The sky's a shadowy blanket above him as Steve pushes his fists deeper into his pockets. It's nearly 2am and it's freezing, and Steve can't sleep. The cold pushes at him from all angles until he grits his teeth and puffs warm breath up into his face. For a short moment he wonders if he'll be able to follow the mist with his eyes before it evaporates, but then it's gone and Steve has to blink several times, because then he realises that this is Brooklyn and he has to stop himself from seeing metal figures and glowing eyes around every corner. Nothing's there. Everyone's okay. People are sheltered beneath cosy duvets and intact houses. Ultron has been gone for six months now, and neither Fury or Stark have contacted him in weeks. Steve's fine.
His boots crunch through a pale crust of snow as he steps up onto the sidewalk, and he rubs his hands together a few times before he walks into the dimly lit convenience store. The man behind the counter gives him a nod, the kind of nod that says 'thanks a lot for saving the world, buddy, but right now it's 2 o'clock in the morning and I see you come in here every day so why bother with small talk?' Steve appreciates the silence, and normally he buys what he needs and gets home before people wake up and start to stare and point. It's easier this way, living while everyone else sleeps.
He thinks he might make pasta for lunch, so he spends a few minutes poring over the tomatoes, debating over which ones look the roundest and ripest. It doesn't matter, even Steve knows this, but when one spends his time defending the world against the things that really do matter, it feels just a little normal, relaxing even, to put so much thought into the silly, mundane things, like which tomatoes will be best for bolognese.
He chooses three and dumps them in his basket, and turns into the next isle to stock up on more cereal. Steve's a big bloke, so it doesn't surprise anyone, let alone himself, that he eats a lot. Especially cereal. He's almost reached his favourite brand, the fibrous kind with all the little pieces of dried fruit which most people just scowl at, but as he takes the last step he realises it's the last box. He doesn't want to be the reason a stranger doesn't get to eat their favourite kind of cereal that morning, but he can't help but wonder why there's only one box left. In fact, he has noticed during the past two weeks that the stock has been dwindling, until this very moment where just one lonely box sits primly on the shelf. A crease forms between Steve's brows, he'll have to have a word with the owner, tell him that someone else in the neighbourhood also eats a lot of cereal, Steve's kind of cereal.
He shrugs to himself, thinking whoever it is must be will have at least one box still in storage to keep themselves content, and then reaches a hand forward to grab it. He stops though, draws back with a flinch, because suddenly another arm has snatched it from the left of him. It's a gloved hand, a heavy padded jacket running up the arm, and then Steve's eyes get to the shoulders, the coil of a pilled scarf, and before he can take another breath he sees a square jaw and the darkness of stubble, the face he can recognise amongst any other. It's Bucky.
He's standing there, glaring at Steve, his eyes dark and his brows pulled sharply together. He looks positively sulky, and Steve wants to laugh and shout, throw himself into his friends arms. But then he stops himself, realises with a barely suppressed shiver that Bucky isn't looking at him with any sort of recognition. There's only a blunt hostility that comes to a point over the lone cereal box between them. Bucky's hand is still on it.
Steve can't believe his eyes, he rubs them with the heel of his hands, but when he lowers them Bucky's still there, and Steve has to swallow with a rough, chaffing force, his tongue far too heavy in his throat. Bucky, in Brooklyn. Bucky, right where Steve needs him to be, where he needed him to be five years ago when he woke up in a new century. Bucky, rugged up like a snowman, just how he was when they were two kids without the weight of a war on their shoulders. Bucky, looking as if he won't hesitate to throw a punch should Steve decide to take the box of cereal. Bucky, torn apart and put back together again, over and over, his eyes deep and calculating, eyeing Steve like an enemy, like a threat.
Steve wants to choke and cry, but instead he swallows again, and this time he manages to clear his throat.
"Hey, Buck…"
His voice hangs between them, the echo of it bouncing against the empty aisle's linoleum floor, and Steve doesn't look away as Bucky's face twitches, as his eyebrows shift just a little, just that one tiny bit that makes all the difference and eases open the fist that's been constricting Steve's heart.
But then Bucky's grabbing the box, turning abruptly, and shoving down the right amount of coins on the counter before he runs out the door. When Steve catches up, he's gone.
There's blood pounding hard in Steve's ears, he wants to do something, to run after him and touch him, but he knows that if he does that Bucky will disappear into the coldness, just like the haze of his breath. Then he remembers the cereal, and he finds himself speaking to the shop owner, his voice urgent.
"That man— he— he comes here often?"
The small, shrivelled old man looks at Steve quizzically from behind smudged glasses, but then nods slowly. "Every morning. Just after you leave, actually. Why do—"
"No reason. Does he always buy that cereal?"
The shop keeper gives another nod, this one jerky, almost worried. "Nothing else. It's as if lives off the stuff."
Steve pays for his groceries, then leaves, his head full of dark expressions hidden behind hair that's too long, too mussed, but somehow, he knows he doesn't mind it.
The next morning Steve buys bread and milk, and then he pretends to leave. He waits behind a parked trailer, his knees stinging against the cold pavement, and when he'll finally stand he knows there'll be gravel stuck to his jeans.
Bucky comes not five minutes later, the tread of his steps half an octave away from silence, and a hood pulled up to shield his face. Steve knows it's him though, he can recognise the slant of those shoulders, the bounce in that walk, even if he were to search amongst a crowd of people, it'll always be Bucky. Steve knows this because even when he goes into an empty room he'll search for Bucky, checking every corner just in case, because some buried part of him still expects to see the dimpled chin of his best friend, his cheeks curved into a smile as he asks about Steve's day.
Bucky goes into the shop and comes out nearly a minute later, a cereal box in his hand, and Steve watches his friend's boots pass beneath the bottom of the truck before he stands to his feet. He doesn't make a sound as he follows Bucky, but there's half a second where every line in Bucky's body changes, and Steve just knows that it was the rapid beating of his heart that gave him away.
Bucky's shoes scuff the cement as he spins around, and Steve doesn't dare move, because the look he's met with is one that's honed into the indifference of murder. Steve tries to slow his breathing, but it's too hard, Bucky's eyes are locked onto his, unwavering in their search for something Steve doesn't know.
It's just the two of them in a quiet street, the sun trying to rise but getting caught between the clouds, casting uneven hues across Bucky's face, and Steve has never wanted to draw something as much as he does now.
He moves his hands up, slowly, so slowly, but Bucky's eyes still track the movement. "B-Buck." Steve's breath is thicker than a winter's fog, but he won't let it choke him, not now. "Buck, I know you remember— you remember something…"
Bucky makes a sound, a strange noise trapped in the middle of his throat, and Steve can see the sliver of metal fingers peeking from a sleeve as they clench around the cereal box.
He tries to take a tentative step forwards, his hands still outstretched, but then Bucky's moving away, and everything Steve thought he knew about himself falls away into a place he can't reach, because his friend is looking at him with fear, and that's not how it's meant to be. Bucky was always the strong one, the protector, the one with warm arms on a cold night, but then he became the Winter Soldier, and was fearless, indifferent, not scared of the person who cares about him more than anything else in the world. And Steve has never wanted to kill someone as much as he does those people who did this to Bucky. His Bucky.
"Bucky," he tries again, and his voice is stronger, certain, so he takes another step. "It's Steve."
He's Steve Rogers, and he wants his best friend back, the man he knew 70 years ago in the brinks of a war, yet he knows this isn't possible, and that the man in front of him now is just a haunted image filled with torture and despair. But that's okay, because somewhere beneath that face full uncertainty, James Buchanan Barnes is waiting for Steve to find him.
Steve crosses the distance between them, and before Bucky can run, before he can put years of unwanted training into action, Steve grabs his shoulders, pulling his friend into him and holding him there as if he'd rather die before letting go. Bucky stiffens, a low exhale grazing Steve's cheek, and then he's struggling, thrashing against Steve's chest, his knees coming up to hit the other man's thighs. Steve knows, though, that Bucky could crush him with his arm if he wanted, he knows if Bucky were on a mission, he wouldn't hesitate, but Steve won't ever let Bucky go on a mission ever again. Bucky is safe now, and Steve draws him even closer.
Bucky doesn't go still until the sun has melted into the pinks of the sky, and the first morning commuters emerge from around street corners. Steve's arms never loosen, and Bucky's shakes turn into sobs. Then they are just two men, standing and hugging outside a convenience store.
And Steve has a feeling, that from now on, things can only get better.