Steve Rogers Imagines

Why would I ever leave you?

warning: uhhh grief? and i hope y'all like bucky lol

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Blue eyes, light as the cerulean sky above, streaked with the first rays of a rising sun, were now drenched in guilt. No, guilt is not the right word, they were drenched in resignation, pity lacing his dark irises, a pity that sent swirls of horror racing down her stomach. His blond hair was dishevelled, having run his fingers through it a few too many times. His posture, however, spoke of staunch determination, the kind from which one can never be swayed. His jaw, set in grit, now parted to utter the words she least wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I'm sorry, I really am, but I have to-"

"No, you don't. You don't have to leave. You can stay...with me", the last two words were uttered in a whisper, her voice breaking before she could continue to plead.

He wrung his hands nervously; the same hands that had held hers through countless missions, had laced her fingers when crossing the road, had tugged on her forearm, leading them to his bed. He wrung them again, his posture now defensive, wanting to get away from her steely glare.

"You don't know what it was like to not have... to try and live after the snap."

"And you don't know what it was like to return after it", she snapped, her voice sharp as the winter air, her words tumbling out and catching fire as they went, a spark of anger rising in her chest. But the spark quickly died out, turning to an ember as a gust of grief blew over her, her frame quivering with the effort of keeping sobs at bay.

"You promised, Steve", her voice sounded pathetic, like a child whose parent was absent on their birthday. Her breathing was haggard, the breaths falling a little too loudly in the closed room, her throat hoarse from the preceding shouting match. She was a creature clinging to a precipice, desperate, its claws already slipping.

The room had been partially darkened, a portion of the window blocked by a thick curtain, newly purchased from the flea market the previous week. Steve had been particularly proud of that bargain. They lay in a tangle of bodies, sweat-slicked hair falling clumsily onto the pillow as she rested her head against Steve's arm.

Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve

"Can I ask you something?", she said, her voice low like she was whispering a secret. Steve hummed, his fingers splayed on her back, lazily tracing patterns into the skin.

"Of course. Anything."

"Well, it's a promise. Can I ask you to promise me something?" Steve blinked slowly, to admit his ascent. "Promise you'll never leave. I've lost too much and...well, I'm petrified to ever lose you", the words escaped her in a rush, a heavy weight settling in her heart as she awaited his answer.

Steve laughed, the sound almost melodious despite the gruff quality of his voice. "Why would I ever leave you?" It wasn't exactly an answer, but then, she didn't have an answer to his question either. His question was answer enough. The notes of his voice had strung themselves to her heart then, winding around the organ in snake-like coils, tightening till she couldn't breathe, couldn't think; only the echo of his voice remained.

Why would I ever leave you?

The same voice broke her reverie now, punching through the haze of her memory like the punches she'd seen him throw on the battlefield.

"But...Peggy. She's dead Steve", she said, resorting to broken logic in a final bid to make him stay.

"But she's not! I can go back, I can be with her and finally have the life I've always..." the words caught in his throat, blue eyes widening like he'd been caught saying something he shouldn't. Each word was heavy as an axehead unrelenting, and her blood drained at every blow.

"The life you always wanted, huh?", she said. Her ebbing anger returned, flames licking at her throat while the smoke choked her grief. "Go then. And when you get there, tell Peggy what you did".

~~~

She did not go to the transmat platform, a smaller version specifically set up for Steve's purpose. Sam begged and Bucky pleaded, but their entreaties fell to waste. Bruce threatened to tear down her door, shouting something about not letting anger cloud her judgement, to not let their last meeting be one of grief. She heard them through her door as a dark cloud descended on her head; her silence was answer enough.

Bucky stopped by on that day. "He did what he said he'd do, put the stones back...well, you know", he said, voice soft and eyes low. After a brief pause he cleared his throat, his voice wavered, unsure of the tone to implement, "Then I turned around and he was there."

Her head shot up, posture stiffening from where she had been huddled across the diwan. Her brows furrowed in confusion, as a flash of hope tore through her chest. He came back?

"The punk remembered when he left and came back...he's lived his life. Seemed happy with his decision. I'm sorry."

She did not know when Bucky had left, when he had got up and placed his mug on the kitchen counter and made his way to the door. He must have washed the mug too, the ceramic cleaned and dried when she carelessly pushed it into the cupboard. Perhaps he had been the one to make them the drink. She could not recall. Perhaps he had said something conciliatory when he left, perhaps she had smiled. It did not matter.

He's done a good thing, they said. History's most selfless hero should get to be selfish, they said. They looked on as his memorials and statues were prepared, ready for immortalisation in some museum. Steve had never much cared for museums, their plain white walls adorned a supercut of selective history, that held nothing but past horrors for him. She could not imagine he would like his exhibit, but she could not find it in herself to care.

Like a wounded animal lashing out, she threw herself into missions, one's that would take her to the farthest reaches of the world, from warlords of the East to tundras of the North. She let her wounds be soothed by arcane wines, by pretty girls that smelled like strawberries and doe-eyed boys too eager to please; none of them blond and never blue-eyed. The remaining team, if it could even be called that, looked on with pity or worry, but Bucky gazed with a sympathetic knowledge, one that made her stomach lurch.

Sam finally put his foot down, insisting on her bringing a partner. "You know I work better alone", she had huffed.

"When was the last time you ate a decent meal? Slept for more than four hours, took a goddamn bath? Because you stink."

"Stop", she had tried to threaten, but her voice did not command the power it once used to.

"I thought you loved baths, with all that fancy oil and shit", Sam had said. He had meant it well, meant it to be soothing but it sent her tumbling into another memory as Bucky whispered, "He was the one who loved them".

"I could stay here forever", Steve groaned, the sound sinful and deep as it settled within her, like a babbling brook sending its ripples up her heart.

"But you'd get all wrinkly", she playfully chastised, pressing her lips gently to his skin, the water lapping at her chin.

"Good. Then I'd finally look ninety."

"Have I ever told you how hot I find an older man", she joked, her chuckle turning to a squeal as Steve's eyes shot open, his mouth fluttering as he failed to derive a suitable answer.

"You're incorrigible", he said, settling for the disgruntled remark as he attempted feigned annoyance, his ruse quickly falling once he felt her arms running up his sides.

"You love me though."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Are you even listening to me?", Sam's voice broke through the cracked daydream. "I'm taking you off the roster".

"What? No! You can't do that."

"I am Captain and I very well can. You need time. The person I see before me is not the person I knew. She's certainly not who Tony and Natasha fought to bring back."

The words hang, bloated, ugly, and vile, suspended like a marionette on frayed strings. They reminded her of the small part of herself that resented the person she'd become, the one she knew her mentors would've hated to see.

"Listen", Sam walked towards her, his voice softer. "I know things have been tough, but you've got to find yourself, the real you. The person we all know is in there somewhere desperate to get out but you won't let her and I think you know what you have to do to set her free."

~~~

The walk leading up to the stone structure was untrodden, the concrete hard and uncaring beneath her soles. The few flowers people had cared to leave were long dead, their petals once in full bloom now yellowed by the autumn chill. No one really remembered the forgotten spy, the woman who had uncaringly bared her past to the public in the bid to bring down Alexander Pierce. They only remembered the court proceedings and the self-imposed exile. Steve had been redeemed in their eyes, Natasha never had the chance.

It had been a year since she came back, since Natasha gave everything to bring her back. She gazed down at the dull grey stone, the words reading 'Natalia Alianovna Romanova'. It was symbolic of course, after all, they didn't even have her corpse.

She had often spent nights thinking what she would say to Natasha if she could see her one last time, but somehow, standing there on that dull afternoon no words came to her. She raised her head to the grey sky as it stretched its hand out, hoping for a breeze to wash over her, to carry her cares away. But the air stayed still and silent.

She closed her eyes and listened. There was not a sound, not a single movement but suddenly she felt his presence next to her. He had crept up softly, like a cat upon its prey. They must call him white wolf for a reason, she wondered.

He laid, what he hoped was a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. It was a light touch but it was unexpected and she was ashamed to say that she startled, flinching like Bucky had stabbed her with his knife instead of offering a commiserating nudge.

He stared at her for a while, features tightening with something like affectionate rebuke. "I'm sorry to have startled you," he said gently, patient, like a mother coaxing her child. She knotted her hands where they hung between her knees, agitated posture softening microscopically.

"Why are you here, James?," she snapped, loudly. It was not what she wanted to say but it's what she permitted herself. What she wanted to say was You break me with your casualness.

She swallowed it.

"I didn't want you to do this alone."

She could smell the cinnamon on his clothing and the spices in his scent. He'd been down at that restaurant again, cajoling the owner into supplying him with pastries. The old man had been lonely since his progeny took his leave and never returned. He'd been overjoyed when Bucky started hovering at his elbow like an overeager puppy, begging for scraps.

"You don't have to be nice to me". She hurled the words, hoping to strike, to push him away. Its better if he's away.

Bucky's hand spasmed on her shoulder, his face contorting with mock pain. "You wound me. I'm beginning to think you don't like me." He winked, sliding his hand away.

She kept her breathing steady, working very hard not to glance at him, or think about him, or commit to memory the look of kindness in his eyes. Could you please just stop being kind.

She did not look at men like Bucky anymore. Pretty men. Men with kind eyes and edges.

She had disciplined her mind and body to only notice the things she could exploit about others. She did not let herself focus on the graceful movement of limbs or the aesthetic pleasure of wide shoulders and battle-honed flesh. That part of her had bled out; haemorrhaged across stone and sand.

"I don't think I can do it today", she muttered, self-loathing coating her words.

"You don't have to do it today. You can do it tomorrow, or the day after, or next week. But do it sometime soon. He's not getting any younger."

She wondered, for a moment, if Bucky saw weakness when he looked at her.

It doesn't matter. The end looms near.

~~~

A season passed. Winter had always been unkind to the city. It brought with it dull days and white snows, its cold mornings and colder nights. Yet warmth brewed in her heart. Bucky did not let her anticipate his affection. Like a shade from her personal hell, he appeared wherever she happened to be, cinnamon scented hands always hovering, then reaching out and touching.

Fingers closing around her wrist and tugging when she reached for a book in the library—"Have you read this volume? I've always found it to be more helpful."

Curling a jar of salve into her palm after a round of training—"Sam got it from the pharmacy."

Pressing low and insistent against her back —"Come with me to the armoury? I want to work on my forms."

Bucky was relentless. His siege on her body meant that she could never quite anticipate what was coming her way, never quite erect a mental barrier to keep from feeling.

She would admire his resolve, but mostly she was just tired. She felt consumed by stress, itchy like her skin was suddenly too small for her bones. She did not understand it and she did not want to ask because then Bucky might stop.

And that—

She had lost enough in this world to know when to keep quiet.

Somewhere in the deep clutches of that winter, her resentment grew smaller. Maybe it was because the stones she had built her walls with, had been taken apart, bit by bit, by the man with a metal arm and the kind eyes. Or maybe her weariness had taken over the bitter grudges she harboured. Nevertheless, she now stood on the cobblestone street, the afternoon air fluttering her scarf.

You're sure you want to do this?" Sam looked over her head at Bucky, he had asked that same question since the moment she entered the kitchen. And then in the elevator to the car park, then in the car driving into the little suburban row of houses. And again when she parked in front of the little yellow house.

"Yes Sam, I am sure", she answered, voice teetering on the edges of impatience.

"I was just making sure"

"She said she's sure, it's her decision to make", Bucky's voice cut through, warm and resonant, like a wave lapping at her feet, urging her forward.

"Is that why you brought a knife in your shoe, Barnes? What are you gonna jump an old man that's real -"

"Fight me, Wilson".

"Would you two just..."

"It's nice to see not everything has changed", the three of them froze, the fourth voice making her turn to the now open door. The familiar cerulean eyes she had stared into countless times, flashed at her. It made the back of her neck crawl under his gaze, assessing the changes in her since that day he decided to tear apart her world.

"Would you like to come inside?", the question was open, but they knew who it was intended for.

"Nah, Buck and I are gonna take a walk around the neighbourhood. Gotta make sure his old legs are fighting fit". A smirk fought its way onto her lips as Bucky grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Her eyes followed the two figures down the street before swivelling back to the man in front of her, the old Captain.

~~~

"I hope you don't mind, I already made tea", Steve said, stepping inside and closing the door. She stopped to look at the room as Steve hurried past her to the kitchen. Charming, she could call it, with its brownstone walls and high ceilings, the twilight flooding through the large windows, brightening the dark floors. She perched like a bird prepared for flight, upon the ends of a cherry coloured couch.

"Tea is fine." She kept her voice light with practised tenor, her eyes flying across the apartment wanting to take in everything, to see what had become of the man she once loved. The walls had no pictures but a wooden bookshelf housed nick-nacks of a life lived, a wooden soldier, an old radio, a collection of stamps stacked against old books. The objects held history in them, a history of a life she would never live. They stung, basking in their mocking glory, and she turned her eyes away, fixing them on a scratch on the coffee table.

He made his way over, balancing the tray till he set down a ceramic cup before her. His hands shakily poured the tea, brown liquid sloshing precariously in the bowl before steadying into a stream. His fingers were wrinkled, skin washed out and weathered with age. He lowered himself onto the rickety chair opposite her, raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip.

"You changed your hair", he said, after a pause.

There was something in her throat that wanted to get out, wanted to leap from its bounds and hurl itself at Steve and hurt him the way he had hurt her. But she couldn't. Instead, she settled for cold brutality. "Changed many things about me after you left". Her voice was steady, nearly expressionless but her knuckles showed white on the chair's arm.

"I'm sorr-"

"I hated you, you know", she sighed, fingers chipping away at the old ceramic of the cup. "Hated you since the moment Bucky told me you were there that day you went back. I hated you every day for the past two years."

"Not as much as I hated myself."

A flare went off within her, effervescent anger boiling its way up from her entrails. "You made a decision Steve, you could have left her alone, but you didn't."

"No, I didn't".

She searched his face for traces of what she did not know. She wanted a reaction, perhaps regret, but only cold resignation stared back at her. She sipped the tea, the liquid settling like heavy gall in her stomach. "Did you get the life you wanted? Love, family, stability?"

"I did".

"And was it worth it?"

He looked down at his hands, skin like undulating waves, jagged scars shaping his fingers; she could not tell if they were from wielding weapons or kitchen appliances, but to him, each scar spoke its memories clear as daylight. An age passed, tea growing cold in her hands before he looked up and spoke softly.

"I am sorry for the hurt I caused you, but Peggy, she was-"

"The love of your life, I know, Steve", she said, but this time no ire laced her voice.

"I really did love you, those first few years. "I really did think I could live here with you...then finding Bucky and the snap, and you were gone for so long. I didn't know how to live. Then I saw Peggy again and a part of me thought I could have a life with her again. We weren't even sure the stones were going to bring everyone back."

"But they did... and here we are", a rueful chuckle escaping her lips. "Will you tell me about her, about Peggy?"

Twilight gave way to moonlight as he spoke of their life together, of her smile when she saw him again, of the first night he went to the bar and how they danced, of how it rained so badly on their wedding day, they had to huddle up inside the church for hours; how they managed to buy a small house outside the city and painted its walls themselves and how the kitchen was always too small for him and he kept bumping into the shelves, disturbing the jars and Peggy huffing at him. He spoke warmly of her, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was where he was meant to be, like a wave travelling oceans to meet its shore.

"We named our daughter after you", he said, eyes brightening at the memory.

"What?"

"We had two. Named them after you and Natasha."

"I'm sure Margaret loved that", the bitterness laying thick as winter fog in her voice. A beat passed and she sighed, "Sorry, that wasn't fair."

"It was her idea actually", he shook his head, smiling now. "She understood what I sacrificed to be back with her. She was the one who suggested your name."

"She knew about me?"

"I told her. She wasn't pleased with the way I handled our last conversation", Steve grimaced. "She said I owed a life to you. Now you must go and live the one you deserve, not for anyone else, just for you"

A moment passed and her voice came quietly in the darkness, "What if I don't know how to?"

"I think you've already begun to".

~~~

Sweet and thick, the air flowed like nectar around her, offset only by the cool lapping of the lake against her toes. Her trousers were rolled to her knees, coat draped carelessly over a nearby bench. It was cold but her body hummed with the loss of the weight she had been carrying on her shoulder. The only thing cutting through the soft night air was the sound of solitary footfalls on the pebbles outlining the grassy footpath.

"It's cold as hell", Bucky grunted, tugging his coat further into himself. "Get out of the lake or you'll catch your death".

"Your concern is appreciated but misplaced."

"I don't agree." Bucky moved closer, galvanized by her dismissive attitude, hand grasping firmly onto her shoulder. Warmth spread down her arm as Bucky started to move, brushing his palm back and forth like it was completely normal. An expected touch. A ritual.

"How can you be cold with two jackets and a trench coat?"

"It's meant to look scary so people stay away."

"Oh, it's working", she quipped, turning around to face the man. "Wait never mind, you look as scary as Winnie the Pooh."

"Are you calling me fat?", he scoffs, eyes rolling playfully.

"I mean, you are thicker than you used to be James, not that I'm complaining."

"That's because Sarah makes good food and it's a crime to refuse her."

"Oh absolutely." The smile lingers on her face.

"You'll be, okay?" the gravelly and sincere tone makes her tear her eyes away from a young starling taking flight off a low branch.

Blue eyes, dark as the entrails of the azure sea, streaked with crests of violent waves were now drenched in affectionate concern, a lingering feeling lacing his irises. It is a solemn promise. A silent pledge and maybe, just maybe, a hope of tomorrow.

"I think I will be".

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