Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Not Home

“Well? What do you think?” 

Steve stepped into the apartment, footsteps echoing against the newly installed wooden floors and the empty white walls. “It’s… big.” 

Howard followed in after him, his cane more of an artifact of show than helping bear any of his bodyweight. “It was the perfect opportunity, I tell you, Steve. Match made in the heavens! The day you were found, this place was put up for sale, and I knew I had to get it. It’s the same building, can you believe it?”

The same building, maybe. But unrecognizable. The entire block was. The street. The city. Brooklyn. It wasn’t his Brooklyn. It wasn’t the Brooklyn he left for the war. The entire place felt alien. Or maybe he was the alien, the pale shadow that didn’t belong, the ghost that had returned to haunt the streets. 

He was vaguely aware of Howard’s silence, for the man seldom remained silent half this long. He stared at the white walls, too white. He wondered what had happened to the wall that had split this space in half, once. It separated Bucky’s place from old Dolores’s. She had never liked them. How did the building not collapse, with the wall gone? The old fire escape had been blocked off, boarded up. If Steve focused, he could see where the wall was a shade lighter, newer, door-shaped. 

The walls felt wrong. The wrong color, the wrong texture… surely no one expected to be able to keep that white that pristine forever? It was impractical. The sounds were wrong, too — too muffled, too quiet, even for his supersoldier hearing. The smells, wrong. Industrial cleaner. HYDRA bases smelled less sterile. 

The light… the only redeeming factor, in Steve’s opinion.  The window was clear, sunlight flowing through unhindered. The ol d glass had been wavy and imperfect, distorting everything into softer shapes. This light lit up the floor, reflected and bounced in sharp, clean angles… his fingers itched for a pencil, something to sketch the lights and shadows with, catch the geometry and freeze it on something more permanent before it shifted, never to return quite the same.

He didn’t have a pencil. Or paper. 

He’d asked, earlier. Howard had given him a spy pen with ink that disappeared. And when they did give him a normal pen, it was always accompanied with enough papers to make his arm ache. 

Howard cleared his throat.

Steve turned to face him. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in, but you’ll love it once it’s furnished. Speaking of — the furniture’s coming in later today. I got you the best of everything. You’ll love it here. The height of comfort!”

As if comfort were the problem. 

Howard continued, “Then, once you’ve had a few days, SHIELD will want to talk to you. About the future, moving forward. The world’s full of new threats to face. We’ll get you settled in no time, Steve.” 

Of course there were. “As you say, Howie.” 

Because things were never that easy, were they? It was the same old theme since 1943. Maybe before that. New threats, new enemies, new wars. People still fought. People still died. People still smoked, just like Dum-Dum had. They still drank, like Steve wished he could have after… after…

Grab my hand! 

Ice, biting wind, sharp crags—

Howard cleared his throat.

Another awkward pause. 

“Welcome home, Captain.”

Home. 

What a meaningless word. 

He smiled, feeling hollow. “Thanks, Howie.” 

Howard left, muttering something about being back later. Steve didn’t pay enough attention to hear it all. 

The door closed. 

The lock clicked. 

Steve stood in the center of the empty apartment. The wrong apartment, he thought to himself as he listened to the silence. 

Not the silence he remembered. No creaking doors, no footsteps as Bucky returned home from working on the docks, or late from a date with some pretty lass. No cackle of old Dolores’s radio bleeding through the walls, preaching the word of God at all hours of the night. 

Steve didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could. 

Outside, the city lived. Cars drove by, honking. People called out. 

Inside, Steve stood still. A statue in a museum, feeling nothing at all. 

The Phone

Blue tie, with thin silver stripes. Fluorescent lights overhead, humming. Bright, constant. Too bright. Too constant. The after-taste of coffee, bitter and wrong. Too strong, burnt. Nothing like what Bucky snuck home from the docks— 

“Captain Rogers?”

He blinked. Looked up. Three faces stared back at him. Three? Four? SHIELD agents. 

He’d been introduced. 

He didn’t remember any of their names. 

Time moved again. 

“Sorry,” he said automatically. “Could you repeat the question?” 

The woman on the left (dark hair, sharp suit) exchanged a glance with the one-eyed black man beside her. “The Valkyrie’s navigation system, Captain. Do you remember how Schmidt programmed the targeting coordinates?” 

Did he remember? 

He inhaled, the air colder than expected. Ice, settling into his bones. A fan with a faulty bearing overhead — or the crackle of a radio? Peggy’s voice, breaking—

“Captain?” 

“I… yes.” He blinked. “There was a console, I saw him program it before…” 

Before what? Before the fight? Before the plane went down? It was all a blur, sharp and painful and jagged and too clear at once. “I can describe it. If you have paper, I could draw—” 

“That won’t be necessary right now,” the woman said in what he assumed was meant to be a comforting tone. “We have the wreckage. We just need to confirm a few details.” 

“Of course.” 

Of course they did. They didn’t need him to draw. They didn’t need him at all, really. 

It was just routine. Procedure. A mission report, seventy years late. 

Seventy years. 

Grab my hand! 

Three weeks. 

(He could have jumped.) 

The questions continued. 

HYDRA bases. Weapons. The serum. Schmidt. The Tesseract. Zola. The Commandos. 

Bucky. 

Steve heard someone answering. The voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. 

Maybe it did. 

Maybe Steve Rogers had died in the ice, and this was just Captain America. The ghost in the machine. 

“—get you set up with modern technology.”

The room sharpened, returned to focus. Four people. No, five. Howard was there, too. Leaning against the back wall, watching. Offering a smile when Steve’s gaze met his. 

The man directly across from him slid something across the table. (Fury, that was his name. Director Fury.) “We understand this is all overwhelming, Captain. We will strive to make the transition as smooth as possible.” 

Steve looked down. A black shape, rectangular. He picked it up slowly. Examined it. Turned it over in his hands. Three buttons — no, four. Each a different color. Big buttons, almost comically so. His brow furrowed.

What the hell was this? 

“We’ve kept it simple,” the woman explained, her voice careful, as if walking on eggshells. She leaned forward, cautious, as if dealing with something fragile. “This button makes calls. This one opens your messages. We’ve programmed your emergency contacts — SHIELD HQ, Director Fury, Mr. Stark. If you need anything, just press this button, and someone will answer.”

A phone.

This was a phone? 

He’d snuck glances at Howard’s sleek, shiny rectangle plenty of times over the past two days. Slim, covered entirely in glowing screens on the front and back. Powerful. “This, Steve, holds more computational power than we needed to send people to the moon.” 

The one in his hands? A child’s toy. Buttons a child could use. 

None of the other agents had a phone like this.

Why him? 

His jaw tightened. He forced it to relax. 

“We didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed, Captain,” Fury added, watching him critically with his one eye. 

Then why can’t you figure it out, Pirate-Man. 

“Modern smartphones can be complicated,” someone added. Steve couldn’t remember the man’s name. Older, lighter hair than the others in the room. Important title, secretary of some thing or another. “This will let you get comfortable with the basics. Then, once you’re ready, we can upgrade you to something more advanced.” 

Once you’re ready.

As if he can’t handle a real phone.

As if he hadn’t flown a plane into the Arctic to save millions of lives.

As if he hadn’t led one of the most successful units in the war. 

As if he hadn’t figured out Stark’s half-finished tech and decoded instructions that half the Army’s engineers couldn’t decipher.

As if he was too stupid, too old, too broken to figure out what everyone else in this room used without a second thought. 

But, sure. Big buttons. 

He was twenty-six. 

He was ninety-four. 

Bucky fell three weeks ago. 

Bucky—

“Thank you,” Steve heard himself say. Even, polite. (What good would getting angry do? They’re gone.) “This is very thoughtful.” 

Howard pushed off the wall and approached, cane swinging in his hand only when he remembered it. He pushed past one of the agents. (The one with the kind smile, who had stumbled over his words at the start of the meeting while asking Steve to sign some sort of trading cards.)  

“It’s a good starter phone, Steve,” Howard said. “Once you get the hang of it, we’ll get you upgraded to top-of-the-line. No rush.” 

No rush. 

Steve pocketed the phone, the weight dropping in his pocket, heavier than it had any right to be. 

“Is there anything else?” 

Director Fury studied him for a moment. As did the other man with the name and important title that Steve forgot, Mr Secretary of whatever.

Those there are real creeps, Stevie. Keep your distance. 

Leave it to Bucky’s memory to state the obvious. 

“That’s all for today, Captain. Get settled. Rest. If you need anything, use the phone.” Fury then looked to Howard. “We will schedule another debrief for next week.”

Howard nodded once in affirmation. 

Steve also nodded. Then, he stood. The chair scraped against the floor, too loud in the sudden silence. 

He turned.

He walked out.

Howard followed, saying something about lunch, about showing him more of the city, about plans for tomorrow and the week. 

Steve’s hand stayed in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the phone.

A man out of time. 

He wondered if his grip alone could crush the phone, if he tried. He wondered how those agents in fancy suits would react if he did. They already saw him as less than, as fragile and broken. 

He smiled at Howard, nodding along at whatever the man was saying, and felt nothing at all.  

Chapter Text

Care for a Drink?

“Two whiskeys. No, make that three. It’s a celebration!” 

Steve slid onto the barstool beside Howard and wondered what the hell Howard planned to celebrate. 

Alas, one needed a significantly higher education and much looser state of sobriety to even attempt to understand Howard Stark’s reasoning, as Steve had learned of late. Instead of attempting that futile challenge, he looked around, trying to find something else to occupy his attention. 

The signs were too clean. Metal too shiny, paint too perfect, no rust, no wear. Not vintage, just a poor attempt at making it look as such. The wood of the bar gleamed under carefully arranged lighting, polished to a mirror shine. No scuff, no stains, no lived-in atmosphere. Music played from hidden speakers. Glenn Miller, the same thing Steve heard at every single one of these “old-time” places Howard dragged him to, as faux as the uncracked leather seats they sat upon. Steve didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or scream. 

A proper bar, this was not. Maybe it could count as a museum exhibit. Or a theme park.

“This place opened last year,” Howard said, gesturing broadly. “Authentic 40s experience. Thought you’d appreciate it.” 

Steve nodded and said nothing.

The bartender set down two glasses. 

Howard raised his glass immediately. “To old times!”

Steve didn’t reach for his glass. 

Couldn’t. 

Why bother? The serum would burn through the alcohol before he felt anything, anyway. He hadn’t gotten lucky like Howard had in that regard. 94, serumed-up, and still able to get drunk off his ass every other night of the week, if not more often. 

Howard didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. He downed his first glass and reached for the second without asking. 

Steve still said nothing. Howard could keep his glass, for all he cared. 

“You know,” Howard said, words already loosening at the edges, “I spent seventy years looking for you. Seventy years, Steve. I looked everywhere. Every lead, every possibility. I never gave up. Never stopped believing you were out there.”

One week ago, I went into the ice. 

Three weeks ago, Bucky died.

Or was it four now?

(Did it matter?)

He traced the grain of the wooden bar on the underside of the bartop, not filed flat where no one could see. The truth behind the shiny polished facade. 

Still too smooth, too perfect. 

Still false. 

“And now you’re here. Back. It’s a miracle, Steve. A goddamn miracle.” 

Howard raised his glass. The second one, Steve’s untouched drink. “To miracles.” 

And then, Howard drank. 

Steve watched Howard signal for another. 

Howard’s eyes were getting glassy. So not only could Howard get drunk with his serum, but he could get drunk fast?

Such a cruel and unfair world. 

“You remember that mission in Austria? You and Barnes, flying in behind enemy lines.” Howard laughed, a full laugh that reeked of alcohol. “I was so sure you’d both get killed and I’d be next on the chopping block when Colonel Philips found out. But you pulled it off. You always pulled it off.”

Bucky.

Steve’s hand tightened on the edge of the bar. The wood creaked. 

Grab my hand! 

“He was a good man, Barnes,” Howard continued, oblivious. “A real hero. You both were— are,” Howard corrected himself. “You still are. He… well. He’d be proud of you, Steve. Proud of what you did. What you sacrificed.”

Proud?

Pain and bitterness bubbled in Steve’s chest. 

It felt hollow.  

Bucky would have been many things. 

Steven Grant Rogers, you fucking punk, what the hell were ya thinking?! 

“Proud” would not be one of them. 

It’s called a fucking parachute! Sweet Mother Mary, did the serum replace your brain with jet fuel or somethin’? Is that a new side effect we gotta report up to the brass? 

“We lost a lot of good men in that war,” Howard said, staring into his glass. “But we won. We won, Steve. Because of you. Because of what you did.” 

Steve’s jaw ached. He realized he was clenching it. He forced himself to relax. Or tried to. 

“I lost people, too, you know.” Howard’s voice dropped, got maudlin. “I lost you. Spent my whole life looking. And I lost my son. Tony. He…” Howard trailed off, taking another drink instead of finishing. “We weren’t close. He… I wasn’t a good father. But…” Howard downed another drink. “I lost him. Three years ago. So I understand, Steve. I understand loss.”

Three years.

Bucky fell three weeks ago. 

And here Howard was, toasting Bucky as if he were ancient history. 

He’s still falling.

“To the ones we lost,” Howard said, raising his (fifth?) glass, swaying slightly on his stool. 

Steve didn’t move. Couldn’t. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t reach for a glass he wouldn’t drink anyway. 

Grab my hand!

The bar was too loud. Too bright. Too cheerful.

He’s still falling. 

Steve wanted to rip those hidden speakers out of the walls. How dare they play Glenn Miller when Bucky fell, over and over—

He’s still screaming.

“Steve?” Howard squinted at him. “You okay? You look pale.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You sure? You haven’t touched your drink.” 

Steve gritted his teeth. “I’m fine, Howard.” 

“Because if you need to talk about it, I”m here. I get it, you know. What it’s like to lose someone.” 

Do you?

Do you really?

Seventy years.

Three weeks.  

I can still hear him scream. 

Howard had seventy years. Time to process, time to move on. 

Even with his kid (Howard had a kid?), he had three years. 

Steve had three weeks. 

All I hear are screams.  

If he closed his eyes, he saw it. The mountain. The crags. The ice. 

His choice. 

I could have jumped. But why bother?

“I know,” someone said in Steve’s voice. “Thank you, Howard.”

Howard clapped him on the shoulder, like they were old pals stepping back in time. Steve didn’t know whether to envy or pity him. “That’s what friends are for, right? We look out for each other. Always have.” 

Howard ordered another drink. 

The bartender didn’t like that.

Steve excused himself while Howard argued with the man. Bathroom. Needed air. Something. He didn’t remember. 

He walked into the bathroom, footsteps even with a soldier’s march.

He locked himself in the stall. He sat down on the closed toilet lid and put his head in his hands. He didn’t look around. The music was muffled here, but audible. Glenn Miller, cheerful brass. Faux ghosts of a world that didn’t exist anymore. 

I’m the only ghost here. 

A sob ripped its way out of his chest. 

He’s still screaming.

Steve didn’t know if he meant Bucky or himself.

Coney Island

Steve stared at the wall, too white to be practical. 

The light had moved. Noon had passed. It was early afternoon now. (Early? Late?) The angle had changed, the geometry shifted. 

There used to be a wall that cut this space in half. 

He blinked.

The wall was still white. 

Why was the wall missing? The one that separated his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

He should eat something. The fridge had food; Howard had it stocked, with ready-made modern food in modern packing, tasting of cardboard and chemicals that made it too sweet. 

He didn’t move. 

Outside, the city lived. Cars drove by, honking. People called out. 

Inside, Steve sat on the couch Howard’s people had delivered. A statue, feeling nothing at all. 

Yesterday, Howard had been too drunk to show up. Or too hungover. Steve wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. It had given him a reprieve, whatever that meant. A day’s rest. Absence, a pause in the cycle. 

A knock.

The silence shattered into fine dust.

Steve didn’t move, not immediately. 

“Steve? You in there? It’s Howard.” 

Of course it was. 

Steve stood. He walked to the door. 

Didn’t they teach you not to trust every stranger at your door that claims to be a friend?

Why bother? He could kill a man with a punch, if he forgot to hold back. 

He opened the door. 

Howard stood in the hallway, grinning, looking remarkably put-together for someone who’d been sloshed enough to end up on the 3am B-team news, forgetting to put any of his weight on his walking stick. “There you are! I was starting to worry. You’ve been cooped up too long. Come on, we’re getting out, getting some air. It’ll be good for you.” 

“Alright.” 

What had he agreed to, again?

Did it matter?

“Great! I’ve got the car downstairs, we’ll make a day of it.” 

Steve grabbed his jacket and followed Howard out. 

What else was he going to do?

In the car, Howard talked. About the weather. About SHIELD. About some new project he was consulting on. (Something about a monger made of iron? And a flying ship?)

Outside, cars honked and swerved, as if insulted by Howard’s presence on the roadways. Steve didn’t blame them. The drive felt like a rollercoaster in itself. He watched the city pass by the window, trying to remember what he’d been thinking about before Howard had arrived. (Had he been thinking?) 

He couldn’t remember. 

“So,” Howard said, glancing over, “anywhere in particular you want to go? I was thinking we could—”

“Coney Island,” Steve heard himself say, looking over at Howard. 

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?”

“Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn’t payback, is it?”

“Now why would I do that?” 

Howard’s face lit up. “Brilliant idea! I’ll show you everything — what changed, what’s stayed the same. It’ll be just like old times, Steve, you’ll love it.” 

Steve looked out the window. His hands tightened in his lap. 

That’s not what I meant, Howie.

But, Howard was already talking a mile a minute about parking, about the best route through the park, about something in summer of ‘43. 

Steve let the words wash over him like static. 

Why bother telling it to stop? 

The boardwalk was crowded.

Families. Couples. Groups of teenagers, clustered around their phones and laughing at something Steve didn’t understand. Voices overlapped: children shrieking with delight, teen girls gossiping, parents trying to keep young children from running off. The mechanical roar of the rollercoasters intermingled with the drifting music, something modern and unrecognizable to Steve yet interesting nonetheless. 

It was loud. 

Chaotic. 

Alive. 

While Howard bought their tickets, Steve stood at the entrance and felt something in his chest loosen.

The world kept turning. People kept living. They moved forward, laughed, existed in the present. 

Seventy years had passed. 

Four weeks had passed.

And… maybe that was okay.

“Look at this place!” Howard gestured broadly as he walked back over, tickets in hand, cane forgotten somewhere by the ticket office. “They’ve really fixed it up, eh? Not quite the same it was, but impressive. See that ferris wheel? That’s new. Well, new-er. The old one was—”

Just like that, the comfort evaporated. 

“—torn down in the sixties, I think. Or was it the fifties? Anyways, this one’s bigger. More modern, safer, all that. Remember the old one? That summer—”

Howard’s voice faded to the background, mixing with the chaos of the crowd, as Steve looked at the ferris wheel, the afternoon sun causing the metal to glow golden. The geometric spokes, the slow rotation, the way the light shifted slowly as the wheel moved, dancing a slow waltz. His fingers itched. If he had a pencil, he could capture the way the shadow fell across—

“—and then I almost got thrown out for— Steve? You listening?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Sorry. What were you saying?” 

Howard laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, though his eyes were specked with concern. “Never mind. Come on, let’s walk. I’ll show you what else has changed.”

And so, they walked.

Howard narrated. 

“This used to be a hotdog stand — best in town, remember? Now, it’s some kind of artisanal something-or-other. Artisanal hot dogs. Can you believe that?”

Steve looked at the stand. The people in line. Chatting, smiling. A little girl tugged on a man’s hand, pointing at something. 

Steve had never eaten at the hot dog stand. Bucky had offered, once. But, money was tight, and the hot dogs had been expensive for a hot dog. There were cheaper ones. They had better things to spend their limited money on. (Steve hated spending Bucky’s money on himself.) 

“And over here, this whole section was rebuilt after a fire in the eighties. Looks completely different. You wouldn’t recognize it.”

Steve tried to see what was there, not what used to be there. The colors — bright, garish, ostentatious. The crowd flowed like water around stalls. The ocean filled in the rest, grey-blue and endless. 

“Remember that game where you throw baseballs at bottles?” Howard gestured toward a row of carnival games. Colorful, too bright, too new. “I brought Tony here once, when he was eight or nine. He was convinced the whole thing was rigged — which it was, of course — and spent the entire time trying to figure out the mechanism instead of actually playing.”

Steve nodded, not really listening. (Had Howie mentioned having a kid before?)

He’d never played that game. Couldn’t afford it. Bucky had, once. And won. Some small and cheap prize, then given it to a crying kid. 

“The game’s rigged, Stevie.”

“Then how’d you win, Buck?”

A wink. “That’s a secret.”

Bucky always had flawless aim. That’s why they chose him for the 107th. (That’s why he died.)

“Spent twenty dollars before I finally told him we were leaving. He threw a tantrum. Didn’t talk to me the whole ride home.” Howard laughed, but it sounded hollow, a bit like Steve felt. “Should’ve just explained how it worked. Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”

Not really, Steve wanted to say. (A freely given explanation would have never satisfied Bucky, either.)

The crowd pressed closer. A teenager bumped past Steve, unapologetic, and kept walking. Music blared from a nearby ride. Someone was selling something, calling out incomprehensible prices that Steve didn’t try to process. 

Voices. Too many. Too many people. Howard’s voice layered over the crowd, over the music, over the mechanical screams of the rides, over Bucky’s scream—

“Steve?” 

He blinked. 

They stood in front of a small shop. Weathered wood, hand-painted sign. Souvenirs & Gifts. Faded toys in bins, faded from sun and salt. 

He didn’t remember walking here. 

“You alright?” Howard was watching him. Concerned, once more. “You zoned out there for a second.”

A second? 

A minute?

Four weeks?

Seventy years?

“I’m fine,” Steve said automatically. “Just… a lot to take in.” The words felt bland on his tongue, like a cardboard meal.

“Of course, of course,” Howard acknowledged, and for a moment, Steve wondered if Howard finally understood. The exhaustion, the confusion, the suffocating noise and the deafening silence. Then, the man added with renewed energy, “well, let’s grab some souvenirs! Something to remember the day by. Come on.”

Nevermind. 

Steve looked at the shop. Through the window, he saw shelves stocked with trinkets: magnets, keychains shaped like hot dogs, toy rollercoasters—

Notebooks. 

Spiral-bound, simple, with a photo of Coney Island on the front. Stacked on a shelf near the back.

Something shifted in the hollow space in Steve’s chest. 

“Howie,” Steve started, “could we—”

Howard was already moving, pushing through the door with the cheery jingling bell. “Let’s see what they’ve got! Authentic memorabilia, this is!” 

Steve followed slowly. 

The shop was small, cramped. It smelled like salt air and old wood and something sweet—

—cotton candy, sticky on his fingers. Bucky laughed beside him, bumping their shoulders together. “Come on, Stevie, let’s see what else they got.” 

A fair. Not Coney Island. Somewhere smaller, cheaper. Bucky was off for the day. Unpaid, but required. Something had happened at the docks, but Bucky wouldn’t tell Steve what. Something about an investigation. Steve knew that meant someone had collapsed, died. 

It was before the war. Before everything. Summer warmth, hot but not sweltering enough to trigger his asthma. Bucky’s hand on his elbow, steering him through the crowd. 

“Here.” Bucky reached past him— 

“—these magnets look perfect! You can put them on your fridge, Steve—” 

—grabbing something off a shelf. A notebook. Spiral-bound, cheap paper, but clean and not falling apart. “For your drawings.”

“Buck, you don’t have to—”

Steve blinked. 

The shop. 

Coney Island. 

“Actually, I do. I got paid yesterday, and you need a new one. That old one’s falling apart.”

Howard was at the counter now, talking to the shopkeep with the patient smile, old and glancing at Steve with sad eyes. 

Bucky tucked the new notebook under Steve’s arm with a grin, that stupid cocky grin he always had when he knew he’d already won the argument. 

“And one of these keychains. No, two, why not?”

The notebooks were still on the shelf. Right there. 

Within reach. 

Bucky’s hand, warm on his shoulder. The notebook, under his arm. The fair, spinning around them, bright and loud—

“Steve? You coming?”

Steve blinked. 

The shopkeeper was ringing up Howard’s purchases, eyes not meeting Steve’s. 

The notebooks were still on the shelf. Right there. 

Steve could just… take one. Buy it himself. He had money, now. SHIELD had given him a wallet, and apparently the government owed him enough to make him rich. 

Steve, a rich boy. Bucky would have laughed himself to tears at the idea. Steve would have joined.  

“Actually,” Steve began, his voice sounding far away, “I was hoping—” 

“Got some great stuff here!” Howard held up a snow globe, the kind that Steve knew about only because the SHIELD agent named Phil-something had one on his desk. “Look at this. The whole boardwalk in miniature! And these magnets. And the postcards, we can send some to… well, we’ll figure it out.” 

The shopkeeper bagged everything. 

Howard paid. 

The transaction was done. 

“Ready?” Howard asked, heading for the door, bags in hand. 

Steve looked at the notebooks. 

The notebooks were still on the shelf. Right there. 

His hand stayed at his side. 

He turned away. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Ready.” 

The bell jingled as they left. 

They kept walking.

Howard kept talking. 

Steve stopped listening. 

The crowd was just noise now. Meaningless, empty. 

The sun was lower, the light different. Four weeks ago, Steve would have tried to capture it, the way it turned everything warm and soft and golden. 

He wasn’t capturing anything now. 

It felt like a glamor cast across something long dead. 

Four weeks ago.

Seventy years ago. 

Maybe he’d come back wrong. Maybe part of him was still frozen. Or lost in the ice. 

“—I’m telling you, Steve, the engineering on these new rides is incredible—”

A gull cried overhead. 

Steve watched it fly against the sky, white against shades of blue. 

Free. 

Flying. 

Could it land?

“—but nothing beats the classics. The Cyclone’s still there, original structure and all! Well, mostly original. They’ve reinforced it, obviously. Had to, with the salt spray and—” 

Steve blinked.

They were somewhere else now. Near the beach. Sand, water. 

When had they moved? 

Had they eaten?

Steve couldn’t remember. 

Time kept slipping. Like when he had been small and sick. 

He was still sick. 

“I tried to get Tony on it, once,” Howard said, staring at the rollercoaster in the distance. “He was terrified of heights as a kid. Wouldn’t even go near it. I thought… well. I thought if I could just get him on it, he’d see it wasn’t so bad. That the fear was just… something to push through. That he’s stronger than that. That Stark men really are made of iron, including him.”

Howard’s voice had gone quiet. Sad, maybe. Steve wasn’t sure. 

“He cried. Made himself sick. Got us a whole lot of media coverage, too. I had to carry him back to the car.” A pause. “Maria didn’t talk to me for a week after that.” 

Steve looked at Howard. 

The man was staring at the Cyclone like it had personally offended him. 

“I wasn’t a good father,” Howard quietly admitted. “I kept trying to… kept pushing. And now, he’s gone, and I can’t—” he stopped. Cleared his throat. “Anyway.” He looked at Steve. “Want to ride it? For old time’s sake?”

What old times? 

Steve had never ridden the Cyclone with Howard. He’d ridden it once, with Bucky, who’d insisted. He threw up on Bucky’s shoes after. 

“No,” Steve said. “I’m good.” 

Howard nodded, like he’d expected that answer. “Fair enough. It’s getting late anyway. We should head back.” 

Steve followed. 

Not like he had a choice. 

Howard drove.

People honked and cursed. 

“Just like old times, wasn’t it? Well, close enough. We should do this more often — get you out, show you the city. There’s so much you haven’t seen yet. So much that’s changed.”

Steve nodded, watching the city pass in a blur. 

“Yeah. Thanks, Howard.”

“That’s what friends are for!”

Are we friends? 

Steve didn’t know anymore. 

Had he ever known? 

The apartment was exactly how Steve had left it.

“I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll figure out the next outing. The Met, maybe— or, actually, SHIELD wants to schedule that follow-up debrief. Don’t worry, I’ll handle coordinating with them.” 

“Thanks, Howard.” 

“Don’t mention it. Get some rest, Steve. You look tired.”

I’m always tired.

The door closed. The lock clicked. 

Steve stared at the wall, too white to be practical. 

The light had moved. Faded. The angle was gone, the geometry was gone. 

No notebook. No pencils. No way to capture anything he’d seen. The light on the ferris wheel, the way the crowd moved, the sun reflecting off the waves, the gull against the sky. 

Not that it mattered. 

He couldn’t have drawn it anyway. His hands wouldn’t move. Hadn’t moved. Not since—

Grab my hand!

Steve sat on the couch Howard’s people had delivered. 

There used to be a wall that cut this space in half. 

He blinked.

The wall was still white. 

Why was the wall missing? The one that separated his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

He should eat something. The fridge had food; Howard had it stocked, with ready-made modern food in modern packing, tasting of cardboard and chemicals that made it too sweet. 

He didn’t move. 

Outside, the city lived. Cars drove by, honking. People called out. 

Inside, Steve sat. A statue, feeling nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Never

Steve stared at the wall, too white to be practical. 

The light had moved. Left. Returned. Left again. Three days? Four?

Time didn’t work right anymore. 

He didn’t work right. 

Why was the wall missing? The one that separated his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

A knock. 

Insistent, loud. 

Or was it the rattle of a train barrelling down thin tracks through the Alps? 

Or the shudders of a plane flying out of control, a flap breaking off? 

Steve didn’t move. 

Another knock.

Did Bucky forget his keys again? 

“Steve? I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Howard. 

Of course it was. 

Steve stood slowly. He walked towards the door, footsteps even with a soldier’s march.

He opened it. 

Howard stood in the hallway, face creased, a white-knuckled grip on his cane as if he’d bothered to remember to use it. 

“You haven’t been answering your phone, Steve.” 

“Sorry.” 

What was he apologizing for, again?

“I’ve called four times. And SHIELD called me because they couldn’t reach you.” Howard pushed past Steve to step into the apartment. He paused, looking around the apartment. The lines on his face deepened, and he began pacing. 

Steve closed the door. He turned, and said nothing. 

“You can’t just hole up in here, Steve. It’s not healthy.” 

Steve said nothing. 

“How long has it been since you’ve been outside? Since Coney Island?” Howard gestured around the apartment with his cane. “You need to engage. You need to move forward. Sitting here in the dark isn’t—” 

It was dark? Hm. 

Dark. Cold. Quiet.

So cold. 

Ice. 

“—Have you eaten? When’s the last time you ate?” 

“I’m fine, Howard.”

He’s still screaming.

“You are not fine.” Howard’s voice rose, frustration bleeding through. “You’re getting worse, Steve. Not better. Worse.” 

Steve said nothing. 

“I’ve tried, Steve.” Howard’s pacing grew more agitated. “I’ve taken you out. Shown you the city. Spent time with you. But you’re not… You’re not trying. You have to meet me halfway there.” 

Grab my hand!

But you can’t catch the falling when they’re already half-way down the mountain.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, just—” Howard stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t working. Whatever this is, it’s not working. You can’t just sit here and feel sorry for yourself.” 

Steve’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Uncurled. He forced them to relax. 

They were cold. 

He was cold. 

You can’t fix what’s broken. Not this time, Howie. 

“I know it’s hard,” Howard continued, voice softening. “I know you lost people. I know it hurts. But you have to try. You have to move forward. That’s what they would have wanted.” 

Crack. 

The ice began to split. 

Not loudly. Not violently. 

“It’s what Bucky would have wanted.” 

Crack.

The ice gave away. 

Grab my hand! 

“I never checked.” 

Howard stopped pacing. “What?” 

“For parachutes.” Steve’s voice was flat, distant. “On the Valkyrie. I never checked.” 

“Steven Grant Rogers, you stupid punk! Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the little donkey too, what were you—”

“Steve—” 

“I could have jumped.” Steve took a step forward. “Maybe there were parachutes. Maybe there weren’t. Maybe I could have made the jump without one anyways, like Azzano. I don’t know, I never looked. Because I didn’t plan to survive.” 

Howard’s face went pale. “Steve, you were saving millions of—” 

“I’m tired, Howie. I’ve been tired since the day Bucky fell.” The words kept coming. Not emotional or passionate, just flat and factual. Another piece of the mission briefing. “Four weeks ago. Or five now? I don’t know. Time doesn’t work right.” His gaze sharpened. “It’s been four weeks since Bucky fell. Two weeks since I went into the ice. Or something like that. For you, it’s been seventy years. You’ve had time. You’ve processed. You’ve moved on.”

“I haven’t moved on, I spent seventy years—”

“Bucky fell four weeks ago.” Steve’s voice didn’t rise or break, but something colored the words. Anger? Sorrow? He didn’t know. He just knew it was there, different from nothing being there at all. Then, it was gone. Empty once more. “I still hear him scream. I still see his face. The serum won’t let me forget. Every memory is perfectly sharp. I remember every detail of how he died. How I let Bucky die.”

His voice cracked, then. Just slightly, on Bucky’s name. 

“The Commandos — I didn’t even know they died until SHIELD told me. In a debrief. A list of names and dates. Like it was just data. They’ve been dead for years — to you. To me, they died two weeks ago.”

Howard opened his mouth. Steve didn’t let him speak. 

“And you keep telling me to move forward.” His voice went flat again, neutral. Smoothing over the crack, as if it had never been there at all. “But I can’t. I don’t know how. You keep showing me the past, but it’s all wrong. The game on the radio was wrong. The bar was wrong. Coney Island was wrong. This apartment is wrong. This isn’t my apartment.” 

Howard closed his mouth. 

Steve kept going. “I used to draw, did you know that? When I was smaller, when I was sick. I forgot a lot of things. I drew so I wouldn’t forget. Then the serum fixed that, but I still drew. Four weeks ago, even if it was just a small sketch. And now…” He gestured to the white walls, too white to be practical. “I know I’m not making new memories right. The serum is supposed to make my memory perfect, but I can’t keep track of time. I can’t remember what I did yesterday. Or the day before. But I remember every second of Bucky falling. Of the ice. Of the cold.” 

“Steve, I’m trying to help—”

“I didn’t ask to wake up.” 

Silence. 

The words hung in the air.

Howard stared at him, even paler. “What—”

“I didn’t ask to wake up,” Steve repeated. “I didn’t ask for this. Any of this. I just wanted it to be over. And then I woke up, and it’s seventy years later, and everyone’s gone, and you keep trying to help, but you don’t listen.”

“I’m listening now—”

Are you really?

“No. You talk over me. You plan things. You decide what I need. But you don’t ask. You don’t listen, you don’t hear me.” 

He’s still screaming. 

“I try to tell you things, but you’re already moving on. I try to say what I need, but you’ve already decided something else.”

“Then tell me now. Tell me what you need.”

Can’t you hear the screams? 

Steve looked at him. Then he looked at the white walls. Then he looked at nothing at all. 

“I don’t know anymore,” he said quietly. “I’m tired, Howard. I can’t sleep. When I do, I see Bucky fall. I see him die. Over and over. And I’m so tired of trying. I’m so tired of not being heard. I’m just… tired.” 

Bucky had been full of life. Vibrant, real. The wind of change that blew through Steve’s life and gave everything color. Steve was just a ghost. A reflection in the ice. A wrong move, a wrong punch, and he’d shatter to dust.

Unlike when talking about Bucky, his voice didn’t break as he spoke about himself, for there was nothing left to break. 

Howard stood still for a long moment. (Was it wrong to hope he had frozen, too?) Then, he spoke. 

“I… Steve, I didn’t know you felt—” He stopped. For a moment, Steve took reprieve in the familiar silence. Then Howard started again. “I know what loss is. I spent seventy years looking for you. That consumed my life, my marriage, everything.” 

Steve said nothing. 

“And… I lost my son. Tony. Three years ago.” Howard’s voice went quiet. “I wasn’t a good father to him. I pushed too hard, didn’t listen to what he needed. Maria told me that until the day she died. Edwin did, too. I never realized what they meant, until Tony was gone too. I know, now. I know I failed him. So… I understand grief, Steve. I understand loss.”

Three years.

Seventy years.

Four weeks. 

Two. 

What have you learned, Howie?

 “We’ll fix this,” Howard said, voice gaining strength and purpose. “I’ll get you help. Real help. SHIELD has resources — therapists, specialists in trauma. They have that now, you know. I’ll look into it, set something up.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

Nothing at all. 

“And maybe you need a purpose. Something to focus on besides— Something forward-looking. I’ll figure it out, you don’t have to worry about anything.” 

“Howard—”

“I’m trying, Steve. I’ll do everything I can. But you have to work with me here. You have to… you have to let me help you.” 

Steve looked at him.

He could see it. Frustration. Helplessness. The desire, the desperation to fix this, to solve the problem. 

To solve him. 

Howard didn’t understand.

Howard couldn’t understand.

Howard wouldn’t understand. 

He’s still screaming.

And Steve was too tired to keep trying. 

“Okay, Howard.” 

Howard blinked, caught off-guard. “Okay?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Steve’s voice was empty, hollow. Just like he was. “Thank you for trying to help.”

“I… good. That’s good, Steve.” 

Relief. Steve wished he could feel that. (He wished he could feel anything at all beyond the cold emptiness.)

“I’ll set everything up. Figure out the best options. We’ll get you through this. I promise. 

Steve nodded. 

The walls went back up. The ice crept back in. The numbness returned.

It was easier this way. 

“Get some rest,” Howard said, heading for the door. “I’ll call you in a few days once I’ve arranged everything. And answer your phone this time, alright?”

“Alright. 

Howard paused at the door, looking back. “We’ll fix this, Steve. I promise.”

Howard offered a small smile. 

Steve didn’t return it. 

The door closed. 

The lock clicked. 

Steve stared at the wall, too white to be practical.

Why was the wall missing? The one that separated his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

He should eat something. The fridge had food; Howard had it stocked, with ready-made modern food in modern packing, tasting of cardboard and chemicals that made it too sweet. 

He didn’t move.

He’s still screaming.

Outside, the city lived. Cars drove by, honking. People called out. 

Inside, Steve stood still. 

A statue.

A ghost.  

He’s still dying. 

Fading

Hours passed. 

The light moved across the floor. Danced, then faded. Died. 

Steve sat on the couch Howard’s people had delivered. 

He listened to the silence, sitting on the wrong couch, in the wrong apartment, in the wrong time. 

Outside, the city was quieter. Less cars, less honks. Children had gone home for the night. The rhythm changed, slowed. 

Inside, Steve sat still. 

You didn’t listen.

You didn’t hear me. 

He’d said it. He’d finally said it. And Howard still hadn’t heard. 

Why don’t you hear the screams? Or had you just never bothered to listen?

Steve’s hands curled into fists on his knees. Uncurled. 

Something flickered in the hollow space in his chest. 

Not hope.

Not anger, either.

Just… something. Something other than emptiness. 

“Whatcha drawin’, Stevie?”

He stood. 

The apartment was dark now, shadows pooling in corners. Even with the serum enhancing his vision, the details blurred in the low light. He walked to the kitchen, taking a moment to identify the correct switch for the lights. (Had he used any of these switches before? He couldn’t remember.)

He learned the hard way that his apartment had some sort of grinding and whirring mechanism in his sink drain that activated when flipping one of the wall switches. The sudden piercing noise caused him to jump and curse under his breath. Jesus and all his little lambs, that had been loud!

Bucky laughed, that full laugh where he ducked his head and held a hand over his chest.

The light turned on. Fluorescent. Harsh. Too bright. 

That didn’t matter. He’d worked with worse. 

He found a napkin in one of the cupboards. Something Howard’s people had stocked. Cheap, thin. But it was clean, and white. If he was careful, it wouldn’t tear. 

Then, he found the pen. The spy pen, the one SHIELD had given him at the debrief. “Useful for covert operations”, they’d said. The ink would fade in an hour, leave no trace. 

Good enough. 

He went to the dining table. Too large for one person. Too large for two. Too large for four, even. 

His and Bucky’s was much smaller. 

He used his sleeve to wipe off the layer of dust that had accumulated over the past days. He sat down and spread out the napkin, removing wrinkles without causing any rips. The light from the kitchen was less direct here, less harsh, less bright. 

He held the pen.

His hand hovered over the napkin. 

Whatcha drawin’, Stevie?

Something to prove I’m still real. 

Coney Island. The ferris wheel. The way the light had caught the spokes, geometric and clean. He could see it in his mind, perfect and sharp as if it were right in front of him. 

His hand moved.

A line appeared on the napkin. Blue ink. Thin.

A second. 

A third. 

A fifth.

A tenth.

Stop.

Wrong. 

The spoke angles were off. Or, maybe they weren’t. Maybe Steve was just looking at it wrong? He tried tilting his head one way, then the other. He tilted the paper, one way and then the other. He closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe if he rotated the mental image in his brain to match…

He opened his eyes.

Wrong. 

A different wrong, but still wrong. 

He stared at the lines, trying to figure out what it was supposed to become. 

Nothing came to mind.

So, he tried again. Another line, another curve. 

Five, ten. 

The arc of the wheel.

Stop. 

Wrong. 

He lifted his hand, leaning back a moment, frustrated. 

Why couldn’t he draw the—

I know I’m not making new memories right.

That had to be it. He wasn’t remembering things properly. Maybe the serum was finally failing, after seventy years in the ice, or maybe his brain hadn’t thawed right. Either way, it made sense. If he wasn’t making memories right, how could he expect to use them to draw? 

He’d just need to draw the ferris wheel another time. Go out to Coney Island, look at it, and draw it then. Easy enough. 

A deep breath. 

But what to draw now? 

Whatcha drawin’, Stevie?

You, Buck.

Drawing Bucky was like second nature. He’d drawn sketches of his friend hundreds of times before the war.  Bucky laughing, Bucky sleeping, Bucky annoyed at Steve for getting into another fight, Bucky rolling his eyes because Steve was sketching instead of flirting with his date during their double-dates. Steve could see it already: the exact angle of his smile, the way he trimmed his hair, the scar on his chin from that fight in a dumpster, the other scar on his chin from when he had tripped and almost lost his teeth on a shovel but conned Steve for three weeks into thinking that it had been from a fight instead. 

Perfect. Sharp. Unforgettable. The serum ensured it.

Steve’s hand moved, creating a line.

A second. 

A third. 

A fifth.

A tenth.

Stop.

Wrong. 

Breathe.

Continue. 

Fifteen.

Twenty

Forty. 

Wrong.

No…

Continue. 

Fifty. 

Sixty.

Stop. 

Wrong.

He put down the pen. 

The curve of an eye, the bridge of a nose. Wrong angle, wrong. The lines faded at the edges. 

Static. Flat. 

This wasn’t Bucky laughing, or sleeping, or annoyed, or rolling his eyes. 

This was…

Dead.

Dead lines on cheap paper. (It could hardly call itself paper.) 

He stared at the napkin, at the fading lines that were supposed to be Bucky but weren’t. The lines disappeared, faded. In an hour, nothing would be left. 

No trace, like the lines hadn’t been there at all.

Would the same happen to Bucky?

SHIELD hadn’t even mentioned him in the debrief. 

No trace, like he hadn’t been there at all.

Maybe he was already gone.

He’s still screaming. 

He snatched up the pen again, flipping over the napkin. 

Something else. Draw something else. 

The apartment. The white walls. The missing wall that used to separate his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

His hand moved. 

One line, another.

A third.

A fifth. 

Wrong.

He tried again. The gull at Coney island. Free, flying against the sky. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. 

He stopped. 

He looked at the napkin. Lines criss-crossed, overlapped, faded. None of them felt right. None of them felt real. 

Steve set the pen down. He set his hands on his lap. Clenched into fists, unclenched. 

He didn’t crumple the napkin. He didn’t throw it away. 

Why bother? 

Everything faded anyways. 

He got up, and turned off the lights. 

Then he sat on the couch Howard’s people had delivered. He stared at the wall he knew was too white to be practical, where the shadows swarmed and pressed in, making the apartment feel smaller. Not like home, but more like the Valkyrie as it plummeted into the Arctic. 

A tomb. 

He didn’t move. 

In his head, the Commandos were still out there, fighting. 

In his head, Bucky was still there. Falling, dying. 

He’s still screaming. 

A ruffling sound, outside the door. 

The light had returned, creeping through the window, pale and grey as the cloudy skies outside. It cast beautiful lines and sharp edges where it met the shadows. 

Steve didn’t bother trying to capture it. 

A scratch at the door, like something sliding underneath.

Steve stood up eventually. The light had changed by then. He walked to the door, footsteps even with a soldier’s march. 

He frowned to himself.

An envelope?

He bent down and picked it up, examining it. Heavy cardstock, high-quality. Official letterhead with the SHIELD logo, all printed on with perfect evenness. 

He opened it. 

Art Therapy Program - Enrollment Confirmation
Schedule: Tuesdays and Thursdays, 2pm-4pm
Program: Painting (guided instruction)
Instructor: Dr Jon Chen, SHIELD Wellness Division
Please confirm your attendance by calling the number below. 

Steve read it once.

Then, again.

Please confirm your attendance.

So, not optional. 

He wondered if he could even type in a number on his dumb phone with its big buttons.

Painting? Seriously? You could have at least figured that one out, Howie. 

Steve looked up from the letter. 

Steve stared at the wall, too white to be practical. 

Why was the wall missing? The one that separated his and Bucky’s place from Old Dolores’s. 

He didn’t work right, that much he knew.

But he knew this wouldn’t fix him, either. 

What was he supposed to do with help that wasn’t help?

(What was he supposed to do with life that wasn’t life?) 

He walked over to the table and looked at the napkin. Blank. No trace of what had been there before, no memory of what it had briefly been.

Like he’d never tried. 

Everything faded anyways. 

Why bother? 

He’s still screaming.