A/N: Hey y'all! I really haven't written anything since 2013 (no, really, you can look), and I used to be so involved in writing on a different account. I was reading through it tonight while avoiding two papers, and decided I wanted another go-around. And since I'm in love with Captain America, here you go. Un-beta'd, so any mistakes are my own. I'd love to hear what you think!
(And yes, this is a Christmas fic in November. I DIDN'T PLAN FOR IT TO BE CHRISTMAS IT JUST HAPPENED)
Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)
The bus driver warily eyed the diner he was instructed to pull up to. Had anyone else requested to stop here, he would have attempted to negotiate. 'No, how about we put you up for the night? I'm staying at a motel just about an hour down the road, why don't you join me and I'll take you anywhere you need to be in the morning.'
This passenger was not anyone else.
Perhaps it was the long, unwashed hair; the determined set of his jaw; the dead look in his eyes. The driver knew that the man would never accept his charity. And he doubted his charity could do this man much good beyond a haircut.
Dust kicked up in a dark cloud as the bus pulled off, but the passenger paid no mind. Taking carefully calculated steps, he made his way to the door of the worn-out diner. Bypassing the hostess stand altogether, he sat in a booth.
A waitress came by to take his order-a stoic "Coffee. Black." She herself was distracted, and disappeared to fill the order. It was only when the mug had been placed in front of the man on the sticky Formica table that he looked up. The truck stop diner was nearly empty at 2 AM. There was an overweight trucker at the bar who was continually trying and failing to hit on the absentminded waitress. A tired, lost-looking couple sat at a few booths down, poring over the surely out-of-date map that the diner provided. Other than the passenger, these other patrons, and the waitress and cook, the restaurant was deserted.
The man sat back to wait.
It didn't take nearly as long as he'd expected-he was impressed by their ability to track the small blip he'd sent out earlier in the week. Even with the short waiting period, the hour or so of idle time allowed his brain to continue to chip away at the wall that had been so damaged on the aircraft. Whereas he'd once only been able to grasp fleeting memories-a scent, a flash of color, the echo of a tired laugh-he was now able to string together entire scenes of memories.
"I was wondering if you'd ever manage to make it back here." Feeble laugh. Cough.
"Well, the sound of that cough tends to stick with a guy. Here, I got you somethin."
Rustling. A bright smile on a sallow face. "Buck-I-you can't have-" Cough.
"Sure I coulda. It's not like I'll be needin the money for them dates anymore."
Silence. A rattling breath.
"Hell's that supposed to mean?"
A sigh. A damp letter, well-read and refolded. More silence.
"The 107th."
"Yeah."
"When do you leave?"
"Tuesday."
"How long have you known?"
"Three months."
Rattling breath. A whisper.
"Goddammit, Buck."
Creaking bed springs. Warm tears.
"Merry Christmas, Stevie."
The man is snapped out of his reverie by the arrival of a dining companion. A broad blond is seated before him. The man does not fail to notice the two agents seated at the end of the bar. The newcomer studies his face. The man simply stares back, waiting for some sort of approval, denial, anything.
Silence.
Rattling breath.
"Bucky?"
Cough.
It's been nearly seventy years.
A sigh.
He's completely the same and different.
Security.
Snow begins to fall outside, illuminated by the neon lights of the diner sign.
Home.
"Merry Christmas, Stevie."
11/11/15
