Archive of Our Own ^beta

PERSONAL JOURNAL
The Grand Canyon really was something to see. Since waking up in the future, I'd never been somewhere so remote. No people, no buildings, just the stars and the creatures that make their home in that beautiful place.
Bucky always had a hundred ideas about what he'd do when the war was over. If anybody could've done them all, it was him.
I never knew what I wanted. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to stop. I guess now, I'm still a soldier. I've got a purpose, got a team. Got something to fight for.
But sometimes, when I'm alone, without a mission or an enemy, I wonder.
Is this fight what I'm meant for? Or am I just fighting because I still don't know what to do when the war ends?

*

“I'm worried about Cap,” Tony says, the words falling heavily from his tongue. “I don't think he's adjusting.”

“His biochemistry looks great,” Hank says, missing the point, as usual.

“He agreed to come shopping with me next week for non-Grandpa clothing,” Jan counters.

“He showed me how to work your crazy DVR yesterday,” Clint says.

“You still have an actual landline in your hovel of an apartment,” Tony says. “Your last foray into home electronics involved cutting the cables and rewiring everything. Your standards really aren't an accurate measure. But that's not what I'm getting at. I think he likes the future fine. According to JARVIS, like, ninety percent of what he's watching is science documentaries.”

“Way to be creepy,” Clint mutters.

“When Google does it, it's intuitive, but when I do it, you all whine that I'm crossing some kind of boundary,” Tony sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine, tell JARVIS to ignore what you use, what you eat, what you wear and what you break, but don't come crying to me next time you run out of something because he didn't put it on the list to be restocked.”

“I can live with creepy,” Clint decides.

“You're just saying that because you fail at actual adult things, like grocery shopping,” Natasha says, nudging Clint with her foot.

“There is no 'just' about that. Adulting sucks,” Clint says emphatically.

“What's bothering you?” Natasha asks, after a final affectionate kick to Clint's thigh. “He's doing well for a guy from the forties who was frozen solid three months ago.”

“I think he's faking it,” Tony says. “From a fellow faker, he's doing it well, but he's faking.”

“From a professional faker, sometimes, that's the way to get to being fine,” Natasha says.

“Doesn't mean you don't feel like shit in the meantime,” Clint observes.

“He kinda lost everything,” Jan says. “Really recently. If he wasn't having to fake it, I'd be surprised.”

“Steven is fixated on the death of his shield brother, and on somehow undoing his fate,” Thor declares. “I berated him for his selfishness, for resenting his fellow warrior's place at the tables in Valhalla, but he persists. It is obscene in a warrior, more so in a leader.”

There's a long, uncomfortable pause.

“Wow,” Tony says flatly, taking a large mouthful of his coffee. “I don't even know where to begin to tell you what's wrong with that.”

“You told a guy who just lost his best friend he was being selfish for grieving?” Bruce asks pointedly. His skin's an unhealthy sallow shade.

“Not cool,” Clint says, all traces of humour gone from his face.

Thor looks mildly confused, but still disapproving.

“In our culture, at this point in time, it's held that people need to work through their grief at their own pace. Those around them are expected to offer comfort and support, not censure,” Natasha explains.

“Also, I don't think Valhalla's a human thing. A lot of humans don't even believe in an afterlife, these days,” Jan adds.

“But-” Thor begins.

“Don't even,” Jan says. “You screwed up.”

“So how do we fix it?” Bruce asks.

“Pepper'll know what to do,” Tony declares.

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
On Miss Potts' advice, I visited a doctor friend of hers. She was very nice but seemed to expect me to disclose all sorts of personal information. I tried to be polite but I felt so embarrassed. I didn't understand why she needed to know about private things I thought, and when I tried to change the subject, she asked if she had made me uncomfortable. I assured her she hadn't but she didn't look like she believed me. She was writing the whole time, even when I wasn't talking, so I felt like I was giving an incredibly intrusive interview for a reporter.
I barely made it through the hour without standing up and walking out. I shook her hand and she said, 'same time next week?' and I said yes, because I didn't know how to say no without giving offence.
Rather than taking the car back to the Mansion that Tony had sent, I went for a run, despite being in trousers, a jacket, and my good shoes. I felt like I had to, like everything under my skin was itching and churning. I sat and watched a fountain in Central Park until dusk started to fall, wishing I had a sketchbook, but I had no energy to move from the bench I'd collapsed onto.
When I returned to the Mansion, Pepper seemed eager to hear how the appointment had gone. I told her it was fine. Even smiling hurt.
The only thing that seemed to go right in the whole mess was that the doctor said sometimes keeping a diary can help. I told her I already did, and she looked very pleased with me and wrote something down.

*

“Heard you had an appointment the other day,” Tony begins.

Steve pokes his spoon at the cereal in his bowl. Tony jitters around the communal kitchen, pushing buttons on the fancy coffee machine and peeling a banana. Steve doubts he's slept. The only times he's seen Tony before ten in the morning is when he's been up all night in the workshop, creating something new or tearing apart something old.

“Yeah,” Steve says, when he finally realises Tony's expecting a reply.

“That's good,” Tony says. “Bottling things up, vee-vee-bad thing. Do what I say, not what I do, and so on.”

“Right,” Steve says. There are a dozen foamy shapes floating in the milk, slowly becoming sodden and sinking below the surface. “I don't think I'll go again.”

Tony's face falls.

“I mean, she was nice and all, but I hated it. And I shouldn't be focussing so much on... what happened, anyhow. I'm here now. No point dwelling on the past.” Every word makes his throat tight, makes his eyes burn.

Tony puts down his coffee and flutters a hand out like he wants to touch Steve but isn't sure it'd be welcome. “Steve,” he says gently. “Nobody expects you to forget about your old life, your friends. You're allowed to miss them.”

“Ain't no point in that,” Steve says savagely, pushing up from his stool. “I'm here, now, ain't I? Thinking about him won't bring him back.”

“Shit,” Tony mutters when Steve's halfway out the door.

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
I've sent a long time since coming to this century trying to put my initial impressions into context. The good and the bad, the shocking and the inspiring. Those first chaotic hours defy categorisation. But the events that followed... that's another kettle of fish entirely.
Both Tony Stark and my old C.O., General Simon, tried to show me the future in a certain light, and at the time I didn't question why they told me what they did, and what they hoped I'd take away from it.
Tony, well, he genuinely seemed to mean what he said. He told me he's a futurist, which rather than being something to do with art seems to be about shaping the best possible world, and maybe that kind of thinking lends itself to focusing on the best, on our achievements. But did he show me what he did to influence me to trust him? Or did he choose to show me the most he could to make sending me home impossible rather than just risky? That seems so cruel, but if he thought it was the right thing to do...
And then there's General Simon. Everything Tony showed me, he seemed determined to take down, to counter with some horrible truth to prove that humanity wasn't the shining ideal we'd fought for. At the time, he seemed like the only person who dared to be honest with me, but was that really what he was trying to do? Every new atrocity he related seemed to be anchored in a deep-seated anger and bitterness, a resentment that the future we'd been promised hadn't eventuated. He wanted me to agree with him that our time was a more promising one, but having gone back, thanks to Kang, I just can't agree. He mentioned the scourge of drugs, but he didn't seem to remember that Prohibition created the same kinda racket – illegal substances that could kill you, make you mad or blind or hooked, and all the rotten organised crime that runs that muck. Sure, there's inequity and poverty now, but I remember the Depression, Hooverville and the bread lines round the block. So, what did he want? Me to give up on America like he had, just because we'd shared a history? Because the America he remembered was worth fighting for, but the one that emerged wasn't? I don't believe that. I can't. Because I was always fighting for what America could be, and that was never conditional on whether it lived up to that ideal. It was aspirational, not a requirement of my service for my country.
I'd like to think that they just wanted to help me out, but everything's still so unfamiliar and I don't really know anyone's intentions yet for certain.
I thought writing about it here might help me untangle it, but I guess I was wrong.

*

“I have an idea,” Tony says.

It's been four months. Apart from his outburst in the kitchen, Steve has been perfectly, relentlessly pleasant. He's comfortable with every household appliance. He's making serious efforts to immerse himself in pop culture, even to the point of being able to comment knowledgeably on Caitlyn Jenner coming out and the latest big blockbuster at the movies (a superhero flick walking the fine line between fiction and defamation). He's a regular patron of every museum, art galley and library within walking distance of the Mansion, and, given Steve's stamina, that's an impressively huge radius.

The few times there have been foes to fight, Steve has been efficient, brutal and gloriously skilled. He's lit up in a way that proves the lie once the dust settles. Steve only truly lives when he fights. The rest of the time, he's just existing.

“Oh?” Hank asks, actually glancing up.

“It's a terrible idea,” Tony clarifies. “Like, could destroy reality as we know it, but I'm willing to bet it won't.”

“Show your work,” Reed says. He's working on three separate machines at once. The twat.

“I haven't done the math or anything, I'm going to leave that to you,” Tony says generously.

Reed snorts impolitely and retrieves his (cold) coffee from the other side of the lab without even shifting in his seat. “You're willing to risk reality on a wager?”

“Not always. This time, yeah. Because I'm, like, seventy percent sure it'll work,” Tony says. “All I need is (a) to work out the kinks on the stealth armour, (b) a stable two-way dimensional portal to a specific point, and (c) immaculate timing and execution.”

“All you need?” Bruce asks incredulously.

“And if it works, we get to save an American hero, fix Cap's perpetual sad and gain major experience points fucking with causality,” Tony cajoles.

“Seventy percent,” Hank repeats, unimpressed.

“Seventy percent. Sixty-five, minimum,” Tony says with a winning smile.

Bruce lets his forehead thud twice, gently, against the desk in front of him.

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
Catching up on history and slang and movies and everything else that's gone on is interesting, but I never feel so lost and displaced as I do when I go to a modern art museum. I look at a sculpture that's just a collection of random objects, and I know that I'm missing all context that would unriddle the intent of the artist. Even if I studied every day for the rest of my life, I'd never have the same reaction as someone who just knows by virtue of being born into this era.
And yet, the young woman who approached me today, one of the curators, knew I'd been an art student back before the war and wanted to do an exhibition of my work.
I don't remember what I said, maybe something about privacy and not being good enough.
Well, that's true enough, but it's not what I was thinking.
I was thinking that to be an artist, you have to have something to say.
You have to be able to make something that the audience will relate to, and I'm seventy years out of time.
You also have to make art. I haven't picked up a pencil for more than a few frustrated moments here and there since the Grand Canyon.
Maybe my life as an artist is just as dead and gone as everything else.

*

“You have to promise me you'll listen to the end before you freak out or hit me,” Tony says. He's even more jittery than usual. In fact, Reed's lab is more crowded than Steve's ever seen it, and the whole bunch of them are looking kind of squirrelly.

“What's wrong?” Steve asks. Maybe he should have worn the uniform.

“Nothing's wrong,” Tony says, smiling in an unconvincing way.

“You're not filling me with confidence. This feels like an ambush,” Steve says.

“Please, just listen,” Tony says. “It's about Bucky.”

Steve flinches. He can't help it. His fists ball up and he has to fight down the anger and hurt he feels before he can speak. “He's gone. You can't fix it. Just leave it alone.”

“But what if I could? Fix it, that is,” Tony says eagerly.

“The president himself commanded me to walk away. Said current day science couldn't take me back without destroying the world I fought to save,” Steve spits. “So excuse me if I'm not as excited about whatever puzzle you've thought up; whatever... game this is to you, this is my life.” Steve turns away, starts to walk back towards the elevator.

“They never found his body, did they?” Tony asks, catching up and moving right into Steve's path.

“Get outta my way,” Steve grits out.

“You promised you'd listen to the end,” Tony says.

“I didn't promise you anything,” Steve corrects, and mashes the elevator call button so hard the metal dents.

“We can't send you back,” Tony agrees. “But if we're really clever and careful and lucky, we might be able to bring something forward.”

The doors slide open but Steve doesn't move. He hovers on the threshold until the doors close again, twisting and turning what Tony said around in his head, trying to find the meaning of it.

“C'mon, just listen to what we have to say,” Tony coaxes. “If at the end, you wanna storm outta here, then no one will stop you. But you have the right to know what we've been doing, and you have the right to tell us no.” His hand gently curves around one of Steve's arms, guides him back to facing the other way and into the lab again. “That's it,” he says. “Just hear us out.”

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
Today I
Everything's just
I thought maybe I'd started
It's so
Tony gave me reason to hope today, and that's maybe the cruellest thing anybody's done to me here yet.

*

“We only get one shot at this,” Tony had told Steve. “We miss the window, we can't keep going back. You punch too many holes in the fabric of reality, and it's bad. Like, end of the universe bad.”

He'd told him about his idea, sketched out Reed's calculations and told him about the dry run they'd done a week ago to a remote location that'd gone without a hitch.

“The truth is, we could practice this for years, fine-tune it to the most ridiculous degree, and still have no more of a chance of nailing it than we do right now,” Tony had laid out. “The theory is sound. The science can get us to where and when we need to be. The only weak link is the squishy human part, and that'll always be there.”

Steve had straightened up. “I won't fail.”

“You won't have a chance. You're not going,” Tony had said, and the fury he'd seen on Steve's face was incandescent. “We've got a plan, and for the plan to work, it has to be me. I'm sorry.”

“When?” Steve had asked.

“Whenever. As I said, we're as solid as we can get.”

“Today?” Steve had asked, his voice small.

“Tomorrow,” Tony assured him. “Gotta get set up, so, not right this second, but tomorrow.”

Steve had blown out of there as fast as he could after stilted thanks, but at eight in the morning, he's back, wearing last night's clothes and looking as ragged as Tony's ever seen him.

“Take a load off,” Tony says, pointing him towards a seat in the corner.

“I'd rather stand,” Steve says.

“Stand, and we'll keep running into you. Sit. Let me get you a drink. I think we've got chamomile or something,” Tony says. “You look like you could do with something that isn't coffee. And when I'm saying it, you know what that means.”

“Coffee doesn't work like that on me, but thanks,” Steve mutters, shamefaced. “I won't get in the way.”

“I know,” Tony says, one broad, calloused hand squeezing Steve's shoulder firmly. “Now, it's gonna be a little while yet before everything's in place, but when we start the extraction, it's all going to move very quickly. So if you want to nap, now's the time to do it. I promise to wake you before anything happens.”

“I can't sleep. I mean,” Steve fumbles for words, “I don't sleep much, right now. I'd rather watch.”

Tony nods. He can read between the lines, would know what Steve meant even if JARVIS hadn't been charting Steve's sleep cycles since he moved in.

“We got medical on stand-by? Even if I can snatch him, we don't know what shape he'll be in,” Tony asks quietly.

“Helen Cho's set up a surgical suite down a level. She's a colleague from before; she did time as an ER doc before shifting into her current field,” Bruce replies. “Hank could use the extra pair of hands, and Helen specialises in tissue regeneration. She's a good person to have on hand in a crisis.”

“You trust her? We need to keep this on the DL,” Tony says.

“I trust her more than I trust you some days,” Bruce says. “Like when you come up with a plan that could destroy reality.”

“That hurts, Big Green,” Tony says. “And hey, it's not like I'm the undisputed king of bad ideas in this partnership. Never have I ever... injected myself with an experimental serum. You, Cap and the Red Skull need to take a shot.”

“Never have I ever taunted a terrorist on live tv,” Bruce says.

“My bad. You play dirty. I love it. Hey, we got any chamomile? Cap needs something that's not going to make him vibrate any more than he is already.”

“I don't think coffee affects him any more,” Bruce says, but shifts to stand. “I'll see what Reed's got.”

“I'm going to put on my party clothes,” Tony says. “T-minus like, twenty minutes or so.”

The suit is sleek and matt charcoal grey, composed mainly of modified carbon fibre for lightweight manoeuvrability. It's not built for battle. It's built for one thing only – stealth. Tony's reasonably confident that it'll weather the exploding plane. He's, well, eighty percent sure.

Rather than some majestic Stargate-style gateway, Reed's device looks more like a garage door opener from the eighties mounted on a wristwatch strap.

“It completely ruins the line. Style, Reed,” Tony gripes. He's not serious, he just finds it easier to talk when he's building up to a big performance than sit in silence. Fortunately, he'd got the nervous vomiting out of the way early, long before Steve arrived.

“Would you rather look stylish or return intact?” Reed asks. He's looking over his calculations for the seventh time this morning, checking every digit and decimal point fastidiously.

“Can't I have both? It is possible to do science and look classy at the same time,” Tony says. “Just as well no one's going to see me like this. Testing stealth in three, two, one.”

From his position in the corner, Steve's gasp is audible. Tony's not invisible, per se, but light bends and reflects around his suit enough that he might as well be, especially in the era he's travelling to, when superheroes were only just emerging and the public far less aware that such things as invisibility were actually possible. To be honest, he's counting on the distraction of the loud, impressive explosion to divert the attention of anyone close enough to spot him.

“Looks good,” Hank says. “Ready for the shield test?”

“Shield test in three, two, one. Hit me,” Tony says.

Bruce helpfully lobs a roll of duct tape at his cloaked form, but it never connects. It just bounces off empty air a couple of feet in front of him and rolls under a desk.

“All looks good,” Reed says, from where he's craned his head three feet up from his shoulders to study the suit's readouts on a monitor.

“Awesome,” Tony says, powering down the shield and turning off the stealth. A pen bounces with enviable accuracy off his faceplate, but when he turns to identify the culprit, Bruce is seemly engrossed in what he's reading. “You're a menace,” Tony says, wagging a finger at him. “So, we good to go, or what?”

Reed dithers for a moment but Hank and Bruce just shrug. Steve looks terribly white, like he's going to be sick or faint, and Tony inwardly praises his own foresight in insisting he sit down.

“I suppose we're as ready as we can be, without another check of the calculations,” Reed concedes. “Just remember, be as quick as you can and don't raise the shield until you've got him. Cloak, jump, catch, shield, recall.”

“Easy as pie,” Tony says, grinning, though no one else can see his false bravado.

“Good luck,” Hank says, clapping Tony on the shoulder then stepping back out of range.

“Stealth mode on,” Tony says. “Jump in three, two, one...”

It's like being turned inside out. It doesn't hurt but Tony fights the urge to hurl for a terrifying stretched out moment.

Then a plane nearly takes his head off.

He doesn't have time to think, just has to give chase. Steve and Bucky are shouting back and forth to each other as they cling to the craft. He barely dodges Steve, who flies loose right as he's drawing level, just as Bucky starts to scream about a trap.

Tony grabs Bucky and the sky catches fire.

The shield goes up, the world turns upside down, and then Tony's stumbling forward into the lab. The others scurry back away from the dust, smoke and shrapnel that scatters every which way when the shield drops. For a moment, there's nothing but coughing and the tinkling and rustling of the debris settling.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, the fear and desperation in his voice an eerie echo of his nineteen-forties self, ten seconds earlier.

Tony looks down at the body in his arms and sees the blood. There's so much blood.

“Quick! Get medical,” he snaps.

He surrenders Bucky into Steve's grasping hands; Steve, who's openly weeping, all the polite masks of the months before stripped away.

Then Tony gives in to the very pressing urge to collapse to the floor and shake.

“I'm okay,” Tony says, waving Bruce back when he kneels at Tony's side and tries to get him to raise his face plate. “I'm all right. I've just gotta... Let's never, ever do that again, okay?”

“Okay,” Bruce says, patting him on the shoulder. “Okay.”

*

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
Bucky's alive. I'm writing the words as I'm sitting at his bedside but they don't seem real, no matter how much I repeat them to myself.
He's alive.
He's alive.
He's alive.
When Tony gave him to me he looked dead. I could have sworn he wasn't breathing. But then he woke up when I put him on the table. He was so white you'd think he had no blood left at all, if he wasn't still bleeding everywhere.
“It's bad, ain't it?” he asked me. “Tell me straight, Cap.”
“You're gonna be fine,” I said.
“I got a sister,” he said. “When this is all over, you find her, and you look after her for me.”
“You'll do it yourself, just you see,” I said.
“Promise me,” he said and his eyes burned into me. “You swear it, right now, on your life, and the flag.”
“I promise,” I said and he passed right out.
I thought he'd died for real but the medic had just shot him full of knock-out drugs. They hustled me away, shoved me out into the hallway.
I don't much remember the next few hours. I think someone brought me food and a change of clothes. Tony sat by me for a while and talked at me. Jan turned up and hugged me for a long time, and I let her. I don't know what Hank would've thought about me crying on his girl's shoulder, but at the time, I couldn't help it.
Eventually they showed me in and got me a chair to sit in and that's where I've been ever since.
He'll be asleep for a few days. They call it a medically induced coma. I thought he'd be covered in bandages and stitched up like a flour sack, but the doctor in charge has some fancy machine that mends people quick as anything, so it's just like it's been healed for years. It didn't grow back his arm, but when he wakes, they promise me he won't be in pain. Tired and weak, but not like those poor guys in the field hospitals, missing legs and arms, screaming in agony despite the morphine.
Tony left a tablet for me to use. I searched and Bucky's sister's in her eighties and living with her granddaughter upstate. I never even thought to check if he had family until he asked me. I didn't, by the time I enlisted. I've been so caught up in my own problems, I forgot he might have someone besides me who mourned him who could still be alive out there.

*

Steve knows Bucky won't be awake for a good while yet, but it's still an effort to drag himself away from his side, even for calls of nature.

When he shuffles back, Tony's there, watching Bucky through the glass.

“He's so fucking young,” Tony says. “Too young. I know they took 'em young, but you can't tell me he was of age when they gave him a gun. I know how long he was at your side just from the comics.”

“He wasn't,” Steve says. “First time I saw him was the summer of '41. He was barely sixteen, taking down men twice his size. He'd been the mascot at Camp Lehigh since his father died in a training accident. Made a name for himself in all the wrong ways but the brass saw potential. He spent the months before I met him training with the SAS. They thought he'd be a double bonus. A kid that the kids at home could look up to, especially those who were close to being of-age for enlistment, and, to be brutally honest, as an operative who could do what I couldn't.”

Tony looks grim, maybe even disgusted. “He was a child,” he says heavily. “And you let him be made into a weapon.”

“I was only twenty myself,” Steve says, trying to remember what it felt like to be twenty, to be unfamiliar with his newly-healthy frame. To still be surprised at the regular function of his heart and lungs. To have not yet shot another man, or felt a friend bleed out under his hands.

“And they'd just made you into a weapon, too,” Tony says. He's looking hard at Steve now but he's not angry. “I forget sometimes how vulnerable you were. With all the,” he waves a hand around, “muscles and stuff.”

“I always wanted to be a soldier. I think even if there hadn't been a war, I woulda tried. Bucky was the same in some ways. He was good at fighting, loved it, wanted to help out any way he could. But he saw a life beyond the war,” Steve says. “He had all these plans, all these things he was going to do. Maybe now he can do them.”

“I wanna build him an arm,” Tony blurts out. “It wouldn't even be that hard; I can repurpose a lot of the tech I developed for the suit.”

“That's real good of you,” Steve says after a long moment.

“It's the least I can do. If I'd been faster, maybe he wouldn't be lying there,” Tony says.

“If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't be here at all,” Steve counters. “You don't owe him anything.”

“Owe? Maybe not. Obligated to fix what I broke? Absolutely,” Tony replies. “If it changes anything, I'm gonna roll them out free of charge to veterans once I've got reliable, patented product, so it's not special treatment. And before you tell me how super that is, it's fan-fucking-tastic publicity. Pepper's going to be thrilled that I'm racking up a whole lot of credit on the philanthropic circuit. So it's completely selfish, really.”

Tony turns on his heel and walks away, swiftly, as though he wants to distance himself from the conversation as quickly as possible.

Steve sits down by Bucky's side again, takes his hand in his own.

“It's not selfish,” Steve murmurs. “Not one little bit.”

*

READ THIS FIRST
You were in an explosion. You lost your arm. It's healed now, and Tony is going to build you a robot arm to replace it.
Tony is Tony Stark. He's Howard's son. Yes, he's grown up. Yes, he's legitimate. No, he's not from some girl in France Howard knocked up.
We're in the future now. That's why Tony's an adult, not a baby, and why your hospital room looks like a space ship. It's complicated. I'll explain more when you're feeling better.
Yes, space ships are keen. Yes, you do have something to read. That big hardback on the night stand is a reprint of a whole bunch of issues of Amazing Stories. Yes, I know the paper feels wrong, but when I asked Tony about maybe getting you some old-fashioned single issues, he told me they cost about the same amount each as his fancy hot rod.
No, I'm not kidding. Yes, you can see the hot rod soon.
I know it's boring having no one to talk to, but the doctors said if you wake me before I've had a proper sleep again, they'll ban me from sleeping here at all, and pal, that'd make me real miserable.
I'm writing all this in a note because you've got a concussion and you're still woozy from the knock-out drugs they gave you when they fixed you, so you keep waking up, waking me up, and asking me the same set of questions every five minutes. Long story short – I haven't slept longer than an hour or two in three days.
It's not your fault, pal, it's just the way it is. Read your book. You really like the first story.
If you sleep, I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll explain it all to you as many times as you need me to. Promise.
Your friend, Steve

*

When Tony visits the med room at the Baxter Building for the first time since his awkward hall conversation with Steve, Bucky Barnes is awake and Steve is snoring like a motor, his huge frame squashed into an armchair obviously filched from a suite on another floor. There's a brightly-coloured post-it stuck to his forehead, fluttering with each exhale.

“You don't have to whisper,” Barnes says. “He's out, and by out I mean out. Could probably turf him onto the floor and he'd keep snoozing. Don't think we've met yet. Or if we did, I don't remember.” He flaps a piece of paper covered in Steve's neat hand. “It's mostly sticking, now.”

“Tony,” he offers, shifting the paper sack and holding his free hand out for Barnes to shake. “I asked Pepper what normal people give people in hospital, and she said fruit, so.” He sets the sack down.

Barnes doesn't wait, just digs around inside and pulls out a large orange fruit. “Future oranges are funny lookin,” he observes with a crooked, cheeky smile.

“They're tangelos, actually. They're a hybrid of... I can't remember what, but they're easier to peel than oranges, which I thought would be better, since you... um, and they should keep fine without refrigeration,” Tony babbles.

Barnes pierces the peel by taking a shallow bite and spitting it onto his lap. He manages the rest by bracing the fruit between his knees and working his thumb between the pith and the flesh. He splits the fist of segments neatly in half, then peels a single wedge off with his teeth and sucks it into his mouth. The whole performance takes about half a minute, probably not much different to what Tony could have managed with two working hands.

Barnes hums appreciatively. “Tasty,” he declares. “Don't remember the last time I had fruit. Used to have oranges sometimes when I was a kid, but they were pricey.”

“Steve eats fruit like it's going out of fashion, too,” Tony says. “'s why I thought... Anyway.”

“You're gonna build me an arm,” Barnes says.

“If you want me to,” Tony says. “I mean, you seem to be doing pretty well, so it's totally up to you.” He gestures at the neat curl of peel on the bed.

“I've been practising,” Barnes explains. “Just little things. I've got good reflexes, good hand-eye co-ordination. I've just gotta think about things sideways, and it makes working out how to do it easier. But that doesn't mean I don't want a robot arm. I mean, it's a robot arm.”

Tony grins. “I know, right?”

“Am I gonna be able to punch through walls or somethin'? Because if not, the future is really failing to live up to my expectations,” Barnes says.

“Sure,” Tony says. “What kind of robot arm doesn't punch through walls?”

“And a raygun. Are there rayguns?”

“Might be,” Tony concedes.

“Are they classified?”

“Couldn't say,” Tony says, grinning.

“I'm in the future and there are rayguns. You got flying cars?” Barnes asks.

“Kid, we can go home in a flying car, once we spring you from this joint, if that's what you want,” Tony tells him.

Barnes's grin is incandescent. “You gonna let me drive?”

“As cute as your trick with the fruit was, the car's manual,” Tony informs him. Barnes blinks, confused. “I mean, the transmission, it's manual, not automatic.”

Barnes grins back. “Just foolin' ya. Hydra-Matic. Oldsmobile brought 'em in just before I shipped out. Never drove a car with one, though; just tanks.”

“You were driving tanks at sixteen?” Tony asks. “I thought you had to do a bunch of training before they let you take the wheel on one of those.”

“My whole career wasn't exactly official channels. But if a tank was just sitting there, and I needed one... Let's just say, I didn't tend to wait around for permission. As for how I learned,” Barnes shrugs. “Well, they only really do one thing, and they do it well enough that it doesn't really matter what terrain you're on. Anything I couldn't dodge, I just went over.” He waggles his stump. “Figured I'd get Steve to shift for me, till I was back up to two.”

“Steve Rogers? Mr. No-Cars-For-Me, I-Love-My-Motorcycle?” Tony asks with deep sarcasm. “Nuh-uh. I like my car in one piece, and I'm rethinking this whole agreement.”

Barnes snickers. “Chicken,” he says, chewing on another segment of tangelo. “Like you don't got the dough to cover any scratches and dents.”

“It's less the scratches and dents and more the fact that between the pair of you, you're liable get it stuck in the side of the Chrysler Building because you're used to driving through what you can't steer around,” Tony says. “But sure, what the hell.”

Steve snuffles and grunts a little in his sleep, the chair groaning ominously as he shifts. The post-it flutters again, and Tony cranes to read it.

Kiss me! I've slept long enough.

“No takers, yet,” Barnes says. “He likes those Disney cartoons, the fairy tale ones. Wants to be an animator one day. He never says so, but you can see it when you look through his sketchbooks. His pictures always look like they're about to move, maybe look right at you and start talking.”

“I didn't know,” Tony says.

“He never showed you his stuff?” Barnes asks.

“He hasn't... Since we found him, I haven't seen him draw at all,” Tony says.

Barnes's face falls, creasing into a deeply worried expression, but only for an instant. A moment later, he's asking Tony about science fiction since the forties and he's so enthusiastic, Tony's soon compiling a reading list and has forgotten there was a glitch in their conversation at all.

*

BOY WONDER'S REQUESTS DEMANDS FOR HIS ARM
Can punch through walls (easy)
Raygun (how quaint, but ballistic capability good idea, explore further)
Electroshock weapon (taser, also, possible EMP? would have to include shielding to avoid junking arm on deployment)
Dick Tracy watch (brainstorm how to integrate Starkphone and/or basic level AI interface)
Cigarette lighter in finger (definite cool factor, but maybe give the guy pamphlets about lung disease along with it)
Waterproofing (obviously)
Vibration setting (okay, he didn't ask for this, but he'll thank me later)

*

“This is some swell place,” Bucky says, almost skipping down the corridor. “Like that joint we stayed that time in France, the one with all the paintings and that statue. You nearly fainted when you saw it.”

“The Mansion's fancy but it's hardly the Château de Valençay. And that's a perfectly reasonable response to seeing the Winged Victory of Samothrace unexpectedly. Or even when you expect it. It's a... religious experience,” Steve says reverently, struggling for words.

“Hey, no arguments from me. It's something, even with it being all busted up,” Bucky says cheerfully. “All this space, you must have that studio you always wanted. Light just right.”

“No,” says Steve, feeling his face going still and closed off. “Haven't found the time.”

“Well, you should. Stark's good for it. I can't believe he's got a swimming pool on the roof. The roof! How come it don't leak through?”

Steve answers but he's not quite sure what he says. Bucky doesn't seem to notice, or care. He peers into each new doorway with boundless curiosity. Everything from the home theatre system to the pool table is exclaimed over, and when Bucky sees the garage, Steve thinks he knows what he must have looked like back in the Château de Valençay all those decades ago.

“Do they all fly?” Bucky asks, his voice reduced to a whisper of awe.

“Don't think so, but don't mention it to Stark,” Steve warns. “He'll spend the next few months drinking coffee and converting them for flight.”

“Sounds pretty great to me,” Bucky says.

“You haven't seen the library yet,” Steve teases, just to see Bucky's face light up further. “Seventy years of science fiction just waiting for you to crack it open.”

Steve blinks and Bucky's suddenly pressed up against him solidly, his right arm tight around his waist, the stump of his left pressed into his bicep. A tight squeeze, and before Steve even has a chance to hug him back, Bucky's back where he was, face radiant.

“I'm gonna have to just start at the A's and work my way through,” Bucky decides. “Stark said he'd give me a list but I think I'd have to be a codebreaker to understand it. It's laid out in a grid with a maze of arrows all up and down it like a snakes and ladders board and a whole bunch of notes in the smallest print I've ever seen outside of microdots.”

Steve finds himself smiling, Bucky's joy remarkably infectious. “That's Tony for you,” Steve says, nodding. “C'mon, it's just down the end of this wing.”

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
All I wanted was to get him back. Now I have him back, and it's amazing. He loves the Mansion, he loves Tony, he loves the schematics of the arm Tony's making for him, and he's charmed every single person he's met since he woke up. He's got so much energy and enthusiasm for everything. I'd forgotten how intense he was to be around. He had that same joy back in the war, whether it was a new firearm, a fresh vista, a clean set of clothes or just his favourite meal out of the meagre selection of rations. That hasn't changed because he's in the future, because he's missing an arm, because his sister is old enough to be his grandmother now. (They video talked for the first time this week.)
Everything is great. Bucky's alive. The war is over and we won. We're in a future full of wonders and boundless potential. So, what's wrong with me? Why can't I be happy, too?

*

Tony's virtually hugging the coffee machine when Barnes strolls in. Could be awkward, if he wasn't so sleep deprived he didn't care.

“You okay, pal?” Barnes asks after looking him up and down.

“Dandy,” Tony says. “No Cap?”

“Sleeping in again, I guess,” Barnes says. He dithers for a long moment, tracing an aimless pattern on the counter with a fingertip. “So, how long's he been like this?”

“Like what?” Tony asks, wishing he had the brain for the conversation he knows is coming.

“Sad,” Barnes says. “Don't talk much, 'sides chit chat that don't mean nothin'. Sleeps a lot. Guy I knew was always up at dawn ready to move out. Always had a pencil in his hand when he wasn't busy smacking a Nazi in the face with it, too. This guy, he seems... lost. Like he don't know what he's supposed to be doing.”

“Oh. That,” Tony sighs. There is coffee now. He takes his time sipping at it, weighing his answers. “When he first woke up, he made a pretty good show of it, but if you looked close enough, you could see the cracks. By the time we got you back, I don't think he was sleeping at all.”

Barnes's brow creases. “He's tired?” He seems deeply unsatisfied with the answer.

“I think he's depressed,” Tony clarifies. “I think he's got shell shock, battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever label you wanna give it. Back in the Civil War when they first studied it, they called it soldier's heart. I like that; it's poetic.”

Barnes's fist bunches. “Cap ain't a coward,” he spits.

“No one's saying he is,” Tony says, making sure to stay calm, non-threatening. “I'm saying he's come straight from a warzone, and once we got you back, his brain finally gave his body permission to stop, because it was safe for him to do so. He could let in all that crap that built up when he was in a constant state of alert, and start to process it. And it is a process. People go through the not-fine to get to the sorta-fine and eventually, hopefully, the fine, but they're a mess for a while until they get there.”

“He's always been solid,” Barnes says, but there's a question in it, like he's confused as to how Steve's gone from the stalwart C.O. to shattered veteran in what appears from his point of view to be an eyeblink.

Tony takes a mouthful of his coffee, then approaches the subject from another angle. “Listen, he said something to me while you were unconscious. That you always had plans, that you could see a life beyond the war. He said it like he didn't really understand it, as though there was maybe something keeping him from doing the same. You told me he wanted to be an animator but that he never said that. So what did he say?”

Barnes's lips tighten and he swallows hard. “He said he wanted to sleep,” he says thickly, then he turns and leaves without another word.

*

THINGS THE FUTURE HAS
Rayguns?
Flying cars
Dick Tracy watches
Robot suits
Robot arms (soon!)
Robot houses (JARVIS)
Robot vacuum cleaners
Science fiction everything
Electric everything
Tangelos
Breakfast burritos
Frappuccinos
Doritos
Eating challenges (make list, take Steve & maybe Thor & a camera)
The internet
Video calls
Gods (apparently actually an alien?)
Space ships
Martians
Time travel
Nazis (dammit)

THINGS THE FUTURE DOES NOT HAVE
Shoeshine stands
Horses (they still have 'em in the country, I guess)
Coal or steam powered things
Rationing
Tommy guns
Newspapers with actual news
Newsreel and a cartoon before the movie
Real bananas
Egg creams
Smoking inside
Dance halls (nightclubs do NOT count)
Automats
Anything for a nickel
Hats (asked where to buy one, Tony looked at me funny and said only 'hipsters' wore 'em)

*

“Hey, Cap,” someone says.

Steve shoves his face further into his pillow.

“Steve,” they say. A finger pokes into the back of his shoulder. “Dinner.”

“'m not hungry,” Steve grumbles.

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky says. “You're always hungry.”

Steve growls and tries to wriggle away from Bucky's insistent fingers.

“C'mon, pal, there's this place Barton told me about where they barbeque anything,” Bucky coaxes. “They've got beef, chicken, pork, turkey, duck, fish and lamb.”

“Sounds normal,” Steve mumbles. He cracks his eyes open and Bucky's grinning like he's holding all the aces.

“They've also got venison, squirrel, bison, squid, goat and alligator.”

“You're kidding me,” Steve says with deep suspicion.

“Might be,” Bucky says. “Might not. You won't know unless you haul your ass up outta bed and come with us.”

“I don't know, Buck,” Steve says, a deep sigh seeming to take all of the energy from his frame.

“Please?” Bucky asks. “Just for a little while. I'd really appreciate it. These folks are nice and all, but it makes all this,” he waves a hand around, “easier to take if there's a friendly face smilin' at me across the table.”

“You've spent more time with 'em in the last few weeks than I have,” Steve says. He's gone from laying down to sitting up without really deciding to and Bucky's hand is there with the two of his, peeling the blankets back.

“What can I say? I'm a friendly guy,” Bucky says, grinning broadly. “That's it, up you get.”

Bucky's hand pets at him, smooths his hair and his pyjamas. Steve feels his face crumple, his throat tighten painfully.

“Hey, you're doing great,” Bucky says.

“I'm okay,” Steve insists, his voice wobbly.

“You're okay,” Bucky agrees, “but you're gonna cause a scandal if you show up in flannel.”

Steve chokes out a small laugh.

“Seriously, pal,” Bucky says. “I mean, you're gonna be standing next to me, which is a tough break because everyone's gonna be looking at yours truly, but you gotta at least make an effort. You got something sharp in that closet?”

“Jan took me out shopping a while back,” Steve says.

“Lucky guy,” Bucky says, waggling his eyebrows.

Steve flushes hotly. “Not like that, she's got a fella.”

“Well, she could do better,” Bucky says, throwing open the closet and rifling through the contents. “I meant me,” he clarifies.

Steve laughs again, and the tightness in his throat eases. “If we're going for barbeque, shouldn't we be dressing casual?” Steve asks, thinking of the likelihood of smoky bourbon sauce inevitably being dripped down the front of one of Jan's hand-picked shirts.

“Sweetheart, what's the point in having a party dress if you never take it out of mothballs?” Bucky asks. “Here, this and this. You've got time for a shower and a shave first. Our reservation ain't until eight.”

Steve pushes to stand with a monumental effort of will and allows Bucky to shepherd him into the bathroom. The hot water feels like a completely decadent luxury and by the time he's scraping stubble off his jaw, he feels mostly human, if fragile.

Bucky's waiting for him outside, looking like a million bucks. Steve just stands there in his own doorway, drinking him in, and his knees go weak.

“Gonna make me work for it tonight, hey?” Bucky says, leaning in close and running his fingers through Steve's hair, teasing the strands to lie the way he wants them to. He smells spicy and warm and familiar; Christ, he must have somehow found the same cologne he hoarded for their downtime during the war somewhere here in the future, or something very like it. “I can live with that. I like a challenge.”

The restaurant is loud and bright and bustling with people. Their table is heaving with a dozen different barbequed meats, more sides than he's bothered to count and a continuous flow of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. Much of the time, he doesn't talk. The conversation is rapid-fire and dizzying and he'd have trouble keeping up at the best of times, but it's convivial and comfortable and no one seems to expect him to contribute more than he feels able.

By the time everything starts to wind down and the staff are tidying up around them, he's sticky and sated. It helps that Bucky's pressed firmly against him, his body a long warm line from Steve's calf to his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed and he keeps leaning in to murmur in Steve's ear in a whisper that's not as covert as he obviously thinks it is. It makes Steve shiver, tiny thrills of sensation creeping up the back of his neck. Bucky leans against him the whole way home; to the kerb, in the back of the cab, up the stairs to their floor.

“You're smiling,” Bucky says, his words a gentle buzz of sound.

“I had a nice time,” Steve admits. “I didn't think... It's been hard lately. I'd forgotten what it was like.”

“You just need to ease back in,” Bucky says. “Let me take you out places, make you feel special.”

Steve blushes. “I'm sure there are people you'd rather be showin' a good time,” Steve protests. “It's the future. Plenty of girls out there you could be getting to know.”

Bucky's face goes all quiet and still. Not sad, but thoughtful. Hesitant, like there's something he's bursting to say but he's not sure if he should.

“It's the future,” he finally says. “I been thinking a lot 'bout that. What that means.” He trails his hand up to cup Steve's cheek, leans in close. “I know you've had troubles on your mind, that you've been trying to sort things out. I get that. I've tried not to get in the way. But maybe I've had it all backwards.” His thumb strokes Steve's cheek. Steve can't seem to catch his breath. “Maybe, instead of keeping away, instead of giving you time to think about whatever's botherin' you, I should have been staying close. Giving you something else to think about.”

The next moment, Bucky's mouth slides over Steve's, hot, wet and sinful. He's confident and skilled, though whether it's been developed through practice or is a born talent is impossible for Steve to tell before it's over, before Bucky's pulling back enough to breathe, his hand trailing down Steve's neck to lie gently on his chest over his heart.

“Maybe think on that for a while,” Bucky says sounding breathless. “And if it's not something you want, then we just keep on like we were. But if it is... well, you know where I'm at. And you know I'm a sure thing,” he adds, his smile curling up the corners of his mouth into a smile. “Always have been a sure thing, for you.”

Bucky's door closes before Steve can work out how to move. Inside his own room, in the dark, his fingertips trail over his lips, his cheek, his neck, everywhere Bucky touched. He doesn't have the focus to think about anything else. He ends up just stripping off his outer layers of clothing and curling up under his blankets, too befuddled to remember to put on his pyjamas or to brush his teeth before sleep claims him.

*

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
What
I don't
Everything is strange since that night and I don't even know where to begin.
Maybe I'll just go for a walk.

*

“You guys are being so weird right now. Did you two fuck?” Tony asks without preamble.

Bucky spits a mouthful of juice down himself. He makes a wordless sound of irritation and distaste at his newly-wet t-shirt sticking to his skin and tries in vain to hold it out away from his body.

He's just glad Steve isn't here; Steve, who's been equal parts hiding from Bucky by taking long, unplanned excursions out into the city and being shyly, sweetly attentive when Bucky least expects it. Last night they'd been watching a movie and he'd been bold enough to take Bucky's hand and hold it throughout, his thumb stroking Bucky's skin over and over until Bucky was so hard his eyes were crossing. He dared a glace at Steve just the once, and he could have sworn the guy was smirking a little. Bastard.

Tony cocks his head. “My bad. But you're thinking about it,” Tony says, wagging a finger at Bucky.

“It's Captain America,” Bucky drawls. “If you say you haven't thought about it, you're a damn liar.”

Tony's eyes unfocus for a moment. “Fair point,” he concedes. “I think he's on everybody's laminated list. Um... that's exceptions to monogamy. Free passes, if you get the chance. It's pretty much always a 'well, I'll never meet them anyway, so why not fantasise' scenario.”

“But you met Steve,” Bucky points out.

“And he spent all his free time pining after you,” Tony says. “But if you need any tips...”

“Go screw yourself,” Bucky says cheerfully. “The day I need you to tell me how to woo Steve'll be a cold day in hell.”

Tony snickers.

“Go finish my arm, you pervert,” Bucky tells him.

“Think of me,” Tony says, blowing a kiss on his way out.

*

ACTION PLAN TO SNAG STEVE
Make a move
Court him – food, museums, movies
Get fresh, hope he gets fresh back?
Come up with a better plan

*

“So, I was thinkin' that maybe we could go some place,” Bucky ventures.

Steve looks up from his sketchbook. It's lovely creamy paper in a removable leather slipcover, so that when he fills the book inside, he can just slide the cover onto a new one. It was a gift from Bucky, so Steve felt compelled to at least try and use it. There's nothing really worth looking at in it, yet, but the movements are coming easier each time he picks it up.

“Not everybody. Just us,” Bucky clarifies, his cheeks pinking. “If you wanna, that is.”

“Got an idea where?” Steve asks, tucking his pencil away and closing the sketchbook.

“Thought maybe we'd just pick a star and aim for it,” Bucky says, smiling.

“You wanna take the bike?” Steve asks. He should at least ride it round the block. It's been sitting under a cover in Tony's garage, untouched, for far too long.

Bucky's flush deepens. He bites his lower lip. “I'd like that,” he says.

“You should find a jacket,” Steve says. “It gets cold on the back, even when it's sunny out.”

“I remember,” Bucky says. “I'll, ah, meet you downstairs?”

“Sure. I won't be long,” Steve assures him.

There's a rucksack in the pantry that's a secret picnic basket. Steve makes a bunch of sandwiches, fills the thermos with tea and, on an impulse, stuffs his sketchbook into a side pocket. He grabs his motorcycle jacket from the hook on the back of his bedroom door and forces himself not to run down the stairs to the garage where Bucky is waiting.

Bucky's wearing denim jeans, motorcycle boots and a fleece-lined vest that should keep his torso warm, at least. Steve supposes the sleeves of his jackets were too thick and awkward to pin up.

“She's beautiful,” Bucky says, petting the glossy chassis of the bike.

“She's mostly original,” Steve says, dropping the bag near his feet and checking the bike over. “I mean, Tony added little bits here and there, but she's near enough to being the way she was when she rolled out of the factory.”

“So, no flying?” Bucky asks, looking amused and slightly hopeful.

“No flying,” Steve confirms.

Bucky sighs and snaps his fingers in chagrin, but he's smiling. “Sorry, Cap, that's just not good enough for me. I'm used to travelling in style, these days.”

Steve swings a leg over the bike and grins. “Tell me with a straight face that you don't want to hold onto me while we ride the highway outta here,” he challenges.

“You got me there,” Bucky says, manoeuvring the pack on over his stump to sit evenly and comfortably across his shoulders.

They ride until the city opens out into suburbs and the suburbs give way to green. Bucky's arm is a firm band around Steve's waist, and they move together with the curves of the road in a way that's second nature. They've been riding like this since the man behind Steve had been a savage, world-wise juvenile with a bloody, feral smile. They'd ridden like this in their last moments on earth before the plane exploded.

Asphalt spools beneath their tyres for mile upon mile until Steve suddenly realises that the traffic has dwindled from a flood to a trickle; that they're surrounded on all sides by towering trees and that besides the bike's exhaust, the air is heavy with the scent of nothing but vegetation.

“Here,” Bucky says, his voice coming through the helmets' comm system. “Let's stop here.”

Steve finds a layby to pull the bike into, and, by chance, it's right by the head of what looks to be a hiking trail.

“You just wanna stretch your legs, or you want to explore?” Steve asks, smiling fondly as Bucky bounces on his toes and tries to peer down the path into the gloom of the forest.

“I want to see where this leads,” Bucky says firmly.

They leave their helmets with the bike. Steve swings the pack onto his own shoulders and only startles a little when Bucky threads his fingers through Steve's own, tugging him forward. The trail is rugged, twisting and turning in a meandering, charming sort of way. They can hear the sounds of birds, the creaking of trees, the scuttling of startled animals, and somewhere, the burbling of water, but no people, no machinery. It's as though the first hill they descended swallowed the modern world up, and they're in some pre-historic landscape where a dinosaur or a mammoth might be just over the next rise.

“I could live out here, I think,” Bucky says, his voice reduced to a reverent whisper, like they're in church.

“Not enough flash and dazzle for you,” Steve counters, squeezing the hand in his affectionately.

“Maybe at first,” Bucky says, thoughtfully. “But if I had a cabin, fresh water, tools... I think I'd be happy.”

“When I first woke up, I told 'em to send me back so I could save you,” Steve confesses. “I begged them. I promised that I wouldn't interfere in history, that we'd go and be hobos and stay off the grid for as long as we lived.”

“Tell you what, pal, this beats living under a bridge,” Bucky says with a breathless laugh. “If you'da taken me out here and said we couldn't live anywhere else, I really don't think I'da minded. It's beautiful.”

His face is glowing, his eyes are bright, and he's easily the most beautiful thing Steve can see. Steve doesn't think twice, just tugs Bucky in close and kisses him deeply. Bucky meets him with enthusiasm, making small, contented sounds, his fingers scratching gently through Steve's hair. Steve's hands have somehow wound up on Bucky's hips, squeezing and petting, feeling out the planes of sharp bone and smooth muscle under his jeans.

“Mmmm,” Bucky hums after a long, delicious length of time. “Let's find a place to sit.”

They assess and discard half a dozen damp and well-rotted tree trunks as potential seats before they crest a hill and the dense forest just falls away. The path turns from a narrow stripe of rotted leaves and deep red-brown earth into a broader, stony descent, terminating in a pebbled shore. Ahead of them, a secret pool of water stretches. As they watch, a large fish breaches and swallows an insect foolish enough to land on the surface.

They don't move for a long moment, struck dumb with the scene. Bucky eventually takes the initiative, leads Steve to a broad, flat rock that's warm from the sun and just large enough for them to lay out their picnic blanket and their lunch. Once they've eaten, neither of them is inclined to move. Bucky lies down with his head on Steve's knee. Steve pulls out his sketchbook and tries to capture the vista in front of him but finds himself idly drawing the curl of Bucky's eyelashes against his cheek and the bow of his mouth rather than the lengthening shadows or the reflections of tree or clouds in water. They've been sitting still and quiet for maybe an hour when a deer comes out from the treeline to drink, and they both hold their breath until she melts into the forest again.

At an unplanned moment, as though together they've just stirred from a sleep or come out from under a spell, they both stand and stretch and gather together their things. The walk back to the bike is in silence and slower-going in the deepening dusk, but Bucky holds Steve's hand the whole way. The bike and the road are jarring in their inorganic nature after the wildness and solitude of the forest, as are the immediate message alerts on both of their phones.

“Musta been out of signal,” Steve says, frowning down at a text from Tony that simply says GET SOME. Get some what?

Bucky's message is obviously more of the same, because he rolls his eyes dramatically and shoves his phone back in his pocket without replying to anything.

“So, what do you want to do?” Steve asks, fiddling with the buckle of his helmet. “You wanna go back home, or...?”

“Let's keep going,” Bucky decides. “Just, find some place to stay tonight, and ride on out tomorrow. See where we end up.”

“Sounds all right to me,” Steve says, and for all that he's a guy who likes a plan and a purpose, he finds he means it.

*

PERSONAL JOURNAL
We won't ride forever.
There'll be a crisis that requires the Avengers.
Tony'll finish tinkering and finally have a prototype arm for Bucky to try out.
We'll get tired, or bored, or homesick for our own beds, or a nosy reporter or a group of fans will start tailing us and won't listen to polite requests to back off.
But for now, there's the road, the bike, Bucky's arm around my waist and his breath on the back of my neck, and well, that's all I need.