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Steve always wakes up with a crushing sense of guilt that wouldn’t let him go.
Bucky was gone, and he was still here instead.
It wasn’t even just the fact that he hadn’t caught him. It was everything else.
All the time he could have spent with him. The care he could have given. The way he should have cherished him. All the things he didn’t do. Like the time he didn’t say goodnight because he was too busy talking to Peggy. Or when he didn’t grab Bucky that beer he asked for.
Because Bucky deserved all of his time. And it was so unfair that he got so little of it.
Steve was guilty of neglect, and no punishment he could think of felt like enough to make up for it.
Days merged into each other, and the only constant was guilt.
He couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The fabric of his clothes reminded him of Bucky’s uniform. The smell of cigarettes on the street brought back memories of Bucky showing him smoke tricks the company had taught him.
Brooklyn streets looked so different now, but still familiar. He could see Bucky on every corner—laughing with dames, talking with friends. He saw him in the kids running down the sidewalk, in the men helping their mothers with groceries, in brothers pushing their sisters off the curb and laughing.
He thought moving into Stark Tower would help. A different part of the city. Different people. New memories.
For some reason, Tony thought giving him a window with a view of Brooklyn was a good idea.
Thank God he had blinds.
Steve started keeping the blinds closed all the time. Not just at night, but during the day too. Too much light made it harder to pretend. Harder to hide from the world he no longer felt part of.
He tried to stay busy—missions, meetings, workouts—but nothing filled the quiet moments in between.
That’s when Bucky would come back. In his head. In his heart. In the ache behind his ribs that never quite went away.
Sam tried to talk to him about it once. He said something about survivor’s guilt, about healing, about how time helped. Steve had nodded. Said he understood.
Steve discovered the song Wonderwall, and he cried. Because it was true. And when he played it in the kitchen one morning while making breakfast, Tony laughed at him. Steve almost cried again, but he smiled at Tony’s comment.
He didn’t really understand the concept of some songs being made fun of. But then again, he didn’t really understand anything anymore. The humor was different. People talked to each other differently. Used words he didn’t know.
So he started to go silent more often. Nobody seemed bothered by it. He supposed he seemed like the quiet type. Or maybe Captain America seemed like the quiet type. It was all the same to them. And eventually, it was all the same to him too.
After a while, with the help of the internet, he actually got pretty good at understanding pop culture references. Not when they came from Tony, though. He sometimes felt like Tony did it on purpose—used words he’d have to look up, made references Steve could never tell if were meant to offend him.
But he didn’t really care. Because at least he understood Tony. He was just like his father when he knew him. He didn’t get Howard. He didn’t get Tony. And somehow, that brought him comfort.
Once, he asked Natasha to explain something Tony had said. She shrugged and told him she didn’t really care for American movies. So they started talking.
It turned out Natasha didn’t exactly fit in either. She just knew how to make a good face for a bad game. She told him about her childhood. About the movies she watched. About the things that made her laugh.
He gained some perspective. Something that should have been obvious, but hadn’t been before.
They kept talking. Not every day. Not even every week. But enough.
It started with small things. Movie quotes Steve didn’t get. Idioms that didn’t make sense. She’d roll her eyes, explain them in a dry sentence, and go back to what she was doing. But she never made him feel stupid for asking.
Eventually, it grew into something more. Shared silences. Long conversations on the roof of the Tower, watching the city breathe beneath them.
She told him about places she’d been. People she’d been. Versions of herself she’d had to bury. He didn’t judge. How could he? He barely knew who he was anymore either.
But Bucky was still there. In the space between words. In the clink of a knife on a plate. In the way Natasha tied her boots—quick and efficient, like a soldier. Like he used to.
One night, Steve found an old photo in one of boxes that Tony had brought it to him, saying it had belonged to his father. The photo was folded at the corners, the edges yellowing. Bucky, arm slung around his shoulder, grinning wide, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Steve sat on the floor of his room for a long time, just looking at it. He didn’t know what to do. What to think. There wasn’t even a grave he could visit. No bones to watch fall apart in the earth.
The next day, he brought the photo up to the roof. Didn’t say anything. Just handed it to Natasha and sat down beside her.
She looked at it for a long time. Then handed it back.
“I don’t like that my room has a view of Brooklyn,” he said, after a while. The picture had given him the courage.
“Wanna switch?” she asked simply. “Or just ask Tony for another room. He’s got a million of them.”
“Okay,” he shrugged.
The next day, he had a different bedroom.
The next day, he fought the Winter Soldier on the roof of his old apartment.
The next day, he found out the Winter Soldier was Bucky. Or that Bucky was the Winter Soldier.
He thought asking himself philosophical questions would help, but they didn’t.
He locked himself in his room and wished he could think of something—anything—that would change his life. That would change Bucky’s life.
The guilt was so strong he could barely breathe. Every movement felt paralyzed by the weight of what Bucky might have gone through.
It was hell. And he couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk. He could only think. And listen to what others said about Bucky.
And it broke his heart. Because they didn’t know him. They didn’t know the smell of his hair and skin. They didn’t know the shape of his teeth, and how he’d chipped them biting into stale bread during training.
They didn’t know how hard Steve laughed when he heard that story.
Steve wished he could remember more of him. That also made him feel like he wasn’t worth anything.
He should’ve been able to explain to them what Bucky was like. He should’ve been able to show them. That he was a good person. That he took care of him after his mom died. That he was drafted into the army, and none of it was his fault.
That it was Steve’s fault.
Because Steve never should’ve given up. Never should’ve gone down with the plane. He should’ve lived. He should’ve found Bucky after the war. Brought him home. Taken care of him. Cherished him. Given him everything he possibly could. He should have stayed alive for Bucky.
He was ordered to kill the Winter Soldier, but he would’ve rather died himself. And that’s what he decided.
He dropped the shield into the ocean—his last defense, his identity—and trusted Bucky.
Not to spare his life. But to spare his mind.
He trusted that somewhere beneath all the pain and the programming, Bucky was still there. That he would remember. That he would come back to him.
And maybe, one day, he’d smile again. Maybe he’d hug him, even once. Steve wouldn’t even mind if Bucky never spoke another word to him again. If only he could see him sometimes.
He fell into the ocean once more.
And when he woke up, Bruce was standing at the foot of his hospital bed, and Natasha was in the corner, scrolling through something on her phone.
“Where is Bucky?” those were the first words he spoke, voice rough, after gulping down a glass of water.
The name felt strange on his lips. He hadn’t said it out loud in years.
“He gave himself up,” Natasha said, standing to refill his glass. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has him. For now.”
“You’re lucky you’re alive.” Bruce added
“I’m always alive,” he muttered, letting his head fall back onto the pillow, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
After a week, he went to see Bucky.
It took every ounce of strength he had not to break the glass between them, take his hand and run. Run far from the facility. To the other side of the world, maybe.
Bucky was sitting across from him. Still, silent. That metal arm catching the light just enough to make Steve flinch.
“I like your arm,” Steve said quietly, not sure what else to say.
“It’s heavy.” Bucky lifted his head, and there was something in his eyes that reminded Steve of that one day they listened to a football match on the radio
“I like your hair,” Bucky added, voice low but genuine.
“It’s in fashion now,” Steve replied, smoothing it down awkwardly. A smile was beginning to tug at the corner of his lips.
“We wouldn’t want Steve Rogers parading through the streets with some old-time haircut.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Steve laughed and Bucky did too.