There's a part of him that very nearly gets up and chases after him right away, but he doesn't. He made a promise. So as much as it hurts, Steve moves slowly, and cleans up after himself and Bucky. With hands that don't even shake, he makes it as if Bucky was never there.
He doesn't tell his team about what happened.
And he stops looking.
Because he made a promise.
Granted, a part of him had been hoping Bucky would choose to stay, or help him come up with a compromise, but he made a promise. And Steve's going to honor that.
For the next couple of weeks, he manages to go through the motions of being Captain America. What keeps him together is the knowledge that Bucky is okay, Bucky is alive, and maybe, just maybe, Bucky will come back some day. When he's ready.
Weeks go by, and Steve pulls it together. He has to. For himself, and for his teammates. But then stuff starts getting moved.
Steve's smart, and highly observant. He doesn't memorize the positions of everything in his room when he leaves, but he can tell when things aren't where he left them. So when things start ending up in new places, Steve lets himself hope.
And he starts to leave things out, just in case. Things that seem normal enough to be out, just in case anyone else is looking. Cookies, protein bars, other snacks. Old photo albums. His journal.
Steve had kept his journal very private, because in it he'd been writing memories of life before going into the ice. His life was the matter of public record, for the most part, especially after receiving the serum. But he didn't want the only record of his life to be what historians interpreted of it, so he'd started writing memories. What growing up in Brooklyn was like. The smell of his mother's baking, when she had the time, energy and money for ingredients. What Bucky's family was like, and what Bucky was like. The sights and sounds of the streets of New York, what it was like to go to a Dodger's game. What it was like to nearly die of a hundred different maladies that could easily and cheaply be treated today.
What the war was like.
And everything after the ice, too. Because hell, why not. He writes about what he's thinking and feeling. He never writes directly to Bucky, but when he knows Bucky's visiting, he leaves his journal out and writes with Bucky in mind--stories he thinks Bucky will like, both past and present.
And hell, even if Bucky isn't reading, it helps. It helps him to organize his thoughts and understand them, and even if yeah, he's crap at acknowledging his feelings, it helps sort those out too.
If Bucky is reading... well he just hopes it helps.]
no subject
There's a part of him that very nearly gets up and chases after him right away, but he doesn't. He made a promise. So as much as it hurts, Steve moves slowly, and cleans up after himself and Bucky. With hands that don't even shake, he makes it as if Bucky was never there.
He doesn't tell his team about what happened.
And he stops looking.
Because he made a promise.
Granted, a part of him had been hoping Bucky would choose to stay, or help him come up with a compromise, but he made a promise. And Steve's going to honor that.
For the next couple of weeks, he manages to go through the motions of being Captain America. What keeps him together is the knowledge that Bucky is okay, Bucky is alive, and maybe, just maybe, Bucky will come back some day. When he's ready.
Weeks go by, and Steve pulls it together. He has to. For himself, and for his teammates. But then stuff starts getting moved.
Steve's smart, and highly observant. He doesn't memorize the positions of everything in his room when he leaves, but he can tell when things aren't where he left them. So when things start ending up in new places, Steve lets himself hope.
And he starts to leave things out, just in case. Things that seem normal enough to be out, just in case anyone else is looking. Cookies, protein bars, other snacks. Old photo albums. His journal.
Steve had kept his journal very private, because in it he'd been writing memories of life before going into the ice. His life was the matter of public record, for the most part, especially after receiving the serum. But he didn't want the only record of his life to be what historians interpreted of it, so he'd started writing memories. What growing up in Brooklyn was like. The smell of his mother's baking, when she had the time, energy and money for ingredients. What Bucky's family was like, and what Bucky was like. The sights and sounds of the streets of New York, what it was like to go to a Dodger's game. What it was like to nearly die of a hundred different maladies that could easily and cheaply be treated today.
What the war was like.
And everything after the ice, too. Because hell, why not. He writes about what he's thinking and feeling. He never writes directly to Bucky, but when he knows Bucky's visiting, he leaves his journal out and writes with Bucky in mind--stories he thinks Bucky will like, both past and present.
And hell, even if Bucky isn't reading, it helps. It helps him to organize his thoughts and understand them, and even if yeah, he's crap at acknowledging his feelings, it helps sort those out too.
If Bucky is reading... well he just hopes it helps.]