Chapter Text
When it happened, it didn’t make any sense.
Delirious from pneumonia, Tony had spent the day talking to someone named Jarvis, asking him for schematics, to adjust projects, and to run scenarios. He would wave his hands in the air as though conducting an orchestra. He also kept demanding smoothies from a dummy. Every time he looked at Steve — really looked and saw him — he would call Steve Cap and ask why he was here. It broke Steve’s heart every time. He didn’t know how his ma and Bucky had done this for him so many times. It was worse when he fell asleep, because at least if Tony were talking, Steve could make sure he was breathing.
Steve was so exhausted he’d fallen asleep in the chair by the bed at least twice that day. He and Bucky had talked about putting Tony in the bathtub again to break the fever, but it was so cold outside Steve was afraid the water wouldn’t be warm enough. Steve was also running out of excuses to keep Bucky from seeing the blue thing in Tony’s chest that was keeping him alive.
Desperation loomed over Steve’s every waking moment, and he didn’t know what else to do. When Bucky came home from work that morning, Steve knew he could see it in his eyes. Bucky shooed Steve from the bedroom, demanding that Steve get cleaned up. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or even washed his face — when he thought about it, he wondered if it had been before Christmas, and they were already a few days into January.
Steve had hoped that 1940 was going to be better, but it wasn’t looking that way.
Steve filled the tub with hot water and sat in it, soaping himself up, when Bucky burst in, pale with fear in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” Steve challenged, getting out of the tub and dripping water all over the floor. He grabbed the towel and wrapped himself in it when Bucky clutched his upper arm.
“You haven’t seen Tony, have you?” Bucky asked, and he sounded a little frantic.
“What? Tony?” Steve answered. “Seen him? What do you mean?”
Bucky hesitated, looking directly into Steve’s eyes. “He’s gone.”
Steve felt the world tip on its axis for a moment, his head swimming. Then it righted itself, and Steve was grateful that Bucky was still holding him up by his arm. “What the hell do you mean, he’s gone? He wasn’t even fit for a haircut, let alone able to get up and walk out.”
Bucky shook Steve gently. “I have no idea what happened to him,” he said. “I left for thirty seconds to grab some water, thinking maybe I could get him to drink some, and when I came back, he was gone.”
Steve felt his knees buckle, and even with Bucky there, he collapsed against him, getting Bucky’s shirt and pajama pants all wet. They stood, chest to chest, as the silence stretched on, the impossibility of Tony’s disappearance hanging between them.
“Let me see,” Steve said, and he pushed away from Bucky. He hurried across the hall back into their apartment on unsteady legs. The bedroom door stood open, and Steve’s bed was empty. The sheets were still damp from Tony’s sweat, and his impression was still there in the rumpled blankets. Steve turned away, not daring to think about what it meant. He charged out of the apartment and down the three flights of stairs in nothing but his towel, before he burst out into the street.
There was freshly fallen snow on the ground, and it continued to fall, the fat flakes swirling around him as the wind blew down the street. Steve shivered from the cold, and he could see there were no fresh footprints leading from the building.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bucky demanded, appearing behind him. He hustled Steve back into the tenement building despite his protests. “You’re going to catch your death out here all wet in just a towel, you fucking idiot.”
Steve tried to fight Bucky, sure that if he could just stay out there long enough he would figure out where Tony had gone. It wasn’t much of a contest though; Bucky was bigger and stronger, not to mention that he’d been eating and sleeping better. Bucky dragged him back up the stairs as Steve fought him on each landing, looking for Tony on each floor. Once back in their apartment, Bucky made Steve finish drying off and get dressed.
“Maybe one of the neighbors let him in,” Steve said, trying to get past Bucky to go out in the hallway. They struggled again, and Steve managed to push Bucky into the wall next to the door. He reached over, pulling the door open, but Bucky grabbed him around the waist so he couldn’t get out. Bucky’s momentum overbalanced them both, and they tumbled to the floor. Bucky lunged, pinning Steve down. “I need to go ask them,” Steve pleaded, banging his fists on the floor. He then crossed his arms, putting his forehead down onto them so Bucky couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. “Maybe they’ve seen him,” he added, his voice muffled.
“You gotta stop,” Bucky said, not letting Steve up. He shifted around and kicked the door shut with his foot. “I was in the kitchen — there’s absolutely no way he got out without my seeing him unless he climbed down the fire escape —“ Bucky trailed off, and Steve felt more than saw him shake his head. “If I let you up, are you just going to try to leave again?”
“No,” Steve said, and he knew that Bucky could pick out the thickness in his voice from the tears, the despair.
Bucky moved off him, and they both sat on the floor together. Steve didn’t even bother trying to hide his tear-streaked face. Bucky pulled him over, and they sat with shoulders and hips and knees touching. Steve sobbed, unable to stop himself, and Bucky offered him a handkerchief, which Steve used to wipe his face.
“Something was never quite right about him,” Bucky said, not unkindly.
Steve shook his head. “I can’t explain it, but I don’t think he was from here.” Bucky gave him a look, and Steve rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Not like that,” Steve said. “He had a — thing — in his chest that he said was keeping him alive. He said he had a heart condition. That’s why I wouldn’t let you help clean him up. I was trying to protect him.”
“Well, you protecting him — that I believe,” Bucky said. “What do you mean, a thing?”
Steve got to his feet, and Bucky scrambled to follow, moving to block the door. Instead, Steve went into the drawing room, still sniffling. He rummaged through the milk crate with his sketchbooks and art supplies before pulling out one from the bottom. He flipped it open, searching through the pages then handed it to Bucky.
“The blue isn’t right,” was the only explanation Steve offered.
Bucky looked at the drawing before giving Steve an incredulous look. “He has this thing in his chest, and all you can tell me is the blue isn’t right?” Bucky sat down onto the couch heavily, flipping through the sketchbook.
There were at least fifty studies of it. Close-ups with the sharp lines forming a triangle in the center. Some showing just part of it and where it was set into the metal casing. Drawings of Tony himself, usually half-turned with a startled expression, the thing in his chest at an angle. Other sketches of a hand covering it, the light still shining through. Only one was straight on, and it was clearly from after Tony had gotten sick. Steve had drawn him asleep, sweaty and tangled in the sheets, one hand thrown over his chest up by his collarbone, leaving the blue thing completely visible. It was one of the few pictures with color, and the only thing Steve had shaded in was the — whatever it was — in the center of Tony’s chest.
It was a testament to Steve’s drawing skill that it always looked like it glowed, even when the sketches were just pencil or charcoal without color.
Steve sat next to him, ghosting his fingers over the drawing so as not to smear it. “Remember when he showed up? His strange clothes? I think we still have those shoes somewhere. How he didn’t seem to understand basic stuff everyone knows? And all that crazy stuff he talked about with the fever? Maybe he’s not from here.”
Bucky closed the sketchbook and covered his eyes. “Pal, you’ve been reading too many comic books,” was Bucky’s only reply.
“Then how do you explain him just disappearing?” Steve shot back. “I don’t believe he’d just leave.”
“I’m not the one who just ran out in the street in a towel to make sure,” Bucky answered. Steve punched him in the arm, and Bucky just laughed. “I’m sure Mrs. Grady appreciated that, by the way.” He mimicked flipping up the towel, and Steve punched him again before looking away.
Bucky sighed, the levity of the moment draining away as reality set back in. “Look, I don’t know what happened. Maybe it’s one of those miracles your ma always talked about. I think the best we can do is hope that wherever he is, they have something that can make his lungs better. Maybe even his heart.”
Steve took the sketchbook back and opened it back up. They looked at the pictures he’d drawn of Tony together. “I asked him if it would fix my heart,” Steve said after a few minutes of silence as they looked through the drawings.
“What did he say?” Bucky asked.
“He said that someday they’d come up with something to fix my heart,” Steve said. Bucky looked over at him, his expression full of sympathy. “I told him he was full of shit.”
Bucky burst out laughing at that. “Sounds about right.” Bucky turned to the last drawing, the one of Tony asleep on the bed. “You should’a told him, pal,” he said.
“I did,” Steve answered, and he drew a deep breathing before continuing. “I waited until he was sick. I don’t know if he heard me.”
“I hope he did, Steve. I really do.” Bucky threw his arm around Steve and gave him a squeeze.
They sat together in silence on the couch until Bucky eventually fell asleep, tired from the excitement and his day at work. Steve stretched out alongside him and closed his eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest as he breathed. He hadn’t admitted it earlier, but he was still chilly from his frantic search outside, and Bucky’s warmth seeped through his clothes, slowly warming him.
It wasn’t the same though. Steve wanted the warmth of Tony curled up behind him, having pulled Steve against his chest, his thighs tucked behind Steve’s. He longed for the hum of the mechanical thing in Tony’s chest, the one he could hear whenever Tony was close enough once he knew what he was listening for. He wanted the comfort of the blue light that always shined no matter how dark it was. They’d only slept curled like a few times, but Steve had never felt that comfortable.
Bucky was right — he should have told Tony sooner.
He thought about the last things Tony had said, the last of the confused ramblings earlier that morning. Tony had asked him to watch over him, to keep him safe. He’d insisted that Steve promise — so of course he had. And that had seemed enough, because Tony had visibly relaxed, finally falling into a deep and restful sleep. He was so confident that Steve — scrawny, sickly Steve — would be able to watch over him and keep him safe.
Steve just wished he knew how to do that.
(★)
Steve tried his best to get his life back on track. Between losing his ma in October and Tony in January, he knew it would be easy to just give up. He could still remember sitting in the grass at the Evergreens Cemetery, telling Tony about his ma and how she always got back up.
Telling Tony about how he didn’t know how to get back up after something like that.
The months after had been a haze, and he mostly remembered following Tony around the apartment. He’d had dreams that he could see that thing in Tony’s chest through his shirts and would wake up in the middle of the night, hoping to see the blue light shining comfortingly in the dark when he looked over at Bucky’s bed.
Then Tony had gotten sick, yanking him out of the haze of grief into a low-level panic that never really left him. He honestly didn’t know how Bucky and his ma had done it for him so many times — sitting at the bedside wondering if today was the day, if today the infection would overwhelm him and finally kill him. Steve had found a reason to live, even if it was only to keep Tony alive through sheer willpower.
But then he’d disappeared.
Steve knew it would have been easy to just stop caring at that point. But the things that Tony had said — both before he had gotten sick, about them finding a cure to his heart problems, and after, about watching over him and keeping him safe — they resonated in Steve’s head, playing over and over again. Tony had referred to him as Cap, and the title seemed to burrow in his thoughts, unable to be dislodged.
What had Tony known that he hadn’t told Steve?
It was that question — that burning feeling that there was something going on that he didn’t understand — that drove Steve to settle back into his old, pre-Tony routine. He decided to just have faith in what Tony had said after the fact, even if he hadn’t believed it at the time. Because, whatever Steve thought about it, Tony had believed it.
He had believed that Steve could save the world, that Steve was someone he could depend on.
Steve held onto that feeling as tightly as he could with both hands. He trusted that all of the things Tony had said were true. Even if they weren’t, that belief was enough to carry him.
It was enough to help him find a way to get back up again.
(★)
When he saw the first advertisement for the Stark Expo, Steve knew that he and Bucky had to go. The advertisement was a poster stapled to a light post, and Steve ripped it off to take home. He studied it the whole way, almost running into multiple people and stationary objects as he hurried back. It was mid-afternoon when Steve got home, and Bucky was still asleep. He left the poster on the kitchen table and waited in the living room for Bucky to get up, staring at the silent radio.
After a few minutes, he went back to the kitchen, grabbed the poster and one of his sketchbooks, and sat back down. He compared the marvels advertised on the poster with the drawings he’d made of the thing in Tony’s chest. None of them resembled that blue glowing disc.
Howard Stark, however, was a completely different matter. His picture was included on the poster, and Steve spent a long time studying the familiar bone structure, the same dark wavy hair, and the same expressive eyes. He wondered if the reproduction did justice to the actual man.
If so, it was one hell of a resemblance.
When Bucky woke up a little later, Steve wordlessly shoved the poster at him as he shuffled sleepily from the bedroom to the toilet. He paused, suddenly more awake. Bucky gestured with the poster, his tone little affronted. “Do you think —?” he started, shaking the piece of paper a little.
“Don’t crumple it,” Steve replied, taking the poster from him before he damaged it. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly him — but it sure looks close enough to be a relative, don’t you think? Especially with the name?”
Bucky shook his head, more in disbelief than disagreement. “Depends how close the picture is,” he said, running a hand through his short hair. “But you know that.” He moved into the kitchen, yelling over his shoulder, “Guess we have to go and see for ourselves.”
Steve remained on the couch and smoothed out the wrinkles in the poster. “Guess so,” he said quietly to himself.
A knock came on the door while Bucky was in the communal bathroom in the hallway. Steve opened it to find an older man there, wearing an olive drab dress uniform for the Army. He looked down at Steve, who saw his expression twist into disapproval before settling into confusion. “James Barnes?” he asked, brandishing a letter.
Steve felt his heart drop. “He’s getting cleaned up,” he answered slowly. “Let me go get him for you. You can wait in here,” he added as an afterthought, gesturing for the man to go in the kitchen. He got a sharp nod in return before Steve moved past him into the hall.
He tapped on the door before pushing it open. Bucky had his pants but no shirt, and he looked up in surprise at Steve’s appearance. “There’s a guy here for you,” Steve said, and he knew his reluctance was clear on his face. Bucky cocked his head to the side in confusion before pulling his undershirt on over his head. “From the draft board,” he clarified.
“Oh,” was all Bucky said in response as his head popped through the neck of his shirt, scattering water droplets from his wet hair everywhere. “I guess I’m not 2B any more.” He ran a hand through his hair before adding some pomade.
“He said he has a letter to give you,” Steve answered with a shrug.
Bucky gave him a knowing look through the mirror. “I assume it’s not because I suddenly don’t qualify any more,” he said drily. “They must have pulled my number and decided I’m more use in Europe than at the Navy Yard.”
“If you go, I’m going,” Steve said, setting his shoulders and standing up to his full height.
“I don’t think you get a say in that, pal,” Bucky shrugged, pushing past Steve.
“If they need guys so badly they’re pulling them off the Navy Yard,” Steve started, but Bucky cut him off.
“You signed up the same day I did, after they bombed Hawaii,” Bucky said, sticking his finger into Steve’s chest. “I saw the 4F they stamped on your card.” He turned to stalk down the hallway back towards the apartment.
“I have no right to do any less than any other man for my country,” Steve yelled after him.
Bucky turned just before he got to the door to the apartment. “Funny,” he said, his soft voice carrying back to Steve in the quiet hallway, “you never used to talk like this before your ma died and Tony disappeared.”
Steve reeled back, feeling the blow as if Bucky had physically struck him. He wanted to shout a thousand things back at Bucky: that the US hadn’t been at war then; that he’d been able to see a future for himself when he looked at Tony; that he had an obligation to defend his country from bullies who thought they could take whatever they wanted without any fear of consequences.
But the part that stung the most was that Bucky was at least partially right, even if Steve would never admit it to him: with his ma and Tony gone and Bucky off to who knows where, there was nothing left for him here.
Even when he had nothing, he’d had Bucky. Bucky, who helped him pick up the pieces every time his life was in ruins. Bucky, who helped him up and cleaned him off when he got his ass kicked in parking lots and alleys, behind diners and movie theaters.
But now? He wouldn’t even have Bucky.
He shook his head before storming back into the apartment. The man in the uniform had taken off his hat and tucked it under his arm, the distaste back on his face at Steve’s interruption. “As I was saying,” he said in a haughty tone, “you’ll get your orders in two weeks. You have until then to get your affairs in order. If you don’t present to the draft board at that time, you will be considered AWOL, and the military police will take you in for desertion. I suggest you show up.”
Bucky clicked his heels together, pulling himself up to his full height, throwing a jaunty salute, complete with a smirk. “Sir, yes sir,” he said.
The draft board official shifted his gaze from Bucky to Steve and back again slowly, as if inspecting something he knew would be particularly difficult to get off his shoe while spit-shining it that evening. “Good luck, soldier,” he said finally, brushing past Steve and out the apartment door.
“I don’t think he likes you much,” Steve said.
“I don’t think it’s me, but the feeling is mutual. He’s a little man with a little power.” Bucky threw the letter on the table before looking at Steve. “You sure you don’t recognize him? He seems like the kind of guy who’s kicked your ass before.”
“I definitely recognize his type.”
Steve drew a deep breath to resume the argument in the hallway, but Bucky turned away, bracing both of his fists on the table, letting his head drop and his shoulders slump. “Can we just — not tonight, Steve?” he asked quietly. “I have to go to work, and then I have to figure out a way to tell my parents and sisters, and I just — I just don’t have the energy for this tonight.”
Steve saw his shoulders shake a little, and he walked over to put a hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades, gently rubbing there. “He said the Navy Yard already knows — they told them earlier today. I have one more week there, and then another week to get my affairs in order,” he continued, echoing the phrase the official had used. Bucky’s shoulders slumped down, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, the other still braced on the table.
“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve said. Bucky turned suddenly and pulled Steve into a tight hug. Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, feeling the trembling in Bucky’s chest and arms. Bucky’s breath came hot where he’d buried his face into Steve’s shoulder. Just as suddenly, he released Steve, who faltered from the sudden absence of his friend in his arms.
“I have to go get ready for work,” he mumbled, his voice rough with unspoken emotion, as he left the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.
Steve watched him go, wondering what in the hell they were going to do.
(★)
The next two weeks passed in a flurry of activity. Steve went to six separate draft boards with a new address. Each time, he’d barely get past the first diagnosis on his medical history before his form was taken and stamped with 4F. He kept his small pile of rejection forms hidden from Bucky.
The expo was pushed from Steve’s mind until the day Bucky got his orders. Bucky told him about the 107th in the alley after driving off the jerk from the movies theater and promised Steve a visit to the future with the two girls Bucky had found for the evening.
Steve tried to have a good night for Bucky that night — he really did. But seeing Howard Stark on the stage only made him ache for Tony, remembering the showmanship that he’d brought to his handyman business. The flying car seemed like a publicity stunt after the beautiful blue light that had shown from Tony’s chest, and Steve would have done a lot more than try his hand at joining the Army one last time to get away from the memories that threatened to overwhelm him after watching Stark on stage.
He wasn’t sure the argument with Bucky had been worth it though.
Steve made his way home after meeting Dr. Erskine, head and heart heavy as he tried to sort through the day. He was still sore from his encounter in the alley, and he had scrapes over his arms from where he’d been knocked down. He stripped out of his jacket and shirt, and the specter of Tony seemed to follow Steve around the apartment as he got cleaned up. His chest ached both from the fight and the emotion, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder what Tony would have thought of it all — Bucky off to war with the 107th, the chance Dr. Erskine had offered.
Tony’s words came back to him — Some day, Steve, they’ll find a cure for what you have — But this isn’t it — and not for the first time, Steve wondered what Tony had known. Was this what Tony meant? This experimental program being run through the military?
Steve changed into an undershirt and pajama pants and lay down on the couch. He watched the lights through the window play over the ceiling, and the silence was oppressive. He thought about turning on the radio, but he hadn’t touched it since Tony disappeared. Somehow, it seemed too much, between his ma giving it to him and Tony fixing it. He could hear traffic pass on the street below, the voices of people walking the street drifting up.
It all made him feel so terribly alone.
Bucky arrived sometime after midnight, his hat off-kilter and his tie loose, his jacket partially off one shoulder, the dress shirt buttoned incorrectly with the tails only half-tucked into his pants. Steve could tell he was drunk by the slow, deliberate steps Bucky took, trying his best to be quiet and not wake Steve.
Bucky tried to undress in the kitchen, fumbling with the buttons on his jacket as Steve watched from the next room. He sighed and got up to help, making Bucky startle when he silently appeared in the kitchen.
“Let me help, you idiot,” Steve said, moving into Bucky’s space. He could feel Bucky’s breath in his hair as he breathed above him, smell the alcohol with each exhalation. Steve gently undid his belt and helped get his jacket off, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs so it wouldn’t wrinkle. He untied Bucky’s tie and unbuttoned Bucky’s dress shirt, pulling it off his shoulders, before draping them over the jacket. He supported Bucky as he pulled off his shoes. He slid Bucky’s pants off, adding them to the other clothes. It must have been an evening for ghosts, because the uniform seemed like a third person in the room, silently observing them.
Bucky was left in his undershirt, boxers, and socks, his hat discarded onto the table. He swayed as he reached out with an unsteady hand, sweeping Steve’s blond hair off his forehead. Bucky’s hot breath stirred his hair, the smell the beer still there, as well as the faint whiff of cologne and sweat now that he’d stripped out of the uniform.
“I know about your stack of 4Fs,” Bucky said quietly.
Steve sighed and moved out of Bucky’s reach, running a hand through his own hair. “I have no right to do any less —“
“I know, Steve,” Bucky cut him off, his words slurring a little. He shoved past Steve unsteadily and collapsed on the couch, which was still warm from Steve’s body. “I have orders to ship out to Europe tomorrow, and you’re still 4F. You’d do anything to go, and I don’t want to. I get it — you’re braver than I am. You always were.”
It felt like all of the air in Steve's body was pulled out at Bucky’s statement, so calm and matter of fact, and Steve came to stand in the doorway, bracing himself against the frame. “What did you say?”
Bucky dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing his fingers up into his hair. “I get it, pal. You beat up bullies in alleys for bein’ jerks at the movies, even when you know you can’t win. You help strangers when you barely have enough on your own. Hell, you even shared your popcorn with that dame tonight, even though she clearly wanted nothin’ to do with you.”
Steve came further into the room as though magnetically pulled to Bucky. “You’ve fought your way back from bein’ half dead from pneumonia more times than I can count, and you still finished high school with better grades than I did. And you went to Auburndale for as long as you could, until you couldn’t afford it anymore,” Bucky continued.
He stopped, lifting his face up, and in the streetlights coming in from the window, Steve could see the wetness on his cheeks. He wiped his face one-handed. “You even put your life back together you lost your — after Tony disappeared.
“You’re the bravest son of a bitch I know,” Bucky said, and his voice broke at the end.
“Bucky —“ Steve was at a loss. He sat down beside Bucky and threw his arm around his shoulder. Bucky leaned into him, his head on Steve’s shoulder. From there, Steve could smell the pomade in his hair, feel his breath as it rippled across the hairs on his arm. The dampness from Bucky’s tears soaked into his shirt.
“Meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to me,” Steve finally said.
“I don’t think I’ve gone more than two days since then without seeing you.” Bucky shifted to sit up, brushing at his face with his hands. His voice was thick from the crying, still soft at the edges and indistinct from the alcohol. “I’m with you ’til the end of the line, pal, but what if this is it?”
“It’s not,” Steve answered. “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that. I don’t care where you go or what happens to you, I’ll find you. You hear me, you goddamn punk? This isn’t it for us.”
Bucky drew a deep breath and settled back down onto the couch. “You’d better be right,” was all he said before he relaxed, his face pressed into Steve’s thigh.
Bucky slept heavily on the couch for the rest of the night, curled into Steve. At dawn, he woke up. Steve watched in silence as he got ready, carefully washing up and shaving, his eyes darting to watch Steve in the mirror. Steve pressed his shirt and tie while he was getting ready and helped him dress, a reversal of what they had done the night before.
Steve walked with him to the rail station, where a cluster of other men dressed in drab olive loitered. Bucky lifted his chin, his hat at a jaunty angle. Steve found himself looking around, but when Bucky caught his eye, he just shook his head. “I asked them not to come,” was the only explanation he offered.
The train finally arrived, and all of the men began saying their last good-byes: hugging sweethearts and mothers; fathers standing stoically, only showing their emotion in their rigid stances; younger siblings with tears in their eyes, only certain that everyone was upset even if they didn’t understand why. There were promises made to write, and to send packages, and to come home.
Bucky stood transfixed, breathing slowly, as he watched the smoke gather around the engine. Steve could see he was pale, and he would have bet good money his hands were shaking, which is why Bucky had them shoved in his pockets. Bucky turned, looking down at Steve, and it was only for a moment that Bucky let Steve see the flash of panic, the fear that had followed him home in the dark hours earlier that morning. Then it was gone, and Bucky pulled off his hat, wiping a small amount of sweat from his forehead with his jacket sleeve before replacing it.
“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky said, but Steve could see he didn’t believe it, at least not in that moment.
Steve steeled himself and gave Bucky a grin, willing everything he had into it. “’Til the end of the line,” he echoed, more confidently than Bucky had. “But this ain’t it.”
Bucky smiled back, hesitant at first, before it bloomed into the cocky smile Steve was used to. Steve pulled him into a hug, his arms trembling from how hard he gripped Bucky, then released him. Bucky walked to the train, giving Steve a salute before stepping inside.
The train pulled away from the station, and Steve watched until he couldn’t see it any more. He thought of the now empty apartment, and the form Dr. Erskine had given him stamped 1A.
He hoped Bucky was right — that he was brave enough.
(★)
Training at Camp LeHigh was the hardest thing Steve had ever done. It started with standing in the line and seeing exactly what he was up against. He appreciated Agent Carter’s response to Hodge, but it certainly didn’t help the harassment he received. His stuff would constantly disappear only to be found in the most compromising locations. He’d tried to stake out a bunk in one of the corners of the barracks, but he was forced to move to one in the middle. He was alternately humiliated, sabotaged, or ignored.
And despite how he felt about being in the Army, his body struggled to rise to the challenge. He had asthma attacks and episodes of atrial fibrillation from the exertion. He would struggle to breathe or have crushing chest pain during the runs or be so exhausted at night he had a hard time falling asleep.
On his bunk in the barracks, in the middle of the night when he was surrounded by the susurrus of the other men breathing in their sleep, he despaired about being able to make it through the training. There were glimmers of hope: getting the flag, the grenade, never giving up. But those seemed few and far between when compared to his ongoing failures: the obstacle course, morning calisthenics, carrying a pack, running. He could feel Dr. Erskine’s eyes follow him, see the conversations he had with Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter, sense the expectation that he live up to the opportunity he’d been given. He wanted to take their clipboards and throw them away. He wanted to point out that Hodge was a bully, just for the “right” reasons; that Bolton was lazy; that Dickenson had probably never had an original thought of his own and just did whatever he was told; that McNally was a compulsive liar.
But Steve knew what that was. It was simply deflection. He was painfully aware — often literally — of his own shortcomings, and pointing out the shortcomings of others didn’t change any of that. So he thought of Bucky and that last night together. Bucky’s painful admission about Steve reverberated within him, and he was determined to live up to how his best friend saw him. He knew it was unlikely, but Steve wanted to do everything within his power to get to Europe and protect Bucky the way that Buck= had for him so many times before.
He believed that, by sheer determination, he could keep Bucky safe and get him home again.
He had to. The alternative was too awful for him to contemplate.
And sometimes, so deep into the night he knew it was only a short time before the sky started to lighten again in the east, heralding the arrival of morning, he thought of Tony. Steve would think about the bravery it had taken for Tony to get that thing implanted in his chest, wondering what kind of terrible injury could cause shrapnel to be embedded so far into his chest that he needed such a thing. He’d wonder where Tony had come from and if he’d gone back there. He would close his eyes, lying on the narrow bunk, and think of Tony pulling him into his chest: the warm comfort of his body, the support of his knees behind Steve’s, the warm metal of the disk pressing into his back.
Usually with that came the terror of their last days together, the fear that sat like a weight in his chest as Tony struggled to breath, his lips a faint blue and the air moving in and out with a hollow rattle that echoed throughout the room. He remembered seeing Tony in the tub that last time, surreptitiously enjoying the long lines of Tony’s body, the wiry muscle beneath the olive skin, the contrast of his dark hair, the beautiful blue of the disc in his chest with the silver casing around it. Even sick, he had been so beautiful.
He held on to what Tony had told him, that some day there would be a cure for his heart, that even if that disc couldn’t help Steve, something else would. He had to believe it, hold onto it as tightly as he could because, between that, Tony, and Bucky, he had nothing else left to carry him through.
Steve was still struggling to believe he’d been chosen when Dr. Erskine sat him down the night before his procedure to talk with him. There had been music playing from one of the other barracks, and Steve almost couldn’t take the sound. It reminded him too much of Tony and his ma, and it felt like the failures of his life were pressing in, crowding around him until he doubted everything, especially his ability to live up to Dr. Erskine’s expectations.
The music played on into the night, long after Dr. Erskine had left. Steve lay on the bunk, alone in the barracks, thinking about what Dr. Erskine had said about understanding the value of compassion. The ghosts from his past seemed to surround him. He thought of his ma, always getting up and defying his father, fiercely beautiful with her hair in disarray and blood on her lip. He’d always thought of her as Scáthach, blond hair flying and blue fire in her eyes, who had trained Cú Chulainn, the greatest knight of the Red Branch. She had fought her own war in Ireland, forced to flee after the Easter Rising. He wondered what she would think of this, of her small, sick son taking this chance.
He thought of Bucky and his quiet constancy. He’d always put on a show for the girls he met or his other friends. But at home, when it was just the two of them, he was quieter and more comfortable. The showman slipped away, leaving a version of Bucky that Steve often wondered if only he got to see. It was the version of Bucky who pulled him out of fights and helped him get out of his own head. It was the kind of love he had originally thought was only reserved for romances: unwavering, unquestioning, always supportive. It was the Bucky who knew about the stack of 4Fs, who knew it could very well kill Steve, but instead of berating Steve for his stubbornness or his stupidity talked to Steve about his bravery.
And finally, Steve thought of Tony. He thought of the things Tony had said, when he was sick and didn’t know what he was saying. Of Steve saving the world, of his watching over Tony and protecting him. He’d never understood what Tony was seeing then, but he could see the conviction in Tony’s eyes, that Tony had believed it with every fiber of his being.
Steve closed his eyes and saw blue: the brilliant blue of his ma’s eyes that he saw in his own eyes every day; the stormy blue-gray of Bucky’s eyes that usually watched him through the mirror while he was getting ready, a soft, fond grin on his face; the blue of the disc in Tony’s chest.
He fell asleep, surrounded and protected by the three loves of his life, each different: talismans against anything that could go wrong tomorrow, when Steve’s entire life would change.
(★)
Everything ground to a stop for Steve when Dr. Erskine asked Mr. Stark if he was ready.
All of the stress of the day, the anxiety of the experimental procedure and everything he’d had to do, every hoop he’d had to jump through ramped up when he looked over to see a face that looked both so very familiar and so very different at the same time. The hair color was the same, but Howard’s lacked the wave of Tony’s. They had the same bone structure and eyes, and Steve had a hard time tearing his own gaze away. Howard’s mouth lifted up at the corner in a smirk, like he was laughing at a private joke, and Steve felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut. It was like the ghost of Tony had followed him from the barracks where he’d haunted Steve the night before and taken on corporal form based only on a description of what Tony looked like. The rough features were the same, and many of them were very close — but it wasn’t quite right.
Whoever Howard Stark was, however, he clearly was related to Tony.
“Are you okay?” Howard asked, peering down at Steve where he was lying on the gantry of Dr. Erskine’s capsule. “You don’t look so hot, pal.”
Steve felt his mouth open and close, unable to produce any sounds. Finally, he managed to blurt out, “Do you have family in Iowa?”
“Iowa?” Howard echoed, his eyebrows climbing up on his forehead. “What the hell’s in Iowa?” He paused, giving the question a little more consideration — probably a lot more thought than the question really deserved, Steve though a little hysterically — before adding, “I’m pretty sure my mama took one look at the Hudson and told my father she wasn’t going any further west.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” Steve found himself saying. It was like he was having an out-of-body experience, and he had no control over anything that was happening, least of all his body or anything he thought or did. How did Howard and Tony Stark fit together? Did Howard know where Tony had gone?
Had Howard built the thing in Tony’s chest?
“Do you have any relatives named Tony?” Steve squirmed on the gantry, suddenly anxious. He wanted to scream at everyone to stop what they were doing, to slow the bustle of work around him for Dr. Erskine’s experiment so he could put the pieces together. There was something — a piece of information, something he’d failed to pick up on — just outside the edge of his awareness, and he knew that if he could figure out what that was, everything else would fall into place: where Tony had come from, the blue disc in his chest, how he had disappeared into thin air.
Whether he had died from the pneumonia.
But everything continued on around him. Howard cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows pulling down and together, and Steve knew from his expression that the answer would be no. In that moment, everything froze. A silence settled over him, deafening in the absence of all the sound that had been there the instant before. Steve had enough time to take a breath before it all snapped back into place, the noise and activity roaring back so abruptly he flinched.
“No, pal,” Howard said, his tone a little stilted. “Why do you ask?”
Steve didn’t want to answer. If Howard didn’t know, Steve didn’t want to share Tony with him, as though doing so would force Steve to give away part of his memory of Tony, a piece he could never get back. “No reason,” Steve forced himself to say.
Howard watched him, his eyes narrowed for a moment before turning away, and jumped down to the machine that ran alongside the platform on which Dr. Erskine’s capsule sat.
Steve released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and felt winded, like he was back at Camp LeHigh trying to run around the track. The rest of the setup passed in a blur for Steve, and before he knew it, the serum was injected, and the capsule was closed.
The pain was the worst thing he had ever felt. It burned through every muscle down to his bones, searing through him like a wildfire. He heard screaming, and it took a moment for him to realize he was making that sound. He felt ashamed, knowing he wanted to remain silent and stoic in the face of getting what he’d always wanted — a chance to make a difference, to be allowed to do the things he knew he was capable of.
He saw the face of his ma, blood on her face and eyes defiant. But it wasn’t the face he recognized, with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and a jaded look from living on the margins with a husband who preferred drinking over working. It was a younger version, how she must have looked on Easter morning, 1916, with a rifle slung over her shoulder. Her blond hair escaping from her braid, her blue eyes fiery and unyielding, the expression she must have worn defending the Post Office with her friends and fellow patriots, uncompromising in the face of an indifferent British government. It was an expression of stubbornness he had seen on his own face many times, the expression that said this is the hill she was willing to die on. It was the expression he’d seen on her face every time his father had taken a swipe at her, every time she got back up.
The look she had every time she’d been told to move and instead demanded that the other person move instead.
He saw the look of fear on Bucky’s face as he boarded the train, the vulnerability when he admitted that he thought Steve was braver. The look of pride Bucky always tried to conceal when he found Steve in yet another alley, knocked down in the dirt by another bully but still unwilling to give up. He saw the flash of relief in Bucky’s eyes when Steve had said this wasn’t it — this wasn’t the end of the line.
He saw the look in Tony’s eyes, staring at another Steve, one that he could only see. The person he called Cap, who saved the world and protected those who couldn’t always protect themselves, the one he had total faith in. He saw the heartbreak in Tony’s eyes when he told Steve the blue disc that had saved his life couldn’t save Steve’s but in the next breath promised that something would come along that would cure him.
Even with Steve’s eyes closed, he could feel them standing close to him, cheering him on, giving him the strength to endure another few minutes. He felt his ma’s hand on his head in benediction, praying for him in Gaelic, her murmuring lilt soothing, her lips brushing over his forehead as her words stirred his hair. He felt Bucky’s hands on his back, his palms hot over the skin on his shoulders, praying for him in English, his breath moving over the skin on his neck. And he felt Tony’s hand over his heart, his thin, clever fingers gently splayed out over his sternum, feeling like metal against his skin. Blue crept in at the edges of his vision, and he heard Tony whisper, “You can do this all day.”
The capsule opened, and Steve stumbled out, almost falling. His voice was hoarse and his throat sore, and he felt sweat all over his body, the muscles trembling and breath coming fast. People swarmed around him, but he felt removed, completely separate from them as though his ma, Bucky, and Tony surrounded him, keeping them at arm’s length.
At least until the explosion.
After that, it was like his body was running independently from his mind. All the things he’d ever dreamed of doing came without a struggle. It wasn’t until the Hydra agent had committed suicide that Steve stopped and considered what had happened.
He didn’t hurt.
He could breath easily.
His heart didn’t feel like it was going to beat out of his chest.
He was never going to be beaten up in an alley again or be told what he could and couldn’t do.
He looked up, elated, only to realize he was alone. There was no one to celebrate with, no one who had known the struggles that had led up to this moment. No one who had seen his lows and helped him through them. No one who had seen the days when he could barely drag himself back up again. It was just him and the body of the German spy.
It had never occurred to him that getting what he’d always wanted might be more complicated than he thought.
Afterwards, the bond show was a pretty bitter pill to swallow, all things considered. Steve felt tricked by Senator Brandt and abandoned by Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter. The death of Dr. Erskine was also harder to take than Steve had expected, because he was the only person who had seen the potential in Steve, a potential that he sometimes felt like even Bucky had questioned.
He thought a lot about what Tony had said about his heart and wondered if this is what he’d meant. The days were empty, and without anything else to do, Steve’s thoughts went in circles: if it was, then this was a pretty poor use of the gift Dr. Erskine had given him. If it wasn’t, then what had Tony meant? If it was, how in the hell had Tony known? If it wasn’t, then what else was in store for Steve? Surely this wasn’t it, and around and around he went, feeling that he was meant for more than this.
Steve would have never gone so far as to say he was relieved to hear about Bucky and the rest of the 107th, but it did make some things much clearer for him. Ultimately, he didn’t need Agent Carter’s urging about Dr. Erskine’s intentions — he knew what he needed to do. Finally the path forward was obvious: either he would find what was left of Bucky’s unit or he wouldn’t. The consequences of either outcome didn’t really matter — he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t try. It was only later, on the march back, that the potential ramifications of his decision really became apparent to him. He’d defied orders and abandoned his post, even if it was a stupid post. He was AWOL, and he could be court-martialed for it. But Bucky was beside him again, and that was enough, especially when he led the cheer for Captain America back at camp.
It wasn’t the end of the line.
Despite being in the middle of the deadliest war in human history, Steve found himself content to the point where he almost felt guilty about it. He had a purpose, and he could finally do all of the things his mind had wanted but his body had been unable to do. And every time someone called him Cap, he thought of Tony and what he’d said when he was delirious with fever. He looked for Tony; in villages and other units, on farms and in pubs, at strategy meetings and on the battlefield. He never found him, but Tony’s words stayed with him. Steve knew — he knew without a single doubt — that somehow Tony had known about all of this: his multiple attempts to join the war, Dr. Erskine and the super soldier serum, Howard Stark, the bond show, Schmidt and Zola and the war, but most importantly about Captain America. Steve didn’t understand how Tony had known — Steve just knew he had.
In addition to getting Bucky back, Steve also gained the Howling Commandos. His loyalty to his men was absolute, and his dedication to helping win the war was just as solid. He felt like he was born for this, and each mission the Howling Commandos completed pushed the Allies closer to the end of the war. Victory seemed inevitable. It was only a matter of time.
And then Bucky fell from the train.
Steve faltered under the weight of that loss, never to recover. He stopped sleeping and barely ate, letting the serum carry him through in a haze that never seemed to lift. Zola’s intel about the Red Skull was vital to winning the war, but Steve couldn’t even bring himself to care. One thought consumed him: stop the Red Skull. There was nothing after that, no plan, no life to go home to, no getting back to normal. Not even the thought of a relationship with Agent Carter was enough to think beyond the assault on the Red Skull’s base. That’s all there was for Steve: the mission to take out Schmidt and stop Hydra. After that — well, there wasn’t anything after.
Steve knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to the apartment he’d shared with Bucky and later Tony. He would never be able to draw at his drafting table while Bucky slept in the bedroom again. He would never be able to sit at the table where Tony had told him his ma had died. He would never be able to sleep in the bed where Tony had disappeared or sit on the couch where Bucky had cried before shipping out.
The Red Skull was an opportunity, and Steve was going to take it.
Steve relished every hit on the Valkyrie, every punch he took from Schmidt. The pain helped him to focus, penetrating the haze that Bucky’s death had left behind. The lack of sleep had finally overwhelmed the serum, and Steve found himself alternating between feeling like he was back in Brooklyn getting the shit kicked out of him somewhere and moving through a fog where everything was indistinct and ultimately not very important. It was only when the heavens opened up and Schmidt dissolved into the stars, when the Tesseract burnt through the floor of the Valkyrie and fell into the ocean that the world came back into focus and stayed there, instead of fading into gray.
He knew what he needed to do.
In the end, it was easier than he had expected it. Steve heard the tears in Agent Carter’s voice, her own despair echoing through him and amplifying his own. When he pointed the nose of the Valkyrie towards the water, his stomach swooped and dropped with the plane. A calm spread over him as the blue of the water and the ice filled the canopy.
Steve’s last thought was that it was the exact shade of the disc in Tony’s chest, and the hope that he would see Tony again bloomed within him as he lost consciousness.