Chapter Text
What was he doing here? Where was here?
There had been so many miles traveled across pockmarked highways that rattled his teeth, gravel stretches that made even his modified muscles ache, muddied roads that caked onto his bike and clothes. He wasn't sure which small town he was in anymore; they'd all started to bleed together into a grimy mixture of undercooked diner eggs, cloudy cups of coffee, and lipstick streaked motel sheets.
He stared down into a questionable cup of murky tea because he simply could not stomach another diner's cup of "World Famous Coffee!”. When there was a destination in mind, mundane diners didn't feel so bad, rough hotel sheets didn't chafe quite so much, because in your mind you were going home. It was only a journey to a destination, a trial to endure, before you reached your goal.
But he had no destination in mind. He wasn’t heading anywhere, so there was only the endless journey where each passing day seemed to zap more of his energy and made him ache down to his bones. This was strange, because before this trip, it had been so long since his body ached in any way.
It did ache, though, in a way that made him for once feel his age of almost a century if one counted a chilly dip into the ocean for a few decades. He shifts his butt slightly on the stool to try and find a more comfortable position as he forces down a sip of his acrid tea. He watches as the soggy teabag bobs up and down, and then casts his glance across the diner, seeing only the same familiar unfamiliar faces that he found at every diner, all the patrons began to boil down into not faces but types.
The harried mother desperately shoving fish sticks into the gaping mouth of a toddler as her other children wreak havoc in the fashion of a mashed potato and pea war. A group of teens sprawled out across three booths, munching, their cell phones beeping and chirping relentlessly while they complained about their parents as they ate on their dime. Not so subtle hands scurried around under the table, up skirts or flitting lightly over denim jeans. Finally, there were the veteran truckers all at the counter with him. At most times, this was the quietest spot at any diner, and so he chose it. These were tired men with long drives ahead of them to places that weren’t home, and he almost felt a sort of kindred. He left them alone and they left him alone.
Except for right now, when they were all staring at him.
“Yer phone’s going off again. You gonna answer it, or ignore it all night like that, because it’s driving us all nuts.” His piece spoken, the trucker closest to him took another long sip of his coffee and slid off the stool to walk over to the restroom.
Steve blinked because something he’d long forgotten he had was a phone. He was surprised it still ran, for he had never charged it, nor did he own one for it. It had simply been slipped quietly into his hands by an un-judging Bruce, because Bruce of all people understood the need to run and would never stop him even as he looked at him with worried brown eyes and a face that was silently telling him he should stay.
He had just nodded and slipped it into his pocket, and then proceeded to do the same thing upon rising each morning without a second thought. It became part of his morning ritual, because what is a soldier without a need for order and ritual?
He fumbled, now, with the flat object for several moments as it cheerfully twinkled out the lines to The Star Spangled Banner, Tony’s idea of a joke, to be sure. He managed to flip open the lid and placed it to his ear.
“Hello,” he spoke into the tiny speaker. There was no questioning in his tone because there was no question about who it would be. There were only two possibilities and in calling him he had no doubt that those two were acting as one.
“Hey, pup. Are you ready to come home?”
Tony. The tone had only the shadow of his usual playfulness. It was a question asked with an earnest sincerity that most didn’t hear and few looked for in his voice, yet it was still firm, demanding an answer.
But it was an answer he felt he could not give even after all these months. His fingers twitched in a manner that unnerved him, and so he snapped the phone shut harshly enough to cause a nearby waitress to glance at him inquisitively. He forced a smile that didn’t quite spread to the rest of his face.
“I’m feeling tired and ready to head out, ma’am. Could I please get the check?”
She smiled at him, won over as so many were by his chivalry, and brought him back his check. In moments, he was back in the motel of the night, not even remembering the walk that took him there. He collapsed down onto the tired old mattress which creaked in protest. His hands brushed over his stubble as they journeyed up to his hair, raking through it to try to collect his scrambled thoughts. His breath left him in a steady, tired sigh as he remained still on the bed, not sleeping, but lost in thought and memory.