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Going back in time had been an impulsive decision, and while Steve had made a lot of those in his time, they usually worked out okay. This time, he made a mistake.
He hadn’t realized at first because life with Peggy was everything he thought he'd ever wanted. She was just as stunning, clever, and kind as he remembered. Maybe even more so because now she was looking him in the face.
But the past was different. Or maybe Steve was different; it wasn't easy accepting things the way they were when he knew how they could be. Still, he thought he could trade all the human rights, progress, and technology in the next seventy years for a pretty face with bright eyes and the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen.
Their wedding was in a little church, and Peggy was a dream in frothy white. It felt like a dream, too. Sweet and almost too good to be true, like Steve would wake up one day, and he would still be standing at the edge of the earth, ready to watch it crumble all over again.
But that was over. It was in the past. Or the future — or something.
The specifics of time travel made Steve's brain hurt, and it wasn't like those details mattered anyway. What was done was done, and he was here; that was that.
He’d made his choice, and there was no going back on it now, so no matter what happened, he was gonna have to live with it.
Bucky always said that one day his decisions would bite him in the ass. Steve had laughed then; he wasn't laughing now.
Marriage wasn't something he’d spent a lot of time thinking about, having assumed for most of his life it wasn't for him, and now that he was in one, he was starting to wonder if maybe he'd been right.
Still, once Steve decided to do a thing, he planned to see it through. So even if they argued more than they laughed together, he still loved her and wanted so badly to make it work.
The thing of it was, Peggy was stubborn, and he was stubborn, so when she made choices that Steve knew would end badly — even if the consequences would be years from now — he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.
Only he couldn't tell her the truth either, and it made him look like an ass. And as a result, it didn’t take long for their relationship to become more like a job than a marriage. And while Steve wasn't sure what marriage was supposed to be, he didn't think it was supposed to be like that. He'd never expected it to be easy — people were never easy — but he hadn't expected it to be this hard either, and apparently, neither did she.
One night, she looked at him over the dinner table, cool as can be, and said, " You know that I already have a full-time job, I don't need another one. There's something I’ve been wanting to say to you."
"Then say it."
"I've met someone, and I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking about what could have been while I'm sitting in a marriage that was over before it ever even started."
Steve put down his fork. "Let's talk about it."
That might have been the first night Steve slept in the tiny guest room off the kitchen, but it wasn't the first time he lay awake long into the night. Sleep hadn't been kind to him since he’d arrived; chock-full of dreams of everything he didn't want to think about, all the ways he'd failed, and what he'd left behind. Dreams about Bucky.
If Bucky were here, he'd tell Steve to get a job in comics.
"You'd be good at it," he'd say, "you wouldn't even care that you’d hardly be able to afford your rent; you'd get to sit in a closet and draw all day, happy as a clam."
And he’d be right, Steve would be happy sitting in a closet drawing all day, but now that he'd let Bucky into his brain, he was all Steve could think about. But then, it had always been that way, hadn't it?
Bucky had always been the first thing he thought about when he woke up, and the last thing before he fell asleep. Steve had never been able to keep him out, no matter how hard he tried. And it killed him to know that Bucky was out there somewhere right now, and instead of doing anything about it, Steve had stuck his head in the sand and tried to live this perfect little picket fence life, only now it had all gone to pieces, and all that was left was Bucky.
And that damn file. The one that Natasha gave him, and Steve wished he'd never read. But he had, hundreds of times. So he knew that in three weeks, Bucky would get hurt, and Hydra would put him on ice somewhere near the Russian border, and that's where he'd stay for the next ten months.
He’d been thinking about it for months. He’d tried not to, but he couldn’t help it, and god damn it, Steve wanted to do something about it. He should do something, anything other than sitting around like a coward.
But the future was a fragile, precarious thing, and everything just barely worked out the first time. Even then, the sacrifices to get there weren't small, and if Steve went and did this thing, maybe years from now, things would go differently. Maybe he'd fuck up the future forever.
Or maybe he wouldn't.
And once the notion that he could just go get Bucky had firmly fixed itself into his brain, the less Steve cared about what might happen one day, years from now. After all, the future wasn't set in stone; it was theoretical and could change, with or without Steve's meddling. And right now, he could make a difference, maybe not for the whole world, but for the person who'd always mattered most.
By the end of the week, Steve left the little house on the corner and moved to the city. It was his last-ditch attempt to convince himself that maybe taking on Hydra alone, to save one guy, while maybe fucking over all the other guys in the process, wasn't the move. It didn't work. Steve hadn’t really thought that it would, but he had time to kill, so he tried anyhow.
He rented a shoe box apartment three blocks from the first place he'd lived with Bucky and got a job in comics that kept him locked in a closet-sized office for a month. It was great. He loved it, and if things had been different, he'd have been happy to do it until the day he died.
Only things weren't different, and every time Steve closed his eyes, he saw Bucky falling off that train or turning into dust or looking at him with those blank eyes back when he hadn't even known his own name. So after a month, Steve gave up the flimsy facade that he wasn’t about to say fuck the future and go get the single most important person in his life out of a very bad situation.
-oOo-
Before Steve left New York, and crossing the ocean was still a fantasy, the idea that he would have to wait weeks for Hydra to move Bucky made him anxious. But as it turned out, it was a lot of work to cross continents when you weren't a superhero, and you didn’t have a giant invisible plane backed by the richest man on earth.
But Steve didn't mind hauling coal, or fish, or boxes for a month if that's what it took to get across the ocean.
It's not like he could swim.
Crossing the Atlantic ended up taking twice as long as Steve thought it would, and even with working on the way, he had only little cash for the way back. Still, he was on the right side of the ocean. That had to count for something, right?
Once Steve was back on land, it didn’t take him long to find the base; after all, he’d had lots of practice hunting down Hydra nests. Getting in took a little more patience — more than a couple of days sitting in a bush in the rain — but eventually his ticket inside came in the form of a passing truck.
The ride through the base was longer than Steve had expected. The truck circled downward, through long, silent corridors. The place was eerie, too clean, too bright, too silent. Eventually, the truck came to a stop somewhere underground, the engine cut off, and Steve braced himself for a fight that never came. The driver hadn’t bothered to check the back. Steve didn’t move from where he was huddled in the back of the truck until long after the driver had walked off, and he’d heard the hiss and click of an overheard door.
Steve pulled himself up and had a quick rummage around the back of the truck before he disembarked. He didn’t come away with much — a backpack and a tent were better than nothing, but a gun would have been better. He dropped quietly to the ground, and before he made for the door, he took a quick look around the back of a second truck. He might as well; it was just sitting there, and this time he came away with a couple of prizes.
A mean-looking knife and gun. There weren’t any bullets, but as long as he didn’t have to fire it, it would make for a convincing show, and anything was better than walking around empty-handed.
Steve cut around the front of the trucks; he had two choices. He could go for the overhead doors and risk getting found out, or he could cut across the garage and take the little door tucked in a back corner.
Steve went for the little door. It led down a short flight of steps to a boiler room. It was a long, narrow room, crowded, and noisy, and there on the far side was another way out. He continued deeper into the base, trekking his way through a maze of empty, sterile hallways. He took a sharp left, rounded the corner into another hall lined with doors. Next to the nearest door was a large window, overlooking a lab. It was the same eerie, sterile white as the hallway. In the corner was a large desk and a blackboard, half-filled with what looked like equations.
He tried the door. It was locked. Steve didn't intend for that to stop him, and after he'd fiddled with the handle for a minute, it was wrenched out of his hands, leaving him facing a scientist.
The man opened his mouth in shock, and Steve, not wanting to give himself away, whacked him over the head with the butt of his unloaded gun. The man crumbled, Steve caught him on the way down, easing his fall to muffle the sound.
"Stefan?" called a voice from the lab.
Steve had two options here: he could close the door, hightail it, and hope that whoever was in the lab didn't report an intruder — even if Stefan surely would once he woke up, or he could go into the lab and try to commandeer himself a guide.
A scientist would know their way around the building, and if they got really lucky, they might even know where Bucky was. That sounded like a better plan than running, so Steve walked into the lab. The very blond man he found on the other side of the door was just as shocked as his companion had been.
"How— they said you were dead."
"Boo, I'm a ghost," said Steve, pulling the unloaded gun.
The man stood very still, his mouth in a thin line.
"You're gonna do me a favor," said Steve, kicking the lab door closed.
The man still didn't speak, his eyes fixed on the gun.
"I got a friend here somewhere, and you're going to help me find him."
"I am not," said the scientist, with a lot more conviction in his voice than on his face.
"Yeah, you are."
The scientist didn't agree, and they went round and round for a minute until Steve lost his patience and threatened him. Begrudgingly, the man led Steve through the base, heading even further underground, until they reached a small lab tucked in a secluded corner, locked behind a coded metal door.
The man kept his eyes on Steve and his gun when he punched in the code, lips thinned, and winced when the door hissed open.
"If the person you are looking for is in this base, they will be here," said the man, "if they aren't, then you are in the wrong place."
He stepped into the lab, flicking on the lights, his eyes darting around like something might be lurking there, something that would attack.
In the very back of the room was a door, and no matter how much the Scientist tried to avoid looking at it, he couldn’t help it.
"Nah," said Steve, heading for the door. "I'm in the right place."
"You don't want to go in there," said the man, but Steve had already pulled the door open, and inside, he found that damn chair, the one that he'd seen diagrams of in the file.
He hated that fucking thing, and next to it was a single cryotube. It was different from the others, and it hummed low and rumbling like it had been on for a very long time, and it was getting tired.
There had been a diagram for that, too, and Steve was glad because if there hadn't, he wouldn’t have known to look for the switch on the side. Once he found it, Steve flicked to the right with the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing and not someone who'd just read a diagram in a file. The humming stopped.
There was a click, and the panel in the front swung open.
Steve had never liked the idea of Bucky in Cryo, and he didn't like it anymore now. He looked dead. Blue tinged pale and far too still, it took a few very long minutes before his eyelids started to quiver, and then he was gasping for air, clawing at the sides of the tube, eyes wide and wild.
There was a second where Steve worried that he'd hadn’t thought this through, but then Bucky saw him and went still.
"Christ," he said, voice hoarse, "am I glad to see you."
"Sorry it took me so long," said Steve, and he meant that more than anything he'd ever said before.
He pulled Bucky to his feet. It was strange looking at him like this. It might be Bucky, it wasn't the Bucky of Steve’s memories nor the Bucky he'd left behind. This Bucky was younger and had the metal arm, but it wasn't the same as one he'd had when they'd met in DC; it was rougher, cruder, a more rudimentary version of what it would become.
Bucky moved like he hurt, his dark hair plastered to his face, and looked expectantly at Steve. "So what's the deal? What the hell are we doing?"
Even if Steve had an answer, he wouldn’t have gotten a chance to reply, because Bucky stuck his head out of the room, and now the scientist was screaming.
Bucky vanished like smoke; Steve followed, but before he could grasp what was happening, Bucky snapped the scientist's neck, letting him fall into a crumpled heap.
"That fucker deserved it,” he said.
"Okay," said Steve slowly. "He deserved it. But he also knew the way out."
"So do I, and I am not going to try to slit your throat when you're not looking."
Bucky stripped the dead man of his pants, pulling them on in one swift motion, and jammed his feet into pilfered boots before rifling through the lab. He found a shirt and an old jacket stowed behind a desk, and while the shirt was too tight, and the jacket's sleeves were too short, it was better than nothing.
"You got any bullets for that gun?" asked Bucky, pulling the shirt over his head.
"Nope," said Steve as he pulled open a few drawers.
"What good is it then?" he asked,
"It got that scientist you killed to help me out. Wouldn't have found you without him.
Bucky made a noise, swaying dangerously on his feet. Steve caught his shoulder, steadying him.
"Alright?"
"Dizzy," said Bucky, pressing his forehead into the center of Steve's chest. "It'll go away; it always takes a while."
They stayed like that, Steve with his hand on Bucky's shoulder, until he thought Bucky had grounded himself. But instead of stepping away, Bucky leaned in real close and kissed Steve right on the mouth. It was a quick kiss, more of a peck, really. It was over in just a second, and then Bucky was on the other side of the room, grumbling about too-small boots while he rummaged through Steve's rucksack.
"You really managed to find the most useless bag of supplies this side of the Atlantic, didn't you?"
Steve just stared at him, doing a remarkably accurate impression of a fish; once he'd closed his mouth, he cleared his throat. "It's not like I had a lot to work with. At least we got a tent.”
There would be time for Steve to sort out what the fuck had just happened, but now was not the time.
Bucky scoffed. "That ain’t much."
It’s not like he was wrong, but between the two of them, Steve thought they'd be okay.
"There's trucks in a garage somewhere.”
Bucky smiled, just a little. "I like the sound of that," he said and cocked his head to the left. "We're going this way."
They made their way back toward the garage. Bucky led the way, and they were lucky; it was quite a trip, but their luck had to run out eventually.
They ran into a small gaggle of mechanics in the garage, and they were so horrified at the sight of Bucky that it was child’s play for Steve to get the jump on them from behind. They went down easy, one, two, three. But guy number four was just a little lighter on his feet than the others, and he bought himself enough time to pull the alarm before a well-placed punch to the face sent him crumbling to the floor.
Bucky squatted down rifling through the men's pockets, and dug out a set of keys. He stood motioning for Steve to follow. The alarm blared, so loud and unrelenting, it made Steve’s eyes water.
“ You think they're going to catch on to us?" He shouted over the alarm, Bucky shot him a flat look, and gestured for him to get into the truck.
It was a miracle that they didn’t wreck the truck on the way out. Bucky wasn’t known for being a cautious driver at the best of times and drove with a confidence that did not match the alarming bouncing of the truck's cracking suspension. He rocketed through the Hydra base, plowing through a jostling mass of Hydra agents, and then crashed through the front gate.
It was a wonder they didn’t lose the fender and once they were out, they didn’t stop, nor did they speak much. It was hard to hear each other over the rumble of the overtaxed engine. Bucky took them through miles and miles of narrow, winding back roads until the truck ran out of gas, rolling to a halt at the bottom of a small hill.
"And now we walk," said Bucky, turning off the engine. He tucked the keys in his pocket and slashed the tires before they trooped off into the woods. They kept moving until the sun sank well below the horizon, and after scouting out somewhere that wasn't full of rocks and mostly flat, they set up their pitiful little camp.
It was the first time in a long time that Steve wasn't moving, and once he'd sat down in their little tent, he realized that he was going to have a time of it getting back up. The strain of the last couple of weeks came down on him all at once; it was a little bit like getting hit by a bus.
Bucky didn't look any better. He was pale and drawn, and when he dropped down next to Steve, he hissed like an angry cat. He hunched forward, curling in on himself.
"I got hurt a while back," he said, "that's why they put me in the damn tube, and Christ, it still fucking hurts — I got blown up — the truck got blown up, same thing, really. Fucked up my shoulder, I think I tore something, and my ribs, but that's not so bad now- but the burn still smarts something awful."
Bucky sighed, long and low, and leaned heavily into Steve’s shoulder. And it was then Steve's brain helpfully reminded him that a couple of hours ago, Bucky had kissed him square on the mouth. He still didn't know what to make of that, but here, like this, maybe he had the chance to figure it out.
He slowed his hands, ghosting over Bucky's back and down his side, and by the time Steve came to the edge of the burn, he was pretty sure whatever the kiss from earlier was, he wanted a do-over, and this time he wanted to make it count. But Steve had never been very good with romance; he’d never been brave about it like Bucky, and even now, when Bucky had been the one to start things, Steve wasn't sure if he was brave enough to match him.
It was a painful admission, even if it was only to himself. He’d never wanted to be a coward, but here he was. He slung an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, pressing him closer against his side. If Steve were braver, less of a coward when it came to his feelings, what he would have liked to have done was to pull Bucky into his arms and kiss him until they both ran out of breath.
But he wasn’t brave. After a long minute, Bucky shifted, turning his head so his cheek was pressed against Steve's head. "What are we doing?" he asked. "Because they're gonna come for me, and we don't want to be here when they do. I'm a good little tin soldier. Sometimes-" he added, "when they can make me, and they're gonna want me back."
"Oh, I know."
"Do you?"
Steve nodded and sat up, rubbing at his tired eyes.
"How?" asked Bucky, turning to look at him.
"How what?"
"How do you know? Because I don't know where the hell I am, or how I got here, or how you got here, or how you found me- and don't get me wrong, I'm sure glad you're here, but how are you here?"
"Lucky guess."
"Bullshit."
Steve grimaced, and Bucky sighed.
"Look, fine, we don't have to go there. You don't wanna tell me-"
"It's complicated."
"Sure, it is, but what are we doing right now?"
Steve didn't know what they were doing. He'd never gotten to this point when he'd been thinking about his rescue mission, and he should have because Bucky had a point. Hydra was never going to stop coming, and this time, they don't have a Stark or a team or even SHIELD to back them up.
They had a tent, a gun with no bullets, and no plan.
Finally, he said, "I don't know."
"Okay," said Bucky, leaning back against the log behind him. "Then let's go home."
"Home?"
"They’re gonna come wherever we go. So either we spend the rest of forever running, or we build a base and tell 'em to bring it."
"And a shoebox apartment in Brooklyn's a base?'
"It's better than a tent in the middle of who the fuck knows where."