Chapter Text
Bucky wanted to watch.
Fuck, he wanted the image of Steve broken and bruised and shutting down with a flash of pain in his eyes. He wanted to see it imprinted behind his eyelids for the rest of his life. He wanted to wrap the sight around his heart so that he would never, ever be able to forget the damage that flowed in his wake, of his own free will this time.
“You want to go back under?” Steve asked tonelessly. A stranger could mistake it for pleasant question, asked with a sort of detached politeness. But Bucky wasn’t a stranger. He saw Steve’s eyes go cold and dark.
“Yes,” Bucky whispered, forcing himself not to look away. He had to do this. This was the only way to fucking save Steve from his path of self-destruction. Steve was a satellite in Bucky’s too-strong orbit, always swaying ever closer, waiting and watching and praying to burn in Bucky’s atmosphere. But Bucky wasn’t going to let that happen. Not again. Not this time.
If this was his second chance to write fate, he was going to fucking take it. Spare Steve the pain of burning up from the inside with Bucky’s proximity. Bucky was never a hero, but that didn’t stop him from trying to pursue some path of salvation, and Steve deserved it more than anyone.
“Oh,” Steve said, same tone.
“And I think,” Bucky said, pausing to make sure his voice wouldn’t waver, “I think you shouldn’t be here when I wake up.”
Ah, there it was. This image burned brighter than the first, and now Steve’s eyes weren’t simply cold and distant. Bucky watched as Steve’s fingers seemed to spasm of their own accord, twisting in the air to clench around something that didn’t exist. Steve swallowed roughly. He closed his eyes. He took a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened his eyes, he looked more like a ghost than anything. More withdrawn inside himself than Bucky had ever seen. “Okay,” Steve whispered, his voice a breath of resignation as he just instantly fucking accepted it all.
Bucky would have been furious if he wasn’t so relieved. But he knew he hadn’t gone far enough. He knew that, in order to ensure Steve’s salvation, he’d have to bask in absolute ruin first. “I have a second chance,” he said, and Steve would’ve noticed the tremor in Bucky’s voice if he hadn’t been too busy shutting down. “You’re—it’s too much. I can’t start over if you’re with me.”
“Forever?” Steve asked, and Bucky almost didn’t hear him.
Bucky clenched his jaw to keep from fucking bursting into tears. Because, fuck, the way Steve just instantly accepted Bucky’s rejection like he’d been preparing for it for years? That was so wrong. That wasn’t okay. Briefly, Bucky wished he could tell Steve that everything was for him. That, even if Steve liked to think he orbited around Bucky, Bucky had orbited Steve first. Steve was everything. And this was just one of the sacrifices that Bucky was going to make to ensure that Steve would be okay. This was all for a reason. Steve had to be okay.
“Yeah,” Bucky said, and, despite his best efforts, his lips trembled around the word, and his voice was thick.
Steve couldn’t notice. Bucky’s Stevie, usually so perceptive and fucking smart, could not afford to focus on anything besides keeping his entire body neutral. He gave Bucky an abrupt, curt nod, not meeting his eyes, and turned to leave the room.
As soon as the door shut, Bucky let the sobs overtake him, and he didn’t stop until he was dehydrated and exhausted and forced to pass out.
The last time Steve would see Bucky was terrible.
Bucky was too familial with him. Bucky was offering Steve these gentle, tragic smiles like he knew exactly what Steve was feeling, and Steve actually didn’t have any capabilities to deal with that, so he stayed fucking neutral, kept his expression even, asked one more time if Bucky was sure, because Steve was selfish and he couldn’t fucking help it when it came to Bucky and—
Yes, Bucky was sure. And still too knowing and gentle about it.
So, Steve just watched behind a panel, numb and aching, as frost coated Bucky in the cryochamber. And he looked like a goddamn angel. A goddamn fucking angel.
Steve was sure that nobody in this world could be as beautiful as Bucky. God, he was fucking ethereal. People should fucking paint stained glass in his honor. A fucking martyr hidden behind a devil’s smile and kind, cold eyes.
Steve stiffly turned away. Bucky’d never been Steve’s to keep. Bucky didn’t want Steve in his new life. Steve didn’t get to fucking look at him anymore.
He spoke with T’Challa, who continued to prove himself more and more of a good man. And Steve just fucking couldn’t.
“I’m going to take a break for a while,” Steve said quietly, not looking at T’Challa, not knowing that this was what he was gonna do until the words were out of his mouth. “I can’t be on a team right now.”
T’Challa nodded as if he understood. “Alright.”
“I’m not going to be reachable,” Steve added, his mind starting to stretch in a million directions.
T’Challa smiled at him, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I wouldn’t assume so.” He sighed. “Take my personal phone number. If you call, I will update you.”
Steve clenched his jaw. “I don’t have the right to any updates.”
T’Challa watched him carefully. “If you change your mind,” he whispered, presenting a card. Steve stared at it blankly for a moment, and T’Challa rolled his eyes, stepping forward and grabbing Steve’s wrist. Steve automatically uncurled the fist he hadn’t even known he’d been making, and T’Challa put the card in his open palm. “Just in case.”
“Thank you,” Steve said. “For everything.”
T’Challa just nodded, turning back to the view. “I wouldn’t leave with no warning, if I were you,” he said as Steve started to walk from the room, resolutely not glancing in Bucky’s direction.
Steve didn’t respond, even though he knew T’Challa was right.
The goodbyes were tough, but the profound urge to run, go, get outta here, if you start running you’ll never stop, go go go, was so strong that Steve wanted to get them out of the way immediately.
But here was the thing.
Despite being effortlessly close to Natasha, Steve had never really bonded with Clint, so that wasn’t heartwrenching.
He didn’t know Scott at all, so that wasn’t heartwrenching.
T’Challa had seemed just as ready to run, so that wasn’t heartwrenching.
It was really Wanda and Sam that had Steve’s heart in his throat.
After Wanda was finished sniffling and clinging to his shirt, she pulled back, her expression stormy. “You can’t let the world collapse just because he’s gone.”
Steve’s breath froze. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten Pietro for even a second. “Wanda, I’m so—“
“Save it,” Wanda sighed, and she looked so much older than she was. “You can’t let the world collapse because he’s gone,” she said again, firmer.
Steve smiled sadly. “You were always stronger than me. You know that.”
Wanda looked away, but she didn’t open her mouth to argue. “What about together?” she asked. “You always insisted on doing things together. Working through it all together. What happened to that?” Her voice was small.
Steve’s mouth tasted bitter. He didn’t want to explain, but he owed her an explanation nonetheless. “Am I okay?” he asked Wanda, willing her to understand.
“No,” Wanda whispered.
“Have I been okay since you’ve met me?”
“No.”
“Has ‘together’ worked for me?”
Wanda closed her eyes. “No.”
“I’m going to see if alone works,” Steve said softly. “If it doesn’t, I’ll come right back, okay?”
“Okay.” She sniffled again.
Steve was being selfish. God, he was being so fucking selfish. His team needed him more than ever, and now he was deciding to take a fucking vacation?
But then he remembered the destruction and devastation that seemed to follow him wherever he went, tainting everything he touched. Leaving was going to save them all, in the end. “I love you, kid,” he whispered, voice choked, pulling Wanda into another hug.
Wanda clung to him again.
Somehow, Sam was even worse.
“Is this because of Barnes?” he demanded, his eyes cold.
“No,” Steve said.
“Liar.”
“He just gave me a nudge,” Steve insisted. Bucky always gave him that final nudge—to war, to suicide, to fall in love, to leave. It was always him. He cleared his throat. “This is something I’ve gotta do.”
“For what?” Sam asked, and now he just looked sad. “What d’you gotta prove anymore?”
“Nothing,” Steve whispered, and that was it, wasn’t it? “I’m not... Sam, I just gave up Captain America,” he said and noted with shock that some desperation was edging into his tone.
Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he breathed.
“I’m not a person, and now I’m not an icon,” Steve explained, tugging hard at some strands of his hair. “I’m not anything anymore. I can’t do it. I need to... go. I need to fucking get out of here before—before—“
“Hey,” Sam said lowly, grabbing Steve’s shoulders in a tight grip. “Listen, this isn’t gonna be running away. This is gonna be running back into the fight. You know that, don’t you?”
“The original fight, though,” Steve said, on the verge of begging now. “I have to go back. I have to learn how to be alive, or else everything’s gonna fucking fall apart because of me. Look at this fucking mess—it’s already started.”
Sam didn’t look like he fully understood, but he nodded anyway, his eyes shining. “You gotta learn how to be a person again,” he said slowly. “I—I get it, dude. Will you just... do me one favor?”
“Anything,” Steve sighed.
“Check in with me.”
Steve’s heart sank, but he nodded anyway. He owed this to Sam fucking Wilson, a better friend than he ever deserved. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Sam echoed numbly.
“You gonna be okay?” Steve asked, concerned. “You got plans?”
Sam shook his head a little bit, blinking back to himself. “Actually, yeah. I—T’Challa said I could stay here. Help out.”
“Wow,” Steve said.
“I know.” Sam ducked his head. “It’s crazy.”
“What about your ma?” Steve pressed.
Sam’s face fell. “Can’t go back. Can’t really communicate.”
“Want me to give her a message?” Steve asked.
Sam sagged in relief. “Would you?”
“Anything,” Steve said again, crushing Sam into a hug. “Anything.”
Sam shuddered. “You ever coming back?” he asked, voice thick.
“I don’t know,” Steve said honestly, resolutely not thinking about Bucky.
Sam pressed his face into Steve’s neck. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”
Steve closed his eyes and wished that he were stronger.
The first thing Steve did was burn his fucking cursed Captain America uniform and spit on the ashes.
He had ruined enough.
The second thing Steve did was steal a bunch of guns from a Shield safehouse that still hadn’t been gutted by former agents.
He stuffed his new armory into a duffle and then shaved his hair to a barely-there buzz cut, hating himself for how Military Poster Boy it made him look, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was starting to have trouble recognizing himself.
Steve stayed in the safehouse for three days to let the stubble start to grow before he ventured outside.
He walked into a sketchy tattoo parlor and slowly approached the bored receptionist. “Do you do walk-ins?” he asked.
“Depends on how much money you got.”
“Enough,” Steve said.
The receptionist nodded. “Someone will be with you in a minute.”
Steve handed the tattoo artist two sheets of paper. He’d spent the last few days meticulously drawing out the design. “This will take more than one session,” she said.
“No it won’t.”
The tattoo artist arched an eyebrow in disbelief.
“Can you do it or not?” Steve asked, drawing his shoulders up.
The woman scoffed and steered him into a chair.
She was clearly shocked by how well his skin was holding up, but she didn’t say anything. She just kept going, swiping away blood, dragging the needle over his arms, until several hours had passed and it was done.
Steve was numbly surprised that it didn’t look awful. The woman caught his look and shrugged like she was used to it.
Steve looked at the tattoo sleeves, only going from his wrist to his elbow so far. He wanted to have room for something new.
His forearms were decorated with mementos to his past, although no one would guess it from how they looked.
Satisfied, Steve paid in cash, stole a truck, and threw his duffle in the passenger’s seat.
There was a Hydra base thirty-six miles away.
Steve walked into his motel with steady hands and sat down hard on the bathroom floor, finally letting the tremors overtake his body.
He scrubbed his hands until the blood washed off, and then scrubbed them until the skin started to crack and peel and bleed.
This was what he was made for, wasn’t it? He was made to escort Hydra to the gates of hell. (They’d never told him that they’d take Steve with them, though.)
He was a fighter. He was a weapon. He could handle this.
Steve wished he was surprised when Natasha sat in the seat across from him in a diner in France.
“Hey,” was all he said, not even bothering to blink. “How’ve you been holding up?”
“I get by,” Natasha said, sporting a French accent. Steve smiled humorlessly.
“They still after you?”
She shrugged, flicking her hair and flashing him a blinding smile. “A little bit.”
“I’m sorry.”
Natasha watched him for a moment and sighed. “I’ve been watching you,” she whispered, low enough so that Steve had to strain his enhanced ears to hear. “You haven’t been as sneaky as you’d like to be.”
“I’m not trying to be sneaky,” Steve pointed out.
“You should,” Natasha said, her eyes hard. “And what’s more, you should stop altogether.”
“No.”
“What happens when you run out of Hydra bases to burn to the ground?”
“Find more bases.”
“No. I’ve seen this before, honey. If you keep going, you’re never going to be able to stop looking for revenge. For blood. You know that.”
Steve stared down at the table and said nothing.
“You’re going to get yourself killed like this,” Natasha added, much more gently.
“Well, maybe that’s the idea.”
Natasha stilled. She looked at him, her gaze hard. “What happened?”
Steve was surprised now. “You haven’t talked to the others? They didn’t tell you?”
Natasha shook her head slowly. “I’ve been... busy.”
Steve stared at the table again when he said, “He—uh—he wants nothing to do with me.”
“So you’re writing a love song to him in lines of corpses?”
“No,” Steve growled, with much more anger than he’d intended. Natasha drew up her shoulders into a defensive position, and Steve leaned back, forcing himself to relax. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m fighting for. Now that I’m not Steve Rogers. Now that I’m not Captain America.”
“You’re fighting for vengeance. You must’ve figured that out by now,” Natasha said flatly.
Steve shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s something you’re not telling me. Something else.”
Steve took a long sip from his disgustingly cold coffee. He slowly put it down on the table. “I’m—this is gonna sound fucking crazy.”
“Try me.”
Steve looked at Natasha, and something in her expression softened at whatever she saw in Steve’s face. Maybe it was fear. “I can’t feel anything,” he confessed, his breath hitching with the terrified admission. “I didn’t notice before.”
“You’re fighting to feel something?”
“I get angry. I get scared,” Steve said. It was the only time he could feel anything other than numb. “I told you I’m fucking crazy.”
Natasha didn’t say anything for a long moment. “You should still stop.”
Steve barked a bitter laugh, and Natasha tensed. “And do what?”
“Whatever the fuck you want.”
Steve clenched his jaw. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Natasha looked sad. “We both know that isn’t an option for me.”
“Then how can it be an option for me?” Steve asked, and Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but she drew up a blank. She looked so fucking tired, and Steve felt so, so guilty. “There’s nobody left to fight for.”
“Yes there is,” Natasha said quietly.
“Who is it for you?”
“You guys,” Natasha said. The Avengers. Well. The previous Avengers. “My family.”
Steve dropped his forehead onto the table. “Nat, I can’t.”
She ran her nails through his too-short hair and whispered, “I know, I know,” until Steve’s breathing calmed down.
“What’s the purpose of this facility?” Steve asked conversationally as he threw the survivor of his raid into a chair.
His hostage trembled, eyes wide with fear. “What?” he asked dumbly, staring with single-minded focus at Steve’s gun.
“The purpose,” Steve repeated patiently, putting his gun away and fishing out a knife. “What did you do here?”
“I...” the man swallowed convulsively. “Research.”
“Yes. Figured that part out for myself, funny enough,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “What kind of research?”
The man clamped his mouth shut.
“Oh, come on, don’t be coy,” Steve snapped. The man flinched. “Cooperation will get you everywhere.”
The man closed his eyes, and the trembling increased to a sort of constant full-body shudder.
“Really,” Steve deadpanned, stepping closer. “You think this is brave? You’re gonna stay loyal to these fucking psychopaths?”
The man whimpered a little bit, seemingly involuntarily.
Steve sighed. “For the record, I don’t like doing this the hard way.” He grabbed the man’s hand and slowly pushed his knife through his palm. The man cried out. “Still loyal?” Steve asked.
The man squirmed away from him uselessly. “H-hail Hydra,” he gasped.
“Idiot,” Steve muttered. The man screamed when Steve didn’t stop with the knife, pushing it through his hand until the blade showed on the other side. He didn’t stop until the hilt pressed against the man’s palm. “What was your fucking research?”
The man stared at the ground, chest heaving.
Steve yanked his knife out of the man’s hand. Another scream.
“Your research.”
Nothing.
Steve sighed. This was gonna take a while.
Six hours and one horrifically mutilated corpse later, Steve was numb and angry, still sitting on the floor of the Hydra base, staring unblinkingly at his handiwork.
The research base was for psychological trauma, focusing on various methods of torture to mold the human brain into a desensitized, loyal, perfect weapon. They had worked closely with the Winter Soldier project. Steve wondered why this place hadn’t been in the file that Natasha had given him.
He couldn’t think about that now. Whatever. It was fine. He knew now.
What Steve also had was access to a vault of meticulous notes on the Winter Soldier’s programming.
With shaking hands, Steve wiped some of the blood off his fingers, but it had dried by now, so it was useless. He got to his feet, stared at the tortured expression on the scientist’s face, and shakily made his way through the base.
The vault was in El Salvador. Steve would be there by tomorrow morning.
Steve was sitting in the vault, overwhelmed with the countless pages of research on Bucky’s psych. It was terrible. It was wonderful.
Steve’s latest burner phone was in his left hand, and he took several deep breaths before dialing the number that he had memorized, even though it’d been three years since he’d given Steve his card.
To his relief, the line connected after a few minutes. “<Who is this?>” T’Challa asked warily in Wakandan.
Steve didn’t say anything for a moment. “He’s still in cryo, right?” he finally asked, and his voice was rough and wrecked with disuse.
There was a pause. “Yes,” T’Challa finally said.
“I found some information,” Steve said quietly, “that may help.”
“Oh. And how are you getting this information to us?”
Steve felt his expression shut down. “I’m not coming to Wakanda.”
“Of course not,” T’Challa said, and if he could sound hasty, he did now.
“I know you’re busy,” Steve added. “But someone else can come get it and make the delivery.”
“Where is it?”
“El Salvador,” Steve said. He rattled off the closest address. “How soon can someone get here?”
“Before tomorrow,” T’Challa said smoothly. “Let me make some calls.”
“Thank you,” Steve whispered.
“My pleasure, Captain.”
Steve hung up.
And waited.
He probably should’ve expected it to be Sam. But Steve was still taken off-guard when Sam stepped out of the small jet. “Steve,” Sam said, giving him an odd once-over.
Steve knew he was unrecognizable unless you were really looking for it. It was probably giving Sam some sort of whiplash. “Sam.”
Sam walked up to him and didn’t hesitate before throwing his arms around Steve. Steve stiffened for a moment before hesitantly relaxing, tucking himself into the hug. After a few moments, Sam started to pull away, but Steve made a pathetic noise of protest and just fucking clung to him.
Sam was rubbing slow circles into his back. “Wow, man. You are really not okay.”
Steve didn’t really bother denying it.
“You been lying to me in your check-ins?”
“No,” Steve whispered.
“Lies of omission count, dude.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Sam let out a breath and pulled back a little bit to look at Steve. “You’ve been razing Hydra bases down for, like, the past decade of your life.” Steve looked away. “It’s okay to stop. You don’t owe the world anything.”
Steve didn’t say anything for a minute. “I saw that you and the others got pardoned,” he said rather than respond to that. “After, the—uh—thing.”
“With more aliens coming to destroy the Earth?” Sam asked dryly. “Yeah, the world thought we were cool to forgive. The Secret Avengers are still working on the down-low, but nobody’s really looking to stop us anytime soon.”
“That’s good.”
Sam inspected Steve’s arms. “You got tattoos.”
“Yeah.”
“Just these?” he asked, gesturing to the sleeves on his forearms.
Steve shrugged. “Uh. One on my back too.” He’d gotten it done after watching the news in a cheap motel room that the Secret Avengers weren’t being hunted by the UN anymore (excluding Steve, but he wasn’t a Secret Avenger anyway, so...).
“I didn’t really take you for a tattoo guy,” Sam said carefully.
Steve smiled his cold, terrifying smile, and Sam shivered almost subconsciously. “I didn’t used to be.”
“Damn, dude,” Sam said, and Steve had to agree. “So, what did you find?”
Steve pulled away completely from Sam and led him over to the vault. “There was a Hydra base specifically designated to psychological torture. These are their notes on the Winter Soldier project.”
Sam was tense as he stepped into the vault and glanced around at the sheer number of files. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “I hope this’ll help you guys be able to... correct the conditioning or something.”
“Yeah,” Sam said faintly. “Help me load these up into the jet?”
“Yeah.”
They managed to cram all the files into the jet in an hour. When they were finished, Steve sat down, leaning his back against the entrance to the vault, and Sam sat down next to him.
“You ever coming home?” Sam asked after a minute.
Steve wanted to say that he didn’t have a home, but that would be insensitive to Sam. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Sam nodded a few times. “You know, you’re still my best friend.”
Steve’s head lolled to the side so that he could look at Sam’s profile. “I’m not the same man.”
“Three years of doing nothing but burning down bases and killing neo-Nazis doesn’t change a man, you mean?” Sam asked in sarcastic shock.
Steve elbowed him in the ribs halfheartedly.
“Look,” Sam sighed. “I get that you’re going on this whole mission of self-discovery, but I don’t think you’re gonna find yourself in violence.”
Steve shrugged. “What if I’ve already found myself in violence?”
“That’s a lie and you know it.” Steve rolled his eyes, and Sam ignored him. “You’re a fighter, man, but that’s not your identity. It’s been three years, and you haven’t found it. You gotta be wondering if you’ll find it somewhere else.”
Steve stared at his knees.
“You put down the shield.” Steve flinched. “Maybe put down the guns too.”
“Sammy,” Steve sighed, raking a hand through his too-short hair. “The fight’s all I have.”
“I know. But you left us all to find something new. Maybe it’s about time you give it up.”
Steve dropped his head onto Sam’s shoulder. “I’m tired,” he admitted quietly. “All the time.”
“Then rest,” Sam said, reaching up a hand to run his fingers lightly over Steve’s neck. Steve shivered. “Rest.”
“I don’t know how,” Steve whispered, a tear streaking down his face. “I want it to stop.”
“Look,” Sam said. He grabbed Steve’s hand and held it in Steve’s line of sight. “What are these hands made for?”
“To fight,” Steve said numbly.
“What have these hands done?”
“Hurt. Killed.”
“Do you want these hands to define you?”
Steve’s lips trembled, and his body shook on a silent sob. “No.”
“Before the serum,” Sam said gently. “Before the war. What were these hands made for?”
Steve shook his head slightly. “They fought,” Steve said desperately. “It was always the same.”
“What else?” Sam pressed, squeezing Steve’s hand tight enough almost to hurt.
Steve cast his mind back for anything else. Let out a shaky breath. “Sketching.”
“Art?”
“Yeah.”
“Look at that,” Sam said softly. “These hands didn’t always just break things. They made things too.”
Steve crumpled, and he turned his face into Sam’s neck and fucking cried, and Sam let him, and Steve didn’t deserve his wonderful kindness, but he was getting it anyway.
“I missed you,” he mumbled into Sam’s skin after god-knows-how-long. “So much.”
“I miss you too,” Sam said, knocking his head against Steve’s. “Wouldn’t mind a visit every now and then.”
“You still in Wakanda?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Then you know why I can’t do that.”
Sam nodded. “Fair enough.”
Steve was quiet for a few long moments. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“Y’know,” Sam began, “that’s kinda the whole thing about existing. You don’t know anything about what’s gonna happen next. All you can do is try to move forward in the best way you know how.”
Steve still dreamed about Peggy Carter. Steve still woke up and thought he was in the war. Steve still turned to tell Bucky things whenever he thought of something. “I’ve never moved on from anything in my life.”
“That’s where you’re gonna find yourself, dude,” Sam said gently.
Steve knew that there were more than enough superheroes out there doing good and fighting the good fight. He new that he was nothing more than an anonymous face in the sea of people seeking justice. He knew that Captain America wasn’t needed anymore and hadn’t been needed for a long time.
That didn’t make it any easier.
“Maybe,” Steve whispered.
Sam pulled him closer. “Just think about it.”
Steve added a pair of angel’s wings to his arms.
He’d been on the streets of Mexico City for three weeks when a woman asked if he was looking for work.
Steve only paused for a moment before he said yes.
The woman nodded and handed him a stack of brochures. “<Hand these out to tourists, and I’ll pay you.>”
When a scrawny teenager accepted his brochure, Steve had to take a minute to stop feeling dizzy.
It was the first nonviolent thing his hands had done in over seventy years.
Steve was a migrant. He moved from work to work, only earning enough to buy food. He slept on the streets, or in shelters, or he didn’t sleep at all, and it was fine.
He’d been homeless before. He and his mother had been evicted once, and they’d needed to live in a fucking Hooverville for eighteen months. Steve had almost died three times before they’d saved up enough money to rent a room in a tiny, crowded apartment again.
He didn’t get sick now, so this was infinitely better.
In San Diego, he got a job at a bar.
A lot of people flirted with him. Steve found himself flirting back. He took hookups to the bathroom stalls or the alley—never at their homes.
Once, a man slumped against him when they were finished, tracing his fingers along Steve’s forearms. “What do they mean?” he asked sleepily.
Steve pulled away and started gathering his stuff. “Nothing,” he muttered.
The next day, he quit his job and moved north.
Steve was in Vancouver when he called Sam next.
“You missed check-in,” Sam said immediately. “What gives? Radio silence for eight months is not cool, dude.”
“Sorry,” Steve said, shifting a scratchy blanket someone had given him the other day over his lap. “I’ve been busy.”
“Fighting?” Sam asked.
“Working,” Steve corrected, unable to help the fragile smile.
“God, I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Steve sighed. He pulled the blanket over his free hand. It was cold. “How are things?”
Sam paused. “He’s awake, if that’s what you were fishing for.”
Steve pressed his lips together. “Okay.”
“Recovering nicely.”
“Good for him.”
Sam paused. “You wanna know anything else?”
“No,” Steve said firmly. He didn’t have that right. “How’s everything else?”
“Kind of surprisingly good,” Sam said, somewhat in disbelief.
“Yeah?” Steve prompted.
Sam hummed. “T’Challa is great, man. I’m so sad you haven’t gotten to know him. He’s—he’s amazing.”
Steve slowly raised an eyebrow, even though Sam couldn’t see. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He’s so smart and noble and shit. It’s so good. Talking to him is, like, crazy. It’s like a rollercoaster. I can’t explain it.”
Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling. “So, the cat caught the canary?”
“What’re you talking—oh, wait. That’s a bird and cat thing. ‘Cause we’re—Black Panther and Falcon. Hah. Clever,” Sam deadpanned. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure.”
“One-sided maybe,” Sam grumbled. Steve was about to cut in to ask more questions when Sam continued talking, obviously not wanting to stay on this subject. “Scott’s doing great stressing over Cassie going to middle school. Wanda and Vision are, like, conquering the universe or something. I haven’t heard from them in a little while, but they’re really good. Um. Clint moved back to Brooklyn to start doing solo work again. And you know the other Avengers.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. The other Avengers were so public that it was hard not to know about them. “I’m glad you’re all doing well.”
“Are you doing well?”
“Better,” Steve admitted. “I haven’t killed anyone in eight months.”
“Look at you,” Sam said fondly.
“But still not great, probably,” Steve added, not wanting any false praise.
“That’s okay. To be expected, really.” Steve wanted to ask what Sam meant by that, but Sam was already moving on. “Where in the world are you, though? Eight months is a long time to stay somewhere and not be found.”
“Oh,” Steve said in surprise. “I haven’t been in one place. Hell, longest I’ve stayed in one place was probably three weeks.”
“That’s a tough way to live.”
“I like it,” Steve said stubbornly. “It’s enough for me for now.”
“Can you at least tell me which continent?”
Steve rolled his eyes. “North America.”
“Huh. Didn’t expect you to go back there,” Sam said slowly.
“Me neither,” Steve admitted. “I dunno how long it’ll last.”
They were quiet for a few moments, listening to the reassuring sound of someone else breathing. The evidence of living. “Don’t avoid check-ins for that long again, dude. I swear I’ll hunt you down and ask Nat to help.”
Steve winced. “Sorry. I’ll be better.”
“You better be,” Sam warned. “Talk to you in two weeks.”
“Won’t miss it.”
The line disconnected.
Steve was working as a waiter in a diner in Nova Scotia when Natasha found him again.
She was brunette this time, sporting a pixie cut.
Steve gave her a menu. “Wondered what took you so long,” he said with a smile, happy to see her in spite of everything.
Natasha grinned back at him. “You were harder to find this time.”
“Well. Change of lifestyle.” Steve poured her a cup of coffee and said, “I think I’ll take my break now. Mind if I join you?”
“Please,” Natasha said with a little gesture towards the other side of the booth. Steve sat down.
Steve leaned forward on his elbows. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Same old, same old,” Natasha offered dismissively. “I’m not here to talk about me.”
“I wish you were,” Steve sighed, leaning back. “I miss you.”
Natasha was quiet for a minute. “Alright, alright. We’ll catch up too, then.” She looked at him curiously. “Where are you staying? Maybe we could have a slumber party.”
Steve scoffed. “May not be fun in this weather.”
Natasha frowned. “Homeless?”
“Yup,” Steve said, popping the P, raising in eyebrow in an invitation to fight.
But Natasha said nothing. “Okay. Cool. Let’s get talk business first, then we can get to some fun stuff.”
“Joy.”
“You found the vault with the files on Barnes?” Natasha asked.
Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Right to the point, are we?”
“Steve.”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Why?” she asked, cocking her head curiously. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with each other?”
Steve closed his eyes. “No. He wants nothing to do with me.”
“Oh. Well. The files helped. A lot. They let us bring him back. He’s doing really well now. It’s almost shocking. I mean, obviously, there’s still the PTSD and anxiety and other fun stuff, but it’s manageable.”
“Okay,” Steve said stiffly. “That’s good. I’m happy for him.”
Natasha looked at him sympathetically. “I know you don’t want to hear about it because it hurts, but you deserve to know that your actions have positive consequences. I need you to know that.”
“What? Why?” Steve asked, kind of blankly.
Natasha grabbed his hand. “Look at me.” Steve forced himself to do so. Natasha’s gaze was hard and intense. “You do not destroy everything you touch.”
“Okay,” Steve said warily.
“You do not destroy everything you touch.”
“You don’t have to—you just said—“
“You do not destroy everything you touch.”
“I’ve watched Good Will Hunting, Nat,” Steve snapped, yanking his hand back. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Natasha kept her stare even. “But do you believe me?”
“How could I?” Steve said lowly. “Look at what I’ve done.”
“Exactly,” Natasha said. “Barnes is fucking recovering because of the files you found.”
“Recovering is on him, Nat.”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t have agreed to start recovery if we hadn’t had those files.”
Steve looked away.
“Just think about it,” she sighed, leaning back.
“Alright.”
She smiled. “Now, to the fun stuff.”
They caught up. About the past four years. Natasha was under the radar to most people, but not to the people that she loved. Clint even knew she was in Nova Scotia, although he didn’t know that Steve was in Nova Scotia. And Steve was so goddamn happy for her that he wanted to burst into song or some shit. Steve told her about his decision to stop killing and start working, and she looked so proud that Steve was immediately embarrassed.
“You ever gonna come back?” she asked at one point.
“No,” Steve said.
“Good.”
Natasha was sitting with Steve in his latest alleyway spot, watching the sun rise with him.
“Can I make a deal with you?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. Of course,” Steve said.
“Can we come back to that diner every year?”
“Is this your form of check-ins?”
“Yeah. It’ll keep us both from forgetting where we came from.”
Steve smiled. “Of course.”
Natasha dropped her head onto Steve’s shoulder. “Yay.”
On this day eighty-two years ago, Steve had watched Bucky plummet to his death.
February 28th. It marked the official start of Steve’s unofficial holiday. In his head, he called it Mourning Days. And it ended on March 10th.
Ten years ago, Steve had dropped the shield and tried to choose a life without fighting—a life with Bucky.
The past ten Mourning Days had been days of anger and refusal to acknowledge the unofficial holiday. But Steve was done pretending he didn’t miss Bucky. He was gonna celebrate Mourning Days the only way he knew how to properly celebrate them.
Steve stared down at the sheer drop-off of the Grand Canyon, dangling his legs off the edge, taking a swig of vodka. It was for ceremony more than anything. He still couldn’t get drunk.
He was gonna stop pretending he didn’t miss Bucky. He was gonna acknowledge the eternal hole in his heart, he was gonna hold it close to his chest like a totem, and he was gonna grow older and move on, let the roots of his newfound humanity grow into the absence and curl around it.
Steve smiled down at the canyon, his eyes watery. “Bastard,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Goddamn bastard.”
He wondered if it’d kill him to push himself off the edge and drop down. It didn’t kill Bucky in the Alps. It probably wouldn’t kill him.
Steve sighed in disappointment, choosing not to examine too closely why he was disappointed.
There were three pillars of the Mourning Days.
February 28th. Bucky’s Death. This was self-explanatory.
March 4th. Steve’s Death. This was also self-explanatory.
March 10th. Bucky’s Birthday. The constant absence of celebration.
Steve wondered if Bucky had ever celebrated his own form of Mourning Days. He knew Bucky cared about him—or at least, Bucky had cared about him. And Steve really did understand why he wanted nothing to do with Steve. What they had was unhealthy. It was a relationship where neither could exist without the other, and Bucky couldn’t rebuild himself around Steve again. Steve was working on accepting it.
But fuck, he missed him with every fiber of his being.
So here was Steve sitting at the Grand Canyon: mourning for the loss of Bucky once, twice, three times, mourning for the loss Steve Rogers and Captain America and the shield and the Avengers, mourning for the loss of Peggy and the Commandos and a life he could’ve lived, mourning for the salvation that would never come.
Later, he would have the endless opportunity to think about how to reclaim some part of Steve Rogers, or even just claim himself as an entirely new person—the person part was the important part. Later, he would focus on how he was gonna live through all the decades stretching in front of him without Bucky. Later, he would focus on how to build something out of the ashes of his previous lives.
But for now, he would sit and mourn and let all the grief wash over him in waves.
Eight years after he’d started working as a homeless migrant, Steve picked a hillside in Iceland and built a shabby house.
He just wanted a few years to rest by himself.
It was quiet here, and the nearest neighbors were two miles away, and it was exactly what Steve wanted.
He easily set up a fake identity and got a job at a farm nearby. Steve had found that he liked the mindless quality of the work he’d been doing. He liked falling into a rhythm and focusing on the repetitive motions he was going through. It helped to quiet his mind.
But, he reflected one night as he got home and heated up some instant cuisine for himself, not thinking had let him become a ghost.
Sure, he was infinitesimally closer to reclaiming his humanity. But he’d been trying to do this for—what?—almost twelve years now, and he still didn’t feel like a person. He was going through the motions of life, letting the world spin, letting himself fall under the illusion of living.
He had to figure this out. He had to start thinking.
Steve sat on the roof of his cottage and shivered as the snow fell. He wasn’t sure if this type of all-encompassing cold was a good thing or a terrible thing. It sent his mind back to a rushing cold fear that he was being frozen—that he was dying. But something about that was almost reassuring too.
Steve closed his eyes. Maybe that was all he was. The outcome of ice and cold and death.
Maybe this whole being a person thing was too ambitious. Too selfish.
Fuck, Steve felt like the Grim Reaper or some shit. He’d outlived his expiration date, and now he was here as a shadow, haunting people who had every fucking right to be alive, killing and cutting everything short and killing and killing and—
This was why he tried not to think.
Steve wondered what it’d take to kill him. Obviously, a plane crash hadn’t cut it. Tremendous falls hadn’t. Gunshots hadn’t. Maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe he could do it now that there really was nothing left for him.
Aw, fuck, here he was being a selfish asshole again. Steve shook his head. He was so cold that he couldn’t feel his face. Maybe hypothermia would do it—and there he goes again, fuck.
Steve grimaced. All this time, he’d forgotten what he’d been made a weapon for. The initial intention certainly wasn’t to kill. It was to protect. It was why he’d had the shield.
Steve hadn’t protected anyone for a very, very long time.
His purpose was supposed to be helping people. But, shit, how could he help people when he couldn’t even help himself?
Maybe one would follow the other. Maybe if he started helping other people again, he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror one day and not be disgusted. Maybe if he started helping people, he’d be able to look at his hands and not see dark stains of blood.
Steve tipped his head up to the sky. He wasn’t gonna be an ugly shadow anymore.
Everything was easier said than done. Although Steve had resolved to change, he’d just fallen back into the easy routine. And he fucking hated himself.
I’m going to start today, he said to himself every single day for two years.
He was having his bimonthly check-in call with Sam when it all crashed down around him.
“Listen,” Sam said, and Steve paused in the middle of doing his laundry. “Wanda’s kind of pregnant.”
“Kind of,” Steve echoed dumbly.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “We just found out. She—uh—she wants to see you.”
Steve was frozen for a few moments before his mind whirred into action again. “Bring her here.”
“What?” Sam said, sounding shocked.
“She is not allowed to be on superhero duty while she’s pregnant. I’ll look after her.”
“Steve. I thought you were homeless.”
“Oh. No. I’ve been in—“ Steve only hesitated a beat before shaking his head and going on, “—in Iceland for, like, three and a half years.”
“What? And this never came up in conversation?”
“No?” Sam made a frustrated noise. “She can stay with me until she has the baby.”
Sam sighed. “Sounds like a great idea to me,” he said reluctantly. “But I kinda need your exact location.”
Steve was quiet for a few moments. He wished he trusted himself to give out this information without pause, but he’d been alone for too long, and he’d been a ghost for twice as long. “Alright,” he finally whispered. “Call this number when you’re headed towards me, and I’ll give you the coordinates.”
“Okay. It’s a plan.”
Steve exhaled shakily and told himself that this was a good thing.
Sam and Wanda arrived two days later.
“Nice place you got here,” Sam said, and he looked older, but in a good, kind way. His eyes had laughter lines and his hair was peppered with gray, and he was just fractionally slower, but age was really suiting him well so far.
Wanda was older too, but it wasn’t all kind for her. Her eyes were sharp with intelligence, but they were also war-weary. Her posture was straighter, as if she was always expecting a threat. She was still beautiful.
And she was far more similar to Steve than he was comfortable with.
Steve engulfed her in a hug, and Wanda wound her arms around him, breathing harshly.
“You haven’t aged a day,” she said roughly.
Steve had noticed this only a few weeks ago, and he was still numb with the realization. “The serum,” he said. “Repairs my cells as they start dying.”
“You’re immortal,” Sam said, although he didn’t sound even remotely surprised.
Steve wondered if Bucky—
He cut off the thought before it could form.
Steve would deal with this the way he dealt with everything. Alone.
“Maybe,” he just said, thinking about steep cliffs and bullets and something that could hold people under water.
Wanda gave him a look like she’d read his thoughts, and Steve just smiled pleasantly at her, knowing that was entirely likely.
“I set up a room for you.”
It’d been his room, but Sam and Wanda didn’t need to know that. Really, Steve didn’t sleep much anyway, so it wasn’t anybody’s problem. “Thank you,” Wanda said, putting her suitcase down on the floor and looking around.
“Um.” Steve scratched the back of his neck. “Are you guys hungry?”
They ate dinner at Steve’s cramped kitchen table, and Sam cracked jokes while Wanda made dry comebacks and Steve watched with minimal input. This could’ve been his life if he’d chosen to stay. He could’ve developed the kind of trust that they obviously had between each other. He could’ve had people to look after him.
The thought left him cold, and he stared at the food on his plate, no longer hungry.
But it was better to be alone.
If he’d stayed, he would’ve still stayed the same while his friends grew older. He would have the privilege to watch them all die before him. It was better to be alone. That’d save him the fucking heartbreak.
Y’know. By the off chance that his heart could still feel anything.
“I can’t stay,” Sam said apologetically, looking truly agonized by the admission. “I promised somebody that I’d be back for breakfast.”
Steve wondered who Sam had promised. “That’s alright. You’ll be back to pick Wanda up when she’s ready to return to active duty,” Steve said with a shrug. This wasn’t goodbye.
Sam hugged him. It wasn’t a goodbye.
And that just left him and Wanda.
They sat at Steve’s table in silence for maybe an hour and a half before Steve whispered, “Wanna talk about it?”
Wanda gave him an odd look. “Vision,” she said, patting her stomach.
“Ah,” Steve mumbled, trying to figure out how that worked with—whatever Vision was.
Wanda smiled. “Don’t ask.”
“I won’t.”
She kicked him under the table. “I’m going to give them up for adoption.”
“Why?”
She sighed, looking very, very tired. “To protect them. I know it’s very possible that they’re going to have powers. If they don’t know, they can be normal for a while. They won’t have their lives dominated by what they can do. They won’t be—“
“Weapons,” Steve finished, too knowingly.
“Exactly.” She frowned. “I know they won’t be able to hide form their powers forever, but I can delay it if they don’t know.”
“Alright.”
Wanda smiled sadly. “Plus, an Avengers’ life is no way to raise a child.”
“Yeah.”
“They deserve better than what I can give them.”
Steve looked at her curiously. “How do you know it’s a ‘them’?”
“Twins,” Wanda said, smirking, although the expression was somewhat hollow. “I just know.”
“Okay,” Steve agreed.
They lapsed into silence. “How ‘bout you?” Wanda finally asked. “You wanna talk about it?”
Steve gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “About what?”
Wanda waved a vague hand. “Any of it.”
“I’m good.”
“Clearly,” Wanda huffed with a roll of her eyes.
Steve stood up, stretching. “I may not be here when you wake up. I go to work early.”
“You work?” Wanda asked in surprise.
Steve nodded. “I’m a farmhand.” He grinned, and he knew the expression didn’t reach his eyes, but whatever.
“That’s surprising.”
“Well. I’m a different man.”
“Fourteen years changes a person,” Wanda agreed hesitantly.
“Fourteen and a half,” Steve corrected with a wink. “Don’t round down on me. Least I can do is keep track of time.”
“Fine, fine.” Wanda stood up. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Night, Wanda.”
“Night, Steve.”
Wanda got grumpy as the months dragged on, and Steve was more amused with it than put-off. After all, he’d been alone for almost fifteen years. Any emotion from his friends was something he was starving for, no matter how much he tried to deny it.
“You can’t fucking cook,” Wanda snapped, glaring heatedly at him from Steve’s couch as Steve innocently dumped some more Mac & Cheese into his pot of boiling water. “Leave me to starve. I’d rather that.”
“Who said I was making this for you?”
Wanda narrowed her eyes. “Don’t fuck with me. I can read your mind.”
Steve hummed vaguely as Wanda sunk into some more sullen silence and Steve stirred the pot.
“He’s doing well, you know,” Wanda said out of the blue, looking comparatively serene to how she’d been ten minutes ago.
Steve froze, pretending he didn’t know who Wanda was talking about. “What?”
“Recovery looks good on him. He’s all about atonement and—and he’s a very good person.”
Steve swallowed roughly. “Stop, please.”
Wanda watched Steve carefully. “I don’t try and look, you know,” she mused, tapping at her temple to indicate her mind reading. “I really don’t. But, fuck, your thoughts are loud.”
“Oh,” was all Steve could say.
“And you’re always thinking about him. Even if you’re not, the absence of him in your thoughts feels like a lost limb.”
Steve closed his eyes, gripping the counter tight. “Wanda.”
“I’m just saying, it’s hard not to bring it up when we are living in a tiny house and the only thing that I can hear is his name on your mind.”
Steve took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too, you know. The both of you deserve a soft ending, and it’s not what you got.”
“A soft ending,” Steve scoffed. He looked at Wanda, his jaw tight. “I think the worst part about us is that it doesn’t fucking end. We’re gonna live forever, but forever is maybe the worst type of torture I can think of.”
Wanda was quiet for a moment. “If you’re to live forever, it can’t all be riddled with tragedy.”
“You’re right,” Steve agreed sadly. “I cashed in my pockets of happiness early. Living with him before the war. Having the privilege of growing up with my mother’s help. Knowing Peggy. Helping the Avengers for a few years.” He shook his head. “And now I’m just about broke.”
Wanda frowned. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Maybe not,” Steve conceded, turning off the stove.
As Wanda grimaced through her Mac & Cheese, Steve watched her carefully. “What?” she finally snapped, back to grumpy.
Steve shrugged. “Can you erase memories?”
Her expression dropped into blankness so quickly that Steve faltered. “Yes.”
“Could you—“
“No.”
Steve sighed. “Okay.”
And that was that.
“Happy birthday,” Wanda said to him one morning, miraculously awake before Steve left for the farm.
Steve faltered in surprise. “Oh.” For a moment, he just stood there, Wanda watching him with a wry expression. “Thank you.”
“Hm,” Wanda said, lurching into the nearest seat. “Get to work.”
Steve went to work.
Steve told his employers that he needed to take a few months off work because his daughter was in her final trimester. They were remarkably understanding, letting him know that the job would be open to him when he returned.
Steve was grateful. And now he got to spend 90% of his time with Wanda.
Not alone. It was—it felt weird, but Steve loved Wanda, so it was a good-weird.
“How are you feeling?” Steve asked, sitting next to Wanda on his tiny couch.
Wanda groaned and shifted, throwing her legs into Steve’s lap. “Well,” she began, and Steve started grinning, knowing her tone. “I have a whale in my uterus.”
Steve snorted.
“And it’s trying to fucking kill me.”
Steve cooed sadly.
“And everything hurts. And I can’t walk. And I’m sure a slow death would be more pleasant at this point.”
“Want some tea?” Steve asked, reaching down to rub her feet.
Wanda looked up and glared at him, although she gently nudged Steve’s hands with her foot to tell him to keep going. “You know what I want? I want a goddamn steak soaked in orange juice.”
Steve wrinkled his nose.
“And I know that sounds disgusting, but it’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past ten minutes.”
“Um. I’ll go see if we have orange juice?”
“Atta boy,” Wanda mumbled.
Steve called the nearest doctor when Wanda started going into labor. “I’ll be there in a half hour,” she said in Icelandic.
Wanda broke a few of the bones in Steve’s hand—multiple times, actually—and it was probably the best pain he’d ever felt.
When it was all over, she held one tiny human in each arm, looking down at them sadly. “I shouldn’t draw it out,” she mumbled, exhausted. “Cut the chord now.”
Steve brushed some of the hair away from her face, his hand aching. “Give it a few weeks ‘til they’re stable for adoption.”
“’Kay.”
The two boys were so fucking small, and Steve’s heart ached. They were so fragile.
“They’re cute,” Wanda conceded, almost reluctantly, after she’d slept for sixteen hours straight.
“And loud,” Steve added, wincing at the slight headache that hadn’t gone away yet.
“Yes.”
“What do their thoughts sound like?” Steve asked curiously.
Wanda smiled at him. “Want to see?”
“You can do that?”
“I can do anything.” And suddenly, Steve had a mental image that could only be described as—loud. It felt like a loud, angry squiggle of sharp discomfort.
“Wow,” Steve said, touching the side of his head.
“Not quite so cute anymore?”
Steve shrugged. “Still pretty cute.”
Wanda grinned and lightly poked the cheek of the child with darker hair. He squirmed and made a noise of protest but didn’t stir further. “Did you ever want kids?”
Steve frowned. “Maybe in an abstract sense. Never thought I’d live that long. I dunno. I think I’d accidentally break one.” He gestured to the lighter haired child’s tiny fingers.
Wanda laughed sleepily. “No kids for you then.”
“No kids for me.”
Wanda started to fade back into sleep. Before she was completely unconscious, she mumbled, “Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Sam arrived to take Wanda and the boys away a month later.
Sam stayed for dinner and cooed over the babies and somehow didn’t talk about anything while still keeping up a steady stream of conversation.
And then they left.
Steve hugged them both and tapped the babies on their noses because he didn’t entirely trust himself to hold them for more than a few minutes.
“You planning on staying here for a while?” Sam asked as Steve followed them outside to the jet.
Steve shrugged, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I like it here. Who knows? Maybe I’ll settle down. Meet someone. Start a family.” He smiled humorlessly.
Wanda was still kinda in a perpetual state of grumpiness, so Steve didn’t even blink at her derisive scoff. Sam just smiled knowingly. “Check-in in two weeks.”
“You got it,” Steve agreed, rubbing his jaw tiredly. “Good luck.”
Sam saluted him and helped Wanda into the plane.
Steve watched them disappear into the horizon.
Life here wasn’t bad.
Sure, it wasn’t what Steve had dreamed about when he was a child, and it certainly wasn’t what he’d wanted back when he was with the Avengers, but it was fine enough.
It was quiet here. Nobody bothered him. Nobody asked him questions. Nobody even looked at him longer than a passing glance. And, really, that was all Steve wanted anymore.
He was thinking more now. Having Wanda stay with him for all those months had thrown him off-balance. He was used to company. Hell, he’d ruined fifteen damn years of progress.
Because now he remembered who he’d been—the sorry shadow of a man who had led the Avengers.
Steve didn’t know what he was supposed to do with himself. He felt restless in a way that he hadn’t felt for years. His skin was itching for a fight, although the fight had long-since bled out of him.
And maybe that was just it. This thing that Steve kept pushing down and away in the hopes that it would disappear and cease to be his truth. Steve’s identity had always been wound around the fight. Didn’t matter who or what he was fighting. Just that he was.
And he’d been shying away from this reality for his entire life. He didn’t want to be a fighter anymore. He was too fucking old.
Fuck, Steve wanted to be made of compassion and a gentle yet firm zeal for justice. Steve wanted to be made of all the good things he’d once embodied.
He wasn’t sure when those good things had washed away and been eclipsed by his need to fight. Maybe it’d been waking up in this century, or maybe it had been when Bucky died, or maybe it’d been when Erskine injected the serum into his veins with his damning Good becomes great bad becomes worse condemnation.
The thing was, Steve didn’t want to hide from his true colors or whatever the fuck he’d been searching for in all his time alone. He just couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to be defined by violence anymore, but there it was, so closely woven into his skin that he couldn’t separate himself from it if he tried.
God, he was tired.
He bitterly added another tattoo to his arms and then proceeded to fall back into the depressive funk that he’d never been able to really overcome.
He hated himself.
Steve was 114 years old, and that number was just going to keep climbing until he was the last person alive.
The only way to fix this would be to end it himself. And what did he have to live for anymore? Fucking nothing. He’d isolated himself from everyone he’d ever cared about, or maybe they’d isolated him. He wasn’t even sure anymore. He didn’t care. He was so goddamn old, and he wanted it over.
Steve didn’t have his guns anymore. He hadn’t touched a weapon in over a decade.
But he had some kitchen knives and an abundance of determination.
He examined the knife in the dying light and felt for his jugular with callused fingers.
He poised the knife over his fingers and passively felt the sting of a relatively deep cut to his index finger. He adjusted his grip and—
There was a frantic knock on the door?
Steve stared blankly at the door for a few minutes, blinking slowly. Nobody came here.
The knock came again.
Steve slowly took the knife away from his neck and let his hand fall back to his side, although he refused to put it down. He approached the door on the balls of his feet and cracked it open.
“We need help,” Natasha said.
Steve opened the door, more out of surprise than anything else, and Natasha stepped inside, dragging a guy with her.
The guy was bleeding pretty badly, his eyes squeezed shut, and Steve just stared as Natasha laid him down on the couch.
“First aid?” she said hopefully.
Steve shook his head to try to clear it. “Right,” he mumbled and headed towards his bathroom, grabbing his first aid kit.
He walked back into his living room and handed it to Natasha, who didn’t even glance at him as she took out the materials for stitches. “You can put that down,” she said, cleaning the guy’s wound.
Steve looked at the knife, still gripped tightly in his hand. He sighed in resignation and placed it slowly in the sink.
“Alright, Peter, this is gonna hurt,” Natasha said gently.
The guy—Peter—groaned indistinctly, and his face pinched as Natasha started to work.
“He has a healing factor,” Natasha explained, still not looking at Steve. “But he still got hit bad. I’m sorry for showing up like this, but you were the closest to where we were, and Peter was in bad shape. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It’s okay,” Steve said quietly, frowning at his hands. His fingertips were bloody, and the cut hadn’t completely sealed yet.
“We’ll get out of your hair as soon as Peter’s okay to move,” Natasha added.
“How’d you get here?” Steve asked, sitting on his coffee table to watch Natasha work.
“We were in Iceland already for a mission. We stole a car.”
“Who’s picking you up?”
“Tony.”
Steve’s expression shuttered.
“Listen,” Natasha sighed, her eyes flicking over to him. “He’s mellowed out. He’s not angry about the Accords anymore. He fixed it with Bucky—“
“Okay,” Steve said, rising up to his feet. “I don’t need to hear anymore.”
“Steve,” Natasha sighed.
Steve held up a hand, and Natasha seemed to notice the blood.
Her eyes narrowed. “What happened there?”
“Cut myself cooking.”
“What were you cooking?”
Steve glared at her and turned away, stalking off towards his room.
“We’re not done with this conversation!” Natasha called.
Steve slammed the door shut.
He sat down in his tiny, cramped closet, drew his knees up to his chest, and wished Natasha hadn’t shown up.
She found him a few hours later but didn’t open the door. She just sat down with her back leaning against the door.
“I know what you were thinking,” she finally said.
“Do you?” Steve muttered dryly.
“Immortality’s a bitch.”
“I’m not immortal.”
“You’re not getting older either.”
Steve let out a breath and pressed his forehead to his knees. “I just want it to be over.”
“I know. Trust me.”
“How?” Steve demanded harshly.
“Because I’m not getting older either.”
Steve felt cold. “No,” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
Natasha deserved this fate the least out of anybody he’d ever known. Steve felt like crying, but he was still so damn numb that he couldn’t even manage that. "How?" he whispered.
"Knockoff version of the serum. Same as Barnes."
"Oh."
“I’ve thought about ending it too, you know.”
Steve squeezed his eyes shut.
“But do you know what I decide every time I think about it?”
“What,” Steve said hollowly.
“There’s still so much to do.”
“I’m not like you,” Steve said. “My brain is wired wrong. I don’t think like that.”
“Yeah, depression is a bitch,” Natasha said. “But, Steve, you’re a fighter.”
Steve glared at the door. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“I wish it weren’t.”
They were quiet for a long time. “Can you do me a favor?” Natasha finally asked, her voice incredibly soft.
“What?”
“Just think about it, and find something worth living for.”
Steve closed his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
Peter stared at Steve in a daze as he mechanically made breakfast.
“You’re Captain America,” he finally mumbled.
“No, I’m not,” Steve said firmly.
“You were.”
“Fine. I was.”
“I fought you once,” Peter said, grinning sleepily. “In Germany.”
Steve paused. “You’re the kid from Queens?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
He smiled. “I always wanted to, like, officially meet you. But then by the time the Avengers fixed the whole divorce thingy, you were in the wind.”
“Sorry,” Steve said, uncomfortable.
“I get it. I like your tattoos.”
“Um. Thanks.”
“That’s enough, Pete,” Natasha said, emerging from the bathroom with wet hair. “Tony’s almost here.”
Steve glared at his eggs.
“Sweet,” Peter said.
Steve sat at the kitchen table and stared unseeingly at his wrists as Natasha went outside to talk to Tony.
And then the motherfucker invited him inside.
“Oh,” Tony said, seemingly at a loss for words. “Um. Nice place you got here.”
“I built it,” Steve said, forcing himself to look up.
Tony had aged like Sam. It looked good on him with his salt and pepper hair and his wrinkles for laughter lines. There was something about him that had changed completely, and Steve realized that his expression wasn’t clouded over with anxiety. His face was tense, but way more relaxed than Steve had ever seen.
He looked vaguely impressed. “Huh. Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
They hovered awkwardly for a moment. “I like the scruff,” Tony said, gesturing to Steve’s face. “Your hair’s darker. It suits your hermit mountain man aesthetic.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, rubbing his jaw.
“Ohhhh, you got tattoos.” Tony’s eyes lit up. “Never really took you for the rebellious type until the whole dealio. That confirms my theory. Cap is a hashtag-rebel.”
“Did you just say hashtag?” Natasha deadpanned.
“Yup.” Tony rocked back and forth on his heels and stared at the floor. “Anywho. I just wanted to tell you that I forgive you for all the shit that went down. I’ve moved past it, and I mean, I hope we can try to be friends again, but I’ve accepted the idea that that’s probably not going to happen.”
Tony has blasted Bucky’s arm off. Tony had tried to kill Bucky. Steve had almost killed Tony. How would he ever move past that? “Oh. Um.” Steve searched for his anger and realized that it was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that he wouldn’t be able to shake if he tried. And that left nothing left to do but fucking move the fuck on. “I forgive you too.”
Tony nodded rapidly. “Right. I definitely expected that. Why wouldn’t you forgive me? I’m amazing and we’re besties. Cool beans. Totally called it.”
“You look good,” Steve said. “You get better with age.”
Tony grinned. “Thanks. Pepper agrees.”
“You fixed it with her? Good.”
“Yeah. We’re married and shit. It’s looks good on us.”
“Good.”
“You look tired with... a lack of age.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Working on it?”
“Working on it.”
Tony clapped his hands. “Well, this has been sufficiently awkward. Pete, Nat, let’s skedaddle.”
“Nice to formally meet you, sir,” Peter said.
“You too.”
Natasha hugged him tight for a few long moments. “Please think about what I said. I’ll see you in August.”
“Okay,” Steve whispered and cleared his throat as they drew back.
Tony kept nodding to himself as Steve followed them outside. “Right. Cool. Steve. We’re cool. Nice. Right.”
Steve clapped him on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”
“I have been,” Tony said quietly, smiling a little bit. “Therapy is my bitch.”
“I’m proud of you,” Steve said before he knew he was saying it.
Tony ducked his head. “Thanks. You take care of yourself too. I get the feeling that you’re not.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, your boy’s taking care of himself too—“
“Tony,” Steve said sharply. “I don’t want to hear anything about him.”
Tony blinked. “Right. He kicked you to the curb. Totally slipped my mind. Cool. Okay. Not talking about it. At all. Lips sealed and all that jazz.”
“Tony!” Natasha called.
Tony snapped his fingers and shot finger guns at Steve. “I’m out.”
“Alright.”
“Ciao.”
Steve sat on the ground as they flew away and didn’t move for a long time.
Steve left Iceland two days later.
He was living in Japan, working on a fishing boat in his spare time, when the earthquake hit.
It was bad, and Steve had been in the middle of selling some fish to a grocer, and the ceiling crumbled down, and Steve hit his head, and when he shoved away the debris, the grocer’s neck was at an awkward angle that immediately made him feel cold.
Steve was frozen in shock, and it took a few minutes for him to lurch to his feet. Some blood dripped into his eyes, sticky and still achingly familiar even after all these years. He put pressure on his leg and cursed—a bone was broken. But that hadn’t stopped him when he was six and needed to carry a cat back to his apartment, and it wouldn’t stop him now.
Steve rushed into a flurry of action that he hadn’t been a part of in years, lifting debris easily and unthinkingly. Nobody seemed to care about his superhuman strength, least of all Steve, but there were so many injured people.
And there were no Avengers around. Just normal fucking people trying to pull strangers and loved ones alike out of the wreckage. And Steve fucking felt something other than anger and numbness for the first time in a very, very long time.
Steve let himself take the more grotesque jobs after the first panic. He carried the dead to the morgues. He stayed in the overflowing waiting rooms in hospitals and held the hands of people waiting in pain by themselves.
This was the ugliest side of the fight, and this was what he was made for.
A grainy video of him lifting a massive chunk of debris made it to the news, and Steve left in a flash, knowing he’d be recognized by someone eventually.
He didn’t want to take that risk.
He headed for the Middle East.
There were no repeats of Iceland. Steve could not afford to get attached to one place.
But, fuck, it was lonely as hell.
Everywhere he went, Natasha’s words haunted him. Find something to live for.
He searched.
Sometimes he gave up.
Sometimes he thought he found what he was looking for.
Sometimes he wished he’d never been fucking defrosted.
Steve Rogers was old.
He’d been on this godforsaken planet for nearly 130 years. Everyone he’d grown up with was dead, besides Bucky of course, but he hadn’t seen Bucky for 31 years.
Everyone he cared about was barely a part of his life anymore.
It kinda made a fella wonder whether any of it was worth it.
He’d looked for something to live for, and he’d looked for something to die for, and all he’d found was a sense of nothingness.
Steve closed his eyes, adjusting his grip on the wheel of his car. Would it kill him to drive off a cliff? Would that do the trick and finally put him out of his misery?
Steve gazed dispassionately at the night sky. He’d learned a long time ago that the stars up there were most likely long dead and gone. The light traveled so slowly that looking up was like looking back in time, to the point where what you saw when you went stargazing was just a reflection of the dead.
Nothing more than something pretty to look at, mostly obscured by light pollution now anyway.
Steve sighed and rubbed his eyes. He’d tried Natasha’s way. He should end it. He should end it now.
He reached over to start the engine, but there was a sudden, horrific thump, and his car jolted and rocked with a large impact.
Steve cursed and threw himself out of the car, raising his fists as he looked up.
A girl groaned, rolling onto her side on the top of his car. Her eyes were squeezed shut in pain, and something in Steve wilted. He climbed up so that his elbows were propped on the roof of the car and asked, “Can I help you down from there?”
The girl blinked a few times and looked at him, her eyes wary despite the pain she must’ve been feeling. “You gonn’ kill me?” she mumbled.
“Not unless you try to kill me first,” Steve said honestly.
“Fair enough.” She threaded her fingers through her mop of curly hair and let out a harsh breath. “I think I busted something.”
Steve held out a hand, and she grabbed it, pulling herself up into a sitting position, wincing. “I’m Steve,” Steve said. “Scoot forward. I wanna check your ribs.”
The girl obliged, throwing her legs off the edge of the car. She unzipped her hoodie and lifted her shirt to glance down at her stomach. “I think ribs are fine.”
“Can I check? I used to be in the military. I know what to look for.”
The girl’s eyes hardened, and she drew up her shoulders, blinking a few times as if coming back to herself. “I’m fine,” she said stiffly. “I can take care of myself.”
Steve blinked in surprise. I like her, came the thought, almost out of nowhere. He shook his head to rid himself of it. “Can I at least drive you to the hospital?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice patient, but he was kind of annoyed.
The girl glanced at the car as if just noticing it. “I wrecked your car.”
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “It’s not really mine anyway.”
The girl looked at him sharply. “Oh god. You stole it, didn’t you? I fell onto the car of a criminal.”
Steve blinked. “I didn’t steal it,” he said defensively. The girl glared at him. “I took it from a junkyard and fixed it up. It was going to be scrap metal without me.”
“Ugh.”
Steve looked around them, frowning. “Where did you come from anyway?”
The girl scowled. “Not around here, that’s for sure,” she muttered under her breath.
Steve was getting some seriously ominous vibes, but like usual, he ignored them. “I can still drive you to the hospital.”
“Don’t need a hospital.”
Steve gave her an unimpressed look. She matched the look and added an arched eyebrow.
“God,” she finally sighed, dropping her head back in exasperation. “You’re like some kind of fucking Good Samaritan, aren’t you? Won’t leave me alone ‘til I tell you I’m fine?”
Steve shrugged. “I guess.”
The girl crossed her arms. “Fine. No hospitals. No being a fucking mother hen. You can drive me to where I need to go.”
“And where’s that?” Steve asked, crossing his arms to mirror her aggression.
“New York.”
Steve went tense all over. “I’ll take you anywhere but there.”
The girl watched him, still glaring. “Drop me off at the border.”
Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Alright. Deal.” He stuck out his hand.
The girl shook it. “Deal.”
Steve stepped back, and the girl hopped down from the roof, wincing slightly. “Los Angeles to New York,” Steve sighed. “This is gonna be a long drive.”
The girl walked over to the passenger’s side of the car and climbed in. “I’ll pay you if we can make the trip in one go.”
“Nope.”
“Damn.” The girl slouched down, kicking up her feet onto the dashboard. She was wearing muddy converse.
“I promise I’m not a creep,” Steve said, closing the door to the driver’s side and turning on the engine.
“Highly reassuring,” the girl said dryly. “Listen, you’re my taxi service. I don’t care if you’re a creep. As long as you’re not a creep to me and I don’t ever see you again, bien?”
“Fair enough,” Steve grumbled. He’d need a cup of coffee. “I just feel better if you don’t hitchhike the whole way.”
The girl turned to look at him in disbelief. “This is hitchhiking.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t try to murder me, and I won’t take you down with me.”
“Alright, okay.” Steve scowled at the jagged terrain and decided that he’d go and fucking kill himself when this was over. He had time. He had a long, never-ending supply of time. “What’s your name?” Steve asked absentmindedly, checking his rear-view mirror.
The girl was quiet for a while, and Steve made peace with the fact that she probably wasn’t going to answer, but she said, “America,” into the quiet of the car after a few miles.
Steve rolled his eyes. Of course the universe would have the sense of irony to throw a girl named America onto the roof of his car.
Steve wanted to make some dry remark about formerly being Captain America, but even though this girl hadn’t even been alive when he’d become a fugitive, he was always keeping it safe. He didn’t want to go to prison.
So, instead, he said, “Buckle your seatbelt.”
America ignored him and pulled her hood up.