for freightcars

[captaincentenarian]

Sam's chasing a lead in Mexico. Nat last checked in from somewhere around Venezuela. And Steve?

Steve's sitting in a corner cafe in a little country town in the midwest, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He knows he's still recognizable, but there's only so much he can do. He sips at his cappuccino morosely. There's no point in getting down about this. He'll find Bucky. He will. Just because no one around the clock tower knew anything about Bucky doesn't mean that Bucky hasn't actually been there.

It'll happen.

He opens the newspaper again. He needs to check the Google on his special untraceable Stark phone, too, but right now he's more comfortable with paper and pen on the scratched surface of the cafe table.

Comments

[freightcars]

He knows Steve's been looking; the man leaves a trail like the world's loudest bread crumbs. Romanoff is cleaner about it, Wilson is less scrupulous in his searches, but Steve's face gets plastered wherever he searches. He's always a precise two steps behind Bucky, trailing slowly but steadily in every place Bucky leaves behind. For a while he thought he ought to go under, really go under. He could if he wanted to, he could become a god damn ghost, but it's like part of him was hoping Rogers would catch up.

As time passes, as memories filter in like polaroid pictures filling their frames, he starts to understand why.

It's with sweating palms and aching uncertainty that he gets bold enough to finally cross the bridge.

He's been watching this cafe for three hours. Steve hasn't been here that entire time, of course. He'd been there in time to watch the man pile in, order, search, read the newspaper, stare out the window in disgruntlement. He'd let an entire hour tick by just watching from across the street before he gathered up the courage to move.

And he did, more or less silently save for the quiet tinkling bells attached to the door. They go off every time someone enters or exits, nothing about them should really stand out.

By the time Steve lowers his paper, Bucky will be seated across from him silently, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, his own baseball cap's rim pulled low, having been there for at least several seconds already.

[captaincentenarian]

Steve knows he needs sleep, he knows he needs food. For the moment the cappuccino will substitute for actual useable calories. (He's still fascinated by them - such a small thing but it's so popular these days.)

It's still hard - really hard - to make himself rest at all. He begrudges intensely the time needed to stop and eat, or to rent a hotel room, for all that he still smiles and chats with people. It's all a distraction.

He sighs. He's circled everything that could be a hint of a whisper of Bucky already, and the funnies just aren't what they used to be. He doesn't get half the humor, though he's trying. He puts the paper down again.

...and his breath catches in his throat. His lips go tight, and his feet feel too big for his shoes suddenly.

He wants to leap across the table and hug the other man. He wants to yell at him. He wants to grab him and ask anxiously if he's all right, what does he need, what does he remember?

"Hi," he murmurs.

[freightcars]

They'll have a nice long conversation about frappuccinos one day; he's not a big fan of most of the things they've introduced into the world over the last hundred years, but freezing coffee's only been an improvement. God bless America and whoever the hell Starbuck is.

His eyes flicker up from where they'd been fixated on the lip of his coffee, travel up Steve's sleeves and lips to finally meet his eye. Been a while, huh, pal? His lips twitch, not into a smile, more of a grimace. The barest flickerings of an inscrutable emotion he schools into a line.

"Hey," is his answer, tight like bow string, like the aching in his chest. He only partially knows why, but bits and pieces are strong enough, at least, to lead him here. A beat passes, and he feels the need to add, "Don't draw attention. Don't make a scene."

As though simply existing with his face wasn't a scene enough; it's a risk, but here they are.

[captaincentenarian]

Steve's adjusting, and adjusting, and adjusting, and he knows it's no one's fault for being accustomed to this century, but every now and then it'd be real nice if someone else would adjust to him instead. Every now and then it'd be real nice if something was just normal.

Bucky is... about as close to normal, and about as far from normal, as it's possible for anything to get. Steve's heart twinges in his chest.

"Not intending to," Steve says lightly, feeling anything but. Start with the small things. The big things can come later. Right now he still has to pass the don't scare Bucky away in the first five seconds test. He swallows. This is so very important.

Small things. "How're you doing? You eaten lately?"

[freightcars]

Something in his expression flickers, eyebrows knitting just a little, lips turning down. That's the question Steve levels him with? Not a how could you, or a who are you, not about what he remembers or the lives he's taken. About the things he's done.

A dry, almost incredulous sounding, "Really?" drops from his mouth before he can help it. If Steve listens closely he might here the faintest trappings of amusement, but it's easy to miss.

His eyes shift from Steve to the room around them, studying the faces of the patrons, searching for suspicious body language, searching for anyone moving too quickly. His paranoia, unlike his amusement, is impossible to miss. They're too exposed here, too open.

Nervously, he drums his fingers on his cup. Drops his eyes to the tabletop again.

"You've been looking for me. Hard. Spent a lot of time and effort on it." He glances up. "Why?"

He already knows; he thinks he knows, he just wants to hear it.

[captaincentenarian]

Steve frowns, a protest on his lips, and it's almost like they're eighteen again instead of past ninety and accelerating rapidly. There's a hint of a reluctant smile at Bucky's reaction to him. Food is important! If Bucky's blood sugar is down around his socks, then of course he'll be feeling worse!

...well. If Bucky's going to ask the difficult questions, then Steve will move onto those.

He sips his cappuccino again, then makes a face. It's gone cold.

"Because you're my friend," he says. "Because of that."

How will Bucky react to this? How much does he actually remember?

[freightcars]

He stares; it's something long and unflinching, something scrutinizing, searching Steve's expression for any hidden truths or unvoiced intentions. There aren't any, which is a relief and a concern all at once. The memories he has of this man seem to be inflated, put on some kind of unrealistic pedestal, made out to be like he's some kind of bastion of loyalty and friendship. In his recent experience, no one is as kind as they seem to be and everyone has an ulterior motive.

But not Steve Rogers.

He's been to the Smithsonian. He's heard the recordings. Best friends since childhood, inseparable on the schoolyard and the battlefield. A pretty bold claim, but the thing is, everything in his mind has thus far pointed to it being true.

If that's the case, he's too good. Too good of a man to be weighed down by a winter soldier with a thousand eyes searching to bring him in.

His eyes drop, his jaw thumps a little.

"I tried to kill you," he points out, addressing his coffee cup. "Almost did. Still your friend after that?"

[captaincentenarian]

Steve bridles, just a little, as Bucky gazes at him. But he doesn't drop his eyes, doesn't twitch. Bucky's looking for clues. He's not angry. He's not violent.

Well. Not yet. Steve's subconscious pulls at his sleeve, noting the exits, noting how close the other customers are, noting the easiest way to get Bucky out into the street if something does go horribly wrong and they end up fighting.

Bucky looks away first, looking down at his cup. Steve lets himself breathe. He may have passed some kind of test. He's not sure. He'd like to be sure.

"Yes. Till the end of the line, you jerk," Steve murmurs. "I know that wasn't you."

It was Bucky, is the problem. It's not as clean as Bucky was possessed and now he's not. He has a whole mess in his head, thanks to Hydra, who made him believe that he wanted to do this and that. They made him... but Bucky truly believed, for a while.

But Steve can't force Bucky to sit there and earnestly listen to his long rambling explanation. Not here, not in public. So he uses the shortcut, and hopes that Bucky might understand what he means. Hopes that it's not entirely the wrong thing to say.

[freightcars]

His eyes snap up at phrase, an old familiar saying, a murmured whisper when things were at their worst. A death, a trench, a helicarrier. One of the few things that echo with resounding familiarity, that tether him to a past they tried to wipe away from him. He knows it. So far, it's been true.

A long moment passes wherein his lips twitch, something a little harder to mask. A deep and encumbering sadness, a momentarily open book. He says in earnest, "It was."

In all the ways that count except for deliberate will. It was his hands, his memories, him. His face was the last thing people saw, and those people are dead whether he wanted them to be or not. Because of him. Doesn't matter why. He thinks that's something Steve needs to be sure to understand; the consequences will come regardless.

And they may come again.

The door tinkles open and Bucky's head snaps to the sound, locking eyes on a smiling mother and her young son. They're innocent, they're not a threat, but even so he's rigid in posture.

"We can't stay here," he murmurs, forcing his shoulders to relax.

[captaincentenarian]

That note in Bucky's voice is an abyss of pain yawning open. Steve has so much that he wants to say, needs to say, that none of it's going to come out just yet. They need to be somewhere private. If Bucky will let him. If Bucky trusts him enough.

They used to trust each other with everything, Steve thinks, but there's no point in wasting time on regret. They have what they have, right now, and maybe he can make things a little better for Bucky. That's good.

(He sure can't fix everything with one conversation. There's blood on Bucky's hands, and he didn't want to kill people but Hydra made it so a part of him did it anyway.)

Steve's eyes flick to the newcomers, and he nods at Bucky's words.

"I have a hotel room. With shutters over the windows."

It's not completely safe. Nowhere is, not with their faces, not with the people who want both of them dead. But it'll do.

"Will you come with me?"

[freightcars]

Steve gets the receiving end of another long and lingering look, like he's trying to read background information from the statement alone. He doesn't know precisely how cautious Steve has been, whether he's using a credit card or paying in cash, whether he picked a place with security cameras or guards.

Finally, firmly, he announces, "No."

A beat while that rings, he chews the inside of his lip. He could leave it there. He could bolt, and get out of this before he digs himself deeper.

Except Steve's eyes are familiar, he knows the color, he knows the expression they're making now and it makes his lungs constrict. Makes him yearn for something he can't name, a rusted longing.

"Get a new one. The super 5 downtown. Two beds, pick a smoking room, they put those at the end. Pay in cash for one night, make the reservation in person." And with that decreed, he stands up and strides out, leaving his coffee cup on the table behind him.

[captaincentenarian]

This isn't going well, is it. He'll run. Steve won't see him again for weeks. Months. Steve watches him cautiously, though every ounce of him is aching to reach out and touch Bucky.

...ouch. Steve inhales, his throat burning. He doesn't know what to say. How can he keep Bucky here?

There's something else. Bucky hasn't left yet. He'll give him space, let him find the words.

Well.

That's something.

Steve watches him go, then palms his face, letting his shoulders slump. He smiles for the pretty waitress who comes over to take the cups, tells her no, thank you, when she asks if he needs anything else, and then he pays and gets out of there.

The hotel isn't too hard to find, and Steve gets a room for the night as Bucky's instructed. It's cheap. Wallpaper stinks of cigarettes, and Steve spends a moment being grateful that asthma isn't a problem any more.

Then he spreads out on one of the beds, and stares blankly at a magazine without reading it.

[freightcars]

There are two windows, but the bathroom window has grated, reinforced bars. He could tear them off but he doesn't, thinks anyone shy of Steve's strength wouldn't be able to either. It's an escape if necessary, and defense against invasion, otherwise he'd be tempted to skip the front door and go straight in the back.

No, he stalks the place like a panther. Waits until Steve checks in, and waits two hours more just in case he has any late-arriving backup or unknown tails. Nobody comes, the parking lot remains otherwise deserted, and just before nine p.m. he knocks on Steve's motel room door.

He has questions.
He has memories like flower petals, scattered and unconnected and beautiful.
He has feelings that he thinks can't be right, not in 1940.

Musing on them after staring Steve in the face so closely made it all too clear what they were.

But were they real? Are they still?

[captaincentenarian]

It's not a bad place, as these places go. Reasonably secure, decent line of sight.

Steve unpacks the food he has with him, and investigates the little minibar. It's appallingly expensive, and stupid luxuries, as well. Things he would've been shocked at before he went into the ice. Back during the war. But now, he has more money. If Bucky wants something from it, one of these mini soda cans, or a tiny packet of pretzels, he can have it.

Wow, Steve, he thinks to himself. That's really generous.

Steve looks up, then pads over to the door. (No shoes inside, when he can, because he was raised right.)

He opens it without asking who, but the chain catches the door before he takes it back too far. When he sees Bucky, there's a brief smile of relief, a brief check behind him even though he trusts Bucky, then he takes the chain off.

"Come in."

He locks the door, and puts the chain back on, once Bucky's safely inside.

"What do you need to know?"

[freightcars]

He's smart to check, Bucky says nothing about it. Silently accepts the closing and reopening of the door, and slides in warily. Eyes the room from corner to corner, fixates on the bathroom door and the emptiness beyond it. Checks to make sure the curtains are drawn. Only once he's satisfied and the door's been latched again does he turn his attention to Steve.

Takes him in from bottom to top.

(You got taller. Did it hurt?)

Bucky's seen his form before in movies, on TV, at the smithsonian. He's read everything there is to know about Captain America, and mentally disputed a few "facts" without knowing why or how he knew them to be false.

He learned all there is to know about James Barnes too, but he's just a footnote in history. He doesn't really feel like that guy anymore.

The things he needs to know aren't easy to spell out; he knows all the facts. He knows their story. He needs to know the feelings behind it, he needs to know the stuff that wasn't written down.

More accurately, he needs to know if the stuff he thinks he remembers is true.

He doesn't say that though, no, he just shoves his hands uncomfortably in his pockets and announces, "You look different in person. Those murals are a terrible likeness. They make your lips look stupid."

[captaincentenarian]

There is... there is so much work to do.

Steve watches with guarded dismay as Bucky does everything right, checks all the exits, checks the curtain. It's not that he expects - or even wants - Bucky to just stroll in like nothing could ever go wrong. But does he ever relax? Can he?

His eyebrows go up a fraction as Bucky gives him a full once over. Does he remember anything about when Steve got big?

"I do? - Bucky." Steve snorts a surprised laugh at the last comment. "Will you sit? Please? I'll tell you anything you want to know. You can even look as closely at my lips as you want."

[freightcars]

Okay, for the first time Bucky's own lips quirk up a little. It's half a smile, it barely counts, it's gone as quickly as it appeared. As closely as he wants, huh? Wow, Steve, what an asshole.

Reluctantly, he obeys. Gives a tiny nod and wanders in a little farther toward the second bed, furthest from the door. Hesitates, and then carefully strips his coat off. Whether he wants to or not, his gut is screaming at him to trust, and he thinks... for once, he thinks he'll listen.

He thinks if there's only one person on the planet he's supposed to trust it should be this man, and if he can't let himself do that he doesn't see the point in even carrying on anymore.

The jacket gets discarded onto the bed, and he lowers himself onto the corner of it. There. He's sitting.

[captaincentenarian]

There.

There, that - that was almost a hint of a smile. Steve manages not to throw his arms around Bucky, given he'd prefer not to have Bucky's reflexes throw him through a wall.

"Thank you. Really. I'm gonna have something to eat. I hope you'll join me. You can tease me all you want about being food-obsessed, but I'm assuming you haven't eaten for a while."

He spreads out his paltry offerings on the middle of Bucky's bed, then takes a protein bar and a bottle of water. He feels like an idiot for pushing food on someone who's a deadly competent adult, but then again he suspects that Hydra never took any real care of their 'asset' and showing even the tiniest of kindnesses might help.

"You used to bring me food, you remember?" he says casually, after he's taken the first bite. "Back when I was small, and had to stay home a lot. Soup from your mom, or you'd pick me up a bagel and some apples or a banana. Man, I miss how bananas tasted back then."

[freightcars]

He wonders what this is, what it's supposed to be. Are they having an interrogation, or a meeting, or a god damn picnic? He eyes Steve's spread and has to admit to himself that he hasn't had anything but the coffee he'd made it half way through before meeting Steve. Too paranoid to stop, too focused to eat. After a second or two of hesitation he reaches out and snags himself a chocolate peanut butter protein bar.

He had a handful of these in his own pack. Apparently they have similar taste in survival food.

Deft fingers peel the wrapper back, he pretends to be consumed by the process but really he's listening keenly and thinking back a hundred years.

He remembers.

His ma practically loaded him down with food to take to Steve's. They were a little better off money-wise, it was the least they could do. In turn, Steve's mom did most of their sewing when something needed hemmed or mended.

"They were better," He agrees quietly, after a moment. "I remember that. They're weird now, they're all..."

He trails off, and stuffs a bite of protein bar in his mouth instead.

[captaincentenarian]

Bucky looks suspicious, but he's looked suspicious about everything.

Steve doesn't know what the hell he's doing. He's read up on PTSD, he's been to boards with messages on the internet, thanks to Sam. He's spoken to Natasha, now and then. None of that's turned into knowing exactly what to do here, now. He should know. Bucky's his best friend, no matter what.

He guesses he'll just keep adapting to whatever happens. Trying to get Bucky to relax a little.

Bucky takes one of the chocolate peanut ones, which are Steve's current favorite flavor. Steve chews on his own, letting the silence hang between them while Bucky thinks about what to say, then he nods.

"Just one of the strange things about this time," he says lightly. "I still can't get over newspapers costing more than a nickel. You were a good friend to me, Buck. Even when I wasn't exactly receptive."

[freightcars]

He chews slowly, contemplatively, listening to Steve and simultaneously deciding on his next move. Steve's doing his best to probe gently, to call back to what he remembers. To tentatively poke at their past.

He appreciates it, it's validating things he's wondered to himself.

Steve's sentiment trails off for a second, and Bucky swallows.

"Can I stay here?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere. It's tentative, careful, uncomfortable. "Tonight, I mean."

He doesn't know why. He has a hotel room already paid for, he has an exit strategy, but if he's honest with himself he hasn't slept in days and...

...And he's starting to remember.

Carefully, he looks up. Decides to call back something of his own: "I could shine your shoes. Take out the trash."

[captaincentenarian]

"Can you-" Steve's water goes down the wrong way and he splutters for a moment before recovering. "Yes. Yes, please stay."

There's an open, completely unguarded smile on his face at that particular comment. He brushes ruefully at the water on his t-shirt. "Long as neither of us have to sleep on the floor."

He takes a risk, and leans over, telegraphing every move so it's obvious he's not trying to attack. Lightly squeezes Bucky's shoulder, just for a moment.

"I can stay up for a while so you can get some sleep, if you like."

[freightcars]

Good job, Barnes. After all this time you manage to kill Captain America by accidental drowning. Really puts your reputation as the Winter Soldier under scrutiny if all it takes is Aquafina and a startling question.

There's a keenly amused tilt to his eyebrow at the attempt at brushing off water, but he says nothing. Isn't quite ready yet, isn't quite comfortable enough yet to give into the instinct to tease. He thinks he might have done it before, but not now. Not yet.

And besides, it would completely ruin the moment wherein Steve reaches out. He does his best not to tense, does his best to gracefully accept that hand on his shoulder. It's warm and familiar and intimately... real, and it makes his heart jump into his throat. It sticks together with a soft clicking, and he has to drop his eyes. Has to look away.

He nods slowly, carefully.

Sleep sounds... really fucking good, actually. He hasn't been sleeping well. Go figure.

"Yeah, I um-" He licks his lips. Crumples the protein wrapper absently. "I just have one more question."

[captaincentenarian]

Bucky could probably do it just as easily with a bar of soap on the floor of the shower.

He looks so familiar like this. Quieter, not gleefully insulting Steve just to see Steve make a face. But it's still him. It's Bucky there, Bucky's amusement at Steve being not quite as smooth as he wants to be.

Bucky looks away. That's okay. That's normal. They can't push everything too quickly.

"I'll put the lamp on and read my exciting magazine," Steve says, nodding to the lamp with the cracked shade over his bed. He can manage a few hours staying up. He hasn't exactly been sticking to a 24 hour cycle lately himself anyway - he's been sleeping when he can, when he can make himself - and it won't exactly kill him.

"Shoot. Anything."

[freightcars]

He doesn't have to stay up, truth be told Bucky's the lightest sleeper on the planet. If a car so much as pulls into the spot outside he'll be awake in an instant; it's more about just sleeping with company. Knowing Steve's there, awake or asleep, is a quiet sort of comfort that he's been lacking since coming back to himself.

He can't meet Steve's eye as he asks his next question, settles his gaze on that cracked lampshade and tries to parse through the feelings he has attached to certain memories that don't quite add up.

"You said we were friends," He starts, throat catching on a few of the syllables. "...Is that all we were?"

He doesn't remember anything more than that.

But he remembers feeling something else.

Thinks he might still feel it now.