This fits alongside chapters 70-72 of Roots and Anchors. Steve has been putting up a brave front, but on the inside, he's not doing so well. Megan's encounter with the pickpocket rattled him a lot, which is something Greg picked up on very quickly. The man sees more than he says, as Steve is going to find out. For those that have been asking to see more of Greg and Steve together, I hope this satisfies you. It's challenging to write interactions between two people who do their best to avoid talking too much or letting their guard down!

"What do you want to see first?" Greg asked young Steve as the six of them arrived at the zoo entrance. As promised, young Steve had held his hero's hand on the Metro and made a special effort to talk about what he had been doing at school as a distraction. The boys reminded him so much of himself and Bucky it hurt.

"Don't worry, Seth, you and I are going straight to where you can see the fish." Steve heard Megan say softly as she gave Steve a smile. "Text me when you're ready to meet up for the carousel."

"We will," Steve said, before turning to his namesake. "Well?"

"Elephants."

"An excellent choice," Greg commented. "Do you know the way?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then lead on. We'll be right behind you."

Steve smiled as he fell into step beside Greg, letting young Steve lead them through the zoo grounds. Habit had made him memorize the zoo map before their arrival, so he knew their young leader was heading in the right direction.

"Will you draw the elephants for me?" Steve asked as they reached a part of the trail where one of the elephants was visible. She was pushing a large ball around the exhibit with her trunk.

"That was the promise. Do you want something life-like or cartoonish?"

The boy thought a moment, then scrunched his nose up as he tried to decide. "Both?" he asked hesitantly.

Steve heard Greg chuckle, softly enough that the boy didn't notice, and Steve nodded solemnly. "Sure." He looked around and found a bench partly in the shade. "We'll be sitting over here until you're ready to move on. There's no rush, but I can draw from memory if you want to keep moving."

"Okay."

While they watched, the pachyderm gently nudged the ball aimlessly around the enclosure.

"She looks bored. Do you think they are happy here?" young Steve asked, turning his back to the fence so he could talk to the adults.

"I don't know," Steve answered honestly without looking up from the sketch pad where he was laying down the basic lines of the elephant pushing the ball. She was guiding it towards her cartoon counterpart, which he had yet to sketch. "I do know that they travel large distances every day in the wild and they can't do that here."

"Mom says they're endangered because people keep wrecking the wild places they live."

"That's true. The zoo is certainly safer for them in some ways. They never have to go hungry."

"But it's still a cage. They can't leave," young Steve said thoughtfully before turning back to the fence.

"Sometimes there aren't any good choices." Greg commented. "We don't know how to ask the elephants what they want. Maybe when you grow up you'll figure out a way to do that and then we can let them decide for themselves."

"I once saw an elephant peel an orange with her trunk before she ate it," Steve said. He decided to have the cartoon elephant do just that so she could share the fruit with her friend. It didn't take long for him to outline the body of the first elephant. "She laid it on the ground and used her proboscis to peel it. I never could figure out how she got it started, though."

"What's a pro… pro boxes?"

"Proboscis. It's the fingerlike part at the tip of the trunk."

"You make that look easy," Greg commented as he watched the drawing take shape.

Young Steve came over and looked at the drawing's progress. "Wow. You're so fast."

Steve smiled. "I've had practice. I've been drawing since I was younger than you. Like Seth, I wasn't really able to play with the other kids in my neighborhood much. I was sick a lot and had to stay inside resting. I used that time to draw."

"Did you have any friends?"

"Bucky. He was a year older than me and whenever I got myself into trouble, he got me out. He brought books over to my house and read them to me when I was sick. Everyone liked him. He could have spent his days playing outside with the other kids. Instead, he chose to spend time with me. I remember being really grateful that someone thought I was worth the trouble. He was my best friend for a really long time." Steve resisted the temptation to point out the obvious similarities between young Steve and Bucky. The kid had enough on his shoulders. Watching out for Seth had to be his choice, not something forced upon him by the adults in his life. Instead, he worked on the cartoon elephant handing part of an orange to her friend using her trunk.

"What happened to him? To Bucky?"

"He died in World War II when we were trying to stop some really bad men from hurting a lot of people."

"But you have other friends now, don't you?"

Steve nodded, looking up to find dark brown eyes peering at him with concern. "I do. But none of them are Bucky. Are you ready to move on?"

"Do you mind if we skip the bird house? I'd rather see the cheetahs."

Greg stood up, smiling. "Son, this is your day to pick the animals you want to see while Seth looks at the fish. Lead the way to the cheetahs."

"Why'd you tell him about the train, earlier?" Greg asked quietly as they hiked to the cheetah exhibit. Greg kept his voice low enough that the boy didn't hear him.

"I've seen too many kids at the hospital being told to be brave by their parents. The kids think brave means they're not supposed to be scared. Telling him they actually go together won't help, but knowing I get scared might. He's been through enough."

Greg just nodded his agreement. "How did Bucky die on the train?" When Steve shot him a questioning look, Greg just raised his eyebrow. "He's been in your thoughts a lot today. I figure they're related."

Greg and Steve settled on a bench near the cheetah exhibit where the cats were dozing lazily in the sun. The atmosphere had changed during the walk up and Steve didn't care for the shift. He didn't want to talk about Bucky right now. Greg was right: he was on his mind, the day he died was lurking beneath the surface, stalking him. Steve opened his sketch pad and tried to capture the look of the nearest cat curled up in a puddle of sunshine. Blunt claws were partly retracted but still visible on the padded feet. Steve took note of the claws, thinking they looked more like those of a dog, and made a mental note to research the difference later.

"So what happened to him?"' Greg asked softly.

"He died." Steve tried to keep sketching, tried not to let Greg's question rattle him. He'd faced the truth of that day a long time ago. There was nothing Greg could say to change it.

"I'm not minimizing that. But I also think there's more to the story. There's a reason why it's still eating at you."

Steve felt Greg's hand on his back, the touch lessening the harshness of the words. It was the touch of a parent, the tone offering no option but to answer. Defeated, Steve tucked the pencil away where he wouldn't break it and shut the sketchpad. Softly, he relayed the story he'd only told twice before: once, in his report to the military the day of the accident, and the second, when Rebecca had asked. Telling it didn't get any easier. Wasn't it supposed to get easier? How could it? The ending was always the same.

Steve kept his head down and eyes shut, fighting to contain his reaction. This wasn't the place to break down. He was out in public and letting his guard down wasn't an option, especially when he had two boys in his care.

"I can certainly see how that would weigh a man down. That doesn't mean you need to can't learn to carry it better. Right now, the load's off balance and rubbing you raw."

"It's my fault."

"Maybe it is. I wasn't there, so I can't really say. But knowing who was responsible doesn't change the outcome."

"Shoulda been me."

"What are the odds that if it had been you, he'd be sitting here saying the same thing?"

Steve winced a bit at that. "Ya'sound like you knew him."

"No, and that's my loss. What would he tell you, if he were here now?"

"Stop feeling guilty. Move on."

"Is that so?"

Steve's head snapped up and he looked at Greg in shock, only to find the man smiling gently at him.

Greg squeezed his shoulder. "You sound like a parrot. I didn't ask what you're supposed to do. I asked you what Bucky would say. Now, I never met him, but I'd have figured he had a bit more Brooklyn in him and a lot less parrot." He stood up. "Looks like we're ready to move on. It seems that our young friend has realized that sleeping cats are boring to watch.

Steve mutely followed them as young Steve talked excitedly about orangutans using overhead cables to travel around the zoo and led the charge towards the primate house. Greg kept the boy busy, allowing Steve to trail behind them, his head spinning with thoughts he didn't care to examine.

Steve settled himself on another bench, this time, laying down the outline of a gorilla. Greg sat beside him, occasionally glancing at the sketchpad but mostly watching the primates and the boy at the railing. It made it easier for Steve to ignore him and get lost in his own thoughts.

The defeated sorrow in the gorilla's gaze was all too familiar, too easily transferred to the sketchpad. As the afternoon wore on, Steve found himself liking the zoo less and less. Maybe it was projection on his part, but he kept seeing prisoners in Azzano where others saw animals on exhibit. Dum Dum, graceful despite his bulk, was in the elephant's enclosure. Denier, his gaze sharp and knowing, looked at him from the gorilla cage. Bucky, the caged tiger, lithe and…. Steve bowed his head, willing the thoughts to stop.

"It's okay to mull it over. It will come to you. Maybe not today, maybe not this week, but you'll figure it out," Greg finally said. "Maybe you should stop thinking in words and try sketching it all out."

Steve looked at his hands. They were the hands that had failed Bucky. "Even when I had nothing I had Bucky. I don't know how to get over losing him."

"Who says you should?" Greg asked blandly as he stood up to follow their young charge to the next exhibit.

For the second time that afternoon, Greg rendered Steve speechless. Ever since he'd woken from the ice, he'd been surrounded by so-called experts who told him to embrace his new life, grieve his past, and move on.

Megan had been the one exception. She'd never pushed him one way or the other. Sure, she'd helped him adjust to this modern world, but she encouraged him to talk about his past. Barely a day went by without Bucky being mentioned in a conversation, as if he were still around and not dead and his remains left to rot in the wilderness decades ago. The Howling Commandos were as often the topic of conversation as the Avengers. Megan talked about all his friends the same way instead of categorizing them by living and dead.

Now Greg was telling him he wasn't expected to get over the life he'd lost, which was something Steve found shocking. Greg had never suggested seeking closure or other buzzwords Steve had discovered during a desperate internet search one bleak, early morning when his grief had been especially raw. Greg's blasé comment left Steve shaken. Was he really supposed to spend the rest of his life feeling like this?

Maybe that was a fitting punishment for allowing Bucky to die.

His phone rang and he answered it blindly, barely aware he'd set down his pencil to thumb the device on. "Rogers."

"Steve, Megan was attacked by a would-be thief. She has him pinned to the floor, but if you ask me, she seems a bit confused about what to do next aside from asking me to call you."

"En route," he snapped and shut the phone off. He was on his feet and ten paces away before he remembered he wasn't alone. "Wait here," he called over his shoulder to Greg before leaping over a stroller that was blocking his path. He'd lost too much already. He couldn't lose Megan, too.

"Who are you?" he growled as he shoved Megan's assailant up against the nearest wall.

Megan slipped her hand into his free one, calming the wildness within him. The gesture reassured him she was unharmed while she passed him a slip of paper. Oh. He locked his fear and rage away. He'd let them out later, much later, when sandbags in the gym would bear the brunt of his emotions and there would be no witnesses to his weakness. He swapped the paper for the phone in his jeans pocket and called Hill. Megan was okay. It was time for the Captain to take charge.

After his assistance at the car accident had gone viral, Hill had "requested" that he alert her to any other acts of assisting the public that might attract similar attention. Given the number of cell phones he saw recording them, this certainly qualified. Besides, it was fun to rattle her with any actions that deviated from the caricature Captain America had become after seven frozen decades. He wasn't supposed to have opinions, much less a sense of humor. He didn't try to keep the smile from his voice as he talked to her.

"Hill, it's Rogers," Steve said into the phone. He didn't even wait for her to acknowledge him before continuing, "I'm just doing what you asked and keeping you informed. Megan was targeted by a pickpocket at the zoo and put Widow's training to work. I'm holding him against the wall as we speak.

"You're making my weekend more complicated, Captain."

He didn't answer. He wasn't about to apologize for this, though he did wink at Megan.

"Was the assault in any way successful? Is Dr. Buchwald harmed?"

"No, he didn't get anything…. she's fine."

"I'm sending a car to take you two home. They can be there in five minutes."

"Okay, but make it for six in about a half hour. We're not leaving just yet."

"Six passengers?" Maria repeated, and Steve could imagine her looking at the ceiling in search of an explanation she knew he wasn't going to provide. "I'll change the dispatch orders to a van. The police are on their way. You need to learn how to keep a low profile, Captain."

Again, he allowed his silence to speak for him and disconnected the call. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted a puppet soldier, they'd thawed the wrong guy. A sideways glance at Megan brought a new smile to his face. She was shaken, yes, but her face was also flushed with pride at taking down her assailant. And the twinkle in her eye said she had an idea of how to handle this from here, pending his agreement. With a slight twitch of the corner of his mouth, he gave permission and mentally stepped back to watch the show. The sandbags weren't going anywhere.

Once the boys were full of ice cream and happily riding the carousel, Steve moved away from the group and tried to get his thoughts back under control. The adrenaline rush was over and the crash was never fun. He was surprised with how severe it was, given he was used to much smaller crashes after far more dangerous missions. Maybe it was because he was already on edge. Or maybe it was because Megan had been targeted again. He closed his eyes, fighting to slow his breathing. Everything was fine now. Steve and Seth were oblivious to the tension the adults around them felt. The only cell phones he saw in use were held by parents recording their kids as the rode horses in an endless circle of music and laughter.

Greg slid into place beside him at the railing, pretending to watch the carousel's riders. "Given how spooked you are, I'd say there's a lot more going on than either of you have told us."

Steve nodded slightly. He knew he was a lousy liar and he wasn't about to lie to Greg and Kathy. He'd misdirect, evade, and even use security clearances to dodge some topics, but he wouldn't outright lie to them. That was doubly true when it related to Megan. He kept his voice low and tone casual as he answered, "Natasha and Clint are working on it but haven't found anything yet."

Greg made a slight hum in his throat but otherwise looked like a doting grandparent. "Professionals, then. Is this in any way related to Tony Stark buying the house next door?"

Steve shot him a sharp glance.

Greg smiled slightly, eyes twinkling despite the seriousness of their discussion. "Kathy hasn't figured it out yet."

Steve scanned the crowd and then looked back at the boys. They were so innocent, lost in the joy of the moment. "Threats were made… the security teams are a precaution at this point. There's another at Carl's trailer park. Natasha assures me that these cases can take time to crack open, but she and Clint will get it done." Steve sighed and looked down, lowering his voice even more. "I hate keeping secrets, but in this case, it's for the long game. When it's all over, we'll sit down and tell you everything."

"Does Megan know all if it?"

Steve nodded once, slightly.

"Good. I'm not telling Kathy. She'll just worry to no good end. And the less the rest of us know, the less we compromise the long game as you call it." He paused as he shifted his arms on the railing. "How worried are you?"

Steve closed his eyes for a moment and suppressed a shudder. "I can't let myself go there. We're doing everything we can. If anything happened to Megan, I'm not sure I'd survive it. I don't think I have another fresh start in me."

Greg put his hand on his back. "I've come back from that kind of loss, you know. When my first wife died, it felt like they buried me, too. But I knew she wanted me to keep going. Seeing where I ended up, I'm glad I did. That didn't in any way make it easy getting here. No matter what happens, you're not alone, Steve. And Megan won't go down without a fight."

He smiled wistfully. "I think the universe is paying me back for what I put Bucky through. Her willingness to fight terrifies me."

"And yet you don't have a team of bodyguards surrounding her."

"We know that's coming in some form soon enough," he said, alluding to their upcoming marriage, when his fame alone would require some level of protection for her. "We can't do too much and tip our hand. I also know a cage would destroy her. It's better to empower her to fight for herself. I just hope what we're doing is enough."

"Life is risk. That can be a blessing, too. When you know how fragile happiness can be, you really appreciate it when you've got it and cling to the memory in the times you are lost in the valley of despair. The sunshine always finds you in the end."

Steve wished he could agree. Right now, the shadows were so large and looming that only Megan seemed able keep them at bay. If her light went out... Steve knew he'd be lost forever.

The nightmares started that night and got much worse after Kathy and Greg left. It was all too familiar the way he'd wake sweating in his bed reaching for Bucky as he fell. He could taste the bile in his throat as he watched Bucky fall. Again. The wind was no longer cold as the train carried him further and further was too numbed by grief. All he could see was endless snow. He blinked back tears. He had a mission; Bucky had died in this fight. Steve owed it to him to see the mission through to the end.

Steve flung back the covers of his bed and stumbled to the living room. It might be July, but he still felt the snowy chill of that day in his bones. A glance at the clock told him he'd been asleep for barely an hour. Since waking Sunday morning, he'd gotten about four hours of sleep total. That wasn't enough, even for him. He could feel his reaction times slowing. His balance was off. There was no way he could return to field work in this state. There was no hiding the dark circles under his eyes, especially when working with an agency full of spies.

Resigned, Steve put on a pot of coffee and curled up on the couch with his sketch pad. Every night, he ended up here, sketching pictures of Bucky on the train. He drew without conscious thought, just let his feelings guide the pencil lead as the same image took shape again and again. Bucky's hand just out of reach. Bucky's look of terror as the metal railing gave way and he fell backwards. The endless snow.

Steve turned the page and started again. Snow. A deep ravine. Icy wind outside the train. The tailored lines of Bucky's coat. The gun in his hands was incongruous with the wings.

Wings?

Steve blinked, coming back to full awareness as he looked at the latest sketch. Bucky's expression was one of murderous determination as he flew up from the ravine he'd fallen in, soaring up towards Steve with a rifle in his arms. It was the same rifle he'd carried out of Azzano, walking proudly beside him as the marched back to the camp. His wings were glorious with white feathers that gleamed with silver highlights. Steve could see it so clearly even though the sketch was done in simple graphite. The piercing blue eyes looked across decades, challenging him with the unspoken question of what the hell Steve thought he was doing with his life.

"I haven't a clue, Buck," Steve whispered to the paper. All he knew right now was that the sketch was begging to be painted. He needed to capture this moment in oils.

He was on his third pot of coffee when the alarm clock sounded from his bedroom. Steve wiped his hands on a rag and looked at the progress he'd made on the background. At least he had something to show for another sleepless night. Hopefully, he'd be so tired tonight from training that the nightmares would leave him alone. "I have to hope, Buck," he told the sketch tiredly. "I can't let them down." He wanted to say more, to vocalize his frustration that he was constantly rotated around, never getting to know the other agents. Mindful of the bugs in his apartment, he held his tongue. Maybe it was better this way. No matter how good the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were, they'd never be the Howling Commandos. Maybe it was a kindness on Fury's part that had him using Steve as a cog in a wheel, never getting too close to teammates that would die in the field.

His stomach growled and pulled him from his thoughts. He needed to hurry if he was going to get a shower and still have time to cook breakfast.

"Bucky!" Steve shouted as he reached for his friend. The metal railing bent under his weight. "Just hold on!"

"Steve!" Megan screamed behind him.

Steve turned and saw Megan clinging to a thin bar. As the train rounded a curve, the movement flung her body away from the railcar, further bending the fragile handhold. "Hold on!" he begged.

He was paralyzed as he leaned out the opening. They were both in danger of falling. He had to choose who to save first. How was he supposed to choose? "I'm coming!" he promised both of them, whipping his gaze from one to the other. He blinked and suddenly Megan was with Bucky. They were hanging off the same railing and it gave way under their combined weight before Steve shook off his paralysis. They held hands as they fell, faces turned away from him. He'd failed them both and they were both too disgusted to even look at him now. He watched as they disappeared into the blowing snow, their final resting place framed with his outstretched, empty fingers.

Steve woke up sobbing and stumbled to the bathroom just in time to surrender to the dry heaves. The taste of bile filled his throat, burning the healing cuts on his lip. Training today hadn't gone well. The trainers were pleased, either pretending to be oblivious or too inexperienced with critiquing super soldiers to notice Steve's numerous errors during the exercise. While he'd still won the mock battle that pitted him against a team of agents, he'd taken far longer to achieve the goal and accumulated far more injuries than were his norm. He was compromised and no one knew it.

He curled up on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor and considered his options. Staying here wasn't one of them. If he spent one more night alone, he'd succumb to madness. He was too tired to go to the gym. Besides, beating sandbags wasn't going to help this time.

He needed Megan. He needed to see she was alive and safe. She'd hold him and help chase away the chill in his bones. She'd smile and brush the hair back from his eyes and tell him it was okay to cry while she kept watch. He'd bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe in her scent, forgetting for a moment how much he'd lost and how alone he was. He needed her like he needed oxygen. Maybe he'd even be able to sleep for a bit if he went to her.

It was embarrassing, humiliating, really, to need someone to hold his hand so he could sleep. He was a grown man. He was Captain America, for crying out loud. He'd fought the both the Nazis and aliens from another dimension. He should be able to sleep by himself in his own bed.

The sad truth was, he couldn't. Not tonight. At least Megan wouldn't tease him about it.

As he packed a change of clothes so he could leave for work from her place, he considered running. She only lived a few miles away. The rhythm of his feet on the pavement might clear his head. But another day in the rugged terrain of the training base might make returning home on foot unwise. He was still nursing sprains from yesterday. Resigned to being practical, he grabbed his bike helmet before strapping his shield to his back on his way out the door.

He locked her apartment door with silent relief and gave Jarvis a half-hearted wave into the camera that monitored Megan's apartment as he dropped his bag on the dining room table and laid his shield on top of it.

He padded down the short hallway and carefully opened her bedroom door. Streetlights shone around the edges of the window shade, casting her room in a dim light. He stood there for a long moment, just watching Megan sleep, and felt the tension slide from his shoulders. She was safe.

Closing the door behind him, he quickly stripped to his boxers and stepped softly towards the bed. Megan roused, smiled at him, and flipped the corner of the blankets back in invitation. He lay down beside her, let her curl up against him with her head on his shoulder, and fell asleep.

When the alarm blared the next morning, it came as a shock. He'd slept soundly for almost three straight hours. The haze that had clouded his thinking for days wasn't as thick. The chill of winter ice was a memory against his skin, not aching in his bones.

Megan prodded him to talk but provided only comfort, not judgment, when he confessed the nightmare. She let him keep his dignity despite his weakness. Her caring touch drove his shame further beneath his skin and he pushed aside the memories of the night to more practical matters of getting ready for work. Now that he had gotten some rest, he found himself looking forward to training again today. He'd never stop appreciating the pleasure of pushing his healthy body to new limits.

If sleep was a drug, Megan was an addiction. The former, he managed without pretty well. The latter? He needed her to function. For reasons he'd never understand, she seemed determined to keep him around. She kept him sane. All he could offer her was love. He could only hope it would be enough for her in the coming years.

That night, he sat on Megan's couch and sketched out different ideas for something to give Janice. Nothing seemed to hit the right tone and he finally tossed the sketchpad on the coffee table in disgust.

"Come to bed," she said softly, tugging at his hand. Had she really been puttering in the kitchen just waiting for him to reach his limit? Apparently so.

Wordlessly, he nodded and let her lead him to the bedroom. She tucked him in like a child before retreating to the bathroom to brush her teeth and observe her own nightly routine.

A few minutes later, she curled up against him, head on his shoulder, and traced her index finger down his sternum. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going through your head."

"I don't know how to let go."

"It's not a singular event, Steve. You just try to move forward every day and you're doing that. To be blunt, I don't think anyone really stops grieving. You just learn to bear it after awhile." Stroked his brow. "Have you thought about going to a grief support group? I'll go with you."

Steve shook his head. "I have you."

"I'm not enough."

Those words froze his soul, but she pressed her finger to his lips before he could argue.

"I'm humbled and grateful that you came to me. I recognize that it's really hard for you to let anyone in. But I can't be your entire support system, Steve. It's not healthy for either of us. I'll do anything I can to help you, including telling you truths you don't want to hear. This is one of them: you need more than me.

He rolled onto his side and pressed his face into her neck. "I'm not ready for that yet."

"That's okay. I know even coming to be me was a big step. I'll let it go for now. But I'm going to look into some groups. As I understand them, you don't have to talk. Sometimes, just listening to others at other stages of the grief journey can help. I know they have strict confidentiality rules. I'll do some checking so when you are ready to take that step, we know where to go. If we need to have nondisclosure agreements ready as extra insurance, I'll find out."

He sighed. "Okay."

"Right now, what's hurting the most?"

"I just keep waiting for the nightmare to be over. Do you know how many times a day I think to myself, 'I can't wait to tell Bucky about this?' Then I remember and it hits me all over again. It's been two years since I lost him and it's a fresh as yesterday."

"Steve, it might stay that way. You told me before your memory got a lot better after the serum. You no longer have things get fuzzy as time passes. There's great pain in that, I can tell. But there's a gift there, too."

"I don't see it."

"Can you draw his face? Remember his voice? Do you remember the smell of his skin as you huddled together under too thin blankets to try to keep warm?"

He nodded against her, sobbing a bit as he did so. He remembered all of it. That's why it hurt so much.

"That's the gift, honey. He's still with you, looking over your shoulder and dragging you out of trouble. You know every facial expression, every shifting tone of his voice, and you don't have to worry about losing them, ever. It's a heavy gift, but that is a gift. The nightmare from last night was just a dream. I'm here. You're safe. Now try to sleep. Things will look better in the morning."

He watched in horror as Bucky fell from the train. The metal railing gave way before Steve had been able to reach him. Steve froze, his was stretched out, reaching into the abyss, as he watched Bucky fall.

"You're being stupid, Punk," Bucky said as he hauled Steve away from the opening and shoved him down inside the train. "Keep hanging out the door and you'll fall. I did."

"Bucky?" Steve fell back on his butt, gaping up at the vengeful soldier who stood looming over him. His silver wings were neatly folded behind his back.

Bucky grinned, rolled his eyes, and looked back at Steve. "You've known me nearly all your life, you big dumb jerk. Did you seriously just forget my name?" Bucky shook his head and instead shoved something at Steve. "You dropped something back there. Try to hold onto it better this time."

It hit him in the chest but vanished when he tried to catch it. He'd failed Bucky again.

Bucky shook his head in mock disgust, but pressed his hand to Steve's chest, pushing something into him with warm fingers placed right over his heart. "It's hope, Stevie. You can't hold it in your hands like you've been trying to. You need to start living a life rich enough for both of us." He held his hand out and Steve let himself be pulled to his feet. "First, though, you need to go kick some Nazi ass. And for Pete's sake, take some piloting classes. Your flying skills are terrible."

Bucky swatted at the green bird that was flying around his head. "Damn parrot. Someone needs to shoot that dumb beast," he grumbled as he dove through the open side of the train, spreading his wings out as he did so. He called over his shoulder, "I mean it, Steve. Learn to fly and you won't catch grief for skipping the parachute!" Then he was gone, leaving Steve alone on the train as it raced through the mountains.

"G'morning," Megan mumbled sleepily as soon as he'd shut off the alarm. "How you feeling?"

Steve hugged Megan to him as he realized he actually felt somewhat rested. "Better. No nightmares." His brow furrowed as he remembered fragments of a dream about the train. This time Bucky had been talking to him and was threatening to shoot an annoying, fluorescent-green crow. "At least, I don't think I had any nightmares."

"Then I'd say it's a better day already. I'm starved, so you should get your shower first.

Steve nodded and watched her get out of bed and head towards the kitchen. His memory of the dream was fragmented and hazy, but he remembered Bucky saying he needed to live a rich life. Maybe that was the only way forward. Nothing would bring Bucky back, but Megan was right about how well Steve remembered him. Maybe, if he tried to live in the moment, he'd be able to use his imaginings of Bucky's reactions to help keep him close. Letting go of the past had failed, so maybe it was time to hold on tightly to the memories and let the voices of his past guide him in the present.

It wasn't difficult to imagine what Bucky would say about him moping in bed while a brilliant, gorgeous woman was moving around the apartment making breakfast for them.

Smiling for the first time in what seemed like ages, Steve was ready to face the day with something resembling contentment filling his chest.

A/N. There are times I am insanely jealous of the painters and other visual artists who can bring the images I see in my head to life. I'd give my right arm to be able to paint Angel Bucky with a rifle soaring up out of the canyon, or sketch Meagan riding a horse bareback as it gallops down a beach at sunset. Sigh. You'll just have to imagine along with me.