Well, it's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by

The streets of New York were always busy this time of day. Even though the sun shined brightly down upon the life of the city, neon signs along the boulevard were still glaring down at them as well, calling for their attention, beckoning them. A ship's low horn sounded from the bay, signaling its preparation to leave the dock. Children laughed and screamed and ran about the streets, weaving in between the adults that bustled about their busy lives. It was the time of day that school had just ended, when all the youngster dashed about, playing and causing trouble. There was one boy in particular that rushed through the crowd with a clear stubbornness to make his way through, showing clear disinterest in the rest of the children and their troublesome activities. He was a small kid, gangly one might say, with hair that glowed gold in the sunlight and eyes that reflected the ocean back at you if one were to look directly into them. He looked frail, almost ill from how small he was but a sick child wouldn't be able to move as swiftly as he did, finally reaching a street that would lead him into the direction of his home.

It took him a few moments but finally he made his way to the house. It was a quaint little structure, just large enough for a small family with one or two children. The size of the house never bothered him. It was all he'd ever known, and it was just enough for him. Like usual, he burst through the door and shut it quickly behind himself. Immediately a mouth-watering scent invaded his nostrils. "Stevie, is that you?" a familiar voice called from the kitchen. There was plenty of noise coming from the room that suggested his mother was in the process of preparing dinner, like she was every day that he came home from school. The sound of jazzy piano was playing through the radio in the same direction.

"Hi, Mom!" he called, running into the dining room and climbing onto a chair at the table.

With a graceful turn of her head, she turned to look in his direction. Crimson lips spread into a warm smile, chestnut curls falling over her petite shoulders. "Hello, sweetheart." Long, dark eyelashes framed sparkling eyes the same hue as her son's. This woman had the face of a motion picture star like Steve saw on the film posters by the theatre, yet here she was, peeling potatoes in the kitchen of her husband's home. Her hand moved over to turn the volume knob down on the radio.

"Mom?" he asked, leaning onto the table; legs folding beneath his form in an improper fashion. "Why don't you make motion pictures?"

His inquiry made her laugh. It was a lighthearted laugh and the sound reminded him of bells ringing. "Because my job is here, taking care of you."

"Oh, okay..." His brow furrowed as he thought about her answer, and he climbed down from his chair to wander over curiously and watch her as she cut potatoes. His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, eyes peeking over it at the cutting board. "But you could still make motion pictures?"

"I could," she replied in an amused tone, glancing down at him, "but I'd rather be your mother instead." Her hand lifted to pinch his cheek lightly in a teasing manner.

There was a loud knocking at the front door. Immediately, Steve turned away to run clumsily in its direction. "I'll get it!" he shouted enthusiastically. His small hands reached up to turn the handle and he cracked door open, peeking around the edge.

There was another small boy on the other side, grinning at him. "Hi, Steve!" His hair was dark and his eyes shined with a warm light of familiarity in them.

"Hi, Bucky," he replied with a grin.

The small boy reached forward to tug on his sleeve. "Come on, Stevie, come fishing with me!"

"Wait, I have to ask my mom first." He turned, leaving the door open for Bucky to follow him inside to the kitchen.

"Hi, Mrs. Rogers," the small brunette boy greeted with a bashful smiling, hands twisting the hat that had been removed from his head.

"Mom, can I go fishing with Bucky?" A wide, pleading grin spread across his features as his hands clutched the bottom of his shirt with anticipation.

She'd finished cutting the potatoes and was now wiping her hands on the apron draped around her slender waist. "As long as you're careful." They celebrated with exclamations of success and turned to hurry away. "Just be back in time for dinner!" her voice called from the kitchen.

"Okay!" Steve called back before he and his closest friend raced out the door and door the street.

"Come on!" Bucky tugged the smaller boy along in the direction of the docks near the boulevard. They were both laughing as Steve trailed along behind him.

His eyes opened slowly to the dull color of the beige ceiling above him, a color that he saw quite often. He lay there for a few moments, his gaze resting on the ceiling as he thought quietly to himself. Slowly his head turned with a sigh, eyes catching glimpse of the digital clock that glared back at him with the numbers "11:11 P.M." Sighing again, a hand ran down his face, and Steve sat up to flip the blankets off of his large frame.

He'd had trouble sleeping for the first time in...well, 70 years or so, ever since that day; the day he'd last seen Bucky. His mind wandered to the events that had happened. He remembered falling...and the last thing before he became unconscious was the wind rushing past his body, whistling in his ears, and then the crash of the water.

The muted color in the room stunted his thinking, and it was something that he needed to do desperately right now. He needed to get out, to be able to breathe.

Steve donned a casual outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, and he was sure to include a baseball cap to conceal his face as well as a jacket to shield himself from the cool night air.

The air was refreshing as he exited the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. It seemed to be clearer and made it easier to breathe for him. The night sky was a deep, rich blue but was illuminated by the lights of the city. Steve wasn't entirely sure where he would go, but a nice long walk ought to clear his head. It used to work just fine as a kid, so he hoped it would do the same for him now. He sorely needed it.

The captain found himself wandering down some roads like the ones in the dream he'd just experienced of his childhood long gone. As he passed the nearby harbor, the smell of fish was stronger than he remembered from his days in Brooklyn, and it churned his stomach and caused him to cringe sorely with slight amusement as he remembered the days of sitting on the dock with Bucky. The lights of the boulevard were up ahead and beyond that, Stark Tower glowed brightly in the night sky. Steve stopped in his tracks, offering a soft sigh as he gazed onward.

There were so many memories...some that he was fond of recalling, and others...Well, he wasn't sure about them. As his feet continued to move on their own, his mind began to recall his most recent interaction with Bucky; the one that earned him the bruises and cuts along his cheeks, brow bone and lips. It was still painful to smile but he didn't mind it so much.

Instead of using the main boulevard, he took a side road that was still populated. He couldn't believe that there were so many people awake at this time of night. When he'd last been on the exact same street, there was a quarter of the amount bustling about now. The advertisement signs and the screens up ahead were so bright and so distracting. Steve nearly ran into someone gazing up at a Coca Cola commercial and apologized swiftly. There was so much noise, so much talking, so much honking. The motorcars were so much different than he remembered. They looked like something straight out of a science fiction novel! New York had never been so alive...but the people didn't look at each other. It was as if they couldn't even see each other as they milled about, and Steve felt a pang in his heart because of it.

As he wandered along the road at a slower pace than the crowd with his eyes cast upward to admire the man buildings, his eyes caught a slight shimmer. What they landed on was something that he did not expect. The silver arm of cool metal, long locks of dark hair, and a darkened face were visible through a window on the motel of the main street. His mouth hung open as the figure moved away from the window. "Bucky...?" His eyes lowered, brow knitted as he tried to reason with himself. It wasn't Bucky. He would be long gone, in some foreign country by now-possibly Russia or Ukraine. He wouldn't have stayed in the United States. But, then again...no one would be looking for him here.

From the spot that he'd stopped at in the middle of the sidewalk, Steve made his way through the crowd to the entrance of the hotel. The interior was dark with the lights dimmed but the quality of the place was high. Rich-colored crimson carpets were offset by different colors of cream and sapphire in the room. A blonde receptionist appeared at the front desk from the back office and smiled brightly at him. "Hi! How can I help you?"

Steve became slightly flustered at the sight of her and couldn't help thinking she was a little cute. "Uhh..." He stepped forward, head lowered so the black baseball cap hid part of his face; he avoided looking directly in her eyes. "I think my friend is staying here and I was hoping that you could maybe help me find him."

"Do you know his name?" she asked in a cheerful voice, and Steve couldn't help thinking that it was slightly forced. Getting a glance up at her, he noticed that she did look a bit tired, and she was more than likely going to be working for the rest of the night.

"It's, umm..." He paused, eyes shifting away. "James. Or Bucky. He goes by either one. He has long dark hair, would have come by in the last few days. Had some...work done on his arm."

She flipped through the catalogue in front of her, eyebrows furrowed as a hand pressed against her lips in thought. "Well...There is one gentleman that sounds like him. James Buchanan...?"

Steve's eyelids flickered slightly before he blinked out of surprise, several times. He remembered? Or he may have recalled from the name that Steve told him in their encounter. Either way, he used the name. He didn't use an alias or some name that HYDRA had given him. Bucky had used his real name; at least, part of it. "Yes...Yes, that's him." It dawned on Steve that she'd told him Bucky's last name, which he was sure was against protocol...but he didn't mention it. At least she had helped him. "What room is he in?"

"He is innn"-she held out the sound of the 'n' for a moment, typing and clicking about a few times on the personal computer-"room number 317." Her lips spread into a wide smile.

"Thanks," Steve uttered quickly with a smile before he headed through the doorway quickly, coming upon flights of stairs. He rushed up them quickly to the third floor, heart pounding against his chest.

Could it really be him? Was Bucky really there? Had Steve found him by some freakish kind of good luck? It almost seemed too good to be true as he approached the door. But for a moment, he just stood there. What if it was just a coincidence? What if he'd just imagined it? Suddenly, it dawned on Steve that this may not be one of his best ideas. He wasn't sure how Bucky felt about him or whether he was still the soldier's mission or not. The hotel could be heavily damaged if another scrap took place. These thoughts kept his hand at bay that had lifted to knock, and he hesitated a good moment or two before, finally-after much inner turmoil-his knuckles rapped sharply against the wooden door...and he waited with much anticipation.