A/n: This is my entry for @flashfictionfridayofficial weekly entry. This week the prompt is Say My Name. Divider by @firefly-graphics . I took a break from my fluffy Bucky series I'm writing to hurt him a little 😥
Warnings: Descriptions of nightmares and subsequently PTSD, death mentioned, general angst, tiniest bit of fluff if you squint really hard, like one bad word.
Bucky wasn't a stranger to violence, it had been woven into his DNA; the parts of him deactivated mocked by that which would never leave.
During the day he could manage, mostly, Steve giving him a true north to point his compass. Nighttime was different, sleep a magnetic pole force that sent him spinning through the depths of himself.
The streetlights teased him, casting warm shadows in a way that seemed to allude to what lay before him. Sleep meant a journey, to the innermost corners of his mind, monsters locked up in the daylight set free to roam places so dark even shadows refused to show themselves.
He called it Karma, to himself mostly. He told Steve once, a heavily redacted version of the truth. Steve, in an attempt to reassure him, promised it wasn’t his fault, just residual trauma. But Bucky knew this wasn’t something that could be fixed, something that had blame placed elsewhere. It was his, personally curated over the course of decades. One doesn’t get to just hang it up and walk away.
He tries his best not to sleep, refuses to if Steve isn’t home. Once, he went eight days without sleep when a mission went bad and Steve got stuck in Europe. One day longer and he was going to catch a flight, the ticket window opened on his phone when Steve called and said he was coming home.
They were never the same when they called, the nightmares. For you see that would create routine, routine allowing preparation. He had the pleasure of being dropped, unannounced, into the very depths of hell without so much as a hint.
They were always bad.
Tonight was worse.
Cold. Snow crunching on his boots as he steadies himself, attempts to stand. It’s loud, echoing in his ears against the otherworldly silence.
He attempts to gain his bearings, the only light is in the distance, something smouldering, embers scattered across what seems to be a clearing.
Was he in the forest?
There were no trees he could see, only black above him, white below, the red embers snaking their way across what he assumes is the horizon.
Were they moving?
A blink, another, and it confirms that the embers were indeed moving, racing in fact towards him with a supernatural speed. The snow remains untouched in their wake, unexplainably virgin white.
He moves to run, but finds himself stuck, unable to as much as turn to look behind him.
There’s no need, too focused on what lies ahead. He stills, a low hum now seems to accompany the glow.
It grows upon approach, still at a good distance, but he gets chills at the recognition, understanding filling him with white hot dread.
It wasn’t a hum.
It’s screams.
Another attempt to flee does nothing, condemned yet again to await his fate.
The embers have turned to flames now, blue violet in intensity, lapping at the ground, racing towards him with a hunger like they hadn’t been fed in ages.
Heat licks at his neck, the screams growing with the flames, deafening him as they approach.
Instinctively he moves to cover his ears, but they're glued to his sides.
His ability to blink goes next, and he’s left to face the full version of fury.
Finally encompassed, the flames refuse to take him, set him free to what awaits, instead holding him there for their next play of hand.
The once constant drone of scream becomes distinguishable, transgression laid out one by one.
He recognizes every single voice.
“Please, I have a daughter!”
“He killed my family!”
“He’s not worth saving.”
“I don’t want to die.”
It’s hours, or years, seconds or decades, but Bucky’s voice is hoarse, raspy and broken from repenting.
The fire still refuses to burn, penance denied.
“I’m sorry it wasn’t me, I never had a choice! It wasn’t me… It wasn’t meeeee”
Release.
A gasp, a swing, two arms holding him against a warm chest.
“It wasn't me…” he murmurs still, unwilling to open his eyes, afraid it’s a cruel trick.
“Baby, you’re safe, you’re in bed, I’m here.”
“I… it, fire, fuck.”
Steve runs his hands through damp hair before placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
“You’re home now, look at me, come back to me.”
A shake comes, face still buried, afraid to tempt the fates.
“It’s ok, I’ve got you. Where are you?
“Home.” It’s weak, a tremble threatens to end him.
“That’s right, and who am I?”
Bucky shifts, just enough to look up and meet the familiar eyes awaiting him.
“Say my name.”
“Steve.”
It’s said like a man who’s drowning, the name a lifeline, a rescue. He manages to sit up, a weak smile on his face at the worried look Steve wears.
An angsty stucky au where everything is the same, until the TVA or a sorcerer supreme comes to Steve and asks him to help on a mission, that's not serious or dangerous, just travelling the multiverse and help fix tiny time breeches, until he comes to one universe where he comes across his variant, accidentally, and it catches his eye that this Steve looks more at ease, happy, relaxed, in a way he never experienced himself even after going back to the past and living the life he dreamed of.
So he follows this Steve just out of curiosity, and he found out that he was happily married with Bucky...
And that makes him take a step back and think about everything and all the choices he ever made.
I dug my heels into gravel as evidence for you to unravel
2.7 words, M for Mature, Tags include: Major character death, Steve and Bucky go to Vormir, Soul stone, Pov Steve Rodgers, ect.
"...Steve," Tony's voice breaks through the ringing with sudden clarity. "Where's Barnes?"
Steve's face meets the metal of the machine's pad, the sobs wracking his shoulders. His hand extends outwards, in front of them, and the precious soul stone clatters from his fingers.
What if... Natasha was dusted, and Bucky wasn't? What if Steve and Bucky were the ones to go to Vormir? What If Steve was the one left alive?
Happy drag path digital release you guys. this one's been brewing for a while
He had tried so hard not to wake Steve up with his stupid nightmares. He’s so sick and tired of being the way that he is.
“Go back t’sleep Stevie, m’okay” Bucky grunts.
There’s silence for a few minutes and Bucky prays that Steve took his advice.
He doesn’t need to be piling his issues onto Steve when he’s already done so much for Bucky.
“Hey,” Steve croons from his back, the sheets ruffling as he lifts his arm to draw Bucky into his arms.
Bucky tenses before he feels Steve’s muscular arms wrap about his abdomen, squeezing him tight enough for him to release the pressure in his chest.
“Sorry for wakin’ you” Bucky mumbles, snuggling back into the blonde’s hold.
Steve presses a kiss to his hair, humming contently, “don’t be, I’d rather be up with you than have you struggling by yourself.”
Bucky frowns
“It’s not your job to carry my shit for me.” The brunette protests.
Steve snorts, “if only it were that simple. I’d carry every bad thing that ever happened to you over hot coals if I could Buck.”
Steve’s admission rocks him to his core.
He never thought the man was so devoted to him.
He knew Steve had gone through hell and back to stick his neck out for Bucky in the past but he thought that it was out of some long due obligation back from wartimes.
He didn’t realise that still upheld until now.
Bucky’s not really sure what his relationship with Steve looks like right now.
He’s not sure about anything in this century.
He just keeps telling himself to breathe, to make it to the next day. If he can do that, then it’s okay.
Bucky’s self deprecating enough to take whatever Steve gives him while ultimately baring his soul to the man.
Hydra had a thing about destroying every single thing you’ve ever known.
So finding Steve again? Bucky was willing to cling to that old part of his life with all the strength he had left in him.
“Buck?” Steve’s worried voice disrupts his thoughts.
Maybe it was always meant to end the way that it did.
Maybe Steve was meant to spend his time pre-serum as insecure as possible, crying and praying straight to God to look like all the other boys on the playground
Maybe Steve was meant to fall for Bucky, for his perfect smile and his flirty nature.
Maybe he was supposed to go through the agonizing torture of watching Bucky pay attention to every other dame in existence but not Steve.
Never Steve.
Because Steve wasn’t a girl, or maybe he just wasn’t as interesting as the girls Bucky brought around.
And then the serum happened and it was like Steve Rogers was born a new man.
A man built with impenetrable power, tall and muscular more than most men in the army and women seemed to flock to his side.
But all of it meant nothing when he longed for brunette hair and blue eyes from a battalion that was almost considered KIA.
Until Bucky was there, right there.
In his arms, next to him, at his side making their way back together to base.
And then so forth and so long before Steve’s body laid frozen in the ice, stuck in an endless loop of the sight of Bucky falling from that train.
And then 70 years later, Steve is whole again.
It takes a while, he cries, learns and mourns people and friendships and what could have been.
But there’s Bucky, same old Bucky. Well actually—not really the same old Bucky.
Bucky who has metal for a limb, Bucky with longer hair than he ever had in the 40s and Bucky who looks off into nothingness and seems to be haunted by his past.
Bucky who collapses into Steve’s arms one night, sobbing and broken.
Two men out of time hold each other, each mourning and sympathizing with each other.
Two jagged broken halves find each other and force themselves to come together.
They would have never allowed themselves to get this far back then, not only because they would’ve been killed but they were both just too scared to try anything.
Bucky confesses to waiting, hoping and praying that Steve would come for him the same way he did in World War 2.
Steve confesses to holding on, grasping at straws of his memories of his time with Bucky, how they used to be before war and evil tore them apart and made them who they are today.
They hold each other in the silence, no words are spoken but so much is said.
There’s comfort and belonging for the first time in 70 long years and for once they think they might just be alright.
Because maybe it all had to happen the way that it did for them to start off just where they left off, like all the time in the world has passed but deep down they’re both still those old Brooklyn boys fighting in an alleyway side by side.
