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.

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[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.