Running To You

Epilogue

Steve stepped out of the science lab and stood before four silent pairs of eyes. He voice, when he spoke, sounded as heavy as his heart felt in his chest; like it had lead weights attached to it. Like it had sunk into the deepest part of the Marianas Trench, where no light could penetrate.

"It's done."

Wanda was the first to react. She merely nodded, cast her pensive gaze to the floor, and walked away. She'd been uncharacteristically reclusive, since being sprung from The Raft. Steve knew he'd have to talk to her soon, to find out what was eating at her before it could drag her down into that trench, too. But until now, his mind had been consumed with thoughts of Bucky. With helping his friend, and then with spending one last day with his friend. Now, Bucky was gone. Suspended indefinitely in some frigid non-sleep.

Tomorrow, he would speak to Wanda.

"It feels so… sudden," Lang said. His hands were buried in his pockets, and he kicked the back of his own shoe in lieu of any other method of fidgeting. "I mean, one minute we were all having lunch, and the next it was, 'Oh, by the way, tonight I'm going into cryogenic sleep for several years.' Feels like we should at least have thrown him a going-away party."

Barton folded his arms across his chest, and looked more tired than Steve could ever remember him looking before. "If it wasn't for Laura and the kids, I'd be tempted to join him. Several years of sleep is sounding pretty good right about now."

"I have some things to take care of," Steve said. "Please excuse me."

He left the guys to their talking. One of their number had just gone into cryo, they were in a foreign country, far from their homes, with no idea of when they could go back or what they could do in the meantime. They were looking for reassurance, but Steve couldn't bring himself to look for the words to give them. Any words he gave them would have to be lies, unless those words were, 'I have no idea what to do next and am just as lost as you.' For the first time since he'd accepted the responsibility of being Captain America, the mantle of leadership felt heavy.

Footsteps jogged after him, and Sam caught him up in a few long strides. Steve walked on in silence. He knew Sam wasn't looking for reassurance. Like Steve, he was a dandelion seed; he was happy to be blown about by the wind. He hadn't put down so many roots that he felt tied to one place. He didn't fit the 'wife and kids' pattern. He didn't have a family, outside of the Avengers. And now that family had been torn in half. The whole darn world felt like it had been torn in half. Somehow, having Bucky around had made the world a little less broken, even after he'd said…

Steve pushed the thought away. 'Don't leave me behind. Again.' Bucky hadn't meant it. Not really. But that didn't stop it from cutting deep. Thanks to Erskine's serum, he healed fast, but the knowledge that he'd left his best friend behind… he was still bleeding, from that one. Sometimes, he felt like the bleeding would never stop.

"You okay, Cap?"

He'd never been a good liar, so he told the truth. "No. I feel like I just lost my friend all over again. I thought getting Bucky back would make everything alright. But even when he was here, awake, there were problems he couldn't fix. Having him around made things better, but it didn't make them right. And now… I don't know what to do. After everything that's happened… Tony, the Accords… I don't feel like Captain America anymore."

"Then maybe it's time for you to stop being Captain America for a while. What's wrong with being Steve Rogers? Between you and me, I kinda like that guy. Just don't tell him I said that; I heard he has a huge ego."

Steve smiled and shook his head. Sam, like Bucky, was the kinda guy who'd do anything to cheer a friend up, and Steve was lucky to have him.

"The way I see it," said Sam, after a moment of walking beside him, "the mission you gave yourself two years ago is over, and it's both succeeded, and failed. You got Barnes back, and he's safe. That's a success. But he's not in our world anymore, and you can't talk to him like you used to back in the old days. He's not the Bucky you remember. So in a way, that's a failure. I know how difficult it can be, when the outcome of a mission isn't clear-cut. It can really make a guy lose his sense of purpose. As can coming to the end of a tour and finding he has no more mission to follow. Nothing but endless free time, stretching out in front of him."

"Maybe I need a new mission."

"Or maybe you need to make friends with free time."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"Lemme know if you need someone to talk to," Sam offered. "Or if you need a sparring partner. Just as long as you promise not to hit too hard."

"I will. Thank you, Sam, for everything. I know you say I don't need to thank you because of that code—which, by the way, I'm still not convinced you didn't make up on the spot—but I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you've done. Not just for Captain America and the Avengers, but for me. Today, I had to say goodbye to a friend, but I'm glad I have more of them with me now. I know I've asked you, all of you, to make some difficult choices."

"Hey, the way I see it, I'm making the right choices." Sam stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder. "The fact that my choices lay along the same lines as your choices just shows that we've got synergy. I think the same can be said for the whole team."

A grateful smile tugged at his lips. "Thanks, Sam. Tell you what, why don't I go take care of this thing I have to do, and then if you like, we can go check out the gym and training room here. T'Challa said we have full use of his facilities, and I think an hour of punching bag might help me loosen up after the unbelievably long week we've had."

"That sounds like a good idea. I'll see you down there."

Steve resumed his journey through the palace, until he reached a familiar door. For a long moment he stood outside it, preparing himself, and it brought back the memory of the last time he'd stood outside a door, preparing himself to do something difficult, something painful. The memory of that run-down, roach motel of an apartment complex, back in Bucharest.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. This time, there was no Bucky to look up at him and smile. No Bucky to offer a joke and a laugh. Just an empty room, a neatly made bed covered in a plethora of cushions, and a beat up old backpack right in the middle of the cushion pile. As Steve reached out to pick up the pack, Bucky's voice came echoing back from earlier that afternoon, from the bench overlooking a series of beautiful cascading waterfalls—the place where they'd chosen to spend their last day. Just sitting, and talking. Remembering old times, and chatting about anything except what was about to happen next. Trying to delay the inevitable for one more moment.

"You won't forget about my memories, will you? You'll put them somewhere safe?"

The expression on Bucky's face made something twist inside Steve's chest. It shouldn't have been possible for one pair of eyes to convey so much fear, and vulnerability, and doubt, and loneliness, but his friend managed it, and at that moment, Steve saw a Bucky he'd only ever seen once before in his whole life; the fifteen year old Bucky who blamed himself for his dog getting hit by a car. The Bucky who couldn't find a joke to make it all better, because there were some things which couldn't be fixed with a laugh and a smile.

"Don't worry," Steve assured him. "T'Challa's given me a real secure wall safe to use. I'll put your notebooks in there until you're ready to take them back."

"Thanks, pal. I'm not ready for people to see them yet. One day… but not yet." His friend offered a wan smile. "I've miles to go, I think."

He carried the bag out of the room, closing the door behind him, and he purposely didn't look back. There was no point remembering Bucky as an absent figure in an empty room. Bucky was downstairs, in cryosleep. And he was here, in Steve's hands.

T'Challa had ordered the safe where he'd kept Hydra's Winter Soldier command book left open for Steve. It wasn't a large safe, certainly not large enough to fit a backpack in it, so Steve opened the bag up and took out the books one by one, placing them into the wall space. One book had Hydra scribbled on the front, and Steve felt his hands clench tightly around it. Hydra had done this to Bucky. They'd turned him into their weapon, and done their best to destroy the man he had been. He wished he could burn the book, erase it, get rid of everything they had done… but burning the book wouldn't change history. Regardless of the book, Hydra had put their own stamp of evil on Bucky, and it was a testament to Bucky's strength and determination that he'd managed to come back from that.

He placed the book into the safe, followed by the others. When he came to one that had his own name scribbled across the front, he hesitated. Part of him wanted to know just how much Bucky truly remembered about him. Did he remember the time Steve had been sick on the Cyclone at Coney Island? Did he remember the Christmas they'd spent in London in 1944, between missions with the Commandos? Did he remember Saturdays at the park, playing ball with Bucky's dad and Mary-Ann? Did he remember how they'd taught Charlie how to pitch? Or were those memories the miles Bucky had yet to cover?

The Steve book followed the others. He hadn't had to wrestle with his conscience for very long. Bucky said he wasn't ready for people to see his memories, and Steve would honour that. These books were a part of Bucky that Bucky himself wasn't in a position to protect, and it made Steve feel warm inside, gave him hope for the future, that Bucky had trusted him to protect them in his stead.

When he reached the bottom of the bag, his fingers brushed against something cool and hard. Reaching a little further, he grasped whatever it was and pulled it out, and found himself looking at… a small, painted wooden doll. Brows lowered into a perplexed frown. He recognised the style of nesting doll, but what the heck would his friend be doing with something so… so… odd? Bucky had never been one for collecting trinkets, and he doubted the Winter Soldier cared anything for old-fashioned Russian dolls.

He dropped the bag and took hold of the doll with both hands, gently twisting and pulling until the outer shell separated to reveal a smaller doll inside. He went through the process several times, until he came to the smallest doll layer. Usually it held a tiny wooden baby doll inside, but this one felt too light to hold a piece of wood, and when he gently shook it, he heard only the smallest, faintest of sounds.

Curiosity drove him forward. He opened the smallest doll, and when he saw what was there, his breath caught in his throat, bringing with it a lump that he struggled to swallow. There was no brightly painted tiny baby doll, inside the last matryoshka. Instead, there was a small slip of paper, and on that paper, in Bucky's spidery scrawl, was written a single word.

Me.

- o -

An End

- o -

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Final Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed and rambled with me during Bucky's journey. Seeing the same readers—some of you from far-away, interesting, exotic places I'll probably never have the chance to visit (Malaysia? Puerto Rico? Vietnam? Cool!)—come back for more each time a new chapter was published gave me some very happy feels deep inside. I especially appreciate all the feedback reviewers have given; knowing what works (and what doesn't) is important to me as a writer, and it helps me to develop my skills and style. I really hope you've enjoyed the story I've told.

A few folks have asked where I'm taking Bucky next. After seeing CW, and being disappointed about the lack of a Winter Soldier smack-down, I wanted to rectify that with a sequel. So, I wrote the first twenty or so chapters. Then I realised they were often flat, repetitive and generically unremarkable. I just didn't have a good enough grasp on who Bucky was and where he had been, to give real emotional weight to the story. Hence my incentive for writing Running To You—I needed a proper foundation to write from. And maybe one day I will go and re-write those chapters, and if I can ever figure out how I want that story to end, I may even publish it.

But whilst writing this story, something happened that I wasn't expecting. As soon as I started doing flashbacks to Bucky's time in the 107th, those characters started coming alive in my head. First Carrot, then Wells, then Gusty; and now all those other guys, whose names have been only footnotes in Bucky's memories, are fully realised. They're funny, tragic, quirky, perfect, flawed human beings trying their best to make sense of the madness of war whilst it tears their world apart. And, of course, the Commandos and Steve, and Peggy and Stark (et al.) will be there too, at the appropriate points.

So I'm doing a prequel! I'm 15 chapters in, and having a great time writing it. There's much more light-hearted humour in that story than in this one… military humour is so much fun to play with. It will eventually go AU, but until it does, it will pretty much follow canon. The war is the setting, but it's not the story. It can probably be best described as an exploratory emotional adventure drama about friendship, camaraderie and loss, with a very slow-burning romance. The next story is called 'We Were Soldiers' and I hope you'll join me for it on Sunday 11th September. – (I know, lame title. When I came up with it, I'd completely forgotten it was the title of a film. In my defence, it's a Mel Gibson film, I haven't actually seen it, and my knowledge of the Vietnam War comes from 'Good Morning, Vietnam.' I'd change my title, but I'm kinda attached to it now.)

- TUS