The day after Peggy's funeral, Captain Rogers got a call from the D.C. police, claiming that they'd found Bucky Barnes and were preparing to arrest him under charges of breaking and entering as well as trespassing on protected government property.
"On my way," Steve was out the door before he even hung up his phone. Bucky had been acquitted only months ago, after what reporters were still referring to as the 'Trial of the Century'. Even a misdemeanor would ruin his snail's pace return to public trust. None of the Avengers tried to talk Rogers out of flying the quinjet down to Washington.
They hadn't told Steve where exactly they'd found him, only that he was on the National Mall and they'd had to shut down a museum because of him. When Captain America arrived on the mall, shield on his back, the officers directed him to the National Museum of American History without question. It was Steve's own face that greeted him at the end of his journey, a giant, illuminated 1945 Steve Rogers saluting him from a banner.
"This way, Captain," A man who seemed to be in charge gestured forward. He pointed into the darkened exhibit hall. "Looks like he's been there all night. We tried asking him to leave, but uh... well... and the guys thought that it might not be a good idea to push him to much..."
"I'll talk to him," the Captain's reply died away slowly as he caught sight of his friend. First a boot, then a pant leg, and a sagging, baggy shirt. Bucky's dog tags reflected in the glass of a display case, glinting dully against the stain where he'd been pressing his forehead for hours.
It was Peggy's case. Her uniform, her gun, a union flag and her director's desk from S.H.I.E.L.D. There was even a grainy reel of film looping footage of her shooting, walking lines of soldiers, smiling at Steve and posing for pictures with the Howling Commandos. It was at this screen that Bucky stared, eyes sagging with exhaustion and a hurt that he hadn't expected to feel.
Steve approached carefully, quietly, unaware that half of the D.C. Police force was watching him. As he came closer he could hear the half-muted audio of the footage, muffled conversations from a woman they'd both known echoing from the hidden exhibit speakers. Steve's heart felt every second of his ninety-eight years in that moment; hearing the voice of the dead woman he loved, watching the expression of his best friend sag in pieces against polished glass.
Someone had brought her flowers, he noticed, toe almost brushing against the bouquet. Red roses, of course. They'd all known that Peggy had classic tastes. Very conscious of the locked museum doors at his back at the memories of the previous day fresh on his mind, Steve glanced at Bucky. He wondered if he'd bought them or stolen them.
There was a pillow and a blanket thrown on the floor, mashed from what must've been a fitful night. Bucky's metal arm grabbed at the corner of the pillow in fistfuls, wandering aimlessly and worrying the cotton out of shape. His other hand held his dog tags, human skin memorizing the contours of his embossed name, trying to memorize their shape all over again.
Steve lowered himself to sit next to his friend. Bucky did not acknowledge him. Steve said nothing. Bucky watched Peggy smile, shoot, pose, walk, repeat. He blinked. Smile, shoot, pose, walk. Repeat. Bucky gave a tiny sigh and let his forehead leave another mark on the glass.
Steve glanced up to the other side of the case, where a plexiglass stand held a brass compass with a picture of Peggy wedged into the lid. It was the only replica in the display, he knew. He pulled the real one out of his pocket reverently and held it next to Bucky's dog tags, so that the brunet's hand grabbed it blindly in its routine.
"I miss her too," he had never meant something so earnestly in his life.
Bucky took the compass with a blank expression, killer's hands working with recently recovered gentility to open the device. He did not react when he saw her face, her real face, in a photo he'd teased Steve for over a hundred times. He did not let Steve know how he could feel the brim of his army cap on his head again, how he could hear the raucous laughter of the commandos, taste their foamy beers, how he could see Peggy in that red dress that he knew she wore only for Steve. He closed the compass and saw the roses.
Bucky made a noise; a small, innocuous grunt that could have been surprise or anger or fear. Steve calmly closed Bucky's hand over the old, stained brass compass and put an arm around his shoulders. Bucky leaned more heavily into the glass, closing his eyes and taking the compass and his tags into a fistful against his mouth. He grunted again, this time more akin to a whimper. Steve gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"She would have liked the flowers," said the Captain quietly. Bucky nodded stiffly, adamantly.
"I didn't remember until after," Bucky's unexpected admission was gravelly and hoarse. He huffed against the glass and looked up through the fog at Peggy's ageless loop with red, manic eyes. "I can't forget. I can't forget again," He half-cried in fear, staring desperately at the woman they'd lost.
Steve reached out and found the chain he'd attached to his compass some years ago. He draped it around Bucky's neck so it would hang near his tags. "You won't," He promised. He took Bucky's bouquet from the floor and propped it up more dignified against the display.
The museum remained closed for the rest of the day.