Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This therapy thing was the last thing Steve wanted to deal with. He really wasn't a huge fan of the whole ordeal, but after the abandoned building fiasco it had become required of him. He never thought in all his life he would feel as if he was stuck in New York, but he found it was the last place he wanted to be these days. Bitterly, as he sat in one of the umpteenth floors of the Avengers Tower waiting, he wondered why it wasn't required to begin with. He didn't exactly care either way, because it was going to be like every other doctor's appointment. He would smile and lie, and the doctor would write seems to be adjusting well and it would be over quickly. It was always over quickly. Steve tried not to focus on the sterile white walls of the room, of all the open space and the sparse, white furniture. Seriously, who let Tony be in charge of design? He fidgeted quietly, trying to settle down into the bright white armchair he was sitting in. If he wanted to work, he had to look normal. He couldn't bolt. He wanted to work so badly. When the doorknob turned, Steve tried to swallow panic and the feeling of electrodes and the taste of a rubber along with it. The only thing that replaced the image was an icepick.

"Good morning, Captain Rogers," said the woman who entered the room. Facing the door, he got an immediate view of her as she entered, and he tried to school his face into something more pleasant immediately. She was middle aged and well dressed, in a slate grey pantsuit that complimented her olive toned skin. Her long, dark hair was pulled neatly into a bun on the top of her head and her glasses were perched carefully on her nose. All in all, she would have made for a very interesting drawing subject, all sharp angles and professionalism. Steve didn't exactly feel at ease upon seeing her, but he felt less of a need to run to the nearest exit. He supposed that was some kind of improvement. "I'm Dr. Violet Bai. I am the therapist you've, for lack of better term, been assigned. Despite that, I hope we can make some real progress together."

"Good morning to you too, Dr. Bai. Call me Steve, please," was all Steve found himself able to say, hoping the smile on his face looked pleasant enough to make up for the words he wasn't saying. He felt no desire to let her, or the government know about the state of his brain. He felt unexplainably trapped to his seat as Dr. Bai's heels clacked all the way across the floor to the seat across from him. The file and notebook she was holding felt far too reminiscent of a night of reshaping. Of the night that began the forgetting of Steve Rogers. He tried to force the memory out of his mind and will his racing heart to calm.

"So," Dr. Bai said as she sat carefully in the chair across from Steve, setting down the file on the coffee table between them. It was thick with papers. "I'm not going to lie to you, Capt- Steve. That's your file. I finished reading it this morning. But I'm not really all that interested in it."

Steve's brow furrowed, tilting his head to the side. She wasn't interested in it? That's unusual. That thing could contain multitudes of Captain America a.k.a Steve Rogers that people generally find reliable. "You're ... not interested?" His voice was thick with disbelief, and he didn't try to disguise it. "That file has ... it's pretty comprehensive. They let me see it once. Apparently, it's been added on to since then."

"It is some very impressive record keeping." Dr. Bai leaned back in the chair, elegantly crossing one leg over the other. The notebook in her lap remained closed for a moment. "There are medical records in there that date back to the twenties. But medical records and the military profiles and the few interviews and newspaper clippings are ... not you, are they, Steve?"

"...They're not?"

"No," she said matter-of-factly, like she had known him for twenty years already. "That's Captain Rogers. You asked me to call you Steve."

Steve huffed a breath, trying to relax. She was right, of course, but there were records in there that pre-dated his serum. There was the record of his five attempts to enlist, of the hospital visits before the serum, of the ... treatment of his brain troubles. There were a few pictures pre-serum. What more did you need to know? He was sick and poor and then he wasn't sick anymore. He was fairly certain that if he would have come home immediately after the plane crash, he still would've been poor. "There's Steve in there too. I checked."

Dr. Bai suddenly got a challenging glint in her eye, one elegant brow raising, and Steve swallowed the nervous, giddy laugh he felt building in his throat. "Oh? A couple of medical records and a few pictures define you, huh? I wasn't aware of that." She clicked a pen and flipped that damn notebook open.

"Wait, wait, wait." Steve shot forward, hands out defensively. "You don't ... you don't have to," he huffed, suddenly nervous, "you don't need to do that. No, those records don't define sh- anything."

Dr. Bai laughed softly at his correction, setting her pen down without writing anything. "Well, there you go. I promise you; I won't use that tactic every time, but I've been in this game for a while, Steve. The first session is difficult. We're strangers. I aim to fix that." She gently pushed her glasses up. Steve really would like to draw her, even if it was just something to do with his hands. Art didn't feel the same anymore. "May I ask you a question?"

"I thought that's what this is, doc. You ask me questions and I tell you what you want to hear." That really wasn't a very good joke, and he knew it.

Dr. Bai huffed a humorless laugh. "I'm taking that as a yes. Why aren't you living in Brooklyn, Steve? Or New York at all?"

'Because it ain't home anymore.'

"They set me up with a nice place in DC. I can't complain. It's close to work." Steve suddenly turned his gaze to his pants, tan and outdated for today's fashion. These were given to him, too. He didn't feel the need to change them. "Life is fine, in DC. I don't need to be in New York."

Dr. Bai made some note then that Steve couldn't see, and he felt his heart begin to hammer again. He didn't like that she was going to be keeping tabs on him, even though he knew that's what this was for. God he wanted to get out of here so bad, but they really hadn't done all that much yet. He didn't know if they ever would.

"Fine? Just fine? Usually, people that like where they live use a different word." She was still writing.

"I like it there plenty," Steve said a little more defensively than he meant to. "It's just a place I haven't ever been before. It's ... it's just taking some getting used to, is all." Dr. Bai hummed in response to that, pen still moving like she was transcribing the greatest speech she'd ever heard.

"Do you have friends there, in DC?"

Suddenly, Steve's mouth was very dry. The truthful answer to that was an astounding no, but he knew he couldn't say that. He wasn't completely without connection, he had neighbors. At work he kind of had Natasha. But he didn't really have friends. He just, he couldn't say that.

"Yes. Yes, I have friends," Steve said after a moment of too-long silence.

"Can you tell me who they are?"

Steve hated that. He suddenly felt like he was a little kid, and he knew that Dr. Bai hadn't meant it to be that way, but goddammit he felt like he was being asked questions that didn't matter. He had work, he had a place to sleep and food and that was generally enough for him. At the very least, he could convince himself it was. Yet still he answered.

"There's Natasha. She's ... she's a little scary. Knows too much. But there's ... she's got a good heart. She's here in New York right now too. And then there's-" Steve paused for a moment to smile "-Caoimhe. Spelled C-A-O-I-M-H-E, I know. She's a neighbor. Irish, if you couldn't tell. An older woman. Makes a stew that's like ... like ... home." Caoimhe would invite Steve over after church, ask him why he hasn't come yet, scold him in Gaelige, and then feed him. They didn't know that much about each other, really, but it felt more like home than Brooklyn did. Strangely enough, he missed her right about now.

Dr. Bai's pen scratched incessantly for a moment, and they sat in a quiet silence. Steve tried to settle back into the chair because he knew she was writing about the friends. Hopefully that meant she believed him.

"You're Irish too, aren't you, Steve?" Dr. Bai asked that so causally it about knocked the wind out of him.

"Uh, yeah ... yeah, I am. Well, second generation, but, yeah." Steve shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Why?"

"You don't need to convince me of your citizenship, Steve," Dr. Bai said, surprisingly softly. He hated that. He tried to tell himself he didn't need reassurance even though his chest suddenly felt less tight. "I ask, because it's good that you have someone in proximity to you that you can relate to. The record keeping dog tag in that file says Catholic, is that right?"

"Yeah," Steve said quickly, despite his testy relationship with God. Catholicism was one of those things that stuck to your bones. "It's right."

"Do you still go to church, Steve?"

"I haven't had the time." Steve was lying through his teeth, now. Work didn't keep him that busy. He had looked up just about every Catholic church in the entire state of Maryland, and not a single one of them appealed to him. He had set alarms, made promises, felt as guilty as a good Catholic should, and he just didn't go. One Sunday, he had sat fully dressed in a suit, unable to move. The last person Steve wanted to face was God. "Work is a lot right now."

For a moment, Dr. Bai was silent. Her face said she was figuring out what to say, and Steve tried to not laugh out loud at that. He didn't need to be pathologized. He tasted rubber. "I don't want to hit too many points too fast. This is our first time meeting." She adjusted her glasses again. "That being said, I want you to get comfortable with the idea that I am going to ... guide your recovery."

Steve cocked his head, suddenly confused. "Give it to me straight, doc. Don't beat around the bush."

"I'm going to give you homework, and we're going to start that today."

"Oh."

"Nothing intense, I promise," she said quickly, glancing back down at her notes. "We aren't going to dig into the heavier, harder tasks until later. When I know more about you, and you get more used to emotional labor. You sound like a busy man Steve, so we'll keep today short. But you need to make time for yourself. I want you to go to church."

"Doc, it's really not that important. God and I have an understanding." They didn't. Steve hadn't been anything but angry at God since 1945.

"Did I say this was about God?" Dr. Bai asked, voice full of irritation. Steve liked that about her. Steve found himself really liking her in general. She was honest, and he appreciated that. "I said you need to make time for yourself. Religion and faith are often a comfort to people in change, and you are denying yourself a very consistent comfort. I want you to go to church, and I want a bulletin from the service. Or some other kind of proof."

"...I will get you ... whatever a bulletin is." Steve hoped his voice was sincere sounding, because he wasn't going to go. What could she do, force him? There was a lot of things Steve and God had to answer for before that would ever happen, and besides, as much as Steve respected Dr. Bai, she wasn't his Ma.

"Oh, by the way, Steve. Catholic services are in English now."

"They're what?"

Sunday rolled around faster than Steve wanted it to. He didn't know why he was up, blinking blearily at his phone to check mass times. He didn't want to go, after finding out St. Ann's had been destroyed. He and his mother had gone to that church for the better part of his childhood, until Steve had started getting sick regularly. The women had started to get a little nasty, so they made the switch to the Cathedral Basilica of St. James. He had been a little too devastated about the news of his first childhood church to think about checking and seeing if the other was still standing. Or, at least, that's the excuse he had been using. Against his better judgement, however, Steve had looked up St. James and saw that it was still standing, and they had a 7:30 service. It was just barely five, and he had awoken on the floor after fitful sleep. He was going to be up for the rest of the day anyway. If he was going to go, there was no time like the present. Besides, he needed to see what all this English nonsense was about.

Untangling himself from his blanket, Steve stood up off the floor slowly and tossed his phone on the bed. The dog tags around his throat tinked together as he moved, and he reached up to press his fingertips to the metal gently, reverently. That song was at the back of his throat again, but he swallowed it as he padded to the bathroom on his floor and tried not to think about how having this much space made him deeply nervous. "Well Buck, I guess we're going to church."

'I guess so sweetheart.'

"I should probably stop doing this," Steve sighed, going through the easy steps of his morning routine. The fitful sleep had made him sweaty. He wasn't going to go for a run this morning, so he peeled his pajamas off, wincing at cool morning air on still slightly damp skin, and stepped into the shower. He didn't bother to take the tags off, they'd been through worse. The hot water was on in an instant, the one luxury he allowed himself here. Tony Stark's dime could take the bill. "If the shrink finds out I talk to you, they'll put me in the fuckin' loony bin for sure. I don't wanna have electrodes on my forehead again Buck."

'You wouldn't listen to a shrink about this if they were the last sane person on Earth, pal.'

"Oh fuck you," Steve mumbled, and then he plunged his head under the shower head, hoping the heat of the shower would chase away the cold of the artic and the ghost he just couldn't seem to shake.

Steve showered quickly, losing those minutes absorbed in his head, and then stumbled back into his room with a towel around his waist. If he were home, he would have his suit. Suits made going to church so easy, but without it, he would have to make do with the nicest things he had. He felt exposed in all the open space, and so he ghosted his fingertips over the dog tags. Again, that song bubbled up, and this time he didn't smother it, singing gently as he opened drawers to look at the slacks he had brought with him.

"I'll never laugh again. What good would it do?"

Steve settled on a pair of dark blue slacks that he was fairly certain matched a sweater vest he had brought with him. Blue was never his color, but it had practically belonged to the man who's name he still bore. Steve figured that this pair would be perfect, and grabbed them far more tenderly than he meant to.

Steve pulled boxers and his slacks on quickly, tossing the damp towel to the side with ease. He felt better this way, partially covered. He felt relaxed. If someone walked in on him, God forbid, he would be somewhat modest. After a quick smell test, he pulled on an undershirt he snatched off the top of the dresser and walked toward the closet.

It wasn't lost on Steve that his room still had a lot of "old fashioned" things. There were no sliding doors or anything strange and holographic. The blinds on the windows were plain drawstring blinds. There were random books that meant nothing to him, but that seemed to be the case in most places in this tower. JARVIS would speak still, but thankfully, very rarely. His hand turned the doorknob to the closet, and Steve didn't even flinch at how sparse it was. That he was used to - not ever having enough clothes, no matter where they were stored. He just grabbed the soft yellow button down and pulled it on, making quick work of the buttons and tucking it in crisply to his slacks. The dark blue sweater vest came on next, hiding the dog tags. It was too hot to be dressing in layers like this, but Steve didn't care. This was a habit as old as time itself.

"This is good. Yeah, I can do this," Steve said, desperately trying to soothe himself. His fingers pulled nervously at the hem of his sweater vest, suddenly wishing he was small enough to fit in Bucky's clothes again. He didn't even have any of Bucky's clothes. He just suddenly found himself wanting him.

'It's gonna be alright, Stevie. One step at a time, yeah?'

God, sometimes Steve hated that record player in his brain. That's exactly what Bucky would say, if he were here, and he hated that. He didn't understand sometimes why he couldn't be left alone. Steve wanted him close, but all Bucky could be was a voice in his head and a hole in his chest.

"I miss you."

There was nothing then. Steve wanted to cry. He swallowed that feeling as quickly as it rose, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to clock that he no longer had his mother's rosary.

"C'mon Buck, we gotta go. We're gonna be late. Ma'll box my ears if I'm late."

The train ride to Brooklyn was entirely uneventful. Thanks to a purchase of noise cancelling headphones and figuring out how Spotify works, he wasn't overwhelmed damn near to tears as the subway rattled along. He could sit in the seat unrecognized with his head leaned back and his eyes closed, leg bouncing and lose time dreaming about a brunette and trying to remember what it would feel like to pray. It was exponentially more difficult to walk to the church. The sudden reality that he would be going to mass completely alone made him want to turn tail and run, but he smothered that feeling. He swallowed it down like he did with every other emotion. He was early enough that he could light a votive candle or two. How long had it been since he did that?

The exterior of the church had changed a little bit, but he tried to not let that make him feel anxious. Pushing through the doors into the narthex, Steve's breath caught in his throat. People were starting to filter in, and they were primarily a crowd of older folks gathered in groups and talking in soft voices. This put Steve far more at ease than he expected. These were people that at the very least had parents that did the traditions he had done, if not done them themselves, and if they were still going, then it couldn't be all that bad. Even with all the change, the Catholic church was still the Catholic church. For that, he could be thankful. One consistency in this fucked up world was something to be happy for.

Steve quickly dipped his fingers into the basin of holy water to bless himself, quietly saying a few good mornings and taking the paper that was extended out to him. A bulletin, most likely. He thanked the woman who gave it to him and then walked into the nave.

Steve couldn't help the soft gasp that left his mouth when he stepped into the aisle of the nave. For the first time, he realized he had never seen the interior of this church in proper color. The gold he could see, yellow was never a color affected, but the wood tones complimented everything so well. Everything was a little shinier and newer, and things were different, but suddenly the color in his memory changed. God he wished Bucky was here so he could tell him. This felt so new, and yet so familiar. He wanted to cry.

Steve didn't really realize he was standing in the aisle gaping until there was a hand on his arm. He flinched hard and the hand was immediately gone. Turning, he saw a short older woman looking at him with a kind smile. Her grey curls were piled into a bun on her head, and she was wearing a yellow dress. Her eyes seemed kind.

"Oh! Sorry to startle you," she said, her voice a low whisper, and she seemed to mean it. "You just ... seemed a little in your head. I thought I should say something."

Steve offered her a minute smile, wringing his hands nervously. "Oh, yeah. Sorry it's just ... I haven't been here in awhile. I've been away from ... yeah." He winced at his own words, but a stranger didn't need to hear his life story, no matter how kind.

"Well, we're happy to have you back, mister..."

"Steve." It was almost laughable, the idea that people didn't recognize him. He took it as a blessing, though. It gave him some semblance of privacy. Steve hesitated at the idea of giving a last name though. He knew what the tag around his neck said. "Barnes. Uh, Steve Barnes."

"Nice to meet you, Steve. I'm Clara Brown." Clara smiled at him, extending her hand, which Steve took gently and shook. He tried to ignore the stab of jealousy when he realized on the left hand resting at her side had a wedding ring. "We're glad you're back. I won't hold you up any further." Steve stood dumbly and watched her walk back to her husband in their pew. When Clara's husband smiled at her, he found himself turning sharply and walking to the candle rack.

The votive candle song and dance was one he could do a thousand times over. He had no prayers in his heart, and that was largely frustrating, but Steve ought to let God know that someone was still thinking about Sarah and Joseph Rogers, Winifred and George Barnes, and his Bucky. Someone stared at him as he lit candles for each and every one. He could feel it, but he didn't care. He ducked his head, did a quiet Hail Mary, and then briskly walked to one of the back pews. He did not kneel to pray before the service started.

All in all, the first part of the service was all well and good. He stood and sat when he was supposed to, didn't say a single prayer because he realized he didn't really know them, sang a few songs and listened to the readings. The monotony was nice. Familiar even. The church smelled like wood and incense and if he closed his eyes it almost felt like he was back in a time that he understood. That was, of course, until the homily began.

The priest was young by Catholic standards (which is to say, middle aged), and he seemed kind and well meaning - traits surprisingly difficult to find in a religious figure. Looking at him was like a painful window into the past, though. Or, maybe a past Steve could've had. He wore his short, thick, dark hair slicked back carefully and had lovely blue eyes. There wasn't much similar in their faces - Bucky wasn't quite as All-American if you got to know his face, he just didn't have an accent. Bucky also never wore glasses, but there was just something wounding about pomade in dark hair and a gaze that could read you easily. Steve had been trying to ignore the anxiety sitting in his chest up to this point, but it was starting to get difficult.

Then this priest started talking about love.

As everyone sat to listen to the homily, Father stepped away from the altar and got closer to the pews, closer to the laity and Steve's heart almost stopped. Something about that reminded Steve of the last time Bucky sat through a Mass with him. The Easter service right after Steve's Ma had died, Steve had tried to talk to the priest afterwards, but he was wheezing because of his asthma. In those days, any kind of unwellness made you a pariah. The priest wouldn't speak to him, and Bucky had been livid.

'Ain't it his job to talk to all the people? You're lungs are a little messed up, so fucking what? He ain't gonna catch it, and your Ma just died. Shouldn't he extra wanna talk to you? See how you're doing? I'm gonna go give it to him, huh?'

'No, no, Buck can we just ... can we go home? Because if you start yelling, I'm gonna start yelling and then we're gonna be the guys who gave it to a priest.'

Steve was starting to feel his grip on his calm exterior slipping, so he dug his fingertips into his thighs and suddenly wished that clothes were still slightly scratchy. He needed something to help him remember he was alive enough to breathe. It only got worse when the priest began to speak.

"It isn't very often that we make love a priority in our lives," the priest began, and Steve found himself sucking in a sharp breath before he could stop himself. Thankfully, he was the only one in this pew. "It is so easy to get distracted by our world today. By our jobs, by our stressors, by school, by whatever distraction you can come up with. But love, however it comes to us, is the most important thing. It's holy, it's sacred, and it's at the center of Word of God. It was integral to the readings of today. In Corinthians..."

Steve found himself suddenly unable to hear. Despite the passage not being the exact selection he recited that day, suddenly the air smelt like blood and his torso was hurting from stitches and the residual ache of fingers digging out a bullet. His vision was blurring, and his heart was about to hammer out of his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The dog tags were heavy around his neck. The entirely homily became a droning background sound to his silent panic.

Steve came back to himself just enough to drag himself through the steps of communion. Kneel, stand, kneel, stand. He walked through the line, crossed himself, and took the wafer in his hands, having just enough wherewithal to pay attention to the person before him who did that. When he took the wine, it took all the strength he had to not gag and choke. The metallic smell of the cup and the color of the wine made it all too much like blood in his mouth (and isn't that the point?). He felt like his legs were shaking when he finally knelt down again in his pew.

When Steve finally stumbled back out into the narthex, he felt like he could breathe again. He gripped that godforsaken bulletin as tightly as could without ripping it, making sure he had it as proof he came, but Steve wasn't sure if he could ever come back. His mouth was dry, his body hurt, and he wanted to sleep or possibly die. He wanted Bucky to hold him again. He would even settle for fingers in a wound, for stitches being put in his skin. The pain was proof of touch, of an intimacy only they had shared. He would never get that again.

Steve managed to carefully navigate through the crowd, attempting to suppress the heave of his chest. He dipped a slightly shaking hand into the basin of holy water and crossed himself, exhaling a heavy breath. Then he ducked his head and walked quickly through the rest of the people, seeing the door, ready to get back on the subway, then someone caught his arm.

Steve couldn't stop the shuddering gasp that left him, head snapping up as he looked around wildly. "Hey, hey, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you." He zoned in on the voice, only to see the priest smiling at him, fingertips slipping off of his biceps. Steve quickly realized that priests often wore green, and that's why vestments were always odd, sad shades to him. "I just haven't seen you here before, and you looked like you had something on your mind. I'm Father Thomas."

"Ni... Nice to meet you, Father Thomas," Steve rasped out, forcing a tight smile and extending his hand. Father Thomas has a strong grip, and Steve almost sighed in relief at the touch. "I'm Steve B... Barnes. And really, it's nothing. Just a long week."

Father arched an eyebrow and offered a kind smile. "Well, we all have those, don't we? It's nice to see you, Steve. It's nice to meet you! If you ever need to talk about one of those long weeks, I'm around here. Stop by, we'll talk."

Steve found himself smiling and nodding his head once before he could stop himself. "Alright, I'll think about it. I won't hold you up any longer, but it was nice meeting you again."

"It was nice meeting you too. Take care, alright? Maybe we'll see you next Sunday?"

All Steve could do was smile and make a half-hearted sound of consideration before he moved towards the door and finally stumbled out into the street.

Steve was too early again, and made nauseous by the bright white of the floor he was on. Seriously, maybe he should offer to repaint or buy some furniture or something. This color was just so sterile. The room looked like it should smell like disinfectant and sadness. To try and distract himself, he was staring at the bulletin he had placed neatly on the table - also white like the rest of the furniture - that had been added between the chairs since last meeting. Thr bulletin was basically the only thing in the room that had color, considering it had pictures on it. Hopefully Dr. Bai wouldn't ask him questions about the service, but she probably would. He didn't really want to talk about his freakout, or let a medical professional know about he and Bucky's ... situation.

When the door opened, Steve's head snapped up and he forced a mildly pleasant expression onto his face. He tried to will away the crease between his brows and found he had only marginal success. Dr. Bai, professional as ever, walked across the floor. She was wearing heels again, and he wondered if that was intentional, if it was some way to announce her presence and not startle him. She had no thick file today, just her notebook. Steve suddenly tasted rubber. Maybe having just the notebook was worse.

"Good morning Steve," Dr. Bai said, tone easy and pleasant. She reached for the bulletin on the table, a small smile gracing her features. "I see you went to a service. That's good."

"Good morning," Steve parroted, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He really didn't want her to say any more than that. "Yeah, yeah I went."

"That's it?" Dr. Bai raised a brow and tilted her head to the side as she flipped her notebook open, likely looking over last sessions notes for a brief moment before she flipped to a new page.

"Yeah."

"You're not going to tell me how it was?"

Steve swallowed thickly, exhaled through his nose, and shook his head. No. She didn't need to know about what happened. That's his to carry. No one was ever going to "treat" a problem of his ever again, but also this wasn't a problem, was it? It just had to be a one time thing. Lots of vets have the occasional freakout. He googled it. It's normal. "No, I'm not. I went. It was a Catholic service. It was fine. Even if it was in English."

Dr. Bai snorted and nodded. She wrote something down and, God, he hated that. "Heard. And hey, I get it. Religion can be really private. It's not something I'm going to push you to tell me about. Are you gonna go again?"

"Sure." It was really more of a loose maybe, if Steve could manage to get himself under control. It really was nice to have the routine. It was comfortable. He just needed to not be such a wuss in public.

"Good! I won't track it anymore, I just wanted to get you out in the world."

"Is that what this is about, doc?" Steve could feel himself smiling, could feel his eyebrow raising. "You makin' me social? Cause if that's all this is, we're wastin' our time. I do fine. It's easier now, to make friends."

"It's interesting that you mention that," Dr. Bai replied, ignoring his overall defensiveness. "Now, I mean. Today I want to talk to you about your life. Your experiences in the twentieth century, because this history is ... directly personal to you. I want to get to know you better." She looked at him with a neutral expression, but there was something almost like curiosity in her eyes that made Steve want to start squirming in his seat.

"What do you want to know?" Steve tried to keep the irritation out of his voice and only barely succeeded, feeling a muscle in his jaw jump.

"Well, you mentioned making friends." Dr. Bai adjusted in her chair, better balancing her notebook in her lap. "You said it's easier to make friends now. Why is that, Steve?"

Suddenly, Steve found himself very irritated. Wasn't this common knowledge? "You saw the file," he was almost snapping now, leaning forward, animated in a way he hadn't been in some time. "I was sick! I was always sick, and my Ma was a nurse and an immigrant to boot. No one wanted to be near us. Don't they teach about this in school?"

For a moment, Dr. Bai just looked at him a little stunned. Steve felt like grinning for a moment, a little vindicated, before he realized that was probably the most emotional he had been in awhile. He cleared his throat and leaned back in his seat, forcing himself to relax a bit.

"Is that what made your friend so special?"

"What did you say?"

"Is that. What made. Your friend. So special?" Dr. Bai matched his tone, and he had to respect that, despite the fact that it was his turn to be stunned. Steve blinked owlishly at her, bottom lip getting caught between his teeth. Bucky was so special. For so many reasons. He didn't expect to be asked about it though. "Steve?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, among other things." Steve deflated into his chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Bucky was ... he was something. A real piece of work to hang around me, but he meant a lot."

"Bucky, huh? From James?" Dr. Bai sounded amused. Steve huffed a humorless laugh.

"That's what I said when we met. It's from the Buchanan in his name, not James." His fingertips ghosted over the chain just visible above the collar of his shirt in a way Steve hoped was subtle. "He really shouldn't have been hangin' around me, but the whole Barnes family was too nice for their own good. In a New York sort of way."

Dr. Bai smiled almost fondly at him. Even the way her eyes crinkled was elegant. Her pen tapped against her pad, notably not writing. "He really meant something to you, didn't he?"

Steve swallowed thickly and nodded. "Yeah, yeah, he did." There was a beat of silence and a moment of uncomfortable staring. "How do you know that we were friends?"

"There's a museum exhibit about you, Steve."

Steve couldn't stop himself from swearing under his breath, from scrubbing a hand down his face. Of course there was, and they didn't even think to tell him. Could he really have nothing privately? Did they have his stuff? Could he get his stuff back? What did this mean for his privacy. He bit down on his lip a little too hard and tried not to tear at the fabric of the chair, thoughts swirling in his brain.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"No."

"Alright." Dr. Bai sighed, and heard the scratching of a pen. "Let's go back to talking about the past then, maybe? You seemed a little more ... willing to discuss that."

Suddenly Steve felt very frustrated. He wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, or maybe throw something. "What's the point, doc? What's the point of any of this? It's the past, I gotta move on from it. It's not exactly coming back, and really most of it should stay where it was."

"Do you want my honest answer?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"I think you're ashamed." Steve took a big breath, ready to respond, but Dr. Bai only barreled foreward. "I think you're ashamed of the past because you experienced a lot of shame in the past, and I can help you with that. But it's not just that. I mentioned Bucky, and something about you changed. You went to church like I asked, but I've been told you're a very stubborn man. You started talking very easily when I mentioned your friend, Steve."

Steve didn't know if, for once in his life, he had any way to argue back. No one wanted to hear about a sad old man's could, would and should haves but he never got the chance to talk. Everything that Bucky was was just stuck inside of him, hung on a chain around his throat, echoed on a record player in his head. Wasn't that his to hold? Death did not do them part. It would not. Ever.

"He ... he's just easy to talk about," Steve said before he could stop himself, hoping the heat he could feel rising in his face wasn't visible. "I don't know why."

"Well, I want to know about your childhood," Dr. Bai stated. "About the things you experienced, and maybe if you don't feel comfortable talking about just you, you could tell me about the two of you. What it was like to grow up alongside your friend?"

"Doc, you got no idea." Steve said softly. "Most perfect guy in the whole world and I never felt lesser because of him. I was jealous sometimes, but he never did anything to make me feel like that. Times were so hard. But things were better with him. I don't even think I have a good way to describe it, doc."

"Tell me one specific thing you remember about him. Something that was unique to the two of you."

"He was always saving my ass." It was a reflex. The most true statement he could have ever said. The most obvious one, Steve figured. The only other person who would have risked bodily harm for some skinny Irish kid was his mom, but she didn't know half of what he got up to. Bucky was always yanking him out of the worst situations. "I think he saved my life," Steve whispered, suddenly surprised by the revelation. Something in his chest ached.

"When?" Dr. Bai asked, poised like she was ready to write.

"All the time!" Steve dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to recover blurry memories filled with pneumonia pain and concussed brain fog. Somewhere he remembered swirling colors and floating up the steps. "I got concussed all the time, sick all the time, had asthma. I couldn't see for shit. Without him, I wouldn't have made it. I was ... my body ... Bucky did too damn much for me. Can't you figure this out from the file?"

"Steve." Dr. Bai's voice was firm, cutting through the rage that was building in his chest and throat. "There isn't record of most of the things Bucky would have done for you. There's some hospital records, and the report of ... of him..."

"Falling out of the train," Steve finished bitterly. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch the chain around his throat again.

"Right." She cleared her throat, tapped the pen against the paper. "But there isn't legitimate evidence of ... him. Other than the report of him picking up that shield. You are the only one who knows what he did for you."

Oh.

"...but that's not right. They should know him. Not just what he did."

"Then tell me."

"I can't." It was such a reflex. Steve didn't even really know why he said it.

"Why can't you?"

"I'm not allowed." Another stupid reflex. Steve felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. He heard Dr. Bai's pen. His vision was starting to blur.

"I see." There was something almost knowing in her tone. "Is there anything you can tell me?"

"Bucky was as much of a pain in the ass as I am. He also smoked like a chimney, which I think was bad for me. And for him. But we didn't know it then." So many things unsaid there. 'I miss him. I smoke to kiss him. We shared cigarettes after sex. He was endlessly patient when it made me cough. He met my sarcasm and pushback to his concern with thicker sarcasm. He enjoyed my presence for some unknown reason. He called me a bottle of piss and vinegar and it was the sweetest pet name anyone ever gave me' were some of the first that came to mind.

"Mhm, mhm." For some reason, Dr. Bai found something in there to take notes about, and she was writing again. "You know, I don't think we consider how many things were different for you."

"You don't," Steve replied, resisting the urge to just laugh at that until he cried.

"Medicine was a lot different, right?"

"Well ... yes and no. I see a lot of similarities." How much more blunt did he have to be? Everything is still bad. Some things are better, but most things are just different.

"What similarities?"

"Everything still costs the lung I'm coughing up," Steve said, unable to help the wolfish grin that spread across his face. In his head, Bucky's laughter echoed. That joke, it was a reference to one they used to make after bad asthma or pneumonia. That medicine ought to just take the lung. Dr. Bai just tutted and made another note.

"You don't give up information uncoded, do you?" She sounded frustrated. Good!

"What? You don't think I'm being open?" The sarcasm dripped from his words and Steve checked his nails for emphasis in his lack of care. He knew he was behaving poorly, but he didn't really care at the moment.

"Steve, they found you in a half demolished apartment building that you used to live in. Clearly the past meant something to you. Or, at the very least, it affected you in some way" Dr. Bai huffed. "I don't understand why you can't just tell me something straight."

"Because it ain't like that!" Steve gripped the legs of his pants to avoid tossing his hands in the air, fighting to keep his tone level. "Adjusting has just been ... a little difficult. But I'm gonna adjust. I like the modern world, alright? It's good."

Dr. Bai sighed and shook her head. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I just ... I think things about the past are a part of you. You're carrying them and no one is sharing that weight with you. So we've come to our next homework assignment." Steve didn't try to contain the sigh that left his lips. "I want you to make a list of five things from the past you think no one else knows. And we've got a few more sessions before they let you go to DC, so I'll let you pick which one you want to use to unpack them."

"Alright doc," Steve said after a moment, trying to make it sound like he was going to comply. "Whatever you say."

Thank God for this being the last night in this God awful tower. Steve was situated on the floor next to the bed, staring awake at the ceiling. He didn't feel like being swallowed by the soft mattress tonight, and he was dreading the last therapy session. He didn't do his homework, and he felt like he was going to reprimanded in school again. Steve was always behind in school, and teachers hated him. Called him a bad influence on Bucky once or twice. They were right, of course, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He hated this feeling, like he was going to be yelled at for being sick. The pressing feeling in his eyes like he was going to cry was so ever present, and yet nothing would come. He knew nothing would come. But that wasn't unusual, and it never had been.

"Maybe I should just do this stupid fucking list." He sighed, voice carrying in the silence of the room. "I gotta go to bed." Slowly Steve sat up, reaching up and behind for the little notebook he kept and the pencil there, to keep track of things he needed to know, and to wrote down thoughts that came to him. If he could write this list and get it over with, maybe he would feel better.

Well, that's what Steve thought until he was staring at the blank page at the back of his notebook. Why had he flipped to the back? Suddenly, he felt as though he had no memories, mouth dry and heart pounding. He didn't like this homework, but then again, he had never liked homework. Bucky was the one thrilled to do math equations outside of school.

1. I hated school. And homework

There we go, simple enough, right? That was true, and it didn't give away too much. If Dr. Bai wanted to talk about it, Steve would come up with all kind of things about being bored or just being a bad student. She didn't need to know that it was because he was afraid of being hit by teachers and classmates or getting a cold that could kill him from another student or being humiliated for always missing school. That was for him to know.

2. When the war broke out, Bucky would sometimes pretend he still believed in all the Catholic stuff, but he put the H on his dog tags.

Steve blinked for a moment and stared at the paper, unsure of why that was the second thing he chose to put down. That was true of course, and sometimes, when he thought about it, it would make him dry heave to the point of tears from the sheer guilt of Bucky needing to hide another goddamn thing. He wished that he would have been big enough and strong enough to protect him so he could be free then, but he hadn't protected Bucky when it had mattered, had he?

3. My Ma anglicanized her name when she immigrated and never told me what her name used to be before Sarah. Joseph Rogers couldn't have been my Da's actual name either.

This truth was one of the only things that made Steve angry at his mother after her death. He couldn't bury Sarah Rogers under her God given name. Was he angry at her, or at himself for that?

4. I am upset that electroconvulsive therapy is still a treatment option. It's painful and humiliating and Bucky held me randomly at times for a week when my brain would simply stop working. I think I had seizures throughout the week.

Medicine. Steve hated medicine, and suddenly it became very, very clear why.

5. People think I didn't date because I was sick. I didn't date because I'm a queer. And I had been goin' steady with my best friend. We got married in the middle of the war.

It felt good to say that. To admit that he and Bucky were married. That may be the only thing that was slightly happy on this list. He considered himself to still be married. That was good. And okay.

Steve skimmed the list over and sighed, before he ripped it out of the notebook and stuck it in the drawer of the nightstand. Come tomorrow he would make something up. Some doctor didn't need to know all that about him, and she never, ever would.

Chapter Text

Steve was back in DC. He was working, he was going to mass (every once in a while), he was talking to Caoimhe and Natasha, he was going on runs. He was living, or at least, he was alive. They were still making him do these therapy sessions though, and it made him want to break his computer just to get out of it. They were still insufferable, and entirely useless to him, but at least they were only once a month now. He was sat at the tiny piece of wood he called a kitchen table, trying his best to focus his gaze on the video and not at the third letter from the muesum he had received in the past week. Maybe he would actually open and read this one. He was rhythmically bouncing his foot and trying to keep himself steady as he listened to his therapist attempt to crack the shell.

"What are your thoughts about food, Steve?" Dr. Bai asked suddenly. The slight lag of the video was a little distracting. "I don't think that's something we've ever discussed before."

"Why would we discuss it?" Steve asked with genuine curiosity. The question she asked was probably a test, but he didn't understand why it would be a relevant one. "Food is food. Food is good. Are you trying to get me to open up, doc?" He raised an eyebrow, flashed a mischievous smile to watch her roll her eyes. He didn't think she appreciated his humor, but that reaction was so reminiscent of someone who did.

"As a matter of fact, I am." Dr. Bai confirmed. "But not for therapy reasons. For I want to brag about knowing your favorite food and not say how I know reasons." That pulled a genuine laugh out of Steve. He could respect an angle. After all, he pulled them all the time.

"Well, I'm a meat and potatoes kind of guy," Steve found himself saying. He was carefully avoiding his love for fresh oranges, not wanting to get sucked into nostalgic Christmas and New Year's memories until at least after Thanksgiving. "I love instant potatoes cause they're fast. Powdered milk and eggs are nothing new, but potatoes? I never thought I'd see the day." He also found himself thinking that they are wonderfully, blessedly cheap. Well, modern day cheap. He's still trying to get used to the idea that spending a few dollars wasn't throwing around money anymore.

Steve watched Dr. Bai smile, and he dipped his head, embarrassed, but he still tried to push on. She expected real answers, and this was easy enough. "Ma Barnes made a challah that was put-yourself-in-debt-for-it good, so that's pretty up there too, but it's kind of hard to count it when it's been two-" Steve paused, shook his head and carefully counted twelve bounces of his leg, trying to get rhe sharp burst of anxiety in his chest to fade. "Well, more than two years since I last had it."

"Ma Barnes," Dr. Bai asked, and Steve knew he had said too much. He cussed a string of words in his head and tried to keep himself breathing normally. He hadn't brought up Bucky in awhile, and certainly never his family. Their family. They were his, not some therapist's footnote for the US government.

"Bucky's mother," Steve said flatly. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, hoping she wouldn't press, but then again, she got paid to do that, didn't she? "I thought you weren't going to use food to therapize me."

"Well, then let's finish talking food, right? But we are coming back to who you just brought up." Steve had to admit, he liked Dr. Bai a lot. He liked that she pushed back against his stubbornness, and it was a lot easier to like it in the comfort of his own house. "My favorite food is my mother's dim sum, and thankfully I have a freezer full of it." Steve couldn't help the smile at that, parents cooking for their children. It was nice to know that was still done in this upside-down era. "Now, Ma Barnes..."

"Yeah? What about her?"

"Was she very present in your life?"

"You could say that," Steve confirmed, but present didn't feel like a strong enough word. When he and Bucky met at six and seven years old respectively, Winifred Barnes became his Ma away from home. She fed and bathed him, bandaged as many cuts and scrapes as his own Ma did, worried when he was sick, housed him when Sarah Rogers was no more, and still had him over for meals every Saturday and Sunday, even when the Barneses started feeling the Depression too. Ma Barnes was someone he owed a life debt to, and like everyone else, he could never repay her.

"Sure, I could say that, but what would you say?" Dr. Bai was good at throwing his words back at him, and it was frustrating. He thought he could hide easy, but he had to work hard to hide how he felt from her. "I want to know how you felt, not what I could assume."

"She was a great woman," Steve's voice was so quiet the laptop mic almost didn't pick him up. "I grew up around her, and .. and I don't know what else to say. She was Ma Barnes."

'I would have died for her if she ever asked. It's the least I could do.'

"You must miss her a great deal."

"I do," Steve said. He didn't feel the need to lie. Not about this. It was probably obvious how much he missed everyone from the past, no matter how much he tried to smother that.

"I'm sorry that she lost you both," Dr. Bai said sincerely. Steve felt his heart clench hard in his chest and bounced his leg another 12 even times before he even attempted to speak. He was quietly grateful that Dr. Bai did not push him to speak.

"Can ... can we talk about something else, please?" Steve cringed slightly at the way his voice sounded so small and so young.

"Yes, yes. Of course." Dr. Bai looked over her notes from last session, mouth pressing into a line as she looked for what she wanted. "Oh! Yes, you mentioned you took your neighbor up on her offer to start going to church with her. How is Caoimhe?"

"She's good." Steve thought for a moment, weighing if he should admit to something. If he wanted prying eyes to know his plans. He blew out a breath. "I invited her over. She's coming to my apartment for once after mass, because she doesn't believe I can cook."

"Well, can you cook, Steve?"

Steve flashed Dr. Bai a smile that was all teeth and no humor. "About as well as an Irish boy who was alive during the Great Depression can."

Steve was very thankful Caoimhe had allowed him the hour he requested after mass to get everything ready. Breakfast food was still applicable for the time of day, and in a panic he realized he had probably made too much food for two people (thanks to his cooking lessons from Ma Barnes, a woman constantly trying to feed a family of six. Seven with Steve around). His breath was beginning to catch at the sight, fruit and oatmeal and toast and pancakes, until he realized that leftovers were good. Leftovers kept you fed, and besides, freezers were a household appliance now outside of your standard icebox. He had to look up a lot of recipes, unsure if his memory served him well, and he hoped that everything had come out like he wanted. Steve managed to pull himself away from the table to open all the windows in the living room and kitchen. Ventilation was important, and opening the windows helped ease the images of blood lips and hacking coughs, but he knocked on his chest twice when they didn't fully cease.

The knock that sounded at his door yanked him harshly out of his thoughts. Steve smoothed his hands down the front of his button down and blew out a big breath before he strode to his front door and opened it carefully. Seeing Caoimhe was like seeing a past he would have liked to have, had life been different. She was short, and kept her blonde hair in a bun. Being an older woman, it was streaked a bit with grey, and Steve was happy for her that it was. Age meant still living. It was really her eyes that reminded him most of his Ma, blue and wise and kind. Seeing her made him feel six and twelve and eighteen. Anxious and joyous and grieving, all wrapped up in one package.

"Good morning, Caoimhe," Steve said, hoping his voice sounded even. His fingers itched, trying to twitch with emotion.

"Good mornin', Steven," Caoimhe replied, lilting voice putting a lot of Steve's anxious energy to rest. "Well, what are you waitin' for? Are you gonna let me in or not?"

Steve smiled sheepishly and stepped aside, suddenly nervous but for different reasons. He hadn't changed a lot about the generic decor S.H.I.E.L.D. had put in prior to him moving in, but he had added a few pictures, bought those Tolkien books Bucky had liked so much, and bought different colored throw pillows. Suddenly, he wanted his additions to be liked. Had he cleaned enough? Would his fussing be obvious?

"'T's a nice place you got here," Caoimhe said easily, killing the anxieties with one easy sentence. "You got a real eye for this thing, boy. Decoratin', I mean. I may have to have your help one of these days."

Instead of saying a number of deflections, he listened to Bucky's voice telling him to can it and ducked his head bashfully. "Whatever you need, ask and I'm there. Seein' color right certainly helps." His heart about soared when he got a quiet chuckle out of her as they made their way to his kitchen. It wasn't often that people weren't gobsmacked in his presence these days and boy did he really miss being just Steve.

Caoimhe let out a low whistle at the spread as Steve pulled out her chair for her. "Maybe ya can cook after all. And a gentleman to boot. This is gonna make for a fine Sunday." She flashed him a smile, and Steve felt a little pinned by the praise that Caoimhe seldom gave, a blush spreading across his face. It didn't take more than two seconds for her to start laughing when she noticed, so he shook himself out of it and sat down across from her.

For a moment, it was all strangely domestic. Steve could feel the ever-present ache of nostalgia grow stronger as he dished out food for his neighbor with an occasional soft yes ma'am or do you want this. God, she reminded him so much of his Ma, and that only reminded him that Sarah Rogers did not have a last meal with him. She was sent to a hospital because he couldn't afford a sanatorium. Maybe if he would have kept her fed, things could have been different. Maybe she wouldn't have-

"Steve," Caoimhe said, sounding perplexed. "You're starin' at your plate like it offended your mother." She gestured at him with her fork, raising a carefully plucked blonde eyebrow. "You gotta eat, boy. I know you don't do that enough."

Steve huffed a breath through his nose, poking at his food with a fork. "I eat fine." He took a bite to punctuate his point, watching his neighbor role her eyes. Something in his chest ached to share a breakfast in his own home. He hadn't done that in a long time. "You like to call me boy, but I'm older than you! A whole generation older than you." There was a laugh in Steve's voice, shaking his head as they both tucked into their food, Steve grateful for the fall breeze floating through the window and keeping anxiety out of his chest. Good food and ventilation were the best things to keep a person's health, and he could do both of those things now. He could afford both of those things now, and he still sometimes got dizzy with the realization.

"You don't know how to cook for two people," Caoimhe stated as Steve tucked into his second bowl of plain oatmeal (he left the nice things, butter and sugar, for the guest). All he could do was raise a quizzical eyebrow as he swallowed. "This is a lot of food, boy. You should learn that skill, to cook small."

"Well," Steve started, licking his lower lip clean. He could almost feel his Ma and Ma Barnes boxing his ears for doing so. "It was easier to cook smaller when I could afford less food." When he smiled, his teeth felt sharp in his mouth. The joke was so bitter and humorless he saw surprise flash over Caoimhe's face. He blew out a breath and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I just, when I really learned how to cook, I learned from a woman with a big family." Steve's eyes turned down to the table, heart stuttering like he still had his old heartbeat. "And I'm out of practice, so I went back to muscle memory."

"Out of practice?" Caoimhe sounded almost irritated with him, as she often did. "Do you not cook for yourself? It that what you're tellin' me?"

"No, no, I do," Steve said hastily, suddenly embarrassed. "Just, not like this. This is for other people, and it took a lot to get it this good. I think I burned some of the toast anyway, which I did all the time. You can ask-." The humor that was growing in his voice suddenly stopped. He resisted the urge to press his fingertips to his chest, to the hidden dog tags underneath his shirt. "Actually, you can't. Forget I said anything."

"...Forgotten." Caoimhe gave him a look but turned back to her food all the same. Steve wanted to laugh and cry and kick himself all the same.

They didn't have company anymore. He had company, and that was still something Steve could never quite seem to remember.

Later, Steve was helping Caoimhe back into her apartment, arms full of her Tupperware, now filled with leftovers from this morning. Knowing he would be feeding her for a few days still made him feel settled. It was the easiest way to show love. It was the only was he showed love these days. He didn't have many people to show it to, and that was all he could think about as he carefully set down all the plastic containers he was holding.

"It's strange, having the roles reversed," Caoimhe called over her shoulder, sticking a bowl of oatmeal in the icebox. Steve felt seven, thirteen, and eighteen all at once, the way his chest felt raw and open at the sight of this. The love and the immediate loss of his mother felt stuck in between his lungs. He felt horribly aware that he couldn't remember her in proper color. "Usually you're the one putting leftovers in a refrigerator."

Steve cleared his throat thickly, bobbing his head in a nod. "Uh, yeah, but I hope I made it worth your while, and that you weren't just humoring me." The joke was weak, but he managed a small smile when Caoimhe looked back at him, of which she returned gently.

"You should go home, Steve," Caoimhe said, suddenly soft. "You look tired boy. I told you, you aren't sleeping enough. Take a nap, take care of yourself. I'll see you next Sunday."

"Yes ma'am," Steve said, his smile turning more bashful. He rubbed his hands together and backed up towards the door. He almost didn't want to take his eyes off her, but then he was saying a soft goodbye, swallowing down the word Ma. It scraped down his throat like knives, but he kept it to himself as the door clicked shut. He turned in the direction of his apartment and ran a hand down his face. Maybe he'd conveniently have work next Sunday.

Steve crossed his legs. Steve uncrossed his legs. Steve took another bite of the terrible protein bar and grimaced. It was dry and bitter and disgusting, but he would rather give a kidney while conscious than throw it out. Any food was a privilege, not a right, and he knew that well after a life full of poverty and two years of military service in the cold muck of Europe. His coffee was turning to sludge in the mug next to his computer as he waited for the Skype call to come in, but he would just reheat it and drink that too. He may even drink it horribly cold, because well, it wasn't like it was the first time he had done that. He blinked practically one eye at a time, aware of the fact that he was crashing as the adrenaline was leaving his system. He was still in his uniform pants, and his bruised face and reset nose were throbbing to unique and miserable rhythms he was trying hard not to think about. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten any injuries beyond bruising anywhere else, or he may have given up on the call altogether.

Steve winced at the sound of the call coming in, although it was right on time and he was expecting it. The sound rang like shelling in his ears for a moment, but he took the final bite as he accepted it. He knew his face looked rough, but he felt bad when Dr. Bai actually gasped at the sight of him. He had half a mind to tell her he had plenty worse in the past, but barely managed to bite his tongue.

"Steve, we could have rescheduled," she said gently, actually seeming concerned. Steve, in his exhaustion, found that almost sweet.

"I'm fine," Steve insisted, voice a little slurred as he reached for his coffee cup with a shaking hand. He wanted nothing more than to wash the taste of regret of purchase out of his mouth. He took a sip and tried to hide his reaction of deep displeasure, of which he managed to behind the rim of the cup. The coffee was thick and halfway cold, and the caffeine wouldn't really help thanks to the serum, but it was habitual all the same. Knowing himself, Steve would probably finish the cup one way or another. He set it down and offered a watery smile. "I got home in time. No reason to put it off."

"If... if you're sure," Dr. Bai said, although her voice was hesitant. Steve could hear her flip open her notebook, could hear her pen click. The unfortunate protein bar and bad coffee were suddenly not settling well in his stomach. "We'll keep it short today. Tough day at work?"

"I've had worse." That was true. Steve had been shot, stabbed, set his own shoulder in the field, felt fingers practically in his blood vessels, and plenty of other things that were far more excruciating than what he was left with now. A couple of nasty hits that left some blooming bruises were nothing. He'd be better faster than anyone could fathom. "But we're not here to talk about my run in with a fist at work."

"Right, right." Dr. Bai gave him another glance over, clearly struggling to grapple with this form of Steve, before she looked over her notes. This was his natural state of being, though. This was the most authentic Steve Rogers she could ever get, and she didn't even know it. He was always the boy who was beat bloody, with a split lip and a broken nose. He hadn't ever known another way to live. "I wanted to ask you some questions about your childhood."

Steve nodded, swallowing another gulp of coffee (he could practically chew it. Not for the first time, he found this was another way to miss Bucky. Coffee was always good with him, even when it was bad) to try and avoid telling her how pointless that would really be. He didn't really remember his childhood, but Dr. Bai could try and poke around all she liked if she thought it would give her answers. At least this amnesia wouldn't be a lie, or entirely the result of a rubber bit and electrodes.

"What's your first memory, Steve?"

Steve choked, spluttering and sharply setting his mug down. That he didn't expect. He didn't even fully understand how it could be relevant. "Excuse me?"

"What's your first memory," Dr. Bai repeated, head tilted to the side in obvious curiosity. She had never tried to probe this hard into his childhood before. "I would like to know your first memory."

"Oh," Steve said softly. "Alright. Uh, my first memory is my ... my fourth birthday, yeah." He furrowed his brow, trying filter through years of blurry childhood memories. Years of bed ridden, cough riddled misery juxtaposed with Bucky laughing and boys sneering. Of Siobhan and her love for cards and his mother's cardigans. It was hard to carve out a first memory from those images, when his memory had been so poor. "My Ma, she made me apple cake. And I remember sitting on the fire escape of our building eating it, watching the fireworks. They were loud to her, but my hearing was already not quite right. I was still a little sick, so, so she had me tucked up under her cardigan." He smiled softly, dipping his head, suddenly bashful. He didn't think about this often, but it was probably the nicest memory he had of his Ma. She was always working so hard. "That's... that's it. That's my first memory." There was a soft pause as Dr. Bai made a note that Steve suddenly felt the need to fill. "I haven't had that cake in- since I was eighteen." Steve saw his own disbelief in the video reflected back at him, the subtle furrow of his brows and the tilt of his head. Somehow even he couldn't believe it.

Dr. Bai's bewilderment seemed to match his own, although far more openly. Their heads were tilted the same way, her mouth pulled into a tight and sympathetic frown. "Why not? It seems like it was important to you. You remember it enough that it's in your first memory."

Steve put a smile on his face that only seemed a little bitter. It was the face Bucky had always hated the most, because he said it meant that Steve was moving away from him. "Because the era it was in was over, doc. Nothing simpler than that." He tried to ignore how detached his voice sounded even to him and attempted to force the smile into something softer and more believable. It only half worked, and he winced when it made his bruising sore. Steve swore he tasted blood in his mouth as it split his lip wider - and wasn't that just fitting. Dr. Bai gasped softly, but he just shook his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unbothered. "It's okay, I'm fine."

The silence that lapsed was tense and uncomfortable as the split in his lip quickly closed, and he held it until he stopped bleeding. Behind the metal taste in his mouth, he swore he could taste that cake. He hadn't had it in so long, but the last time he had he was still bleeding from the mouth, his molar on the table, Bucky fussing at him in his own chair. Steve hadn't eaten in almost 32 hours, and he had fainted and knocked out a tooth. The blood and the conversation drug that memory up from the grave if was buried in, and Dr. Bai could see it on his face.

"What are you thinking about," Dr. Bai asked gently as Steve wiped his bloody hand off on his pants, knowing they were going to be washed anyway. "My whole job is to listen, Steve."

"It's nothin'," Steve insisted almost immediately and a bit too forcefully. "Just a little tired from the fight, but it's alright. You got more questions, doc?"

"...Yes." She sounded hesitant, but she looked over her notes all the same. "Is there any particular reason you think that memory has stuck with you?"

"I don't know." Steve couldn't have been more honest. He hadn't thought about that in years, but he plastered on a smile he hoped Dr. Bai would think was real before he spoke again. "It just did. Maybe it's the cake. Ma only made it once in a blue moon."

Dr. Bai looked puzzled for a moment, and Steve could understand the feeling. To get rid of any sudden giddy jitters, he took another deep drink of the sludge in his mug to drown the butterflies flitting around in his stomach. "Maybe it is," she agreed gently. Her tone suggested she was trying to soothe a wild animal. Maybe she was.

"Excuse me?"

"Maybe that's the reason you remember it," Dr. Bai repeated. "If it was special, it would have stuck out to you. It sounds like that whole day was special to you, Steve. Do you know why?"

"No," Steve replied, but he did. Sarah Rogers broke out that recipe only for special occasions, birthdays and holidays and for grieving parents. Good food was love, and that cake was the best food. The last time Steve made it, he fainted right before he ate the first piece because he had accidentally been starving himself in his grief. He told Bucky he was never making that cake again, and he had meant it. They went seven years without it. Steve offered to make it before he left for war, but Bucky had told him to save it for when he got back. If Steve was gonna break the promise, it needed to be for something happy. So he never was going to break it after all. "Doc, I got no idea."

Steve jolted up, biting back a scream and breathing hard. Disoriented and cold, he scrambled up, nearly tripping over blankets in the process. It was dark in his apartment, and he swore he could see his breath in front of him. He couldn't sit still, not when he felt so cold. The feeling of Bucky's cold hands on him were still horribly present as Steve pulls off sweaty pajamas to replace them with athletic clothes. His hands shook as he tried to pull his socks and shoes on. His feet felt frozen and stuck, and all his muscles were tensed. Steve could hear his teeth chattering loudly. He barely spared a glance at his phone that said 4:52 AM. Not the earliest he had ever been up. Scrambling to leave, he barely remembered to lock the door. He'd just use the fire escape to get in later. He always left that window open anyway.

Steve braced himself against a tree, stomach rolling. The sun had since come up in the time he had done lap after lap around National Mall, and he was only barely starting to feel warm enough to remember he had a body. A body that, all things considered, was not happy to be where it was. His face was still a bit sore, although most of the bruising had healed in a few days, and he was acutely aware of the shakiness he was experiencing. The nausea went hand in hand with it, no doubt. His metabolism and empty stomach were rejecting heavy exercise, and all in all he couldn't blame them. If he could force himself to walk without vomiting, he was aware that there was a cafe that was only a slightly miserable distance away that he could walk to. Things should be open now, right? He really should have taken his bike, and remembered to take his phone rather than just check the time.

Steve slowly pushed himself off the tree and felt a small burst of giddy excitement when that didn't result in dry heaving. His legs felt sore and horrible, but that would wear off quickly enough. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tried to will himself to walk in a way that was normal and mostly succeeded. He had forced himself around the park for hours, turning the nightmare over to every new angle, trying to make sense of it, and it hadn't made him feel any better. Ot had made no sense. He was small again, sleeping next to Bucky in their old place, but suddenly Bucky had been iced over. Frostbitten and corpse-cold, Steve had been stuck sharing a bed with him until he woke up almost screaming. It made no sense. He felt ridiculous and tried to shove it far from his mind to yearn for breakfast instead. The Bucky phonograph in his brain had nothing chastising to say about his eating habits, and for once he greatly appreciated the lack of his presence. Well, for the silence that lasted maybe for a minute.

'You can't keep pushing yourself like this Steve.'

Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sigh out loud. That fight was practically engraved in Steve's memory, and that was the reaction he had always had. It was one he and Bucky had at least weekly, one that often ended in 'well you push yourself for us, so why shouldn't I? Huh?' It was harder to push himself now, but clearly Steve found ways, and so Bucky couldn't even give it up from beyond the grave. It was driving Steve entirely and completely insane, just like it always had. Out of all the normalcy he could ask for, this was the kind he missed the least.

"I'm gonna eat, it's fine," Steve muttered under his breath. He ducked his head, embarrassed, even though he was certain that no one he was walking past heard him. "Give it up, pal. Isn't it getting exhausting to do this from beyond the grave?" Of course there was no response to that, no preprogrammed condolence or joke or scold for Bucky's untimely death. Steve's heart squeezed, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt when he suddenly wished that there was.

"Don't worry, I'll get something for you too," he added under his breath, just to feel normal.

Steve hoped he didn't look too much like death when he pushed the door to the cafe open. He no longer felt horribly overheated, and his face didn't feel damp, but he pushed his fingers through hair just in case. The sound of the bell tinkling only made him flinch a little bit, and the worker behind the counter making coffee greeted him softly. She didn't seem to recognize him, and for that he was grateful. Heeding the little sign that says please seat yourself, he quickly made his way to a little table in the corner.

Sitting down, Steve's eyes were already skimming over the menu on the table. Nervously, his hands smoothed it over, eyes struggling to focus. There was a lot of sounds in here already, and now that his worked perfectly and then some, it made a small part of him resent city living. Heartbeats and breathing and mugs clinking all created a terrible cacophony. Steve's mind felt foggy and addled, thoughts running thick and slow because of his state of hypoglycemia. He skimmed the various food options, muffins and pastries and such when he saw it. Foolishly, when he set his eyes on 'apple cake' written in an almost too swirly font, he felt suddenly that he would begin crying in the middle of this cafe. So naturally, this was when the server floating about chose to approach him.

The server seemed kind, with his soft brown eyes and patient smile. Steve looked up at him, feeling as though his eyes were suspiciously red, and took in the sight of the waiter. His hair was braided, with golden beads in his braids that glinted in the early sunlight. His button up was floral patterned, and his waist apron was tied neatly. The gold-wire glasses he was wearing reminded Steve of ones he had needed decades ago but could never afford. It's funny how things come back into fashion.

"Good morning," chirped the server, hand holding a pen hovering over his little pad of paper. He was entirely too cheery, and Steve found himself loving it. He suddenly felt better, almost forgetting the hysterics of the morning. "Can I get you anything? Or do you need a minute?"

"Hi. Uh, yeah," Steve replied, swallowing the lump in his throat. It was silly to be so emotional about a set of words. I mean really, they didn't mean anything if he didn't give them meaning. There was no point in crying over anything. "Could I get a black coffee? And a..." Steve's voice tapered off, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. He really needed to stop telling his therapist things. He never had issues when he kept it all to himself. "A blueberry muffin please." Steve flashed an uneasy smile at the server, even though his eyes were downturned to his notepad as he was writing. He could have gotten more, and probably should have, but it felt strange to acknowledge his metabolism even on the best of days.

"No problem. If you need anything else, just shout! I'm Devin. I'll have your stuff out soon." The server, Devin, flashed him a smile, and then walked away. Steve quickly averted his gaze, wishing he had a sketchbook suddenly. His fingers were twitching, and he felt restless. Unsettled. His mind was racing, and God above did he miss his Ma. She probably would have loved to come to a place like this, if they could have afforded it. She would have gotten that cake and complained softly about it not being completely right but smile and eat it and love it all the same. Steve still takes his coffee like her, pitch black and as hot as he can stand it. Tea needed milk and sugar though. They both agreed on that, and so they never drank it. They never had enough of the right stuff on hand, after all.

Steve could still hear the fireworks from that birthday sometimes, in his dreams. They bursted in colors he couldn't really see, but that didn't matter. His hiding spot under his Ma's cardigan had been warm, and she was talking about the day Steve was born. Steve was half-asleep, and the happiest he had ever been. It wasn't until Bucky came along that he would feel anything even remotely close to that. Steve sometimes felt he would never feel that way again.

When a coffee cup and plate were sat down a few minutes later, Steve flinched hard, pulled out of his spiraling memories in an instant. Devon moved away too quickly for Steve to utter a thank you, but he hoped that it was conveyed all the same as he brought the coffee mug to his mouth. It was bitter and hot and felt like home. Bucky used to share a mug with him in the ration days and complain the whole time. Him and his damned sweet tooth that Steve loved so much. In the ration days they would have split the muffin too. They shared everything. Steve figured that in some strange, terrible way, they still did. Steve tried to push that thought from his mind as he ate his meager breakfast, staring at the empty space across from him.

Chapter Text

It was another morning of therapy. Steve's kitchen table had become his most dreaded spot. Once he had dreamed of a space like this, but it was never this meant to be this empty. It was never meant to be this lonely. Bucky was supposed be sitting across from him, scratching their initials in their new, real kitchen table as Steve squawked at him. He was supposed to be flushed, embarrassed and loved, making something up about the value of the wood to cover up both of those feelings. Steve was getting a little sick of feeling sorry for himself as he watched the call pop up on his laptop, ringing through clear as ever. He thought about not answering it and just going about his day, but he couldn't get away with that, could he? Life was more important than his monthly attempt at convincing the government he was truly well, but then again that had always been his life, hadn't it?

"Good morning, Steve." Dr. Bai sounded tinny through laptop speakers today, and something in her eyes looked worried, but he tried to ignore it for the sake of his own sanity. Steve thought with a grim sense of humor that he perforated an eardrum, or that maybe the serum was finally wearing off and giving him his old hearing back. Either way, he could live with a little less sound these days. Someone had gotten a hold of his phone number, and the museum was starting to ring his phone off the hook. Steve was getting ready to smash the damn thing and never get a new one. It's not like he used it very much anyway, but he tried not to think about it and forced a plastered smile on his face. His felt like it would crack his face clean in half.

"Mornin' doc," Steve replied and took a sip of ration-weak coffee, holding onto the mug a little too tightly. It was habit, to stretch the coffee out, and it was nice to have something warm to hold. Behind his computer, out of sight of the camera, sat another steaming mug meant for someone who wouldn't drink it. He didn't know what was making him slip into old habits lately, but he was finding himself in an old routine like a ghost haunting the pathway it once walked in a house. "What's the question of the day?"

"That's just the thing. It's not so much a question." Dr. Bai adjusted her glasses and took a deep breath. There was something shaken in her, pinched in the line of her mouth and the crinkle of her eyes. Steve's stomach flipped at her hesitancy. "I'm here to help you process, but I'm also here to deliver the news you will be processing today. Does that make sense?"

"Sure. It makes sense, but what news?" Steve's brows furrowed, and he resisted the urge to bite his lip until it bled. He could think of a million different forms of news he was given by a million medical practitioners, and very rarely was it ever good. Or even definitive. He kept trying to remind himself that no one was telling him to shove a bit in his mouth and explaining how much they were going to shock him. His mouth tasted like rubber anyway.

"Well..." Dr. Bai picked up her notebook, eyes flitting over the pages. She furrowed her brow slightly, hand gripping the book tight enough to make her knuckles white. "Shield found a few ... a few boxes of things from your last apartment."

Steve was happy he set down his coffee mug, because he likely would have crushed it in his hand. Something boiled up in him, white hot and nauseating. Real, genuine rage. An emotion he hadn't felt in quite a long time. He swore he could feel his teeth cracking with how hard he was grinding his jaw. His vision almost whited out.

"You have my things?" His voice was strained, like it had to scrape his way up his throat. Steve tried to force himself to breathe, but it felt like everything like it had stopped. His blood, his brain, his lungs, his heart, time. Dr. Bai did not respond. Her face was pinched. Steve almost laughed at the sympathy, out of rage. The silence was making him flush hot. "I said, you have my things? I'm not gonna ask again."

"Yes," Dr. Bai said on a stressed exhale. "Yes, you have things here in St- in the Avengers Tower. I believe Mr. Stark himself found them, in an archive doing work for Shield. He transferred them here, for you to come and go through at your leisure."

Tony Stark. Of course it was going to be Tony Stark.

"How long ago did this happen?" Steve tried to breath deep and even, tried to flex his fingers and relax the tension that immediately wound up every muscle in his body. His shoulders would not drop. His jaw would not unclench. The one man he despised was the current owner of the life he tried so hard to let himself forget he ever had. "If you'd be nice enough to tell me, considering you have my things."

"Not long at all," Dr. Bai assured him, voice calm and gentle. Steve vaguely registered the sound of her notebook setting down though the terrible laptop speakers. Steve felt like his ears were ringing as if a shell had just exploded. Hell, he felt like a blast radius had just knocked him off his feet. "Just a few days ago. We figured it was best to wait to tell you. We were ... unsure of how you would take the news."

Steve swallowed back a bitter giggle, flexed his hands underneath his table, and nodded. He could not yell, he could not cry. That was not who he was. Besides, the government and his employers and his therapist needed to see he was doing well. It was just a couple of boxes of books. Maybe a few unplayable records. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't important. It couldn't be important. It was all from the past, and yet, they were his things, weren't they?

Everything in those boxes were their things.

"Right," Steve finally choked out, hoping he sounded somewhat okay. He flashed a smile that was all teeth and no humor, a stressed animal bearing its fangs as a warning. "I'm ... gonna handle it, doc. I am handling it. It's just some boxes, right? I'm fine."

"Steve..." Dr. Bai sighed, adjusting her glasses again. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, like she was suddenly out of words. Steve felt some kind of sick satisfaction at her unknowing, even though he knew that wasn't good, nor and accomplishment. He almost hoped that if he kept stunning her, they would let him off the hook. "It's okay for this to be hard for you," she finally settled on. "It's okay if this is a lot."

"It's fine, doc," Steve insisted, suddenly firm. His eyes burned and his throat felt thick, but he tried his best not to show it. His voice was about as level as he could make it, and the remaining shake in his words sounded so loud to his ears. "My life has been in boxes more than a few times now. You get used to it after awhile." Steve nodded once, a strained smile being used to punctuate his sentence.

"...Okay," Dr. Bai replied, squinting a bit suspiciously. "Can I ask you a few questions about the boxes?"

'Even if I say no, you'll ask anyway.'

"Yeah, alright." Just for something to do, Steve took another sip of his too-weak coffee and tried to not envision Bucky's surprised laugh. The laugh that always twisted Steve's stomach up in knots and had him feeling giddy like a school-boy, even well into his twenties. He didn't really succeed.

"What do you ... what do you think is going to be in those boxes?" Dr. Bai's voice was hesitant and almost timid, her eyes subtly wider. Steve didn't know if there was awe or fear in her voice.

"Well," Steve said on a heavy exhale. "A couple bad books. Probably a few records that don't work, and maybe a busted radio." He dug his fingers into his temple as he leaned just a little out of frame, trying to make it look like he was remembering something. "Moth eaten clothes. An old sketchbook maybe?"

"Are you excited about any of those possibilities?" She definitely sounded timid. Maybe even childlike. Steve hated that the incorrect idea of him became something the public - and his own therapist - revered.

"The sketchbook might be nice," Steve said before he could stop himself. "I think I left one unfinished. It's been bugging me for awhile. I should have brought it with me to basic, but I didn't want the pages to get ruined." That was the truth. He had to give them something after all, but what he would never say is that it was a gift from Bucky and that it had the last sketch of his Ma he would ever make before he started to forget her face. That was, of course, too honest. Even for Steve.

"Ah, yes," Dr. Bai said like she couldn't quite believe he could do anything but be a symbol. Steve's stomach rolled in the most unpleasant way imaginable. "And what do you hope is going to be in those boxes?"

Oh.

There were a million things Steve could think of. 'James Buchanan Barnes and his pretty boy smile, wearing my dog tags and actually saying he missed me. Or my Ma's nursing cap. Maybe Peggy was nice enough to put it with my stuff, when I gave it to her for safe keeping. Thankfully I still have the rosary. I went down with it in my pocket. Bucky's Tolkien book - the one I pretended to hate just to see him get animated trying to explain why it was good. Every drawing I ever made of him; I can only think of him as terrified and distant now and nothing ever comes out right when I try. Maybe just one last pack of smokes, or gum. Ma's recipe book. The wedding quilt. Anything that proves I used to have a home.'

"Honestly," Steve asked, already preparing the lie that was going to leave a bad taste in his mouth. "Whatever is in there will be good enough."

A train ride filled with bouncing legs and a bitten lower lip brought Steve to Midtown. He had postponed this three times already, and he wasn't going to be given a fourth. He was anxiously clutching at the strap of a bag slung over his shoulder, wishing that he could have just one more cancelation. Staring down the ugly building, Steve realized he hated it more than anything some days. Avengers Tower and its rich sterility and stereotyped ideals of heroism contained the last connection he had to any of the people he used to love. All things considered, it was making it very difficult to walk in the doors. There were people in there. People there who expected him to behave a certain way, but he was very certain that if he saw anything of Bucky's he would burst out into tears and laughter. It took so much work to convince Dr. Bai she didn't need to facilitate him going through his life in boxes. Steve didn't want to flip out and prove that he needed a shrink. Taking a deep breath, he hurried in through the doors and to the elevator, to go all the way up to that awful communal floor and be scrutinized by a team that was no less crazy than he was.

In the elevator, Steve exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding and pulled the chain resting underneath his shirt out. Anxiously, he started to rub his thumb over the engraving of Bucky's name on the tags. The letters felt familiar under his fingers, all the way down to the H in the corner. He could probably relay Bucky's serial number better than his own. He watched the floor number tick up, up, up and felt his heart leap into his throat. Maybe this was going to be harder than he thought.

"You ready for this, Buck," Steve breathed into the empty space, leaning his head against the wall. "Been a long time since we had to unpack."

'Ready as I can be,' came the voice in his head, and really, Steve could almost laugh. How many times had that been said to him? How many times did Bucky look at him and say that? Between back-alley fights, the death of a parent, doctor's appointments that spelled uncertainty, and a world war, Bucky probably said it more than anything else. It was the best sentence in the worst of times, because it let Steve know that he had someone fighting with him. It let Steve know he had someone fighting for him. Now it just hurt.

Steve managed to wrangle his face into something neutral and tuck the dog tags under his shirt by the time the doors split open to a floor that felt way too high up. He had to stop himself from flinching when he realized that everyone was there, not just Tony. We'll, everyone except Thor. Steve found himself relieved that at least one person wanted to skip out on this.

Steve stepped out of the elevator as everyone turned to him and tried to smile neutrally despite the irritation bubbling up inside. "I guess I didn't realize this was gonna be a spectator sport."

"I'm sorry, is there something going on," asked Natasha. She was sat next to Barton, and the two of them looked absolutely beaten. Her lip was split, and her left eye was purple and swollen. There was bruising on both of their knuckles, and Barton's arms looked shredded. They were signing when he came in, and did not pause. Steve would have loved to have known sign language, when his hearing was worse. It would have been so helpful. "Tony likes the element of surprise far too much to tell us things."

Steve allowed himself a small eye roll. Of course, Stark hadn't mentioned that Steve maybe wanted a little bit of privacy as he tried to understand that his life had been reduced to nothing more than a couple of boxes. He started to walk over to the group of people splayed out on couches as Banner popped his head up from whatever book he was reading. Sometimes all Steve could manage to think about him is that Bucky would have loved to ask Banner a million questions Steve wouldn't understand.

"The crates are behind the bar, Steve. I'm assuming that's what you're here for?" Banner offered him a slightly awkward but kind smile. Then he tucked his nose back into his book, as if to be polite. Clearly, he didn't want to intrude, but it looked like he was researching something and didn't want to be interrupted. Steve supposed he could forgive him for that.

Steve - doing his best impression of his Ma - leveled Stark with a look. When he was met with a smug, self-assured smile, Steve had to resist the urge to ball up his fist and punch it off. "You didn't find a way to make a big deal out of this, Stark? No publicity stunts, no ... fanfare of any sort," Steve asked, sounding just this side of bitter as he walked his way slowly to the bar.

"Fanfare? That's the word you're gonna use? You're showing your age, cap," Stark shot back, ever the humor. "And besides, just figured you were gonna cancel again. Oh, come on don't be so surprised. You flaked big the last three times."

All Steve could do was roll his eyes, finally catching sight of the three old wooden crates hidden behind the obnoxious bar. They were a little weathered and bigger than Steve expected, but they were his and something about that made his heart start to hammer heavily in his chest. His name and 'property of the SSR' were on the sides of all the crates. He was looking at something so foreign and so familiar. His mouth felt dry, and his legs felt like they would tremble right away from him. It took everything in him to pretend to be nonchalant.

"They're open already." Stark was leaned over the bar. Forearms braced against it and hands clasped; he looked all too intrigued with what was going on. Looking at him ignited something hot and angry in Steve. Tony Stark brought up a feeling that had died in Steve when his heart had plummeted off the side of a train wearing Steve's name around his neck - the fight. Not revenge, not something murderous, the fight. He wanted to defy Tony in every single way he could. That one sentence brought all that white hot rage to sit right in his chest, and all Steve could do was raise an eyebrow in an attempt to keep it contained. "What? I didn't look in them, we just popped the nails. No need to bust out a crowbar in the middle of the day, right?"

"Right," Steve agreed, dropping his bag on the floor. He couldn't hide his timidness in his small movements, nor could he hide the hitch in his breath as he reached out and felt rough wood under his fingertips, touching the first crate he got to. Featherlight and reverent, he let his fingertips glide over the rood, narrowly avoiding splinters in the process. All that was in here was all that was left of the two of them before the war. He hadn't even let himself believe the possibility that any of it had survived. Especially not after seeing their old building half torn down. Anxiously, he let himself lift the lid.

The smell that hit him was utterly nostalgic, and Steve couldn't believe that had survived. He swallowed hard to try and make the lump in his throat go away, feeling ridiculous for nearly crying over the scent of old Marlboros and Old Spice, but God it was all Bucky. Underneath it was the charcoal Steve managed to smudge on just about everything, but that didn't matter nearly as much to him as he let the crate lid clatter to the floor. Bucky was still in here, in some strange way. He never could just leave Steve alone, and Steve had to turn away as he knelt down to start digging through things to hide the smile that was splitting his face in half from prying eyes. If this scent was the only thing he got of Bucky, he wouldn't even be mad. He was starting to forget what Bucky smelled like before the war.

Steve didn't even care about the lack of privacy he had when his fingers found fabric, too suddenly shocked with emotion to feel prying eyes anymore. If the others had come over to see the spectacle it didn't matter. He still hadn't let himself look inside the crate yet, keeping his eyeline over the opening, but he didn't need to see to know what it was that he was touching. The fabric of the wedding quilt that had kept him warm when he shivered, sweating with fever, that had graced Steve and Bucky's bed every winter to try and hold the heat in, was no stranger to him. Balling his fist in the fabric, he pulled it out carefully and nearly passed out at the sight of the nicest thing he had ever been given. The gentle blue, yellow and white acknowledgement that Winifred Barnes had understood exactly what they were was a hefty first pitch of an object, and he couldn't stop himself from holding it to his chest for just a brief minute, drinking in the scent of Bucky all over it. It had some holes, but Steve could sew. He would make it like he remembered it.

'Here Steven. For you,' Ma Barnes had said. 'Well, for the both of you. It was intended for a wedding, but I'm just happy to know it will keep you both warm at night.'

"I didn't take you for a smoker," Tony said, snapping Steve out of his memory hard enough for him to whip his head around and glare at the man. "What? We've all got our vices, and the room had gained a certain smoky quality since you opened those boxes."

"I'm not," Steve insisted, gingerly setting the quilt aside. He could very distinctly feel the metal against his skin suddenly. "My friend i- was, though. Didn't matter to me if he smoked with the windows closed." In reality, Steve liked it. The smoke contained a sick sense of comfort, the smell lingering on the days Bucky worked long and hard and Steve missed him. Occasionally, they would share a smoke or two, close together and happy. Some days, Steve missed that the most.

Stark hummed, one of eyebrows quirked in an expression somewhere between interest and disbelief. Without Steve realizing, Natasha and Clint had both crept up beside him at some point and were both clearly trying to scope out the situation, albeit being better at seeming nonchalant. Steve felt violated and uncaring all at once.

"C'mon Cap, what else you got in that time capsule of yours. We wanna see."

"None of you have anything better to do?" Steve's tone was joking, but he didn't mean it like a joke. At least Natasha had the decency to look sympathetic, but there was nothing she could do to stop this. Stark just looked smug, and Barton looked oblivious, and no one was moving away from the bar top. Luckily for him, Banner seemed more interested in his reading than anything else. Steve just wanted this nightmare to be over. "Fine, be that way. It isn't like I've got anything valuable in here. Wasn't exactly rich, and the poverty wasn't a choice to please the church." When no one laughed, Steve just shrugged it off. Maybe they didn't realize that Captain America could be funny.

His tactile sense memory had always been strong, living with years of obscured vision and partial deafness, so it was no surprise to Steve that he recognized the feel of his own clothes in layers before he finally allowed himself hunch to look inside the crate's opening. Under the prying and curious gaze of the people he was hesitant to call his peers, he was attempting to reign himself in. It was just wool and tweed, and itchy fabric didn't mean anything. Not even the last sweater his Ma had ever made him, or so he tried to tell himself. Steve swallowed hard, trying to keep himself from crying as he stared at the yellow sweater. It looked a little threadbare, and he felt so guilty staring at it he could pray for forgiveness on the spot, because he knew that Sarah Rogers had spent so much precious money that she worked hours and hours for on new thread in a color that he could actually see. It was the last act of a mother's love on God's own Earth, and it had become forgotten in a box stowed away from time. He shoved all the other clothes out of the way to lift this one treasured piece, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought that he could no longer wear it.

"What've you got there, Steve," Natasha asked in a surprisingly gentle tone. There was something in her face, just below the surface that Steve couldn't quite make out as he spared a glance over his shoulder, and it made him want to confess. He appreciated her the most, and he wanted her to trust him the way he was quickly growing to trust her. They made eye contact, and she nodded subtly. Steve blew out a breath.

"It's a sweater," Steve said quietly, bringing it up out of the box. "It's my sweater. My Ma made it for me." He couldn't stop himself from pressing it to his chest as he turned to face the line of people looking at him like he was the spectacle of the century. Interestingly enough, Stark was starting to look uncomfortable. "I know it's a little small." Steve didn't miss the sad little smile that flashed on Natasha's face for just a second as she nodded once in his direction. His heart ached for her, and suddenly, he felt guilty again, like he was showing off something she never got to have. Maybe he was.

Stark cleared his throat and pushed off of the bar. His discomfort was clear on his face, and shamefully, Steve felt a little satisfied. Maybe he hadn't expected this legend from this past - from his father's past - to have feelings. Maybe Steve was at fault for that, so he let his mask slip a little more, clutching at the fabric to watch Stark's eyes widen. "Hey Bruce?"

"What," Banner asked, presumably not even looking up for how distracted he sounded.

"You all read up? Can we head back to the lab?"

"Yeah," Banner replied, with it just enough to give Stark the out. Then they both quickly disappeared, leaving just Natasha and Barton behind, but Natasha was already tugging Barton away.

"C'mon, Clint. Let's leave the old man with his keepsakes," Natasha teased, but there was a strange kindness in her tone. Then she was signing something, and Barton was nodding, looking relieved. Steve suddenly wished he understood what they were saying, but they were gone quickly. Natasha went up, and Barton went down. One staying, one going. Then Steve was alone in the silence. He grabbed his backpack and gently slid the sweater inside.

'I hope you like it, Steven. Sorry it's so late after your birthday.'

Trying to shake the memory off, Steve went back to carding through this box of what appeared to be things only made of fabric; He pulled out the few items that were his with little feeling. He never really owned that many clothes at a time. He could never afford them, and nothing fit right. He would spend so much of his early twenties trying to alter his clothes and it never really worked. He would be more than happy to donate these or even let the museum have them. His few pairs of pants, no more than 6 shirts, and few ties were of no meaning to him. He couldn't wear them anyway, and attempting to quilt just reminded him too much of his Ma to even think about it. After everything of his was cleared away, his heart leapt into his throat at the sight of what was left in the box.

Sarah Rogers's most beloved cardigan was sat directly with the layer of pure Bucky, and wasn't that just perfect? Pals even in objects, the two of them. Even in death, they wouldn't leave each other alone - never wasting a moment to complain about Steve, he just knew it.

Alone and aware of his solitude, Steve allowed himself the laugh that escaped him. It sounded almost like a sob. He should have brought a bigger bag, he knew that now, because he couldn't leave any of them behind. Not again. "Still keepin' us warm, Ma? I know Buck appreciates it. I know I appreciate it," he whispered as he pulled the cardigan out to tuck it carefully in his bag. In his mind he repeated to himself that he would not cry, but it was getting harder and harder. For the first time in over 70 years, Steve was seeing the people he loved the most, and he couldn't just give them away to some prying historians. These clothes didn't have use right now, but what did that matter? They would come in handy eventually, and he needed to apologize for leaving them alone for so long anyway. His fingertips brushed Bucky's oil-stained undershirt at the same time he stopped fighting the tears welling in his eyes.

More memories lived in the threads of Bucky's clothes than anything else that could possibly be contained in these boxes. James Buchanan Barnes was just as stubborn as Steve had ever been, and his winning blow in every fight about the weather was offering up layers out of his own wardrobe. ('C'mon Stevie, take my sweater. I can't kiss you in public, but you can take that. Put it under your coat. No one will know.') James Buchanan Barnes was also a notorious flirt in between his sarcastic remarks and snide comments. ('Oh it's like that now? You think you can just take my shirts? Well lucky for you pal, I'm gonna let'cha. Like you better in 'em anyway.') His clothes were the biggest comfort on Steve's worst days when Bucky had to spend hours away from home. ('You got a fever sweetheart? 'Course I noticed, cause the only thing that's yours in what your wearin' are those rags you call socks.') He finally had that comfort back he thought, relieved as each item of clothing was tucked securely into Steve's backpack. He would just have to poke around the floor that was supposed to be his and find another bag for anything else he might want. Easy enough.

Sitting back on his knees, Steve blew out a breath that turned into a kind of manic laugh. He was feeling a little crazed at the idea that there were still two more boxes of things to sift through. He wasn't sure he had ever owned three boxes worth of items in his life, but he was seeing the proof right in front of him that he had. He hoped their busted radio and half-usable record player was in there somewhere. That way, Bucky could actually have his music in the mornings again. Steve in 1938 would have never believed he would miss that.

'It is the essential way to start the mornin',' Bucky insisted, picking at his powdered eggs. He was swaying to music that Steve couldn't hear through the static of their busted radio. 'It doesn't sound like nothin' to me, Buck,' Steve reminded him before sipping watery coffee with a vague grimace. 'You enjoy your static, though. I'm sure it's real nice or whatever. Are we sure it's my hearing that's messed up?'

Steve stood up and took the lid off the second box, still struggling to grapple with the familiar scent overwhelming his nose. He swallowed thickly and tried to stop feeling like Bucky was going to just stroll on through into the room like Steve had never failed to hold onto him. He wished that Bucky could be here, that they could hold each other up now.

It was really comical how much of what they owned was blankets. Steve had needed to be bundled in them all winter, because his life really did depend on it. He would pick his favorites, he decided, as he pulled out a solid stack. Most of them were at least a little itchy, but he couldn't bring himself to care. They were his. They hadn't been taken away. He didn't care if he ran hot now, because Steve was never letting these go regardless.

These boxes had been poorly packed, but Steve shoved down that nagging thought as he pulled out the last blanket to see one of the most picturesque scenes of his life. Steve and Bucky's hobbies nestled neatly together, always intertwined. Magnet men, even in (temporary) death. Art supplies strewn about the bottom - sketchbook after sketchbook and charcoal and graphite and colored pencils - and sewing supplies on one side, but on the other? Bucky's violin case, and all the books he would read both to himself and out loud on the other side.

Steve hesitated to touch anything for a moment, before reaching down to reverently brush his fingertips over the violin case. It was exactly as he remembered, a hard-shelled wooden case of simple beauty. This violin had been Bucky's everything, and one of the biggest reasons why Steve wanted him to stop fighting on his behalf. Afraid of broken knuckles and permanent damage, he was. Guilt used to churn in Steve's stomach when he watched Bucky play with bruised, shaking hands. His melodies rarely faltered, regardless of his bloody knuckles. Steve wished he could play this now, to tune it like Bucky had asked.

'You're gonna have to tune her,' Bucky whispered into the quiet night air. It had been just two days since they got the notice, and Steve suddenly didn't want to be anywhere but plastered against Bucky. 'The violin, I mean.' Steve didn't want to think about the way life would be without Bucky. He hadn't even considered the instrument that lived under their sad boxspring. 'I don't know how,' Steve replied quietly. 'I can't hear that stuff so good, Buck.' Bucky had just sighed and decided not to address that obvious issue at hand. 'I'll teach you how to tune it, alright?'

Steve had forgotten about those little lessons. They were one of the many things his bad memory had tossed away, and he wanted them close now. He wanted Bucky close, but he had failed at that just like his memory had failed. The room felt cold. By the time the case was out of the box, his hands were shaking. He had to very quickly set it aside, gently and carefully, next to the bag that was becoming very quickly difficult to close. His ears were starting to ring - the sound competing with a low train rumble -, mouth feeling like cotton and vision blurring. Steve found himself suddenly stumbling for a glass for something to drink, time quickly becoming lost on him.

Functionally nonfunctional. That's what Bucky had called him once, in one of their particularly rough spats after the death of Sarah Rogers. Steve was, admittedly, a piece of work, and would spend hours out of most days following her death fully unaware of the world around him while his body pretended he was alive. When Bucky couldn't take the shell of Steven Grant Rogers anymore, he would pick a fight. Steve wondered sometimes if it was just to try and draw him out. One of their last - and worst - fights put words to something Steve had never been able to describe. Functionally nonfunctional. He could hear the words rattling around in his brain, somewhere in between Bucky's harshest tone and his softest one. Sitting cross-legged on the bed in the floor that was deemed his in the ugly tower, he realized that all his rediscovered earthly possessions were neatly packed away and sat on the floor at the foot of his bed. He was also becoming aware of the two books in his arms he was holding on to like his life depended on it. Steve sighed as he blearily blinked himself back into existence and tried to take in the most obvious details of his current surroundings beyond that. There was a lamp on fighting off the darkness outside and a deep ache residing in his back, like he had been sitting hunched and hugging books for a while. When he pried himself out of the position to look at the titles of whatever novels he had latched onto, his spine cracked.

When Steve's eyes landed on The Hobbit and The Hunchback of Notre Dame, he wasn't exactly sure what he felt. His heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. These quintessential novels were their entire world a long time ago. Bucky had spent months corresponding with someone in the UK just to get that damn fantasy novel, and Steve's very own tragedy was none other than his mother's. She used to read it out loud to him when he was sick, or just at bedtime, when his poor vision made reading words on a page difficult. Looking at the books in his hands, together, he was the two of them together in a different form.

'But I don't think I ought to leave my friends like this, after all we have gone through together,' said Bucky's voice in Steve's head as he stared at the cover of the Hobbit. He remembered so clearly how Bucky loved to read aloud. Steve would tease him, say he loved the sound of his own voice more than anything, but he had treasured that act of love so dearly. Gently, he set the Hobbit aside, gasping harshly in shock when a sharp pain shot through his chest.

'Hence, the man to whom it had belonged had come thither and had died there. When they tried to detach the skeleton which he held in his embrace, he fell to dust,' Bucky read aloud, voice wavering with unshed tears. He turned his head sharply to Steve then suddenly, looking a little angry and accusatory. 'And you've read this book over and over again? Just willingly?' Steve could only shrug. 'I think me and Quasimodo have a lot in common.'

Steve shook his head rapidly, trying to rattle the memory right out of his skull. That line, that book, that moment, it was just all too perfect of a terrible reminder. He tossed it aside to sit next to the other book and shot up, rapidly undoing the buttons of his overshirt and removing his belt. His shoes were already off. Steve hadn't intended to sleep here, but maybe he needed to. It was dark and he was disoriented. A few winks would right him, and he could be out of here by early morning. He could bring Bucky and his Ma home by tomorrow afternoon. All would be right in the world. He had himself ready to lay in bed in a minute flat, left in his nice slacks and his undershirt, but as he allowed himself to slip under the covers, he snagged the worn-out copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and opened it to the first chapter.

'Three hundred and forty–eight years, six months, and nineteen days ago to–day, the Parisians awoke to the sound of all the bells in the triple circuit of the city, the university, and the town ringing a full peal.'

Steve woke with a start, gasping lightly as his limbs flailed out suddenly. The open book face down on his chest shifted slightly, and he grabbed it with one hand. "Must've fallen asleep," he mumbled, and closed the book without looking at the page. He would start it over and remember it better. He did have a train ride to get through to get back home after all. When he dragged himself out of bed, he did it with a heavy sigh, and collected his shirt, belt, and shoes. Dressing sluggishly, he glanced at the luggage he was going to have to juggle. It all felt like too much one life in bags, but he'd find the space. He couldn't give everything up again. When he grabbed all his bags, he took extra care with the wooden violin case.

Steve felt his heart nearly jump out of his chest when the call tone sounded on his laptop, as if he wasn't expecting Dr. Bai to call. He was halfway through reorganizing the cans in the kitchen. All his cabinets were open, and his kitchen looked like a warzone. Not to mention there were still bags of his things laying around, and he was struggling to find places to store them in a way that satiated his brain's pressing need for the "just right" feeling. Running to his laptop, he nearly tripped over one of those bags, and just barely slid into his seat to hit answer in time. He was quite relieved to see that the angle he had set up the spot in was just out of the way of the mess he was currently living in as Dr. Bai's face popped up on his screen. She lacked the anxiety of last month's meeting, and that made Steve feel far more at ease than he wanted to admit. However, his face was burning with the shame of knowing just how disorganized his stock of cans was, and how much his life looked like he was falling apart when really, he felt no different than he always did.

"Good afternoon, Steve," Dr. Bai said, the small smile on her face ringing through her voice. "I'm sorry for the late meeting, I know this isn't our usual time." She gave him a little apologetic look as adjusted her glasses.

"Oh, it's alright," Steve replied, doing his best to match her little smile. "I know how to keep myself busy. What's on the agenda today, doc?"

"Well, I'd like to know how getting your things went, for starters," Dr. Bai said, her tone carefully gentle. "Seeing as I wasn't there. I'm trusting you to be honest with me."

"It went fine, Doc," Steve replied, almost sounding like a teenager who was annoyed at his prying mother. "I got back some sketchbooks, some old books. You know, some here and there things." He flashed her what he hoped was a convincing smile to cover up the half lie. He was being overly sentimental about objects again, and that was his business. "You didn't miss anything."

"I'm glad to hear it," Dr. Bai replied, giving him a smile back and glancing down at the notebook she already had open. "Is there anything you were particularly excited about?"

Steve thought to himself for a moment, suddenly unsure if he should be honest or not. There wasn't a single thing (aside from his own old clothes) that he wasn't excited about, but if he admitted that then the facade of nonchalance would crack, and there would be no way to backtrack. He needed to pick something, and he needed to not give too much of himself away. Immediately, Steve knew he couldn't say Bucky's violin, so he settled on literature instead.

"Yeah, I uh, I got back these old copies of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Hobbit. They're my favorite stories," Steve admitted softly, looking away and picking at the envelope on the table from the Smithsonian. He had finally agreed to come see the exhibit about him, and the letter encased in the torn envelope was a confirmation of the date he would go. "They're sitting on my bookshelf now."

"Oh that's interesting," Dr, Bai replied, eyebrows perking up. "Which one of those books is your favorite?"

"Hunchback, without a doubt," Steve replied without hesitation. "The Hobbit was, well, it was Bucky's. Needs a place on the shelf too."

Dr. Bai shot him a sympathetic look but took no notes, despite the small glimpse into his vulnerability. "Good to have things back as they should be, right?" When Steve just nodded, she pressed on. "Was that book one he really enjoyed?"

"It was," Steve confirmed, biting back the bitter and detached tone. "Bought it off some guy in England. I thought the idiot had gotten scammed."

Dr. Bai huffed a little laugh, taking in the surprising amount of information Steve was offering up. "Did you ever read it?"

There was silence. Steve thought back to the gentle cadence of Bucky's voice floating through, reading line after line of fantasy to Steve like it was the Lord's very own gospel. There was reverence in the way he relayed the words, saved for only the things he enjoyed the most. After a moment, Steve replied drily. "Yeah, I did."

Dr. Bai's face said she sensed something, most likely aware Steve was shutting down. She had learned that much over several months, so she changed the subject quickly. "Are you still hearing from the museum?"

"Yeah," Steve confirmed, swallowing thick as he decided if he should elaborate. "I finally confirmed that I would check it out. Whatever they have in there isn't mine anymore, but I'm getting kinda curious, doc."

Dr. Bai frowned at him, clearly ready to contradict that sentence. "Steve, you're entitled to your things."

"It's replicas and military things, mostly," Steve replied, a little heat seeping into his voice. "I don't want any of that. I don't need it. I have everything I need now." Steve tried not to think about the sketchbook they had told him about, confirming it was his. An original. The one that contained the most intimate feelings about the USO tour. He wanted it back so badly.

"Alright, alright," Dr. Bai conceded, shaking her head a little bit. "I'd like to hear about your escapades to the museum, after you go. It sounds like it could be interesting to see yourself through the eys of the public."

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat her phrasing put there. "It certainly could be. I guess I'm gonna have to find out."

Steve wasn't sure what to expect from the museum. He was over himself finally - as he had decided so in his own words - and had figured out that nothing in the museum was actually his. It was all replicas from eyewitness details (which he had discovered was code for interviews with Becca from the 60s, when a lone historian started up this project), aside from one leatherbound sketchbook donated by Margaret Carter, which had been promptly returned to him on his arrival. He felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket as he slowly made his way towards the inevitable.

The silence in the museum was astounding to Steve as he wandered through the exhibits. Even though he knew he had requested to come after hours, he wasn't prepared to revel in the absolute reverent silence of the place. It was almost suffocating, but in a strangely enjoyable way as he drifted through the exhibits to the one named and created for himself. Or at least the version of himself that America had created in his decades-long absence. One that he tried very hard not to think about, because it set a pit in his stomach as soon as he so much as considered it. Legends weren't ever intended to see their own stories.

Approaching the hall into the exhibit, Steve blew out one long breath in an attempt to steel himself. He had agreed to give feedback to a historian after his visit, and he was supposed to check for accuracy, but he was uncertain if he would even get into the damn door as he saw the painted image of himself along the wall, some patriotic tale of a war that had been romanticized. Steve's mouth tasted bitter as he walked, shaking his head. Out of all the things he had signed up for, propagandizing had not been one of them, and yet it was still happening. He wasn't even sure if people realized they were still doing it.

He had been informed there was narration, but Steve had requested they turn it off for his sake. He had been sent transcripts in its wake, and he hated them. The implications of traditional masculinity and praise for the American military weren't thing he had ever cared about, but there was technically nothing he could correct. That only made him more frustrated. His image was out of his hands, and yet, Steve still came to this exhibit anyway.

It was strange to immediately confront himself pre-serum. He hadn't even known that any of those pictures had even survived. There was a level of shame to it, to see how they were presenting him. Steve knew the hot, sick feeling of it well, and it burned up his face until he was sure he was flushing bright red with it. Almost immediately, he decided to move on.

Still, Steve walked slowly, casually, carefully with his hands shoved in his pockets, slowly swiveling to take it all in. He wanted to be sure he took in all of it, ready to latch onto something he could correct. He wanted nothing more than to have at least some say in his legacy. Bucky would have laughed at the whole thing. Hell, he would have never let it go for as long as he lived. 'They made a museum exhibit for you? That's just crazy pal. Don't they know you picked fights all the time? You certainly ain't no one's role model.' He tried to smother the laugh as he thought about it, until he saw a phrase that knocked all the wind out of him at once.

'While on tour in Azzano, Italy, Rogers' heroic actions saved 163 lives - including that of his best friend Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes.'

Steve didn't care about the picture above it as he walked up to the wall, hand reaching out to lightly press his fingertips against 'Buchanan'. His heart hammered hard in his chest, thumb running over the 'b', like it was somehow Bucky himself. Like Steve could somehow make up for the loss of contact now through the wall.

"They should have put Bucky here," Steve whispered into the silence. "You hated this middle name. Sorry your Ma decided to name you after a president." His voice was full of teary-eyed humor as he pulled his hand away, stepping back like it hurt him to be away from some letters on a wall. Steve shook his head, feeling completely ridiculous and turning back to the rest of the exhibit.

Videos played - clips of himself filmed in action. The government liked to do that for morale, but Steve remembered hating every second of it. In the back of his mind, he wondered that if he pointed that out, some overworked historian would actually take that into account and make a note of it somewhere in here. Steve could only hope as he walked past the recordings to the display of the Howling Commando uniforms, his chest suddenly feeling achy and hollow.

Steven Grant Rogers was the last of the Howling Commandos.

They were dead, all of them. Steve clenched his fist at his side once, twice, three times. "I'm really the last one," he whispered, voice hollow and disbelieving.

Bucky was on the mannequin representing Steve's left, because of course he was, but he was too far up for the lineup. Steve knew that he would linger towards the back most times, jumpy and prepared to watch Steve's back from absolutely every angle. However, Steve found himself liking it this way. At least one version of him got to have closeness, and that was probably more than any version deserved, but he huffed a humorless laugh as he shook the thought away. They had placed Monty behind him, and Morita behind Monty which felt most right. Dum-Dum, Gab, and Dernier were to his right, and that was about as true as it got. Dum-Dum was never ready to do more than crack a joke, but he loved to be right on top of the line. He made fun of everyone for being a thrill seeker, but when it came down to it, no one loved a thrill more than him. Everyone was content to let him have it, and Gabe and Dernier were always in cahoots, with Dernier in the back - in case he blew anything up, of course. Before Steve could stop himself, he snapped a salute, knowing no one could return it. He hoped that they lived the rest of their lives knowing that he did nothing but cherish the time they had together, even if it was in war torn Europe.

Then Steve turned, and there he was.

Bucky's face was shown in the middle of the room, next to no doubt the words describing his service and his 'unfortunate and untimely death', but Steve didn't care about any of that as he strode to the glass as quickly as his legs would carry him, hands reaching out to trace his facial features. His eyes, beautiful and sullen, and his eyebrows pinched in worry, down the bridge of his nose and ghosting over his lips. Bucky. An apparition, an appearance, the sight of a man he hadn't seen in an achingly long time.

"Jesus, Buck you been holdin' out on me," Steve whispered, tears pressing on his throat and threatening to suffocate him. "You know how much I missed you?"

There was no response. There was always no response. Steve leaned forward, pressing his head to the picture as a tear rolled down his nose. "They got film reels of us here. I don't even know if I could take that. Just seein' you here, I don't know what to do. You were supposed to walk out with me. I still got your name around my neck."

The silence could suffocate. Steve wanted nothing more than to hear Bucky calls his name, to feel his arms wrap around him, to take him home. Steve would never pick another fight again, so help him God. He just wanted to not go home alone. He wanted to not have to peel himself away from the closest thing to holding a ghost, but he eventually he dragged himself back with a shuddering breath to take in the sight of the picture, ignoring the words completely. He didn't need a reminder of a rumbling train and a scream plummeting downward.

"I'll see you in the theater?" Then Steve walked away to settle himself nicely in a seat, flickering film playing on rotate. Steve and Bucky shoulder to shoulder, Steve and Bucky arguing over strategy with no sound, Steve and Bucky smiling and laughing. it made his heart squeeze in his chest, and Steve couldn't shake the cold in his chest even as Peggy came on the screen, talking about him. The words were nothing, a buzz in his ears as he wondered who he could talk to. He wanted pictures to take on, something to hold and look at. Something that wasn't cold metal around his neck. Bucky's smile looped around again, flashing bright on the screen.

'Act like you're friends,' the camera operator said, directing them. He was there to take video for boosting the morale of the American public. The others couldn't care less. The cameras made Steve's skin crawl, but suddenly that was the farthest thought from his mind as Bucky started laughing, warm and bright. Steve started laughing with him.

'We are friends!'

Steve sighed, swallowing thick and harsh. He would see Bucky within these walls, and he was willing to go flat broke. The film here was priceless, the pictures worth well over a thousand words. His Bucky was stuck within the museum walls, and in any another context, he would have been thrilled. Now, Steve just felt like he was leaving him alone and cold, but he couldn't stay too long. Not if he expected to deter attention, to keep them a safe secret.

"I gotta go pal," Steve whispered as the screen went back to Peggy, his best girl. "I hate to leave. You should come home soon, alright?" The unspoken I miss you lingered in the air as Steve stood, shaking his head and getting ready to stride quickly out. Striding to the doorway, he kept his back turned to the screen.

"Jerk."