Chapter Text
When Steve had first gotten back to the 40’s, he was welcomed with open arms—obviously, not like anything had changed for them. On the outside, it appeared as if nothing had changed. He got up. He did his shows. He went to bed. Repeat. It’s not like you could see on the outside how it felt as if his heart wanted to consume him alive.
For the first few days, he brushed the feeling off as just the consequence of settling in. Maybe a jump in time that drastic takes a few days to get used to.
A month in, he tried ignoring it. A last ditch attempt at normalcy. Then again, that’s what this whole thing is.
After a year, he was pissy. But, this is what he wanted. This is what he chose, so why did he feel like this?
The pissy stage lasted a few years. It ended sometime right after he married Peggy, 1950 or so. He heard Bucky’s favorite song on the radio. Somehow, he was transported back to a dance hall, sat on a bench, drawing Bucky and some random broad as they danced together to that same song. That was the first time he remembers explicitly thinking of Bucky as beautiful. Though, if we’re counting his subconscious, he can’t pinpoint. There were many times as a boy he’d catch himself staring at his lips. Plush, soft. Kissable. But did he really understand the concept of kissing at that age?
The answer is yes, probably enough to know that thinking of Bucky in that way was not purely friendly. But really, he is beautiful.
The worst argument he and Peggy ever got in was over this occurrence. He talked about Bucky one too many times. Peggy accused him of being a queer.
Whether she was entirely wrong or not is irrelevant.
Sure, the pissy phase ended after this argument, but the mopey phase was just beginning. He would never admit it to anyone outside of himself and the darkness of the night sky that his window overlooked, but he missed Bucky more than life itself. He didn’t know what to do with himself without him. There’s some things he wouldn’t even admit to himself, though. One of those being that the reigning sentiment in his soul at that time was debilitating regret.
He used the term “beautiful” liberally when he described his life that way to Sam. It wasn’t beautiful in the same way Bucky was—the kind of beauty that feels divine. It was quite rusty, in fact.
When Steve made his decision to go back to the 40’s, Peggy was at the forefront. He did it because in that moment, the memories, the possibilities of what he’d missed were the most consuming thing in his mind. The idea clawed at his skin.
What if he had missed out on the family he so desperately wanted?
He thought he would be happy with his decision to go back. They’d live a normal, vanilla life, maybe have some kids, and he’d come back to him. His love.
But that’s not what happened.
In reality, he lived a pathetic life. Peggy knew he didn’t love her, even if she only spoke it the one time. He never had the family he wanted. He realized very quickly that he would have been a terrible father—at least in the state he was in then. More than living a life together, they coexisted. More than a husband, he was a roommate. A bad one, at that.
In this timeline—although it’s just one more thing he’ll never admit—he was so relieved when Peggy died before him. At least he gets to live the last few years of his life without having to pretend he was happy.
”I didn’t love her, you know.”
Bucky’s brows knit together as he finally looks at Steve’s face for what feels like the first time since he arrived. He doesn’t look at him much anymore. Not that he blames him—he’s not beautiful, like most century-year-old men aren’t. His one smooth face is wrinkled as if every frown line has been permanently etched into the skin. He hates to look in the mirror now and see how much has changed—he equally hates knowing that this is how Bucky has to see him now.
”What do you mean?”
Bucky doesn’t talk to him much, either. When he comes to Steve’s house, he just sits. Writes in his little notebook sometimes, helps Steve with lunch, makes him some tea. That’s about it. To hear his voice is jarring.
”Peggy,” Steve can barely get the name out. It feels wrong. “I didn’t love her. Not when we were married, not before, not after.”
Bucky’s face melts, just enough that Steve catches it. God, if he could just reach out and run his thumbs over the worry lines on his forehead, smooth the stress out of his weary head, he would. He would take all of Bucky’s pain tenfold on himself if it meant he got a moment of peace.
”I wish I’d never left you, Buck,” he whispers, so softly that he wonders if he can even hear him over the whirring of the air purifier in the corner.
And he means it. He really does wish he’d never left. Maybe then, he could’ve had a good life, one with the person he loves more than anything.
There’s moments like these in which he wishes he believed in God. At least then he would have someone to blame other than himself. He could simply scream at the sky like it will warrant any change, like there may be a deity who screams back. Maybe the tears he’s shed, the seventy years of torment, it all would have a purpose. Maybe then, that hypothetical God would consider throwing Steve a bone. If God is all-powerful, all-benevolent, why would it ever keep him without the one thing—person—he’s ever wanted?
But then again, that was a hypothetical. He has nobody to blame but himself.
Bucky stands up, grabbing his things. Steve would ask him to stay, but that feels like too much to ask of him.
He looks back at Steve once more, his hand on the doorframe as he gets ready to leave the room. ”I’ll see you next week, bud.”
”Don’t call me bud.”