Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

By: Ana Sedai

Summary: Memories are worth having. That doesn't make them hurt any less.

There had been no time to grieve.

One night of futilely attempting to drown his sorrows just wasn't enough. Steve still half-expected Bucky to come sauntering through the ruined bar and ask him what the hell he was doing in a dump like this. Peggy's sympathetic understanding was kindly meant, but the whole thing was still so unreal to him.

He'd had a taste of it when Phillips had said he'd signed the KIA letter, but even then he hadn't really believed it. Bucky was a whirlwind, a force of nature. To imagine Bucky Barnes dead was like imagining the sun not coming up the next morning. It just doesn't register.

And he'd been right.

And now? Now he was still trying to reconcile what he knew with what he felt. He'd seen Bucky fall. He'd heard him scream on the way down, until the train had been too far away for him to hear anymore. His first spike of pain was a reflex, a cold stab of shock to his chest. He'd been that close, damnit!

One more second and Steve would've grabbed his hand. He would've pulled Bucky back into the train, rattled off some smart-ass remark that Bucky would've had an equally smart-ass response to, and they would've gone on their way. They would've captured Zola, lifted a glass to the stupidity of Hydra and the invincibility of the Howling Commandos, and gone on to planning the next mission. Steve would've hugged Bucky a little harder than he should have, and Bucky would've held on a little longer than he should have. And that would've been that.

Instead, he was playing those ten seconds between the explosion and Bucky's fall over and over. He didn't know if he was punishing himself, or trying to force his heart to accept a reality his mind had already had to.

Bucky's gone, his brain said.

I don't believe that, his heart replied.

You saw him fall.

I didn't see him land.

Do you hear yourself? You don't get two miracles in life.

I already have.

The first miracle had taken place nearly six years ago, when Steve and Bucky were nineteen. Bucky spent the fall chasing as many girls as he could, and Steve spent the fall trying not to cough up one of his lungs. They were already sharing an apartment, and since Steve wasn't fit to work, Bucky'd had to work overtime to pay their bills. It had rankled Steve no end, but Bucky'd just rolled his eyes and told him he was being an idiot.

"Yeah, sure, go out and get a job. They'll be real happy when you keel over on 'em. And then I'm left to pay for your funeral. You know how much a good funeral costs these days?"

Steve gave in, but he still wasn't happy about it. He especially wasn't happy that Bucky spent his increasingly rare free time on an increasingly long list of lady friends, none of which lasted for more than two dates, at best. Steve tried to tell himself it was because he knew Bucky could do better, that he wasn't just some rounder who showed a girl a good time and then dropped her like a hot potato. But with nothing to occupy his mind other than drawing and hacking his guts out, that excuse was getting worn away.

It wasn't right. Steve knew that. But he couldn't stop it.

As the autumn wore on, his chest got worse. Normally, his colds wore themselves out before October, but this one wasn't going away, and it was already November. Taking deep breaths was getting more painful. And Bucky started getting worry lines between his eyes.

And then it all came to a head. Steve was cooking dinner, what little there was, and Bucky came home just in time for him to see Steve double over in a horrible coughing fit. Bucky pulled him to one of their ratty chairs, then sat on his heels while Steve's lungs decided if they wanted to work again.

"I don't like this, Stevie. I haven't heard you this bad since you were ten. I think it's time you saw the doc."

"And what's he gonna do? Get me a new set of lungs? And I suppose we're gonna pay him with rainbows and unicorns, too."

"The hell with that! Are you tryin' to get yourself dead? I didn't keep you alive all these years just so you could throw it away!"

"And I suppose you think I have a choice in the matter, right?"

The fight got worse from there.

"You know what, Barnes? I think maybe you want me gone! You've barely spent five minutes at a time here anyway!"

"I'm bustin' my ass so we can keep the lights and the heat on! We lose those, and I come home and find you dead, what do you think that does to me, Rogers?"

"Oh, so it's about you now? I'd think you'd be grateful you wouldn't have to take care of Sicko Stevie for the rest of your life. Then you can chase dames from here to Queens!"

That last shot hit Bucky right between the eyes. They widened like he'd been punched in the gut, and for a second he blinked fast, as if he weren't sure he'd heard what he'd heard. Then those eyes narrowed, and for the first time Steve was actually a little afraid of his friend. But he was still angry enough for it to not matter.

"Is that really what you think of me, Steve? That I see you as some kind of…of obligation? That the last ten years of our lives mean that little? Well screw you, Rogers!"

"I'd have to get in line!"

The second he said it, Steve knew he'd gone too far. Bucky's expressive face closed down, the same way it always did when he got really angry, and without a word he turned on his heel and slammed out the door. Steve was surprised the windows didn't shatter. His heart certainly felt like it had.

Way to go, Rogers. Absolutely fantastic. Now he'll either leave you here to rot, or he'll come back long enough to throw you out. And you'll deserve it.

Stress always made his breathing worse, and he'd lost his appetite. He crawled into bed, wheezing and heartsick. At that point, he didn't much care if he didn't wake up. He was so damn tired of being sick, of being a burden. Honestly, who would miss him? His mom was gone, he had no other relations. Bucky was the only friend he had, and he'd probably botched that.

His sleep was uneasy, filled with dreams of drowning and darkness. When he opened his eyes, at first he wasn't sure what woke him. The room was dark, the city quiet for once. Then he felt Bucky's breath on the back of his neck and his arms around his stuttering chest, and he breathed more easily than he had in months.

"Wasn't sure you were coming back, Buck."

"I live here. Where else would I go?"

"I wouldn't blame you, you know, if you didn't come back."

Steve felt himself being turned to face Bucky. It thrilled and embarrassed him that Bucky could do it so easily.

Bucky's eyes were very serious, and a little sad. And Steve realized this was the closest, physically, that they'd been in years.

As kids, they'd shared each other's beds often, though once Bucky had started growing, that had gotten more difficult. They'd stopped altogether when they were thirteen. It had just been too awkward, for several reasons. Steve hadn't realized how much he'd missed that closeness.

"Steve Rogers, I will always come back for you, you hear? You're the only thing is this world I really care about, and I don't care how many stupid things we say to each other. I will always be here, to the end of the line. You got me?"

And Steve couldn't take it anymore. He started crying. He tried to keep it quiet, tried to not make more of a fool of himself than he already had, but he had to push his face into Bucky's shoulder to muffle his tears. And Bucky held him close, but not tight enough to hamper his breathing. He held him like he was worth something. And Steve held him back. He felt some of Bucky's tears slide into his hair.

It seemed stupid to hide anymore. He felt as raw as a bare nerve ending, but at this point he had no dignity left. And he owed his friend the truth. He just couldn't say it while looking at his face.

"I love you, Bucky. I have for a long time. I'm sorry about everything. It's okay if you don't love me back. You're my friend, and I know that. And that's the only thing that matters. You don't have to worry about me. Okay?"

Bucky's arms tightened painfully around him for a second, then loosened, and he tilted Steve's face up to his. In between the tears and the pain in his eyes, there was a light there that Steve hadn't once let himself hope to see.

"You're an idiot, and I love you too. Okay?"

As romantic admissions go, it wasn't exactly hearts and flowers. But it was them, and that made it more than okay. And what else could Steve do but lift his head up and kiss him? However, Bucky had the same idea at the same time. So instead of a kiss it was more like a nose-bumping, teeth-clacking head butt. Once they'd stopped laughing, though, it turned into the sweetest kiss Steve could've imagined.

Not that he had much practical experience, of course. His sum total of kisses from anyone other than his mom was precisely two, and neither had been anything other than awkward. This, however, oh this, was the most natural thing he'd ever felt.

Bucky's mouth was gentle against his. His lips were very soft, though chapped, and constantly moving. It was a bit of a sensory overload, so Steve just let Bucky lead and enjoyed it. When Steve realized that he had to breathe rather urgently, he reluctantly broke the kiss and rested his forehead on Bucky's chest, his own heaving slightly.

"You okay there, Stevie?"

Bucky's voice was breathless, and slightly amused, and Steve remembered how much experience Bucky probably had with kissing. Among other things. And Steve felt the difference keenly.

"I'm fine. Not all of us can be Don Juan, you know."

Steve had meant it to sound funny, but he was aware there was a certain amount of jealousy there. He only hoped it wasn't too obvious. Which was stupid, because this was Bucky, and he knew all of Steve's tells by the time he was ten. And once again he made Steve look him in the eye.

"I wouldn't want you to be. Steve, I know I've acted like a right ass over the past few months. Those girls I went out with…nothing went far, okay? I don't think I was chasing them as much as I was running away from you. You were getting sicker, and I was getting scared, and…I don't know. I just couldn't stand to be near you for too long, knowing I couldn't do anything to help."

Bucky looked down, and Steve realized he might start crying again.

"And none of that's really changed. You're still getting sicker, and I still can't help."

And for the first time, Steve felt like he could be strong. For Bucky, he could be strong.

"Hey, I'm not dead yet. You're helping now, believe me. And if you think I'm gonna go off and kick the bucket when I've finally got something worth living for, you don't know me as well as you think."

Bucky gave a short huff of laughter and a half-grin at that.

"Good point. You'd probably drag yourself up to wallop the Grim Reaper's ass if he ever dared show his face."

At that, Steve laughed, a good hard laugh that didn't end in a coughing fit. And then they kissed again, and then they slept.

And within weeks, Steve's health improved so quickly that the doctor he saw (when they could afford it) said it was the fastest recovery he'd ever seen for as serious a case as Steve's had been. And Bucky could barely keep the shit-eating grin off his face, even when Steve elbowed him in the ribs.

The second miracle had taken place barely six months ago. Steve had gone into that Hydra base to get Bucky and those men out, fully expecting to get himself killed doing it. Hopefully not before making sure the others got away, though. The idea that Bucky could be dead was not a factor. Steve wouldn't let it.

That didn't mean he didn't really start breathing again until he saw Bucky open his dazed eyes and look at him. It took him a second, but when Bucky saw how much Steve had changed, his expression cleared up quick. Then Steve realized how scared he had been since Phillips told him about the letter.

"I thought you were dead."

Steve felt the weight of those words on his chest and on his heart. He really had. And he understood that the only thing that had kept him from putting a bullet in his brain before completing his self-appointed mission was denial.

Bucky, wounded and drugged though he was, always had a snappy comeback handy.

"Thought you were shorter."

The rest of the rescue was a haze of confusion and fire. Schmidt's revelation was horrible. But even more horrible was the realization that Bucky was going to die if Steve wasn't able to rescue himself. He refused to leave. And Steve recognized for the first time how vulnerable they made each other. And how impossible it was to back out now.

And then he jumped.

And now here he was.

Peggy had left the bar, her kindness and understanding seeing more than he'd realized. Had a good, kind, stubborn Brooklyn boy not snatched his heart ten years ago, they might have even had some kind of future. But he had, and Bucky had taken it away with him.

Steve couldn't even bury him.

The thought of Bucky lying broken apart in some godforsaken canyon was more than he could bear. The shock and denial were wearing off, and Steve bent his head into his arms and started sobbing. No one was around. No one would hear.

Steve thought about the plans they'd made. Survive the war, stay together, go back to New York and live their lives. Nothing complicated or fancy. Just them. And now that was gone, and he realized that he couldn't see a future for himself anymore.

That should've scared him. But honestly, he just didn't care.

He would do his duty, for his men and for his country. But beyond that…well, whatever was supposed to happen, would happen.

He should go through Bucky's things. There was no one to send them to, but since he couldn't bury him, he could at least memorialize him in some small way. A mini-funeral, if you will.

Bucky's footlocker was still at the end of his bunk. Everything he had of any importance was in there, and some of not-so-importance. A poker deck, cigarettes (even though he didn't smoke, said it made his hands shake), no letters (neither of them wrote much), socks, canteen, a few comic books, a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge Steve had given him before shipping out, and…a diary.

This last was a surprise. Bucky had hated writing. Steve had done most of his English papers in school. And he'd certainly never kept one back home.

"You're the arty type, Steve, I'm just the dumb hanger-on."

He'd said it with a smile, though.

Steve wanted to read it, very badly, but wasn't sure it was right. If Bucky had wanted him to know about it, he would've told him, right? He was about to put it back in the locker when he saw a piece of paper with his name on it sticking out of the pages. He felt his heart clench. Even before he read it, he knew what it was.

A goodbye letter.

He opened the envelope.

Dear Steve ('cause that's what you write at the beginning of a letter like this, and I really hope it's you reading it),

If you're reading this, I didn't make it, and you did. I'm really sorry about that. I left you behind, when I promised I would always be there. But I'm also glad, because I'm selfish, and this means you didn't leave me behind. I wouldn't have lasted long, if that had happened.

I'm not good with a bunch of fancy words, as you well know. I never told you how I felt nearly as often as I should have. After I shipped out, and I couldn't talk to you anymore, I started keeping a journal. I felt ridiculous at first, but then I just started imagining that I was still talking to you, and it got easier. You can read it if you want. No secrets, I promise.

I know you're probably feeling kicked in the gut. I'd be drunk off my ass by now, but I know you can't get drunk. (Which, by the way, those science geeks really should've told you about before they super-soldiered you.) And knowing you, you're probably thinking about doing something stupid like going on some suicide mission for revenge.

Part of the reason I wrote this was to warn you that if you do that, I will personally kick your ass back to the land of the living if I see you before you've had a chance to get old and gray. And don't pretend you wouldn't tell me the same damned thing.

You're a good man, Steve. The world needs more people like you. If there is an afterlife, and God's okay with someone like me being admitted, then I'll be here when you show up. You're always late, anyway, so what's a few decades? You have so much to give, and I don't want to be the reason you don't. Besides, I'll try and visit you sometimes, if I can.

So please, live, for me.

When my mom died, a family friend from Baltimore sent me something that really helped. He said a friend of his wrote it. I don't usually go for poetry, but it might help you too. Because it's true.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

I will be there for you, Steven Grant Rogers. To the end of the line.

Because I love you.

Now go finish kicking Hydra's ass.

-Bucky

Steve came back to himself slowly. There were a few commandos in the bunkhouse now, but they were keeping a respectful distance. He wanted to cry again, but he absolutely couldn't do that here.

Damn you, Bucky. You had to save me from myself one more time, didn't you?

Bucky knew him too well. So he'd done the one thing he knew that would force Steve to stay alive. And Steve knew he would honor that. He would try to be patient. He would try not to disappoint him. Even though every day would be a struggle.

"Cap?"

It was Gabe. His dark, open face showed his worry, but Steve knew he wouldn't have disturbed him unless it was urgent.

"Yeah, Gabe?"

"Colonel's got some info from Zola. Says you need to meet with him ASAP."

Right. The job. Nothing like the possible end of the world to put your troubles in perspective.

"Tell him I'll be there in five."

Gabe nodded and made to leave. Then he hesitated and half-turned to Steve.

"Cap? Me and the guys…we're really sorry about Barnes. He was a good man."

Steve felt himself choke up for a second.

"Yeah. Yeah, he was."

After Gabe left, Steve looked down at the journal Bucky had left him. He hoped it would help him to not miss him so much, reading what he'd written. He hoped he would be able to hear Bucky's voice. He hoped he would see that cocky grin again. But that would have to wait until later.

Except later never came.

But then it did.

Author's Note: The poem used in this story was written by Mary Frye in Baltimore in 1932. It was circulated privately for years before it was published. I tried to come up with a logical explanation for how Bucky would know about it.