see the stars again

Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2015

He should ask Sam. Sam would be straight with him about it. Ha. The irony.

He picked up his phone and dialed before he could think himself out of it.

“How do you think the general public would respond if Captain America were gay?” Steve asked immediately, as casually as he could. His heart thumped in his chest in that concerning way he hadn’t felt since before the serum.

Sam left a moment of charged silence on the other end.

“Well… Is he?” He finally answered. Steve opened his mouth to reply but Sam interrupted him. “Wait-- Wait… I don’t think talking about this in the third person is very healthy. So: Are you?”

Steve chuckled at that. Sam, your therapist is showing. But then he really thought about it and frowned, because, honestly, he couldn’t say.

“I-- I don’t know.”

“Then I guess it doesn’t matter.” He could almost hear Sam shrug.

“But what if I am?” Steve sighed and pressed his free hand to his forehead. He leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “What if I think about it and, I don’t know, read a bunch of books, start journaling, I don’t know. What if I think about it and I come to the conclusion that I am. What then?”

“Well I can’t speak for everybody, buddy, but I know I’d be okay with it.” And really, isn’t that just exactly what Steve needed to hear. If there was any more cementing that needed to be done to confirm that Steve one hundred percent did not deserve him, this would definitely do it.

He let out a heavy breath. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. So… Is this your way of coming out? Because, I love you, and I thank you for trusting me, but as your best friend, I’d expected more than a phone call.”

Best friend? “Expected?” Steve mused out loud.

Sam let out a frustrated noise. “You know what I meant.”

He didn’t. “I don’t.”

“God-- Nevermind! You’re not a flamer if that’s what you’re worried about!”

“I don’t think that’s a very nice thing to say.” Steve had been trying desperately to keep up with all the recent slang. Learning what was appropriate and not anymore was a very nuanced subject, he’d found.

He heard a thunk that was unmistakably Sam’s head against a wall. “This is going off the rails.”

Steve stayed silent, frowning and picking at the dirt under his fingernails.

“Do you-- Are you-- What’s brought this on?” Sam asked.

“What?”

“What made you start thinking about this? Questioning?”

The obvious answer of Bucky hung in the air before he voiced it.

“Was it-- like that with you guys back then? I thought Peggy was your sweetheart.” Sam said and Steve realized this was a bad idea. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to have to explain it. He wanted people to just know.

“No… No it was never-- well kind of. I mean, we, um, talked about it but... Yeah. Peggy was my sweetheart and being gay was wrong and I think-- I think Bucky knew he was about to die. I don’t know how but… He knew.” Steve rubbed his forehead anxiously again.

“Being gay isn’t wrong, Steve. It never has been, even if some other people said otherwise for a while.” Sam vehemently insisted.

“Yeah, Sam, I know.” He didn’t, not really. He knew but he didn’t really believe it. It just sounded like the thing to say right then.

“Maybe you’re bisexual.” Sam said, so plainly and obviously, Steve was caught off guard.

He paused for a moment. “Does it matter?” He asked. Because it really didn’t feel like any of it mattered. Bucky was lost in the wind and Peggy was halfway gone herself and Steve knew he wasn’t ready to get back out there, no matter how hard Natasha tried.

“Most people seem to think it does. Like-- labeling your identity can be really freeing for a lot of people, it can connect you with a community and help you realize you’re not alone.” Sam needed to take fewer of those CEU’s.

“I’ve read the books, Sam.” He shouldn’t be so rude. Sam was only trying to help.

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, I don’t-- I shouldn’t have called.” There wasn’t anything Sam could say that’d be an answer for him. He knew that, and it wasn’t fair to put Sam in this position. He started to pull his phone away to hang up.

“No, wait! Do you want to come out? I’m sure there’s some sort of Avengers PR person. We could talk to them about it. You know everybody-- everybody who matters, would be on your side.”

“I guess.. I don’t know.” He said hesitantly, Sam just barreled right on over him.

“Have you told Peggy? Talked to her about it?” And wasn’t that the kicker.

“Last time I went to visit, she… She wasn’t very lucid. It didn’t feel like the time. I don’t--” His chest clenched again and there was the tell-tale prickling behind his eyes. It was so hard to see her like that, a pressing reminder of all that he had lost.

“I think, if you talked to her, you’d feel better. I think you know that too. But you’re talking to me now because it’s easier and you’re cowardly.”

“I’m what?!” Steve demanded, rising from his chair like that’d even do anything. How could Sam say that? That had never-- never been an accusation against him. Bull-headed, stubborn, and carelessly reckless, but never cowardly.

Sam, of course, was always the one to stand up against him when he needed it. “You know I’m right, Rogers. Don’t lie to me.”

Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, Steven Grant Rogers. Bucky’s words rattled around in his head. He slumped back down in his chair, defeated. Sam was right.

“Fine. Fine, I-- I’ll talk to her.” He sighed.

“Good.” They both paused with finality. “And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, and I’m proud of you. Always.” Sam said, and he could hear the heartbreaking sincerity in his voice.

Steve said something, probably a goodbye or a thanks or an absent-minded ‘I love you, too’ but he couldn’t remember. Could barely even think as he started to cry, his tears dripping onto the floor between his bare feet.

Brooklyn, New York, USA - 1936

It was an unusually cold day in late April when it happened. Or maybe, Steve had just thought it was unusually cold in his fog of mourning and grief. Sarah had taken a turn for the worst a week or so ago, coughing up blood and too weak to leave her bed. Steve had insisted someone stay with her and be by her side at all times. He’d taken a job illustrating at a local newspaper to pay for at least some of her medical bills. Their neighbor, Delores, was generous enough to take on the duty when he had to go to work. Delores read aloud to Sarah all day, wiped the sweat from her brow, encouraged her to eat a little something, all the things Steve wished he could stay home and do. Delores was a saint.

It was one of Steve’s rare days off. As painful as it was to see her like this, he was grateful to see to her care himself, for once. What the doctors explained as ‘the surge’ had, at the time, seemed like a fortuitous blessing. And it was a blessing, to spend time with his mother in her final moments while she was lucid and happy. But it made the end that much more painful.

He’d helped her to sit in the rocking chair in the living room, shuffling along the cold floor, supporting most if not all of her weight. She was content to just sit in the sun streaming in from the window, looking down at the passersby down on the street. Steve was content to just sit and watch her, gently holding her hand.

He had to step out for only a moment. He wanted to get some flowers from the vendor down the street, daisies wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. Well, it had supposed to only been for a moment but Mr. Margolis had stopped him to talk and it had been closer to an hour before he made it back home.

When he walked into their drafty old apartment nothing seemed out of place. Sarah was sitting peacefully in her chail just like Steve had left her. Her eyes were closed and she had a small smile on her face. Her fingers were slack against her shawl, like she had been trying to tug it closer and ward off the chill.

Steve went over to the kitchen sink and got out a drinking glass, tall enough to act as a vase. He quickly filled it with water and arranging all of the stems just so. She always deserved to be surrounded by beautiful things and he wanted them to be the first thing his mother saw when he woke her up.

He set them gingerly in the window and crouched down beside her. Immediately, he knew something was wrong and his eyebrows came together in a concerned frown. He was hesitant as he reached out a hand to brush away a wisp of hair in his mother’s face. As his fingertips lightly trailed against her forehead, she was cold.

Brooklyn, New York, USA - 2015

You can survive without sleep. Or-- You can survive on very little sleep. You can survive without ever achieving what’s known as ‘REM’ sleep; at least that’s what Bruce told him when Steve asked. With the serum, Steve needed it even less, apparently. Steve didn’t think that was exactly fair because he’s been tired since he watched Bucky fall to his death off that train. Now all he really wants is just one good night’s sleep.

Even before the serum, Steve didn’t have nightmares. There were plenty of times when he couldn’t sleep, from physical pain or stress or anxieties. But he never had nightmares. Even after seeing the horrors of war, after the Chitauri attack, after Bucky bleeding him to a bloody pulp on the helicarrier in DC, Steve didn’t have one nightmare.

Except-- except exactly one week after he found his mother dead. He’d had nightmares then. Then, seven days later, they’d stopped completely and he returned to the same dreamless rest he’d always had.

It was a surprise, then, when he woke up in a clammy sweat from a horrible nightmare in his apartment in Brooklyn. His mother’s cold dead hand in his own, Bucky’s frozen fingers slipping from his grasp, ice pressing in around him on the Valkyrie. It took a minute for him to orient himself in the dark room, breathing heavy. He almost didn’t notice the shadowy figure in the corner.

It was Bucky. Steve knew it before he’d even registered the thought. His hair was still long, pulled away from his clean-shaven face. It was slicked back and for a moment Steve would have believed he’d been transported back to 1941. It was his steely eyes, though, that placed him in the context of modern day. Hardened by time and experience, that definitely hadn’t been there before the war. Last time Steve had seen him, almost a year ago, they had been wide, scared, and confused, now they were just dark.

“Do you know me?” There were so many things Steve wanted to ask, important, meaningful things. But of course his brain had never been that great at controlling what came out of his mouth.

He flicked on the lamp on the bedside table, casting the room in a dim orange glow. Bucky stepped forward. He looked… curious.

“You’re Steve.”

Steve was careful not to let any of his rollercoaster of emotions play out on his face, waiting for Bucky to continue.

“I read about you in a museum.” He rasped; his voice deep and rough from disuse.

Well that was a gigantic goddamn lie. Bucky knew him. Steve saw his guarded recognition splayed across his face, plain as day. He sat up, sliding against the headboard, suddenly very aware of his bare chest. He crossed his arms around himself; Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement.

“What are you doing here?” He tried to sound demanding but it came out barely above a whisper.

Bucky continued to stare at him blankly.

Steve didn’t want to look away but he did, down to his lap where he was fiddling with his thumbs like he always did when he tried to concentrate.

“I’m sorry.” He breathed. He felt his bangs flop into his face, keeping himself well-groomed hadn’t been much of a priority lately. “I’m sorry I didn’t-- It’s my fault HYDRA got to you-- I’m-- I…”

He trailed off when he heard Bucky’s deliberate footsteps fade away down the hall. Steve scrambled out of bed to follow him. He wanted to reach a hand out, put one on his shoulder, God maybe even pull him into a hug. But Steve knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. This wasn’t-- This wasn’t Bucky. This was a trained assassin, a man destroyed by literally decades of torture and abuse. This was somebody new. Steve cursed himself for all those years he pushed Bucky away. Bucky had always been so tactile. Steve could still picture the hurt on Bucky’s face when Steve involuntarily flinched away from a comforting hand on his neck or pat on the knee. What he wouldn’t give to have those moments back, to live them differently.

“Bucky, what--” Steve closed his mouth with an audible click when Bucky whirled around to glare at him. Okay. No talking.

They came to a stop in the living room. Bucky stood in the very middle, sentinel and quiet. Steve hoved in the doorway, unsure. He watched as Bucky shook out of some sort of reverie, glancing over his shoulder as if he’s surprised Steve is still standing there. He motioned to the couch and wrestled with something in the pocket of his leather jacket. Steve took a seat, crossing his arms over his chest again. He should have grabbed a shirt.

Bucky took out a cigarette and lit it, barely glancing at Steve before he spoke.

“I tried to kill you.” He sounded sure and convicted, but not guilty.

“Yes.” Steve said, because he really didn’t know what else to do.

“You’ve been looking for me-- following me.” He had stated pacing.

“Yes.” Steve was not following the plot of this conversation at all.

“Why?” He asked, finally coming to a stop and perching on the coffee table in front of Steve. Bucky looked up at him from under his lashes; the moonlight streaming in from the window illuminated his face beautifully.

“Bucky, I-- Well, because you’re my friend.” Steve’s fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch, to make sure he was real.

“You said.” Bucky stared at the smoke coming off of his cigarette. He sighed, hanging his head and pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. “I’m so lost, Steve.”

Steve took a risk and reached out to grip the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket. He leaned forward, holding on tightly to Bucky’s shoulder and pressed their foreheads together. He breathed out shakily and tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ve got you, Buck-- I’ve found you.”

Manhattan, New York, USA - 2012

In these kinds of situations, there really was no way out but through. And even then, Steve didn’t necessarily want to admit he was only kidding himself thinking there was a way out. It’s not that he didn’t like the 21st century, just that-- well, he didn’t really like the 21st century. He grew up in the city, he was used to noise, but it seemed like now it had been amplified a few overwhelming decibels. That, along with horrible fluorescent lighting everywhere was enough to give him a headache-- if he could still get one. It was like he couldn’t think, couldn’t get his head around the fact that he’d survived and others didn’t and the world kept turning eating up every goddamn day just to mock him. Steve wasn’t adjusting well.

When all those late night hours at the gym did nothing to keep the demons at bay, Steve had to come up with something else to try and combat it. Growing up, he remembered at Christmastime making barmbrack with his mom. It was the one time of year he’d really ever gotten a taste of something sweet. He decided that trying to perfect the recipe would be a good way to get his mind off things. But it just ended up making him more frustrated. It never tasted the same, and after so many months with no success he was about ready to give up.

He tossed the metal mixing bowl into the sink with a loud clang. The kitchen was a mess and he honestly had no idea how long he’d been awake at that point. His eyes itched and his limbs felt heavy, but he was still so restless.

“Y’alright?” He heard someone tentatively ask behind him.

He whirled around to see his PA, Marigold, that Pepper had insisted he employ. He was reluctant at first. He knew the way Fury looked at him. It was the same way Senator Brandt did: as a collectible item, a marketing ploy, and public en masse jackpot. Steve didn’t want to be used again, manipulated, or put on a shelf. Pepper had been right though, in the end, he couldn’t possibly keep up with-- well, everything, without at least a little help.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” He murmured, shamefully starting to pick up the mess he’d made in his frustrated rage.

“No I imagine you didn’t.” He waited for her to comment on his bad attitude but she just swiped at the phone in her hand when it chimed.

“Is there something pressing you needed to tell me?” Steve had given her a key for convenience purposes, but he knew she rarely used it. Only whenever he was on missions or running training programmes out of DC or whatever else he could come up with to keep busy and spend less time alone in his giant empty apartment.

“Actually, I wasn’t expecting you to be here. I was going to clean out the fridge and water your plants.” He had plants? “When did you get back?”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Then I got back three days ago.” Nick had been pushing him to just up and move to DC but Steve couldn’t abandon Brooklyn-- especially not after the Charturi attack. He tried to spend as much of his time helping to rebuild but going back and forth usually got in the way.

“Have you slept?” He shrugged. “Well, you should have told me-- I need to know these things to manage your schedule.”

He rolled his eyes and gave her a sardonic smile. “Manage my schedule?”

Of course, Mari was unphased. “Captain Rogers, when I say that, I mostly mean fielding hundreds if not thousands of requests for your presence at any number of events. I’m not here to make sure you remain a public figure-- I’m here to assure that you don’t.”

Oh. Well now he felt like an ass. Steve sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my own personal frustrations out on you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Now get some rest, I’ll get somebody in here to clean this up.” She fished out the keys to his apartment from her gigantic handbag and walked toward the door again. Pausing mid-step, she turned back to him. “I’m in your corner, Steve, whether you know it or not. Goodnight.”

The moment the door clicked behind her, Steve fell back against the wall. He swallowed thickly, shoved down his emotions and ignored the stinging behind his eyes.

He turned on the kitchen sink and got out the soap. Nothing could get to him if he was always moving.

Bucharest, Romania - 2015

It had been three months, one week, and six days since Steve had seen Bucky. Steve had been naive to think he could have Bucky back in his life after that random appearance in his bedroom. Steve hadn’t caught even a single solitary glimpse of him since that night, three months, one week, and six days ago. He didn’t tell anyone he was keeping count. But with the knowing looks everyone threw at him when his back was turned, Steve was just constantly reaffirmed that he really was horrible at keeping secrets.

Bucky was on the run; he had to have been. After the information dump and dissolution of both HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D., governments were just starting to get their feet back underneath them, which meant they were searching for now-known criminals. It sickened Steve to think that Bucky was no longer just wandering about aimlessly trying to find himself, but actively evading multiple government agencies. Neither situation was ideal but the latter was definitely worse.

With about 80% of the world on high alert, it did make finding him a hell of a lot easier.

“Incoming, Cap.” Sam’s voice crackled over the coms.

Bucky’s apartment in Bucharest was just as sparse and rundown as the one in Kyiv. The fluorescent tube hung in the kitchen off-kilter. It flickered and buzzed. Steve picked up a leather journal, Bucky hadn’t had this before, did he? He flipped through the pages of notes and mathematics and pictures cut out of magazines until he felt a presence behind him.

Steve turned around carefully, movements slow and deliberate.

“Bucky.” He looked-- good. Better than before, and Lord knows Steve committed every last minute detail of that night to memory.

Bucky stayed silent.

“I-- you never came back?” He kept his shoulders squared, but he felt anything but confident.

Bucky shrugged.

“On the roof. I’m compromised.” Sam said in his ear.

“There are people, governments— they’re looking for you.”

“They should be, I’m dangerous.” Bucky said flatly.

“You don’t believe that.” Steve insisted.

“No, you don’t believe that. I’m fully aware of what I am and the dangers I pose, Steve.” It hurt when Bucky said his name now, like this. It just wasn’t right. Things with Bucky weren’t supposed to hurt.

“And what’s that? What are you?” Steve asked, flexing his hand in the holster of his shield. Bucky turned his head to listen to the soldiers’ footsteps overhead.

“Less than a minute.”

He held Steve’s gaze, a challenge. “A weapon.”

Then, finally, the soldiers breached the apartment, the crash of a flash bomb through the window and all hell broke loose.