Chapter Text
September 2013
With a heavy sigh, Steve slid his key into the door of his Washington, D.C. apartment. One slight turn of his wrist and he was trudging inside, kicking it shut behind him. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about the muddy print his combat boots left against the wood, dark and accusing in an otherwise pristine apartment.
Clean, and cold. The chill seeped into his bones, casting his thoughts into a dark spiral.
He missed New York. Brooklyn—even with its black-gray grime and crowded streets—was permanently fixed in his memory as warm smiles, honest people. Home. Home, and a century in the past.
“C’mon, Steve,” he chastised himself. “You’re never going back there. Gotta stop living in the past.” That’s what everyone was always telling him, anyway. Still, he found himself standing in front of the pictures of his old life—Peggy, Bucky—without ever giving his legs permission to move.
He reached out, hand shaking and heart breaking as it always did. Just before his fingertips could brush the glass, though, he found the strength to pull away. Turning his back on the past, Steve shook himself.
A shower, he thought. He’d feel better after washing away the sweat and grime of training another day away with the S.T.R.I.K.E. team. There was nothing wrong with him that a little steam couldn’t fix, surely.
It wasn’t until he’d showered and changed into comfortable lounge clothes (a major benefit of the 21st century, he’d readily admit) that he noticed the book on his bedside table. A garishly bright red bow was stuck to the top of it, and he wondered how he’d missed it on the way to his shower. From the bathroom doorway, he could see the letters SGR prominently embossed in gold lettering across the front.
He’d been alive (both times) long enough to be more than a little suspicious—but then again, he was in possession of more than one overly-sneaky teammate. And on that thought, he pulled out his phone and texted Natasha.
Do you know anything about the book in my apartment?
Her reply was immediate.
Well hello to you, too.
I saw you an hour ago, Nat. Do you?
I don’t know what you’re talking about, she replied.
Off-kilter as always when it came to the redhead, Steve waited. He wasn’t sure whether she was toying with him or genuinely didn’t know. One minute passed, then two, and just as his suspicion of the book was about to take over, his phone dinged.
It’s not from me, Nat said. The little dots signaling her typing appeared, then disappeared. Steve huffed in annoyance, ready to throw the damn thing across the room when it vibrated in his hand.
But if someone were to hypothetically have the ability to access surveillance of your apartment, they would reassure you that the book is nothing to be worried about.
All worries about the book disappeared from Steve’s mind.
Surveillance of my apartment???
…
Natasha. What surveillance of my apartment.
Outside cameras, from the street. Chill, Cap.
He dropped the phone onto the bed with slightly more force than necessary and stomped over to pull down the window shades. His phoned dinged once more, but he ignored it.
Hours later, frustrated and more exhausted than ever after thoroughly searching his apartment for bugs (he hadn’t found any, not that he’d really expected to; SHIELD far outclassed him in stealth and covert operations), Steve gave up and crawled into bed. It wasn’t until he reached to turn the light off that he remembered the cause of the whole fiasco in the first place.
He scowled at the book. “Well, let’s see if you were worth all the trouble,” he grumped, reaching over to haul it into his lap. With absolutely no ceremony, he opened it to a random page.
It was completely blank. With a deepening frown, he thumbed through the remaining pages. They were all blank.
“What a waste,” he groaned as he tossed it aside, remembering at the last second that it was most likely a gift from someone he knew and he should be gentle with it. Out of simple courtesy, if nothing else.
The lamp clicked off, glinting against the gold lettering as the light faded from the room. As Steve turned over and fell into a fatigued sleep, his last thought was at least I can use it to practice my sketches. If I ever have time, anyway.
The sun was bright, and his neighbors were cheerful in spite of the bone-chilling wind that whistled and moaned its way down the street. Still, the frigid air was biting even through his coat and Steve was ready to escape inside to hot chocolate, sly jokes, and— there was someone waiting for him, wasn’t there? For a second, the street, the people, the buildings all lost their familiarity and he stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk.
Steve shook it off, blaming the cold for his momentary confusion. He needed to get home.
The bright red door was cheerful and welcoming, a smile tugging at his lips as it always did when he saw it. The door knob turned beneath his hand, pulled backward with more force than he’d intended. And there was suddenly a man standing there, grinning that heart-achingly familiar grin and smiling with familiar blue eyes.
“Took you long enough, punk!” Bucky clapped him solidly on the shoulder, turning to let Steve in the door. Steve, who was frozen on the doorstep, stuck between warm familiarity and paralyzing shock.
As soon as he saw his friend’s face, Bucky’s expression morphed into pure concern. “Are you alright, Stevie?” he asked, leaning in to brace Steve’s shoulder with a stronger grip. “Are you having a—a moment?”
Steve blinked, then shook his head and let the world slide into focus once more. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, then continued, “Yeah, I think I was.”
Bucky smiled again, but it was softer this time. Sadder. “It happens, buddy. Think you can shake it off and enjoy the rest of the evening? Your girl has us all decked out for the incoming storm, but if you need space for yourself you know she won’t mind.”
“No, I’m fine,” Steve replied automatically, before his brain caught up to the rest of Bucky’s words.
His girl?
“What are the two of you old grumps doing, letting all the cold in like that?” A feminine voice called. The soft thud of socked feet against wood echoed through the hallway. “Please don’t tell me this is the lead-in to one of those ‘in my days’ jokes…”
And there she was, striding toward him like a vision. He couldn’t move, dumbstruck by the beauty of her, the way her eyes glowed, her lips stretched in an easy grin. Melting under her confident touch as she stripped the scarf from his neck and stretched up to meet his mouth with hers in a welcoming kiss.
In the corner of his eye, Steve saw Bucky offer a sly wink and a mocking salute before he pivoted on his heel and headed back towards the rest of the townhome. It didn’t seem all that important to keep an eye on his best friend anymore, not when his arms were full of warm, welcoming woman. This woman, his brain insisted.
“Steve?” She asked, pulling away to stare up into his eyes. Even then, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “Are you alright?”
He woke up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and breathing like he’d just finished a marathon. Steve glared wildly about the room, looking for the phantoms of his dream. He ached with missing them, even though he’d just woken up. Bucky wasn’t there—he never was, when Steve woke up—but he closed his eyes against the pain all the same. At least this time he wasn’t tormented with images of his best friend’s fall. In all honesty, Steve didn’t know which of the dreams hurt more—watching his friend’s death, or dreaming of future, happier days that would never have the opportunity to come to pass.
But it wasn’t just Bucky. Steve’s thumb pressed to his lip as he remembered the woman. His girl, Bucky had called her. Long, dark hair with bright laughing eyes and lips made for him to worship. He reveled in the memory of the kiss, almost sure that he could feel the press of her mouth against his, the sweetness of her breath as she breathed him in.
His eyes shot open, his breath heaving in renewed confusion. Bucky’s presence he could understand—there was nothing he wanted more than to get his best friend back, to erase what happened to him. But the woman—who was she?
Who was she, and why hadn’t he dreamed of Peggy instead?
Steve was tugged from his internal crisis by the blaring of his phone. Another mission. Steve vowed to shove any more thoughts of his dream aside until later, as he always did, for when he had time and energy to deal with them.
As he rushed through the room to gear up and head out, he missed the soft glowing of the book, still perched at a precarious angle on his bedside table.