2015
Steve sprinted out of the building, his feet nearly silent as he raced towards Sam. "Go for it!" He yelled, about one hundred feet away.
"Are you sure?" Sam called, finger hovering over the detonator.
"Would I have said it if I wasn't?" Steve hollered.
Sam rolled his eyes, but pressed the button nonetheless. Seconds later, the old warehouse burst in flames, the structure caving in on itself. Steve grabbed Sam and the two ducked behind the S.H.I.E.L.D van. "That was awesome," Sam laughed.
Steve chuckled. "Have you never blown something up?"
"Not a fucking building!"
"Good point."
The two peeked over the van, the warehouse now lite in flames. Shrapnel fell feet away from them, scraping against the asphalt. Ash and dust floated in the air, sprinkling down like snow. If it was any other building, Steve would have found it horrifying. This is no ordinary building, however, this is an old Hydra warehouse in the middle of the Austria.
"So who signed off on this again?" Sam asked.
Steve shrugged. "Not sure. All I know is that they seemed pretty convinced after my proposal."
"What did you say to them?"
"I simply convinced them that if the building stayed up, Hydra would eventually return. I suggested that we destroy the building and the equipment after you and I took all of their files out. Hence the burning warehouse." Steve motioned to the building, grinning from ear to ear.
Sam shook his head. "We're stuck here until it's extinguished, right?"
"Pretty much."
After a few more minutes, the two got bored watching the building collapse on itself. They packed away their things, changed into civilian clothes, and climbed into the van. "Did you book our flight for tonight or tomorrow?" Sam asked, pulling out a couple of sandwiches for the both of them.
Steve grabbed his and unwrapped it, taking a huge bite before he spoke, "Tomorrow night. We have to debrief with the Austrian Chancellor at noon. Figured we could enjoy Berlin for a bit before we flew out."
"I never would have thought you'd be the type of person who mixes work and pleasure."
"I'm not mixing them. We're working and then we enjoy ourselves. I'm not saying let's go get wasted while we watch this place burn down," Steve chuckled.
Sam shrugged. "Better than this."
"Got a point."
"How long do you think this will take?"
"Maybe two more hours?"
"Two hours?"
Steve shrugged, unwrapping another sandwich at this point. "Yeah, two hours isn't that bad."
"If it takes longer than two, you're going to owe me. Got it?" The captain threw a sloppy salute his way as he ate. Sam rolled his eyes, but settled in nonetheless. Which is a good thing, because two hours gradually became six. "Goddammit Rogers, I fucking hate you."
Steve threw his head back in laughter, tucking his hat back over his eyes. "I'm not an arsonist expert, Wilson. You're fault for trusting me."
Sam scoffed. "Oh, yes. I'm just not going to trust my boss, my captain, Captain fucking America, when he talks about his own fucking missions!"
"Sorry?"
The falcon groaned, leaning against the steering wheel. "Can we at least call the authorities? Get them to put out the fire so we can get to the hotel? I'm exhausted and I want a real bed to sleep in, not some stale ass pleather car seats."
Steve pulled out his phone. "I think so, it's pretty much gone. There's still a bit of flames, though. We can't leave until they get here."
"Fine with me. Just get them here."
Cap called the authorities and had someone meet them at their "secret" location. Once they got the all-clear to leave, the soldiers booked it to Berlin, where Steve had gotten them a room at a lowkey motel.
Sam shouldered his duffle and slammed the car door shut. "I still don't get why you have to put us in motels when we can afford to stay in luxurious hotels for a night or two."
"Just because we can doesn't mean we should. Motels are easier. They don't draw as much attention and it's safer for everyone involved."
"I don't even want to know where your logic is on that one." Sam snatched the key from Steve's hands and unlocked their assigned room. It was a simple motel, pretty standard to the ones they were used to. "I call this bed," Sam called as he face-planted on the first bed.
Steve rolled his eyes. "It's all yours." He closed the door gently and set his bag on the end of his own bed. Steve sat down to peel off his boots, listening to the creak of the springs. Something wasn't right, though. It was off; not broken, but off. He started to bounce, zeroing in on what was causing the noise.
"Oh my god, Steve. Fucking stop!" Sam groaned, blindly throwing a pillow at him.
The pillow fell at his feet. Steve sighed, "Hang on, something isn't right."
Sam sat up. "What the hell did you expect? It's a cheap motel, not the Ritz."
"It's not that! It's like something's blocking it." Steve dropped to his knees and turned to his bed, lifting the mattress with one hand as if it were a pillow. "Do you see that?" He pointed to the upper right hand corner, where a tear protruded from beneath the spring.
"Yeah, I do actually. There's something in the mattress, but I would not put my hand in there," Sam, the ever-so logical friend, suggested. The only issue with suggestions is simply that: they're suggestions. You don't have to take them. At least, that's how Steve saw it.
The captain reached in, despite Sam's whine about how serum or not he'd need a tetanus shot after this, and pulled out a leather book. He let go of the mattress, the springs creaking as the were dropped back in place. Steve cleaned the cover, but didn't see any writing or titles. "Looks like a sketchbook or a journal," he commented as he started to flip through the book. Sure enough, it was a journal filled to the brim with scrawled notes.
"Did you just find someone's diary?"
Steve shook his head. "I don't think so. Looks more impersonal than a diary. Less format and more reminders." He opened to a random page, where the date was written over and over again in an aggressively slanted font.
His stomach churned. There was something familiar about the way the 't's were crossed that made Steve want to cry.
He flipped to another page, this one with a simple paragraph about the writer's daily tasks. Steve grimaced, skimming over the brutal slaughter of a rabbit for the author's meals for the day.
"Whoever wrote this must have-" Steve didn't let Sam finish. He gasped, his eyes growing wide as he flipped to another page.
It was covered in a sequence of numbers, similarly to the date page. They were scrawled everywhere in sizes of all kinds.
32557038. 32557038. 32557038. 32557038. 32557038. 32557038. 32557038.
32557038.
"What is it?" Sam asked, all jokes aside.
Steve pointed to the number. "This was Buck's serial number in the war."
Sam sat up straight. "Are you saying this is...?"
The blond nodded, awestruck. "I think it is."
"Steve, we can't assume. Look through it. See if you can find anything else."
Sure enough, Steve found plenty of evidence to point towards Bucky. Pages upon pages described the trauma he experienced within Hydra, those same events Steve read about that were once sterile and scientific were now written in aggressive, graphic details. There were other pages dedicated to writing the alphabet, some with the months and the date, others with names and question marks.
"He's trying to piece together his memory," Steve whispered. "Right?"
Sam rubbed at his neck. "That's what it looks like, but we really can't assume, Steve. We need to be careful now. If anyone realizes you have this, they'll take it as evidence and try and bring in Barnes. He's a wanted man by several countries. You realize this right?"
Steve sighed, closing the book. "That's why we need to find him first."
That night, Steve didn't sleep. He sat at the desk with the lamp on and analyzed the journal as much as he could for any possible clues as to where Bucky went. He didn't stop until Sam pulled him away. "C'mon big guy, we've got to get you looking sharp for the Chancellor," Sam said softly. "I laid out your classic suit and made sure all of your toiletries were out. The shower is already running, as hot as I could take it," he pointed out as he guided Steve to the bathroom. "I also moved our flight up. Figured you'd want to sleep."
"Thanks, Sam," Steve yawned, holding onto the doorframe. "I got it from here."
"You sure? Cause it looks like you're still a bit wobbly." The both looked down to Steve's uneasy stance.
"If I fall, come help."
"That's 'what I'm here for."
2016
The media was getting tense. People were either outraged or in awe of the events that had taken place in the past year. Some believed the Avengers had too much power, that they were just another group of vigilantes. Others believed they were doing what no one else would. Either way, they wanted Steve to answer their questions.
People were posted outside his apartment buildings, both in New York and in DC. They would hound him for information, shove cameras in his face, and scream their questions at him as he walked past. Steve was slowly getting angry, at the public but mostly at the reporters. It wasn't fair that they got to just pop up into his life for no reason but their own morbid curiosity.
Steve glanced out of his window, at the reporters sipping coffee against their vans. "This is ridiculous." He was trapped in his own home. Steve, the world's first super soldier, was trapped by a bunch of reporters.
Okay, so he wasn't trapped. It was possible for him to get out of the building. He could take the front door, he'd just have to deal with the reporters. However, Steve prided himself to be a very successful tactician and as such he knew there were more creative ways to leave the house. He could climb out a window and take the fire escapes down to the alley. He could also take the rooftops and head some-
His train of thought was cut off by the creak of his front door opening. Steve spun around, body tense and ready to fight if he needed to. In the relatively dark room all he could see was a figure leaning against the door.
Steve flicked on the lamp, squinting to figure out who it was. He gasped. "Bucky?"
Bucky pressed against the wall, obviously scared.
"Are you okay?"
Bucky shook his head.
"What happened?"
Bucky stayed quiet, staring at Steve with what most would see as a blank stare. Steve, however, knew better. He could see that Bucky's eyes were wide and his jaw was twitching, which only ever happened when he was afraid or irritated.
Steve held his hands up in defense and took a cautious step forward. "Are you hurt?"
The intruder was still for a moment before he gave a meek nod. "Okay," Steve said, "I can help with that, but only if you want."
Now Bucky was visibly panicked, but something clicked. "It's my leg," a hoarse voice rasped.
Steve was involuntarily tearing up. It'd been so long since he heard Bucky's voice... "Okay, why don't you sit down and I'll go get the first aid kit." Steve slowly moved towards the kitchen, keeping his movements slow and purposeful as to not scare his friend.
Bucky, on the other hand, stayed completely still. It was almost like he was unsure what he was supposed to do. Steve watched him through the reflection on the microwave as he grabbed his medical supplies. Bucky limped forward and grabbed the back of the couch, before pressing back against the wall.
The blond carried the supplies back to the couch and set them on the coffee table. "Bucky," he started softly, "where would you like to sit?"
He winced. "The, um, couch."
"Do you need help? It's probably not a good idea for you to be walking on your leg," Steve said as he walked closer, forgoing the cautious movements.
"Okay," Bucky mumbled.
Steve walked over slowly and rested his hands on either side of Bucky's rather large frame. "You can sling your arm over my shoulders, okay?" Bucky nodded and raised his metal arm over Steve's head, resting the weight on the broad shoulders of his blond friend. They stumbled their way to the couch, where Steve helped Bucky sit so that his leg was rested on the coffee table.
Now that they were close, Steve could smell the odor on Bucky. It was obvious the poor guy wasn't taking care of himself, nor was he healthy. And the gash in his upper thigh was pretty gnarly. Steve was no doctor, but he knew enough about injuries to know Bucky should get stitches and maybe even and x-ray to insure no damage was done to the bone.
"How do you want me to do this? You can be honest with me. If you want me to call someone for you-"
"No," Bucky demanded. "No doctors. No hospitals. No people. Just you."
Steve's heart skipped a beat. "I can do that. Ma taught me enough about first aid that I can get you taken care of. Can I ask what happened?"
"No."
"Fair enough." Steve pulled out a pair of scissors, some cotton balls, and the saline.
Bucky's brows furrowed. "You aren't going to question it?"
Steve shook his head. "You said not to, so I won't. Did you want me to ask?" Bucky shook his head this time. "Then okay. I need to clean this up, which means I'm going to cut your pants a lit-" Bucky grabbed either end of the tear and pulled, making the whole large enough to clean and stitch properly. "Thank you," Steve chuckled.
He grabbed a cotton ball and soaked it in saline. "I'm going to talk you through what I'm doing, okay? I remember you used to like when my ma would talk us through dressing my scrapes. Is that okay?" Steve looked up at Bucky, who was cautious but no longer scared.
"I like that," he whispered meekly.
Steve grinned. "Great. So first, I'm going to clean the area with some saline okay. I'll go around it with the cotton ball first, then I'll do my best to clean out the wound itself." And he did just that, going slow and making sure every inch was cleaned with the saline.
"What comes next?" Bucky asked, sounding more like a child than Steve had ever heard him.
"I'm going to stitch you up and then put a bandage on. Sound good?" Bucky nodded, so Steve continued with his work. He hummed old songs as he did his best to stitch the wound, prolonging the situation as much as he could without hurting Bucky.
He kind of felt guilty for wanting this to take as long as possible. Bucky needed medical attention and here Steve was wishing that it would take years for him to suture one relatively small wound, all so he could spend a little more time with his illusive ex. (Was he an ex? They never officially broke things off, but Steve supposes "till death do you part" counts as a break up.)
Steve bandaged the wound and began to pack up his medical supplies. "You're all good." Bucky moved to stand, before Steve grabbed at his metal wrist. "Wait, you need to stay off of it. Relax."
Bucky jerked his hand away, but settled back into the couch. He was scared again, on edge as he watched Steve take the supplies back to the kitchen.
"Can I get you anything?" the captain called. "When was the last time you ate?" Steve peered over his shoulder to see Bucky in deep thought. After a long moment of silence, he only grew more concerned about the man's health. "I've got leftover lasagna that my friend Sam made me. I can heat that up for you, if you want."
"Okay."
So Steve warmed the lasagna up and served it to the former assassin. "So," Steve started as he watched Bucky shovel food in his mouth, "how have you been?"
Bucky grunted, not bothering to speak.
"Where have you been? Wait, don't answer that. That's none of my business." Steve ran a hand through his hair, growing anxious and frantic as he tried to figure out the best way to help Bucky without scaring him too much. "Do you need anything? Clothes, toiletries, food? I can run out and get you some supplies, might make things easier. Hell, I can give you a couple hundred if you need it. Whatever you need, Buck."
Bucky glared at him. Steve was surprised to see that he couldn't tell whether or not Bucky was mad at him or if he was just in deep thought. Here lately, he always looks mad. "Why do you care?"
Steve was taken aback. Bucky was always blunt, but never like this. Not when it came to feelings and emotional bullshit. "I care because we're best friends. We have each others backs through thick and thin and I'm here to help. If that means giving you your space and taking down Hydra, then so be it. Fuck, I'd give you everything I own if it means you'll be okay."
The brunet studied him for a moment, real quiet and still. And then things did a one-eighty. Bucky placed his plate and fork on the table gently and chugged a bottle of water Steve had given him. Then he was standing up and heading to the door with a gruff, "I need to leave."
"Wait!" Steve tried to grab him again, but it was too late. Bucky had walked out the door and disappeared, too quick and quiet for Steve to try and chase him. He wanted nothing more than to go after him and force him to stay with him, but Steve knew better. He knew Bucky needed to make his own choices and maybe, just maybe, he'd come home to him.
One day he will, Steve just knew it.