Chapter Text
‘We have a lot of veterans coming home and struggling to settle in – which is why the IAVA’s services aim to aid and support the VA programme in terms of rehabilitation. We have a number of programmes, particularly focusing on education – your file shows that you’re quite a talented artist, I believe? Now, being a mature student at a college isn’t ideal, admittedly, but it’s important you build a basis of new, transferable skills and enjoy your studies; we have a number of programmes to help you get to college that might interest you.
‘After returning home, it’s all too easy to fall into a pattern of avoidance – falling out of touch with family, friends, the essential systems of support that exist to help you. The VA will put you in touch with a therapist who you should try and see weekly and there are a number of groups that meet to discuss issues relevant to your experience. The worst thing you can do, Captain Rogers, is isolate yourself from the world around you.’
Steve’s hands are trembling. A fine tremor. The office around him is a little too dark, curtains pulled against the crisp January sun. He looks up at the IAVA representative who’s looking at him expectantly. Looks back down at his hands.
‘Right,’ he starts up slowly. Winces. ‘But I was thinking – what if I moved to England?’
-
Steve moves to England.
-
Steve moves to England, even though his therapist tells him it’s a bad idea. His therapist, and the IAVA representative, and, essentially, everyone he knows. Even Sam. Especially Sam.
The man dutifully meets him at the tiny airport anyway, grumbling all the way – mainly because Steve just spent his stopover in London (which, for Steve, equates to spending almost exactly seven hours and thirty-five minutes at the Tate) whilst Sam, whose canoeing business oddly enough doesn't run during the winter months, has been stuck in Falmouth running sales for a tourism company. Steve, frankly, thinks he deserves the stop in London for putting up with Sam’s endless, glitchy Skype calls, where he mostly complained about the mind-numbing boredom of his job whilst Steve was busy being – well. Being shot at in the middle of a desert.
Still. The way Sam throws both arms around Steve’s neck, slapping him heavily on the back – that’s genuine.
He and Sam had met years ago. Basic training – when they were still little shits with buzz cuts who thought they knew everything. When Steve was a skinny kid who could barely carry his pack, who collapsed on runs more often than not, just out of high school and so, so angry at the world – at illness, for taking away his mom. At alcohol, for taking away his dad not long after. Steve had been the tiny kid who really shouldn't have been there and Sam had been the surprisingly well-adjusted twenty year-old who – thank god – had taken pity on him after seeing Steve lose one fight after another.
And then there had been growth spurts and Riley and Peggy and boys and girls and fighting and death. There had been war. And now they’re here. Somehow, miraculously, they’re here.
‘How’s it going?’ Sam asks, finally pulling back. He looks like he’s as amazed to see Steve as Steve is to be here. Neither of them have changed much – Sam still has that tiny scar above his eyebrow from the piece of shrapnel that almost took his eye out, still cuts his hair army regulation short. Steve still wears his dog tags, still keeps his hair a little bit too long and innocently wears clothes that are slightly small, as if he’s forgotten he’s six-two and a hundred and ninety pounds now.
‘Not bad,’ Steve shrugs as they step out of the almost-empty airport. Snow’s thick on the ground and he’s certainly not wearing enough layers, shivering against the cold bite of air whilst Sam chuckles at him.
‘Little chillier than D.C. right now, huh?’
‘You weren’t kidding about the weather,’ Steve mumbles through gritted teeth, pulling his suitcase through a snow bank and almost getting dragged to the floorwhen a wheel gets stuck. Loudly, a kid loitering by a parked car laughs at him. Vindictively, Steve thinks that he looks like he belongs in a textbook from the early nineties, and wonders if Sam would be up for spraying the kid with the grey sludge collected by the pavement as they drive past.
(And alright, maybe he’s a little jet-lagged).
‘No, I was not kidding about the weather. Nor was I kidding about the incomprehensible Cornish accents or the fact that, for most of winter, nothing ever happens here. There’s like – Christmas. And that’s it,’ Sam explains, rambling a little as he gets into the car and persuades the engine to choke into life. The man quirks his head to one side, thumping Steve’s arm until he clicks his seatbelt on – Steve can’t believe he’s forgotten, to be honest. Sam’s driving is just as terrifying in a car as it is in a tank. ‘You know,’ Sam begins musingly, sounding increasingly suspicious as he forgets to put his indicators on and almost drives into a sign post; ‘it’s not too late to go back.’
Steve tries not to sigh too dramatically. He fails.
‘I was hoping we could save the lecture at least until we get to the house,’ he tries. When he glances over to Sam wrestling with a gear stick (in England, almost everyone drives stick shift. Which is possibly why Sam’s driving seems to have gotten worse. That duck in the road never saw it coming.) his face is utterly unimpressed. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Steve tries to find the right words. ‘I just… I couldn’t be in D.C. right now. I needed – I need – to get away.’
‘Nuh-uh. That is exactly what you don’t need. What you need is to readjust into society through routines and regular socialising. What you need is to see your therapist once a week and go to your VA support meetings and maybe try to get a college degree, if that’s what you want. What you don’t need is to hole up in the ass-end of England trying not to think about your feelings.’
Steve opens his mouth. Shuts it.
The issue here is that Sam is the poster-boy for adjusting back into civilian life. The guy went to VA meetings three times a week for two years, still speaks to his therapist over Skype once a fortnight, has foresworn alcohol and every so often can be found extolling the virtues of meditation-based relaxation techniques. Most of his army pension goes towards keeping some guy called Bruce, who sells incense in Truro, in business.
(Steve is also ninety percent sure that Bruce sells Sam a shit-load of weed, but Sam will neither confirm or deny the fact.)
There are days, of course, where Sam chain smokes forty cigarettes and won’t answer his phone for love nor money. He disappears every April fifteenth for twenty-four hours and won’t tell Steve where he goes, or why. Steve knows, really, that it’s about Riley; about Riley and flying and falling, about being up there just to watch. He tries not to push it.
So, obviously, he knows Sam isn’t perfect. But it’s pretty damn close and Steve feels like a wreck in comparison – particularly now, where he can feel Sam taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the new white line of a scar on his knuckle that hadn’t been there the last time they’d seen each other.
When Sam sighs, it’s loud in the car. Someone beeps their horn outside, the sound muffled a little by the car windows.
‘It’s okay man. I get it. Just… You can’t run away forever. You know that, right?’
Steve nods.
‘I know. Just – just give me a few months?’
When Sam slaps a hand down on his arm, it’s a relief. Reassurance. Familiarity.
And also, considering Sam’s extreme lack of finesse when driving with two hands on the wheel, it’s frankly a little scary.
-
The scenery goes past in smudges until Steve’s focus goes and he falls asleep, lulled by the quiet rumble of the car.
Oddly, it’s not the jolt of the car stopping that startles him awake. It’s not even Sam opening and shutting the boot. It’s the way the passenger door’s opened to the sound of babbling, noisy Russian.
For a moment, Steve thinks he must still be dreaming. But when he opens his eyes, swipes a hand over them, the Russian’s still there – still emanating a little brokenly from Sam, fluently from some unseen source. There’s the sound of footsteps – not Sam’s familiar, light gait; it’s heavier, quicker – on gravel, the thud of suitcases being wheeled along. Steve glances over his shoulder, tries to locate the person potentially stealing his luggage, turns back to the open door –
And there’s a face hovering over his.
‘Sleeping beauty getting up any time soon?’
Steve blinks.
‘What?’
‘Oh – Steve, that’s Bucky. He’s been looking after the house over the summer. Bucky, this is Steve. He likes his beauty sleep.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘Does he speak Russian?’
Sam looks, perplexed, between the pair for a moment, before heaving a sigh.
‘No. Nyet. Steve, get out the damn car.’
Steve can’t help the wave of nostalgia that overwhelms him as soon as he steps into the house.
His grandparents passed away a few years ago, and it’s been a long while since he’s been here – but it’s a sharp thing, the memories. There’s still the chart on the wall where they kept score of his height (the visual reminder of just how tiny he used to be is almost unbelievable), still the hulking aga in the corner of the kitchen and the dated, yellow cupboard doors. He opens one of them, flicks gently at the tatty poster of a tabby cat that his grandmother kept up there.
His throat feels a little tight.
The Russian man – Bucky, his mind supplies – is staring at him warily from the kitchen doorway. Sam’s pottering about, heaving boxes inside and chattering absently, unaware that the two of them aren’t listening to him. For a moment, Steve’s gaze goes over Bucky’s shoulder, past Sam’s head, to the view out the front window. The landscape hasn’t changed, the sea greyer than he remembers, the sun a little duller – he’s used to summers here, blazing heat and sunburnt shoulders and pasties, the pastry flaking apart between his fingers. Spending winter here seems almost – wrong.
Bucky’s still staring at him.
‘Hi,’ Steve starts up absently, wringing his hands together. Bucky’s eyes dart towards him at the noise and he nods a little, his smile small and awkward. ‘I – uh. I don’t speak any Russian. Sorry – um. Sorry about that.’
Bucky nods – but his face betrays his utter lack of understanding, head tilting to one side as he watches him. There’s a moment’s sickly hesitation, but eventually Steve manages to cross the space between them in a few loping steps, sticking his hand out and waiting until Bucky tentatively shakes it.
‘Steve. Steve Rogers.’
‘Bucky,’ comes the thickly-accented response, lips curving up into a smile. It’s a good smile, as smiles go. Pretty, even.
‘It’s nice to meet you.’
Bucky pauses, before nodding eagerly, brows pulled together a little.
‘No problem,’ he chirps back, accent so thick Steve can barely make out the words.
‘Ah, no problem, no problem,’ Sam mimics, shaking his head as he slaps a hand down on Bucky’s back. ‘What’ve you been doing with those English tapes I got you for your birthday, Barnes? Burning them for fuel?’
‘I don’t wanna be learning your ugly-ass language, you fucking Yank.’
Steve’s always known Sam speaks Russian – in fact, Steve goes with the assumption that Sam has a basic understanding of pretty much every language under the sun. It’s a skill that was massively helpful in the military – and one Steve was always jealous of, his school-boy French barely making a dent against Sam’s fluent Spanish, Italian and now, apparently, Russian. It’s odd to watch the pair converse so fluently – and so closely. They look as if they’ve been friends for years. Probably have been, actually.
Steve can barely get his words out in English these days, let alone Russian. He dares a glance at Bucky – who’s still staring at him curiously, utterly unabashed when Steve meets his gaze and almost immediately glances away.
‘Barnes and I met when I moved here – he was running the sailing business down on the beach. Very competent, and great at the business side of things – but obviously wasn’t so good at speaking to customers. When you said you needed a housekeeper, I initially thought of about five other people who would be good for the job – but none of them said yes, so I asked Bucky,’ Sam explains, as if he’s reading Steve’s mind. Bucky perks up at the sound of his name, then levels a glare at the side of Sam’s head.
‘Are you being rude about me, asshole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck off, you piece of shit. And tell your giant friend if he doesn’t like me he can clean his own fucking toilet.’
Steve has no idea what Bucky’s saying. It seems sweet enough.
‘Bucky said it’s nice to meet you.’
‘Oh. Um. Tell Bucky I said – uh, the same.’
‘Steve says to go fuck yourself.’
Bucky takes a moment to study Steve. Then he shrugs.
‘No he doesn't.’ There’s a pause, where Bucky’s gaze tracks across the kitchen – whatever he and Sam are talking about, they’ve clearly lost him. ‘I need to take a piss.’
Bucky wanders off. Steve watches him go, tries to ignore the press of the man’s shoulder blades against a too-tight white t-shirt. Fails.
‘He seems nice.’
Sam’s head lifts from where he’s studying a photo frame. The smirk on his face spells trouble.
‘Trust me,’ he intones. ‘He’s not.’