Steve left after the incident on the roof. It was late and he desperately needed to get some sleep in a place where he was not likely be bombarded by anyone. He rode his old-fashioned motorcycle through the dimly-lit night, the damp evening air blowing coldly against his firm chest and cascading through his neatly combed hair, swooshing it astray.

He enjoyed rides like these. Rides were the motorway was vacant and where his headlights were the only things lighting the countryside road, illuminating his pathway home. Journeys where he could reflect. The word "home" wasn't exactly appropriate, but Steve played along with it anyway.

His "home" was back in the 1940s, where he belonged. Back when he used to walk to the corner store and deli with Bucky and talk about normal things, not having to worry about much because they would always look out for one another and they always had each other's backs. Back when he had unconsciously slipped into falling in love with a remarkable woman, a woman who appreciated who he was and loved him back. But his time had been stolen from him and he had never gotten the chance—the chance to be with her. Then, with the blink of his startling blue eyes, Steve's entire world had been taken away from him. How cruel life was.

In what seemed to him like no time, his trip was over and Steve parked his bike in front of the one-bedroom apartment that he rented. He trudged up the rusty metal staircase and unlocked his front door, flicking on the light and tossing his keys carelessly onto the kitchen counter.

Tony had given him a place to stay but Steve rarely did so. Tony assumed it was because Steve was being stubborn, that he would rather live in his own personal space, away from the others. This was not completely true. Rather, Steve needed to get away. His mind craved the release of being alone. Not that he enjoyed it, but after being exposed to the overwhelming modern world, Steve relied on solidarity to keep him sane. Here, he could pretend.

He used the bathroom, brushed his already sparkling white teeth, washed his sleepy face, and stripped into his undershirt, leaving his blue jeans on.

The floorboards creaked beneath him as he moved to take a seat behind the round kitchen table. There he pulled out his ancient compass, flipping it open and gazing at the photograph inside. The photograph of Peggy Carter. The last image he had seen before crashing into the ice that had doomed him.

Tick, tick, tick.

The clock hanging on the chipped beige painted wall echoed continuously in the back of his mind.

Oh, how he wished he could go back and hold her once more, to cradle her head in his arms and tell her how much he truly loved her…but, no matter how hard Steve wished, he could not go back.

He visited Peggy once a week, sometimes even more. She would remember and then forget him. The Alzheimer's was only getting worse and Steve knew that it was only a matter of time before she, too, would be taken away from him, into some afterlife or another, and Steve could not help but wish that he were lying wrinkled and timeworn, and holding her hand, right there beside her.

The ticking began to fade. He was exhausted. His heavy eyelids finally flickered closed. He just needed to sleep for a few minutes…a few hours….

The sound of light footfall caused Steve to jerk awake suddenly, wiping the drool from his chin. Whoever it was came closer and closer until they were standing on the other side of his locked door. Steve stood and readied himself for the possibility of an impending fight.

"Who's there?" He demanded, his voice gruff and steady.

"It's me," a woman calmly responded.

"Nat?" Steve wondered aloud, trudging over to the door to look through the peephole.

"Yeah, let me in," she said.

The hallway was shadowy but Steve was able to confirm that it was, in fact, Natasha Romanoff by her height and slight frame. He unbolted the door and stepped aside so that she could enter his tiny apartment.

Natasha eyed up the room, taking everything in as she always did, even though she had been there countless times before. Steve assumed that this was a common attribute for someone who had been raised as an assassin.

"That poor bed of yours has never been slept in, has it?" Natasha jibbed. She had noticed the open compass, the pushed-out chair, and a wet patch where Steve's drool had ran from his gaping mouth and off of his chin. Steve ignored her comment, rolling his eyes.

"Milk?" he offered, opening the almost empty refrigerator and pouring himself a glass.

"I'm good," she responded, making herself at home on one of the two poorly-made wooden chairs. Steve sat opposite her.

"How did your mission go?" he asked, caring but also desperately wanting to ask her the second question.

"It was fine," she said, "a little boring, actually." Then, her expression turned serious, her voice solemn, "I didn't find anything, Steve."

Steve felt his face fall. "Nothing at all?" he begged, a small wisp of hope evident in his desperate voice.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

Steve hung his head, staring down at the spot where his hands rested beside the patterns in the warped wooden tabletop. He had asked Natasha to do a lot of searching since she was the person who went on the most foreign-based missions. Steve knew that someone, somewhere, had to know something.

"Hey," Natasha took his hand, guiding his head upward with the encouraging fingers that she placed underneath his chin, "we'll find him."

Steve's crestfallen eyes locked with hers. Natasha conveyed strength and confidence. He wanted to believe her, but he found it difficult.

"I promise." Natasha vowed, asserting her willingness, and showing Steve that she would not give up on searching. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze. Her hand was cold.

"I need to find him," Steve muttered, "before they do."

Natasha sighed. "The government definitely wouldn't treat him kindly."

Steve agreed. The government would love to get their hands on the person who was involuntarily responsible for many tragic and important deaths.

"Why don't you just ask Tony to help?" Natasha tried coaxing him. "Finding him would be so much easier that way."

Steve shot her a meaningful look. "You know why, Nat."

Natasha nodded. "He killed his parents."

"If he knew….Stark would never forgive him."

"He wouldn't turn him in, Steve."

"You don't know that," Steve snapped back and then collected himself. "He doesn't deserve to be punished; he didn't know what he was doing."

"Surely Tony can attest to that," Natasha openly disagreed. "His record isn't exactly clean."

"He never massacred innocent people."

"His weapons have," Natasha pointed out.

Steve sighed. "That isn't the same thing."

"It's close."

She was trying to assure him. Steve lifted the corner of his mouth, attempting a grateful smile. "Thank you," he stressed, being as sincere as he possibly could. She smiled tenderly back at him but slid her calloused hand away from his, placing it on her lap instead.

"Where do you picture him being?" Natasha asked curiously.

"If he's back to being himself again, he's probably off somewhere stuffing himself with corndogs." Steve chuckled but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

If he was himself again, he would come and find me, the thought tromped through Steve's pulsing head.

Natasha grinned back. "Wherever he is, I'm sure Bucky's fine."

Steve hoped so. He really hoped so.