Chapter Text
Steve was back at the cafe with the chatty blonde waitress. He still hadn't asked for her name, or number despite the urging from the older gentleman who met with his friend here every Thursday, but she smiled at him each time she saw him. Though his return smile was weak, it was nice to have someone to show a little friendliness towards since he wasn’t getting very much of that at the SHIELD facility or anywhere else.
He was sketching again. Nothing like he used to, just another doodle on the back of the paper placemat. This time it was the last apartment he and Bucky had shared before the war. Tiny, one bedroom, with two twin beds, the sofa from Bucky's parents, and Steve's mother's kitchen table with the mismatched leg.
Bucky had come home a Saturday night too tipsy and happy from dancing, and as he came through the main room, he tripped over his own shoes that he had just pulled off, slammed into the table, and made the most horrible moaning wail as it crashed to the ground. Steve had come running in a panic, expecting to find Bucky bleeding and dying, but instead Bucky had given him a sorrowful, teary-eyed look as he held the two ends of the broken table leg. Steve just groaned, thankful that Bucky wasn't injured, and helped lift him up and into bed, all the while assuring Bucky that 'no, Buck, I'm not mad' and 'yes, Buck, I know you'll make it right.' Two days later, Steve had come home from work to find the table standing upright with one leg a grayish off-white.
Steve was shading in two pairs of shoes in the entryway when he saw a hauntingly familiar form walk up the sidewalk and about to pass by the cafe tables. He jolted to his feet, took two steps and caught the man gently by his elbow.
“Bucky?” Steve asked, and he would have been embarrassed to hear the waver in his voice if he hadn't been so overcome with shock and terrible, fragile hope. It couldn't be Bucky; he had seen people that reminded him of Bucky before only to be disappointed and heartbroken a second later. But the man was so like Bucky, and after all, Steve had somehow survived to find himself seventy years in the future.
The man jerked his arm back and said, “No, man, I'm not a bucky. Now hands off.”
Of course not, Steve thought, squeezing his eyes shut. He took a step back. “I'm sorry. Sorry, I. I thought you were someone else.” He opened his eyes and tried to smile, but Bucky's eyes were staring at him over a pair of shiny black sunglasses shaded by a dark blue baseball cap.
“It's okay.” The man lowered his shoulders, relaxed, and proceeded to look Steve up and down. He smiled, “Buy me a coffee, and it's all forgiven.”
Steve could almost feel himself blush. That was the smile Bucky used on the pretty dames he wanted to take dancing. Though Steve was very familiar with it, he'd never had it directed at himself. Bucky had used a different smile for Steve.
He wanted to say no and go hide back in the tiny apartment SHIELD had found for him. But at the same time he desperately wanted any small piece of home and Bucky that he could find, and this man looked so much like Bucky. He stammered out an, “All right,” and sat back down at his table.
The man followed and sat down in the chair across from Steve. He still hadn't stopped wielding that flirty smile, and it was stabbing into every one of the many parts of Steve that craved Bucky. Then the man look off his sunglasses, and it got worse.
Steve had to close his eyes again, but he quickly opened them. He didn't want to miss a single look.
"So, what's your name?" Bucky's lookalike asked.
"Steve."
There was a pause. "Steve... Do I get a last name?" The man smiled Bucky's mischievous 'come on now, Steve, you know you want to' smile.
It made Steve's stomach twist, and he blurted out more harshly than he intended, “Just Steve.”
The smile turned a little strained and meaner, like the ones Bucky flashed at strangers during the war, when he bothered to smile at all. “Oh, come on now. You know my last name. Can’t I get yours?”
“I don't know your name.” Steve's brows scrunched together a bit. Was this another future thing that he was missing?
The man looked suspicious and then surprised. “Really?” he asked. His face had gone soft and open; the mean defensiveness was gone. When Steve nodded, the man searched Steve's face for something. He must have found it because he smiled, wide and happy, and Steve took quick breath. That smile hurt so much, but at the same time he was so glad to see it.
“All right then,” the man continued. “I'm just TJ. It's nice to meet you, just Steve.” He quirked his lips in a flirty half-smile.
The blonde waitress came over to their table with a notepad in her hand and a larger than usual smile on her face. “You're meeting someone today,” she said like it was the best news she had heard all day. She turned to look at TJ, and when he looked up at her, she gave a little, “Oh,” of surprise. Fumbling with her notepad, she asked, “What can I get you?”
“Just a cup of coffee,” TJ said smiling. That one was also a smile Steve recognized, but not from seeing Bucky use it. Steve had seen it many times in the mirror as he practiced for the USO tours. It had become his camera smile. Bucky had hated it, said it made his eyes look flat. Steve hadn't really known what that meant, but Bucky had known him best.
Seeing that smile on Bucky's face, Steve finally understood, and he wondered what kind of life had given TJ, this man who looked to much like his best friend, a bright camera smile with miserable, dead eyes.
~*~*~*~*~
TJ was tired. Really tired. But he was so glad to be out of DC, even if it was only for a day. Of course he didn't show any of that. Couldn't show it. Not in public. Not with all the bad press he had been getting lately. Not with his mother gearing up to run against Collier in two years. Two more years of an even lower circle of hell than he usually resided in.
So when someone grabbed him and started calling him names, he was not too happy.
He yanked his arm back and snapped, “No, man, I'm not a bucky. Now hands off.” What a time to not have the secret service guys with him.
But then the arm grabber started stammering out an apology, and TJ got a good look at him. Damn, but the guy was hot. He had this classic, clean-cut look to him that TJ really wanted to just put his hands all over and mess up. He was blond, maybe even a real blond, had massive shoulders hidden by a blue checked button up with the sleeves rolled up showing off fabulous forearms, and was wearing khaki slacks. His hair was longish and neatly combed to one side, and TJ thought he saw a hint of blue eyes when the guy had grabbed him. Altogether he was a gorgeous contradiction of polite and bold. TJ was instantly in lust and wondered how he could get this guy home with him without it turning into a news story.
Coffee. Coffee first. “It's okay,” he turned the charm on. “Buy me a coffee, and it's all forgiven.”
And the guy... blushed… just a little, a hint of pink on his cheekbones, and agreed. Was he even for real? He couldn't be, but TJ wanted him anyway.
Well, TJ wanted him a little less when after they sat down, he wouldn't even give TJ a last name. How was that even fair. He could be a serial killer or, even worse, a reporter. But still, the guy was hot; TJ could still work at him.
"Steve... Do I get a last name?" he tried once more. Without a last name there was no way this was happening, gorgeous or not.
“Just Steve,” the guy snapped.
Hell no. “Oh, come on now. You know my last name. Can’t I get yours?”
And then the guy had the nerve to act like he didn't know TJ, hadn't seen his face plastered all over newspapers, magazines, and the internet since his father entered the White House. “Really?” TJ said. The guy looked confused, really confused. And still sad. And a little lost. And his eyes were really, really blue, and they looked really, really honest. They left TJ feeling floaty and hopeful. Maybe Steve really didn't know who TJ was.
He decided to go with it. “All right then. I'm just TJ. It's nice to meet you, just Steve.” It was weird; TJ didn't think he had ever talked with someone who didn't already know who he was by reputation. And if Steve was telling the truth... That tiny part of him that hadn't been smashed away by politics and drugs really wanted Steve to be telling the truth. TJ shoved the thought away. If Steve was lying, then he would just deal with it the way he had dealt with everything else.
The waitress arrived at their table. She was pretty, with blond hair in a nice up-do, and she smiled at Steve liked she knew him. Fumbling a bit when she recognized TJ, she asked what he wanted to order. He figured he'd stick with a simple cup of coffee.
Now Steve was looking at TJ with an odd look, like he just figured something out and was determined to stick with it. The resolved look oddly suited him; made him look all noble. Though he still looked sad. “So, I'm guessing you're famous or something?” Steve said.
TJ laughed. Or something. “Yeah, just a little. Though,” he shifted a bit, “it is nice meeting someone who doesn't know who I am.”
Steve said, “I know what you mean.”
And now the guy was screwing with him. TJ didn't know whether to be amused or pissed off at the attempt at sympathy. “I'm sure you do.”
That got him a little quirk of a smile and an 'I see what you did there, and you're not funny' look. It seemed well practiced. “I'm kind of well known where I work. It can be... stifling when everyone around you expects you to act a certain way. And when you don't, people seem... betrayed, almost. Like you're letting them down by being yourself. Like they know who you should be better than you do, and how dare you contradict that.”
Wow. TJ could still remember that woman who had done her best to hammer TJ’s media persona into a careful mold. She had straight blond hair that he knew was dyed because he could see the dark roots barely growing in. Her voice was sing-song and irritating to listen to. He wanted to go play the piano, but he had to get ready, and she kept saying, 'Smile wider, Thomas, with more teeth. Look happy. There you go. You're the happy, cheerful brother. Douglas is the serious one. You can't go around without a smile!'
“And now that I'm out here,” Steve continued, “it's like a breath of fresh air, but an icy, cold one, that makes your lungs burn. Because while no one knows me, I don't know anyone either. And it's. Quiet.”
He was staring up and to TJ’s left, and he stayed silent and sad until the waitress came with the coffee. Steve jumped when she set TJ's cup down. “I'm sorry.”
“No, man,” TJ said after waving the waitress off. “I guess you do understand. I'm wondering if I understand you.”
Steve huffed. “Not many people do.”
“So, where were you-” TJ tried and jumped when his phone started ringing. He looked at the screen. It was Doug, probably wondering where he was and why he wasn't back at the hotel already. “Damn it.” He hit end.
“Do you need to-” Steve said.
“No it's just my brother. He-” TJ cut off when his phone rang again. “Sorry, I-”
“Go ahead.” Steve waved a hand.
Damn it, Doug. “What?” TJ said into the phone.
“Where are you? You can't just take off like this, TJ,” came the predictable, lecturing tone of voice that Doug used on TJ when he was feeling particularly stressed. Just another part of campaigning that TJ loved.
“I'm having coffee,” TJ said.
“Why-” Doug began.
“I will be back at the hotel soon. I'm not destroying anything or causing a scandal.” TJ hung up and looked back to Steve. He suppressed a cry of dismay at seeing that Steve had finished his coffee and was packing away a tiny notebook and pencil. “Do you have to leave?”
Steve looked a little startled. “I thought you had to. I don't want to trouble you any more than I already have by grabbing you off the street.”
TJ laughed. “I really didn't mind. Look, do you want to-” And his phone started ringing again. He ended the call. “Steve-”
Steve had risen to his feet and set a few bills in the middle of the table. “I'm sorry to have bothered you, TJ. You obviously have somewhere to be, and I don't want to be in the way. Thank you for-”
“Can I at least have your number?” TJ interrupted, digging out his phone.
“My what? Oh, my phone number. Sure.” Steve recited his number and pulled out his own phone. It was old, and he flipped it open with his other hand rather than his thumb. “What is-”
TJ sent Steve a text. “There you go. That way I don't have to say mine out-loud.”
“Ah,” said Steve. “That's. Okay.” They stood there. Steve seemed torn, moving his gaze from his own feet, to TJ's hands, and to the street behind TJ. After a moment, he looked back at TJ and stared, like he was hungry for something but knew he could never have it. Finally, he pulled the corners of his mouth up in one of the saddest smiles TJ had ever seen. Steve nodded once and turned down the street.
As Steve walked away, TJ took his turn to stare. At the broad, heavy shoulders. At the straight spine and slightly bowed head. TJ wondered and opened his mouth to call out. To say anything before Steve was too far away.
TJ's phone rang.