Thanks for all of your enthusiasm!
2017
Despite knowing Bucky was alive and well, the grief and guilt Steve felt still festered inside him. Most days he could go for a run and the darkness would flee from his mind for another day. Then there were days that nothing he did could help push it away. Today was one of those days.
He'd barely slept, the night filled with barely contained angst and nightmares. His appetite had diminished over the course of the past few months. His friends were all... gone. And yes, Steve knew that they'd return one day once all of this settled down, but for now it all seemed irrelevant. He was at his worst and had no one, like it's always been since he woke up from the ice.
Steve laid on his couch, staring up at the ceiling aimlessly. He felt hollow inside, which only grew worse when he thought about how Bucky's still out there and a fugitive. Any contact between them and they'll have him arrested, which may or may not lead to Bucky's death depending on how the court feels about his predicament.
And it was like he couldn't breathe.
His own trial was hell, but he was still Captain America and with that had a loyal fan base that helped convince people to listen. Bucky's never been in the public eye and his story hasn't been told, other than the statements Steve's made defending him. He'll be torn apart by the reactions of the public, especially the alt-right groups who will only see the Winter Soldier.
Then again, what if the alt-right uses him as their hero? What if they project their ideals and beliefs onto him? That's what they try to do with Steve, even though he keeps denying it over and over and over again.
Oh god. Bucky won't ever find peace within society. People won't forget. He'll be haunted by this forever, even if he somehow finds peace.
Steve's chest constricted and his breathing picked up.
Bucky's murdered people. Steve can only imagine what he remembers, watching the life slip from their eyes and the blood pour out of their bodies. He's watched men and women of all ages die by his own hand.
He was an assassin. The idea that Bucky has murdered common people is truly appalling, but the fact that the Winter Soldier is linked to such high class assassinations is difficult to comprehend.
He was a soldier. That alone was hard to handle and Steve had first hand experience. Causing so much destruction, seeing the damage you've had a hand in creating... It does a number on your mental health.
Steve's eyes welled with tears as his stomach flipped and sank.
It's not his fault. It's not his fault!
He couldn't breathe. His throat was closing up. He felt like he was having an asthma attack.
And suddenly, he was six years old and having the first asthma attack in front of Bucky.
Steve chased after Bucky, laughing as his feet stomped along the street. Bucky would look back every now and then, his grin wide and spotted with missing teeth.
"C'mon Stevie!" Bucky called.
Steve moved faster, his lungs wheezing. He wasn't supposed to exercise too much, not with his conditions, but Bucky wanted to go get milkshakes at the drugstore and Steve thought it'd be a great idea. So they ran along. Now Steve really needed a break, but he didn't want to. He wanted to go to the drugstore and he wanted to play with Bucky. More importantly, Bucky wanted him to play. He couldn't just let him down.
Bucky slowed for a moment, trying to act like he was teasing Steve when he was really concerned about his breathing. Steve caught up, but only for a second before Bucky bolted forward more. Steve let out a laugh as Bucky giggled up ahead and followed him with furious determination.
"We're almost there! C'mon the store's at the end of the block." Bucky tried his best to encourage Steve to keep going, just to push his limits. It was surprising enough that he'd gotten him to play outside everyday for three weeks. Getting Steve to run the four blocks is a miracle in Bucky's eyes, but here they were, chasing each other down the street and dodging cars as they passed.
Steve started to slow, his breathing harder and his chest a little tighter. He was wheezing in and out, but he didn't stop. 'Gotta keep going, almost there,' he thought to himself.
Bucky noticed just as he reached the drugstore that Steve had started to slow down. He watched with a big grin and bright blue eyes as Steve trudged over to his friend, his face flushed and covered in a fine layer of sweat. Bucky was about to gush how proud he was of Steve when the smaller boy asked, "Think if we told the man I was sick he'd let us sit at the bar?" Steve asked between weak breaths.
Bucky was obviously worried, Steve looked like he could pass out any moment. But he caught the look of determination in Steve's blue eyes and decided not to voice his concerns just yet. His heart swelled with pride for the younger kid as he said, "I'm sure we can get a booth at least." He slung an arm around the smaller boy and they walked into the cool store, both sighing in relief to be out of the Brooklyn summer heat.
Steve was fighting an asthma attack, he was sure of it. He knew it was inevitable, seeing as he just ran farther than he's ran in, well, forever. He just couldn't let this ruin his day, or Bucky's. Steve wasn't clueless, he saw how Bucky was proud of him and happy he came along instead of Bucky bringing it back to him like they had before.
Bucky kept his word and tried to get the man to let them sit at the bar. They ended up sitting in a comfy, plush booth instead, with two milkshakes sitting in front of them.
Steve leaned forward, bouncing a little on the seat, and sipped at his vanilla milkshake. He gave up after a couple of sips and went into a full blown attack, coughing loud and hard in the middle of the drug store. He couldn't breathe, his chest hurt and his hands were shaking just a little with the force of his coughs. His muscles felt tight around his neck and shoulders, his face reddening.
"What should I do?" Bucky was panicking as he watched with wide, horrified eyes. "Are you okay?"
Steve tried to talk, but he couldn't. It hurt too much to do anything; breath, talk, drink. . . He reached for the collar of his shirt and tugged half-heartedly as he kept coughing. Steve wanted to cry really bad, but Bucky had been so proud of him. Would he still be proud if he cried? Steve didn't know and he wasn't about to find out.
Bucky got the message and slid into Steve's side of the booth. His own shaky, pale hands reached up to gently move Steve's away from his collar and tie. Bucky took off the tie and undid the first few buttons of Steve's shirt, biting his lip the entire time so he himself wouldn't cry. "Don't worry Stevie, I've got you. We can figure this out, just try. . ." Bucky started to ramble as he rubbed Steve's back gently. "Take it easy," he whispered. He was terrified, completely unsure of how to help his friend.
He kept rubbing circles on the blonde's back, whispering whatever came to mind to the younger boy. "You're gonna be okay," he mumbled, "and we're gonna have a blast when we get home."
Steve tried so hard not to cry, but the tears started to slip out unintentionally. He wanted so badly to stop the attack. Not because of the pain it caused him or the fact he felt like he was out of control of his own body, but because Steve noticed the physical pain Bucky had when watching Steve go through this. He wanted to stop it for Bucky's sake.
Other patrons and waiters started to question whether or not Steve was okay. Bucky tried his best to answer them, to explain that he'd be okay and this happened a lot. But he couldn't, because he didn't know if Steve was okay and sure it happens a lot, but not when they're by themselves. He honestly couldn't tell if Steve needed medical attention yet or not.
In some sort of miracle, Steve was okay again. He was crying, with tears all down his face and a runny nose, and shaking just a little, but he was okay. Bucky hugged him tightly, but backed off the second Steve sobbed. "Did I hurt you?" Steve shook his head and hid in Bucky's shirt, his tears and snot soaking the material.
Steve was extremely embarrassed. He hated crying, much less in public. He just couldn't help it. . . His body felt terrible and tight and Bucky had been so worried about him. But part of him was really thankful to have Bucky here with him. Steve wouldn't admit it, but he always got scared in these situations.
Bucky held him tight, making sure he was okay. He thanked the adults that had surrounded them, saying he'll be okay. "Why don't you two come sit up here? I wanna keep an eye on him," the waiter said with a small smile.
"Look at that, Steve, you still figured out a way for us to sit up at the bar. You've been holding back from me, Rogers. You're a devious one, I tell ya." Bucky helped Steve into the bar stool and grabbed both of their milkshakes.
"Thanks Buck," Steve mumbled as he sipped at his milkshake.
"Don't mention it, kid."
Steve closed his eyes and tried to imagine Bucky's hand rubbing his back. Tried to hear Bucky's voice telling him that it'll be okay, that they'll be okay.
It starts to work, just a little. "C'mon Rogers, we can do this. Help me out here, ready?" Steve took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to match his Bucky.
His Bucky, because the real Bucky was a brainwashed assassin stuck in Wakanda while he tries to figure out his shit.
Steve jumps up from his seat and gathers his gym bag. That's enough alone time for the day.
~*~*~*~
Steve lounged on the couch, head resting on the edge and his feet dangling in the air. Sam was working on his computer, typing away furiously as he ignored Steve's antics. "There's nothing on," the blond groaned.
"It's noon on a Friday, all you're going to find is talk shows and reruns of sitcoms. Just put on Friends and shut up," Sam laughed.
Grumbling, Steve followed his instructions. He was fidgeting, bored out of his mind. One minute he was watching Ross and Rachel argue (again), the next he was tracing his tattoo with his eyes.
It had taken a while for Steve to trust Sam enough to reveal the tattoo.
They were gearing up for a morning run when Steve decided against wearing his "grandpa" socks. He walked out of his bedroom in a pair of basketball shorts and his Nikes.
Sam was sitting on the sofa, tying his shoes. "How far are we gonna run today, Cap?"
"Probably until you drop," Steve quipped.
The other man glared up at him, a smile peeking behind his fanned annoyance. "I'm going to die because of you. Wait and see."
Steve rolled his eyes, kneeling down to tuck in his laces. That's when Sam noticed the ink. "What do you have on your ankle? Is that... dirt?"
"Um, no," Steve mumbled with a blush. "It's a... tattoo."
Sam's eyes bulged out of his head. "Um, I'm sorry did you just say 'tattoo?'"
Steve nodded.
"A tattoo, made with hundreds of needles injecting ink into your skin permanently?"
Steve nodded again.
"When the hell did you get a tattoo?"
"Couple years ago? Before you knew about Bucky and I that's for sure."
Sam was startled. "The hell?"
Steve shrugged. "Sorry?"
Sam waited somewhat patiently for Steve to show off the ink. Except the blond doofus didn't move, just awkwardly stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Oh my god," he groaned, "show me!"
"Oh," he chuckled, "right." He propped his foot on the coffee table and untied his shoe. He took off his sock and displayed his ankle to Sam.
The falcon knelt down and examined the fresh-looking ink. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, that's for sure. The chains wrapped around the ankle and the shiny dog tag looked real, to the point Sam was sure he heard the clanking of the tags when he moved Steve's ankle slightly. He squinted, trying to make out the subtle engravings. "These are Bucky's?" he whispered.
"I had his tags tucked in my boot when I crashed. I've had them on me ever since," Steve admitted quietly. He took his foot back and started to put his shoes back on. "I got it after we met the Winter Soldier. I guess part of me hoped I'd be giving them back to him."
Sam gave him a sympathetic smile. "Hopefully that'll happen one day. It's beautiful, really. Do you have anymore?"
"Not at the moment, but I may be convinced to get more."
"Next time, I'm in."
Steve lifted himself up off the couch, rolling onto the carpet into a kneeling position. "I can't take this anymore, Sam."
Sam rolled his eyes and shut his laptop. "Look, Steve. You have to move on, okay? It's not healthy to be obsessing over Bucky right now. He's safe and getting help and you need to respect that. He'll contact you when he's ready and until then you need to do something with your life. Volunteer somewhere, travel, just do something."
"But what if he calls, huh? What if Shuri had a breakthrough and Bucky is ready to return to society?" Steve argued. "Hell, he could call right now for all you know." And then he paused, staring at Sam expectantly.
The falcon paused, too. A smile started to form on his face as he slowly realized what Steve was doing. "Seriously?" he asked quietly. "Did you literally stop and wait for the phone to ring like a sitcom?"
Steve shrugged. "Hey, crazier things have happened."
Sam's head slung back as he let laughed, loud and unashamed. Steve grinned, a slow laugh building in his own chest at the sound of Sam's laughter. "Why?"
"It felt right," Steve laughed.
"But did you really expect it to work? Like you could just say it and it'd happen?"
Steve shrugged again, but as he went to say something, the phone rang. He and Sam both froze, unsure of if this was reality or some joke.
"For Christ's sake, Steve, answer it!"
Steve dove for the phone and answered it as soon as he could. "Captain Rogers speaking."
"Captain Rogers, how have you been?" T'Challa said.
"Managing and yourself, Your Majesty?" Steve smirked at Sam, who rolled his eyes.
"Doing just fine. Shall we get down to the matter at hand?"
"Please."
"Sergeant Barnes is recovering nicely. Shuri has been helping him relearn the world, little by little, and now he just needs help with his memories."
Steve beamed. "That's... wow."
"Thank you. Shuri has told me that Barnes has mentioned returning home."
The captain sat there, stunned. Hope was rising in his chest, his heart racing and his eyes watering with relief.
Sam straightened up, concerned and apprehensive.
Steve clears his throat. "That's incredible. Do you have an idea when he'll be ready?"
Sam perks up.
"In two weeks. I'll have a jet sent to you. I'll speak with you then, Captain." T'Challa hung up, leaving Steve to break down in the privacy of his best friend.
Steve sobbed, crushing the phone in his palm. Sam scrambled to his side, trying to console Steve in whatever pain he may be feeling. The captain crumbled in on himself, crying and laughing. "He's coming home, Sam. He's coming home," he cried.
Sam grinned, squeezing Steve tight.
"He's coming home. Oh god, he's coming home."