A/N: Written for @sunmoonandbucky‘s 5k writing challenge and filling the prompt: She thinks I’m old, from the Daddy Long Legs musical. Congratulations again on your epic milestone, you’re awesome and deserve all the love of we 5k and more. Sorry, I should have had this posted a couple of hours ago, it almost didn’t get completed at all (I’ve been so busy with work stuff) but we got there in the end. Phew!
Summary: You’re an artist who runs a creative therapy class for veterans, he’s a world war 2 vet who looks after goats. When Sam asks you to be a sponsor for the veterans pen pal program you never dreamed it would end where it does.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Warnings: PTSD - Bucky recovering, bit of angst, bit of fluff.
Deep violet and Prussian blue softened to lavender with a sliver of peach in the cleft between two mountains. The eastern call of the coming day no longer filled Bucky with dread, instead it filled him with a tempered kind of peace. Not the seeping relaxation of the soul that he longed to feel inching over his shoulders and down his spine, but the kind that subtly softened the pensive nature of his broken pieces and told him ‘today might not be so hard’. As the sun rose on his final day in Wakanda, Bucky set about his daily chores. The mundane tasks his body performed while his mind clamoured for completion.
Up well before the Sun, he preferred to work before the heat of the day peaked. Those pre-dawn moments before the others of his community rose were his own; time to wallow in his own self-pity without the sad looks of those around him. But now he had something to look forward to, someone to look forward to. Y/n. His pen pal. The woman he had fallen inexorably in love with over the past two years, your souls laid out on paper.
Bucky tossed bales of straw onto a small cart. Already his goats were snickering and tittering in their pen, soon they’d be around his legs getting in the way as he cleaned out their muck for the last time. He would miss the company of his goats, they had personality but couldn’t judge, and when they watched him struggle one-handed with rakes and pitchforks they couldn’t pity him his missing arm.
For a long time it had been the source of much of his pain, a reminder of what was done to him and what he’d done. Without the arm he could easily believe he was just another soldier who lost a limb in battle, he could gloss over the decades of murder and torture in favour of his memories of Brooklyn and of the 107th. But without it he was stunted, an invalid, weak. It would have been better for everyone if he’d just died falling from that train, but Bucky was tenacious. Even in his darkest hour he always fought for survival, his instinct to live so strong he’d lasted almost 100 years of war, and war was exactly what it was. All those years as the Fist of Hydra, The Winter Soldier, soldat. All that death. Hydra were at war and he was their weapon.
Now he had a different desire, a different purpose. He was going home to New York, going home to a place he no longer knew, filled with people who most likely despised him. And what for? A woman who knew him only as war veteran James. A woman who knew so much about him yet so little. What would you say when you finally met him and realised your charming old-world friend was the murderous Winter Soldier? No. You wouldn’t discard him like that, you’d done so much for each other over the years. Your bond was strong. Wasn’t it?
Fully risen now, the sun crested the lower slopes of the eastern mountain, bringing colour to the world around him. Vibrant greens of the forest reaching up until the stone peaks could no longer support their life, pastures and plantations, fields of grain not yet yellowed and ready for harvest, and an orchard where Bucky had been allowed to plant a few trees of his own; plums and damsons, that’s what he grew.
It was in the orchard at the cusp of midday, with sweat making rats tails of his hair and sticking his sleeveless plaid shirt to his skin, and with a basket of fruit picked for the village that he caught the silhouette of a figure he seldom saw outside of Wakanda’s labs; Princess Shuri.
“The white wolf has become a puppy, if the rumours of your village are true.” She stepped forward, her full-length white dress trailed in the dried red dirt, tainting the hem like rust.
Bucky smiled dryly. Shuri always liked to tease him.
“Come,” she smiled, “it is time.”
Since the end of the Infinity War and Steve’s decision to leave, Bucky had come back to Wakanda to find himself but had only gotten more lost. He was comfortable, with his supported solitude and his goats; The Winter Soldier had been locked away, forgotten but never truly gone. That had been almost three years ago.
The veteran's pen pal program had changed all of that for him. It had been Sam’s idea, to help soldiers who had problems connecting. A buffered step towards communicating and getting to know new people again, an opening through which to learn the world again.
Bucky had been hesitant at first. The first letter came and it took him weeks to pluck up the courage to reply, but reply he did and never looked back. Now he was getting on a jet back to New York, where you lived. He would be in the same city, walking the same streets, breathing the same air but would he ever be brave enough to announce himself after all this time? Would you feel lied to, that he hadn’t owned up to who he was in the two years you’d been writing to each other?
The jet doors closed on one part of his life and he stared out of the window as the metal bird carried him into the next. Scared but resolved to become whole again, Bucky closed his eyes and thought of you.
Pride, that’s what you felt, pure unadulterated pride. Looking out across the room at the men and women in your class at the VA hospital. Hands grey and mottled with clay, aprons smeared with slip, but there’s a kind of peace in that chatter-filled room that these people never got while sat sombrely at their support meetings. It was hard to open up when the question on everyone else’s mind is “what happened to you, then?”
“So… week four and the clay was a win?” Sam Wilson spoke from the doorway, shoulder braced against the wood as he leaned, watching the group sculpt things from the clay you’d given them.
It had been a bit of a slow start, triggering their imagination was key. Some were making pots and cups from coiled clay snakes, something functional because that’s what they needed, to create something useful instead of all the useless hurt and emotion they were filled with. Some were making plaques, embossed words like ‘home sweet home’, ‘you can do this’, and ‘be the change you want to see’, motivational sentiments designed as gifts perhaps but were more an instruction to themselves. A few were freestyling, just pouring their emotions out into the wet clay, seeing what came out. But they were talking, just inane chatter about this and that, small talk that helped them coalesce as a group, allowing them to open up gradually. You would have this same group for a total of twelve weeks of creative therapy before the cycle would start again and you’d get a new group.
“Yeah.” You sighed, moving to the door so as not to disturb the class. “Creating something gives their brains something to focus on so they’re not fully submerged in their trauma. I’m not a therapist, but you can see how the artistic process helps them. Not everyone responds but most do. It’s nice to see.”
Sam smiled, eyes twinkling. He was proud of them too. Some of these people were part of the support group he hosted and seeing them like this really filled his soul with joy.
“You work wonders with these guys.” He looked a little bashful when he met your gaze. “Definitely underrated.”
“You’re not just here for a social visit are you, Sam?” You crossed your arms over your chest and pinned him with a knowing glare.
“It is when you’re trying to butter me up.” You arched a brow. “What do you need?”
“I like a girl who isn’t afraid to get down to business.” He smirked. Sam always was on the flirty side but you were immune to his charm, so he found a playful little plateau where you were both happy to remain.
“How very goal-orientated of you.” You sassed back, praying he was not about to ask you to go on a date with his cousin or something equally cringy. “Spill.”
“A letter came for you today.” He proffered a large white envelope that was burdened with its contents; hardly a letter, it was more of a package. The U.S. Government stamp glared up at you accusingly. “Might be that extra funding you asked for.” Sam shrugged casually, trying to reassure you with good thoughts.
“It might also be a severance package.” You quipped glumly.
It wasn’t a secret that you’d had some severe issues with supporting yourself lately. Since hosting the centre’s creative therapy sessions you had little time for your own work let alone selling it. Money was tight and you were already in danger of having to relocate your studio to your garage at home.
Your jaw fell slack as you read the letter, not bothering to wait for the privacy of your car or home. “I don’t understand.”
The letter was notification that you were the sole beneficiary of a military pension. All but the monetary details had been redacted, swathes of black stripes blotting out pages and pages of information that could allude to the identity of the person whose pension you were mysteriously the recipient of.
“There has to be some sort of mistake.” You had no family who had been in the military, no chance of long-lost uncles, siblings or grandparents, and no spouse from which this could have come.
It wasn’t an obscene amount of money but for a military pension it was incredibly generous; the years of service that would have had to have been put in was longer than some people lived. There was only one person you knew who could have gifted you such a thing.
“Wait a sec.” The papers stilled in your hands. “Don’t these things get bequeathed upon death?” Eyes stinging, you searched Sam’s face. There was both sadness and confusion there in the crinkle of his brow.
“Y/n…” he comforted. The sympathetic shake of his head sent your emotions spiralling and your vision swam with tears.
“He can’t be dead,” you sobbed quietly into your sweater sleeve, “he just can’t be.” You handed Sam the papers, shuffling a small locus in front of the door as you chewed your fingernails. The burn of panic in your chest became oppressive.
It didn’t take him long to scan through the unredacted text and for pity to taint his body language.
“He was so vibrant and full of life.” You couldn’t stop the tears now that they were flowing down your cheeks. “I had no idea he was even sick.” You started to hyperventilate and Sam moved to comfort you.
“It might not be what you think,” he soothed.
“And I’ve been too busy with trying to find extra work to reply to his last letter.” You gasped as guilt clashed with the panic already crippling your heart.
That sickening plummeting feeling only grew stronger the more you thought about James, and how he’d been your rock for the past few years. A distant rock on a peaceful shore you could slip away to when things got too much for you, he was a perfect confidant and everything you were to him as his pen pal sponsor; he was a voice of reason, supportive, kind, caring, funny and oh some of the stories he’d tell from his army days. He never specified when or where but you could tell from the way he wrote and the things he said that he fought in the second world war.
You’d grown extremely fond of James over the years. If two souls were meant to be together it was you two, only the distance and money had stopped you from going to visit him where he lived in East Africa. For James it was his commitment to his goats and his solitary way of life. You only knew a little about where he lived and about who he was. Even after all this time, you both sent your letters to the pen pal liaison who sent them on to the correct addresses; this was to protect the participants and you both respected that.
James had only ever spoke of friends that were no longer around and you’d wondered if he had anyone else in his life so you’d asked; there was no one save a few people who lived nearby who were in essence his care-takers or people who looked out for him. So, you were it… You were all he had.
A fresh wave of tears pushed past your already soaked lashes, retracing the wet tracks of previous tears only to be swiped away by your sweater-covered hands. The thought that James had died alone broke your heart. And what about his goats?
“Y/n?” Sam’s concerned voice brought you back from your spiralling thoughts.
Your breathing was already ragged as you struggled to control your grief. Sam’s furtive glance over your shoulder had you following his gaze. Brilliant blue eyes, so full of emotion, connected with yours and held on. One of the men from your class had left his table as if to help comfort you but Sam’s firm head shake aborted his gesture, leaving him looking forlorn. Those eyes held on to you though, mirroring your grief, boring into your soul. So blue, and all the more piercing because of the glassy redness of withheld tears. A stranger’s empathy wasn’t what you needed right then, you needed some air.
You stumbled as Sam guided you outside into the corridor where your class couldn’t see your distress. He pulled you in and held you tight as you slumped in his arms, overcome with grief.
Hours later, over a coffee in the staff canteen, you told him all about your kindred spirit – James, and how the veteran’s pen pal program had changed both if your lives.
“You’re worse than Steve, you know that?” Sam griped as he pushed past Bucky into his room at the compound. Bucky had been staying there since his return from Wakanda, six weeks earlier.
“Don’t compare me to him.” Bucky quipped as he paced the floor. His hands, still stained with clay dust, were fisted on his hips. “I didn’t break all my promises like he did.”
“No, but you continue to lie to a woman you’ve loved for years.” Sam scoffed as he rummaged in Bucky’s chiller. “Do you even keep anything other than condiments in here?”
“The beer is in the freezer.” At Sam’s questioning look, Bucky rolled his eyes. “They were warm when I got them home. I took the scenic route on foot - what? I needed time to think.”
“Look,” Sam handed over a perfectly chilled beer, “you need to talk to her.”
“It’s what you came back for isn’t it?” Sam didn’t need a reply, he and Bucky had discussed this at length. “She deserves to know.”
“But she thinks I’m old, man.” Bucky flopped down on his sofa.
“Yeah, well, now she thinks you’re a corpse.”
“It isn’t the first time I’ve been dead.” Bucky sighed, shoulders slumping. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
“How did you even manage to transfer your pension?” Sam took a long swig. “And why?”
“Fury pulled some strings.” Bucky gripped the bottle tighter as if to ground himself. “I don’t want the government’s guilt money. All those years of suffering and they’re acting like it was my duty, part of my service to my country,” he twisted the bottle until the glass creaked, “I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“So you thought you’d give it to y/n?”
“It might as well do some good.” Bucky nodded solemnly. “I didn’t think she’d put the pieces together or that she’d be so upset if she did.”
“Don’t insult her, man.” Sam chided.
“She’s grown so attached to you she thinks of you like a soulmate, just born at the wrong times.”
Bucky sighed heavily. “How can I fix this? How can I tell her she’s been talking to the Winter Soldier for years? It’s going to break her heart when she finds out what I’ve done.”
“Her heart is breaking now that she thinks you died alone in a hut in Africa.” Sam knew just how much James meant to you, and he didn’t sugar-coat his disappointment. “She’s even worried about your damn goats for Christ’s sake.”
“I can’t just walk up to her and say ‘hey, I know I’ve been in your class for the last few weeks but I’m James, your pen pal’,” he wrung the bottle harder until the neck began to crack from the strain.
“You’re going to have to find a way, man,” Sam clapped him on the shoulder, “you’re my friend but you’re an asshat and if you don’t tell her then I will.” Ultimatum delivered; Sam drained his beer.
Bucky nodded glumly. He knew Sam had his best interests at heart, but he was firm and wouldn’t baby him. Bucky had to do this, he had to tell you the truth.
“Why don’t you finish this thing the way it started,” Sam said as he opened Bucky’s door, “with a letter?”
Your life had been a blur of numbness in the week following the discovery of James’s death. You’d read and re-read his most recent letter, the one you never responded to, feeling guilty and ashamed for your neglect. There had been nothing that lead you to believe James had been sick. Yes, he was elderly, but he never seemed frail. On the contrary, he seemed very active and fit for someone who’d fought in the second world war. It was all such a shock.
The veteran’s creative therapy class had rolled around again and the whole class had been a little subdued; they’d seen your distress the previous week and were gentle with you. There was only one joke about Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore at the pottery wheel which caused a titter of laughter and you’d smiled but they could see you weren’t yourself, though you did your best to hide it.
Clean-up had been almost solemn and as the vets left the class, they offered kind words or gestures, but they were all just a part of the numb blur you were lost in.
Packing away your tools you noticed some things that had been left behind by one of the class; a red ceramic rose with a twisted metal stem – Bucky’s piece from the previous week, and a familiar ivory envelope with your name written on it in even more familiar handwriting.
In your chest your heart flipped, sending a nauseous wave into your throat. Panic struck again for the second time in as many weeks and you frantically snatched up the letter, tearing it open with just enough care so as not to tear through what was inside.
Tears were already flowing as your heart broke all over again. And then you began to read.
Perhaps I should start by introducing myself. I am James Buchannan Barnes of the 107th Infantry and of The Howling Commandos. I’m sure you know me as the man formerly known as The Winter Soldier, but I hope you would know me better as just James. And now you also know me as Bucky.
I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you who I was. At first it didn’t seem like it mattered, and the level of detachment afforded by the pen pal program was like a safety blanket – I could be myself without all of the horror that came with my past. But then as time went on, we grew more and more fond of one another and I couldn’t ruin what we shared by telling you the truth. I am so very sorry. I can’t say that enough.
I moved back to New York a few weeks ago from Wakanda, where I have been staying for the duration of my recovery. You already know so much about that without any of the details that would allow you the full story, but it’s something I’m willing to tell you if you want to hear it?
When I came back, the plan was to meet you and tell you everything, but apparently I’ve become a coward during all those years spent tending goats, who are fine by the way. They are being well looked after and though I will miss them, I came here for something I would miss more if it were to suddenly vanish. That something is you. Perhaps that’s why I kept my truth from you, because I was scared I’d lose the thing I cherished most in this new life I found myself in.
There’s no excuse good enough for what I’ve done but I hope you can forgive me in time.
If by some miracle you still want to talk to me, I’ll be waiting in the little café (Charlotte’s) on the corner by the VA center, until it closes. I’m ready to tell you everything, y/n, but I understand if you don’t want to know me. I’ve left my cell number on the back too in case you’re not ready to talk in person and I promise if I don’t hear from you I’ll stay away, but I really hope I do.
The rose is yours to do with as you see fit. I made it so it tinkles just like the wind chime I had in Wakanda when you wave it gently. If I’m to never see you again please know that I would sooner lose my right arm than hurt you. You’re the one thing I cherish most. You touched my life so profoundly and changed it for the better. It’s a debt I can never repay but I will if you’ll let me try.
Tears spilled down your cheeks and you snatched up the rose as you swung your bag over your shoulder in a hurry towards the door. Your flat shoes slapped and squeaked on the polished linoleum floor as you ran the length of the corridor and slammed through fire doors that would take you to Charlotte’s the quickest.
Chest heaving and gasping for breath you stopped dead outside the cozy little café. The failing light outside made the warm glow inside much more appealing, and there, on the other side of the glass, was the impossibly youthful James Buchannan Barnes. His long hair was tucked behind his ears as he poured over the pages in his hands - your letters.
You’d taken note of him in your class, not just because he was attractive but because he was very attentive; his focus followed you around the room while you instructed the class and he listened like your voice was his favourite song. Now it all made sense. The way he gravitated to you wasn’t because you were an instructor or an authority figure, it was because he knew you. Those furtive glances weren’t because he had trouble with eye contact, it was because he was afraid you’d see through his act. And the subtle smiles when you spoke weren’t because he thought you were funny, he did, but they were because he was hearing for the first time words and phrases you’d laid down on paper.
Lifting his eyes as he sipped his coffee he glanced around, coming to rest on the street outside, and onto you. There was fear in his eyes. Momentary doubt before an affectionate smile graced his lips. The twinkle in his eyes was the same one you’d imagined many times before, even if the face that bore them was less worn.
Now that you truly saw him, you couldn’t believe that you hadn’t recognised The Winter Soldier in your class. His beard and long hair did a lot to mask his features but you should have noticed his infamous arm. In his letters James had told you he lost his arm in the war but he never told you he had a metal replacement.
The longer you stared, the more his smile faltered, until he was on his feet and moving towards the door. Without thought you moved towards him and met him as he stepped out onto the street. The air between you was charged with awkward tension that continued to build as you searched his face, taking him in, adding together all the knowledge of who he really was. He was your James, but he was also something more.
You felt like you could both slap him and kiss him. All the heartache he’d put you through in the last week, all the hurt. But he was alive and safe and right there in front of you, impossibly young and irrevocably real.
“Sweetheart?” His voice cracked as he reached for your hand but he never got that far before you threw yourself at him, arms wrapped around his neck as you buried your face into his chest.
The breath you’d been holding came out as a sob and he cradled you to him like a precious porcelain doll, rubbing gentle circles over your back as you let your tears of relief flow freely. He didn’t care that you were soaking his shirt, you were there and you were in his arms, and it was more than he could ever have hoped for.
“I’m so sorry.” He murmured into your crown. “I never meant to lie to you.”
You laughed, watery and shaky. “You best believe you’re going to make it up to me.” You stepped back, swiping the tears from your cheeks. “I don’t care that you’re almost one hundred years old.” You poked him in the stomach, earning you a grunt and a chuckle.
“Careful sweetheart,” James gripped your hand gently to stave off any further assault, “that ship sailed already.” He gave you a cheeky wink, confidence building now that he knew you didn’t hate him. “I’ll officially be one hundred and eleven next week.”
“Well that’s fabulous news,” you simpered, “I never thought I’d ever get to plan an eleventy-first birthday celebration but I suspect it will be an event of special magnificence.”
As he led you inside and pulled out a chair for you to sit, you couldn’t help but think that even though life was full of pain and sorrow, sometimes it paid you back in happiness. And for two souls discovered on paper and made real, miracles were still possible.
