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“I don’t do that anymore,” he says into the phone and it already sounds laughably unbelievable, like something he’d say to his therapist or the reporter from Politico.
The words hang in the air, canned and stale. He takes mental inventory of what’s stashed in the safe, what’s left in the non-descript storage unit. Still, he delays. Putters around the kitchen, tries to salvage the briefing packet from the damp splotches of Ben’s Chili Bowl. He reads the same paragraph for the third time. What exactly does he do anymore? Surely somebody should do something. He could.
He’s promised the good people of Brooklyn, campaigned on, some version of Bucky Barnes Goes to Washington. Convinced first-time voters and small-dollar donors and almost convinced himself he can effect change from within the system, honorably serve his country, make sure Hydra never gets its claws so deep again. Elected officials shouldn’t be going rogue. So he’s going to read the rest of his packet and maybe tomorrow he’ll finally shave and think about finding a barber. Then he’ll do the morning scrum in his pressed suit and too-tight tie and issue another bland sound-bite that sends his approval rating further down the gutter –
His right hand hovers above his phone. He should call Sam. Allow the opportunity to get talked off the ledge. Or be swept into some greater new drama right on the heels of the presidential debacle. Sam has enough on his plate. Give him a break.
He could try reaching out to – No. He promised himself he wouldn’t. Because he’s still not sure what he’s more afraid of: a disconnected line or Steve’s old weathered voice actually answering across time and space, asking if he’s okay. He’s already acting an increasingly fraudulent performance, no need to add another. I’m okay, it’s just the crippling loneliness from time to time, the general lack of direction, the sense of imminent failure. Compared to the last few decades, it’s all roses and rainbows, really. He scrubs his right hand over his face and the stubble scrapes in protest.
He should be putting his dress shirt out for dry cleaning. Instead he runs the coordinates, just to see. And, well. He could make a quick trip. He’ll get more intel this way, really make sure the committee and the wider caucus has a rock-solid case. It’s practically part of his sworn official duties. He’ll be back, of course. This is just a one-time mission. Right.
It’s a relief to free his body into motion.
He grabs a dirty t-shirt and jeans from the bedroom floor, whatever he last wore to the gun range to vent after another futile five-hour meeting, and spins the lock on the safe. His weapons are polished and well-oiled, hidden from sight but never neglected. Been a while, old friends.
The storage unit has the custom bike fit for his weight and loaded with enough speed to get him west under the radar on darkened interstates. The leather bike jacket is new but he’s not surprised to find it fits better than any tailored suit. It slides soft and easy over the vibranium. It smells rich and smoky. He stashes the old Skorpion and its holster in the back along with a handful of snacks from the bodega. The grenade launcher is … cumbersome and conspicuous, sure, all the more reason to get out of DC with the lights off and open throttle.
He’s out the door before he can change his mind, before he can really form a plan, and so what if it’s more like a fleeing escape than a rescuing dash into danger.
The fresh air hits his lungs and this, this feels right.
***
Later, much later, he finds himself falling into another role, putting on another costume – no, uniform. One he didn’t think would ever fit, and he’s surprised when it settles naturally.
He takes Steve’s old room because he knows it’s secure, has scanned all the entrances and exits and angles hundreds of times before, and it’s a little like chasing a ghost. He waits for the inner voice to launch its litany of impossible comparisons. But it stays quiet, and instead Steve's shadow is comforting. He makes coffee where Steve would’ve made coffee. He can jog the Brooklyn Bridge and down through Central Park early in the morning while the sun’s only a promising glow at the horizon. He runs his own route.
It reminds him of the fleeting peaceful moments in Wakanda and Louisiana. He can’t quite put his finger on why until one afternoon he’s texting Sam to rib him over airspace jurisdiction, listening to Alexei and Yelena trade mission stories while Ghost, Bob, and Walker debate the finer points of local pizza delivery, and it strikes him that he’s not alone. It hits him suddenly, so obviously, that he has to get up and turn to the windows, focus on his next breath.
His eyes sweep over the cityscape and he sees himself on a neighboring rooftop, years ago, wretched but under his own power, tucked away in the shadows watching Steve stand where he is now. Back in those days when he was desperate for any scrap of Steve’s sunshine yet terrified it might obliterate him.
He knows now he can get by on his own. The thing is, he doesn’t have to.