Work Text:
Steve Rogers wakes up to find a sock in his mouth.
Not metaphorically, a literal sock, argyle, blue, not his.
He shoots upright in bed and makes a noise that can only be described as startled old-man choking, he glares at the offending cotton, then at the open window that should not be open.
The morning breeze flutters the curtains like they’re mocking him. “Peggy,” he calls toward the bathroom, voice still hoarse. “Did you…put a sock in my-” “No, and I don't want to know,” she answers through a mouthful of toothpaste, and just like that, Steve begins his descent into mild but escalating madness.
The fridge is the next offense, Steve opens it one afternoon, intending to pour himself a glass of whole milk and process why his sock drawer now smells like aftershave, instead, he finds ten, ten, identical bottles of 2% milk lined up in perfect, military-style formation, each is labeled in thick black marker: “2% ONLY, IDIOT.”
He stares at the message, feeling vaguely attacked. “I don’t even drink 2%,” he mutters, grabbing one like it might explode, from the hallway, Peggy yells, “You talking to the milk now?” He doesn’t answer, because yes, yes, he is.
Then there’s the soap.
He buys boring ivory bars at the store, every night, they mysteriously vanish, every morning, they’re replaced with cedar-and-clove soap, the exact kind Bucky used to use during their barracks days, it's subtle, familiar, personal.
Steve tries to ignore it, tries not to inhale too deeply, then he slips in the shower one morning, falls hard, bruises his elbow, and swears, swears, he hears someone laughing through the ventilation, the soap gets thrown across the bathroom like a missile, it’s back the next day, two bars this time, taunting him.
He is going crazy.
It starts happening at night.
The record player turns on by itself, always at 2:00 a.m. always a different song, their songs. Glenn Miller, Sinatra, The Ink Spots… One horrifying night: Stayin’ Alive, Steve wakes in a cold sweat and unplugs the damn thing, the next night? It plays anyway, unplugged, spinning, a song Bucky used to hum when patching him up after missions.
Steve stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching the vinyl turn slowly, he doesn’t cry, not really, just…a little allergic to jazz suddenly.
The notes are the worst part.
He finds the first in his sock drawer: “You dress like you lost a bet, fix it.”
The second is taped to the bathroom mirror: “You missed a spot shaving, embarrassing.”
The third, under his pillow: “Buy a better mattress, you sleep like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
The handwriting is familiar, messy, quick, almost cocky.
Steve keeps every note، he tells himself it's for investigation purposes.
He puts them in a shoebox labeled Ghost? Or Bucky?. He reads them every night before bed, and once, when he’s especially tired, he whispers, “Miss you too.”
One day, Steve bakes a pie.
A perfect cherry pie, his mother’s recipe, he sets it on the counter to cool, covers it lovingly, and goes to bed with the soft, satisfied feeling of a man who has accomplished something wholesome.
The pie is gone the next morning, tin and all, as if it didn’t exist.
There’s cherry filling smeared across the fridge in what appears to be a finger-written heart, a fork sits proudly in the sink, Steve stands silently for a full minute, then screams.
Peggy pokes her head into the kitchen and sees him pointing accusingly at the empty counter. “It was my pie,” he says, wounded. “My pie.”
She nods slowly, retreats without a word, and from that day forward tells her coworkers that Steve is probably being haunted by a carb-loving ghost with poor boundaries.
The ghost apparently has a taste for interior design.
Steve’s boots are suddenly lined up by height, his shirts reorganized by color, his dresser smells like cheap aftershave and stubborn loyalty.
One night he finds his dog tags missing, gone for a week, only to reappear polished and perfectly folded atop his pillow, tied with a red ribbon, the ribbon is exactly the shade of red Bucky used to accuse Steve of bleeding.
Steve doesn’t say a word, just holds the tags in his hand and sits on the edge of the bed for two hours.
Then comes the mirror.
He leaves a note one night out of frustration: “Are you dead?”
He feels ridiculous doing it, the note vanishes with no answer.
He writes another: “Do ghosts eat pie?” Gone the next morning, still no reply.
Until one morning, post-shower, the bathroom mirror fogs up, and written in the condensation, in neat, slow, deliberate handwriting:
“I never died, Steve, you just stopped looking.”
Steve has to sit down, in a towel on the floor for forty-five minutes.
He doesn’t tell Peggy when he starts leaving out two plates at dinner.
Doesn’t tell her why he walks slower at night, glancing over his shoulder, waiting for a laugh, a footstep, a snarky comment about his dad sweaters.
The silence starts to hurt.
The haunting, somehow, stopped.
No soap, no jazz, no milk-based messages of doom.
Just absence.
Until one snowy night.
Steve walks out to the porch, steaming mug in hand, wrapped in his old army coat, he sits on the top step, watching the snowfall, wondering what he did wrong, wondering if he imagined all of it if grief is a ghost in itself.
He whispers into the cold: “I miss you, I miss you more than you’ll ever know.”
The wind answers nothing.
But behind him, a board creaks.
He turns.
There, on the bottom step, is Bucky Barnes.
In the flesh, solid, coat half-buttoned, hair tied back in a man-bun, snow in his lashes and beard, and cherry pie on his breath, right hand in his coat’s pocket, left hand, out, vibranium, it was Bucky, his Bucky, the Bucky he left in the future…
Steve drops the mug, it shatters.
“You,” he breathes.
Bucky tilts his head, smiles. “Me.”
Steve lunges.
And the porch light flickers.