Chapter Four
2013
There were people everywhere. The house was packed and spilling out onto the yard in every direction. It was New Year's Eve and Tony Stark - despite everything that had happened to him - was throwing a party at the house he was renting just outside of Los Angeles. The party was an exclusive event and highly sought after, so Steve wasn't too surprised that he didn't recognize many of the people. After all, most of the guests were friends of Tony or other celebrities of various mediums. (Steve still struggled with being a "celebrity" if he was being honest. Sure, he had been well-known in the forties, but he never considered himself famous. Then again, for the most of his fame he had been off in the middle of Europe...)
Steve was overwhelmed.
People kept coming up to him and asking for pictures, thanking him for his service, and just genuinely gawking over the fact that he was there. It didn't help that Tony kept calling him out for not being social enough and with a lot of grandpa jokes at that. It's not Steve's fault he's chronologically old enough to be a grandfather to any of the guests, he blames the serum and the ice. (The jokes only make it more painstakingly obvious that there's a gap between him and his peers now, more so than when he was younger. That's what hurts the most.)
Either way, Steve was glad to have found Bruce and set up camp near one of the fires, facing the pool as they watched the partygoers. "Were you ever into all of," Steve motioned to the party, "this?"
Bruce chuckled, fiddling with his water bottle. "Not exactly. I've always been very focused on my work and not much of a social child." Dr. Banner adjusted his glasses and glanced at the captain, posing the same question.
Steve shook his head. "A friend of mine would get invited and I'd tag along sometimes, but that was mostly it. With my asthma and everything else, it wasn't smart for me to be out partying all night. Not with the smoke and drugs and the liquor."
"Must be rough to watch everyone get sloppy drunk and obnoxious knowing you can't join them."
"Not much different than you, to be honest. If I wanted to, I could always drink Thor's stuff," Steve said. "I simply don't like to drink."
"Why's that?"
Steve blushed, his shoulders hunched and his body leaned forward as if to appear smaller. "I don't trust myself when I'm not completely in control of my body. I know how my body works and what it's strengths and limitations are when I'm in the right mind. When I'm not, I," Steve paused to sip at his drink, "I worry that I'll hurt someone."
Bruce patted at Steve's shoulder, a knowing look on his face. He was about to say something when Tony announced from the balcony that it was almost midnight and called everyone outside. The doctor and captain reluctantly gathered near the pool with the rest of the occupants, everyone watching the projector screen that had the countdown ticking towards midnight.
"Only a minute left, then we can leave," Bruce mumbled low enough for the words to be intelligible (he knew Steve would be able to hear him in all of this mess, thanks to the serum). Steve smirked, arms crossed and his glass dangling from his fingers.
Tony and Clint popped up beside him, Tony in between him and Bruce. They were both shouting along with the timer, laughing and swaying with the tick of the clock. Steve laughed along with them, finding their antics amusing.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven..."
Tony and Clint both put their hands on Steve's shoulders.
"Six, five, four..."
Somehow they shuffled forward, the crowds getting closer to the screen in anticipation.
"Three, two, one!"
As cheers of "Happy New Year!" and applause sounded, the comforting grip of his fellow Avengers' hands loosened.
And then Steve was being pushed into the pool.
He flailed a little, unexpected at the sudden loss of stable ground beneath his feet. He plunged into the pool, engulfed by the lukewarm water.
He was back in the Valkyrie, stuck in the pilot's seat and desperately trying to get out. The ice cold water was over his head now, burning his eyes and threatening to fill his lungs with salt water.
He thrashed about, the water seeping into his nose slowly. If he could just rip himself out of the seat, then he may be able to get out before the water became too much.
Steve could feel the dog tags in his boots pressing into his foot, a comforting pressure in a hostile environment.
'Bucky would want me to get out. He'd want me to get out and go save the world a couple of times. He'd want me to live my life and be happy.' Steve thrashed about, kicking his legs desperately to pull himself out.
After a long three minutes, Steve resurfaced, gasping for air and coughing up water. He stood up, his ears ringing and his eyes stinging. People were still laughing, celebrating, enjoying life, and here was Steve, shaking as the icy tendrils of his past covered his body like astray vines. Steve was in one of the lowest moments he could imagine before all of these people, and no one cared. Hell, Tony and Clint were laughing, completely oblivious to Steve's inner struggle.
The captain walked towards the edge of the pool, his large hands gripping the sides with the force of all of his super soldier strength. The concrete crumbled under his fingers, breaking off into pebbles and slabs. He pulled himself up, taking the slabs with him.
Bruce helped to pull him up, asking him something that Steve didn't pay attention to. All he could hear was the roar of the crowd and his heartbeat as he came down from the panic and embarrassment. He was dripping wet and shivering, despite the warm water.
He looked down to his hands, holding the broken concrete from the side of the pool still with dust and blood sticking to his skin. Bruce placed two careful hands on his shoulders, mumbling in his ear as he started to direct him towards the house.
The doctor took him back to the hotel they were staying at and made sure Steve was warm and his hands were cleaned.
Neither of them talked. Nothing was said. And if no one mentioned how long it took Steve to get out of the pool that night, then he was okay.
People were oblivious to it all.
~*~*~*~
When Steve finally returned home from a week in the Middle East, he was exhausted. He was freezing, covered in dirt and blood (nothing serious, just a few minor cuts that almost completely healed), and mentally over the hours of debriefing he had to sit through. All he wanted to do was shower with scalding hot water, climb into warm, fuzzy sweats, make a pot of hot chocolate and watch a movie before he slept for the next year.
Before he could even think to do anything relaxing, however, Steve knew there were things that needed to be done. For one, the fridge needed to be cleaned of any expired foods (if Jarvis hasn't done that already) and he needed to make something to eat, something that wasn't prepackaged and cold.
He went about the kitchen, cleaning and double-checking cabinets while trying to ignore the cold fabric that seemed to cling to his skin. It wasn't even cold in his apartment, but even after months of being thawed out, Steve still felt the ice creeping up spine whenever he was too idle. It was always worse when he had to fly...
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve spotted the Avengers calendar Tony had given everyone for Christmas (along with action figures, seven t-shirts - one representing each Avenger and one for the team, and other miscellaneous merchandise they had started to sell). Steve had prided himself on being able to track the days, especially when a particularly difficult day came about and it was hard for him to get up out of bed. He had one in his bedroom, too, to motivate him to at least get out of bed and mark out the days. And on days that had started out great, but turned to shit? It gave him hope to be able to cross the day off and forget about it all.
He carefully put the glass he was holding onto the counter and plucked a pen out of a drawer. Uncapping it, he lifted it up and began to cross out the four days he'd been away.
And that's when he noticed the date.
Steve looked at his calendar completely frozen except for his hand that had started to shake, the pen quivering in his grip. The guilt was starting to get to him, because when something important and detrimental happens you shouldn't be allowed to forget easily. And he did. He somehow went about his day without even realizing it. It wasn't until Steve went to mark the day off his calendar that he realized it.
Tomorrow would be the anniversary of Bucky's death.
The pen fell from his hand with a soft click, the opened tip lightly marking his sock. He stumbled back a little, the hand that was once holding the pen now covering his mouth. He forgot. Any other day he'd be moping about the Tower or Brooklyn thinking about how he was forced to live without his Bucky. Any other day he'd be absentmindedly sketching Bucky's beautiful face or reading from his copy of The Great Gatsby. Any other day he'd have to physically remind himself not to think about Bucky...
And yet, he forgets?
The sob that ripped out of him was uncontrollable. How could he do this to Bucky? How could he go about his day like it was just a normal day when tomorrow would be... Steve's body shook as his sobs grew harsher. Tomorrow would mark the first anniversary that Steve was conscious to witness.
Steve stumbled away from the wall calendar and plopped down onto the couch, still in uniform with his shield on his back and covered in filth from the mission. He sobbed and screamed into one of the throw pillows Tony insisted he needed. Without even thinking, his body curled into a small, helpless ball as his body was torn from within by guilt, grief, anger, depression, and disappointment.
He didn't move until noon the next day. He didn't sleep either. Instead, he spent hours crying and staring into space. One minute he'd be sobbing into his hands and the next he'd be numb to everything, barely aware of his existence.
"Captain Rogers," Jarvis called, "your presence has been requested in the communal lounge."
Steve blinked hard a few times, looking up at the ceiling a little. "What time is it?" he asked, voice harsh and weak.
"It's half past noon, sir."
The captain stretched, a series of cracks and pops following his movements. He stood from the couch, his uniform tight and uncomfortable and the shield dug in his back. "Jarvis, I, uh," he started, clearing his throat as he took the shield off the magnetic hooks that were attached to his back.
"Need a moment?" the AI supplied.
Steve nodded, blushing. "Yeah, sorry."
"No worries, Captain. I'll send the message."
Slowly, Steve made his way into the bathroom and climbed into a scalding hot shower, uniform and all. He peeled it off piece by piece, his aching, numb body melting with the water. His movements were slow and uncoordinated as he went through the motions of scrubbing the sweat and grime off his skin. Despite the steam rolling off his body, the water just wasn't warm enough...
After what felt like hours, Steve was finally somewhat acceptable to be seen in public. Thankfully, the bags under his eyes were barely noticeable and while they only seemed to get worse with each waking moment, Steve didn't really care. His eyes were slightly red thanks to his fragile emotions, but he was prepared to play it off as a post yawn reaction.
He made his way down to the communal lounge, leaning heavily against the steel wall. He was out of it, between his emotions and the mission he'd just completed... Steve was ready to break.
The elevator opened and Steve put on his Captain America face, hiding behind the facade easily. It was sad how it had become second-nature for him nowadays. Bucky would have never fallen for it as easily as the Avengers had...
"Who called?" He asked, not wasting a second with pleasantries.
"We did," Tony chirped. "Have a seat, Grandpa!" Steve walked over to face all five of the Avengers, each in a different state of dress. Thor was in a traditionally casual outfit from Asgard, Natasha in workout clothes, Clint in pajamas, Tony in a casual band shirt and a blazer, and Bruce dressed in his usual button-down and slacks. Good news: It's not a mission. He stood before them, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. "Or don't, that's totally fine," Tony mumbled.
"Why am I here?" Steve sighed.
"Because we wanted to see your lovely face! Is that too much to ask?" Tony quipped. Steve leveled him with a no-nonsense glare. "God, you're cold today. Did you fall back in the ice over in the desert, Capsicle?"
Steve turned to Bruce and Natasha. "Why am I here?" he asked again.
Natasha leaned forward, smirking. "Why so persistent? Do you have plans? Did you finally call Marie like I suggested?"
Steve turned to Bruce with a pleading expression, arms still crossed but his eyes showing how tired he really was. Bruce gave him a sympathetic smile and leaned forward as well. "We have a surprise for you."
"They called while you were gone," Clint supplied through a mouthful of chips. "Tony sent for them to come visit you since we didn't know when you'd be home from the mission."
As he was about to question what Clint meant by that, the elevator doors opened to reveal Daisy and Gabe arm-in-arm. His arms fell, his face fallen. It took everything in him not to cry.
"Surprise!" Tony offered, waving his hands towards the two.
But the two elders weren't happy or smiling and it wasn't the magical, happy reunion that the other Avengers had expected. Instead Steve simply stood his ground, doing his best to keep his face free of any emotions.
An awkward silence bubbled to the surface as the Avengers waited for their captain to say something. When it was clear that the blond wouldn't be offering up anything, the team decided to take it upon themselves. Thor stood and helped the two to sit on the couches, sparing a concerned glance at the captain. "It is a pleasure to meet you both," the Asgardian prince greeted.
Bruce shook both of their hands, grinning. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Jones."
Gabe gave a weak smile. "Thank you, I appreciate that."
Natasha offered them a warm smile. "You were a Howlie, right?"
"I was. Private Jones, originally from the ninety-second infantry. After Steve rescued us from that Hydra base, I joined the Commandos. Best decision I could have ever made," he replied.
"And how do you know Cap, Ms. Barnes?" Bruce asked.
Daisy looked to Steve, a question on her face. Steve looked away, his guilt slowly seeping into his facade. She kept her composure and cleared her throat. "My big brother used to be good friends with Steve. He was actually in the Commandos, too."
Tony turned to Steve. "Hey, how come you never talk about the good ol' days? Isn't that usually what people do when they hit the geriatric stage of life." He quickly turned to Gabe and Daisy, "No offense or anything."
"Hey, he's older than me," Gabe mumbled. "He's older than dirt itself."
Daisy giggled, almost sounding like she used to. "By a month," she reminded him.
Steve's jaw tightened, but he didn't move. He stayed where he was and willed himself not to break down in front of his teammates.
"What was Steve like back in the day?" Natasha asked, genuinely curious.
Daisy blushed. "He was a really heartthrob and I had the biggest crush on him. Every chance I got, I was over at my brother's place just so I could hang out with Stevie."
Steve snapped out of his focus, his face flushed and his eyes wide. "You did?" he squeaked.
The team laughed as Daisy shook her head. "No, you big goof!" She paused, her cheeks growing red. "Okay, maybe at first but that was before-" she closed her eyes for a brief moment and plastered on a fake smile, "before I grew up." The captain gave a weak nod, his body growing tense at her potential slip.
"Which Commando was your brother?" Bruce asked after a lapse in conversation. "You didn't say."
Daisy and Gabe shared a brief, calculated look before she answered, "Sergeant James Barnes."
That's when Steve snapped.
"Don't you two have somewhere to be?" he nearly barked.
Neither Daisy nor Gabe were fazed by Steve's reaction, but the Avengers sure were. "Take a chill pill, Capsicle," Tony snapped.
"We do," Daisy said gently. "We were planning on stopping after we left. We thought you... might want to join us."
Steve's face was cold and dark, his nostrils flaring a little and his mouth twitching into a frown. "Join you where?" he asked, his voice harsh and cold compared to her tone.
"You know damn well where."
Gabe cleared his throat. "Figured it was about time we pulled you into this tradition."
"What tradition?" Thor asked.
"I'm good." Steve turned to the elevator, his movements ridged and unlike him.
Daisy stood. "Stop right there, Rogers." Steve stopped in his tracks, the tears brimming his eyes despite his desperate attempts to stop them. "Now you have two choices. You either come with us or we stay here and talk in private." Nothing was said for a moment before Daisy spoke again. "Steven Grant Rogers, don't you dare think that I don't have a couple of old tricks up my sleeve. Tricks your ma and Buck would swear by."
Gabe cleared his throat and rose from his seat, a mischievous, yet sad smile on his face. "I dare you."
Steve's shoulders deflated, but he stepped into the elevator nonetheless. However, the doors didn't close. Instead, Steve held them open. "You coming or do I need to get you both a wheelchair?"
"You say that like you didn't love a good wheelchair back in the day," Gabe muttered. "If I recall, you, Barnes, Monty, and Dum Dum had plenty of races in wheelchairs."
The corner of Steve's mouth twitched into a minute smile, yet he remained silent.
"Wait," Tony said suddenly, "did you seriously get Rogers to comply by middle naming him and giving him a dare? That actually works?"
Daisy smirked. "You'd be surprised what a dare would get him to do." With that, she and Gabe stepped into the elevator and the doors closed between them.
No one said anything as Jarvis wordlessly took them to Steve's floor. When the doors opened to reveal Steve's apartment, Daisy quietly gasped (honestly, the only reason Steve heard it was thanks to the serum). The kitchen was filthy and the the living room was a disaster, with torn pillows and broken glass everywhere. Steve didn't even remember doing any of it...
He walked inside, taking in everything before he turned to a quiet, patient Gabe and Daisy. "I'm sorry," he tried, "I don't- I just- I-" Steve swallowed the lump in his throat as Daisy made her way over to him. She stared at him carefully and opened her arms wide.
Everything was still for a moment.
And then it wasn't.
Steve burst into tears and fell into her arms, his sobs loud and heart wrenching. "Let it out, Stevie," she cooed as she rubbed his back, "We know baby, we know."
While Daisy comforted Steve, Gabe started to pick up the living room. He did the best he could with his bad knees and slow pace, but at least the glass was picked up and all of the pillow fluff was thrown away. Eventually he was able to direct Steve and Daisy into the living room to sit on the sofa, where he situated Steve in between the two.
Steve desperately tried to stop his tears, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Steve," Gabe said softly, "it's okay to be upset. We understand. It's hard for all of us, ya know? The difference is we had our time to grieve and while I grieved for my friend and fellow soldier, Daisy grieved for her older brother, and you... Steve, it ain't easy losing a loved one or a partner."
"Even harder when that person is your best friend and husband," Daisy interjected softly.
Gabe nodded as he placed a firm, but comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. "You take all the time you need, Cap. We aren't going anywhere, okay?" Steve nodded, sniffling.
They sat in silence for a long time, all of them reflecting on Bucky and the time they spent together in their own way. Steve cried on and off, but as the day went on, his emotions started to stabilize.
Steve plucked out the dog tags from his pocket, rubbing his thumbs over the indentions and the rings they gave one another. Daisy gasped, her eyes watering. "Is that-"
"I thought we lost those in the war?"
"No," Steve said quietly, "I kept them on me at all times. It was selfish, I know. I should have given them to Winifred and George or the military, but I couldn't part with them. Not after everything."
Gabe patted his shoulder. "That's okay. No one knew we found them in the first place."
Steve paused, glancing towards his comrade. "What?"
The man rubbed the back of his neck, a soft smile on his face. "The Commandos and I decided not to declare what we found. We knew you had them and we knew someone would take it from you if they knew you had them, so... We never told."
"Thank you," Steve's voice was as genuine as he could make it. "You have no idea how important that is to me. These," he held up the tags, "mean the world to me. It's all I have of him. Reminds me that he's still here with me no matter what."
Daisy clasped her hand over the tags, sniffling. "You're damn right, Steven."
Steve smiled and kissed her cheek, mumbling a meek thank you. Sitting there with Gabe and Daisy, Steve didn't feel so alone. He had two of his oldest friends by his side, his lover's dog tags in his hand, and a team of new friends from a variety of backgrounds and issues waiting for him on another floor.
For the first time since he woke up, Steve felt good. He felt content and a bubbly warmth spread through his chest, almost vanquishing the icy claws the Valkyrie still had on him. They weren't gone, but Steve felt that maybe they wouldn't plague him forever.
And he has Bucky to thank for that.
Once Gabe and Daisy left the tower to visit Bucky's honorary gravesite, Steve crawled into bed with the tags in his hands and his ring on his finger and faced the window. The view was beautiful, especially at sunset, and Steve could just make out the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. "Bucky," he whispered into the night, "I miss you. I miss you so much, but I know that deep down you're looking out for me wherever you are. One of these days, you and I will be reunited. I know for a fact we'll be reunited. It might take us some time, though. I'll wait as long as I need to see you again, Buck. I'm with you till the end of the line, baby. Till the end."
Steve didn't wake up from any nightmares that night. Partially because of how exhausted he was from his mission and lack of sleep, but Steve would like to believe that Bucky made sure Steve didn't suffer anymore that day than he had already done. Because if Steve knows one thing about Bucky, it's that nothing will stop him from caring for Steve.
~*~*~*~
In a lull of missions, Steve does his best to follow Daisy's instructions. "Steve," Daisy had said one day, "you're taking on too much." Steve sighed, sipping at his mug of coffee. "You need to go back to your roots. Read books that aren't historical and nonfiction. Watch TV or movies because you want to, not because you feel the need to catch up. Paint, draw, sketch. Do something for yourself!" That day, Steve had promised to try and be a little selfish with his time off.
Which is why Steve had went out and bought an easel, a couple of canvases, and a set of nice oil based paints.
He set it up in his spare room, kept away from everyone else. The Avengers had no clue about Steve's passion about art, other than the little doodles he draws during meetings. Having his own space and his own hobby away from this new world, it grounds him.
Steve sat on his stool, paints by his side and a canvas on his new easel. He twirled the brush in his hand, eyeing the canvas before him. His hands twitched to paint something, but he wasn't sure if he should even paint it...
And then his hands were moving on their own accord.
It didn't take him long to realize what he was painting. With a fond smile, Steve paused to take in the beginnings of a face he'd never forget. "Hi Buck," he whispered.
Steve put everything he had into that painting, making sure every detail was just right. All of his emotions, his feelings, his guilt, his love, everything was poured into the painting.
And it was almost perfect.
After several hours of painting, Steve was just putting the final touches on the piece when his stomach growled and ached with hunger. He did his best to fight the emptiness in his stomach, working through the discomfort just a little longer so he wouldn't disrupt his rhythm. "Captain," Jarvis announced, "Thor has requested your presence for a traditional Asgardian feast."
Steve sighed and put down his brush. "I'll be there as soon as I can." His scrutinizing gaze scanned the painting, trying to spot any flaws that needed to be fixed.
"It may do you some good to step away, sir. Once you return, fed and rested, you may be able to spot something different."
"You're right," Steve agreed. He cleaned up his workspace, saving all the paint he could and cleaning his brushes and the water. He quickly showered and cleaned the paint off of him, preparing himself for a traditional Asgardian feast with his friends.
Later that night, the super soldier returned to his spare bedroom and grinned at the painting in front of him. On the canvas was a beautiful portrayal of a laughing Bucky after the two of them had gotten back together during the war. His face was bright with laughter, his eyes crinkling with the smile he couldn't help and full of love as they stared back at Steve from beneath his eyelashes. He was wearing his service uniform, his beret and hair done perfectly (Bucky always liked to look his best) and his tie on straight. He looked dashing, standing there with his head dipped in a quiet laugh and his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Evenin' Buck," he whispered to the nearly dry painting as he sat down. "You're almost done, baby. I just need to touch up the lighting a bit."
Steve fell back into his work, his hands moving gracefully across the canvas as he added the depth and final touches to his background.
And once it was all said and done, Steve sat back and admired his work. "I miss you, ya jerk. Do anything to have you back, ya know? Nobody understands me these days. Daisy and Gabe do their best, but they've changed so much over the years it's hard. And the Avengers are great and all, but there's a cultural difference that we're still not used to. Nobody knew me as well as you did and I doubt anyone ever will. You've spoiled me, Barnes. Ain't gonna find anyone half as good as you. Love you, Buck. I really do." Steve bit his lip as he pictured Bucky saying those words back to him.
Tears had welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. Steve took a second to compose himself before he grabbed the brush again, dipped it in the black, and prepared to sign his name in the corner.
And then the Avengers siren went off throughout the building.
Steve's hand jerked as he dropped the brush, mumbled a quick "be back soon" to his painting, and rushed to prepare for battle.
Thankfully, it had turned out to be a false alarm. Steve hadn't checked his phone with Tony's reminder about the test they were running on the alarms. Steve was glad to see he wasn't the only one who missed the text, given that Clint was dressed and ready as well.
Either way, he made his way back to his floor and back to the spare room. Only to discover the most terrible thing had happened.
When the alarm went off and he had jerked up, the brush had made contact with the canvas.
A long, black line ripped through Bucky's legs.
Steve stood in horror in the doorway, eyes wide and his body frozen.
All of his hard work was gone, ruined, destroyed, because he didn't take the time to check his phone. If he had just looked at Tony's message, he wouldn't have messed up so badly. He could have waited a little longer for the alarm to go off.
He could have saved this Bucky.
God knows he didn't save the real Bucky...
A blinding rage erupted in Steve. He released a guttural scream, ripping through the canvas and the easel in no time, screaming and cursing in the process. Paint covered his body and the hardwood floors, wood had splintered into his hands and scraped the floor, his Bucky was torn to shreds to resemble nothing. Nothing but Steve's failure.
When he finally calmed down, Steve gathered all of the rubbage and took it to the fireplace in his room. Piece by piece he burned the evidence, smudging the paint with his tears and breaking the silence of the eerily quiet apartment with the crackle of fire and his sniffles.
He ended up falling asleep by the fire, the last scrap of Bucky's eyes held tight in his hands next to the dog tags.
The next morning, Steve woke up and went about his routine until he felt stable enough to clean up the mess he had left the night before. Hesitantly, he made his way into the spare room only to stop dead in his tracks.
Sitting in the exact same place of his old easel was a new, wooden easel with a beautiful dark finish. That wasn't what stopped him, however. Steve was transfixed by the beautiful canvas picture of his Bucky sitting atop it with a big, luscious bow on the top corner.
Steve stumbled forward, unsure how this happened or when. It looked exactly as he had painted it yesterday, with just as much passion and detail as he had added previously. It was perfect, down to the last faint freckle on Bucky's cheek. And there was no way it could be someone else's handiwork, not when Steve was the only one who knew that Bucky's left eye had a tinge more gray than the right when he dipped his head.
He was stunned.
"Captain," Jarvis interrupted, "I hope you don't mind."
Steve shook his head, unable to look away. "How did- Who- Huh?"
"I took the liberty of digitally scanning your piece whenever you paused, sir. This seems to be an important piece to you and I took all precautionary measures I could."
"But how?"
"I transferred the final scan, right before the alarm sounded, to a canvas and had someone deliver it to your room without your knowledge. I apologize for the invasion of privacy, Captain, but I did not believe you were in the right state of mind to handle visitors."
Steve blushed. "You're not wrong." He grinned, tears welling in his eyes again. "You have no idea how thankful I am, Jarvis."
"It is my pleasure, Captain." The AI paused for a moment before he said, "I believe you have a painting to sign, sir."
And Steve did, signing it with a practiced ease and an overwhelming sense of pride (along with a flourish of emotions surrounding Bucky, the painting, and Jarvis' kind actions).
He ended up hanging the painting in the spare room, what he now dubbed his art studio.
~*~*~*~
'My office. Now.'
Steve looked at the text one last time, with dread filling his gut. Fury had sent him the text as soon as the captain landed in D.C. The director even sent him a car to pick him up at the airport, which he never does.
The Triskelion was bustling with midday traffic. Steve maneuvered his way through the lobby and stuffed himself into the elevator that was already filled with civilians.
It was awful.
Two men stood behind him were whispering about how Steve wasn't as impressive in person as they had previously thought. The woman in front of him kept glancing back at him through the reflective surface of the elevator doors. The agent beside him kept sneaking glances at him, a little too flirtatiously.
He just wanted out.
Everytime the door opened, one person left and another person entered. Another set of eyes on him. Another mind with their own assumptions of who Steve should be.
And then it was just him.
Until the doors opened to reveal the director himself.
"Captain," Nick boomed, "glad you finally made it."
"Director Fury." Steve reached for the man's hand. "It's been too long."
"Let's get to it." Nick walked off towards his office, his trenchcoat swirling around his calves. "How's New York been on your end? I hear you've been helping out with some of the repairs and some fundraising from the Chitauri aftermath."
Steve cleared his throat. "Yes sir."
"That all I get?" The director asked as he opened the door to his office. Steve mumbled a thanks, with his cheeks turned red and his head tucked down. "Have a seat, Steve." The blond did as he was told, watching the director walk around his desk and stare out the window. "How many trips to D.C have you made in the past month?"
"Two, sir."
The director ordered, "Drop the sir, Rogers. You can call me Nick when it's just the two of us." He glanced over his shoulder to look at Steve.
"Understood." The blush only deepened on Steve's face. "Why do you ask?"
Nick turned around and glided into his seat. "I ask because I think you may be wasting valuable time in New York."
Steve sat up in his seat, leaning forward with piqued interest. "What does that mean?"
"I want you to start training to eventually become our head trainer. We need agents with your drive, strategic ability, and morals. That sound like something you're interested in?"
The captain leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "What about the Avengers?"
"You'll still be the captain of the Avengers, which will last as long as we need them too or until the team decides to call it quits." Nick leaned back in his chair.
Steve cocked an eyebrow. "If I tell you I will and ten years from now I don't feel like being apart of S.H.I.E.L.D anymore, are you going to have my head?" He asked with a smirk peeking through his professional facade.
Nick shook his head. "No contracts, verbal or physical."
The captain pulled at a loose thread on his jeans, mulling over the idea. "I'm willing to train for it at least. We'll see how things go."
"That's all I ask." Nick turned to his computer.
"Is that it?"
"Unless there's anything you need to tell me?"
Steve bit his lip before he shook his head, standing from his seat. "I suppose that would be it."
"We'll be in touch."
~*~*~*~
The additional training caused Steve to move to D.C. The Avengers were in a rut, which was bittersweet. On the one hand, the world wasn't ending, but on the other, Steve was bored. The good news was that the STRIKE team was starting to gain momentum. Every other week, Steve and the team had another mission in another country to take care of.
Besides, D.C was nice. It gave Steve a chance to escape his past and find himself in this new century. Sure, he missed New York like crazy, but the city was filled with ghosts from his past. Every time he needed to go to Brooklyn, he was haunted by the memories of his childhood. Manhattan was plagued with memories of his days in the service.
Steve dragged his body into his new apartment, his gym bag hanging over his shoulder. He'd been training nonstop, between the Avengers, the STRIKE team, and the recruit trainer training, Steve hasn't had much time do anything. His sleeping schedule is all off, he's always on the move, and his body aches longer than it should. He almost felt like he was back in his old body once again.
It was no wonder he'd been having nightmares lately.
Steve yawned, curling into the pillow beneath him. Someone shifted behind him with a muffled whine, the arm around his waist tightened a hair. "Steve, quit moving," Bucky grumbled. The blond squirmed, turning around to face the other man. Bucky smiled with his eyes still closed and his arms still wrapped around Steve's waist. He looked so peaceful and sleepy. "Like what you see punk?"
"You bet," Steve whispered as he brought up a hand to caress Bucky's cheek. His thumb rubbed against the older man's dark stubble, the rough, prickly touch enticing yet charming. Steve grinned. Bucky Barnes, the only boy who could pull of charm and raw sex appeal without even trying, Steve thought. "What are the plans for today?"
"Figured we'd spend the day around the house," Bucky mumbled as he opened his gorgeous blue eyes. "We can go up to the roof, read a couple of books, sketch some drawings, make-out a little? Stop me when it gets to be too much."
Steve leaned forward, their noses bumping. "I think that sounds like a beautiful idea," he whispered as their lips touched.
When he pulled away, Steve pressed their foreheads together, his eyes kept shut.
And then two large hands were pushing him back.
And guns were firing at him.
And people were screaming.
His eyes shot open.
He was no longer in bed with Bucky. He was back on that damned train, back in that damn car
The whirring of a gun sounded behind them, the goon Steve had taken out now aiming his gun. Steve's breath caught in his throat as he shoved Bucky behind him, ducking under the shield with a scream of, "Get down!" He held Bucky close to him, the weight of the man on his back comforting his anxiety just enough to try and take down the man. The Hydra gunman shot at the shield, the ray bouncing off and blasting a hole in the train. Steve was thrown to the other wall, shield discarded and Bucky exposed.
His ears were ringing as he struggled to get his ground, to get the strength needed to clear his head and stand up. It was like the air was being sucked out the hole, the sound loud and obnoxious in their ears. The air was already hard to breath at this altitude, but the suction the hole had made only intensified the situation.
When he finally looked up, Bucky had the shield in his hand and a gun pointed at the man, stalking the Hydra goon with a scowl. Steve's heart was hammering in his chest as he watched.
The Hydra soldier shot again, hitting the shield on the star. Bucky was thrown back, the suction from the hole in the wall pulling him out the train. Steve scrambled up, grabbed his shield, threw it at the Nazi with all he had, and slung off his helmet as he reached the hole.
"Bucky!" He hollered over the wind, climbing onto the sheet of wall that had been peeled off in the blast. Bucky was hanging on a rail, dangling precariously over the side of the mountain. Steve's chest felt tight, his pulse impossibly high, as he carefully worked his way close to Bucky's side. "Hang on," he called, moving closer to the end of his rail.
Bucky was crawling closer to the end of his own rail, going inch by inch. His grip was starting to slip, his fingers aching the longer he held himself up.
Steve was as close as he could get when he called, "Grab my hand!" He reached for his husband, desperate to pull the man close to him. But the rail Bucky was holding started to give, shaking in Bucky's grip. His eyes widened. "No!" He lunged forward, one hand gripping the rail tightly and the other reaching for Bucky as he started to slip.
The sergeant tried to grasp Steve's hand, but it was too late. The rail detached from the side, Bucky's hand inches away from Steve's. Bucky screamed as he fell, the horrified noise echoing in Steve's ears.
Steve screamed and shot up in bed. He was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged, and his eyes crazed. He was still screaming, ripping through his sheets with no control. It was as if he wasn't in control of his body.
"I need him," Steve wheezed through his tears. "I need Bucky."
The man scrambled out of bed, stuffing his legs through the legs of his sweatpants. He needed to get out of here, he needed to get to his Bucky. All he needed was Bucky.
He jumped on his bike and sped off towards New York.
When Steve finally made it to Brooklyn, he had calmed down enough to not feel so anxious. He wasn't himself yet, not entirely. Steve just needed to get there, to get to Bucky. Bucky always made him feel better, made him feel like himself. Who was he without Bucky?
The bike sped down the street, the engine purring beneath him as he grew closer to Bucky.
He woke up the next morning with his face down in the dirt and his arms stretched out on either side of him. He sat up, groggy and disorientated, to see a headstone with his name engraved on it. Steve glanced to either side of him, where his mother and Bucky lay.
If he sat there and cried for hours on end, no one would know but him.