To hold
They shouldn’t have brought him back. When they found that goddamn plane in the ice they should’ve left it there. But they had to dig him out.
When he first woke up he wondered if this was heaven. But then again aren’t you supposed to feel… good? Or lighter at least? So it’s hell. Maybe that’s his punishment, being alone in a room forever. Ok, not being in a room, but stuck in a weird place, a weird city that looked a lot like New York but was so different from the city he knew.
What a shock to find out he wasn’t in any kind of afterlife, but instead very much still living. In the future. With almost everyone he ever knew already dead. His home changed so much that it was unrecognisable. Hell after all.
And now he isn’t even in New York anymore. S.H.I.E.L.D. asked and he followed. They were founded not long after he went down in the ice. A feeble attempt to build a connection, Steve was very aware of it. But what else was he supposed to do? Not fight anymore? What would he do with his time, his strength? It would be wasted. So he sits in his apartment in Washington D.C. waiting for the next mission, keeping himself busy and distracted.
Steve would rather be home. Except that it isn’t home anymore, not really. He had been to his old neighborhood, barely recognising it. Too much has changed. Everything is too bright now, too loud. The people always seem to be in a rush now. He has stood in front of the building where he first lived with his mother and later with Bucky. It was the same building, yet it looked nothing like the home he once knew. Every trace of the old was gone, had been replaced or renewed in some way or another. The fire escape where he and Bucky often sat in the evening, enjoying the last rays of sunshine, was still in the same place, but seemed to be replaced at some point in time. Bucky never sat on these, having a smoke. Steve never sat on these, sketching away.
It had hurt looking at it, but maybe less so as if it would have been the same, seeing Bucky in every brick of the wall, in every window reflection, Bucky in the doorway or on the fire escape. At least he could pretend that he had no connection to these stones, this city. It was easier in a way, to think of it as a completely different place. Still he longs for Brooklyn, for his home. He longs for his mother. He longs for Bucky. But he is here, in a different city, in a different time. A time where everyone seems to know his story, his life after the serum pictured in books and films. He is a legend. He is a hero.
Steve Rogers is dead. Long live Captain America.
So he does what he knows how to do. He throws himself into work. S.H.I.E.L.D. is not so bad. At least they keep him busy. Fury is not so bad. Sometimes he reminds him of Colonel Phillips a little bit. Romanoff is… actually, Natasha is alright. There is an invisible bond between them, both having seen and done things most people their age can’t imagine. It was Natasha who had first dragged him into the exhibition.
When Steve first heard of it he felt uncomfortable and a tad embarrassed. Mostly he thought the whole thing was over the top. So many soldiers laid down their lives in this war. The only difference was that unfortunately most of them didn’t come back from the dead. Lucky bastards.
She probably thought it was a funny idea. She snickered at Steve’s uncomfortable squirming as she bought tickets to the museum. Steve was decked out in a stupid hat and glasses so that no one would recognise him, though he doubted that would do the trick. Natasha gave him a look that said: ‘You’d be surprised.’
“Don’t you wanna know how people see you nowadays? Maybe see what they got right and what they got wrong?” Natasha asked in an attempt to get Steve excited. The truth is he couldn’t care less. So what if people believe this or doubt that? Most people only cared for Captain America anyway. Steve Rogers, the boy from Brooklyn, wasn’t of much interest. Some things didn’t seem to change.
Right off the bat it was too much. Everything was obnoxiously red white and blue and there were too many pictures of him. Multiple video screens played old film reels on repeat and a recorded voice talked over some exhibits like an invisible narrator. Natasha had chosen a weekday and it was around noon so at least it wasn’t crowded. Still he felt like all eyes were on him, surely sooner or later would try to talk to him and that’s the last thing he wanted. Look at that, Captain America looks at pictures of himself. What a narcissist!
They walked along the route that the museum suggested, stopping every now and then to read, watch, or listen. Natasha had turned around after studying a sign on the wall and asked with a smirk: “Were you really smaller than me?”
Only there was no one behind her. Where did Steve wander off to? She scanned the room and eventually her eyes locked on broad shoulders. He stood in front of a tall glass wall that had the face of a young man printed on it. Steve seemed to be fixated by the photograph. Intrigued, she got closer.
He was frozen in place.
Bucky.
Bucky.
He looked so serious, frowning in black and white. Steve wished he could brush his hair away from his forehead. The photograph had pulled him in like a magnet. He didn’t have any pictures of Bucky. The few that had existed either got lost during the decades or were in collections like this one. The things he saw, the stuff that's on the internet was often grainy and blurry compared to the photos of this time. But this picture was so clear. He couldn’t stop staring at it, he didn’t even notice Natasha’s presence by his side. He didn’t hear her calling his name in a soft voice. He didn’t know how long he stared, any sense of time lost. There was some movement at the bottom of his vision that finally distracted him.
On the ground the glass wall was stuck in a concrete base with another screen embedded in it. Natasha followed his line of sight and watched the short clip that played on repeat. It looked like an outtake from one of the propaganda films or newsreels of the time. Scenes like this would have normally been cut and destroyed, but somehow this one survived into the digital age. One the screen were two men, one of them unmistakingly Steve, and the other one must be his friend, Barnes. If Natasha didn’t know better she would have guessed that Steve had made a joke, from the way he was proudly grinning looking at the other man, who was laughing.
Rogers making a joke? Impossible! But then again, she never saw him smiling like that.
She looked up again, just in time to see Steve’s eyes well up with tears. “Steve”, she tried again, grabbing his arm this time. “It was a bad idea coming here, I’m really sorry Steve. Let’s get out of here, ok?” Steve didn’t move, eyes still fixed to the screen. At first Natasha thought Steve didn’t hear her again, but then he began to slightly shake his head.
It was as if his feet were stuck to the ground. It hurt so much looking at Bucky, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. It was just when Natasha tightened her hold on his arm and began to pull him away he yielded. His vision was so blurry as he followed the redhead’s lead on shaky legs. They almost made it into the normal part of the museum, but Steve stopped dead in his tracks once again.
There they were, all lined up, faceless and white, and yet Steve could see all their faces as clear as day. Corpses all of them. Cold dead mannequins. He stood in the middle, a uniform that’s so old, even though he wore it not even three years ago, an impractical cowl, and a prop shield that has always been rather breakable. And right on his left, the only soldier without any headwear on, the only one whose jacket wasn’t green or brown, but instead almost matching Steve’s uniform with it’s dark blue.
He remembered how it felt. How could he forget when he touched it so many times, way too often realy to be considered platonic. He felt so fragile looking at it after seeing Bucky’s face, after watching him laugh. Would it still feel the same? Would it smell like it did? He was so close, yet not close enough.
Suddenly Natasha stepped in front of him, shaking him out of his thoughts. He realized that his arm was extended, as if he tried to reach for the coat. He wasn’t even aware that he had moved. She pulled on his arm again. “Come on Rogers, let’s get to my car and get out of here. Everything’s alright, you just have to move so we can go, ok?” Her voice was soft but firm.
Steve was broken and weak, so he let her pull him out of the exhibition without further resistance, feet walking on their own. They got to the underground garage, even made it to Natasha’s sleek sports car. But just as Steve wanted to get in, the images of the exhibition flooded his mind. Bucky’s picture, Bucky’s laugh, Bucky’s coat. Bucky’s ghost everywhere, but not Bucky. Bucky was dead, died 70 years ago. Because Steve didn’t get to him fast enough. Because Steve couldn’t hold him when it mattered. Because Steve wasn’t there for the one time Bucky needed him.
His vision swam and the fumes that hung in the air made him nauseous, it was hard to breathe, his lungs cramping painfully. Before he knew it he was sitting on the cold concrete floor, hugging his own legs close and wheezing. He felt like he was going to die. Maybe he was. He hoped he would. He could be with Bucky again. He could have peace.
Natasha came around the car at lightning speed and dropped down next to Steve, laying her hands atop of his knees. “Steve! Steve, listen, I know the air in here stinks, but you gotta take deep breaths, ok? Can you do that? Deep and slow breaths. Yeah, just like that. That’s good Steve. That’s great.” Steve began to regain control of his body, slowly loosening the tight grip around his legs as Natasha kept on spilling encouraging words. “You’re doing really good Steve, but I need you to get up, just long enough to get into the car. Can you do that? Just nod whenever you’re ready, ok?”
It took a few minutes more, but eventually Steve found the strength to nod once, then once again. He began to raise himself onto his still shaking legs, Natasha supporting him with her small frame. She maneuvered him into the car seat and closed the door before she went around the car to get into the driver's seat.
The drive to his apartment was quiet, for which Steve was thankful. He couldn’t even look at Natasha, let alone talk to her about what happened, and he couldn’t stand it if the radio was playing. Miraculously they found a parking spot right in front of Steve’s apartment complex.
“Come on, I’ll walk you up”, Natasha said. Steve was about to protest, but the redhead had already slipped out of her door. He sighed. Natasha probably won’t leave him for an hour at least. She would probably look after him, like he was a small child who can’t be left alone.
They entered the building together, they walked up the stairs, and, arriving at the door, Steve let her into his apartment. He excused himself immediately to go to the bathroom, where he washed his face, faucet turned as cold as it would get. He reemerged from the bathroom just in time to see Natasha walking out of his kitchen, holding a big glass full of water.
“I put some sedative in it”, she informed him. “I think you should lay down for a while, get some sleep.” Steve knew that the medicine wouldn't work. Too many sleepless nights plagued by nightmares taught him that. He took the glass anyway and muttered his thanks before taking three big gulps. The cool water felt nice as it ran down his throat.
Meanwhile Natasha fidgeted before him. Finally she opened her mouth. “Look Steve, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you there, I should have known better.” It was a strange thing hearing her sounding so insecure.
“It’s alright, Natasha. If I had thought I couldn’t handle this stuff I wouldn’t have come. I guess it took me by surprise too. It was just a lot. But not your fault.” She nodded without meeting his eyes. Steve took two more gulps of water. Natasha spoke again, hesitantly.
“In the museum, the man in the video-”
“Don’t”, Steve interrupted, a little too harsh. “Not now. Not today. Please”, he added, his voice softer.
“Yes, of course”, Natasha quickly said. “It’s just… You can talk to me, you know? Not now of course, but if you’d want to I’ll listen.” Steve’s inside melted a little bit at that moment. They were still awkwardly standing between the kitchen and the living room, two people around the same age, yet brought up completely different and now living in a world that differs from their background in many ways. And both of them are just trying to do good. It even made him smile the smallest bit.
“Thanks Natasha. But that goes the other way around too. I am also a good listener and I’m sure you have a lot you should talk about to somebody.” That’s when Natasha raised her head to meet Steve’s eyes, a smirk on her lips.
“How rude to turn on me like that, Rogers.”
Steve huffed amused before emptying his glass. Even though the sedative did nothing for him he would actually try to sleep later. The day drained all his energy. For a minute they stood together in comfortable silence.
“Do you want me to stay?” Natasha asked gently. Steve shook his head.
“No, I’d rather be alone. I’m gonna lie down for a bit, like you suggested. I’ll be alright.”
Natasha nodded and gave him a small smile. “I leave then. Goodbye Steve. Take care.” She petted his arm one last time and then she was out of the door. Steve waited a few moments longer, listening to her steps in the hallway as she walked down the stairs. When even his enhanced ears didn’t pick up any more of her sounds he went into his kitchen where he rinsed his glass and put it away to dry. Then he moved to his bedroom, grabbing a pillow and his blanket from the bed and laying them down on the floor. He drew the blinds before he lowered himself to the floor too, pulling the blanket over his body, and closed his eyes.
It has been two months since he first went to the Smithsonian and Steve couldn’t stay away from it. After the first visit he thought he could never step into the exhibition again, all the feelings tying him to it too raw. But after a week he was drawn towards it again, an invisible magnet in his guts pulling and pulling until he stood in front of the glass wall again, until he stood in front of the mannequins. He went alone and didn’t tell anyone about it, though he had a feeling that Natasha knew. If she did she had the courtesy not to mention it. At least until this one evening.
When Steve steps into his apartment he immediately spots the black garment bag that someone had hung up on his bookshelf in the living room. There is a letter pinned to its front. First Steve listens but hears no one else in the apartment. He shakes out of his jacket and heels off his shoes before he goes to unpin the letter from the bag. The envelope is blank, so he opens it to read the pages inside. Natasha’s handwriting is distinctive.
Steve,
Remember when I asked you what you would like to have back from the museum? If you could have one thing back, which would you choose? You never gave me an answer, but I figured it would be something like this.
Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it. Technically it’s a loan from the exhibition, but I’ll doubt they’re going to hassle an Avenger about it. They said it’s a replica anyway, but I thought maybe you’d like to have it anyway.
N
Steve puts the letter aside and opens the zipper of the garment bag with trembling fingers. He could already guess what's inside. He still gasps once the zipper is undone and he pulls the sides apart to reveal dark blue fabric. Even without Natasha’s words Steve had known that the coat was not the original. Bucky had it on when he …
But it was probably from their time and it looked just like the one Steve knows… knew. He reaches out tentatively. It only takes the slightest contact with his fingertips and a wave of ice crashes over him, restricts his lungs, makes his whole body shiver. Steve barely manages not to cry as he takes the coat out of the bag and lays it neatly out on the floor next to his pillow and comforter. It has to be close to him, even though it just smells like lost decades and mothballs. A part of Steve’s brain tells him that it’s silly, pathetic even, but the bigger part of him is just so lonely.
Men scream while something explodes not far away. So many screams, all coming from the same voice. Blood and mud splashes, hitting him square in the face. He doesn’t know which of the two. Bullets fly through the air, accompanying the sound of gunshots. Severed limbs lie on the ground, steel helmets that belong to nobody. He’s not fast enough. He’s not strong enough. No matter how many soldiers he tries to save, no matter how many enemies he kills, they just keep coming. Soon there will be too many. Soon they will come for him. Soon they will get him.
Steve wakes in a flash, panting, drenched in sweat, his hands flying to the sides and one of them landing on rough fabric. And for a moment, for a brief moment, it’s 1944 in Europe and he’s in a tent, Bucky sleeping next to him. He didn’t take his coat off because it’s damn cold Rogers and not everyone is a spitfire like you or should I remind you of when you got the shivers so bad that one winter, your whole bed rattled?
But then he wakes up for real. Because there's no breathing chest with a beating heart under the fabric, only the cold hardwood floor. Steve’ head is slow to turn towards his hand. When his eyes finally fall down to the floor he sees his fingers cramped into the piece of clothing. And it’s cold and lifeless.
He gasps as the first tears roll down his cheeks. He rolls around so his forehead presses right in the middle of the chest. If there were a chest to fill the coat. The thought makes Steve cry even harder. He lets his vice grip go to hug the jacket around it’s middle instead, burying his face even further. He sobs and wails until the fabric was soaked with his tears, and then some more. Steve doesn’t know how long it took, but he finally calmed down, resuming his position and holding the old uniform close.
He loves Bucky, present term, because he still does. He could admit it to himself now. He couldn’t back then. He wishes he could have. Maybe they could have …
But that doesn’t matter now. Because Bucky was dead. Steve hugs the coat impossibly tighter. It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter…
Eventually he is able to let go of the garment. The digital clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s 4:17 in the morning. There’s no point in trying to get back to sleep now. So he stands up, carefully gathering the coat and hanging it up on his closet door. Hopefully the tears don’t leave any stains.
He should give it back to the museum. He loves Bucky, but he can’t keep living like this. He has to move on, or else they might put him in one of those glass boxes and put him in the exhibition as well. There’s no use living in the past and the ‘what might have been’, it just hurts. So he’ll give the uniform back to the museum. But not today and probably not tomorrow either. Next week maybe. Or two weeks from now. Enough time to say goodbye and close this chapter. Maybe a month will be enough to do that. But he’ll definitely give it back.
Steve goes to the bathroom, then to the kitchen for some water, then back to the bedroom. He tries very hard not to look at his closet door every time he passes it. Another look at the clock shows that it’s 4:31 now. Steve still feels restless, like he needs to clear out his head. So he puts on his workout gear, tying his shoes good and tight.
Might as well go for a morning run.