Steve goes to visit Bucky's grave every now and then, on those especially rainy days that drain the happiness right out of him, and he takes the moment in, like some life changing experience that can alter him for the better.
He tries to watch the trees and people and buildings around him as he drives to the cemetery, now all filled up and long abandoned, watching the concrete world around him as his tires roll over the sizzling pavement, the sun baring down on his windshield. He avoids the plain concrete sidewalk when he leaves his car, and instead relishes in the feel of walking through the dried grass beneath his feet, now a bit more grown up than it was the last time he came. He straightens his jacket, even though he's burning up in its leathered embrace, and takes a deep breath before trekking a path between the headstones, the colors and names all faded and cracking from the weather, all left to time as they rest upon the earth.
When he finally comes across the one he's looking for, the way he came already imprinted into his memory, he kneels onto the ground, and immediately wishes he'd brought flowers. But Bucky didn't like flowers, and so he runs a hand down the faint letters scrawled across the stone, sighing to the wind and the ground and the air, the trees around him swaying with the slight breeze as an immense sort of sadness surrounds him.
His friend isn't here, and he feels the absence like it's still a fresh, tangible thing, and pretends not to remember that Bucky is just bones broken across sharp rocks at the bottoms of mountains, lost to oblivion for decades now. He pretends that the soldier is buried beneath him, that his body is resting peacefully within a coffin surrounded by dirt, but the thought is fleeting, and he lets the tears come to his eyes, wiping them away before they have a chance to fall down his face.
When he at last finishes his visit, he goes to Peggy's house, and she answers the door with her wizened skin and soft eyes, her drooping smile and creaking bones, welcoming him with open arms as he falls into her embrace, a comfort that's both familiar and foreign to him. He makes a fist into her hair, and feels the stringy texture of the strands, noting how she's aged so much, trying to recall the way he'd carded his fingers through her brown tresses all those years ago, kissing her as the wind blew past them, a whirlwind of sensations and last moments and bittersweet smiles.
His skin is too soft against hers, too youthful and free of wrinkles, too captured within his frozen prison for too long, and he closes his eyes as he breathes her in, shutting the world away, ignoring the framed photos littering the inside of her house-dozens of memories on display, weddings and children and families that he never got to see.
He pretends not to notice the single photo atop the mantle, the black and white picture of a dark eyed woman smiling cheerily, waving her slender hand in the air as she holds her gun in the other, and a man beside her, all muscles and uniform and obedience, letting his guard down as he rests against the side of her car, his eyes vibrant even within the bleary color.
Steve presses closer to her just as she tightens her arms around him, and the faint scent of spaghetti cooking on the stove wanders from the kitchen and into the living room as he smiles despite himself and she runs a hand down his hair, the soft whistle of her breathing loud in his ears.
Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)
