, then himself. "Do what?"

Your finger points at his waist. "That. Holding onto your belt like that."

His eyes trail down to where he latches onto the buckle, finding contentment in the balance.

"I don't know," he replies. "Didn't even realise."

"You do it a lot." Your gaze flickers up at him. "Why'd you start?"

"Can't remember." Steve let go of his belt, feeling a sudden awkwardness at the gesture. "Been doin' for as long as I remember."

You nod at his answer, unsatisfied but unwilling to show it.

Steve's eyebrows knit together in puzzlement the second you turn away from him. Where did it come from? Some old Western movie? Was he imitating someone? Why'd the memory seem so far away?

"Let's go?" you ask carefully.  

Steve nods and you lead the way up the stairs, holding on to the banister for support.

___

You're nearly twenty minutes ahead of schedule. It's good, there was no rush to get to your seats or crowd to shove through.

Steve had a glossy copy of the programme in his hand. He'd already memorised the biography of the band, making a mental note to check their channel out after it was done.

"How long is the show?" Steve whispers to you, maintaining the hushed tones those around him were speaking in.

"About two hours, I think?" you squint.

"Cool," he says, flipping the pamphlet back to check the set-list. "They've got a good line up."

"Yeah," you say, voice a bit far away. "You'll let me know if you want to go, right?"

Steve turns to you but the houselights go off, leaving him blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to-"

Steve tries your name again when you don't answer.

"I'm sorry," you say all of a sudden.

"Please ensure your mobiles are switched off for the duration-"

Steve inclines his head towards you. "What are you talking about?"

"I shouldn't have been so harsh," you continue. "This morning, at breakfast. I wasn't the nicest. Shouldn't have discounted your experiences like that, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Steve says because he didn't even think about it that way. "I understand."

"I was angry and upset, and I thought I had time to calm down, but it wasn't enough and I took it out on you," you continue, voice low. "And I'm sorry for raising my volume, too. I can't imagine it was easy to have your experiences invalidated. It won't happen again."

He calls out your name, further urging, "You had every right to be upset. You don't have to apologize."

You nod, eyes trained on the stage as members of the crew dressed in black dart about for final checks.

"I wanted to tell you earlier. I did," Steve brings up.

"I know," you reply.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "I'm really fuckin' sorry. I've been trying to work on it-- telling people things before it's too late. I was going to tell you, even if we weren't on a road trip, but there's no real justification. I should have told you when I told both of them. It wasn't right."

"The show will begin in another five minutes. Please sit back and-"

"Thank you." You clear your throat. "I'm-- I know I've been cold, but I'm gonna take some more time to process it. There's-- you know, it's--"

"You don't have to explain," he breaks in gently. "You do whatever feels right."

He wants to squeeze your hand the same way you do to his sometimes. A reassurance to one who seeks it. He can't offer any right now, he's already done the damage.

"Has it been difficult? Keeping it in this long?" you ask as someone murmurs an apology for stepping over you to get to their seat.

Steve's chest feels hollow. Because to be fucking honest, it had been easy.

It'd slipped out almost, the few times he'd seen you in between, on his couch or for brunch. He knew it in his bones that it wasn't right and would never be, but overwhelmingly, keeping the secret till he died was something he'd found as easy as breathing.

But he's lied so much already.

"Harder than you'd think," he says because he should. Because you deserve the effort.

There is the clicking of drum sticks together, and the intro to the performers starts playing, loud and colourful.

"You'll tell me if you want to leave, won't you?" you whisper.

Hoping to God he's being honest this time, he replies, "I will."

"Okay," you say. "Okay."

The audience hoots and cheers, even the people right beside him.

But Steve's mind still lingers on an empty promise and a belt buckle.

It'll stick around in his head for as long as he can remember, with the other 76 tips and a million other details he'd never cross again. It helps most times. HYDRA bases were easier to track down after a single glance at a map, but he also spent 5 excruciating minutes remembering what it felt like for the Arctic ice to crystallise his blood when Bucky stuck his cold metal arm down his shirt for fun.

A curse to remember.

Steve clenches his eyes shut tightly. 

He shouldn't feel that way about his abilities. Shouldn't be ungrateful for what he was given. He forces himself to remember that he’s long moved on, spent so long quelling the simmering anger in him. But it nags at the back of his head that it's purely sinful to do so many things he does, think all the things he does. He does it anyway. Whose God would spare another second to damn him when there was already a place for him in hell?

Grass pokes out from under the blanket you've spread. It's soft and prickly and the moisture seeps through the fabric. The tree you're under overlooks a lovely part of the park, nothing in the distance for as far as he can see other than more trees over the valley.

His skin on his ankles itches from the burn of the sun, and so he readjusts.

Sitting on the ramp of the quinjet, looking onto rolling hills with Sam was, in spirit, similar. The platform was cold and hard and ridged, and Sam's laugh is still luminous as ever. The moon curtained by clouds is captured so neatly in their eyes; spending the night here in the jet they managed to finally break doesn't seem so bad.

Tomorrow was another day, another border to cross and other bodies to chase but for now, Sam's talking about the cartwheel that landed him and Sarah in the emergency room, and Nat's joining them the next day, unfortunately missing the story of a lifetime.

He wondered what colour her hair would be then. It changes like the wind.

He likes it. 

Steve's back tenses on instinct, even though there is nothing to protect himself from. The tree is good support and there's a throw pillow separating him from the ground. Still, his muscles have a faint ache in them, the same as the morning after the sun rose over the hills and through the entrance of the quinjet left opened a crack.

A curse to remember.

"What’s wrong?" you ask quietly.

He snaps out of it, shaking his head and straightening up. “Nothing. Just zoned out for a second.”

"Flashback?" 

Steve pauses. "No. Didn’t get much sleep." 

You’ve turned away, and so he misses the scrunch between your eyebrows.

Tip #78: Herbs? Don't Mint If I Do!

Tip #78: Herbs? Don't Mint If I Do!

Tip #78: Herbs? Don't Mint If I Do!

He looks down at the picture. Looks back up at the words. Mint.

"I'm sorry."

Your eyes flit towards him and quite possibly the umpteenth apology he had given in the last twenty-four hours.

"I know," you reply slowly.

"How do I make it up to you?" he asks again.

You don't reply.

Steve wonders when the last time was when he read a book that had pictures and still registered nothing.

You turn another page, but this time the novel lowers. You close it, using your finger as a makeshift bookmark to hold your place.

Steve hopes for a hum or a song, but none follows as you stare out blankly into the open.

He's about to ask if you're okay, if something's wrong even though he has a feeling that something definitely is when you shift forward.

Away from him.

Away from him.

Steve doesn't dare to look from the corner of his page, careful not to give too much away, but his stomach drops heavily.

Until he feels a certain pressure and your head shifts to lie on his lap. Not facing him, but still there. Not away from him.

His hand twitches, hovers even, for a few seconds before his fingers stroke over your head.

You let out a small sigh. Steve continues, waiting for any inclination on your end for him to stop. It never comes.

And while he sees you open your novel again, he can hear you thumbing the pendant that hangs from your neck. He thought you would have taken it off by now, thrown it, incinerated it. But he can hear the minuscule clink of metal against the chain and it's a sign that maybe, things aren't as hopeless as he thinks.

There is silence and the sky breezes by. The moisture seeps through the blanket. Your head rests on his lap.

He picks up his magazine again.

Tip #79: Fallen leaves: Mulch Ado About Nothing!

_______

The wind whips around the car. His elbow leans out, other hand on the steering wheel.

The radio jockey talks, laughs obnoxiously at a corny pun his co-host cracks. Steve had met them before; they hosted the celebrations at Arlington several years ago for Memorial Day.

They were half decent, if a little talkative, but he didn't mind.

It served well to distract him. After all, Arlington was where Steve was buried.

A corny reference to a Don McLean line about him, and a proposal to have him pick the songs to kick the next morning's show off, and Steve almost stops looking in the direction where he was informed Bucky's empty casket was lowered into the ground way back then.

That day, Steve was in a bombed-out bar in London. The skies that bled as he tried to drink himself to oblivion, were now bright blue overhead. It was a rush to get rid of the bile that rose to his throat as his oldest friend's tombstone flashed through his mind.

The stone was long gone, of course. After Steve's rebirth and Bucky's return, empty coffins were removed. Not to make way, but just out of respect.

Freshly dug up earth, though. Freshly dug up earth had a scent of its own.

Unfortunately, he'd buried the ghosts of friends who never made it back after a battle far too many times. And after the last time it happened, he isn't quite sure he'd be able to go to a cemetery again.

Not when he knows her body is somewhere on a planet he couldn't reach. Not when he knows that unlike Bucky or him, she isn't getting a second chance.

“Your side of it,” she responds. "I could read about the battle anywhere. What I’m interested in is your side, how you’re dealing with it.”

Steve wants to smile, bitterly almost, at the fact that she only knows what they wanted everyone to know. But he couldn’t tell her that either.

"I deal with it just fine, I think," he says distantly.

"What do you mean by just fine?"

If this was what one on one therapy was like, it's a wonder why he doesn't care for it much.

"Well--" he blinks-- "I'm here, aren't I?"

She stares at him a little while longer. Steve glances at the clock.

"Are you happy?"

It takes him a second to realise the hosts aren't speaking because you've changed the channel to something far less grating. How far he's gotten since he spaced out, he has no idea. He's only glad it's a straight road for the next few miles.

"How much longer till the motel?" he asks, keeping his eyes trained ahead.

"A fair bit," you answer, looking at the navigation you had open on the phone. "You want to stop for a while?"

"No, just checking," Steve says. "I'm good."

You nod silently, lending your attention to the world outside the window again.

"I hope it doesn't rain."

If anything, it makes his eyebrows raise slightly when you continue to talk. He finds himself not caring if it’s about the weather, the stupid advertisement running on the radio right now, or even the fucking space titan. As long as you were talking to him, you could speak about any damn thing in the world.

"Don't think it will." He cranes his neck to get a better look at the sky.

It wasn't the bright blue it had been that morning, but it wasn't entirely overcast.

"Better not. We got a landmark coming up that I've been dyin' to get to," you mumble.

"What is it?"

"You'll see."

"Is it a world's largest something?" Steve asks, dry tease optimistic in his tone but still cautious. "World's largest mothball? Stroller?"

"Patience is a virtue, Cap'n." You tsk to yourself. "You'll see it when we get there."

Steve catches a bit of your sight, turning just as a faded smile grows on your face.

"But if you're tired, we can just crash for the rest of the day."

"Can't bail on me now, you got me all excited for your mystery landmark."

There's a small scoff that leaves you, half a laugh. "Whatever you want, Rogers."

He keeps driving. Even as the noon slips into the humidity-gifted heat of a late afternoon and he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. The radio plays indie rock and summer feels like it stretches on for eternity.

______

“Jesus.”

“You know-" you squint- “I don’t think Jesus was nineteen feet tall."

Steve is inclined to agree.

"Or that he held a hotdog like a child.”

That even more so.

"Woulda made church a lot more interesting," he says wryly.

The Paul Bunyon statue--deliberately misspelt to avoid a legal charge-- stands proudly and, dare he admit it, rather dauntingly. Michelangelo’s David could only dream of achieving the level of artistry this enterprise possessed.

It was a cultural landmark, a must-see on this trip according to several websites. Though Steve initially couldn’t see why… he kind of could.

He has his hands on his waist as he looks up. “Well, we can cross it off the list.”

A bird caws from overhead, and a car drives down the street. Unlike the both of you, it only slows to capture a picture before carrying on its way.

“Guess we can.” You bring your palm shielding your eyes from the rays of the sun.

The longer he looks at it, the more it begins to morph into something beautiful. Ugly, but beautiful, in its own amusing, absurd way.

It's ugly.

It's there.

“You want a picture?” Steve finds it hard to stop staring at the stupid smile smirk the strong-jawed man had like he was proud of his wiener infant.

“Hell yeah.”

_______

Steve glances at you through the rearview mirror. He only catches a glimpse of your forehead, the rest of you hunched over your phone.

It drags through his chest again; the same, scraping rawness that had him opening his mouth before he could stop himself.

"If you're gonna apologise again, Steve, I swear--"

He shuts his mouth, lips pressing into a thin line before he compounds another topic.

A bead of sweat rolls down your skin, and he turns up the AC.

The beat of silence rests nicely between you both before he asks,

"So these weird things-- giant shoes, and whales and whatnot-- they're the whole niche for this trip?"

You look up from trying to connect your phone to the car Bluetooth, an attempt that had been fruitless the last few times you'd tried.

"Yeah. People've made whole careers out of it." You fumble with a dial. "It's got a real dedicated fanbase."

Small talk was good. Just surface conversations but he was thrilled by every second.

"Have you ever road tripped before?"

Steve keeps his attention on the road. He's come to see that some of them tended to run off into gravel, dead ends or simply dirt tracks. The signs weren't always right, and the maps you vehemently defended were also outdated on several occasions.

"Does running from law enforcement count?" he asks in return.

You narrow your eyes at him. "Were you listening to good music while it was happening?"

"Sometimes," he says. "Other times it was Sam’s rendition of Inner City Blues for 3 hours."

"Then it's a road trip," you decide. "Bless Sam, he knew exactly what he was doing."

"Yeah, singing into the comms in the middle of a stake out."

"It's called having fun."

Steve doesn't disagree, but he doesn't agree either.

"You've been on a road trip before?"

"One or two," you say. "Whenever my parents had time off work and my mom managed to convince my dad."

“Were they fun?”

There’s a slow down in your movement that he barely catches. 

“As much as they could be, I guess. It was fun when they’d remember we were on vacation together. Otherwise, they’d spend a lot of time just talking to each other about their own world so it was easy to forget I was there,” you reply thoughtfully. “I didn’t really have anyone to talk to, so it was kinda quiet most times.”

His grip against the steering wheel tightens, the skin on his knuckles pulsating against the pressure.

“You haven't gone since then?”

"No, my friends-- I think a few of my friends planned one a couple of years ago? We were supposed to, at least, a few of us."

"Did you ever go?" He glances at you.

"Nah," you say, short. "I wasn’t in the best place in college and by the time I got okay again, people moved on. We didn't get the chance. But I know it would have been fun, they were great."

Steve watches another dilapidated sign whiz by.

You get back to whatever buttons you were clicking, wholly ignoring the instruction manual that came with the vehicle.

"After the Battle of New York, I got a bike," Steve pipes up. "Told myself I was gonna go check out the country and everything that had changed."

You pause, finger hovering over the power button on the radio. "Did you?"

"Not really," he confesses. "Got to check out Brooklyn, but after that Fury recruited me and I was back in training for SHIELD."

"Oh.”

"I've seen some parts of the country when I was on the run," he offers. "Most of our time we spent abroad 'cause it was harder for the government to track, and there were more HYDRA bases in other parts of the world."

"Didn't you also go after the Snap?" You poke at something on the display.

He opens his mouth to reply, only for you to cut him off with a jump when the car is flooded with loud, ear-splitting conversation. The hair on his skin goes upright in an instant, breath shortening and world shifting into slow motion.

You swiftly turn down the dial to restore the peace, murmuring in quiet annoyance to yourself the entire time.

"Fuck me," you curse lightly, "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"That was also, uh-" he forces himself to recentre "-mission-related."

"Oh, right, yeah." You facepalm lightly. "Forgot you were back only for the last two years."

He doesn't blame you. Steve had spent the first three years in and out of the state, the country-- almost the planet at times. He could count on his hand the number of times he'd snuck away to see you in between his erratic schedule.

It'd gotten easier once he finally chose to stay back in New York, but by then it wasn't his circumstances that forced him to keep away from others, but his quiet choice to stay inside a lot more.

"So I guess I'd say this is my first real road trip," Steve says.

"No pressure at all," you mutter. "Just a whole lot of empty land and tiny windmill restaurants."

He looks at you. "I think they're nice."

"You'd say that even if you didn't think so." The corner of your lips upturn.

He thinks that he probably would, but most likely not if it were anyone else.

"Fuc- finally." You sigh loudly, dropping your hand and settling back into your seat and grabbing your phone. "Any suggestions?"

Steve shakes his head. "Your choice."

You shrug, scrolling through your phone before an idea hits you and you quickly type in the title.

Leaning back, you look out the window as the car slowly fills with the familiar tune of Inner City Blues.

____

Steve's sketchbook is nearly twenty pages into his journal-sketch book hybrid. At this rate he'd be forced to get a new one before two weeks were done.

A corner of the page has a piece of Arlington on it, a singular tombstone with indecipherable writing. Somewhere else is his best attempt at recreating the mastery that was the Bunyon statue.

Most of the page was just filled with what you saw today, what he did and what he ate. He didn't make much of an effort at journaling, as substantiated by his pathetic attempts earlier that left behind half-finished sentences and open-ended thoughts. When he did try, it was simply a skeleton of the day. Nothing interesting.

Steve runs his eyes over the filled sheet. He notices it does nothing to him. He feels nothing about the scribbles and pencil scratches. 

Until there’s confusion. 

In the corner, there’s a recreation of a familiar scene. The stores at the back and the road bear a scary resemblance to the original. The man sits at the front with his smoke, white shirt and hunched over.

Edward Hopper’s Sunday looks back at him in black and white, and Steve doesn’t even remember when he put it there. 

But his eyes were wrong.

Steve erases it lightly, careful not to rip the page. Makes sure there are no smudges or strays.

The tilt of his brow is perfect, the scorn on his lips is harsh. Yet, when Steve looks at him, he doesn’t feel like his soul is being ripped out of his chest. Doesn't feel the drop in his stomach.

He can’t get the look in his eye right.

Steve pulls the book away from him slightly, letting himself really look at the image. There is no change. He feels nothing.

He turns his stare back to the wall.

Across the drywall, he knows you're there in a mirrored room. Your pacing stopped a while ago but your keyboard clicking still came in sporadic bursts.

There's a sudden sense of urgency in him. It makes his muscle twitch and his nausea set in his ribs.

Something-- he needs to do something now.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, even taking a step off the bed to shake off the sudden angst. But the feeling perists and so he exhales deeply, and it comes out shaky.

Checking the clock to make sure it was not too late, he picks up his phone instead for a quick search.

___

Steve knocks on the door, thrice, before letting his hand drop. It finds its way back to his pockets in nervousness, not before consciously being dragged away from where his belt buckle would be if he wasn't wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

The entrances to the double-story building all overlooked the car park. Some of the brown imitation wood paint had peeled away from the banisters and one of the lights overhead didn't turn on. But all in all, it was a pretty good place; clean with working facilities--

He hears the chain unlink from the door before you tug it open. 

"Hey," Steve says.

"Hi." You'd changed out of the clothes you were wearing during the day into something more comfortable and were looking at him in mild concern.

"I know you said we'd do takeaway, but there's this diner down the road with an arcade," Steve tests, letting it sit for a second before asking, "Maybe we could get dinner? Check out the games, if you're up for it?"

Your eyes flicker behind his figure to the moon in thought, before back at him.

"You gonna wear that?" you ask.

Steve glances down at his outfit. "Yeah?"

"Cool," you say, leaving the door open as you go to grab your stuff. "The likelihood of me saying yes depended on that."

"I could just throw on a tuxedo," Steve calls out.

"Close the door on your way out," you holler back.

He holds back a grin when you shut the door behind you and lock it, tucking the key into your pocket.

You mention towards the staircase that was too small to host the both of you at once with a nod of your head.

"Lead the way, Rogers."

_________

You don't say much on the walk over, nor when he buys an obscene amount of credits for the two of you to share.

Even the first game or two is spent in huffs in the form of laughter and quiet questions as to where to go next.

It takes nearly half an hour and him beginning to think it isn't a very good idea at all, before a grin makes its way onto your face at your first big win of the night.

"I don't care how close we are," you start, "I will wreck you at pinball. I will."

Steve's eyebrows lift as he glances at you. "We'll have to see about that."

"Careful now,” you warn and he can tell you're putting an effort in. "You're talking to the all-time arcade champ here."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you just lost embarrassingly at racing a fake car.” 

You scoff, “It’s called a pity loss. Felt real bad for you. It’d be like beating my grandfather at a running race.” 

Steve neatly tosses a ball into the basket. The score overhead had been updated to show his new record.

“Jealousy,” he states simply. “How sad.”

You stifle a laugh, picking up the next shot and obtusely missing the basket. It breaks his perfect streak. 

He gives you a sidelong glance in amusement. “I still win.”

The machine corroborates his statement. 

“Whatever,” you dismiss playfully. “PacMan’s the real test of skill.”

He wordlessly gestures for you to go ahead. If nothing else, the bleeps and bells chiming from different slot machines seemed to lift your spirits considerably.

Steve presses the coins into the back and steps away as you crack your knuckles. “Gonna make this game my bitch.”

He’s never played before, so he’s got nothing to refute you on. You, on the other hand, do seem like you’re gonna make good on your promise.

"Have at it."

Or maybe you were losing. He couldn’t really tell what the point was. He just stands watching for several minutes.

“So,” you bring up, eyes reflecting the light from the screen. “What'd you actually wanna talk about?"

Steve peers at you in mild surprise. 

“You brought me here because it’s easier for me to talk when I have something to do with my hands,” you continue casually.

“That’s not the only reason.” 

“I know,” you concede. “But you did, didn’t you? Want to talk about something?”

"Yeah," Steve replies carefully. “Wanted to apologise. Maybe a do-over from that breakfast, if that was alright.”

"Figured as much." Your lip twitches as your character narrowly avoids running into a ghost. 

His smile comes back dry. "How?"

"You barrelling towards my door sorta gave it away. I could tell."

"You still said yes," he points out.

"As opposed to what, saying no and turning down free dinner?" You crack a small smile, immediately dropping when you see one of the ghosts round the corner to where you were. “We’ve been friends for too damn long, Steve. I don't want to let it go to shit over us not having a decent conversation. You mean too much to me.”

His heart jumps to his mouth. He swears that you could hear the audible exhale he just let out over the almost irksome beeping.

But now came the difficult part. What the hell does he actually tell you about? Time heist? Therapy? The stupid dream? List?

"I'm sorry," he says stupidly again. "I-"

Almost like you can hear his brain combusting, you ask, 

“You want me to start?” 

“Yeah, please,” he replies softly. 

"Okay.” Your nose scrunches up when you lose a life. "When you said it was different-- what'd you mean by that?"

He sees you get right back into the game, and thinks it’s probably good that you’re not watching him directly. It doesn’t feel like he’s under observation. 

"It feels like I just got out of the ice again," Steve says. "Doesn't feel like this place is for me. First time around, I was forced to accept it, y’know? Find something, or make something for myself. I don't know if I ever did, but I didn't have any other choice. This time, going and coming back, it’s like I-"

"Have another option.”

"Yeah." Steve watches your character pick up another bigger dot. "Watch out."

"Got it," you confirm lowly, taking another turn to narrowly miss one. "And you're going back how? The time travelling thing?"

"Yeah," he says. "I know there are more Pym Particles now that the doctor's back."

"And the machine?"

"Still functional. Pepper's got it with the rest of the old stuff."

You watch the little circle get killed again when the old joystick doesn't respond to your command, but there is no reaction on your face.

"You'd be safe?" your voice comes through instead.

Steve looks at your reflection in the screen. "I would."

"Okay."

You dive back in for the last round after your acknowledgement. You get killed in a much shorter time than the first two rounds.

"Boo," you say.

He silently hands you another quarter.

You take it from him, inserting it into the machine. "Don't you want to have a go?"

Steve observes at the starting screen of the game. "It'd just be embarrassing for the both of us," he decides on.

"One more game and then we hit Street Fighter 2."

He doesn't know what that is either, but it sounds more up his alley.

"D'you sleep at all these days?" you begin again, taking your time just as you had. "You've been looking a lot more tired recently."

"I do." He got three hours of sleep last night, a whopping two more than his usual. "You?"

"So and so." You shrug. "It'll get better."

He hears you at night sometimes, walking up and down across in the adjacent room. 

You’re left in long, painful silence. It doesn’t take too much to realise how much he really fucking hates this. Not the silence, he’d sit in it comfortably with you for hours, but the awkwardness. The distance between you both when you were right there in front of him.

"What are you thinking about?"

You peer at him quickly and he holds it before you break the stare to go back to the screen when your little guy dies again.

"A bunch of stuff," you reply, restarting the round. "I just don't think I have all the questions right now. There's a lot I wanna ask, but there's only a few I can think of right now, and I don't want it to be something that I regret later."

"Anything it is, I'll answer. Whenever." You could throw even mumbled, garbage words out there and he'd piece it together like he had in the past. "But know that you don't have to sugar coat it. You can tell it to me straight."

Your jaw tightens until you force it to relax. The machine beeps get faster and fast with each passing moment, but he's all but entirely turning it out.

"It fuckin’ sucked that you didn’t tell me, Steve," you say steadily. "It’s a huge decision and I wish you had told me earlier. Like– even a text would have worked.”

“I’m sorry," he breathes. "I can't take it back, I know. I'm really fucking sorry, I should have told you earlier. Just tell me what to do-- I'll do it. I'll try to make up for it. I'm sorry. I really am."

You look him in the eye, not breaking contact for a second with your eyebrows knitted together.

“Steve, the biggest issue isn't that you didn't tell me. I know I'll get over that. Like yeah, it was-- is-- absolute shit for a while, but I’d get over it eventually.” You let go off the stupid joystick to spin towards him.

“But you’re leaving. You’re going away. I spent two years talking to you through voicemails and those stupid, secret notes and the fact that we might not even have that anymore?”

You look at him helplessly. He swallows back his guilt, fresh and heavy in his throat.

“How do I just do that?” you finish, lips pursing inwards.

Nine years of knowing you and this was the first time he’d seen you look at him the way you were. Even when he was on the run, you were sure he'd be back. There was no lapse of faith, no questioning. But now-- he doesn't know what to say because he had nothing.

“I’ll find a way to stay in touch,” Steve trails off. He isn’t sure how he’d do it. He doesn’t know. “I will. There has to be some way."

You look like you don’t believe him. He knows you don’t have reason to.

"We've always found a way," There's a pained smile on his face that is replaced with something more determined.

"You wanted to make it up to me?" you bring up again and his ears perk up. "I have a few things."

"Anything."

"No more keeping stuff from me. Not like this." You breathe out.

He holds up a hand to his chest and prays his heart doesn't burst into flames that very second.

"And no more voicemails," you continue. "I've had enough of them. Find another way."

"No more voicemails," he swears. "I promise you.”

That he could do. He could make good on his promises. That's what he was still trying to do.

“Better not.” Still, a sadness pulls at the corner of your lips, turning it upwards. “Or else you’re gonna have a bigger problem when I travel back in time to kick your ass.”

A laugh escapes him against the tense atmosphere. "I bet I will."

"You'll have to visit." You hold a finger up in a vague threat. "Don't care how you do it. You have to be there for my birthday, and the holidays and-- and St Patrick's Day, I don't know."

"I'll visit," he holds his hand up in an oath. "You'll be beggin' me to go back, you'll be so tired of me."

It makes you feel a little better, he can tell by the slight relief on your face. Fuck, he'd visit six months out of the year, if he had to. He'd figure out time travel on his own with a cord phone and a typewriter.

"And you need to invest in all the right places and save up a bunch of money and get it to me. Somehow. So I can retire early"

"Apple, right? What about the horse thing-- the Derby?"

"Yeah." You give him the first real smile he's seen all evening. "Apple and the Derby."

"Done," he announces. "You got it."

The game cries behind you when your last life is taken. You turn to it, sighing at the loss of your quarter.

"Want another one?"

"No, we've got other games to play. This shit's rigged against me anyway," you reply, looking around. "Before that-- one last thing."

"What?"

"I gotta be there," you say. "The day you leave. I wanna be there. No disappearing without a trace."

"Of course," he says softly. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Good." You nod, a little more determined. "Okay, then. Dance Dance Revolution next."

Steve watches you turn on your heel and make your way towards the machine, completely discounting the fact that it was not the game you had initially named.

This was hardly the end of this conversation, he knows for a fact. And hopefully, he'd have answers for when you did ask.

“You good?” you call from a few feet away, hand on the railing of some new contraption with bright, flashing lights.

Steve nods, shoving his hands into his pocket. “I’m driving tomorrow.”

"You drove today," you remind.

Steve shrugs as he makes his way towards you and the supposed dance machine. "I know."

“Okay, Rogers.” You give him a small smile, shaking your head lightly. "Whatever you want.”

"Been a while since I've seen your face." Sam's camera shakes and Steve knows from experience he's probably caught him right in the middle of his morning run near the water. "How you been?"

"Still alive. How about you?"

"I'm doing good, man." The wind rushing by garbling is voice re on the call as he slows to a walk. "Things are going all right."

Steve's eyes flicker up to the time. "You're up earlier than usual."

"Just trying to get used to it before service starts."

"When's the first day back?"

"'Bout a month." Sam's breath is laboured. "The paperwork's a pain in the ass."

"That bad?" He had successfully avoided it, turned down their proposal to rejoin the armed forces.

"Not all of us have an assistant doing the running around for us, Rogers." Sam huffs playfully. "It's just a lot of stuff to say we're not gonna take off from the government again. Like that's gonna help."

Steve has no response to that, only a quick smile, face down.

"Where you been? Which part of the country are you in now?"

Steve squints at the sign outside his window. "I think we just left Illinois."

"How's it been so far?"

A list of possible responses run through his head before he settles on, "It's been okay, I think."

"Yeah?"

"We've talked about it a lot more."

It took a while before the silences were slowly filled with jokes again, and forced smiles were gradually being replaced with genuine ones. It felt like it was getting close to what it was at the beginning, bits and pieces were slipping back slowly, but there were still adjustments being made.

"It's getting better," he ends.

"That's good. This trip'll be good, you both needed some downtime." Sam pixelated smile comes back to him. "You sleepin' okay? Why are you up so early?"

Steve looks out the window to a sun that had barely risen and his barely touched bed. "Maybe I'll get a run in too."

"Come on, now." Sam groans. "You're on vacation, Steve. Give it a rest."

"Did you hear about all the protein shakes?" Steve asks with a smile, even though no such food was actually brought on the trip.

"I was told. You're a disgrace," Sam says before quickly adding, "Hold on, lemme show you something real quick."

The camera flips to show him the most gorgeous view of the waterfront, glittering and calm.

Steve's smile widens. "You in Louisiana?"

"Thought I'd spend some time here before I go take deal with the Air Force stuff," comes his reply.

Steve's about to comment on the view he was offered when the focus shifts to the ground. Sam calls something incomprehensible off-screen. Steve get a good look at his sneakers before it picks up again, flipping back to Sam's face.

"Sorry ‘bout that," he says, lifting his phone in the air slightly. "Sarah says hi."

"Tell her I said hey." Steve only momentarily catches a glimpse of Sam's sister who sends him a wave from a distance. "How is she?"

"Annoyed." Sam pulls the phone back to him. "Boat stopped working again. Gotta check it out again this afternoon."

"What about the boys?"

"Growing wilder each day." At that there's a grin on his face. "Feels good to see them, y'know? Missed five years and all of a sudden they're two completely different people."

Steve's smiles falters a bit. "Should be fun getting to know them."

"Oh, it is." Sam looks into the camera. "Speakin' of strangers, tell your buddy that if he's going off the radar, 'm not looking for him again."

Steve's expression is a good mix of amusement and plain fatigue.

"He's not answering?"

"Never does," Sam exclaims. "You should check if he knows how to operate that thing, maybe we gotta get him a fax machine. Carrier pigeon."

"He'll respond-" Steve finally gets himself off the bed- "eventually."

"I'm not holding my breath."

He parts the curtain to look at the early hue of the sky. "Thanks anyway. For trying."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam looks off-camera for a second and shouts something unintelligible, only to be met with laughter. "Folks say hi, they're asking when you're stopping by again."

Steve gives him a tight smile. "Soon."

___

Steve didn't get the run in, opting to stay in bed till you were awake a few hours later to at least save whatever energy he did have. He kept the TV on at a low volume, flipping through cooking channels and tech shows and Good Morning America and more commercials.

He's already eaten one apple through the night, currently on his second one as he watches an episode of a show he's never heard of before.

He's barely tuning in, given that he doesn't even crack a smile at the parts where the laugh track plays.

Steve absentmindedly chews on the apple and watches the shapes move. Though the fruit is sweet and crisp, the familiar craving that he can't place a finger on crawls up the back of his throat.

His eyebrows furrow. It's for something sweet-- that, he's managed to decipher for sure.

Watery, thin?

Burnt at the edges?

Steve's bag sits packed and ready to go in the corner of his room.

He takes another bite of the apple and switches the channel.

___

Breakfast was oats, toast with marmalade, and a steaming hot cup of coffee.

You read out an email from work and Steve chews mindlessly through the rest of the silence.

___

Steve taps on the steering wheel in time with the AC/DC song playing on the radio. He'd heard it being blasted at least twice from Tony's lab and his car stereo.

You make an early noon task out of marking off places you've visited so far along the trip and he silently counts the number of squeaks of markers against the paper.

"Not bad," you note, finally looking up. "I'd say we did Illinois pretty well."

"Yeah?" He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"Just added an additional day or two to the schedule," you say. "We'll compensate it somewhere else, doesn't matter."

Steve hums as you fold that map up before reaching for another one.

"How many of those do you have?"

"I don't know." You squint. "Three? And there's like, a book or two, too."

He doesn't think he's seen anyone this prepared for a road trip before.

“We should get into town by evening,” you say, reading from the map.

Steve knows very well that the GPS on your phone is open right beside you, telling you the actual directions but he doesn’t make a mention of it.

“What’s on the itinerary for today?” he asks instead.

“This is more just a pit stop, so whatever you wanna do, really. We can talk to locals, see a museum. Lie in the sun.”

"Lying in the sun sounds all right," Steve agrees.

"Cat behaviour it is, then.” You scan the map. "There are a few antique shops around, if you're into that stuff."

Steve was yet to buy something for his house. He'd seen some cute stuff, even hesitated for a while but always ended up putting it down. What was the point?

"Do you think they'd sell old post cards?" he asks. "I needed to send some."

"I think they should. People collect them sometimes," you theorise. "We can check."

Steve replies with an 'okay', and you continue to study the map for some more time, eyes occasionally drifting to your phone to check if he was on the right path.

After about ten minutes, you fold the map again, keeping it down before reaching for the third one.

_______

Steve switched out with you about halfway through the drive, choosing to recline his seat for a bit when he felt the return of a headache.

You pulled into town a little before three. The sun was still strong in the sky, and though he could feel the air rush by with the windows were rolled down, it was still warmer than usual.

"Lunch first?" you ask, slowing the pace of car as you drive past diners and restaurants, "Or post cards?"

"Whichever comes up sooner."

You nod. Steve presses the heels of his palm into his temples discreetly and lets out an exhale.

_____

The antique store door opens with a bell chime overhead. Steve discards two empty water bottles at the bin by the opening.

"Oh, I love this," you breathe out as you take in the sight of the shelves. Though it was filled to the brim with things pouring out from shelves and under tables, it was cool inside. Even the objects hiding at the back were steeped in warm light.

There’s a faint sound of a generator hum that reverberates through the store, but the front desk is empty, a noticeable lack of life in the otherwise animated store.

“Hello?” you call out, and wait a few moments.

When no one answers, you turn to Steve.

He shrugs, taking a step towards the aisles. “So long as we don’t break anything.”

The store is crowded as can be.

He finds that the don’t-break-anything rule was easier said than done when his head didn’t bump into things hanging from the ceiling every now and then. Walls were jam packed with everything ranging from neckties to candlesticks. He keeps his hands close to him, only occasionally reaching out to touch something.

The artefacts ooze history and cultures from other states, even though some of them make no sense. It’s less of antique and more of random items from all over the country. He doesn't miss the number of merchandise for the route you were on currently that had taken up place on the shelf.

He pauses at a little ceramic lion.

It pulls a very vivid image from his memory of the mantle above the fireplace lined with several of these fellas. His mom’s delight whenever she could find enough to buy a tiny giraffe or zebra elicits a smile from him. Still, the clay model of a cat sat in the middle of all them, deformed and with one ear chipped off, but Sarah Rogers’ favourite of them all.

"Steve."

His head snaps towards the direction your voice comes from, the opposite side of the store.

You’re grinning wildly at something in your grip, flipping it back and forth.

“What’s that?”

“Found 'em." You hold it up for him to take a look at. "Postcards.”

They’ve gone brown with age, corners a bit torn and bent. There are creases that he runs his fingers across and smudges of ink across some of them. They've worn and softened, but held up brilliantly.

“Mail!” Bucky announces, sauntering into the tent.

There’s a quick round of murmuring as he passes it around, reading out the address from each before dropping it in front of them.

Steve watches Bucky open his nimbly after everyone else, a soft smile on his face as he takes in the handwriting before folding it and putting it aside to read later in private.

“What’s your wife sayin’, Dugan?” Falsworth asks, loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “You’re smiling like there’s no tomorrow.”

“None'a your business,” the man retorts, but his happiness doesn’t dip.

“Aw, come on now.” Falsworth doesn’t relent, however. “I suppose she’s not leaving you after all.”

“He’s determined to get a good beating today, ain’t he?” Gabe stares in wonder at the man’s gall. “Back off, Falsworth. Just 'cause your girl didn’t send you a letter.”

Steve blinks hard.

That wasn't a memory he had accounted for. Nearly eighty years ago and seemingly mundane in contrast to all the things that had happened in that period.

No, the memories he had accounted for were on his list, the one pressed in the folds of his wallet.

“They’re so weird.” You pull one card out to show him.

There’s the name of the town in cursive in front of a lake that he was absolutely sure didn’t exist here. The whole scene is painted with the date in the top corner, the postcard vintage.

‘Definitely one of the places on Earth!’

“They’re not wrong,” Steve comments after reading the tagline.

“Jacques, you got a letter?” Steve asks, voicing everyone's collective thought. It was rare that he did, but he’d know when it arrived by the beam on Dernier’s face for the next three weeks.

Gabe translates it back to the Frenchman who looks on in glee.

“Sure did, Captain.” Dernier says in his limited vocabulary and slang he picked up over the course of his stint here.

"Well, don't just stand there," Dugan quips. "Tell us what it says."

Dernies chatters off a quick summary of the contents, while still managing to rapidly re-reading the paper in the process. Steve watches his fingers quiver when clutching the handwritten print whose ink blotches stained through.

“He says her parents finally gave in, they’re gonna get married once he’s back,” Gabe reveals but everyone knows enough of the language to pick up on a few words and put together the context.

The group lets out a loud cheers, calling out congratulations and a few indecent praises, and the man of the hour gives a small bow, not letting go of the letter for a second. 

“He says that she’s going to pick a venue and let him know soon, but for now she’s sending him a postcard.” Gabe holds up the picture. Steve can see it’s of a beach, brown tint and cracks from being roughed up in the postal system. “And should he choose to, they can get married the night he’s back because she can’t wait.”

"What's wrong?"

Steve looks over to you, still holding on to the first one you had slid over to him.

"Nothing," he replies. "Just thinkin' of something."

You nudge his shoulders lightly. "What is it?"

He checks the back of the card, thumbing the jaded corner. For a concept that was so easy, it seemed to pull every single cog in his brain into action to figure out the pros and cons of simply telling you. 

But it’s the singular want to let you know that overrules them all in the end.

Steve’s eyes glance over at you. "You remember when I told you that I wanted to get some stuff on this trip?"

"Yeah, you said you'd tell me what they were later." There is curiosity in your eyes as you answer.

"I have this list," Steve says, digging into his pocket to brandish his wallet.

In the same zipper that contains all his loose change is a fragment of paper, folded up tightly. He picks it up, hesitating for a second before handing it over to you.

As you unravel it, the strange unsettling feeling returns; the same one he had every time he thought about it for too long.

In messy handwriting, with a few scratches and scribbled out words, you can make out that he's written it hastily.

1. Caramels (toffee, candy?)

2. Cupcake

3.

4.

5.

"These things, they're supposed to remind me of people from-" Steve pauses, takes a second to frame it properly- "my old life. People I cared about."

You read the two things over and over again, and he wonders if you're trying to form some connection or theory.

"Three of them are empty," you point out, looking to him for an answer.

He shrugs. "Couldn't think of one for them yet."

"Oh," you reply, reading the two again. "Why were you thinking about your list?"

"The postcards, I was gonna get them for Mona 'cause she likes them,” Steve replies. "But it reminded me of someone else. I hadn't thought to include them before, didn't really occur to me."

"Who was it?"

"The Commandos," he says. "Guys I fought with in the war. We'd get mail and sometimes, one of them would get a postcard. Just made me think of that."

"Did you get a postcard too?" you ask.

You hold out the list for him and he takes it gently, staring at it before folding it up and placing it back where it came from.

"Not really," Steve admits. "Got a few letters. It was rare, though. Other people had folks back home, I didn't."

Not the kind who sent letters, anyway. He doesn't blame them, though.

Bucky's mother and sister mentioned him in their mail sometimes, asking him to keep safe. Other than that, he didn't get a lot of correspondence.

"I'll get you one now, then," you say. "I'll write your name on it and everything. A little note too."

Steve looks at you, and the conviction in your face has his heart pick up, race a bit faster.

"Okay," he says, a small smile growing on his face. "Well, in that case, I'm gonna have to send you one too. In reply, of course."

"Great," you reply, feeling a rush of heat up your neck. "Take your pick."

You fan out the cards like a deck, and hold it out to him. Steve looks at it from left to right before randomly stopping on one and drawing it out.

A family of anthropomorphic eggs stand at the signboard at the entrance of town, faces contorted in what’s supposed to be warm welcome, but just looks like hidden pain, with the words ‘Wish you were here’ scrawled at the bottom in fancy cursive.

“That’s fuckin’ terrifying," he says.

"It's perfect." You grin, tucking that away to the bottom of the pile. "Pick another one."

He does, pointing out a card on the exact opposite side.

Another of a group of people in lobster costumes - or lobsters with human legs, he couldn't quite tell- in front of a restaurant he passed on the way. Their backs were turned to the painter, allowing only a vague silhouette of them to be drawn.

"This one's for you," he reminds when he can't tell which is uglier.

“I love it,” you laugh, turning them over to examine it thoroughly. “Look, it just says ‘hello’ at the back.”

Sure enough it did.

“Were these rejects?” He holds on to them as you hand it over, one by one. "I can't imagine anyone would actually wanna buy them."

“I’m not sure. Maybe they were jokes but-”

“Hey, buddy.” Steve looks over the shelf and through a dream catcher and a lava lamp into the eyes of an elderly woman. “You touch ‘em, you gotta buy ‘em.”

Her eyes are narrowed and it looks like half her teeth are missing, but she’s got a mean glint in her eye and an old cap on her head to accompany the flannel.

“Steve, you guys have the same cap,” you whisper from beside him.

He stifles a laugh. "What's that gotta do with anything?"

She raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“I'm tellin' ya, it’s meant to be,” you urge.

He snorts slightly, holding them up and waving it around lightly.

“We’ll take all of them, please.”

----

The diner was empty. His foot tapped as he scanned through the seemingly endless menu of burgers and sandwiches and hot dogs.

"I know what I'm getting," you let him know, placing the menu down.

Steve nods, asks for a minute more as he runs over the choices again.

His eyes flick over to the breakfast side.

Waffles, eggs, biscuits and gravy, french toast. Most with whipped cream and syrup.

When his gaze finally lands on the last item, he senses it again. The craving for something sweet, building up on his tongue. Steve narrows his eyebrows at it.

Buttermilk pancakes.

The feeling grows stronger in its intensity the longer he stares at it. Was that what he'd been craving this entire fucking time?

“D'you think I can score pancakes for lunch?” He doesn't wait too long for it to rationalise itself out of his mind-- he should at least try before shunning himself.

You peer at him. “I think they serve breakfast all day, it should be there. ”

Steve nods, letting out an exhale. "That's what I'll get, then.”

There's something else that follows the second he makes his decision. A sense of giddy excitement, somewhere from within him. The fuck.

There’s a soft smile on your face as you look away and out the window.

---

His skin is sticky from sweat. Occasionally his wrist drifts up to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

He’s on his second glass of iced tea, waiting on his pancakes for lunch. It felt stupidly rebellious to order breakfast food at 4pm. There were no rules anyway. It feels like he’s 12 again.

The food was taking its own sweet time to arrive. The server was humming along to the song playing gently over the speakers, chewing on some gum.

All the postcards were spread out on the table, and you looked over them with nothing but determination on your face. Steve takes a sip from his straw, more interested in watching you than the pictures .

“Fine, that’s going to Sam.” You move one with a giant man laid across a wineyard, wine drunk. His body wholly covers the place, and there is no particular reason it should go to Sam but it is.

“Obvious choice.”

“Alright, your turn.” Your eye catches his eagerly. He thinks that maybe the loud beat in his heart isn’t just from the heatstroke.

He wipes his palms on his shirt before pushing forth a random one. “For Sam.”

“Steve, we can’t send all of them to Sam.”

“We’re not.” He points out to one with his index finger. “That one’s for Buck.”

You let out a small ‘hmm’. He looks at you in amusement.

“I know you paid for them but we can’t send all twenty to Sam and Bucky.”

After he'd separated a bunch of the strangest ones for Mona, it was now a task to figure out what to do with the rest of them. Some of them were plain disturbing-- those were the ones that were going to his oldest friend.

“Okay,” Steve proposes, looking over the postcards. “I’ll send more of these to you.”

“Steve,” you whine. He conceals a smile, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“Not sure if you know,” Steve takes a long sip from his iced tea, leaning back. “I don’t got a lot of friends."

Thor was off doing a stint with the Guardians; he probably had cooler souvenirs to bring back. Clint was already on the receiving end of one, but Steve isn’t sure he’d appreciate the crying human apricots anymore than he did.

Nat was dead.

The atmosphere in the room drops heavy like an anvil before he has a second to even prepare.

Steve shakes his head, to pull himself away and focus on the fake wooden table.

“Fine, send some to me,” you relent, lips quirking up. “I’ll frame ‘em if you sign it.”

“Which one’s your favourite?”

You point out two of them. He tucks them into his wallet where he’s aware it will bend but it’d be safe.

Steve sets aside one more for Mona, bringing the count up to six. She was getting a lot more than she bargained for.

A little gravestone in the corner of a cemetery, not surrounded by others.

“Do you think they forgot about us?” You gather up the rest of them and drop it into your bag to address later. "We've been here a while."

Steve looks around at the empty booths. “Unlikely.”

You draw a long sip from your glass.

The diner has chipped paint and peeling wallpaper. The song from ten minutes ago loops again. The waitress blows a bubble that pops a second later.

Steve feels like the walls are closing in on him.

His teeth toy with his lower lip and he wills himself to focus on the moment, focus on you looking out the window, chin leaning on your palm.

There’s a tree beside the grave, casting shade over it. The spot’s perpetually cool, a beautiful, quiet corner.

“Hey,” you say, face still turned away. He needs you to look at him, he needs a reason to tether himself.

“Yeah?” he manages.

“You wanna get out of here?” You finally glance at him and he feels like he can let out an exhale. “Day’s real pretty, it’d be a shame if we were stuck indoors.”

His Adam's apple rises and falls. “Please.”

You send him a half smile.

---

The evening sun is still just as hot, it beats down on him and the hood of the trunk is the only defence against it. Steve wonders when it actually was going to get cool.

He's not particularly mad. After seventy years in ice and two years of living in the shadows, he doesn’t mind a sunburn or two.

The field is stunning. Sunflowers stretched on for miles, as far as he could see. There’s a folk song playing from the radio, but it’s turned down to hear the sounds of the day.

"Where'd you find this place?" he asks.

"I'm tellin' ya, those maps come in handy sometimes." You wave a fork at him. "Or maybe it was the book. I don't know, just remember reading that someone drove past a sunflower field on their way so I figured it had to be around close by."

The pancakes in to-go boxes were sitting beside you and him in the open trunk of the car along with more iced tea.

The second he bit into them, he was hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it has him sighing deeply. They were good, pillowy and soft and absolutely drenched in extra servings of maple syrup and some blueberries. Nothing had ever tasted this good before.

“We’re camping out this weekend, by the way.” Your fork pokes against the styrofoam.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You can see the stars clearer from the outskirts.”

“I didn’t know you brought a tent.” He was only about halfway done with his tall stack but he was almost full. He can see why they took so long to get it ready. “You did bring a tent, right?”

“No, I figured we’d lie on the dirt. Get a real feel of the countryside, you know?”

“Sounds like a great time.” Steve shrugs. He’s slept on worse.

“While you were bringing protein bars, I got us the real essentials,” you bite and he chuckles. “I hope you know how to start a fire.”

“Better than anyone.” He lifts the bottle to his lips. “I’ll just burn the protein bars.”

“Then I hope you also know how to fight bears.”

“We can manage.”

“You sure?” You raise an eyebrow. “What if it’s a really strong bear?”

“Then we’re fucked,” he declares nonchalantly.

A real tragedy.

A breeze blows past, bringing with it the rustling of the flowers.

"It's not exactly camping. I booked us an AirBnB somewhere on the outskirts," you divulge.

"No tent in the back seat?"

"No tent," you confirm. "Can't risk being mauled to death if I want marshmallows. It just sounds more fun when I say we're camping."

"It sounds fun either way," Steve says, taking another bite.

He wants to sketch the scene in front of him.

Maybe he’d draw you in the middle of it all, smiling brighter than all of them combined. You always seem to know him exactly. Maybe a drawing could begin to repay that.

“D’you want some?” Steve holds out his carton to you.

“God, no.” You huff, taking a swig from your bottle. “I’m stuffed. Thank you, though.”

He just closes the lid and keeps it beside him, picking up the remnants of his iced tea instead.

His hands return to his side to keep his body propped up, but he doesn’t miss the way your finger brushes against his. Feather light, only a small touch but it’s there. Steve resists every urge to interlock his fingers with yours, press a kiss to your knuckle and sit there in the sun with you the whole day.

He’s not quite sure what it is he feels about you, but he knows that it’s more than what he should feel for a friend. Sometimes he just wants to kiss you stupid.

"Why pancakes all of a sudden?" Your voice carries over the song.

"I don't know, I've just been having these fucking cravings for the past few days," Steve answers, "Couldn't figure out what it was for till it clicked today."

"When's the last time you had some?" You raise an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know, a couple of months ago?" he guesses, "It was box mix, so not exactly gourmet stuff."

"You're gonna hurt Betty Crocker's feelings, Steve."

He raises his hands in apology to those affected.

The last time he remembers having really good ones had to be a while ago, but even they couldn't hold a candle to the ones he found in the Barnes' household.

"Bucky's mom used to make pancakes on Sundays," Steve remembers. "She'd save me a plate when she knew I was going to show up."

God, when he and Buck used to stumble into the kitchen after getting in, and out, of shit that morning absolutely ravenous, he swore they were the best things he'd ever tasted. Sometimes Bucky's mom made them out of stale bread-- he doesn't know she did it, but it was brilliant. He couldn't manage more than three but she always shoved another on his plate and told him it was the last one.

"Maybe that was your inner child. Must’a made him happy."

Steve’s brows furrow when he turns to you questioningly.

"You know-- how sometimes we buy things or do things when we're older that we weren't allowed to as a kid, or didn't have enough of," you put forth. "Like, I buy those kid's science kits all the time 'cause they make me happy. Maybe your inner child’s sick of nutribars. Maybe he just wants some pancakes."

Steve looks at the styrofoam box barely holding together, and thinks that perhaps you are right.

"Were they good?" you ask, following his line of sight.

"Yeah. They were great."

He hadn’t ever seen a field like this before, and he doubts he ever will.

It’s strange. He’s in the moment but he already misses it.

“If you go back-” you ask all of a sudden. “Shit, wait, I probably should have given a warni-”

“It’s okay,” he breaks in gently, setting his bottle down on his lap with the ring tipped towards the field. “Go on.”

“Is Bucky coming with you?”

“I asked him,” Steve replies, eyes falling on the condensation dripping onto his hand from the bottle. “Said he’d rather not have to face his ma and tell her what happened to him in the years he was gone.”

You blow out a small exhale.

Asking Bucky was one of the first things he did. His friend was silent for a second before he declined it with a slow shake of his head and a ‘I don’t think I could do that, buddy. I’m too far gone’.

Too far gone.

Steve couldn’t fathom the thought. Bucky had seen and done things that he could have never imagined. And each time, no matter how lost he was or how much he strayed, Steve would turn the earth on his axis to bring him back.

Still, to him, the future was his first real shot at independence and Steve understood even without any words to convey it.

“Suppose it’s stupid to ask if you’d wanna come,” he says playfully, not even daring to be the tiniest bit optimistic. It is a stupid question. You had your whole life here, your friends and a kickass job.

You smile painfully. “I wouldn’t fit in your time, Steve, you know it.”

He did.

Steve feels your little finger toying with his. He wonders if it’s unconscious or not, but either way he likes it.

“Is that even possible?” you inquire, looking over at him. “Me comin’ with you?”

He matches your gaze. You only knew about the time travel because he told you. The public were well in the dark about the events that transpired- for all they knew, Thanos had arrived, they won the war and everyone was snapped back into existence. The implications of time travel being common knowledge was too dangerous and trust had been in short supply these years.

“Yeah. Stark and I did it. We were partnered up,” Steve recalls, face to the sky. “Fucked up the first attempt pretty bad so we had to go back.”

“How far?”

“To the seventies.” He had run through the story with multiple agents already so it was easy enough. “We found the stone there, at Camp Lehigh.”

One trip and things just hadn’t been the same.

“Must’ve been weird, huh?” You nudge his shoulder.

He breathes out a small chuckle. “Heard someone say Tony had a hippie beard. Called him Mungo Jerry.”

“He ever find out?”

“Couldn’t do that to him.” Steve shakes his head and you laugh.

His empty bottle finds itself in the trash bag to be disposed of, half his pancakes stored away for later.

“Keep what I got? I have to, at all costs. And maybe not die trying will be nice,” Tony emphasises.

“Sounds like a deal.” Steve holds his hand out for a handshake. Tony grabs it firmly.

In the present, Steve flinches, forcing the interaction out of his mind before it plays on a loop.

“What’s wrong?” You don’t miss it this time, unlike the diner.

There’s no date of birth or death on the grave, only a dark symbol. The tree casts a shadow over the name etched onto the stone.

The muscle in his jaw tightens dangerously.

“I haven’t visited their graves since the service,” Steve says. “Nat and Tony’s.”

It was a small service, private. He still remembers the red-rimmed eyes and the white lilies and the stupid jokes Clint cracked in an effort to not completely dissolve on the spot. Not a lot of people laughed.

He remembers the exact constriction in his chest and the clammy palms that held your hand against his tightly when they lowered an empty casket into the ground.

“It’s difficult.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you crane your neck to look at him.

He pauses. “Yeah. But I should’ve done it.”

The field doesn’t look too colourful anymore. The sun doesn’t burn as bright.

It feels cold, outside and in him, just as it did that winter, and every day since.

“I don’t think anyone’d blame you for that.”

He could. And he did, every goddamn time he remembered the smile she gave him before she left to go save a stupid stone. There should have been a better plan. There could have been other places.

Remembering was a fucking curse.

White lilies. Nat liked white lilies.

“It's-” His chest feels like it's giving in on itself again. "I don't know, I should have still visited. It's not right."

Nat deserved flowers.

Your brows pull together tightly. It’s a second before he feels your arm snake around his waist, inching closer to him.

I don’t know how to move on, he remembers thinking to himself over and over again so much that he's convinced it was never in the stars for him. He can only move forward.

It’s a little gravestone in the corner of the cemetery. There’s a stone with no birthday and a tree beside it that casts a shadow on her name, and the spot is beautifully calm.

And there are no flowers.

“Steve,” you say softly. “Breathe with me, okay?”

He nods, taking a deep inhale that shakes, still looking out to the field that was rustling against the wind again.

He should have left her flowers.

“Mail!” Bucky announces, sauntering into the tent.

There’s a quick round of murmuring as he passes it around, reading out the address from each before dropping it in front of them.

Steve watches Bucky open his nimbly after everyone else, a soft smile on his face as he takes in the handwriting before folding it and putting it aside to read later in private.

“What’s your wife sayin’, Dugan?” Falsworth asks, loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “You’re smiling like there’s no tomorrow.”

“None'a your business,” the man retorts, but his happiness doesn’t dip.

“Aw, come on now.” Falsworth doesn’t relent, however. “I suppose she’s not leaving you after all.”

“He’s determined to get a good beating today, ain’t he?” Gabe stares in wonder at the man’s gall. “Back off, Falsworth. Just 'cause your girl didn’t send you a letter.”

“I believe she’s too overcome with emotion from my last correspondence,” he says smugly, sitting back with his arms crossed.

Bucky leads the scoffing that comes from everyone, even throwing in an occasional ‘boo’. He has a knife held in his grip, carving away at a piece of wood slowly. Steve knows from experience that this would end up being the size of a toothpick that Bucky would then stick between his teeth. Most times in an attempt to persuade the nurses of how charming he was.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you, Dernier,” Falsworth changes his sight to land on the other corner of the room.

Eyebrows raise in surprise, sending quick glances at each other.

“Jacques, you got a letter?” Steve asks, voicing everyone's collective thought. It was rare that he did

Gabe translates it back to the Frenchman who looks on in glee.

“Sure did, Captain.” Dernier says in his limited vocabulary and slang he picked up over the course of his stint here.

"Well, don't just stand there," Dugan quips. "Tell us what it says."

Dernies chatters off a quick summary of the contents, still rapidly re-reading the paper and the handwritten ink print whose blotches stained the back.

“He says her parents finally gave in, they’re gonna get married once he’s back,” Gabe reveals but everyone knows enough of the language to pick up on a few words and put together the context.

The group lets out a loud cheers, calling out congratulations and a few indecent praises, and the man of the hour gives a small bow, clutching the letter tightly.

“He says that she’s going to pick a venue and let him know soon, but for now she’s sending him a postcard.” Gabe holds up the picture. Steve can see it’s of a beach, brown tint and cracks from being roughed up in the postal system. “And should he choose to, they can get married the night he’s back because she can’t wait.”

It’s sickly sweet but no one says a word, not even the loudest, most crass of the lot.

Dernier mumbles to himself before folding the paper up and placing it in his belongings carefully, under a few clothes so that it’s safe.

“What’s he mouthing off?”

“Swear if I get outta here in one piece, over anyone else, I’d choose her to go back to.” Gabe’s voice is soft when he translates. “I’d choose her every time.”

Dernier’s eyes are far away, but no one could blame him. Good news in a time like this was a blessing.

There’s a strangely emotional silence that has everyone looking away to give him some privacy. Steve's mouth quirks upwards at the thought of the agent a few tents over who recently had graced him with a rare smile.

“How about you, Falsworth?” Bucky asks, now completed toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth as his friend had predicted. “Who're you picking after this shit storm’s done?”

A sly grin grows on the man’s face. “I’d also choose Jacques’ girl.”

There’s an equal uproar of laughter and groans, followed by punches to the shoulders, Jacques looking up frantically for an explanation he wouldn’t receive any time soon. Steve rolls his eyes affectionately.

“Any letter for you, Captain?” Morita pipes up from the other side of the space.

“None.” Steve smiles although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe next time.”

“Ah, give it up, Rogers.” Dugan throws an arm around his shoulder. “Coupla months an’ you’re gonna get yourself a missus in Madam Carter. Bet your letters’ll be full of lipstick and perfume in no time.”

Steve shoves him off, cheeks turning red. “Don’t you have someone to respond to?”

“Hey, my ma told you to wash your boots, Stevie. Says they look mighty filthy on the paper, can’t imagine what they look like in real life,” Bucky reads out from his letter, folding it up and placing it back down. “Says to take care because she misses you more than her own godforsaken son.”

Steve knows there’s no such line in there. She probably didn’t even know Steve was with her son.

Mail came far and in between and only once had it been for him. Meskill wrote to him that Jeanie had worked herself to the bone and he himself had picked up a few shifts at the factory, asking to borrow Steve’s extra clothes and gloves if he could.

Still, he gives his best friend a grin. “Can’t imagine why she wouldn't. You’ve always been a pain in her ass.”

Bucky throws a few shavings of wood at him even though none of it hits. “Asshole.”

"I prefer the stealth suit," he grumbles. "Not that they cared to ask."

"Because you'd tell 'em if they did? King of open communication?" you retort before going back to your phone.

Steve stays quiet. He knows it's a joke but there's a bite to it that he isn't sure you've used before.

"Fact number 4. The shield is calibrated to return to his arm constantly," you continue, however.

"Now that's just wrong," he states. "Sometimes it comes back to my face."

You hold back a laugh. "You've hit yourself in the face with your shield?"

"I wasn't born with the ability to throw that thing around, you know." He can't help a smile. "The serum was the only thing that stopped us from finishing half the army's medical supplies. I had a new broken bone at the end of each day because I caught it wrong."

"What?"

"Broke both my femurs once. Had to lay there on the ground for a couple hours till it healed so I could walk back to the main camp."

You wince. "Steve."

"They always leave that out of the movies," he says dryly. "Wonder why."

"You're insane." You shake your head. "I feel bad for Bucky."

Steve finds himself grinning. "He was convinced I liked doing it."

"Your smile doesn't tell me otherwise," you say, entirely unimpressed yourself.

There was still a tiny scar on his shin. He sometimes saw it when his legs were propped up in front of him. Each time, ghosts of the searing pain shoot up his thigh and fade away a second later.

"Fact number 5," you digress when he doesn't counter your earlier statement, "His favourite food is apple pie."

Steve shrugs.

"I know that's wrong. You like blueberry better."

The corner of his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. "I do."

"Fact number 6," you call from where you lay on the bed. "His favourite movie is Gone With the Wind."

Steve stares at you from the chair, one leg crossed over the other.

"Well?" you urge. "Is it?"

"How many of these are there?" he asks wearily.

"Like, twenty four." You turn back to the phone when he doesn't answer. "Fact number-"

"Please," he says. "No more."

"Fair enough."

He watches you close the tab, dropping the phone onto your chest.

"It isn't Gone With The Wind."

"Yeah, I know."

You continue to stare at the ceiling. It's an easy afternoon, for the both of you to rest. Check out was later and then you were supposed to be on the road again.

"You know, I don't think I've ever asked you that," you say, flipping onto your stomach to eye him. "What is your favourite colour?"

Steve thinks for a second but invariably settles on the first colour that pops into his head.

"Yellow."

"Fun." You pull your phone out from under you and unlock it again. "I'm gonna comment that, hold on."

After a beat, Steve asks, "What'd you say?"

"Told them I have it on good record that Steve Rogers' favourite colour is yellow--" your focus stays on whatever you were typing out-- "and that their list sucks."

"Maybe leave out the last part," he suggests.

"And posted." You give him a thumbs up. "I'll give it five minutes before someone starts an argument with me in the replies."

He's gotten into his fair share of online arguments. It'd dwindled over the years, but there were enough for his PR agent to pale whenever she saw him near a phone.

"Did you actually post that?"

"Huh?" you ask, but it comes out distant as you click dedicatedly at something.

"Are you already fighting with someone?"

"Give me a second." You hold up a finger.

Steve settles on watching you focus on the task at hand.

In a flash, your nose scrunches up all weird. He thinks it's adorable, especially when he catches your eye and you immediately try to get rid of the disgust, disdain, whatever it was.

"What?" He laughs.

"Nothing."

"C'mon," he prods. "I'll tell you my favourite movie."

"That's a trick question, Rogers." You wave the same raised finger at him. "You don't have a favourite movie."

Steve huffs a little at the failed attempt, but his heart swells. Just a little. A normal amount. He represses the everloving shit out of it.

"It's nothing," you repeat, locking your phone again and dropping it beside you. "I just took a Buzzfeed quiz to find out my superhero boyfriend."

Steve's eyebrow quirks up. "And?"

"It's the raccoon." You sigh. "The space raccoon."

"Rocket?" Steve asks. "Yeah, I could see that working out."

"Do you now?"

"I've got a way of contacting him around here somewhere. You think you can wait that long?"

You reach over to throw a pillow at him and Steve laughs when it misses by a long shot.

_____

The clear, unobstructed skies are dealt with by looming trees. Dark, tall and swaying.

Steve loses sight of the road minutes into the woods, watching in awe and trepidation. His ears stay tuned-- he can hear every footstep in a two-mile radius if he really tried, and for a second he really does consider it.

The car moves along slowly, windows rolled down welcoming the freshness. Steve inhales and exhales just as deep, letting clean, crisp air flood his system.

"That's the owner," you sing, pulling the car to a halt by the side of the house.

It's a wooden A-frame, with windows giving him a peek into the inside. A ramp goes up the side and to the back, serving as an entrance and a patio, a pit out front for campfires.

Steve steps out first, doing a quick scan of the environment before you join him. Nothing was wrong. Yet.

You greet the blonde woman dressed in a bright red tracksuit, hair up in a pony and a bandana pushing back flyaways.

One hand on her hip and the other out to meet yours in a shake, she jumps back and forth between Steve and you as you introduce yourselves.

"It's nice to meet y'all," she chirps, eyeing the both of you up and down. "We get a lot of couples out here this time of year. Y'all got lucky with the booking."

"Oh, we're not..." you begin before trailing. "Thanks for fitting us in."

She catches it, however, raising an eyebrow at Steve. He gives her a polite smile.

"Here's the number to the keypad. Just remember to keep the noise down if you're playing music, no smoking, no pets. If you're using the fire pit, pour water over it when you're done."

"Got it," you confirm. "Won't be an issue."

"I'll be a few miles away at our campsite." She looks at him. "Don't hesitate to call or visit if you need anything. My phone's on at all times."

"Thanks." He gives her a smile.

"At all times," she repeats slowly as she backs away. It has you stifling a laugh.

"We'll keep that in mind," he replies. "Have a nice day."

"You too!" she calls out. "Make yourselves comfortable. Have a nice stay."

You wave at her as she gets into her own car, engine whirring to life as she pulls away, but not before sending him another look out her window.

"Wow," you say in awe when her car disappears beyond the trees.

"I know, it's beautiful." Steve isn't even looking the same direction as you are, seemingly having turned towards the house in the middle of the encounter.

You look at him strangely, almost as if you're gauging his reaction. "Uh huh. That's what I'm talking about. The house."

He tilts his head at you and you dismiss it with a shake of yours.

"Come on," you adjust the bag over your shoulder. "I call dibs on the upstairs bedroom."

_______

The sun sets faster in this part of the world, or he just doesn't notice the time slipping by.

Afternoon turns to evening turns to night in a flash by the time he comes back from exploring the nearest surroundings. There's a lake nearby, still and gentle with a paddle boat nearby that he might convince you to go on the next day.

But above all else, there is just overwhelming quiet. He can hear twigs cracking a mile away, the beating of your heart next to him as you walk beside him and every bird that lands on a branch.

You eat dinner out in the open that night, diner food balance don your laps as you sat on the stairs. Steve has a jacket thrown on. He realises he doesn't really need it, but he keeps it on nonetheless.

"Staying in places like this for at least a week would factory reset your brain," you say. "It's dangerous."

"What d'you mean?" he asks.

"Why do you think people who go on vacation sometimes just stay there?" You bite down on another spoonful of rice. "It's the peace. Once you get addicted, there's no going back."

"Have you?"

"Not yet." You shake your head lightly. "I don't ever stay long enough. I've got work to finish that I won't get to otherwise."

Steve finds himself relating a little too much to that. "Yeah."

"My parents liked it," you add wistfully, almost. "The quiet. Our house was silent a lot."

Steve has nothing to say in reply. He supposes that's why he hears you humming to yourself so much-- filling in spaces left behind by other people.

"But maybe someday." You shrug, facing him with a little smile. "It's something to look forward to."

"Today we're in Morocco. Next week we'll be in Lebanon," she says. "After that who knows?"

"Depends on where we're needed next." He takes aim and throws his dart.

"I guess.” She watches it hit the board. “And eventually, we won’t be needed anywhere." Nat looks at him. "That's what we're doing this for, aren't we?"

"That's the goal." He offers her a dart out of his own pile. She turns it down. "Don't know if that's ever gonna happen. Retirement, stability; it seems a long way off."

"The quiet?" Steve asks.

"The quiet," you affirm.

The sky is cloudy, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate the area around you without the support of the cabin lights. You don't say anything much, only tidbits of conversations here and there.

The leaves rustle whenever a draft blows, and once the wind chime that hangs above you both settles down, you are left in the same silence as before.

He can't tell if he likes it or not.

_______

Steve raises his arms above his head and stretches until he hears the usual pop in his shoulder.

The sweater he's wearing rides up his waist, exposing a tiny sliver of skin before his arms drop to the side again. It was cooler outside than he'd thought it would be, even after you'd raised the temperature in the house in anticipation of it getting even worse at night.

"G'morning," you say, sipping from a mug, settled back in a lounge chair on the patio.

"Is it?" he squints at the sun.

"Well no. It's like, one o'clock, but I didn't wanna wake you," you confess. "Thought you'd need the rest."

Something-- and he' can't quite put his finger on it-- had kept him on edge the entire night. His sleep was light, barely there, just in case something decided to show up from the trees.

"Breakfast?" you propose. "Brunch, actually."

"I'll get it," he replies. "It's in the bag?"

"Yeah, there's some muesli for you. Bread's on the counter," you reply, going back to the news you were reading.

Steve steps into the house, bare feet against the cool floors. He locates the duffel bag on the dining table, already left open.

He finds the box of cereal fairly quickly, and as he pulls it out it reveals the supply of crackers, chocolate and marshmallows underneath.

It brings a smile to his face as he reads the label on each one, sifting through a few ready made meals before his sight lands on a box somewhere near the bottom.

Pancake mix, and a tiny, sealed bottle of syrup.

He sends a glance over to where you're sitting unaware, back turned to him.

It takes him about twenty minutes to find a pan, mix up the batter and make enough pancakes to keep the both of you full the whole day.

_____

Tonight, you declared, was the fateful night.

"You can see the stars clearly from the outskirts," you tell him. "And apparently it's not supposed to be cloudy tonight, so yay."

It's a task, but you gather up all the firewood you could find, a big grin on your face as you drop it near the pit. Steve follows behind, carrying even more than you were, amusement on his face.

"C'mon," you instruct, "time to put those arson skills to use, Rogers."

So he does. Puts all his century-gathered knowledge together and creates the best fire he can, steady and would last a pretty long time. By the time he's done, even he's impressed.

"You got the bucket?" he queries. "The owner said it'd be under the kitchen sink."

"Have it right here, filled and ready to go," you confirm, patting at it. "Don't worry, I heard her through all the swooning."

He pokes at the fire to shift around some sticks. "What swooning?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Don't tell me you couldn't see it."

Steve holds onto the log for longer than usual before declaring, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, my God." You bite down on your lip to prevent a laugh. "I know you're shitting me, Rogers, there is no way you didn't notice her flirting with you."

"Is that what this is about?" Steve's eyebrow creases. "I didn't notice."

"Sure you didn't."

"Swear to God, I got no clue what you're talking about."

"She told you to visit her campsite," you remind him lightly, "at any time, whenever you want."

Steve's face twists when realisation sets in. "I didn't read into it."

"She's got a little crush on you," you tease. "Who can blame her, really?"

"Stop it," he mumbles, attributing the heat creeping up his neck to the fire. "She doesn't."

"Do you usually not notice when people hit on you or--?" you point out, "Because it's been happening on this trip, too. I have eyes, I can count."

"First of all, I didn't get hit on for about, sixty per cent of my life," he retorts. "And when I did, it was hard to miss."

You quirk an eyebrow, throwing a random twig into the flame. "What, no playing coy?"

"The exact opposite." Steve's smile, the one he reserves for the days gone by, is slight to himself. "Sometimes the girls used to just grab me and kiss me. It caused a lotta trouble.”

The boys used to keep track of every time Steve stumbled into his quarters with lipstick smudged across his cheek and genuine excuses for being late being met with 'uh huh, yeah right!'. They thought it was the funniest shit in the world while he painstakingly wiped away at his mouth.

You, however, react differently. A flinch. It's small enough that he probably wouldn't have even caught it if he wasn't paying so much attention.

He's quick to ask, "What's wrong?"

“I dunno. Just think that they shoulda asked first.”

He pauses to think about it for a second. Wonders if that's why he never laughed as much as the boys did.

He can’t think of a response so he lets it go.

"She doesn't have a crush on me." He feels the need to defend.

"Absolutely." You nod. "I completely agree with you."

You laugh when he mumbles something under his breath and it drags a reluctant smile from him.

As dusk moves into night, the clear sky is unfortunately forced covered by clouds rolling in. Not a star to be seen.

"Maybe it'll clear up in a while," he offers.

You sigh. "I don't think so. Damn weather forecast lied to me."

Steve's mouth presses into a thin line. "I'm sure we'll see it along the trip somewhere."

"I suppose," you reply, head turned up to the sky. "I thought we could see it together. I loved stargazing as a kid.” 

“I remember you telling me.” Steve's face can’t help itself, his lip tugging upwards. 

“Yeah, I’d stay up pretty late to wait for my parents so I found my way towards it. I picked up on a few constellations to show them but they were always too tired." Your head inclines, trying to see past the clouds. “Or they weren’t really interested. But eventually, that’s what got me into science, y’know?”

Steve’s mouth tugs to the side unhappily, eyebrows knitting together. He doesn't know how you were so casual about them, each time, after everything. 

You face him again. “Did you ever do it? Stargazing?"

"Not like you, I think," he says. "I can name a few constellations, but that's it."

"You got a favourite?"

"Scorpius," Steve replies. "This kid in my apartment used to point it out to me from the roof sometimes. He liked insects in general, used to chase his sisters around with them.”

A wide smile grows on your face. "That's adorable."

But it’s been years since Walt was long gone; so was his mother and his sisters and almost everyone else in that brick-walled apartment that was falling apart at the seams. 

He clears his throat before he can think too hard about it. "Your favourite changes every time you do this, doesn’t it?"

"It does." You reach over to pull out the supply of marshmallows you'd got along the way. "I can't ever pick one."

"Do you have a favourite star?"

"Yeah," you shoot back, smile changing into a grin, "You."

It's the first terrible joke you've made in days. That fact alone is enough to get a laugh from him. It smells of relief and mixes with a groan.

"Leave one out for the bears," he reminds as you hand him a stick with a marshmallow speared on one end.

"Mighty generous of you, Steven." You hold it over the fire. "I'll make extras for you too. Gotta get that energy in when you're fighting them."

"Yeah, you gotta even the playing field."

The joke brings with it the memory of bright sunflowers that should be picture perfect, but instead, it feels like someone's poured water over the campfire.

His fingers itch, and he chooses to run it through his hair to shake off the sudden despair that threatens to weave its way through him again.

Steve reminds himself that's why he keeps the jacket on.

When he looks back at you, your face has sobered too. It's no stretch to assume you were reminded of the way the afternoon had taken a turn after a mostly pleasant day.

"What happened there that day, Steve?" you ask softly, pulling your roasted marshmallow back from the flame.

"I don't know." He bites the inside of his lip. "Guess I was just tired."

He was, but even you know that wasn't entirely truthful.

"I'm not going to push you," you say, neck craned towards him. "But I think keeping everything in isn't the way to deal with it."

His own treat is singed at the edges by the time he remembers he pulls it back, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. He doesn't even think he wants to eat it anymore.

"Everyone says it's something different. The way I am." Everyone's got an opinion, everyone's dissected him open on every television station, podcast, internet forum. "Everything from possession to being a cyborg."

"Doesn't matter what they think."

"What's your assessment?" Steve turns to you.

"Doesn't matter what I think either." You look him in the eye. "I'm not qualified to hand one out. Different kinda doctor."

But it does. It does matter what you think.

Steve looks at you before looking back up at the clouds.

"We didn't have names for all this back then." He finds it easier to talk about the war than himself. "Mostly just called it shell shock or combat fatigue. Sometimes all it took was thirty days on the field."

He can hear it it still, ringing in his ears. With the flashbacks and the commands he remembers shouting over raining bullets, the only thing missing was the smell of blood stained mud and death lingering close by. He doesn't know how he speaks so easily about it, like a reality he's detached himself from. He supposes it was good. If he re-lived every emotion he went through during those years, he'd go insane.

"The first year out of the ice, they had me meet with a few living World War 2 vets. Some sort of publicity stunt, I don't know." He shrugs. "They thought it'd be good."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"Didn't really know them, but I knew people who knew them," Steve says. "We talked about what we remembered. Most of it matched up, some of it were things I didn't even know happened."

They stuck him on a plane within two weeks of coming out of the ice and attributed his face going pale and vice like grip on his knees to air sickness. It took a while to get used to being in the sky again.

"One of the guys there, retired Colonel, was talkin' about how one of the privates was gonna get court-martialed for going A.W.O.L. during the war." Steve shifts, tugging his arms closer together. "Just a kid too, eighteen years old. Don't know how they even got past Basic, they always did the vilest shit to get you ready for what's out there."

"I can handle it."

"You're all of four feet tall with twigs for bones, and you think you can handle it just cause your mamma called you a strong boy? Go home."

"I can handle it," Steve repeats, teeth gritting, sweat tearing down his skin. The sky had barely seen the light of day and his muscles already ached in places he couldn't put a finger on.

"Why, cause you got heart? You believe in the power of friendship?" The man's stare hardens like his fingertips. "What those posters sell ya- that's all bullshit, kid. That ain't gonna save you."

Steve's fingernails bruise into the palm of his hands but he doesn't shift.

"This-" He shoves at his chest and Steve is forced to take a step back, heels digging into the soil. "This is gonna save you."

He'd seen this kind of people before. Ones that violence hadn't made softer, just the opposite.

"Your scientist buddy may believe in that good man, boy scout horseshit but out there-" the man points behind him- "out there, Rogers, there are no morals. Would you eat a brother if you were starving? Would you stand on his dead body to pick fruit from a tree?"

Stories of pushups with broken ribs, limbs getting blown up right in front of him. Always hard to talk about the nicer things, the good things in life. Stories shrouded in negativity flow from his heart so easily that he fears that it's become his new normal.

"They called it the war to end all wars. It's what they told everyone, told them their sacrifice would be worth it. You start losing friends once, twice and then over and over again and you start wondering--" Steve presses his mouth into a thin line. "Come out a hundred years later and nothing's changed."

Your mouth is pressed into a hard line. You don't say anything, however.

"That's my assessment." He looks at you. "I think that's what happened there. Thought I'd gotten used to it, letting go of people you care about. Apparently I didn't."

He didn't think he'd have to deal with it again. He'd put it away, locked it in a room with the rest of the memories of the war and when he was forced to break it open again, it just didn't compute.

"We didn't talk about it," he continues, voice clear. "Wasn't really heard of to ask for help. You just... dealt with it. Moved on. Get out of there if you can and get your life together if it all works out."

Some of them dealt with it well. He met Morita's grandson, and from what he heard, the man had lived a good life. He wouldn't talk about the war too often but when he did, it was always about the boys. Others were lost in thousand yard stares and memories he kept locked away, but his grandson mentioned the clementines he always had for him when he visited.

"Have you talked to someone about this?" you lean forward on your elbows. "Anyone?"

"Sam knows a little bit. Buck too, but that's different." That was informal, filling in the gaps from what Bucky could remember and what he wanted to remember.

The VA sessions were good whenever he could attend them. Not very regularly, or a lot; he was always more of a listener than a talker. But it felt liberating to know he wasn't alone.

"There are more specialists out there now." Your tone's shifted from the light one earlier this evening, but he's grateful it doesn't hold the same air of patronisation he's heard before. It's kind. "People who've been through similar things."

"Yeah," he says, chewing on his lip. "I know, but-"

He took the support group job on after Sam, hoping it'd help. Every session, the dull guilt of hypocrisy and the inevitability of someone calling him out on what he was-- a fraud. Trying to help others make sense of a world he couldn't, help them continue when he still hadn't figured out how to move on. A lie.

“They won't- they don’t understand. All they wanna do is take notes and try and figure out what's wrong. What if I don't want to know what's wrong?”

It's like a snap when he suddenly gets what it is, back in the doctor's couch with her opposite him. It's suffocating. He's suffocating.

He blinks hard, turning his head up to the sky.

Stars. There's a constellation hidden up there, but he doesn't know the name.

He could make a new constellation. For the way he can hear you breathing beside him and the spitfire warmth of the burnt-out logs. A constellation, and he'd name it after something you love. Rain on pavement, or videos of penguins falling over. For you and him, and the silence in the between and the words he can't distinguish the meaning for yet.

“Would it help if it wasn't, you know, that methodical?” you pipe up again. "Like talking to me, or to someone else who isn't taking notes."

He looks at you wearily. "Ain't that unethical?"

"What, talking to a friend?" You give him a smile. "No, I think we're within the laws on that one."

Steve's eyebrows upturn, and he waits for you to say something more.

"Not like therapy. Just-- anything. I won’t say anything. But you need to talk it out because I'm worried you're going to implode if you don't."

"I don't know what to say." Where to begin. How to begin. Who is he talking for? How does he do it right?

You look at him with no expectations, but a strong concern. Steve stays where he is, one hand holding a branch, one balanced on his knee.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"Whatever you want," you promise. "I'd like to hear you talk about what you want to. Even if it's about the forties, or I don't know; the MET Gala or something."

"They invited me this year."

"Of course they did."

"Don't think I'm going."

"Had a hunch."

But something you said rings out to him, forcing him to reconsider.

Steve hesitates. "You want me to talk about the 40s?"

"If you want to," you reply. "Jus' don't want you to feel like you don't have anyone to talk to. Because I'm here, I wanna listen."

Steve chews on the inside of his bottom lip.

And surprisingly, it makes sense that it's all he wants to talk about.

Going to the past is comfortable. It's calm.

"Don't know if I can get it out," he says. "I'm tired."

"Of?"

Everything, really.

"It's been a long day."

"Well, let's get some rest then," you break the silence, offer him a kind smile.

You reach down to repack the uneaten food without another argument. The ball was in his court again, and he knows that eventually he'd have to rally it back. It wasn't fair; for you to keep trying and for him to offer nothing back.

So he says, "Ask me something. Anything."

You look up at him, and his lips slight upwards in encouragement. You let the bag drop back down.

"Okay," you pause, and decide on trying to keep it light for a start. "Tell me something good."

Something good.

Like what? His favourite childhood memory or the song he finally found whose two lines he had been singing to himself over and over in the past month? Something big, with bubbling laughter and strained voices, or small with subdued contentment and blush stained cheeks?

Almost like you can sense his trepidation, you add, "I can go first."

He agrees.

"I," you begin, almost like an announcement, "saw three cats yesterday."

His eyebrows furrow. "Where?"

"Near the museum."

"I didn't see them."

"That's 'cause you were in the gift shop."

"Oh."

"You know what?" You reach over to dig through the bag. "I actually got a picture. I thought you'd might wanna see."

A thorough look at three felines lazing around in the sun is enough to convince him that the small joys of the world have not, in fact, evaded him.

"Okay, your turn," you say after tucking your phone back.

He gives a small 'hmm' in response, head turned down as he thought.

"Tell me something good, Steve Rogers."

He shouldn't be finding it as hard as he does.

"I've always wanted a dog," he settles on. "When I was a kid, all I wanted was a dog."

"You didn't have any pets growing up?"

"Not really, just a lotta strays I used to find along the way." More like Steve sneaking out several hours in a day with his food wrapped in an old handkerchief to feed some new alley cat he noticed while getting beaten up. "Closest we got to keepin' one was this Labrador. Guess his owners couldn't handle an older one so they just drove over to our town and abandoned him."

"Fucking dickheads."

"Yeah." The corner of Steve's lips lift. "We found him near our house. Called him Champ."

"What was he like?" Your chin rests on your palm as you listen intently.

"Lived up to his name." Steve shrugs. "Ma made him a vest out of an old shirt. I wrote our names on the back."

The smile on your face is infectious. "How long did he stay with you?"

"Not long. Couldn't really afford to keep one, so we searched for anyone in the neighbourhood who could take care of him. He left in a couple of weeks."

He neglects to mention how he never saw him again. Broke his whole heart, it did.

You told him to tell you something good.

So he follows it up with, "Buck tried throwing him a stick to fetch and he just sat there. Never tried again."

"What a king."

Steve exhales out a laugh. "My mom got real mad when we both showed up covered in dirt every day."

"How do you manage to convert everyone you meet into a vagabond?" you tease and Steve just shrugs, mouth stretching down in cluelessness. ""Did he grow on your mom?"

"Oh, she loved him. Wouldn't ever admit it, but I knew she was upset when he left. I told myself I'd never get one after that 'cause I'd never seen her that sad before."

As if Sarah didn't know exactly what her son was up to when he stowed half his breakfast into his pocket and left in a hurry. As if she didn't make sure there was an extra portion that she knew he wouldn't be able to finish, even if it meant giving up half of hers.

"Well, I think she would have wanted you to have a dog if you could," you say. "Maybe you could name him Champ."

Steve's mind ruminates over it for a few seconds. "Yeah, maybe."

Because the truth is, she would. Of course she would. Even if he had asked back then, even if things were a little difficult, she'd have found a way to do it for him.

"There's this picture of her I used to carry around with me everywhere."

Your head motions towards him in question. "Your mom?"

"Yeah." It sat on his mantlepiece until now, where it was back in his wallet.

Her in a white sundress, smiling brightly with her eyes squinted to avoid the glare of the sun. It was before he was born, the laugh line hadn't fully formed yet and her face didn't hold the same suffering it did in the years to come. His favourite picture of her.

"I had it in my wallet the night Ultron happened, and in the middle of that mess, it tore." He still remembers staring at it in the kitchen, knees bent over broken glass. The growing hole of despair in his stomach reassures him that maybe if he looked at it long enough it'd go back to normal. Maybe if he sits there enough he'll realise it never happened in the first place and the nausea rising to his throat was just the adrenaline wearing off.

But the call comes and the group has to reconvene and the photo, torn and jagged, finds its way back into his wallet for another day.

"Do you still have it?" you ask quietly.

"I do, yeah." He nods. "Uh... Tony got it fixed. Called it a birthday present and made me swear to never mention it again."

In exchange for not telling him how he knew about the picture in the first place, managed to sneak into his wallet and restore it without Steve ever knowing it left at all.

Your eyebrows slightly furrow. "I didn't realise y'all were that close."

"We weren't." Not really, not as much as the publicity team pushed it anyway. "But we had our moments."

In another world, they could have been friends. Respect certainly. Admiration, even, to a certain degree.

"He's my friend."

"So was I."

Steve trusted him. Would agree without a doubt that he was one of the greatest minds of the century, if not ever.

But what follows him on nights he can't sleep and days he spends thinking of things that could have been differently, is that Tony thought of him as a friend. And Steve, he thought... co-workers, acquaintances even, but friends--

He snaps his attention to you. "You got anything good to tell me?"

"I finally got around to deep cleaning my house," you say and Steve lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, I know right? Threw out all the garbage, got some new succulents."

"Who's watering them while you're gone?"

You pause. "The cute neighbour down the hall."

Steve's mouth lifts. "Cute neighbour, huh?"

"You know the one. You've heard him play the banjo when you stayed over."

"The banjo guy's watering your succulents?"

"Now when you put it like that." Your eyes narrow, eyebrows wiggling.

He doesn't notice it at first-- but there is a lightness that's replaced some of the fog in his mind. It feels almost foreign, sacrilege to admit that he does feel... better. Not good. But better than he had been earlier.

"You and banjo guy, me and the cabin owner." Steve turns to the flame that was beginning to die out. "Who woulda thought?"

"Hottest double dates in town." You poke at his leg with your stick. "They're really more cacti than succulents, so he isn't going to be over too often."

"That's a damn shame." Steve cracks a smile.

"I know." You sigh loudly in mock despair. "He plays at the community centre on Saturdays, guy's got a whole cult following on TikTok. The kids love him."

Steve didn't really try to keep up with the trends but he wasn't unaware of them. His Twitter page was mostly active, often cited as one of the most influential political accounts out there. He could tell when certain trends set in by the way his mentions would blow up, or the way his following would increase drastically. Most times it was better not to check.

"You know," he muses, "there's a whole generation of kids that hate me 'cause of the high school fitness videos."

You turn to him incredulously. "The what?"

Steve shuts his mouth.

Additional scene #2

Steve's sight runs along whatever is left of the pews, right down to the gorge in the centre. The sky overhead is grey and lifeless, while the air that hangs above the structure stays translucent and obscured from the flyaway concrete.

"Didn't think this would be the way I came back," Steve says, feet planted firmly at the entrance.

"Neither did I," Sam replies, a few steps away. "Dad wouldn't be too thrilled to hear I've been missing out."

Steve's eyes catch his past his red-tinted goggles. Clearly, through all the ash, Steve can see his eyes were sharp and alert as they shifted through the rubble.

"My dad was a preacher," Sam says in a tone that was a little obvious. "Kinda had to."

"I remember," Steve replies, and then looks away. "Why haven't you gone back?"

"Tried." The corner of his lips quirks upwards. "Miss the place I grew up. Anywhere else just don't feel right."

Steve shifts his weight to his other leg, letting his shield hang by his thigh. The door was freshly singed, crumbling when his fingers touched the wood. Thankfully, Sam had everyone evacuate the town unharmed before everything went up in flames.

"Would you?" Steve asks in the middle of the silence. 'Go back?' is a piece that stays implied.

Sam takes a stride over the ruins, finding a place right in the centre of the structure, back turned to Steve.

"I might," Sam replies, fingers guiding a path along the navigation device on his wrist.

Something whirs gently behind Steve. He doesn't even have to look back to know what it is as Red Wing softly makes its way past him and into the rubble.

"Kinda hard to considering the circumstances," Sam continues out loud. "But I'd like to."

Steve silently watches the little robot scan through the piles of blocks and glass, a red beam stretching over the ruins.

"When'd you stop going?" Sam asks.

Steve clears his throat, shifting his balance to the other foot even though the still-healing sprain made him conceal a wince.

"Long time ago. Way before I went into the ice," Steve says. “My mom used to go to church every Sunday, rain or shine. I didn’t like it much; wasn’t really for me. So after she died, I just kinda stopped.”

Even if it made it harder for her back in the day, she held onto her belief and her roots. Steve wishes he could say the same.

"Besides--" he adds as an afterthought, breathing a small laugh "--don't know which part of it's real or not anymore."

If someone told the younger him that he'd be friends with a God and occasionally fought his little brother (who was also a God, lest he forgets), he'd probably stare them dead in the eye with a scathing comment.

Sam's smile twists into something more thoughtful. "Some might say the existence of one god implies the existence of others."

"Some might say they don't exist if they haven't shown themselves yet," Steve challenges humorously, before shaking his head. "Besides-- kinda find it hard to believe in all that now."

"So then what's your faith in?"

Steve pauses, before replying unsurely, "In people."

"I know that, I read the letter you sent him," Sam says playfully. "But does that come from a place of service or from a place of belief?"

Steve's eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sam steps over the rubble to get closer to the altar, "do you believe in people because you can serve them or do you believe in them as they are?"

Even before he learnt about himself, he learnt to do right by others.

"Don't you serve what you believe in?" his voice comes out thicker than he expected.

"Depends. Will you still love someone if you cannot do something for it?" Sam gives him a quick glance. "Does serving the people make it easier to love them? What happens to you when you can't? Once it stills, will you love them as they are?"

Steve swallows, a snap in his jaw as it slides in its place. A piece of himself, he feels, crumbles like the wood of the door into fine ash he had just touched.

"But you're right." Sam turns to him. "It's a good thing to believe in. Makes it worth it."

Steve gives out a barely audible "yeah" in response.

Redwing finds its way onto his back, clicking as it sits in its place.

"Nothing here," Sam calls out before turning around.

Steve nods from the doorway, fingers wound tight around the strap of his shield.

"What's next?"

"The market," Steve replies as he steps aside for Sam.

The both of them fall into a steady step together, one paved with the silence of a desolate town after a fight.

"You know, if you want," Sam poses casually, though his voice crackles like electricity, "if you ever find yourself down south, I'm sure you'd be welcome at our church."

Steve gives him a thin smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Sam."

______

The heat feels sweltering, and the air around him bends and shimmers.

He blinks when two people-- kids, really-- exit through the wooden doors, chattering in a lively fashion to each other before heading down the street.

His gaze follows them till they disappear around the bend, leaving the road in silence again.

The wind blows at him again, combing his hair to the side roughly.

There's nothing in him to be said; his mouth is dry and it doesn't even cross his mind that he hasn't drank water all day.

He can feel it rattling away at some part of his brain-- Mrs Milson's old cane that always looked two days away from snapping, against the wooden floor scraped and faded.

He can hear Walt's famously shrill whistle at the entrance, right where you begin to see the statue propped up high. It's always swiftly accompanied by the swat of his mother at his arm and Steve bites back a grin at the sheer blasphemy.

Artie doesn't make it, but then again, Artie's never stepped foot into the church since Steve could remember.

Steve feels the stickiness of summer, the same one that dragged its coarse tongue across him back then, too. He remembers pulling at his collar, his tie, anything he could get a hold of to get rid of the itchiness.

Jesus H. Christ it was fuckin' scorching-- or maybe he'd just been sitting for too long and his body tended to hate it. But the sermon had barely begun and he'd only been there fifteen minutes.

"Stop movin' so much," Sarah whispers in his ear.

"I can't," he mumbles, fiddling with the knot. "Why am I wearin' a tie? No one else's got one on."

"And look, you're the best dressed one here."

"'S not a fashion parade, ma."

"Steven," she said, finally and absolute.

And that was usually the end of the conversation.

He'd hear about how to help the men on the front line from back home. Praying, as always, was the first solution. But what's praying gonna do when you're three steps away from death? Is it the same prayer you kiss your heart with before you shoot someone for stumbling into the wrong place at the wrong time?

Steve's face doesn't shift, however. He watches on, and to anyone else, looks as engrossed as his mother. Only turns when Walt rips out a piece of something and flicks it at his ear.

It's the singing that Steve can't really stand. It's loud, and it's too much for his one ear that can register it.

Sarah usually lets him go at this point and he slips out, hands working to undo the tie at his neck and desperate for fresh air.

"'Bout time. Was wondering when you were gonna show up." Bucky kicks a stone toward him. Revenge, for making him wait that long at the peak of the day.

"You owe me." Steve finally get rid of the wretched material, tugging it away and free at last. "I told you."

It takes a while for realization to dawn on Bucky. "She didn't."

"She did," he confirms, eyes alight in mischief. "Fell asleep twice."

"What, at the organ?" Bucky scoffs. "No way. You're fuckin' lyin'."

"Honest to God, I'm tellin' ya." Steve raises his right hand, the one that had the tie wrapped around it. "They had to shake her awake each time. Meskill just about lost it."

"That don't say a lot, that kid laughs at everything."

"You should come. See for yourself."

"And what, give my ma a heart attack?" Bucky took pride in the fact that he was Jewish, Winnifred much more so. "I'll pass."

"Either way, you owe me."

"Now what'd the big fella up there say about that?" Bucky drags. "Somethin' about love bein' the only debt."

"Oh, that's convenient."

"Oughta listen to him more often, Rogers."

"Also says in there that he detests lying lips."

"I could name a few people who love my lying lips just fine."

Steve shoves at him and Bucky barely moves an inch, grinning wildly.

The streets are still loud and alive once they get out to the main roads. Bucky walks past stores and looks at clothes he calls downright ugly, but if he had a choice, Steve knew he'd like a few of them for himself.

"They're showin' a new film down at the cinema," Bucky informs. "Thought we could go. Show's in an hour."

"Yeah? Lemme just check my pockets, I'm sure there's a few hundred dollars I could spare."

Bucky rolls his eyes, digs into his own pants to pull out two pieces of paper. "Got it covered already."

Steve's eyebrows furrow, taking one of them and dragging them close to his eye to scrutinise. "How'd you pay for these?"

"Now who said I paid for them?" Bucky plucks it out of his hands without meeting much resistance.

"You stole them?"

"Did I?" he asks casually.

Steve's stare is hard, unforgiving. Bucky matches it with equal fervour, eyes narrowing.

But it's Bucky who cracks first, stupid smile a complete mismatch with the stern look in his eyes that he tries to maintain.

"Breakin' my heart," he declares. "You're breakin' my heart, Stevie. You've got absolutely no faith in me."

Steve's mouth quirks up. "Gotta have one to break it, Buck."

"I earned 'em, fair and square. Helped ol' George out with some painting and tidying and he gave 'em to me himself." Bucky takes a long drag in through his nose. "Even smells authentic. 'S got that new paper smell."

"Stop that." Steve snatches his ticket back and resists the urge to sniff it, just like his friend did because Steve has morals and a code of conduct. Unlike Bucky, who only seemed to become more of a ruffian when he was around Steve.

"Awfully possessive of you when you didn't want to be seen near me two minutes ago, Stevie," Bucky calls out when Steve tucks the paper into his pocket. "Remind me again, what'd the Lord say about materialism, greed- things of that sort?"

Steve shakes his head, muttering, "Just got outta church and you're gonna have me walk right back in to confess."

"But after the movie, right?" Bucky grins at him. "Can't miss the show. Stole those corrupted tickets with my own two wretched hands to give it to you."

"I'll confess on your behalf, too."

"Hell, I'll wear your little tie when you do it, 'm sure it'll impress the Lord-- fuckin'-- Christ, stop pushing me!" Bucky wheezes, out of breath. "I'm kiddin', fuck, Rogers, I'm-- stop it!"

They rough each other around on the street till they accidentally knock into someone, after which they mouth off quick apologies and return back to a semi-normal gait.

"'S not like I like it," Steve bundles up the tie and shoves it into his pocket.

"Then why wear it?"

"It's important to my mom," he says offhandedly. "And it's just an hour. It doesn't matter."

Bucky nods a bit more seriously, lips pursed outwards. "You can borrow one of mine. It's less itchy."

Steve knows that his tie was too big for him. It was a perfect fit for his father before it got passed down to him, but it always brought a sad smile to Sarah's face whenever she saw him wearing it. There were just some things Steve would never understand, and one of them was Sarah's attachment to this article of clothing when, if given the choice, Steve would have burnt it years ago.

"I'll let you know," he replies.

"Say, if you wear my tie to church--" Bucky wonders out loud. "--and if I beat up someone wearin' that thing, does that mean it doesn't count? On account of it being holy and all that."

Steve's eye twitches. "No, I'm pretty sure it still counts."

"Damn." Bucky whistles before his mouth pulls into a crooked grin. "Guess there's no saving me after all, huh?"

While his tone is lighthearted, it sends an uncomfortable feeling through Steve. He's not sure why it does, he's not even convinced he believes in any of it-- the afterlife and all that.

"You and me both, pal," he responds.

Bucky throws an arm around his shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him, and the air returns to what it had been a few seconds ago.

He makes fun of him some more and Steve serves him right back, and it's a good day.

It remains, therefore, an unsaid fact that Sunday mornings were to repay his mother for the stress he caused her throughout the week, and afternoons were to get an early start on next week's contribution with Bucky.

______

Steve peels away from the car, sweat-soaked skin sticking to the door and turns to get back in.

He pauses, however, palm on the handle as a familiar discomfort shoots through him.

It almost feels like he's forced to watch, when he turns around again to catch a glimpse of the church.

His hands hang on to the loops of his jeans when an ache tugs at him.

Almost involuntarily, he takes a step forward, and then another. It's a feeling that's magnetic, drawing him in towards the door and the same feeling of awkwardness and misshapen community.

Steve forces himself to stop in his path. A shudder passes through him when he sees the church was much closer to him than it was earlier.

He's at the halfway point. It feels like he's standing at the edge of a gaping ravine and looking over to the other side.

______

Steve can count on one hand the number of times he's cried in the last few years, and one just happened to be at a dining table in Louisiana.

It was a few months after the Snap when he found himself in that part of the country. He knows it's a promise when Sam picks his side, and it's his half of it that he intends to keep when he goes there to check in on his family.

When the door opens, he knows by the look on his face that no amount of calls could have prepared her, and he almost apologises on the spot for daring to show up alive.

But Steve offers Sarah a handshake, and she in turn pulls him into a hug.

"Hope you're hungry," she says and he responds that he is.

The is a kind smile on her face that looks all too similar to her brother's, but underneath it all is resentment, even if it's just a smidge, he can tell.

But the Wilsons are good people and he’s forced to stay another two days before taking his leave.

After daylight is spent in a flurry of greetings and shaking hands, Sarah and he sit across each other at the dining table, a singular lamp shining down on the both of them.

Remnants of a dinner enough to keep him full for the next three days lay in the sink. The boys almost had to be forced into bed, insisting that their new Lego sets he got them would still be there in the morning.

There’s a TV infomercial running with the volume turned down low enough to not wake the boys, but louder to make sure the contents of their discussion aren’t audible.

Sarah nurses a cup of apple juice. Steve turns down an offer of good whiskey to join her.

"Did he tell you to come here?" Sarah asks finally, the first proper question when she's gotten the chance.

Steve pauses, choosing his words carefully. "He'd have wanted to make sure you were all right."

She continues to look him in the eye intently but he can tell her mind's elsewhere.

"How have you been?" he asks.

"Tired as hell," Sarah says, weight on her elbows as they balanced on the table. "Business is slow. Boat's down and there's another month left till school starts back up."

"I could look at it tomorrow, if that's okay with you?"

Sarah raises an eyebrow. "You know how to fix boats?"

"No promises." Steve gives her a half-smile. "Friends of mine used to work down at the docks back in the day. Maybe it'd help."

"Been around them all my life. Trust me, this one's taken a real beating." She takes a sip. "Gonna need a lot more than a temp fix."

Steve nods, eyes flickering to the TV momentarily. The couch in front of it had a blanket and pillow set out for him. There are medals and trophies and picture frames along the wall, proudly displaying achievements.

"How has everyone been taking it around here?"

"Depends," Sarah replies. "You've got your usual conspiracy theorists blaming it on the government. Others... they're more quiet about it."

Steve tilts his head inquisitively.

"Showin' up to meetings more often, parties, barbecues. You start noticing when there's more mouths to feed." She smiles softly. "Lot more people in Church. You keep faith, Captain?"

He hasn't stepped foot in one in years.

"It's been a while," he says. "Feel like I've got a lotta catchin' up to do."

She balances her cup on its hilt, rotating it gently in her palms as she nods.

"Is she-- Natasha--" she clarifies "--is she around? I haven't seen her since the last time y'all turned up."

"She's figuring out some things in New York. Trying to coordinate between a few people," he says vaguely because frankly, he didn't know.

He'd been on the road for months, tracking down any signs of celestial activity. Nat had taken up residence in the Compound, and it'd been a while since he'd dropped by to see her.

“No update out there, huh?”

“Not yet,” he replies.

She nods, eyes drifting to the people who were now advertising blenders.

"We're still looking," he continues. "We'll find a way."

Sarah gives him a wisp of a smile.

Order now to get a 25% discount.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. "He should've been sitting here with us."

She's quiet for a while. The apple juice swirls around in her cup but she doesn't drink it.

Magnets on the fridge spelled out 'have a good day!', and the rest hung up grocery lists and hand drawn pictures.

"Do you think there was a reason they died and we didn't?" Sarah's voice quells the raging silence.

Steve had his theories, "I don't think there was a method to his madness."

"Every week, the guy who used to sell me produce at the market used to slip in a few extras. Said the boys were growing, it's necessary," she says. "There's one of those big corp smoothie place there now, right where his stall used to be. No one goes there."

Steve fingers fidget and toy with the cup, still only half finished from his original gulp to not look rude.

"One of the quiet ones, they said that he took the real good people and the real bad people," Sarah goes on, "and left the rest of us here. In the middle somewhere."

He'd always forced himself to believe it was randomised, otherwise, he'd spiral. Dig himself into a hole he wasn't sure how he'd grip his way out of.

"I haven't seen my brother in two and a half years, but it makes me feel better knowing that he must have been one of the really good ones." Sarah takes a sip finally. "He's made it through a lot of shit. I gotta feeling he'll get through this too."

"He's a fighter," Steve comments in support.

Her eyes flicker back towards him. "I know."

Somewhere between her words, it asks him point blank, "But do you know ?"

"I have faith." Sarah clears her throat. "He'll be back. They'll all be back."

"They will."

Do you have faith?

Steve's stare doesn't shift from the apple juice.

Sarah asks him if he's any good with pickup trucks. There's one that's been out on the driveway for a while that no one's driven, blue and chipped in tiny places. He says he'll take a look at it.

She talks about how the kids were doing in school. The weather. Last week's SNL episode and what a disaster it was. It's been a while since he last watched any TV, but he says the last one he watched was all right.

And at the end of a long conversation, she finishes her glass and pushes herself off the seat. Tells him he's welcome to keep the TV on, just to have the volume down low so the AJ and Cass don't wake.

Steve says goodnight, and thanks her for the juice, and once he sees her close the door behind her,

He cries.

Sarah can hear him through the walls. She knows what muffled cries sound like, knows it deep in her soul and in the darkness of her bedroom. The TV ain't loud enough.

But she knows if she walks in there, he’d put on a face and ask if she needs help with cleaning out the rain gutters.

She supposes the kindest thing she can do is to leave him alone.

And so she does.

_______

His knuckles were white.

The strange tug is met with an even stronger opposition. A wall made entirely of pure, and seething rage.

For the first time in a while, Steve feels angry.

Standing in front of the home of a God that has abandoned him and reminded him again and again that he has, his fists clench so tightly that the blood has no space to run under his skin.

Fuck this. Fuck this.

Church knew when Steve stared at the altar boy too long, Church knew when it spoke to him through a blanket and told him to be careful where you tread, you never know who will pull you through the cracks. As if Steve licking his cracked lips intuitively when gazes linger a second more than they should have was proof that sin dripped from his mouth like sweet wine, blood of the Son.

He was tainted since he was born. He’s been tainted ever since.

In his first fight, he got decked in the stomach twice and coughed up blood for days after. Bucky hunted them down and broke bones till they sobbed on the ground, but it didn't make a difference because Sarah was still figuring out how she could get the bruising to go down after two weeks.

But before that, before Steve dragged himself home, nose still in the air defiantly, because damn it, it didn't hurt if he just closed his eyes and shut it out, but more importantly, the smug pride in his chest didn't allow it to hurt because

He threw a punch.

At the much older guy, whose arm was bigger than Steve's whole head. It made a satisfying crunch when it his cheek, right where it chips a tooth, not by strength but by speed.

And in that second, the one where his skin makes contact with the other's face, he gets it.

He feels it, why he's seen soldiers cry at a chance to go back to the same grounds they've left makeshift graves for their friends.

There is peace in this chaos and order in the pain.

Ma it felt good, and I wonder if hell will feel just the same.

Sarah's eyes are red, bloodshot, and focused as she works at him with an old cloth while their lunch lay on the ground after she dropped it at the sight of him.

"We'll pray," she says steadily as she cleans his busted lip and he winces, "for those boys. For them to find their way again. Not to do this to anyone again."

Steve finds that he can't look at her after that. Though his satisfaction doesn't cease, it is joined by a feeling so deep down in the trenches of his stomach, he can't reach down and get it out.

So it stays.

Creeps up on him every once in a while whether that's why he's still alive. He'd made too many mistakes and his punishment was to outlive everyone he's cared for.

After all, why else would he still be alive after he drove the plane into the sea? Why should his sacrifice be worth less than others? Why has he always gotten to live when his friends haven't? Why is he still here, why isn't his death enough, and fuck, how much more should he repent?

The feeling helps when he decides he'll go on for two more years of living in shadows to make up for the time he spent dancing on stage while men froze in ditches.

And then he'll spend another three of looking for signs, any signs to make up for not doing enough during the months of monotony and milliseconds of mayhem in Wakanda. Three years of chasing dead ends and meeting with people who said they had the answer before he realises there is none.

Then it's two years of helping others try to move on, ease the same feeling he can't. Hypocrite.

And then an eternity more for every single friend he'd lost in the span of hours while he stood watching people build machines that ripped apart time and promise hope.

He's died a million little deaths but none of them are ever enough.

Steve's learnt to leave it aside, sometimes. Live with it, even.

Do whatever, regardless of the nagging feeling making him feel sick in the head. He's stopped asking for forgiveness when he drives a plane into the Arctic, because the cold water that washes his hands isn't holy and so there is no absolution waiting for him when he is dragged in and out of consciousness.

Bucky was right after all. There really was no saving the both of them.

"Hey." Your voice startles him. "Did you fill-up the gas?"

Steve wordlessly turns to you, wiping at your forehead with the back of your palm.

"Yeah," he responds, voice strained and difficult.

"We've got some time to kill before the museum opens," you inform him as you come to stop beside him, halfway across the gas station and the church.

"What's the time?"

"10:40."

Six minutes. That's all it had been.

"You gonna go in?"

Steve snaps out of it. "Huh?"

"The church." You make a mention with your shoulder. "You wanna go in? Though, I didn't know you were religious."

So you noticed him standing and staring at the building like a complete weirdo in silence.

"Not anymore," comes out curt, salt on wounds.

He can feel you turn to him in surprise at the tone his words had taken on. He's a little surprised himself.

If he still did believe in it, then he has a lot to answer for. He’s got much to confess, and not enough words.

I’ll do it all together when I have the time.

"You okay?" you ask quietly.

Steve looks up at you and gives you a tight smile. "Yeah."

Add another lie to the list to repent for, Father.