Upon hearing the gentle knock on his open door, Steve Rogers looked up and gasped. In the months since Thanos had snapped half of the universe into dust, Steve thought he'd seen ghosts many times. But this one seemed particularly real.
"May I come in?" For a ghost, he had a friendly voice.
Dazed, Steve gestured to the guest chair across the desk from him.
The middle-aged man walked through the door and into the small, sunlit office in the Manhattan Veteran's Affairs building. Steve stepped out from behind the desk where he'd been preparing notes for upcoming support group meetings. He extended his right hand.
"Steve Rogers."
As he shook Steve's hand, the newcomer said, "I'm Jim Morita's grandson."
"Oh my god. It's an honor to meet you. Please sit."
"The honor is all mine, Captain Rogers."
"Steve, please."
"Call me Jim." He sat down, and Steve went back to his own chair.
Jim ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. He was obviously working up the nerve to have a conversation with Captain America. Steve was trying and failing to come up with a way to ease the tension when Jim finally spoke.
"I won't take up too much of your time. Despite what the media says, I know you are still fighting to find a way to bring everyone back."
Steve thought of their one failed attempt. How close they had come to victory and how impossible it was to hold onto hope after. Steve remembered wearing his Captain America uniform silently as Natasha Romanov fielded questions from reporters at their final press conference. He swallowed his guilt at the undeserved faith displayed in the eyes and the words of the man across the desk from him. Steve merely nodded his head.
Jim looked satisfied. "You've never backed down from a fight."
Steve promised himself he'd call Natasha later. Bruce Banner was pursuing his science, Tony Stark was with his family, Thor was building New Asgard on Earth, Clint Barton had disappeared into a dangerous despair, but Natasha was still fighting. Maybe she would know the right combination of words that would give him the hope he needed to return to the Compound. But for now, a conversation change would have to do. "You from here in New York?"
"Our family moved here when my grandfather was working for SHIELD. Been here ever since. I'm a principal at a high school in Queens."
Steve decided to ask the obvious follow-up question. "How is that going?"
"Trying to keep everything together after three-quarters of our students disappeared."
"Your family?"
"We fared better than most. Yours?"
Steve thought of his mother, dead so long before all of this. "I didn't have any family."
"Yes, you do." Jim paused. "Barnes?"
Because, of course, of all people, Jim Morita's grandson would know.
"Fell right in front of me, saying my name. Again."
The look on Jim's face conveyed he knew the unvarnished version of the story, how Bucky had fallen from the train, how Steve had been unable to reach him, how he had spiraled in the hours and days after. "I'm so sorry, Cap."
"Thank you."
"Is it true, what they said? About him being the Winter Soldier?"
Steve was surprised by Jim's bluntness. And wary. "Yeah."
"Was he still…?"
"The Winter Soldier is dead. Bucky killed him by remembering who he was." Steve interrupted forcefully. "Bucky came back to life. He was recovering. Doing well."
"I knew it." Jim seemed more pleased than startled by Steve's vehemence. "My grandfather would tell us stories about the Howling Commandos. How Barnes always had your back, had everyone's backs. Said you were a handful, and Barnes was the only one who could handle you. He loved you both."
Steve allowed himself a wistful smile. "Jim was a good man. Saved me and Buck many times over. Great with first aid. Always ready with a story. I'm glad he lived a long life with all of you." He struggled to get these short sentences out. Months of interacting only with the support groups kept up the appearance of healthy socialization without forcing Steve to speak much himself.
"I'm sorry he didn't make it till you returned. He would have loved to have seen you and Barnes again."
"Us, too."
"Anyways, I guess I should get to the reason why I'm here." Jim pulled a small leather notebook from his coat pocket. "I believe this belongs to you."
Steve recognized it immediately. He gently touched the notebook where it rested on the center of the desk. He shook his head. "Not mine, I'm afraid. This was Bucky's diary."
"The Howlies knew if anything ever happened to Barnes, they had to grab this and give it to you. My grandfather found it and was going to give it to you after your mission to take down the Red Skull. But you killed yourself before he had the chance."
Because again, of course, this man would know what Steve never wanted to admit, but must have been so evident to everyone around him. That part of the reason he put that plane in the ice was so he didn't have to live without Bucky.
"Thank you." Steve picked up the leather-bound book, worn with age. "You know, he didn't write in it very much, but Bucky started keeping this diary when we were teenagers."
"Did you ever sneak a peek?"
"No. Bucky never asked much from me, but he made me promise I wouldn't read this." Steve shrugged. "I never could refuse him."
"Maybe that's why he never asked anything of you?"
Steve couldn't quite identify the tone in Jim's voice.
"You should read it."
"That would be violating Buck's trust in me."
"But he wrote it for you."
At Steve's questioning look, Jim said, "All the entries, they're addressed to you."
Steve clutched the book to his chest.
Jim continued. "So, at some point, he would have wanted you to read it."
"You've read it?"
"My grandfather passed this on to my father. Dad didn't read it until he was approached not long after my grandfather's death by the National Archives, inquiring to see if he had inherited any remaining documents of yours or Sergeant Barnes. Once Dad read it, he decided to keep it in our family."
"That bad?"
To Steve's surprise, Jim's eyes filled with tears. "My father gave it to me when I was in my late teens, the morning after I came out to him and mom. My husband and I read it together on our honeymoon. I'm so grateful we had the chance."
Suddenly all Steve could hear was his heartbeat as it pounded in his chest. He understood the implication of Jim's words, but could not believe them. Was it possible that Bucky had hidden something that important from him for so long? He was flooded with confusion.
Jim witnessed Steve's emotional turmoil and leaned forward to catch his attention. "Read it. You need to know what you lost, to know what you are fighting to get back."
All Steve could do was cast him a grateful look.
Jim stood up. "If you ever need a friend, you can find me at Midtown School of Science and Technology in Queens. I've got some photos in the office you might like to see."
"Thank you."
The two men shook hands once more, and then Steve was left alone until daylight turned to twilight and cast his office into darkness.
Not for the first time, Steve wondered why he was leading support groups when he clearly needed help himself. Sure, he had started because it helped him feel less guilty about losing Sam Wilson; if he couldn't save him, he could at least honor him. But Sam would be the first in line to kick Steve's ass about how he was behaving right now. Neglecting what is left of his team. Avoiding locations filled memories, like DC and Brooklyn and Wakanda.
Steve lived in a small studio in Manhattan, not far from the VA. It wasn't much, not as nice as his previous places in DC or the Avengers Compound, but he didn't need much and certainly didn't deserve much considering the current state of the world. But it was a place to return to at the end of the day, to eat and drink and sleep the minimum required to keep him going one day at a time.
He curled up on the couch with a glass of scotch, his phone, and the notebook. He decided to tackle the easier of the two tasks first.
"Hello, Natasha. It's me."
Steve spent an hour getting a scolding and then a situation report from Nat. She clearly had operations under control, with help from James Rhodes and General Okoye. But that didn't mean she didn't need Steve herself, didn't want him there by her side. He ended the call by promising to visit more often and setting up a meeting time for the following week.
Steve held the tumbler of scotch up to the light. He couldn't get drunk, but the burn of the scotch reminded him of the days when it could numb the pain a bit. The sense memory mimicked the liquid courage he wished he could still attain. Because it would take courage to pick up the notebook at his side. Not because he was scared of it, or least, not just that. No, Steve needed courage to break a promise to Bucky, because it almost seemed like reading that notebook would mean that Bucky was really dead, if he wasn't around to get pissed off about Steve reading his diary.
But then again, isn't that what Steve had been doing these past several months? Acting like Bucky, Sam, and so many others were dead and there was nothing he could do about it. Thinking they were dead was easier than admitting they were locked in some sort of Soul Plane, just out of reach. Trying to put them out of his mind so he didn't have to live with his failure at saving them, at not being strong enough to defeat Thanos in the first place.
Sarah Rogers would be so ashamed of him.
And Bucky? Well, Bucky would just be happy Steve was safe. That Steve was healthy. That Steve wasn't putting his life at risk anymore. Because Bucky had only ever really wanted Steve to be happy and healthy and whole. Because Bucky had loved Steve all their lives.
Steve downed the last of the scotch and picked up the notebook.
"Forgive me, Buck."
The first entry was from 1934. Bucky would have been seventeen years old to Steve's sixteen.
Dear Stevie. I have to write this down, otherwise I'm going to say something out loud and ruin everything. Ruin us. But I felt something today I'd never felt before. I was rubbing your back, calming you down after that horrible asthma attack, like I always do. But today, the warmth of your body burned into mine, and I could feel the leanness and strength of those muscles on your back and every knob on your spine, and I suddenly wanted to kiss my way down the path my hand was taking. As it was, I almost gave in to the urge to kiss your golden hair, where I had such easy access with your head on my shoulder. And I'm so sorry, because what a betrayal of your trust to think such perverted thoughts with you in my arms like that. And my heart is still beating out of control, because I think I understand now why every date I've been on felt more like a challenge than a chance. I'm scared, Stevie, and you're the only one I would ever trust to tell this, but I can never tell you. It hurts. I think I'm in love with you, and it fucking hurts.
Steve remembered that day. The way the rhythm of Bucky's caresses on his back had changed, became more languid, drawing him closer. He remembered adjusting his position, hoping to hide his hardness and being grateful for Bucky's closed eyes, but also using it as an excuse to burrow deeper in those strong arms. He'd memorized the curvature of every muscle in those biceps and the location of every freckle, and he'd frantically sketched the memory as soon as Bucky had gone home. Because Steve also had a notebook, a sketchbook, Bucky had sworn never to look at.
He felt like electricity was coursing through his body, like he was coming back to life for the first time in months. Jim had been right; Steve needed to remember all he had lost and what he should be fighting to get back. Not just for himself, but for everyone who had lost family and friends and loved ones and opportunities and dreams.
Steve had fought Nazis and Hitler and Hydra. He had fought against aliens and alongside gods. He had spent seventy years under the ice, and death itself couldn't keep him down. Steve Rogers himself was a fucking miracle, living proof miracles exist. Perhaps the universe would grant him one more.
In his closet, he had a go bag prepared. Travel documents, real and fake, the blue-gray version of his Captain America suit, and his utility belt. One compartment of the belt contained talismans: his mother's rosary, the compass with Peggy's photo, one of Natasha's widows bites she'd used on him to get his attention, a ticket stub to a baseball game with Sam, the photo of young Bucky from the file on the Winter Soldier. He placed the photo of Bucky into the notebook and tucked it into his belt. Then he put on his leather jacket and grabbed the keys to his bike. Nat wouldn't mind if he showed up to the Compound unannounced, and Steve wasn't going to wait any longer.
"I'm gonna get you back, Buck. And this time, I'll hold on to you."