Lovebug
Summary: lovebug (n); the name given to the person with whom you have fallen head over heels in love. to be called a lovebug is the ultimate expression of affection. they are the love of your life.
Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Word Count: 5,207
Warnings: 40s!Bucky, memories in italics, v minor cursing, angsty fluff, sadness
A/N: so I’ve had this idea for a while and it took a life of its own, hence the word count. As always, I love hearing from you!
A/N: a massive thank you to the american science queen @modestlyconfused for listening to me rant about this and life, helping me with details, and laughing about my autocorrect mishaps. Bucky would get you a crown too❤️
“She’s over here.”
Steve’s voice carries over the rows. Bucky doesn’t respond. Although the autumn sky is clear and blue, the sun is making its journey down in the sky and the breeze is cool. It’s only when Steve places a gentle hand on his shoulder that Bucky stirs, tearing his gaze away from the weeping willow and focusing instead on his best friend.
His best friend, who knows where you are.
“Buck…we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
Steve’s eyes search his. He’s reading Bucky like he always does, and as always, he knows what Bucky is thinking. Bucky says it anyway.
“Yes—“ His voice shakes and he clears it to try again. “Yes we do.”
“I know.”
Bucky needs Steve’s hand on his shoulder like he needs air. Squeezed tight and solid, Steve keeps his hand there as he guides them through the rows, respectfully keeping to the carefully marked paths. Each rock speaks of the deceased, the long-lost loves, the ones that got away.
The worst part is that you hadn’t gotten away. He had you, once, until it was ripped away from him.
Steve stops, Bucky stops, and both simply stare. Y/N Y/L/N.
Steve drops his arm and walks up to your headstone. He crouches, holding the rock that has your name and the eight numbers that speak of your life yet could never carry the weight of love you brought between each four.
He speaks to you, but the words are lost to Bucky’s ears. Is he tuning them out for the sake of Steve’s privacy? Maybe. More likely they are lost because of the memories that have thrust themselves into the forefront of Bucky’s mind.
Laying the bouquet of flowers he brought, Steve rises and tells Bucky he will give him some time alone.
“Hi. It’s me.”
After meeting in seventh grade art class, Steve invites you over to teach him more about shading techniques. You’re both on the fire escape in the middle of drawing when Bucky lets himself into Steve’s apartment and yells his presence.
“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You introduce yourself with an outstretched hand and a dazzling smile that cannot be outshone by the sun setting on the horizon.
“The name’s Bucky. How you doin’, doll?”
“I’m doing pretty well, handsome. Your friend here is a great artist.”
This makes Steve puff out his chest. He tells Bucky, “She’s the queen of shading.”
“Is that so?”
“Damn right I am, come look.”
He looks, and you are aptly named. Your sketch is enchanting despite being in the middle of construction, your lines capturing the character of the Brooklyn Bridge with impeccable ease.
“Remind me to get you a crown, you are the queen! Can I?” he asks, and you let him flip through the rest of your book.
Steve likes to draw people; he has tens of sketchbooks full of his mother, of Bucky, of the mailman. You, however, like to draw places and things: skyscrapers, houses, the graffiti so often found in the alleys where Steve fights. All shaded beautifully. All of Brooklyn.
“It’s home,” you explain when he points this out, “I never want to forget home.”
~
It’s years later that Bucky sits cross legged and leaning back on his hands, amused at the sight of you snatching the bowl of chips away from a greedy hand.
“Will! Stop eating, it’s your turn.”
“Okay, okay, don’t have your kite in a twist.”
Will wipes his powdered hands before spinning the empty glass Coca-Cola bottle the group is using for Spin the Bottle. It wobbles in circles on the carpet before pointing at the lucky person: John.
“Ooo,” Bucky teases, “Pucker up, Johnny boy.”
You’re in murmured conversation with Steve to his right, and his feeling of contentment grows. He’s surrounded by his friends, at night in Dot’s house, doing what teenagers do during the summer after high school graduation. Eating and drinking and laughing.
John taps his cheek jokingly. He isn’t prepared when Will grabs the sides of his face and crashes his lips to skin, adding an audible ‘mwah’ for dramatic effect. John swipes at the spot.
“Ew, he licked me.”
Bucky pokes Steve, who is massaging away the stitches as you go on with your entertaining story; Bucky had convinced him to tag along, and although he originally hesitated, Bucky knows he’s having a good time. Your narration and constant inclusion of Steve is a huge factor--you two are both passionate beings and had become fast friends. It’s not possible for Bucky to be more grateful that you’re here.
“Okay, go John.”
Bucky’s not sure if he believes in God, but he’s sure the bottle is guided by the divine: it lands on Mary. He cheers watching John press a tender kiss to Mary’s cheek. Pink dusts her face as she gives him a shy smile—they have a crush on each other. It’s positively cute how their eyes catch across the circle.
This game could be a romantic catalyst, he thinks, recalling his lessons in chemistry. Catalysts cause a change. Reactions happen regardless of catalysts, but with them the reactants mix faster to make the product almost instantaneously. Here, the product could be love.
Bucky loves the idea of love, but he hasn’t found it. Not yet. For now, he kisses girls behind shops, kisses them on the Ferris wheel, woos them, charms them, sweeps them off their feet.
“Mary, don’t forget the rule!” Dot pipes up. “If you land on John, you two have to kiss for thirty seconds.”
“Is that new, Dot? Seems like you come up with more rules every time we play,” you ask, tilting your head. You have that smirk playing at your lips, the one Bucky classifies as reserved for teasing.
“My older sister says it’s how she plays. If two people spin each other they have to!”
If Mary’s hand shakes, no one sees it. Her shoulders fall at the result but only slightly. It’s Bucky, after all. He meets Mary in the middle of the circle and receives his kiss on the cheek. It’s soft, and he remembers how her softness felt on his own not too long ago. She was a good kisser, and if her and John weren’t about to go steady, he’d consider finding her later and doing it again.
Bucky spins idly, and is roused by Steve’s clap on his back. You. He smirks and reaches out with both hands.
“C’mere doll.”
Your eyebrows rise, but you move past Steve, who has scooted back to make room. Bucky brings you close and places not one, not two, but three kisses on your cheek. When you pull away, surprised, Bucky flashes an innocent grin.
“What?”
“You’re somethin’ else, Bucky Barnes, really.”
“Thanks, Y/N Y/L/N,” he grins wider.
There’s something curious in the way you’re looking at him. “I haven’t decided if that’s a compliment yet.”
Your hand reaches for the bottle, breaking eye contact for the second it takes to twirl the glass. It goes fast, then stops suddenly, snagged on a bump in the carpet. It’s pointed directly at Bucky and your eyes lock.
Will yells, “Go on then! Kiss him!” and you do. You kiss him, and he thinks he’s in heaven. If Mary’s lips were soft, yours were silk.
He’s so caught off guard by this feeling, this feeling of right, that ten seconds pass before he realizes you two are only connected by your mouths. You’re tugging at his sleeve and you shuffle closer, enough for him to wrap an arm around your waist and bring you flush against his chest while you run your fingers over his shoulders and in his hair.
When Bucky surfaces at the call of thirty seconds, he is visibly shaken. The thought that he must be red as a tomato flits through Bucky’s muddled brain, because Steve has the exact look his Ma wore whenever he had a coughing fit.
The world is spinning. He likes it.
“Buck, you okay?”
Nothing so articulate as a sentence could be said from him now. So he says the only word he knows.
“Y/N.” Yes.
“…you sure?”
“Y/N,” he answers again, dazed.
His eyes are on you as a small smile creeps onto your lips and they're on you as you hide it and your blush by looking at the carpet. You squirm under the taunts of your friends and Will’s excited cheers. Nobody’s ever seen Bucky rendered speechless. Hell, he doesn’t think he’s ever been. Your smile is well deserved.
Mary nudges you. “I think you broke him.”
Bucky sees you bite your lip, now worried, and turn to Steve. “Maybe he needs to go home? He’s a bit red--”
“Oh no, he’s not leaving. It’s time to play Seven Minutes in Heaven,” Dot announces while clapping her hands, “Y/N and Bucky can go first.”
The seven minutes are spent talking, any teenage awkwardness overshadowed by the sheer comfortableness of your friendship.
Bucky realizes he wants more. More time, more you, more than friendship.
Perhaps Cupid’s arrow is not made of wood, but of a red and white glass catalyst. Whatever it is, whoever shoots it, Bucky knows he’s grateful for that bottle.
Which is why he places another one on your grave, beside Steve’s flowers; the neck of it pointed towards the carved letters of your name.
“I miss our seven minutes in heaven, Y/N. I miss you.”
It is two weeks later that Bucky sees you again, this time at Coney Island on a Saturday. You’re standing arm-in-arm with Mary, in line for the games. The fabric of your clothes flows lazily as the crowd moves around you.
“Go over there.”
“Hmm?”
“Go over there,” Steve repeats.
“What happened to the Cyclone? You promised you’d come, don’t back out on me, punk.”
“Bucky, you haven’t taken a girl out in weeks. You’ve clearly got it bad for her, jerk, now go.”
“Stevie...”
Steve considers Bucky for a long minute, taking in how he is shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets and his teeth worrying at his bottom lip, yet staring longingly at you. Bucky is surprisingly nervous. He has never been nervous to talk to a girl before.
They ride the Cyclone, and Steve throws up.
“Steve was playing matchmaker; can you believe it? Man,” he says, smiling softly, “I’m so grateful.”
A week of pining and not-so-subtle flirting goes by before Bucky finally asks you on a date, much to Steve’s relief. He had told Bucky that Will made a move on you that morning and you declined. Then Steve pushed him out of the apartment with the threat of “an ass-kicking if you don’t come back with a date.” Nerves be damned, Bucky spends the whole afternoon trying to find you, checking all your regular spots and catching you as you exit a store. You're adjusting your purse and your head raises when he calls your name.
“Y/N!”
Bucky walks backwards, facing you, looking behind him every few moments to make sure he doesn’t bump into anything.
“Hey, Bucky.”
“Going somewhere?”
You nod. “Dot’s asked me to come over.”
“Nah, you’re not going there. We’re doing something fun.”
“Steve said he heard the theatre’s playing a good one--”
“No, no, not with Steve.”
You gasp, holding a hand over your heart. “No Steve? You’re a terrible friend.”
“It must be Opposite Day, I’m a terrific friend. And I’m a boy too, I can show you how terrific of a boyfriend I am.”
Bucky bites his lip and runs his fingers up your arms to brush back your hair, and he blinks when you don’t swoon like other girls at the classic Barnes seduction technique. Had you not seen him in action over the years, maybe, just maybe, you might not have rolled your eyes. No matter how affectionately. It is then that he knows you will challenge him more than any of his trigonometry problems ever could.
“I can’t ditch Dot...”
“You could...reschedule. Unless you two are meeting Will? Little birdie told me he was asking after you.”
“Steve’s such a gossip. No, we’re not seeing him, look out—”
He twists to avoid hitting a mailbox but he overshoots in excitement and whacks his elbow, making him bite his cheek to stop a colourful string of curses from escaping. All he wants to feel better is your hug, and that’s exactly what he goes for.
“Ow.”
“Poor Bucky,” you say, your voice sympathetic and muffled by his shirt while your hands rub up and down his back. “Anything I can do?”
It’s clear you mean ice, or a bandage, but you walked right into it and it’s too good of an opportunity for him to ignore.
“Play hooky with me. You can see Dot tomorrow and tell her all about our spectacular date.”
“Spectacular, huh? What are we doing?”
“Well...” Bucky sways you back and forth, slowly walking you back to where you came from. He meets next to no resistance. In fact, you wind your arms tighter around him and prop your chin on his chest to meet his gaze. “You’ll just have to find out, won't you?”
“You’re making me very curious.”
“Good. Means you’ll come with me.”
His mind is running wild with possible date spots when he hears them, and his head falls onto your shoulder. They're the unmistakable, undeniable sounds of Steve’s righteousness.
“Goddammit Steve.”
You giggle. It’s right in his ear and oh, how he loves the sound. “Go rescue him, the brave stubborn soul.”
“If you’ll go out with me. See? My elbow feels better already and I’ll need more hugs after pulling Stevie out.” You’re shaking your head in wonder at him, that teasing smirk on your lips again. “And I’m more fun than Dot, believe me!”
Bucky pecks your cheek and runs off, calling over his shoulder, “Seven!”
It is seven o‘clock, and Bucky has his fist raised, poised to knock on your door when it flies open.
“Hello.”
Your smile, the one that has him hooked, knocks the wind out of him. So does the dress that hugs you like it was custom-made. You look beautiful. Ethereal.
“Wow,” he breathes. “Hi.”
Part of being their friend means lounging in their apartment due to Steve’s health, so Bucky is used to seeing you in more casual wear or in his sweaters anytime you got cold. Regardless of the outfit you’re stunning, but this date look is new and it’s making you glow and he’s more than a fan.
With the way you’re looking at him, you must be thinking the same thing: Bucky has parted his hair neatly and is looking smart in a pair of black dress pants and a blue button up that matches his eyes. His face is clean shaven, just the way you like it, and he’s wearing his best cologne.
“I must say, Barnes, you clean up well for dates,” you wink, running a finger under his chin before turning to lock your door.
“We’re just getting started, doll,” he assures you.
Never breaking eye contact, Bucky takes your hand and brushes his lips across the knuckles. This gets a soft smile and linked hands, and his heart does a flip-flop. You keep the other on his upper arm while he takes you to the destination.
“Where are we off to, Mr. King of Spectacular Dates? Do I have to wear a blindfold?”
“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, “And nope. Look! We’re on the way and no blindfold.”
“Give me a hint. No? Not even one? Okay. I’m calling you Mr. King of Secrets instead.”
“For future reference, Y/N, if I’m a king then you’re my queen.”
“You did tell me you'd get me a crown when we first met.”
“What do you think I’m getting you for your birthday?” Bucky grins and it’s rewarded by one of your own.
“I'll be sure to wear it every day.”
“As you should, Your Majesty.”
One night while watching the stars Steve, the hopeless romantic, had asked what was the perfect date? You had said a dinner on the docks; it's simple yet romantic, with the waves lapping at the wooden pier and serenading you as you get to know your companion.
Bucky had filed that information away for the future. Now is the future. It didn’t take too much for him to set up; he just had to call in a few favours with his chef friend, charm the local vendor into selling him your favourite fruit, and promise to switch shifts with the dock workers so they’d keep the area empty for the night.
Slightly anxious, Bucky awaits your reaction when you reach the docks. Your eyes are wide and you're uncharacteristically quiet, having trailed off from telling him about your mom’s cousin and he’s worried you don't like it.
He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand and is about to open his mouth to suggest something else but he doesn't have to.
“Bucky…this is...wow…” You speak in a whisper, and it is no whisper of dislike. Wonder, astonishment, but no dislike. Your gaze shifts from the meal on the candlelit table to Bucky. “I can't believe you remembered. I said that years ago.”
“Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you.”
Your face reflects your awe and gratitude, and it's as if someone lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders: you like it. He just needs to know if it’s as perfect as he remembers the tone of your words being when you described it.
“It's still true, right? What you said?”
“Yeah.”
Squeezing his hand, you go to the table and he helps you into your chair. You have dinner, your conversation easy and the food delicious, and halfway through you confess the date is more than spectacular. He wholeheartedly agrees. It’s the best date he’s ever been on and it's not even done. You’re the best date he’s ever had.
It's dark when Bucky walks you home, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, your intertwined hands swinging merrily while he recounts what happened at the docks last week. It’s a silly little story, but it makes you light up and that’s all that matters.
If only the night could never end.
Dying to get more time with you, Bucky declares through your laughter that he's forgotten where your building is and kidnaps you for another lap of the block. You make him complete two more before he’s allowed to bring you to your doorstep.
Bucky's ecstatic when you hold off on the goodbye by fiddling with your keys. As a gentleman he doesn’t want to overstep, but he really wants to kiss you goodnight.
“Thank you for tonight, Bucky, I had a really great time,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck. You sigh happily when his encircle your waist. This too, feels right. Maybe he can kidnap you again.
“Mmm,” he hums, breathing in the intoxicating smell of your shampoo, “I did too. Cancel all your plans, doll, we're going out again tomorrow.”
You move but don’t go far. Still, touching noses isn't close enough for Bucky. “Dot won't be happy.”
“I’ll be happy. What do you say, Y/N?” He tilts his chin so his lips feather gently over yours. The taste of your exhales pleases his beating heart, which is screaming at the manners telling him to wait for permission. “Another spectacular date?”
Your eyes flutter closed. “Yes. Now kiss me already.”
It's soft and sweet, and when you melt into him, his eyes roll back into his head. With his previous lovers he is used to being in control, on solid ground. But you are making him fly, over the tallest of buildings, above the highest of clouds, and the feeling he got from the Cyclone is laughable compared to this. He's falling.
“Goodnight, Bucky, ” you say softly when you part, and your hand trails down the side of his face. He takes it and kisses your palm.
“Night, Y/N, see you tomorrow.”
You nod at his words, and turn to open the door. Unsuccessfully, because Bucky still has your hand and uses it to pull you back to him and steal another kiss, lacing your fingers as he does. You whack his arm when he doesn't let go but it’s light and he feels you smiling against his lips.
He’s falling, and has every intention of bringing you with him.
Walking away from your door, running a hand through his hair and grinning like a fool, Bucky stops when you call his name.
“I’ve made up my mind. You’re really somethin’ Bucky Barnes, and that’s more than a compliment. It's fact.”
“Steve swore he could hear me cheering from blocks away...not sure if he ever told you that.”
He is 22 and he is in love.
“Bucky, please not there—“
“Why not? Dancing is fun!”
You draw circles in the dirt with your shoe and mumble, “I-I don’t know how,” to which he clicks his tongue in disagreement.
“Lying is bad, Y/N.”
“You’re so good, I’ll embarrass you.“
“You could never embarrass me, how could I be embarrassed when I have the best and prettiest girl in all of Brooklyn on my arm?”
“You could, if you saw my moves. I might even break your toe.”
“Doll, you’re being worse than Steve,” he sighs, and you pout. It’s adorable.
“Am not.”
Bucky takes your face in his hands and he kisses your nose, rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb. The trust in how you look at him is everything he’s ever dreamed about and wanted in a love, only it’s better and it’s you.
“You are. I’ll be right there with you and it’ll be fun, I promise. Let me dance with my lovebug.”
“Okay. I hear our song playing, too.”
You let him lead you to the dance floor, and he thinks, for the millionth time, how perfect your hands fit in his. There have been many dates since the first one and the novelty still hasn’t worn off.
“Ah! Sorry!” you exclaim as you step on his foot again.
“It’s okay. You’re doing great, really fantastic! Now we go left,” he coaxes, guiding you through the movements. It takes a few songs, but he’s an excellent teacher and you’re a fast learner. “That’s it, Y/N, you’ve got it!”
Soon you have forgotten the steps and are simply dancing like nobody's watching. Because nobody is: there is only you and him, him and you. The music swells and he is laughing and you are laughing, your hair coming undone from its style. Bucky spins you to make more pieces wild, because they frame your face and the sparkle in your eyes.
You are spinning. He likes it.
When a slow song comes on as the last dance of the night, Bucky brings you into him and, resting his forehead on yours, he places his hands at the small of your back. You close your eyes and your hands are warm on his neck. After all the dancing, both of your heartbeats are fast, though Bucky can feel them slow in the comfort of each other’s arms.
He is 23 and he is in love.
With a phone he has the world in his pocket. With you, he had the world in his arms.
But the world faces disaster; natural or manmade, none felt as devastating as the writing in that fateful envelope.
Drafted.
It is the best thing to have someone’s love. Though Bucky cannot feel his body much, your hands are on him, smoothing back his hair, wiping away the sweat, and it is nice.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know, Bucky, I know.”
You don’t say it, yet Bucky hears it loud. You don’t want him to go either. It’s not like he has a choice; his country needs him. If he did, he’d stay with you and Steve in an instant--
“How the hell am I going to tell Steve?!” He bolts up, eyes wide, and he searches your face for the answers he knows you don’t have.
“We’ll find a way,” you soothe, and you guide him back down to the bed. “Let’s get some sleep and think about that tomorrow.”
You lie on your side, facing him, the line of your waist as graceful as the curve of your smile. You reach out and trace the shape of his nose, his jaw, his collarbone. It makes him shiver; you hurry to grab the blankets, but he isn’t cold.
“I didn’t know it then, but you were memorizing me, weren't you?”
The first time Bucky notices you drawing a person, it surprises him.
The three of you are sitting on the fire escape as usual, breathing in the afternoon Brooklyn air. You and Bucky are reading a book together, his inner thighs pressed against your outer ones, and his arms are around your waist as you lean against him and read aloud. Steve is across from you, sketching who knows what, his eyebrows drawn into the line only art could cause. It’s perfect.
Then Steve wordlessly passes you the sketchbook, and you untangle yourself from Bucky and take Steve’s place. He pushes the book into Bucky’s hands and insists, “Keep going.”
Bucky wants to question it, he really does, but the sound of your pencil scratching against the paper and the feeling of his best friend’s chin on his shoulder convince him that, maybe, he does not need to know. Not now, anyway. So he reads; he reads until Steve is shivering from the quickly disappearing sun and must go to bed, but you have not moved save for the satisfied, toothy smile you wear as you admire the sketchbook.
He shuts the novel. “Whatcha got there?”
“Nothin’.”
“Y/N…”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.“ You set the sketchbook aside and resume your cuddles. You take one of his hands and kiss it. Bucky presses his lips to your temple, and his breaths tickle your ear when he speaks.
“Why can’t you tell me now?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Stevie knows.”
You stay quiet, and Bucky knows you well enough to wait for you to elaborate.
“I asked him to help me with something. It’ll all be revealed tomorrow. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, lovebug.” You reach up and card your fingers through his hair, and he hums in appreciation. It’s peaceful like this, the stars watching over Bucky, you, and the rest of the city. “I love you, Bucky.”
“I love you too.” He squeezes you once and you snuggle deeper into his embrace, linking your fingers with his other hand. “We’re going to sleep here? Okay. Are you warm enough?”
“Mhm, you’re warm,” you say, and promptly fall asleep.
Looking down at you, your soft snores rumbling against his body, Bucky’s sure he’s the luckiest man alive. You’re fast asleep by the time he closes his eyes.
Tomorrow comes, and you are not beside Bucky when he wakes up. Neither you nor the sketchbook are anywhere in the apartment, and Bucky’s seriously wondering if you fell off the fire escape until you walk through the door, completely nonchalant. He wraps you a tight hug, making sure not to squish the sketchbook, which he supposes to be the reason for your disappearance.
“If telling me you’re a magician is the secret, I don’t think I like it very much,” he mumbles, and you laugh.
“It’s not. I can show you my card tricks to prove it,” you say, releasing Bucky and knocking on Steve’s bedroom door. “Here’s the secret.”
You settle into breakfast with the boys, and pass out three sheets of paper. They all have the same drawing: you and Bucky, reading, with Steve leaning on Bucky’s shoulder and looking at the book. It’s Steve’s drawing and your shading.
“It turned out great, Y/N.” Steve bounces giddily.
“Yeah it did! Thanks again for the help, Stevie.” He pats your forearm. “The library’s photocopier works magic,” you wink at Bucky, but he’s too engrossed and he misses it.
What he thought was entirely Steve’s work has yours; the most noticeable parts being your definition of Bucky’s nose, jaw, and collarbone.The sketch is black and white, but all Bucky can see is colour. He can see Steve’s hair shining, the last rays of light hitting it and turning it golden; the beauty of your hair behind your ear; the blue in his own eyes as he listens, his whole face relaxed.
Below it are the words: My home, and my family.
“I love it. I really do, this is amazing.”
Steve signs his name on all three, and passes the pen along so you and Bucky can do the same. Bucky decides this is the picture he will bring with him.
“I brought it overseas, and you’d know better than me where it ended up. Steve’s a hoarder, by the way.” He glances at the blond, who is admiring the trees a few hundred yards away. “He kept his sketchbook and I framed the new photocopy. It’s on my desk.”
The morning he leaves, you are not crying. He can see it brewing under the surface, in your shuddering breaths when you think he can’t see, and he’s aware you will cry with Steve later. Right now, he is thankful. Otherwise he’s not sure he could walk out the door or remotely hold it together here. You are strong for him and that is nearly everything he asks of you.
“James Buchanan Barnes. If you think I won’t be here the moment you come back, I’ll smack you.”
He kisses you, hard. He tries to give you all the words he has said before, the ones he cannot say, and the ones he is about to say.
“I love you so, so much,” he whispers.
“I love you so much, Bucky. Be safe, please.”
“Don’t you dare forget about me.”
“I could never. I’ll be waiting for my lovebug to come home.” You seal your promise with a tight hug and one last kiss.
Tuberculosis, they told him, got you a year after he left. He supposes it is good, great even, that you never heard the stories of what he would become.
The next thoughts frighten: what if you saw it from heaven? Angels are omniscient, right? Will he have a chance at the afterlife with an angel?
Bucky wants more than seven minutes in heaven with you. He wants it more than anything.
The tears are forming hot and fast now, and he blinks, letting a couple slide down his cheeks, pause on his jaw and continue down his throat before he wipes them away. He swallows hard and collects himself. You were strong for him, he can be strong for you.
The breeze passes through again, this time warmer. It swirls around Bucky, running its fingers through the tendrils of his hair, slipping underneath his arms and caressing his cheek. The air flies straight through his ribs to hug his heart just like you did when you curled up next to him.
It is then that he knows: whenever the serum wears off, in two weeks, in five years, in a hundred—when it does, you will be waiting for your more-than-seven-minutes together in heaven.
Bucky presses a lingering kiss to your name and then traces the epitaph.
“Goodbye, my lovebug.”
Bucky stands, letting his fingers trail along the headstone curve, and reunites with Steve by a grip on his shoulder. They stay like that for a long time. The sun sets.
A home doesn’t need to be a house, and family doesn’t need to be related. I’ll never forget home.
{epitaph credit to this pin}
A/N: thank you for reading❤️
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