β Seven times Steve Rogers has thought of Bucky Barnes
CW: Mentions of death, war, grief, dark themes
1945 βSeven
Sleep is out the question, he knows that all too well. Twenty seven hours. Twenty seven hours standing between a world with a Bucky Barnes and a world without one. Twenty seven hours since heβd lost his dearest friend. Since heβd lost it all.
Thereβs no safe haven from this pain. Thereβs no turning back the clock, thereβs no righting the wrongs heβd made. His stomach is in knots he knows will never unravel.
The hardest pill to swallow is knowing heβd broken the only promise heβd sworn to keep. The line wasnβt supposed to be severed by a few screws. By falling into the unknown with nothing but his own fear as company. Bucky Barnes was supposed to die of old age in a cheap one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. They were supposed to win this war together. This was meant to be a stepping stone leading to the rest of their lives, not the edge of a cliff.
Bucky had always been a better man than him, there was not a shred of doubt in his mind about that fact. If things had been reserved, he wouldβve jumped after him. Steve shouldβve done the same, if he could go back to that moment, he would.
Steve had often been mistaken for the brave one. When really, it had always been Bucky. Heβd been the one to befriend the sick kid with a loud mouth and lot to prove. Had been by Steveβs side against bullies twice their size, never once wavering in a fight that had never truly been his.
The glass sitting in front of him is empty now, not that it matters much. The whiskey doesnβt eat him whole as he wished it would. The serum made sure of that.
Hydra would pay for what theyβd done. How mistaken theyβd been thinking they could rob the world of James Buchanan Barnes without paying with their own lives.
Now, heβs left with his thoughts. Waiting for morning, until they set off on the most important mission of his life.
Hydra would pay for what theyβd done, heβd make sure of it.
2011 βSix
Steve Rogers had died in 1945.
Captain America, on the other hand, had made it to the twenty-first century.
It was easy being a hero, he had a natural talent for it. It was a better distraction than he could hope for. The future always needed saving now.
Back in his day - in Steve Rogers day, the strangest threat was a man twisted by a form of the very serum running through his own flesh and bone.
Now, there were Gods and Alien armies.
The kind of things Bucky wouldβve liked to read about when they were kids. He could almost see it, thick hair resting on the back of a lumpy couch, book in hand, entirely engrossed by the words on a page.
The past was haunting. Worst still, it didnβt feel as far away as it shouldβve. As if it was barely out of reach, that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough he could touch it with his fingertips.
Everything was gone from his life, everything that tethered him to it.
Sixty-six years in the Arctic had gone by in what felt like minutes.
βYou coming, Cap?β A deep voice rips through his thoughts.
βYeah, just gimme a minute.β
2014 βFive
Thereβs a nasty pounding in his head. His lungs are tight, a familiar distant feeling. For a split second, he thinks it might all have been a fever induced dream. His eyes will flutter open any second now and catch sight of the yellowed ceiling of an apartment in Brooklyn.
Instead, he sees a smokey sky.
Itβs wet, heβs wet.
His head is crooked uncomfortably to one side. The silhouette of a man walking away is blurred, but very much there.
Bucky jumped.
2015 βFour
βWe found him. In Bucharest.β Samβs proud of himself, it shows. He damn well deserves to be, after all the work heβs put into looking for a man that obviously didnβt want to be found.
βPerfect. Great. When do we leave?β Steve stands from his chair, fast. Heβs excited, more so than heβs been in years, decades even.
Heβs nervous too. He has no idea how this will go. Heβs read the files, has spent countless nights doing just that. Thereβs horrors in those pages he canβt even begin to comprehend.
Bucky deserves safety, he vows to at least give him that.
βTonight. We can leave tonight.β
2015 βThree
Steve sits in front of a headstone.
It reads:
Sarah Rogers
May 18, 1892 β October 15, 1936
Beloved
mother, daughter, sister & friend
His fatherβs is next to it, but time has worn the etching down on his.
βI saw him again, ma. I- I really let him down. Heβs been hurting for a long time. I donβt know if heβll forgive me for it.β Steve rubs at his eyes, then places a Bouquet of Easter lilies in front of the grave.
Sarah Rogers had told him while sheβd been sick to hold on to Bucky, that friendships like that came once in a lifetime. Sheβd given him a smile after saying it, one tucked away in the depths of his mind.
His mother was a smart woman, sheβd raised a child on her own through the depression, she had to be smart to survive. More so, his ma had been kind. Sheβd been understanding. She knew, he was certain now. She couldnβt say it back in those days, but she knew. Bucky was it for him.
βIβll come back next week, donβtβcha go anywhere before then.β His hand pats on top of the stone, marble cold to the touch.
Steve turns on his heel and walks off.
2015 βTwo
The apartment is run down. It makes their old place in Brooklyn look like a penthouse suite.
Thereβs an old dingy mattress, a sleeping bag and a single pillow resting atop it, tucked away under a window.
A small kitchenette, non-perishable food scattered on the counters, on top of the stained fridge.
A book catches his gaze, he moves towards in, plucks it off the fridge. Flips through a couple pages. Buckyβs hand writing looks a bit different now, more scribbled than the cursive heβd grown up seeing.
Thereβs a photo of him in it, the same photo theyβve got plastered in the Smithsonian.
Thereβs a noise behind him, he doesnβt have to turn to know who it is, but he turns nonetheless.
βHey, Buck. Do you know who I am?β
2016 βOne
Steve sits with his back flush against the door of Buckyβs room.
Itβs past midnight, most of the Towerβs asleep now. Still, he sits. An old copy of The Hobbit cracked open in his hands, one heβd gotten back with a box of his old belongings when heβd come out of the ice.
The storyβs one heβs read before, a few years before heβd joined the army. It wasnβt really his taste, heβd always preferred mysteries over fantasies, but it had been a gift.
Itβs been six months since Bucharest.
Steve would be lying if he said itβd been easy. Bucky was healing, but the process was ugly. In the early days, there were times when he looked at his best friend and saw only the soldier theyβd turned him into. His features hard, calculating his next move. Then, theyβd soften again. His eyes would dart around whatever room theyβd been in, as if he was grounding himself in it. Taking in every tile on the floor, every windowpane, every wall.
There was also the nightmares, which happened every time the man slept.
The first few weeks, heβd wait out in his own room for the screams to reach him before racing to Buckyβs to wake him from whatever tortures he was seeing in his subconscious.
It felt too far. The feeling of not being there in time to save him from it was all-consuming.
The process was gradual. First, he waited in a chair by his own bed, making sure he wouldnβt fall asleep before the inevitable came. Next, it was just inside his own door, but even that felt too far. Now, he waited outside Buckyβs. Every night until the screaming began.
As if his thoughts had been heard, βgotov podchinit'syaβ is muttered on the other side of the metal door. Steve doesnβt know Russian, but he knows that specific phrase. Ready to comply. Itβs often how the dreams start, the nightmares.
He sets the book down on the floor of the hallway, then pulls the door open, walking over to the bed.
His voice is soft, heβs trained it that way. βBuck, itβs me. Youβre safe. Youβre okay. Weβre in Stark tower. Itβs Steve. Youβre okay. Youβre safe.β He repeats the words like a mantra, hoping if he says them enough theyβll stick.
