Chapter Text
Steve hadn’t expected to land anywhere but 2023—let alone 2028. He had worked hard on his plan with Howard on how to get him back to the future. Late nights in the lab back in the 1940s, carefully calibrating the Pym particle and the machine’s energy readings until they were both confident. Howard promised him, “You’ll step back in and land right where you left. No more, no less.” They ran test after test with objects—an apple, a notebook, even a rat once—and every single time, it worked.
And yet here he was, five years later than he was supposed to be, standing on a busy New York sidewalk in borrowed clothes, his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Something had gone wrong. The machine had spit him out in the wrong year, and there was no way to fix it. Not without Howard. Not without Tony. Not without…anyone, really.
He had no idea where the others were, or even if they were still alive. For months in the 40s, he’d kept himself busy with work and training, lying awake at night wondering if he’d made the wrong choice, if staying with Peggy had been selfish after everything. And now, ripped forward to a year he didn’t recognize, he was left with nothing but questions.
But he knew one place that had to still be standing.
He stood just down the block from the Avengers tower, now labeled the Watchtower, whatever that meant, and though the bones of the building were familiar, the skin was not. Stark’s sleek design was still there, but everything else looked rebuilt, sharper, modernized. Steve adjusted his glasses, stepping through a crowd of people who either ignored him entirely or stopped to stare, mouths slightly open. He thought his disguise was pretty foolproof, but clearly, it wasn’t enough.
Now in front of the tower, he took a deep breath, grounding himself—preparing for the moment he’d been waiting for for months.
Inside, it was worse. Gone were the walls and decor he knew. Every floor he glimpsed was new—new security systems, new personnel, new faces. Even the air smelled different, colder, metallic. He headed toward the elevator out of instinct, but the scanner didn’t recognise his face. The panel blinked red, denying him access.
“Excuse me, sir. Did you have an appointment?”
The voice was sharp, belonging to a man at least a head shorter than him, dressed in black security gear. His hand rested near his side pocket, and Steve had the distinct impression that there was a weapon there.
“An…appointment?” Steve repeated, trying not to sound as thrown as he felt.
“Yes. What’s your purpose?” The man’s eyes narrowed.
Steve swallowed, his mind racing. He could tell the truth—but who would believe him? Or he could bluff. His throat tightened. “I…uh—I have an interview scheduled with—Bucky Barnes.”
The name slipped out before he could think better of it. Bucky had never been at the tower before, so Steve really was pushing it by saying it. He didn’t even know if he was really there, if anyone he knew was still there. Maybe Clint was or Bruce. His mind raced a mile a minute, just to be interrupted by the other man.
“Oh, you’re the interviewer Ms. Fontaine said was coming,” The man said, his brows raised, more of a question than a statement.
Steve almost sagged in relief. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Still around, then. He nodded quickly. “Yes. Ms. Fontaine told me to come here, said something about transportation issues.”
“Alright. My apologies. Right this way.” The shorter man turned, and Steve followed.
He led him into the elevator, swiping his badge on a sensor underneath the scanner. Steve watched the floor light up: 87. Higher than he remembered. His pulse thundered.
The music inside the elevator was some distorted, heavy-beat tune he didn’t recognize. It rattled in his chest, making his nerves worse. He shifted, hands shaking.
“No need to be nervous,” The man said lightly, glancing at him. “Barnes isn’t that scary of a guy once you get to know him. He’s intimidating, sure, but he’s changed from his past. You’re not the first interviewer to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” Steve said too fast, too harshly. Then his voice softened. “This is—this is my first interview. Ever. I just hope it goes well.”
The man smiled. “I think you’ll do great. You seem like a sharp guy. You almost remind me of someone, just can’t really place it.”
Steve forced a laugh. “I get that a lot. I guess I just have a familiar face.”
“Maybe,” The man chuckled, then the ding of the elevator filled the silence.
Steve felt his heartbeat in his ears, and his stomach flipped. He was really doing this. He was gonna see Bucky—his Bucky, after 8 long, grueling months.
“Good luck, man,” The man mumbled, gesturing to the open doors.
“Thanks,” Steve murmured, breathless, his voice nearly failing him.
He stepped out of the elevator with his heart racing. The doors shut behind him, leaving him alone in a hallway both strange and familiar. He froze, forcing air into his lungs. Trying to gather the courage to move. Voices carried down the hallways—unfamiliar at first.
“Were we expecting someone?” That voice—Bucky’s, gruff but warm, like gravel smoothed by years.
Steve’s breath caught.
A softer voice came after, curious. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s Mel.”
Another one, this time a woman, a faint Russian accent chimed in. “Maybe it’s Walker.”
A British accent followed, amused. “John?”
“Yes?” Another voice replied, distant
Bucky’s voice floated again, closer this time. “I’ll be right back. See who our visitor is.”
Steve’s legs moved without thought, drawn to his voice. Step by step, he walked slowly, like he’d scare him off if he went too fast. His heart slammed against his ribs. He got about halfway to what looked like a living room before he was spotted.
And there he was.
Bucky stood at the end of the hallway, his hair just a bit shorter than the last time he saw him. He was in a black Nirvana hoodie and some gray flannel pajama pants. He looked comfortable. At ease in a way Steve had hardly ever seen him be.
“Hello?” Bucky asked cautiously.
“Hi,” Steve muttered, his throat burning.
Bucky walked closer, so Steve did too. Bucky squinted, his jaw slack, blinking fast, like he couldn’t trust what he saw.
His mouth moved first, silent. Then Bucky cleared his throat, voice cracked and trembling, barely above a whisper. “Steve?”
The name hit Steve like a punch to the chest.
“Who is it, baby?” The voice that came from the other side got closer.
Steve barely processed it, too caught up in Bucky’s face, in the sight of him alive, whole, comfortable. His pulse roared in his ears.
Then it sank in. Baby?
Steve blinked, the word cutting through his haze. His eyes flicked to the hoodie, the soft plaid, the fact that Bucky had clearly just rolled out of someone else’s arms. His stomach twisted.
But none of that mattered, not yet. Not when Bucky was right there, staring at him like the world had just cracked open.
They didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just held on to each other with their eyes, like the eight months apart had been seven decades all over again.
Steve walked forward, eyes never moving from Bucky’s, like gravity itself had chosen a target. The noises of the world fell to static in his ears. Bucky looked older—lines at the corner of his eyes, hair still longer, shoulders broader. But it suited him. He looked comfortable, at peace even, in a way that Steve had rarely seen.
“James?” The Russian voice floated from the living room again, impatient, curious.
James? Steve’s stomach twisted. Since when did Bucky go by James?
Bucky hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t moved. His breath came in short bursts, chest rising and falling too quickly, like he was trying to decide if this was a dream or a nightmare.
Slowly, Steve made his way to him, eyes glassy, throat desert-dry. He forced his words out. “It’s me,” he said softly, plainly. “It’s Steve.”
Bucky’s mouth parted, but no sound came out. His eyes darted across Steve’s face like he was memorizing every scar, every wrinkle. Then he shook his head—small, sharp, disbelieving. “No. No, you—this isn’t—”
“Bucky, who was at the—” A blond man appeared from the kitchen, pajama-clad, mug in hand. The second he saw Steve, the mug nearly slipped. “Holy shit.” His eyes widened, his voice cracking. “You’re—you’re him.”
Steve barely glanced his way, still entranced by Bucky, stepping closer to him. His arms stretched forward instinctively, reaching out like they always had. A question without words.
For a moment, Bucky didn’t resist. His body stayed frozen as Steve closed the distance, pulling him into a hug. Steve buried his face against him, inhaling cedar and pine and faint shampoo—exactly the same, impossibly the same. His chest ached with the relief of it.
But then Bucky stiffened, like steel snapping taut. When Steve pulled back, Bucky’s eyes were wide with disbelief, pupils blown. His lips moved soundlessly before he rasped. “You’re back.”
Steve’s breath caught. “‘Til the end of the line,” he whispered, hands trembling against Bucky’s arms.
Bucky huffed, bitter, broken. “Thought we’d reached the end of it years ago.”
Steve leaned closer, desperate, pulling Bucky in for what was supposed to be a kiss. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted something familiar, only for a second to drown everything else out. But Bucky’s palms pressed flat to his chest, stopping him cold.
“No.” His voice was harsh, almost panicked. He turned away, moving toward the blond man who still stood rooted to the floor.
“Buck—” Steve whispered, but the name felt wrong now.
“No,” Bucky repeated, voice low, final. He brushed past Steve, heading toward the living room. Steve followed, his pulse pounding in his ears.
He was met with a rather unexpected sight. On the couch, a brown-haired man was tangled in the arms of two women, one blonde, the other brunette. All of them in flannel pajama pants that matched Bucky’s. They looked cozy, domestic—like this was their space. The brunette traced circles absentmindedly on the man’s arm, while the blonde leaned her head on his shoulder. He watched as the other two joined them, immediately being welcomed with open arms and gentle touches. Steve felt nauseous.
The moment Steve stepped into view, all three sets of eyes went wide.
The brown-haired man was the first to speak, voice quiet but reverent. “You—you’re Steve.”
Steve’s chest tightened again. “I am.” He turned quickly, desperate to shut out their stares. “Buck, can we talk?”
“No.” The same word for the third time, each time weighing down Steve’s chest even more.
“Come on,” Steve muttered, his voice rough, cracking. “Please”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, then he exhaled through his nose. “Fine.” He turned to the others on the couch, softening just slightly. “I don’t know what’s going on either. But I promise I’ll be back.”
The brunette reached out, fingers brushing his wrist. The simple touch made Steve’s stomach flip. Bucky squeezed her hand once before pulling away. The others nodded silently, still watching Steve like they weren’t sure if he’d dissolve into smoke.
Steve couldn’t stand their eyes on him. He followed Bucky down the hall, heart hammering. They slipped into a bedroom—Bucky’s, Steve could tell instantly. Dark wood, a record player in the corner, stacks of vinyl leaning against the wall. It was lived-in. It was his.
Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, motioning stiffly for Steve to sit. Steve stayed standing, too wired to settle. And then they were alone. For the first time in months—at least to Steve—they were alone.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky demanded, his voice sharp. “How the hell are you here?”
Steve rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I-I don’t know. I convinced Howard to work on the calculations, to send me back to when I first left. I thought I’d land in 2023. Something must’ve gone wrong.”
“Well, you’re about 5 years off.” Bucky snapped. His voice cracked on the number. “How is this even possible?”
“I don’t know, Buck.” Steve took a hesitant step forward, reaching toward him.
Bucky flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that.” Bucky’s hand gestured vaguely toward Steve’s outstretched arm. “Don’t reach for me like nothing happened. Like nothing’s changed.”
“I thought you’d be excited to see me.”
Bucky’s laugh was bitter, almost cruel. “God, I am. But I can’t—I can’t deal with this. With you. Not right now.”
“Deal with what?”
“You,” Bucky’s eyes were glassy, but his voice stayed firm. “It’s been years, Steve. Years. I spent every one of them learning how to live without you. Last year, I finally—finally stopped waiting for you to walk through the door. And now here you are. Waltzing in like no time’s passed for you. Like you expect me to just—just fall back into place.
“I don’t expect that.”
“You tried to kiss me.”
Steve’s chest burned. “I didn’t know I couldn’t kiss my boyfriend.”
Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut. “I’m—I’m not your boyfriend anymore.”
The words hit harder than any punch had ever taken. “What?” he breathed.
Bucky’s gaze lifted, steady and unflinching now. “I moved on, Steve. I had to. You were gone, and I thought you’d never come back—not for me. I couldn’t wait forever.”
Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came. The words stuck like ash in his throat.
Bucky didn’t give him the chance. “Does anyone else know you’re back?”
Steve shook his head. “Who would I tell?”
Bucky leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped like he needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look at Steve when he spoke again. “I have to call Sam.”
The name hit Steve like a slap. “Sam?” His voice cracked—like it had just dawned on him that, of course, Sam was still here, still alive, still part of the world Steve had abandoned.
“Yes,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “If anyone deserves to know first, it’s him. And—hell, maybe he’ll believe me. Because right now, I don’t even believe myself.”
Steve’s throat tightened. “You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t believe this,” Bucky shot back, standing abruptly. “One second it’s quiet, the next—you’re here. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t leave.” His voice wavered, and he yanked the door open before Steve could reply. “C’mon. If you’re real, Sam will tell me.”
Steve followed silently, every step heavier than the last.
Back in the living room, the whispers died. The Thunderbolts stared at him openly, caught between suspicion and awe.
Bucky snatched his phone from the coffee table. “I’m calling Sam,” he announced, like he needed their permission.
The blond man—the one with the slight southern drawl—snorted. “You really think he’s gonna answer?”
“He’s gonna have to,” Bucky muttered. “Otherwise, people are gonna have questions when the former Captain America shows up out of nowhere.”
Steve caught the blonde woman studying him, sharp and appraising. She finally asked. “How did you even get in?”
Steve figured there was no use in lying now. “I lied. Said I had an interview.”
The southern blond shook his head. “And they let you in? Geez, you’d think Val would have this place locked up a little better.”
“I’m Bob,” the brown-haired man blurted suddenly, almost nervously. His cheeks pinked like he realized how ridiculous it sounded.
Steve gave a stiff nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Bob gestured to the others. “That’s Ava.” The brunette’s hand tightened protectively around his arm. She gave Steve a polite nod, though her eyes lingered on him like she was trying to read every thought in his head.
“John,” the blond added, standing up and offering his hand. That surprised him. Steve took it cautiously—firm, awkward. John’s grip was strong, too strong, but not unfriendly.
Finally, the blonde woman crossed her arms. “Yelena,” she said flatly.
Steve blinked. “Yelena? Nat’s sister?”
“The one and only.” Her voice was sharp, but something softened in her eyes at the sound of Natasha’s name.
Before Steve could speak again, Bucky’s voice cut through the tension. “Sam?”
He pressed the phone to his ear, pacing. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late. Just—listen. It’s important. It’s not Avengers shit, I promise you.”
Steve watched as Bucky’s voice cracked with desperation. “It’s about Steve. He’s back.”
Bucky sighed. “I don’t know, Sam.”
There was a pause. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not lying. Jesus, Sam, do you really think I’d make this up? Just to get you to answer?”
The others leaned forward, caught in the drama of it. Steve felt his chest ache at the way Bucky had to beg.
“Very funny, Sam. I’m serious.” Bucky shoved the phone into Steve’s hand like he was proving a point.
Steve cleared his throat, nerves knotting his stomach. “Hey, Sam. It’s me.”
Silence. Then Bucky snatched the phone back. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know. Just—please come. As soon as you can.” He ended the call with a shaky exhale. “He’ll be here by ten.”
From the couch, Ava smirked, dry but affectionate. “Figures. Took Steve Rogers coming back from the dead for Sam to finally answer your calls,”
John chuckled under his breath. Bob raised his brows. Yelena only shook her head. Steve only stood in the center of them all, every muscle in his body taut.
He had never felt more like a stranger.