Chapter 2 - Reachin' for the Light
Steve Rogers woke up some time before dawn, even before the ungodly hour that the nurses came to check on the patients. It was unusually quiet. All he heard were the footsteps of a lone orderly out in the hallway and the hum of traffic that was almost a constant in any large city. And then there were the birds that, like him, had woken up before sunset. Their songs and chirps penetrated even the double glazed window of the hospital room and they put a smile on his battered face. Pain fired as his facial muscles moved, but he kept smiling, if only for himself.
In a way, he enjoyed the pain. No, enjoying was the wrong word. He relished it. Since the super serum he healed much faster than a regular human being and any cut, any bruise was gone within a few hours. These had stayed atypically long. Bucky's superhuman strength and metal arm were probably to blame - and he was glad for it. Despite what Bucky said even before the serum, it wasn't that he enjoyed getting beat up; it's just that he didn't particularly mind. Physical pain was just a discomfort, but one that would pass sooner or later. After the serum, though, pain became rarer and it made him feel a little more human to feel it. That's why, on some level, he wanted to feel it.
He ran his hand over the cuts on his face. They were already fading. But they were still reminders that it really had happened. Bucky was alive. Not alive and well, but alive still, and Steve had learned to be thankful for small favors.
He willed his aching body to sit up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Glancing down, he saw his shield propped up against the side of the bed. Someone - not him or Bucky - must have gone through great lengths to retrieve it from the bottom of the Potomac.
As for himself: he was no longer hooked to a heart monitor - a sure sign the doctors believed his life was no longer in danger. His arm was still connected to the bag of fluids of whatever they were giving him for pain. He suspected it was actually completely useless. It seemed he didn't react to pain medication any more than he did to alcohol. That was likely why he was up so early. They had probably counted on the stuff making him drowsy. But, he was more awake than he had been for months.
He pulled the needle out of his arm. There was a small sting and a tiny drop of blood, but the hole closed immediately. He was amazed that there were no loud alarms going off, considering Fury must have deemed his life still in danger. Yet the room remained totally quiet, and shielded by the cover of darkness.
He got up, trying out his legs. They hurt, but did not fail him. He dragged himself to stand before the window, and felt a small jolt of pride and achievement when his fingers touched the glass. It was no great heroic feat to walk those few steps, he knew, but his childhood had taught him you cannot push a sick or hurt body beyond certain limits. You need to be grateful for what your body allows you to do.
He peered out over the city. Lord knows where those birds were hiding, because he certainly didn't see them. In the distance he could see the first rays of daybreak over already busy streets still full of nocturnal illuminations. Against the window, it looked like his hand was desperately reaching for the light.
Somewhere out there, he thought, in the vastness of urban civilization before him, Bucky Barnes was hiding. Bucky was hiding and hurt and alone - and it tore him up inside. He knew his friend remembered enough not to kill him, to reconnect to his pre-war memories somehow, but Steve couldn't estimate how much he'd gotten back. He couldn't tell which scenario he deemed worse: Bucky being out there with most of his memories still missing, helpless and confused or Bucky out there with his memories slowly seeping back, realizing the gravity of what had been done to him. Either thought was unbearable to Steve.
While he accepted he couldn't start searching for Bucky in the state he was in now, he knew that every second wasted was a second Bucky got further away, the trail ran colder, and finding him would be more difficult. Steve did not want him falling in HYDRA's hands again, nor did he want him to go rogue and kill some people he might regret killing later.
At this point he didn't even know what he'd do with Bucky even if he found him. Even if he could get through to him. Let him join The Avengers? There might be some protest from the others and even he couldn't deny Bucky was a liability. Get him some much-needed psychological counseling and rehabilitate him? Bucky might not be so keen on someone trying to get into his mind again. Just find him a little place and let him live out his days in peace? He doubted any version of Bucky in any universe would be fine with that.
Every hypothetical rescue plan he ran in his head had potential to backfire, and it made him apprehensive for the future.
"Trying to break free?" a female voice asked.
Steve knew who it was even before he turned to face her. Only Natasha could sneak in on him without making so much as a single sound.
The smile she threw him as their eyes met was slightly forced, but he couldn't read her enough to know why. Worry? Pity? Fleeting thoughts about one of her missions he wasn't in on?
"You know, you're lucky it's me and not Sam. He'd give you hell over getting out of bed."
Steve grinned: "Yeah, I know. He means well, you know. I just think he doesn't quite accept that there's things he can't fix sometimes".
"Guess that makes two of you."
"I'll be good as new in a day or two. The serum has perks like that."
"We both know that's not what I'm talking about, Rogers. You're going after your boy once they let you out, aren't you?"
Steve moved away from the window, making an effort not to look like walking hurt him in front of Natasha. He was facing her now, her blue eyes looking up at him intently.
Not so long ago, he would not have trusted her with this information, but in these past few days he had instinctively reclassified her from 'colleague' to "friend'.
"I have to, Natasha. I can't just leave him out there, alone."
Natasha just nodded, her face betraying neither approval or disapproval, or really any other emotion at all.
"You'll need help." It was a statement, not a question.
"You'll help me look?"
She shook her head.
"Sorry, Steve. But not this time. After what happened, I need to disappear for a while. I still have contacts, though, favors I can ask. I could see what I can find, before I go."
"Really, would you?"
"I...I might already have done some research. I didn't want to dig deeper without your permission, though. I'll get you what you need. But Steve..." Worry showed on her face now, for the first time. "I'm only doing this because I know I can't stop you either way. You're poking a hornet's nest here. You'll find things you wish you hadn't seen."
"I know."
"No, you really don't."
"Maybe you're right, Natasha, but I just want to find him. I want him to be safe."
She sighed. Standing on her tippy-toes, she reached in for a hug. Steve winced mildly as she squeezed his wounded body, but returned the hug with genuine affection.
"Bud' ostorozhny v svoikh zhelaniyakh, Steve, oni mogut ispolnyat'sya," she whispered in his ear. Then she kissed him on the cheek and moved to leave the room.
"Hey, wait, what does that mean?"
"As you Americans say," she said over her shoulder," Be careful what you wish for...you just might get it. Also, you might want to brush up on your Russian before this is through." And with that, she was gone.
The early morning light had started to invade the hospital room, and it seemed that with it, Steve was yanked back to reality.
He was doing this. He was really doing this - and he'd do it alone if he'd have to. His best friend was out there and he wouldn't rest before he found him.
His body seemed to disagree on the not resting part though, because his knees buckled and he only just managed to keep his balance. He returned to his bed reluctantly.
He was more tired than he had expected, and sleep overtook his body just seconds after he rested his head on the pillow.
As the sunlight touched his face, his dream wandered to the Brooklyn of his youth, shaped by the nostalgia of his memories. Here the streets were always sunny and filled with the laughter and shrieks of playing children. His body was still small, but he didn't feel sick or fragile. Among the children, one silhouette crystallized: it was Bucky, smiling warmly, beckoning him to follow him on whatever mischief or adventures he had planned for that day. Steve followed without hesitation. And had anyone still been in his hospital room, they would have seen Steve Rogers smiling in his sleep.
