Steve scratched his head. Acclimating to society seemed like a lot of work. He hadn't been out of the ice long when the Chatauri had invaded New York, and since then, he had been working exclusively for SHIELD. But now, there was no SHIELD. He didn't even know if there was a USA at this point. And he was still 70 years out of date with the modern world.
"Uh. I'm kinda old-fashioned," he said, knowing it sounded lame as he said it, but helpless not to. "My girl..." There was a sharp, pained look in his eyes as he thought of Peggy, last he had seen her, old and wrinkled and in her bed, weeping at the sight of him. "I kinda... lost her. After the war. Hasn't really been a lot of time for me since then."
Steve didn't have much to say about his schooling. While a decent student, he'd never been physically capable of doing more than surviving the bullies and PE class. He chuckled at the memory, then shrugged and gave it some clarification. "I was... kinda the short, skinny kid in school." He turned the bottle of pop in his hand as he spoke. "Got picked on a lot. After my dad died, it was just me and my mom, and she died when I was a teenager. There wasn't much left for me, outside of joining up."
Except Bucky. His eyes went flat against that bitter sting. Bucky had joined the war as well, eventually, just as they all had. The War had consumed everything, in the end.
What had happened to Bucky? Steve fell silent, fingers wiping at the condensation on his bottle, remembering the last time he'd seen his best friend. Not that horrible fight on the train, when James Barnes had fallen to his apparent death, but the helicarrier, where Steve had surrendered himself, given his last and everything, for the chance at making that break in Bucky's eyes into a flash of memory.
His own memories had gone black first. But somehow, he had survived the wreckage.
Had Bucky?
He realized, rather suddenly, that he had lapsed into his own thoughts. Steve shook his head, blinking and sitting up straighter. "Sorry. Uh. A psychiatrist?" One hand ran through his hair. "That's... that's a great field." He tried to remember something positive about psychiatry, apart from the hordes of doctors he had been paraded through, running evaluation after evaluation after he had woken up in the twenty-first century. He'd eventually begun to ditch the follow-ups and questionnaires that had evermore threatened to drown him. "Where are you doing that?"