Chapter One

Bucky stood on the outskirts of black procession, watching the ebony coffin float past him as if it were floating on water. He felt the sharp sting of tears run down his cheeks as he stared at the procession, watching the coffin soon come to rest above its final home. The familiar faces of fellow Avengers drifted through the crowds and past him as Bucky retreated back into the shadows, naming off the said faces in his head. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton. Thor. Not Steve Rogers. Never again would it be Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers was dead.

Nausea swept through Bucky as he stood there, causing him to turn aside and take deep breaths of the crisp fall air in order to keep the bile down. He could still taste its acidic nature on his tongue though, burning the back of his throat as his tear filled eyes looked towards the priest that stood beside the coffin. Already the coffin was surrounded by flowers of a variety of colors and kinds. Bucky dared to take a tentative step forward. He had always feared, back in the forties, that he would lose Steve suddenly due to all his illnesses. He never thought that after Steve received the Super Soldier serum that he would have to worry about that again. Steve had survived a plane crash, but he couldn't survive if his body decided it was time to end the war. No one could.

He just wished that he had had the ability to say goodbye. Every time Steve had fallen ill in the past, he had been right there beside him the whole time in case it ended up being the last time he would be able to be with him. He hadn't been by his side when it really counted though. He didn't even remember who he was when Steve had fallen ill suddenly. He had been wrapped around Hydra's finger still; still convinced that he was the Winter Soldier and still convinced that he needed to kill Steve. He hadn't snapped out of it until having seen the news one day while taking a break from a mission. The breaking news banner that read, "Captain America Dies" caused him to snap out of the grasp of Hydra completely. He was fueled by a wealth of emotions at hearing the news, and it was what caused him to slaughter anyone from Hydra that dared come after him and try to get him back. Steve had died without him, and thinking that he was still in trouble and in need of saving. The one that really needed the saving though was already gone.

"We are all gathered here today to mourn the passing of a great American hero and legend..."

Bucky smiled tearfully at hearing that, residing in the outside of the crowd to avoid being recognized. He didn't want to start a fight at Steve's funeral. It was nice to know that Steve had died a hero like he wanted to. It was better than him dying thinking that he was a nobody. He remembered the countless amount of times that he had to sooth a sickly Steve and convince him that the world would be a horrible place without him there; that he had to stick it out and make it. The world needed Steve, and Bucky spent hours convincing Steve of such a fact.

As the eulogy continued, tears trickled from his eyes and ran tracks down his cheeks. He could feel his chest constrict with the grief building up in him, having to back away from the outside of the crowd some before ugly sobs left his mouth. He wandered away from the funeral a bit and to a small grove of trees near the edge of the cemetery. He pressed his metal arm against one of the trees as his legs buckled under him and a sob left his mouth. He fell to his knees on the ground as the tears flowed freely then; his shoulders heaving as he released the pent up anguish inside of him.

"Why are you crying?" asked a voice then.

Anger swept through Bucky then at hearing the question. Didn't the person realize where they were? Knowing that he shouldn't start a fight at his best friend's funeral, he shut his eyes to vainly try to stop the flow of tears as he answered.

"I'm at a funeral if you couldn't tell."

"You lost someone dear then..." commented the voice. "Did you not get to say goodbye?"

Whoever this person was was definitely getting on Bucky's nerves. Lifting his tear-stained face back up and turning his head to look at the person behind him, he was shocked to see who the voice belonged to.

The person that had been talking to him had some kind of white lab coat on; his gray hair a frizzy mass on the top of his head. Wide round glasses were perched on the edge of his beak-like nose; his gray eyes alive with sparkles of excitement.

"Who are you?" asked Bucky; staring at the person in anger. "You have no idea what I've lost. You don't get to rub in that I didn't say goodbye."

"Oh, you're mistaken. I'm not here to rub any such thing in," said the man, looking at the grief-stricken Bucky in front of him. "I'm here to help you say goodbye."

Bucky scoffed at that, turning his head away then. He could feel the anger racing through him now, causing him to clench his fists in anger as he removed his metal arm off of the tree trunk.

"I will never get to speak to Steve again. I don't need you here rubbing that fact in. Go away."

"But I can help you to speak to Steve again. You don't get it."

He could hear the man walk closer and crouch down beside him. As he lifted his head slightly, he noticed that the man was holding out a drawing towards him. The drawing was of Steve on his hospital bed which only served to make Bucky angrier. He was about to turn and punch the man in the face when the man said softly, "You always told Steve that art was a way of accomplishing what was impossible; that it captured a moment and was able to hold it for an eternity. Remember?"

Those words caused Bucky to be transported back in time to the forties. He did remember saying that to Steve. Steve was always so down that the only thing he thought he could do was draw. Bucky had tried to convince him that art was just as useful. Among the numerous reasons he had given to Steve about the usefulness of art (among them the ability to cope with a difficult situation) was the one that the man had mentioned. Art was always able to capture a moment and time along with all the feelings that accompanied it. In doing so, it was doing the impossible. More tears slipped down Bucky's cheek at the memory, looking towards the drawing of Steve that the man was still holding out to him.

"You can go back...You can say goodbye," whispered the man as he let the edge of the drawing touch Bucky's hand. "All you have to do is say you want to."

Bucky's hand closed gently around the outstretched drawing, staring at it for a few moments in complete and utter silence before saying, "It's not possible. It can't be. Steve is gone."

"Nothing is impossible..."

As the man said that, Bucky's eyes widened as he watched the drawing of Steve waver slightly like a mirage. He was soon staring right at a colored picture of Steve, watching as he turned his head to look out the window beside his hospital bed. Bucky closed his eyes, telling himself that this had to be some sort of dream. It couldn't be real, but as soon as he opened his eyes, he saw that nothing had changed and that Steve was still looking sadly out the window.

"You can go to him," said the man. "You can say goodbye the way you want to. And before you say it, no. This is not a dream."

"There has to be a catch..." muttered Bucky. "There always is."

"Ah, yes. The dreaded catch," said the man. "You can go back and spend your time with Steve during his final days. The only thing is, he won't recognize you."

"He won't?" asked Bucky sadly. He didn't know what was worse. Dying without being able to say goodbye or getting to say goodbye without Steve knowing who he was.

"No, but at least you can say goodbye..."

"Yes..." said Bucky softly. "Steve deserves a proper goodbye."

"That's the spirit," said the man, softly clapping Bucky's back as he stood up. "All you have to do is say what you want and it'll happen."

Bucky nodded. It was a dream. This was all just some lucid dream that he'd end up waking up, having fallen asleep from his sobbing. He knew that it couldn't happen, but yet a part of him was still vainly hoping that this was all real. Holding the living drawing firmly in his hands, Bucky closed his eyes, whispering softly that he wished he could say goodbye to Steve. He had no idea if it would work, but he'd rather know that, even if this was just grief fueled insanity, he had tried to be by the side of his dying best friend instead of letting him slip away.