Chapter 6: Reasonable Hour

He tries to visit Peggy twice more, but the second time she's being visited by family and the third she doesn't recognize him. He's just lucky that, in her addled state, she doesn't even think to panic until after he's on his way out.

Reminding himself that she's comfortable and well cared for, that she's lived a long and fulfilling life, can't erase the pangs in his chest at seeing her like this. HYDRA wasn't kind to him for the time they had him, but time itself isn't kind to anyone.

What does Steve do? Does he stay when her memory fails, endure the trauma of her rediscovering he's alive all over again, and comfort her through the shock? Seems like the kind of self-flagellating thing he'd do to keep from leaving Peggy to deal with it alone. Yeah. He's the type to stay.

Bucky's not. Maybe he used to be—he draws a blank trying to remember anything he can compare to this—but not now. He's a coward and he hates himself for it, but he's not prepared to comfort a distraught Peggy who's struggling to tell memory from reality. Some days he can barely do it himself.

Cowardice aside, it feels like a sign: Peggy told him to get on with it, so the universe is unsubtly making it clear that's the only thing she'll say on the matter.

In his newest hotel room—easily the nicest place he's stayed at—he sits by the desk and toys with his pen while he slowly spins in his chair. On the desk, an empty piece of paper stares up at him. Outside, traffic flows by with the occasional punctuation of birdsong from the feeder on a nearby tree branch. It's peaceful. A good environment for focus.

Too bad he can't think of what to put on the page. It's not right; he's written a dozen letters to Steve, but now that he's actually gonna post one, he can't put pen to paper.

He stops spinning, tosses the pen onto the desk, and scrubs a hand through his hair. Several strands get caught between the metal plates and leave his scalp tingling with pain when they're pulled out. He sighs and spends a minute picking them out. The last lingers between his forefinger and thumb. It really is longer now. Too long, in all honesty.

In the bathroom, he scrutinizes himself. His beard and long hair pulled into a bun make a pretty good disguise even if he isn't wearing a hat. A flannel shirt is all he needs to pass as what is apparently a "hipster." The word means almost nothing to him, but it breeds assumptions in other people that render him even more anonymous. He's just one more man trying to match a trend. Nothing to care about. Certainly not a hundred-year-old war hero turned traitor turned…something.

He doesn't want to go to Steve in disguise. He wants to go as himself. As Bucky Barnes. And even though he pulls off the hipster look pretty damn well, it's not what he wants.

Plus, shaving and getting a good haircut are fantastic ways to procrastinate his letter.

Shaving his beard is easy enough to do alone, so he puts that off for the sake of maintaining anonymity a little longer while he tracks down a decent barber with open slots. He lands on a dingy old shop stuck between an antiques place and hardware store, but though the building is worn the inside is clean.

The barber is a guy maybe half Bucky's technical age named Michael. Michael, Bucky learns over the course of the cut, is many things: skilled in his craft, fascinated by traffic engineering, weak to spicy foods, exceptionally talkative, and patently disinterested in comprehending Bucky's own lack of interest in his life story. Most alarmingly, though, he's a father. A father with a son who is a very big World War II buff.

"You think it's all well and good to have a kid with a particular interest, right?" Snip, snip. "Just buy 'im a book or a game or whatever'll keep him occupied two times a year—birthday and Christmas, I mean—"

"Right," Bucky interjects, because it's been a few minutes since he last reminded Michael he can speak.

"—but doing that for almost two decades starts to slim down the options! I mean, three years in a row we got him a book he already read. And we preordered the last one! At this point my wife's gone to his boyfriend to get a suggestion for something else or at least a list of what he's already got so it doesn't happen again, but lord, I never thought it would get this bad."

"There's the Smithsonian exhibit."

"Bah, he's already been four times." Snip, snip. "Although, something from the gift shop, maybe…there's an idea."

A way worse idea pops into Bucky's head, probably scared up from the depths by the static-inducing closeness of the scissors to Bucky's head. The experience of sit in chair while person messes with head is not one that induces mental calm. So the bad idea surfaces and Bucky has to bite down on his tongue to keep from voicing it. How about an autograph from Bucky Barnes?

Sure, he's no Steve Rogers, but that exhibit and his escapades across the country—plus the way this guy describes his son's obsession with the time—have made it clear anything authentically related to the Howling Commandos is worth a pretty penny.

Snip, snip. He tenses, then forces himself to relax and hopes Michael didn't notice the lapse.

This isn't working. He's a ball of nerves and it's only because of the traffic outside that Michael hasn't heard the plates on his arm shifting around. But the haircut is only halfway done. In desperation, Bucky reaches for the calm, the cold, the control. What he can get of the Soldier without getting the Soldier.

The world sharpens, crystallizes, and goes jagged at the edges, but the static disappears. He focuses on breathing. It's a tightrope; one wrong move and he's gone. But while he's walking that line, he's calm. He responds to Michael on autopilot. Inhale, exhale. Like he's sighting down a target and steadying his aim, he's steadying himself. Behind a scope, time doesn't matter. He can wait out anything.

And then Michael hands him a mirror. "I'll spin you around so you can look at the back and tell me how you feel."

He spins. He looks. He sees the back of his own head, finally feels the draft from the sudden lack of long hair shielding his neck. He's got the small mirror in his left hand so he brings up his right to run it through the scratchy strands that get a bit longer higher up on his head.

"Looks good," he remembers to say.

"Great. If there's nothing else, I think you'll be all set." He gets spun around again and stares directly at the ghost in the mirror. Seventy years bend into infinity and snap back into the pair of blue eyes boring into his, framed by brown hair styled in a modern take on what he had during the war. It's almost identical, just a bit shorter. The only thing stopping his reality from breaking is the beard still covering the lower half of his face, and he's immensely thankful to his past self for saving the full regression for the privacy of his own room.

"That's all, I think."

He follows Michael to the register.

"You know," Michael's thoughtful tone while he rings up the cash Bucky hands him has Bucky instantly on edge, "you kinda look like that one guy." He snaps his fingers a few times, brows furrowed. "You know, the commando. Ah, hell. My son would know."

Two options lay in front of Bucky: one, say he doesn't know and hope the guy lets it drop. Two, play into it, laugh it off, and control how it ends.

"You're not the first guy to tell me that. Half the reason I grew it out is 'cause everyone kept accusing me of being some sorta time traveller."

"Ah, got annoying, did it? Sorry."

"Nah, I'm not bothered by it anymore."

"Is that the reason for the cut?"

"Just figured it's about time I stopped running away from that guy."

"You're a braver man than me. Getting told I look like my brother can get tiring enough, can't imagine comparisons to, to…god, what was his name?"

"Bucky. His name's Bucky."

"Right! Thank you. Yes, Bucky. Bucky Barnes, right? Ah, that would've bothered me all day."

"Happy to help."

He finishes paying, leaves, and tries not to crawl right out of his own skin.

Shaving takes way longer than he thought it would. In part because he's never let his facial hair get this long before, in part because his hand won't stop shaking. After the fourth nick he takes a break, blotting up the blood with a spare tissue while he waits for the minor wounds to close up.

It feels odd to do, but he opts to try with his left hand on the next attempt. A couple more nicks, but that's just from inexperience with that hand, not because it's shaking. After a minute of adjustment, it's actually quite easy. Hairs fall from his face to gather in the sink, blurring to dark blobs in the edges of his vision. Bit by bit, plane by plane, until the last bit of brown is cut away. He sets the razor aside, grabs and dampens a hand towel, and washes his face clean of errant hairs and leftover cream. The feeling of cold cloth on the lower half of his face, the unprotected lower half, sends a prickle down his spine.

When he brings the towel away from his face, he finally forces himself to look in the mirror.

He'd said he was here. Now, the proof rests just on the other side of the mirror. He reaches out, reconsiders, and runs his fingers along the planes of his face. He'd thought, after everything HYDRA did, there would be some kind of permanent mark. Some beacon in his features that told the world he was dangerous, wrong, broken. Something that labeled him not Bucky.

But it's just his face. Two eyes, nose, mouth, cheekbones and jaw and all. A disbelieving little grin tugs at his lips and yeah, there's that little bit of life he was looking for.

Maybe he can write that letter after all.

"Have you ever noticed," Morita muses from his spot against the most intact wall of their bombed-out hidey-hole, "that every mission where we have air support always goes far more sideways than when we don't?"

Falsworth finishes tying the bandage around his leg and pats it gently, making Morita wince. "I think that's just the morphine talking."

"No, 'cause you didn't give me nearly enough."

"We have to ration them, we'll be here a while yet. Barnes, any movement?"

Bucky sweeps his rifle scope across the field of tents, tanks, and too many soldiers between them and the rest of their forces. "No. Looks like they've set up camp for the night. No one coming this way, either."

Dugan snorts. "Yeah, 'cause they think this place is haunted. Pansies. Can't believe that haunted house plan actually spooked 'em that bad."

"I would've liked it better if that officer had better trigger discipline," grouses Morita. "In a room full of mirrors, he finds the man."

"Buck up, Jim." Dugan tips up his hat. "At least it didn't hit anything important."

"Dunno, I find my leg pretty important most days."

"Doesn't look like anyone's realized we tampered with their supplies, either," Bucky notes. He has his sights trained on one of the larger supply caches, currently dusted with a nigh-invisible powder that Howard had merely said not to let touch their skin under any circumstances. Either it's baby powder and he's thinking he's the funniest guy in the world or it's something Bucky really, really doesn't want to know the details about.

"That's good." Steve checks his watch. "We've still got another two hours before sunset."

"Hurry up and wait," grouses Jones with mock irritation. "Next time, we should plan to arrive on time."

"I'd like to give 'fashionably late' a try," says Morita. "I don't think I'll make our next dance on time at the moment."

"Can you even dance?" asks Dugan. "You never do it when we're in England."

"I don't know English dances."

"They're quite easy to pick up," Falsworth offers. "When you don't have a bullet in your leg."

"Noted, thanks." He shifts a little and winces when it jostles his leg. "Ugh. Why couldn't I have a fancy shield?"

Steve smiles wryly. "The shield doesn't do much if they're shooting at your legs and you don't have the reflexes to move it."

He's got his back to all of them, still keeping watch, but Bucky allows himself a small smile as their banter washes over him. They're a good group. Even in their current situation, they can crack jokes. Besides, watching Steve talk to and laugh with them is a balm on Bucky's soul. He'd tried before but never found Steve a group that accepted him for who he was. The Howlies may've met him as Captain America first, but now they liked Steve Rogers. At least when he wasn't making them keep up physical training between missions.

If not for the war, for HYDRA capturing them all at Azzano, he never would've gotten to know them like this. It's an odd thought that leaves an equally odd taste in his mouth. He's not grateful for that hellhole, but hey. Silver linings and all that. Maybe in a better world he coulda gotten to know them somewhere other than a HYDRA prison camp.

"—u, Barnes?"

Bucky's focus shifts from the group of soldiers wandering past the supply crates to Dugan. "Say again?"

"Dernier went and jinxed us all by asking what we're gonna do when this is over. It's your turn."

"You have not explained 'jinxing'," complains Dernier. Jones leans over and says something quickly in French, which judging from the grins they share, is less about jinxing and more about Dugan.

"Oh, I dunno." He puts his eye back on the scope. The wandering Germans have stopped at their camp's pit. Definitely not worth watching that, so he settles on a steady sweep across the camp perimeter. "I guess traveling Europe could be pretty nice. Y'know, seeing these places when they're not ash and rubble."

"What about your family?" Jim gestures at Bucky's pack off to one side. "You write them so often, I thought you would go straight back."

Bucky's again grateful he's not facing them; he knows his expression would make Steve worry. In his stomach is something heavy and dark. He goes home, and then what? Those first days after making Europe in the 107th, when men started dying, when Bucky knew he would be next, that was all he wanted: to go home, hug his mom, his sisters, and hang out with Steve like they used to. Now? Steve's a super soldier and Bucky's…Bucky's not right. Seen too much and still seeing more than anyone else on the team except Steve. There's something in him, in his veins and muscles and bones, something that he never wants anywhere near his family.

"I'll visit."

"C'mon, Barnes. Really?"

"I'll go with you," Steve offers. Bucky glances at him. "Around Europe. It sounds fun. I've never been on a hike before—outside of marching, I mean."

"Probably more comfortable without pounds of ammo and weapons weighing you down," muses Dugan. "For those of us without the body of a god, I mean. Can't say just walking and talking is my idea of a good time, though."

"Your idea of a good time is finding the bottom of your tenth stein of disgusting American beer," Falsworth sniffs.

"It's a plan," Bucky tells Steve while Dugan and Falsworth get into it behind him. Steve smiles and nods. Bucky turns back to the camp before Steve can see the emptiness in his eyes.

This thing in him. Whatever Zola did—it made it worse, but it's always been there. Always been getting men killed around him from the second he saw combat. A darkness that gets bigger every time he looks at it, a bloodlust that keeps his hands shaking until his finger settles on the trigger.

He doesn't want that anywhere near Steve, either. Not once the war is won. Steve deserves better than that.

When he looks through the scope again, though, it's just black on the other side. He blinks but when his eyes open, it's to the sight of his hotel room ceiling.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" he asks whatever piece of himself decided digging up that memory was a good idea right now. He asks it knowing he's not going to get an answer.

Not for the first time, Steve bemoans his lack of extra hands. His keys manage to avoid slipping out of his grip for once, but his grocery bag's gentle depositing on the counter is a bit more of an interrupted fall. His mail, as a consequence, slips out from under his arm and spills across the floor.

He pushes the grocery bags away from the edge of the counter and sets to picking up what was scattered. Junk mail, junk mail, a catalogue for…golf? Natasha must be messing with him again, signing him up for random subscriptions. At least golf is better than the chicken coop monthly she found last time. Everything is addressed to either Steven Rogers or Current Resident, all except for a small envelope nearly hidden between two catalogues. That one is addressed to Steve Rogers, and the return address—

Steve's world narrows to the letter to the exclusion of all else. Tossing the rest of his mail aside aside, he tears the envelope open and quickly scans the contents.

"Hey pal," it reads. "There's no good way to do this with a letter, so you'll have to excuse how short it is. I figure this is the kind of thing we hash out face-to-face." It went on, but not for long—just telling Steve a time and a place, with the hope that the letter actually made it to him in time for it to matter.

It's taking most of his self-control to not crumple the paper. Bucky. Bucky. After everything, he opens with a "Hey pal." Steve leans against the counter and can't decide if he wants to laugh or cry, so he does a bit of both. Then, since Natasha is still out with Fury tying up loose ends, he dials Sam.

"Hey, a reasonable hour this time. What's up?"

"He sent me a letter."

He doesn't even have to elaborate on who. "What's it say?"

"He called me 'pal.'" Hearing how frayed his own voice sounds, he pauses to take a deep breath. "Told me to meet him at a," he glances over the letter again like he doesn't already have it memorized, "a local park, two days from now. It's right nearby. He's probably here, Sam, in D.C., right now."

"Okay. How about we slow down for a sec. I gotta finish my shift here at the VA, but let's meet up after." Steve winces, a bit of guilt flaring for interrupting Sam at his job. The guy is too nice to just ignore one of his calls. "Should only be a few hours. There's a café I'm pretty sure Natasha never took you to I think you'll like."

"That sounds great. Thanks, Sam."

"Anytime."

Steve hangs up, picks the letter back up, and stares at it as though that'll somehow portal him straight to Bucky. His handwriting's worse than Steve remembers. Then again, HYDRA probably didn't give him many opportunities to practice.

Now he does crumple the paper. "Shoot." He sets it aside, fruitlessly tries to smooth it out, and begins to pace when that fails. A few hours. He can wait a few hours. He's got his mail to finish sorting, his groceries to put away, hell, he'll even do his laundry. Yeah. That'll fill the time.

It does not, in fact, fill the time. But time passes regardless of how slowly it drags, and so after a small eternity Steve finds himself across from Sam in a worn leather booth while a man presumably fresh into college walks away to get them both coffees.

"I figured you want me awake for this," Sam explains, leaning back into his seat. "So, the letter."

Steve pulls it from his jacket and slides it across the table. "He put his old New York address."

"Huh. So he did." Sam scans the letter. "Not much to say."

"What do you make of it?"

"Honestly? There's not enough here to make a good guess. But since I can guess what you want it to be, I'll play devil's advocate. Your boy could be luring you into a trap."

"In the middle of D.C.?" That gets him a raised eyebrow and a pointed glance out the window in the direction of the Triskelion. "Okay, point taken. I don't think he'd do that, though. Even if," his voice drops, "HYDRA got to him again, he's had more than enough time to shoot me in the back if he wanted. Besides, I think we would've heard about him returning at one of the bases we hit. It's not like I'm not going to be careful."

Their waiter returns with their coffees, accepts their thanks with a nod, and heads over to another table. Steve and Sam pause their conversation to talk appreciative sips of the warm beverages. The day had started out nice, but afternoon clouds and an evening breeze have cooled it significantly.

Inside, though, Steve finds a different chill working its way down his spine. He's being watched. A brief inventory of the café, as much as he can get away with without making it obvious, doesn't turn up anything out of the ordinary. Still, he keeps half an ear out for anything untoward.

With his mug offering steady heat to his palms, he rests his forearms on the table and tries a new angle. "Can you be there to watch my back? Like you said, there's a chance it's not what it looks like, and you've done a pretty okay job of keeping me in one piece before."

"Wow, 'pretty okay'? Remind me to drop you short of your target the next time you need me to haul you up to to a helicarrier in the sky. Yeah, of course I can have your back. I want this to work out for you, I really do."

"Thanks, Sam."

Steve takes another sip of his coffee, but as he does so, the feeling returns even stronger.

"Something the matter?"

"No." Steve gives Sam a look. "Think there's a bit too much cream in here."

Sam's expression barely flickers. "Shame. Think you'll be able to finish it?"

Spy doublespeak is more Natasha's thing, but Steve's pretty confident in his ability to handle something this simple. "Yeah, I don't like the idea of wasting what I've ordered. A little cream never hurt anyone."

"If you say so."

The rest of their conversation passes without incident, but Steve never finds their watcher and doesn't shake the feeling until he's closed the door of his own apartment behind him.