Rather than go directly back the the Avengers compound in upstate New York after returning from a fruitless trip to follow up a lead that had gone nowhere, Steve had come home. New York City.Ā
Heād felt the need of noise, activity, and the ability to be truly alone in a way that was impossible at the compound, but was oddly possible in a city of millions.
Heād come home, but the walls of his apartment had felt close, spacious as it was. He was restless, and it was the kind of restlessness that wouldnāt allow him to sit still.
It wasnāt only Bucky, and the way lead after lead failed to pan out. It was also the meetings heād had in Washington. The questions that held veiled accusations. The damn short memories, and the ideas that were just plain wrong.
And so he found himself on this rooftop in Manhattan looking out over vast wealth that lived side by side with dire poverty, remembering living in that kind of poverty himself.
It had rarely felt dire, though, Only when his mother had been sick. Buckyād had a way of making it feel like things were going to be okay, and now Steve wanted to be able to do the same for Bucky.
Heād known that there was absolutely no reason to expect Bucky to be easy to find, but he hadnāt thought it would be this hard, or take this long. Or, more to the point, heād thought that after this amount of time--if it took this long--Bucky would have found him.
Had Bucky remembered nothing? Was that why he was so absent? Did he remember, and blame Steve for his fall or his captivity? Steve blamed himself, so he wouldnāt fault him for doing the same. Worse, had something happened to Bucky?
Steve looked out over the city, his hands on the low wall that edged the rooftop, feeling every bit as alone as heād thought he was looking to be--and finding that it wasnāt what he wanted at all.