And I've run so far
And I've been gone so long
That I've forgot all the beauty of your light
Can't live another day
Another day without you
Can't live another day
Without you in my life

I'm losing ground, the enemy's too strong for a wounded soldier
I hang my head like the battle's lost, like the war is over

- "Another Day" by Embers in Ashes

After his talks with Casey about grieving Bucky, Steve made an effort to be more intentional about keeping Bucky a part of his everyday life. He made an effort to deliberately think about him throughout the day, let himself face the pain of missing his best friend, and talk about him with the others. Even though Bucky was still there, Steve had to make sure to keep Bucky's memory alive, just as he'd done when the whole world thought him dead.

It started with little things—going into Bucky's room every few days and dusting, carrying Winter's old bandanna around in his pocket again and reaching in to touch the soft fabric throughout the day. Only when he deliberately set out to work those habits into his daily routine did he realize how completely he'd shut out anything that might have reminded him of Bucky. The layer of dust on the picture frames in Bucky's room had grown much too thick.

The easiest thing to do was to start writing letters to Bucky again, even though he knew they weren't allowed any contact at all. He couldn't send them, and Bucky might never read them, but Steve could still write them. He poured his thoughts onto the page, writing out all the things he longed to tell Bucky in person. How his relationship with Jake had completely changed, how Sam had started bringing more homeless veterans into the building, the things Steve and Jake were both learning from their frequent therapy sessions...

There was so much that Bucky didn't know about Steve's life, and so much that Steve didn't know about what Bucky was going through. The distance between their everyday experiences was only widening more and more each day. Writing letters Bucky would never read wouldn't change that, but at least these thoughts weren't just bouncing around in his head anymore. They seemed much less chaotic when he put them down on paper. So he kept writing letters that were little more than glorified journal entries.

One day, he happened upon Bucky's phone while dusting things in his room. Bucky had given it to him along with his other valuables before he'd been arrested, and Steve had put it in the drawer of his bedside table when they moved into the apartment. Bucky had a very small contact list, all of whom had known what had happened and thus had no reason to call, so it had just sat there, slowly running down its battery and gathering dust.

He didn't know why exactly he did it, but Steve found the charger cord and plugged the phone in, turning it on after all these months. Then he pulled out his own phone and tapped his way to the text conversation between him and Bucky. The last few texts from Bucky were dated May 6th, the day they'd gone to the embassy.

Steve

Come back right now

I need you.

Please hurry.

Steve's heart lodged in his throat. He remembered now. He'd gone on his date with Sharon, and Bucky had stayed in the hotel room to take a nap. Bucky had sent these texts right when Steve had been the most distracted, walking Sharon back to the hotel and trying to work up the nerve to give her his number. He hadn't seen the texts at the time, and then Bucky was there to explain the whole situation, so there had never been a reason to respond. And then they'd gone to the embassy, and Bucky had been arrested...

Even though these texts were referring to a crisis that was now resolved—the case against Bucky dismissed, the true culprit apprehended—Steve felt the impact of these words like a punch to the gut. Maybe Bucky was thinking these very same words right now. Maybe he'd wanted to say something like them many times over the past several months.

And, just like then, there was so little Steve could do about it.

Swallowing hard, Steve wrote, I miss you, and sent it. The sound of Bucky's phone vibrating on the bedside table was a cruel reminder that he couldn't read it. But Steve's message was still true, and maybe...maybe someday, eventually, Bucky would see it.

After that, Steve kept Bucky's phone charged and sent at least one text a day. Just little things, mundane messages that said everything and nothing at once. It's raining today. Needed to pick up some groceries, so I grabbed some of those Peppermint Patties you like. Dreamed about you last night. Sam told me a good joke today, want to hear it?

Another thing Steve noticed in those days was how few of his most recent drawings had featured Bucky. Flipping back through the pages of his sketchbook, he realized that the last sketch of Bucky was dated all the way back in January, before they'd even found out about Project Legacy. Once they'd brought Jake home, he hadn't really taken the time to do much drawing—not until Jake had gone off to New Hope. But since then, most of his drawings had been of the people around him. There were pages upon pages of drawings of Sam and Jake, a few quick sketches of Vince and other interesting people he'd seen around, and two full double-page spreads devoted to Sharon (somehow, he never quite managed to capture the lovely sparkle in her eyes).

But no Bucky. When Steve looked through the older pages of his sketchbook, Bucky was on every other page at least. He mostly used this particular sketchbook for his drawings of people, so it was only natural that he would focus on the person who never left his side. But even when he looked through the first sketchbook he'd filled after the ice, when Bucky hadn't been with him, he found drawing after drawing after drawing of Bucky. He'd never gone so long without drawing Bucky.

Well, he could change that. He should change that. So the next time he pulled out his sketchbook, he put pencil to paper, and started drawing that familiar face again. The expression that formed, almost before he realized what he was doing, was the last one he'd seen before T'Challa had taken him back to Rikers. Tears built up on Bucky's eyelashes, anguish written in every weary line of his face, as if silently begging Steve to save him from himself—or to put him out of his misery.

Steve's heart ached as he put the final touches on that quick sketch, and for a moment he wondered if would ever be able to convince himself to draw Bucky again. But then he turned the page and immediately started another sketch. This time, it was Bucky sitting behind a wall of glass, phone pressed to his ear, laughing at something Steve had said. Steve's fingers moved almost of their own accord, tracing the lines of a face he knew even better than his own, after drawing it so many times. He drew the lines of stress in Bucky's forehead, the bags under his eyes—but also his smile, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, his eyes shining as they met Steve's...

Once he'd started, Steve didn't seem able to stop drawing Bucky. Every drawing capturing the pain and fear Bucky was doubtless struggling through right now had to be followed up with another one of him laughing, smiling, sleeping... It was almost addictive, drawing the face he couldn't see. He knew there was practically no chance that Bucky had smiled in a very long time, but at least he could still see it on paper.

Jake seemed fascinated by Steve's artwork. Dr. Singh often incorporated art in their therapy sessions, whether they were drawing something from scratch, coloring in a picture of some kind of domestic activity while talking about it, or cutting and pasting a craft that illustrated something they were discussing. At home, if Steve ended up drawing while Jake was around, he could be sure of a very curious audience peering at his artwork and asking questions about it.

"Is that Bucky?" Jake would ask, watching the movements of Steve's pencil as if mesmerized. "Why's he smiling? Is he smiling 'cause he's happy? Why's he happy?" Once he caught on that Steve was drawing these pictures from memory, he started asking what had been happening in those moments that Steve captured on paper.

Sometimes, it hurt so much to talk about Bucky that he could hardly get the words out. But every time he did manage to force the words into the air, talking about the good times that were long past, Steve always felt better. Even talking about the struggle and pain of the past helped alleviate some of the oppressive weight on his chest. And he loved watching the gears turn in Jake's mind as he listened wide-eyed to stories of what Bucky was like as a child, or some of the things the two of them had done with Sam before Jake had come along.

The best moment of all was when Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, working on yet another drawing, and Jake brought his crayons over. Clambering into a chair next to Steve, he announced, "I'm gonna draw too, Daddy."

Steve smiled and helped him push his chair in a little more. "What are you going to draw a picture of?"

"Umm..." Jake peered over at what Steve was working on, as if for inspiration. "Bucky!"

At the end of their little art session, Jake proudly showed off his drawing of Bucky, whose metal arm was almost as long as his entire body. The little stick figure on a lopsided chair appeared to be Jake, and he'd drawn another stick figure off to the side with its mouth wide open and its eyes drawn as horizontal lines.

"That's really good, buddy," Steve said enthusiastically, though he was still trying to figure out what was going on in the picture. "Who's this with their mouth open?"

"It's you, Daddy. You're saying, HA HA HA HA." He opened his mouth wide and squeezed his eyes shut, demonstrating with a loud, fake laugh.

Steve chuckled. "I'm laughing, huh? And what's this?" He pointed at a yellow blob in Bucky's hand.

"A rubber ducky!"

And then it all clicked into place. Jake had drawn his memory of that time Bucky had played around with a rubber duck while teaching Jake how to sharpen knives. Steve shouldn't have been surprised that Jake remembered it, but...it seemed to have happened a lifetime ago.

Before he could start to feel sad about that, Steve gave Jake a hearty kiss and said, "You did a really good job, Jake. Let's put your picture up on the fridge!"

They were running out of magnets, so Steve used the little mirror Jake had given him for Father's Day to hold up the new piece of art. He'd grown so used to it being there, he never really noticed it anymore, but this time, the words written on the frame caught his eye. World's #1 Dad. Steve smiled at his reflection.

After a finger-painting session with Dr. Singh one week, Steve was inspired to finally buy some painting supplies. He'd always been too busy or preoccupied to actually get an easel and canvas set up until now, but he wanted to brush up on those skills again. Besides, paint allowed him to experiment with color in ways that pencils never could. And when he saw a child-sized easel in the store, he couldn't resist getting one for Jake too.

From then on, many afternoons could find Steve and Jake sitting in the kitchen at their easels, Steve mixing colors to try to find the exact shade of blue to use for Bucky's eyes while Jake hesitantly tried to imitate him. Steve embraced the opportunity to give Jake some simple lessons on color theory and mixing pigments, and how different brushes and techniques could be used to make different effects.

The first time Sam saw them painting together, he made some comment about 'happy little accidents.' Steve had an inkling that he was making a reference, which was confirmed when Sam gasped theatrically at his blank expression and said, "Wait, don't tell me you've never heard of Bob Ross!"

"Who?"

Sam took it upon himself to pull up clips of the TV show he'd apparently grown up watching, where a painter demonstrated how he made his works of art. There was something about the show that was very calming, and Steve noticed that Jake watched Bob Ross's movements with as much fascination as his own. On days when Jake started to get grumpy around naptime, but didn't want to go to sleep, Steve started compromising by sitting down to watch an episode of the show with him. Inevitably, the soothing music and calm voice would lull Jake to sleep after all.

It felt good to get back into this side of his life. Drawing and painting helped him keep the past close, and also helped him forge more and more bonds between himself and Jake for the future. He worked on a large painting of himself and Bucky laughing together without a care in the world, pulling from his memories of that film clip he'd seen in the Smithsonian, but infusing it with the vibrant colors from his memory. And when it was finished, he turned to Jake and said, "One day, we'll be laughing just like that—for real."

Jake looked up at him with wondering eyes. "Am I gonna be laughing too?"

Steve put a hand on Jake's shoulder, gazing determinedly into Bucky's eyes painted on the canvas. "Yes," he said, making it a promise. "Bucky will come home, and we'll all be laughing together."

Peter double-checked the map on his phone and looked back at the apartment in front of him. Yeah, this looked right. He let out a breath and jogged across the street, slowing down when he reached the front steps. Why was he so nervous? He knew Steve; they'd fought together, and Steve had said...what was it he'd said?

He whipped out his phone again and pulled up their conversation. Feel free to talk to me or Sam anytime. That was the last thing Steve had said to him. He must have meant it, right? He wouldn't have said it otherwise. He was the kind of guy who could never tell a lie. Like George Washington.

Rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans, Peter ran his eyes over the names written next to the buttons on the front door. Not all of the spaces were filled in, but he noted the name Wilson next to one. And right up at the top, Rogers. He jabbed the button before he could lose his nerve.

In the few moments he waited for someone to answer, Peter suddenly wondered if he should have texted first. He probably should have, right? Right? What if Steve was out somewhere, or what if he was busy or in the middle of a conversation or something? What if—?

"Yes, who is it?"

Even though it was the most expected thing that could have happened, Peter felt like he was having a heart attack, because that was Steve's voice! "Uh, yeah, hi, it's-it's Peter. Parker. Pete-Peter Parker. That's-That's me." DUDE, SHUT UP ALREADY! he screamed at himself. YOU SOUND LIKE AN IDIOT!

"Oh!" Steve sounded surprised. "Come on in."

The door buzzed, and Peter pushed the heavy door open, muttering under his breath, "Of course he's surprised, dummy, 'cause you didn't tell him you were going to be here. Oh crap, I forgot what the apartment number is..."

He hesitated for a moment, then hastened towards the stairs. Steve was probably standing with his door open, waiting for him, right? So he just had to look at all the doors...

Even with his enhanced strength, Peter was a little out of breath by the time he made it to the top floor and found Steve poking his head out into the hall. "Hey," he panted, jogging the last few steps to reach him.

"We have an elevator, you know," Steve said, pointing down the hallway.

Heat blazed in Peter's cheeks. "Oh, right."

Steve smiled and stepped back, ushering him into the apartment. "Come in, come in. It's good to see you again, Peter."

"Yeah...you too, Mr...Cap...Steve?" He gazed around the apartment he found himself in—a large, open space combining kitchen and living room, with a high ceiling and a great view out the window. "Whoa, this is a really nice place!" He turned to look at Steve in surprise. "Are you...rich?" He immediately winced, wanting to kick himself. "Sorry, that's probably rude..."

"Thank you," Steve said with a chuckle. Then he glanced to the side and said, "Hey, Jake, look who it is. Do you remember Peter?"

Peter turned and saw Jake peering over the top of the couch. He just stared solemnly at them both, then nodded in answer to Steve's question.

The sight of the little boy made Peter's side twinge a bit as he remembered the pocketknife stabbing into him, but he hitched a smile onto his face. "Hey, Jake, long time no see! Is your arm all better now?"

Jake held out his left arm, flexing his fingers as if to demonstrate that he was completely healed. He didn't say anything, just gazed at Peter intently. Maybe he was trying to figure out if they were on the same side this time. If Peter wasn't quite sure how to feel around him, it could only be harder for Jake.

But that was why he'd brought a peace offering. "Oh, I brought you something!" Peter slung his backpack off and rummaged around in it. Under his chemistry textbook, folder stuffed with material from the Decathlon, and some web shooter refills, was a plastic container whose contents rattled with the sound of many small pieces of plastic. He pulled off the lid and held it out to Jake. "Do you like LEGOs? These are some of the sets I don't really play with anymore, so I wanted to give them to you...uh, if that's okay," he hastily added, glancing questioningly at Steve. Was Jake too young for LEGOs? He wasn't going to put them in his mouth or anything, so it probably wasn't a choking hazard, but...wait, he didn't even know how old Jake was in the first place. Crap, he really should have texted first...

Fortunately, Steve just smiled and said, "Wow, look at that! What do you say, buddy?"

Tentatively, Jake accepted the container of LEGOs, staring uncertainly at its contents. "Thank you," he murmured in a tiny voice.

Maybe Peter was just forgetting something, but he was pretty sure those were the first words he'd ever heard from Jake. "Yeah, no problem!" Grinning, he ushered Jake over to the coffee table and started eagerly showing him how to put the blocks together.

Peter's LEGO collection had never been quite as extensive as Ned's; other than the awesome medieval castle he'd gotten for his tenth birthday, Uncle Ben and Aunt May had usually only gotten him the smallest sets because that was what they could afford. But that meant he had a wide variety of sets from which to cherry-pick for Jake. There were some pirates, an astronaut, a couple cowboys, and a group of Indiana Jones-style treasure hunters.

Once Peter pulled the instruction booklets out of his backpack, Jake perked up. He'd seemed a little overwhelmed when faced with the endless possibilities a box of LEGOs contained, but once he saw that he could follow the instructions step by step, he started sifting through the blocks with more purpose. Peter felt a sense of accomplishment, like he'd passed on an important legacy to the next generation. Or something like that.

A moment before he felt a touch on his shoulder, Peter became aware of Steve's presence behind him. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!" As Peter got to his feet and followed Steve into the kitchen, he remembered the real reason he'd come here in the first place wasn't just to give Jake some toys. That had been a last-minute thought the night before as he'd been packing his bag for school. "Um...sorry for just dropping in on you like this."

"Not at all," Steve said, handing him a glass of lemonade and gesturing to the kitchen table. "You want something to eat?"

"No, you don't have to—" A loud growl from Peter's stomach interrupted him. He sat down at the table, cheeks burning. "Uh, I mean, yeah, I guess I'm a little hungry..."

Steve gave him a knowing little smirk. Right. Steve probably had as huge of an appetite as he did. Superheroing was hungry work.

That was how Peter ended up sitting at Steve Rogers' kitchen table, eating a sandwich and sipping lemonade while Steve sliced a couple apples for both of them. In between bites, Peter found himself completely spilling his guts. Okay, maybe that was a bad metaphor. He kept his sandwich down, but told Steve every last detail of what had been happening lately.

He told Steve about the black market arms dealers he'd stumbled upon, who'd been selling leftover tech from all the world-threatening incidents the Avengers had been involved in. He explained how he and Ned had worked together to track down the dealers to their hideout and find out what their plans were, and how they'd been involved with the explosion in the Washington Monument. Though the apples suddenly tasted sour in his mouth, he talked about how he'd discovered that their leader turned out to be the father of the girl he was going to homecoming with. And he told him about how he'd finally brought him down before he could steal the last of the tech from Avengers Tower—thus saving a lot of people from the business end of high-tech weapons, but also hammering the last nail in the coffin of his budding relationship with Liz.

By the end of his story, Peter's lemonade was gone and he only had one apple slice left on his plate, steadily turning brown at the edges. He wasn't hungry anymore, but there was a deeper emptiness inside him, a hollow feeling that had spurred him to hunt down Steve's address today.

"I...I tried so hard," he said, feeling as though a chunk of sandwich was trying to climb back up his throat. "And I couldn't just not do anything about it. But in the end...I still lost so much. And Liz's life was pretty much ruined no matter what I did. So it kind of feels like...in the end, it doesn't even matter." Lines from that old Linkin Park song echoed in the back of his head, enough to make his lips quirk up in a bitter smile.

"I don't think so," Steve said quietly.

Peter looked up in surprise. Steve had sat listening to the whole story in silence, not interrupting or getting impatient or bored at how long it was taking. He'd probably had a whole plan for how his afternoon was going to play out, one that didn't involve making an after-school snack for an unexpected guest. But here he was, letting Peter talk himself out.

"If you hadn't done anything," Steve continued, "more people would have been hurt. Unfortunately, a lot of the time we have to sacrifice something important to us in order to prevent something like that."

Looking into Steve's eyes, Peter suddenly remembered the page of his history textbook talking about Captain America, how he'd crashed a plane into an iceberg to foil the Red Skull's plans. It had always seemed like just another story, far removed from himself, but it dawned on him anew that the man sitting across the table from him was the one who had lived through that for real. Steve knew exactly what it was like to realize he had to sacrifice everything he'd ever wanted in order to save innocent lives. Because he knew he could never live with himself if he didn't. He was going to lose something he cared about either way.

"One more thing, Peter: You didn't ruin anything for Liz. Her father did that."

To Peter's horror, he felt a tear crawling down his cheek. Quickly staring down at the table, he tried to surreptitiously wipe it away. "I...I tried to get him to stop. Like...convince him to stop what he was doing. I-I didn't want to fight him, or send him to jail or anything. But...he wasn't going to give up. He was going to make more weapons and sell them to who knows...and I just...there wasn't anything else I could do..."

Steve's hand on his arm was enough to stop him in his tracks. "I know. It's okay, Peter. You did the right thing. Even though it was really hard."

The soft understanding in Steve's voice and the warm compassion in his eyes mingled with the bone-deep weariness that still dragged Peter down several days after it was all over. Tears welled up in his eyes that he hadn't allowed himself to shed—not since that panic-fueled breakdown in the ruins of the hideout. He'd had to push them down for the past few days—to be strong enough to do what had to be done, to reassure Aunt May and Ned that he really was okay, to not let on to anyone else how involved he'd been in the whole fiasco.

But here, in Steve Rogers' kitchen? He could let it all go.

Peter buried his face in his arms crossed on the table, letting himself cry quietly. After a few moments, he felt the warm pressure of Steve's hand on his back, rubbing back and forth. There was something about it that felt so...fatherly. Peter wondered if this was what he did when Jake started crying. It also reminded him of Uncle Ben, which only made the tears pour out faster than ever.

He cried for Liz, mostly. The regret of never even getting to go on a whole date with her, even once. The knowledge that they would probably never speak to each other again, that she would go off and live a life completely separate from his, without any overlap. The ache, every time he thought of what she and her mother were going through as they waited for the trial, as they faced a lifetime of only seeing the one they loved behind bars.

Because of him. Yeah, if Liz's dad hadn't ended up being a dangerous criminal, none of this would have happened...but it had also happened because Peter had been there, and hadn't been able to let go once he'd started pulling on the thread. It was just like Uncle Ben used to say. With great power comes great responsibility.

"I hate that it's my responsibility," he muttered into his forearms. "Sometimes...I really wish that spider bit somebody else."

"I know what you mean," Steve murmured, still rubbing his back in soothing motions.

Peter turned his head just enough to peek up at Steve, who was now sitting next to him. Curiosity won out over his embarrassment at crying all over the kitchen table, so he sniffled and asked, "You get tired of being Captain America sometimes?"

Steve stopped rubbing his back, but he leaned his elbows on the table, close enough that their arms were touching. With a mirthless smile, he said, "Technically, I'm not Captain America anymore. But yes," he added, his face falling again, "sometimes it's...a very heavy burden. Especially when I have to carry it alone."

Peter straightened up, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I...I thought I could handle this on my own, but...I almost couldn't. It turned out okay, but like...I could've seriously died. Guess I should've called you or somebody and asked for help, huh?"

"Probably." Steve's voice was mild, and not accusatory or judgmental. He was just stating a simple fact that was glaringly obvious in hindsight. "You're strong and capable, but none of us can make it far on our own. Just remember that in the future."

Nodding, Peter sniffled again and wiped some of his tears off the table with his sleeve. "Uh...sorry. I didn't mean to come in and just..."

"Don't worry about it," Steve said with a warm smile. "My door's always open. And for what it's worth...I think that spider made the right choice. You would have been a hero even if you never had any powers."

Those words made Peter sit straighter, his lungs expanding with fresh air after days of feeling crushed and sore. Wow. Steve Rogers had just said that? Then another thought occurred to him, brightening his day even further. "Does this mean I'm an Avenger now?"

Steve laughed at that. "I'm not in charge of the Avengers anymore." He gave Peter a sidelong look and added sincerely, "But if I were...yes."

It was hard for Steve to believe how fast the days were speeding by. It felt like barely a week had passed since the fight against Zemo, since he'd last seen Bucky, since Jake had finally said I love you. And yet, Steve looked at the calendar, and saw that September was already almost over. And then October began. And then they were halfway through the month.

There was so much to fill Steve's days. Every hour he spent with Jake was pure joy, whether at home or in therapy. His own therapy sessions with Casey were emotionally taxing but helpful, as he sorted through thoughts and feelings he'd never really taken the time to process fully. He talked with Sharon at least every other day, keeping her updated on everything that was going on. He pitched in to help Sam and Vince every now and then as they worked to get the apartment building prepared to house as many homeless veterans as possible; Sam's goal was to fill every apartment in time for the holidays. And then he could always fill in his spare time with art projects or writing notes to Bucky.

Most nights, Steve went to bed exhausted—but that was a good thing. He would much rather fall asleep immediately than lie awake, staring into the shadows surrounding him and thinking of the hard, cold bed Bucky was probably lying in at that very moment. He also found himself dreaming more often than he had in a long while. Usually, they were just mundane dreams about playing catch with Jake in the park or going to the grocery store, but every now and then, he would dream about Bucky.

Sometimes, he thought the nightmares were the worst. Dreams of that day on the train had become much less common since he'd discovered that Bucky had survived the fall, but now they were back with a vengeance. They mingled with dreams of Zemo shooting Bucky while Steve couldn't move a finger, or dreams of sitting in a courtroom while the judge and everyone else seated there pointed their fingers at Bucky and intoned, "Guilty, guilty, guilty..."

But then he would have a good dream about Bucky, and he almost wished for another nightmare. At least when he was plagued with images of a dozen horrible fates in store for Bucky, he could wake up and remember with a rush of relief that they weren't real. But when he dreamed about sitting with Bucky on the couch and laughing...lying in bed next to Bucky, curled up snugly in his arms as if he were still half Bucky's size...racing alongside him down a mountain road... In the end, he had to wake up and return to reality. He had to remember that Bucky wasn't here.

When Steve looked at the calendar, he told himself it hadn't really been that long since he'd seen Bucky. One month, two... But it also felt like a year. It felt like forever.

The media didn't help matters. Naturally, in the aftermath of Zemo breaking the Winter Soldier out of prison, fighting two ex-Avengers, and eventually being brought in by none other than the king of Wakanda, the press could talk about little else. In those first few weeks, Steve just focused on taking care of Jake and studiously avoided the news as much as possible.

But when he finally felt able to raise his head and look around again, he discovered the press still hadn't had their fill of the whole situation. Matt explained that Judge Maddox had passed a gag order to prevent anyone involved in Bucky's trial from speaking to the media about it—but that didn't prevent everyone else from talking about it till they were blue in the face. Steve tried to pay as little attention to the speculation and wild predictions spoken by people who clearly had no idea what they were talking about. He knew that if he wasted time listening to the things they were saying about Bucky, or even about himself, he would just get angry. And burning with indignation when he couldn't do anything about it was just pointless.

Steve had always had to deal with the occasional passerby recognizing him and falling all over themselves when they realized who he was. After Zemo had dominated the news, Steve noticed a definite uptick in the frequency of such incidents. There were even a few times when someone approached him out of the blue while he was running errands, introducing themselves as a reporter for such-and-such and could they just ask a few questions?

Of course, Steve never told them anything. He always said no and left as soon as possible, unable to keep from looking over his shoulder and taking the long way home, doubling back on himself and taking unnecessary detours, just in case. None of these reporters were as pushy as the ones that had crowded around outside the hotel and the U.S. Embassy in London, but they felt just as threatening as enemy soldiers waiting in ambush. Especially that one journalist who'd whipped out some kind of recording device before she'd even finished introducing herself, and then stared with avid curiosity at Jake clutching Steve's hand, as if she were itching to dig into his family life.

Despite how quickly time seemed to be passing, preparations for the trial felt like they were oozing along like a snail. Steve knew very little about the legal world, so he knew he just had to trust Matt, but it was hard to believe his reassurances that things were moving along at a decent pace. But then, this was a massive, complicated case, so it came as no surprise that preparations would take a long time. Matt had used some of Steve's initial payment to hire more staff and move to a bigger office so they could work through the enormous amount of evidence more efficiently. From what Steve understood, Foggy was spending most of his time trawling through the profusion of Hydra records, while Matt hunted down experts they might be able to use in the trial to prove that Bucky had no control over his own actions as the Winter Soldier. That would probably be a long, difficult search, since they couldn't exactly call to the stand the long-dead Hydra agents who were responsible for Bucky's training.

When he thought about what they were up against, the long battle that hadn't even begun, Steve felt his heart sink down to his toes. He knew that was probably the foremost thought in Bucky's mind these days, which only made him feel worse when he acknowledged that he had the luxury of not thinking about it every waking moment.

But what more could he do? Nothing. Nothing but wait, and try to live his life without thinking about the guillotine poised over Bucky's neck.

Inside Bucky's head was an ocean. Sometimes, the tide was out, and it just lapped over his toes, sucking at them but not powerful enough to pull him under. But the tide always came in again, washing over him, the waves crashing over his head, tossing and tumbling him until he sank to the bottom and the tide went out again, leaving him stranded breathless on the shore. But the ocean never let him get completely dry. It was always there, filling the horizon.

The ocean was despair. That seemed an appropriate word for it.

Bucky lay in his bunk, aching and exhausted, tracing the cracks in the ceiling, counting the concrete blocks in the wall. He thought about that word. Despair. Loss of hope.

That meant there had once been something to hope for, didn't it? But there had never been anything to hope for. Not really. Not for him. This was all there was, all there had ever been. A cell. A prison. Cold seeping into his bones. Silence ringing in his ears. It didn't matter that he could hear other inmates yelling at the guards or jeering at each other. It still felt like silence, because no one really spoke to him. No one really listened.

He was alone in a crowd. Just like always.

In the corner was a small pile of scrunched-up pieces of paper gathering dust. He'd written on both sides, filling every spare inch with words until they overlapped and he couldn't even read them anymore. He'd used up every page he had, but even though he'd put in a request for another legal pad and asked the guards about it several times, they hadn't brought it yet.

He was almost desperate enough, bored enough, to start writing on the walls, but his pen had run out, and they'd ignored his request for another one of those as well. He could probably scratch words into the walls if he tried hard enough...but that sounded like it would take a lot of effort.

Occasionally, Stephanos would encourage him to do some stretches or push-ups to help pass the time and ease the stiffness in every muscle a little bit. Sometimes, he listened, but more often he couldn't dredge up the energy to do so. The ocean was tugging at his limbs, and it was so hard to move against it.

Why bother? Brad always whispered. You know it's not going to help. Not really. You will always be in pain. It's what you deserve.

Stephanos would speak of times past, when he hadn't been in this kind of pain, proving Brad wrong. He reminded Bucky of long, lazy summer days with Steve when they were kids, making paper airplanes and tossing them over the edge of the fire escape to see how far they would fly before crashing. He brought up memories of relaxing with Steve and Sam, Steve giving him a shoulder massage while Sam rubbed his feet. He reminded him of laughter, lazy mornings, a warm hand wrapping around his...

Those memories felt like they belonged to someone else. It was such a nice story, and Bucky liked to bask in its light, like the silvery glow of a movie projector that made ordinary life look beautiful and magical. But right now...they were just stories. Stories of someone else's life.

The boy who had laughed and played stickball in the streets wasn't him. The soldier who fought for a good cause and a captain he loved wasn't him. The man surrounded by friends, who slept soundly at night, who had people to take care of him and worry about him...that wasn't him.

It is you, Stephanos insisted. You can remember all those things, can't you? That was your life. That's who you are.

No, Brad growled, his voice growing louder and louder every day. You're nothing like the man in your memories. You're a criminal. That's why you're here, isn't it? Why don't you remember all the horrible things you've done? Let's not forget about them...

Death after death after death. Bullets spraying blood and bone and bits of brain in all directions. Bodies toppling to the ground, felled by his hand. Throats crushed between his fingers. A knife blade stabbing into flesh, the impact running all the way from his hand up his arm to his shoulder. Wide eyes, staring at him in disbelief as blood spilled out from the lips of someone who couldn't believe his life was at an end.

The blade slipping between Steve's ribs. His fingers closing around Steve's throat. His knuckles colliding with Steve's cheek. Blood, smeared across Steve's face—blood that he'd spilled.

His hand closing around a skinny little wrist, twisting, yanking, a sickening crack followed by an agonized scream...

Bucky pushed himself painfully to his feet and started pacing around, running his fingers through his greasy, tangled hair. He shied away from Brad, but those shadowy tentacles filled more and more of the room as time went on.

Monster, monster, monster... That's who you are, Bucky Barnes. That's who you are. Monster, criminal, murderer, freak, scum, wretch, outcast, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing...

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress;
my eye is wasted from grief;
my soul and my body also.
For my life is spent with sorrow,
and my years with sighing;
my strength fails because of my iniquity,
and my bones waste away.

- Psalm 31:9-10