i will not be ashamed (of my tears), an avengers fanfic

Title comes from Dickens' Great Expectations.

On a trip to West Virginia, my friend told me that you can't ever find sunrises or heather fields anywhere else quite like the ones over there. I laughed, and promptly shoved it into a memory bin that only comes out when absolutely useless, so I'm like writing my ethics final and all that is going through my head is 'OMG Bucky would love WV sunrises. He needs to go there. Who cares about ethics, I'm writing this during the allotted ninety minutes, not anything useful.'

So this happened.

...

A note before reading:

There is the guilt of knowing something is wrong after the fact, and knowing something wrong is before the fact and doing it anyways. Bucky Barnes was broken, yes, after he fell, but there were pieces left behind, edges that matched up. He killed before he was broken and he killed after, but there was guilt clawing at his insides then; the guilt of the just forced to do the unjust. He felt this in his bones, in his gut, and he remembered his brother, his first love, his friend transcending space and time, and he felt like weeping every morning, every night.

How could Steve Rogers love a man like him?

And if Steve did not love him- then what was he, he who had defined himself as Steve's long before it was a conscious choice?

This is a story of guilt, of innocence, of murder and blood. Bucky Barnes had this carved into his bones: you are a machine. But he chose to ignore that; our scars are not our choices.

So let us tell this story: a man walks out of hell, and then he chooses to walk back in. Let us tell this story: a broken man chooses to save others.

…

They moved to New York.

To Brooklyn, at first; it was the only home Bucky had ever known, and Bucky was Natasha's (mostly because Stephanie couldn't actually state preferences just yet), so there they went, after a quiet three weeks in Akureyri.

Natasha found a small flat in the middle of Borough Park with two bedrooms- more glorified closets, but they had doors and some insulation, so better than a cheap hotel- and good sight-lines for them, and they moved in as soon as it could be vacated.

But there were memories, there, and not the good kind: just enough of a dissonancy for Bucky between the past and the present. He couldn't walk down the street without remembering it, but there wasn't enough to say yes, this is home, either. Three weeks in he was twitching at nameless ghosts and nearly defenestrated the old lady from two doors down, asking for help with the groceries.

Natasha dragged him away from that brewing confrontation, but they didn't actually leave until she saw a young blonde in a nearby museum, and a brunette in Bucky's favored coffee shop, both with the same features.

"Don't look now," the chatty barista told her over the counter, "but there's a damn fine lady staring murder at your back. Whatta ya do, steal her husband?"

Natasha checked it out through the reflection in the glass pastry stand next to the barista, and felt her jaw tighten. Galina Petrova wasn't a graduate of the Red Room, but she had been a good student, and it was likely that they had lost enough assets in the past months- what with Khrushchev's fall, and that they couldn't afford to waste a Widow on a recon- but still. Galina was so far unequipped to deal with Natasha that it might as well have been an insult to her skills.

So Natasha's first impression was one of sheer outrage, but the next one- she thought about Bucky, waiting for his coffee at home, and Stephanie, probably hungry for her next feeding, and Natasha flew straight past outrage to fury.

Then she thought about the way Galina had always stared at the Winter Soldier, and felt amusement twitch at her lips.

"Something like that," she told the barista. He flinched back, a little, when he saw her eyes, so she said, "thank you for the coffee."

And then she stalked over to Galina and dragged her out of the café.

…

The little alley Natalia pushed her into was dark and narrow, but it was private enough to satisfy her.

(If this ended in blood… well. There was no need to be gauche about it, was there?)

"Was there something you wanted?" She asked flatly.

Galina used to be shorter than Natalia, but she had grown in the year Natalia had been gone. She was probably taller than Natalia, now, and the way she was dressed came off as someone in their mid-twenties, not their late teens.

Natalia hissed something under her breath, and sharp nails dug into the flesh of her arm; Galina didn't flinch, but when she saw the stiletto in her fingers she went very, very still.

"Stop following me."

Galina leaned back against the stone walls, but she spoke, and it was even. "Our masters want you back."

Natalia grinned. There were enough teeth in that smile to make a wolf jealous. "Oh, Galina," she said, and she had sounded many things in the Red Room, but patronizing had never been one of them- "I'm never going back."

"They have ways to make you."

"Not if you don't tell them," she said.

Galina stared at her. "You think I would dare? Freedom has made you stupid as well as complacent! Ivan loves you. They want you back, and they won't even punish you. What more do you want?"

"I want this," Natalia said bluntly. She waved a hand, and it encompassed so much more than the broken tile of the alley; it was the air, the sky, the very earth.

For a brief moment, Galina thought she could feel it: freedom, which tasted like the wind against your face; anger, which scalded the back of your throat; despair, like waves under your feet.

But then she remembered Ivan, and she remembered her sisters, and she remembered Zima Soldat. Ivan's hands were wrinkled now, little spots across the veins on the back of his palms. Her sisters: hair the colors of the rainbow, eyes encompassing more; all beautiful, lovelier and deadlier than the moon. And Zima Soldat had been the best of these little porcelain dolls, these fractured little tools. He had been the best of them, before Natalia had ripped his usefulness out of him with dripping-blood claws.

"You don't know better," she said disparagingly.

Natalia laughed. "They'll burn you alive, little girl, with their little graduation ceremony, and then they'll fucking erase you, and then- then you'll die, bit by aching bit." She leaned forward, straight against Galina's face. "Is that what you want?"

Galina blinked. No, she didn't, but that wasn't what happened. "The sacrifices I make are in the name of Mother Russia," she said- no, hissed- into Natalia's ear. And then, because it was utterly true, and she couldn't leave without trying to persuade her, "You used to be the best of us, Natalia. The best of the best of the best- you were beautiful, and so perfect- what changed? You could have changed the world! You threw that away, for a chance at what- at some…"

"My name is Natasha," she said coldly. "And I didn't want to be the weapon that changed the world- Galina, I wanted to be the person that did."

There was silence, and then-

"You'll die," Galina spat.

Natalia- no, Natasha, this new incarnation was Natasha- rolled her eyes. "I won't. You will. And you know it. So- I have better things to do than get blood on my hands, Galina. I see you tomorrow, though, and I'll kill you without a second thought."

Natal- Natasha released her with a shove and stepped away, and Galina thought for a moment that there was still danger, there. Mercy was weakness, but it could not be exploited in Romanova. And she was not delusional enough to go after her without ten practiced Widows as backup; Natasha had always been the best of the system, the jewel of their practice.

The worst part, Galina reflected, before walking back to the safe house to make a few calls, was that she could not actually state that Natasha would die.

…

Natasha stalked out of the alley, and the mid-day Brooklyn crowds parted around her- she wore a scowl impressive enough to make them shy away.

Which was, you know, impressive.

Brooklyn crowds were fucking shifty. It took something to make them flinch, and it seemed that a furious Natasha had it.

She walked on the streets for all of a block before scaling the walls, and then she ran on those roofs- a full-out sprint, leaping over buildings and making sharp detours; by the time she landed on the fire escape of her home she was quite sure there was nobody who had followed her, and some of the underlying tension had faded enough that she could think beyond the continuous chant of get them safe keep them safe run as far as fast as hard as possible oh my god run.

Bucky liked open spaces, so they kept the window to the fire escape unlocked, and she wasn't above using that to her advantage now.

"Nata-" Bucky began, looking startled- of course he would; Natasha had never used the fire escape before, and she didn't even have his coffee, which was why she had gone out in the first place-

"We have to leave," she said, and it sounded breathless.

"…okay?"

God fucking dammit. Natasha breathed in, breathed out, and felt her hands clench; she allowed herself a single moment of all-encompassing anger before forcibly relaxing them. Anger wouldn't help this situation, and panicking would only make it worse.

"Yesterday," she began, carefully; they needed the silence and the control right then, "I went to the art museum- it had a grand opening, don't know if I told you-" she hadn't, had actually disappeared for the better part of the day before something had spooked her back, "-and I saw a blonde there. When I went to get your coffee… she was there, again. Brunette, this time." Bucky didn't- quite- tense, but his muscles did ripple slightly, under his clothes. Natasha didn't react. "Her name's Galina Petrova. A year beneath me in the Room. Always in the top half, but never top of the class." A cold smile spread over her lips, mirthlessly; there were lies here, too, in this world they had tried so hard to leave behind. "Expendable."

Bucky had gone very white, and very still.

"Give me a minute," he said, and walked back to the room. When he returned, it was without Stephanie, and his eyes were hard. Resolved.

"Did you know her?" He asked quietly.

Natasha felt herself go rigid again. And there were a thousand lies on the tip of her tongue, ready to let fly like so many bullets, and-

And then she saw Bucky's face.

"We were all expendable," she blurted, and it felt like a weight was ripped off her chest: something stolen, but something disliked anyways. "I just- I- we were- as close to friends, as we ever got. Galina kept, you know, beads, pretty things, under her cot. She'd play with them at night. And she was only ever one of the ones who were the best. I could- talk to her."

Maybe other Black Widows had the luxury of having less than every facet of their lives controlled, but Natasha hadn't. She'd been the cream of the crop since the beginning, and it showed in her movements. That she had left was a testament to her mental fortitude as much as her skills.

"You liked her," Bucky said.

"I tried to save her," Natasha said. And she had. But it still felt like a failure, to watch Galina walk away, knowing that there was nothing she could do. It still felt like a failure, and she had never dealt well with failure.

A breath, and then two; Bucky moved forward in a swirl of motion and wrapped both arms around her, metal one cradling her skull, other one around her waist. The hard muscles under her fingers felt warm and real under her fingers, the skin smooth.

She didn't cry. But they did stand there, like that, for a long time.

Right up until Stephanie started crying, and then they moved apart; this was a reminder, written out in screams and sleepless nights:

There is a world beyond your pain. There is a universe beyond your fury. There is something more than dark nights and confusion.

(Sometimes there is a little girl, and all she wants is her mother.)

…

Natasha would hold her little girl in her hand, and she would think:

This girl is not your salvation. This baby will not save you.

Which might not be completely true, but it was enough to satisfy her. Stephanie was a beautiful baby, all brown hair and green eyes and pale skin; she was cheerful, too, and uncomplicated. Her fear of strangers lasted until she saw Natasha or Bucky smile at them, and then she was utterly charming.

But Stephanie had not made Natasha walk out of the Red Room. She had begun it, had given her a reason- but the doubt had still existed. It had been Natasha to walk out, on her own two feet. It had been Bucky who had returned, time and time again. Naming that anything less was as much a disservice to themselves as it was to her.

Bucky spent most of his time inside, avoiding people, and as a result was Stephanie's primary care-taker. Natasha spent her days traveling this new world, carving Bucky's home into her bones and sinew. She would not let this be taken from him again. If he couldn't have it, then she would give it to him in presents, everyday: bland, Irish potatoes; threadbare blankets; old bricks from a tenement that two little boys- not quite men- shared for years.

Bucky smiled when he saw it, and wrapped his hands around them like they were precious gold; the only things he held more carefully was Stephanie, and on the best days, Natasha.

…

So Natasha and Bucky went south, forgoing pine forests for rolling hills and steady, green-topped mountains. The house they settled on, finally, was large enough: four bedrooms, three bathrooms, tucked between two hills in such a manner that it couldn't be seen until one was practically on top of the driveway. It came with a full acre of land, and Bucky felt something in his chest ache when he saw the dewy fields of heather stretching out into the distance.

Steve, he didn't quite say, because he was trying to live in the present, but-

(but what are we, if not creatures of the past, if not gasping for the future? We carry our demons in the cradles of our skins, from the moment before to the moment after. What is the present? It is nothing but the creation of dreams, of wishes, of hopes; we live for tomorrow, we are formed by yesterday, what is the present? There is only the past, and there is only the future, and there is not a gap between them, not a heartbeat, not a pause.)

Steve, Bucky thought, and it tasted bitter, like rotted lemons on the back of his tongue. Oh, Steve, if you could see this. If you could see how far I've come, how far from that little house in Brooklyn. Did you think the war would bring us here?

He allowed himself the luxury of feeling that ache for a full minute, and then he walked back to Natasha; scraped up a smile for her.

"It's beautiful," he said roughly.

Natasha nodded. "We'll take this," she said to the realtor.

…

That night, Bucky stepped out of the house and slipped back to the heather fields once more. He ended up flat on his back, staring up at the night sky, heart pounding for no reason he could imagine.

But- there had been a day. Or maybe there hadn't. But he thought there was, because it didn't have the same tinge of red along the edges like the Red Room's had: a calling card, like blood-soaked silk, like blood-soaked banners of peace.

But there had been a day. In the middle of summer, and he and Steve scraped up enough money for train tickets and headed north to Albany for a night. And then- and then it rained? Or not, because he remembered clear skies; probably the train broke down, so they were stuck there for the night, in any case.

On a warm night in the middle of July, farther than they'd ever been from home, they lay on their backs in grass fields and stared up at the night sky, and Steve Rogers whispered, "The stars, Buck. They've seen all our evil, all our good- they'll be there when we're gone. Wonder what they think of us, don't you?"

"That we're cowards?" Bucky asked wryly, thinking of America's ability to look away from war brewing for a second time on the same continent.

But Steve stiffened, and then he fell silent, and just as Bucky was going to shift away, he-

The memory fractured, and Bucky no longer had Steve; he was no longer in Albany; Bucky had blood on his hands and guilt writ across his heart and the stars, distant and impersonal, as his witness.

In the morning, he could do this. He could. But nights- nights were painted stark silver and black: there were no shades there, just truth, just lies.

James Buchanan Barnes lay there, under the stars, and he did not weep. But the lack of tears did not mean a lack of want; Bucky felt the pressure of salt and liquid along the back of his throat now, and he thought he would feel it all his life.

Lying there, he closed his eyes, and words rose up, unbidden, unscratched; raw and real, feeling like fear and arousal and hatred. This was real, he thought, and then, and then-

This was real, this was truth, this was more real than love, more real than hate, this was-

(oh, buck, a ghost wreathed in ice murmured through sleep, oh, i am so sorry.)

This was something that there are no words for.

…

How ironic were these lives that he lived?

Steve almost died for twenty years, then Bucky fell and died, then Steve fell and died, then Bucky died for twenty fucking years, and when he woke up, well, then Steve was dead.

(Did you know that there are sled tracks on glaciers in the northern-most part of Iceland?)

(Did you know that fifteen feet under those tracks, Steve Rogers slumbers in a coffin of ice and metal?)

(There once was a red hair on that pristine ice, and a brown hair, curled over each other; like lovers once removed. It is gone, now, but the memory remains: a young woman decided to be more than the sum of her past, there, and a young man followed her.)

How ironic were these lives?

…

Bucky let his grief out in those wild hills of heather, in that unbroken land: beautiful, yes, but untamed. And where else can this grief be let out if not here, for how can grief be anything other than wild, other than feral, other than the base emotions of a man left with nothing?

He did not need to worry about breaking this; crueler men than him had tried and failed. He could dig his metal fingers into the loam and soil, could break apart, and this land would hold those pieces. He could trust this land, he felt in his bones.

This was loathing, this was hatred- this was love, in its purest form; this was fury, useless, pent-up, because James Buchanan Barnes had never told Steve Rogers he loved him. Not in any way that mattered.

But this, above all, was mourning; was grieving the death of the brightest star he'd ever known.

…

Bucky's days passed in a haze of sleep and Stephanie. Natasha left in the mornings to work in the typist's office ten miles down the road and ran the whole way. Stephanie needed food and water; she needed baths and toys and, mostly, someone to take care of her. She did not wait for him to recover, for him to mourn, and this was necessary; this was his purpose.

(This was his mission.)

Every day, he cooked. Heavy breakfasts, because both he and Natasha inherited the supersoldier appetite he remembered Steve having, and then lunches from yesterday's leftovers, and then grand dinners in time for Natasha to return.

"I met our neighbors today," she said, picking her way through the spicy pasta he'd cooked- a mix of Italian and Indian.

"Any ax murderers?" He asked sardonically.

She rolled her eyes. "They live three miles away. And if they were, I have faith in your ability to stop them."

"Stop them, yes," he said, keeping an eye on Stephanie who was waving her fists and gurgling at the ceiling. "But without risking the china? That, I don't know. And this house came with amazing china, Nat, I've never seen these designs before."

"God save me from china-loving men," Natasha said, but she was smiling.

…

In the middle of summer, he and Steve scraped up enough money for train tickets and headed north to Albany for a night. And then- and then the train broke down, so they were stuck for the night.

"That we're cowards?" Bucky asked wryly.

But Steve stiffened, and then he fell silent, and just as Bucky was going to shift away, he-

…

The days passed, disgustingly domestic.

The nights passed, painted in shades of starry truth and aching hatred. But slowly, bit by shredded bit, Bucky pieced himself back together. He had already done this in Europe, but that was accidental, was focused on Natasha and keeping her safe, keeping her alive. This- this was absolutely deliberate.

…

Natasha, do you remember? Natasha learned how to laugh. She taught herself.

Bucky remembered.

…

One night, Natasha came home to a candle-lit dinner, Ella Fitzgerald, and red wine; Bucky had Steph cradled in his arm and was revolving around the carpet in slow circles.

"I'm ho-ome," she called, and he turned around, grinned at her.

"Dinner's on the table, honey," he said in a high falsetto. "Make sure you wash up before eating!"

She kissed Stephanie, and then kicked off her shoes; she was tired, yes, but mostly just tense. A nice dinner and a long bath would take care of it.

"I didn't think it'd take you this long to get domesticated," she commented, and Bucky snorted.

It was one of his good days, she realized. Not just acting, he was. This was rare enough that she was willing to ignore a desire for a bath and just go along with what he had prepped.

"I remembered music," he told her, a smile quirking at his lips. "'Specially Fitzgerald. She was amazing, and I wanted to make a day of it. So- lamb chops and wine- didja know that the cellar has like, ten, unopened bottles of wine in it?- and music. And dancing, if you're up to it."

Jesus Christ. Natasha didn't know another person who could have resisted those eyes staring up at her like that, hangdog and brilliant, more lively than in weeks.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Sounds brilliant. How about I go change, first, and then we can eat properly?"

That night, they danced in pajamas to It Don't Mean a Thing then How Long Has This Been Going On? and then Willow Weep for Me- until Natasha was breathless, and Bucky was laughing, and this was quite literally the most fun she could remember having that wasn't destructive, wasn't that just sad?

But this was also fun, and Bucky just kept her twirling for hours, again and again and again.

"This," she told him afterwards, curled up in bed, Stephanie between them, "is the most fun I've ever had."

He grinned at her again, and she wondered if he had been practicing, or if this was his natural smile- full-faced, blue eyes crinkling and lips stretching and nose wrinkling- this was the old Bucky Barnes, she thought, and then: no. This is the new Bucky Barnes, made out of the pieces of the past.

…

He did not understand the itch beneath his skin.

...

There is a man here, in this story, there is a man who does not know himself, who is finding himself in the land.

There is no outrage here.

There is only truth, distilled into heather fields and grief and children: pure, honest.

But Bucky Barnes did not find himself- that is a lie. Memories are not found. They are formed. Bucky Barnes, the New Bucky Barnes, he created himself out of the ashes of the past, out of the ruin that was formed.

…

Have you ever walked where you thought, this is where I belong?

That was Bucky Barnes on the battlefield, that was Bucky Barnes in the army. He walked out of that hell, but there was a part of him looking back, always, aching for the knife in his shoe and gun at his waist- he could piece a facsimile of domesticity, but for some the twinge for war is not want but need.

For some, it is like air.

…

One day, feeling lost, Bucky went to the kitchen and began chopping vegetables.

When he realized that his grip on the carrot was the same he would use for a human neck and the angle of the knife would slice the carotid artery, he put it down slowly and backed away. He went into the bathroom and washed his face and very, very carefully did not look himself in the eye as he did so.

He held his daughter in his hands, and he did not weep.

This was not his legacy. Blood was not his legacy, death was not, evil was not. He had walked out, hadn't he? How dare anyone ask more of him? How dare it not be enough that he walked out, that he healed? How dare someone bring him back?

"I will not hurt you," he whispered to Stephanie. "You will never be frightened of me."

But there was a sort of peace he found when he held that knife, and a sort of uneasiness now, holding his daughter.

That night, he went outside and tried to decide if he wanted to laugh, or scream, or cry. He felt the need like a need to vomit; at some point it became unnecessary to think about it. At some point, the muscles used were involuntary.

He loved that ache between his lungs, struggling for air and not sure whether he'd ever really get it. He enjoyed it, and maybe he hadn't before Hydra, but he thought he had. There was something beautiful in the clash of knife on knife, on flesh against flesh; there was something beautiful in violence, and he didn't know if the belief was programmed into him or- or was natural.

Bucky did not ask himself if it mattered. But this was an important point, wasn't it?

This love, this idea, this belief mattered to him, and it did matter how it came about. We are the products of our pasts, but we can choose who we wish to become. We can pick what matters to us.

This mattered to him: whether he loved because of Hydra, or because of himself.

This mattered to him, and this is the point: that is the only person it should matter to. This is not Natasha's choice to make, not Steve's, not anybody's other than Bucky's, and this is the importance: he made the choice.

And if he decides there is beauty in violence because he- the new Bucky Barnes, not the old one, not the broken one- if he decides that, we can judge him for it. But this is not what we can do: we cannot tell him he cannot choose this decision.

…

"There is beauty," Natasha whispered, once, "beyond functionality."

"There is beauty," Bucky whispered now, "in myself."

…

In the middle of summer, he and Steve scraped up enough money for train tickets and headed north to Albany for a night. And then- and then the train broke down, so they were stuck for the night.

"That we're cowards?" Bucky asked wryly.

But Steve stiffened, and then he fell silent, and just as Bucky was going to shift away, he-

…

A week later, he walked to a small clearing almost a full mile from their home. He set up wooden posts in mimicry of army-issue targets and practiced throwing knives, practiced weaponry and death in the chill night; it was August, yes, but summer fled early in mountains. Bucky was goodat this, and he reveled in it. This was not something he had to struggle through; this was borne in the beat of his heart and map of his veins.

He did not fall to his knees and throw up. He did not get nauseous. He did not want to run into the fields of heather until purple stalks and pollen were the only things left of him, until he was no more a person than his title.

If he told himself that enough times, he might even believe it.

…

But Bucky did not dwell well on uncertainties. He made a decision and spun forward; cut loose, he was an object of motion. This was not fear, this was dread; this was not rage, this was fury; this was something else entirely. This was grieving and mourning and moving on, this was bitterness and letting go and growing.

So he made a decision, as he weighed a knife in his hands.

(Can you see the outrage here, that we celebrate a man's decisions? That we celebrate his ability to make decisions?)

(This is outrage, but this does not make the celebration less.)

…

He owed so many people. But mostly, Bucky Barnes owed Steve. So he didn't tell Natasha first; he walked to the fields of heather and stared up at the stars.

"You think this is what I want?" He demanded the thin air, but he was actually demanding the ghost of Steve Rogers. This was an apology in the only way he knew to give: clumsy, hard, unforgiving, and above all real. "It isn't. I want to be happy here, but this is where I was born, the battlefield. I never felt more alive than when I saved you, and ain't that the god-awful truth? You had your catechisms, Steve. I had my bullets." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and felt it shake, felt it tremble.

"I won't ask for your forgiveness," he said. "Because I don't deserve it. But I'm telling you that I- I can't continue like this." He breathed in sharp mountain air, felt wind cut his face- wind that smelled of wild heather and apple and smoke. Wind that smelled of wildness and life and urban civilization. "This life was meant to be yours, and I can't live like you."

He'd tried. For months, he'd tried to fit himself into the memory of Steve Rogers. But Bucky Barnes had spent months learning himself before he tried to call himself good; he could not fit into Steve's bones.

And on this heather-topped hillside, Bucky forced himself to let this protection go, this cloak that he'd tried to fit around his shoulders.

"I'm not sorry. But I wish- I wish things could've been different."

He walked those hills for the rest of that night. It was a patrol, it was a remembrance, it was a wake. It was all these things and more, and it was also something less; it was a mourning, private and patient. This pain, he thought, was a new one. But this scar he could live with. This ache he could survive; he could learn to move around it.

He walked back inside and met Natasha's eyes.

"There's HYDRA still out there," he said.

"I know."

He felt something click in the arch of his spine when he saw Natasha's face. She wasn't surprised, he thought. No- Natasha expected this. She knew this was coming and waited, unrepentant, patient. Like this was where he was supposed to end up; like this was as inevitable as the dance of the planets or turn of the tides or destruction of galaxies.

"This was what I was born to do," he said.

Natasha nodded.

"It'll be dangerous. It'll be hard. Steph might be in danger. But-"

"Bucky." She rose to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. "I know the danger," she told him. "But I worked in a typist's office for almost two months, and that- I'd do just about anything to get out of working there." The levity drained away, replaced with careful hands. "This is my choice, to walk back. And it'll be hard, no doubt about it, but we can do it. We're the best, and we're the only ones of our kind. We're the only ones who can do this."

He stared at her.

"We make our own demons."

And it was Hydra that had made him, built him out of the ruin of the fall, ended his life even as they gave him a purpose. Hydra had reforged Bucky into the perfect weapon; but what do you do when the weapon is, by nature, fallible? When the guns turn on their owners, then, then you know the apocalypse has come. Hydra had made Bucky, and now he would be the demon of their worst nightmares.

She smiled, a small one; private, and genuine. "Exactly. Hydra won't ever know what hit them."

He nodded, and said, "I have something to show you."

…

They walked out of the house, Natasha bearing Stephanie.

It was morning, the ground the color of unripened apples: somewhere between grey and green and brown. Bucky led her to the area he lay in every night, and in the color of day he could see the scars he had ripped into the earth. He could see that this land was broken.

But- but it is not. Under the earth, sprouts shoot up. Rain will fall, and wind will blow, and then the land will heal these scars if you will not, if you cannot. It will take time, but that is not a fault. These things take time.

The land is broken today, but tomorrow it will not be.

Does that mean the land is still broken?

"It doesn't matter," Bucky whispered. "It doesn't matter because it will get better."

With those words something relaxed inside of him, a barrier that had been built to keep him sane; there was a moment of relaxation and rest, the scent of heather and grass in his lungs. Then he turned to Natasha, and she wavered as if in a heat wave: lines blurring, only the sharp red of her hair remaining constant. For one breath he stood there, and the very world spun around him like a top through space, and then he heard, clearly, a snap.

For one dizzying moment he was old and new and was in Albany and a heather field and with Steve and Natasha, for one long, heart-rending moment he had both worlds in the palms of his hands. But there were lies, still, here; or maybe not, just things he hadn't been able to handle before, because for the first time the memory ended, and he felt a scream build in his chest that was going to be shredded to pieces tomorrow-

Because Steve stiffened, he fell silent. And then-

(nonononononono-)

And then, on a brilliant summer night almost thirty years ago, Steve Rogers kissed Bucky Barnes.

…

Natasha watched Bucky falter, slightly. She was used to this; he experienced the blank-outs usually twice a week. Stephanie could pull him out almost immediately, but Natasha saw no need for this this time.

She relaxed against the cold wind.

"No!"

The word was torn out of Bucky with what seemed like every drop of force in his lungs. He stumbled backwards and landed, twisted, on loamy earth; there were tears in his eyes.

"Buck-" she began, startled.

He scrabbled backwards. "Nonononono- I don't- I didn't- no. no." He wasn't looking at her. He was in the throes of a memory- a memory that was more violent than any she'd seen.

And then his eyes snapped open.

They met hers, and she could see horror and terror there, in equal measure. He looked stunned, she thought; he looked more frightened than she'd ever seen him.

It was a strange tableau, this one: the red-headed girl cradling a child, a metal-armed man at her feet; proper dawn not yet risen, everything pillowed in shades of grey; rolling mist surrounding them in fog that left the world looking- unreal. Ethereal. Something out of fairy lore.

But a tableau is, by definition, frozen. When Bucky moved, it shattered; there was no grace left in his movements. He was scrabbling backwards like a wounded animal, wordless syllables pouring from his lips: how else do you grieve this loss? Perhaps there are those who can grieve and look sophisticated, but Bucky's grief did not take this form. He had none of that left to him.

"Bucky," Natasha whispered, then, and he froze; stared with eyes that did not properly see her. "What happened?" She asked, because this was unsettling. She had seen Bucky falter, had seen him rage, had seen him empty- but she had not seen him desperate. She had not seen him on the cusp of sanity, had not seen his battles. This, she thought, would be the battlefield for that, now; his sanity would be fought for here, on this morning, and she had no tools but her wits.

His eyes were the color of the North Sea in the middle of a storm: frothy, on the surface, and utterly lifeless underneath.

"Steve," he said, "kissed me."

…

Oh, Natasha thought first.

And then: You poor, poor boy.

…

She blinked. A slide of muscle against muscle; the sweep of delicate hairs against the thin skin pressed across cheekbones. It took less than a second, but it was enough- when her eyes opened, Bucky was gone.

"Oh," she said aloud, and felt like an idiot.

But it was true. How many stories were written out about those two? They were legends. They were myths, rising higher than legend; they were the stuff of dreams. That they were reduced to this- to one man remembering the beginnings of a kiss thirty years after the fact, and the other dead and gone- it was pitiful. It was sickening.

But it was what it was, and she lived in the land of the living. Her arms clasped her daughter close to her, and then she went inside and closed the doors and contemplated what to do for the rest of her day and closed her eyes and breathed deep, once, in and out; this was not her place to cry. Not yet. This was Bucky's.

…

In the middle of summer, he and Steve scraped up enough money for train tickets and headed north to Albany for a night. And then- and then the train broke down, so they were stuck for the night.

"That we're cowards?" Bucky asked wryly.

But Steve stiffened, and then he fell silent, and just as Bucky was going to shift away, he kissed him.

It was a soft kiss, chaste; a touch of lips on lips and skin on skin. Steve kissed Bucky like an invitation, and Bucky let himself kiss back, taken aback by the suddenness of his desire. They pulled away, then, and they were bathed in silver light, like Greek statues.

Lovely, Bucky thought. He wanted this, and it was an ache in his gut, the sudden arousal, but when had want ever been enough? He had never wanted so desperately, but when had desire ever been enough? Never, he thought, and it felt quite like a punch to the solar plexus. Never, and there was enough running against them, and he was tired of fighting all his life. This friendship he could not and would not let go, but Bucky was tired of all this. He was tired but not ashamed, exhausted but yearning-

He said, "'M sorry. But- Steve. Steve. Look at me- no, this isn't 'cause of your size, don't be an idiot- I don't feel that way. I- I don't like . And if I- this ain't goin' to be messed up 'cause of me or you, you know I don't do well with romance- just, I don't know, we have to be friends, you hear me?" There were crescent moons hanging in Steve's eyes, like sharp sickles; like Time's weapon; like the shadowed curve of a well-drawn neck.

Bucky didn't add, I don't know who I am without you, but he thought Steve understood; they never kissed again.

…

They loved, but what he mourned was not the love of a lover. This was the love of a friend that Bucky Barnes mourned, and then the relationship that he never allowed to blossom.

But do you know why he screamed? Do you know why he teetered on the edge of sanity?

It is because after that night, they hugged, and they embraced, and they were friends, and though the kiss was never mentioned, it did not hurt them either. One limb- a single potentiality- withering did not poison the entire tree- their relationship.

This, this precious moment, this beautiful example of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers and their love for each other- this was why he screamed. This was why this broke him. This, in the end, was what told him to run.

…

"My mother just arrived yesterday," Natasha told Lucy, her boss' secretary. "And she's come down with pneumonia. Yes, it's horrific- I'm trying to keep her away from Katelyn, now, I'll need some days off. Three? Oh, thanks, Lucy, you're a godsend. I'll see you on Friday."

The first day she didn't expect him back, but it didn't stop her from worrying. The house was cleaned, perhaps better than ever before; the floors were swept, then mopped, then dried; the cupboards were organized and stacked neatly; each metal pot and pan was scrubbed, first in the sink, and then, after she wasn't satisfied, the old way: using sand and running water, in this case a small stream a half-mile from their house. Two days passed like this; on the night of the third, she was considering what to do: she couldn't leave Stephanie at home, and Bucky wasn't yet back, and her mother was, unfortunately, still a figment of her imagination.

But before she could continue this charade, she saw a pale pink tile wrapped up on her bed, and upon closer inspection, a fleur-de-lis carved into the corner.

Ah, she thought, with a smile. So you cannot see me. You will not see me. But you can still take care of Stephanie? You are not as far gone as I would think.

By her return, Bucky was gone. But there were clear signs of his habitation, and she forced herself to stop worrying. No messages, but then she hadn't expected any; and anyways, the pink tile from Marseilles had been enough of a message.

He had not run, not far, and so she made a decision: she would not hunt him. This was his decision, and he had to take the final step. She could not force this. Natasha reminded herself to be patient.

But then she came home one day to genuine French onion soup- Bucky had said Dernier had given it to him once, when they were both sure they were going to die in an Alps winter- and Natasha had to sit down or fall; she exhaled once, a sort of shaky gasp, and then got up and heated it for herself.

Still- they would be alright, she decided. This was a step back. There would be others. But what is a foot backwards when they have walked a mile, no- a marathon?

They would not know what hit them, when Natasha and Bucky were ready.

…

Three weeks later, Bucky knocked on the door.

It was evening, and it had been raining continuously for almost five days, but it had petered off recently; a generous man would have called it misting, albeit- violently.

The mist caught in Bucky's dark hair, sitting on the crown like a coronet; a poor-man's approximation of diamonds, Natasha thought, and then: his eyes are calmer. He looked too weary to feel anything, but if he could- well, then, he would be feeling scared, she thought.

But she didn't hesitate. Between one breath and the next, she had slammed up against him; her skin against his- rain-slick, the flesh cold, the veins a pale blue against his paler skin; he was shaking under her fingers, and she was sure that she was the only thing keeping him together, holding him safe. She had not realized that she missed this, but she had; there was a calm in his arms, hearing his heart, feeling his skin unlike any other she had felt.

"I am so, so sorry," she whispered against his shoulder.

He went still against her arms. She felt muscles flex against her skull; an aborted movement, one not quite given life.

"This- not your fault," he rasped out, and she could tell how much this cost him. "Shouldn't've run. Not right, leaving you with Steph. I-"

"You're here now," she said, and meant every syllable. "Now, come in, will you? I know you took care of Stephanie- no, don't blush, that's adorable- and that onion soup was amazing. Tell me all about your adventures! It'd must have been- let's call it the Quest of Muddy Memories, eh?"

This was chatter; this was warmth. This was careful silence and careful words, and he looked happy about it. They stepped inside and he laughed; said Tale of the Soggy Knight and his Useless Quest, and then she drew up a bath and scolded him for tracking mud into the house.

It was domestic. But it was needed.

…

That night, Natasha looked at him.

It was dark, but it was the dark of the wilderness; if one knows where to look, there is no true black. The stars shine, if the moon is new. There is a brilliance in the beauty, there, the soft light of a thousand balls of blazing gas glittering down with light that is older than galaxies, older than anything we can imagine; there is a beautiful brilliance there.

And Natasha slowly- painfully slowly- began to explore him here.

They had remade themselves from Zima Soldat and Black Widow. They had created themselves out of those ruins, out of those wrecks, and now it was time to show each other what had formed.

Bucky's ribs were thin, but prominent; there was a thin vein running across his palms that she could see in daylight and couldn't now. He was reduced to a silver shadow against the black background, no shadings to him; just black, just silver, just a faint, colorless blue that she might well have imagined in the irises of his eyes.

There was a dip in the middle of his chest, and she explored those hollows as best she was able; this was Bucky Barnes, she reminded herself: strong thighs, liquid heartbeats, pockmarked and scarred and beautiful in all the ways that she could imagine, that she had no need to imagine; he was right there, wasn't he?

She had said I'm so sorry, but that was it- that was the rub, she wasn't. She hated it, hated the need, but her love was, first and foremost, selfish. She hated it, but she loved Bucky as he was, scarred and grown and alive, this Bucky Barnes- she did not think she could love the old one.

"Beautiful," he said, and then he flipped her; muscles flowing together into a motion that left her pinned under him.

"Beautiful," he said again.

Her breath came faster. Her pupils dilated- she knew they had, felt like she could drown in these feelings; Bucky had breathed faster under her examination, and now he was reciprocating.

"Oh," she whispered, and then they moved together, slow, gentle as the tides; they had done it so many ways, but this one was- different: aching silences and spirals that flowed higher and higher, right up until they shattered against the linens of the bed, spent.

"Beautiful," she whispered, forehead clasped against his. Their breaths mingled, between their bodies; they whispered, "Beautiful," together, and then wrapped around each other, still joined in the most intimate of ways.

She called him beautiful; he called her beautiful. They were, and that, this is the story: beauty, inside and out and a part of each other.

"Let's go get Hydra," she whispered in his ear.

He laughed. "D'you think I could get a refractory period here? I-"

She pressed a hand against his lips. "Who knew the Winter Soldier could be so… lazy, hmm?"

"Talk to Steve, he'll tell you." He froze, and then Natasha sighed. She had hoped to do this tomorrow, but it had come up now.

"I think," she said, quietly, "that you need to know some important things."

"Like?"

"Like the fact that I'm not- jealous- of Steve. It's quite nice to know that you had a relationship outside of nightly fucks or Friday dances, Bucky, in fact. And yes, he is dead, but you love him still. I don't- I won't- hold that against you."

A breath, and then two, and then three; on the last one, Bucky exhaled, and it had the watery edge of tears brushed with it.

"I love him," he said plainly. "But I can't allow that to dictate my life after. I'm- done. I mourned, I'm... moving on. Time should heal it." He shuddered slightly. "But I can't just- forget him. He accepted me, Nat. Flaws and anger and hatred all. Like- like nobody else."

"How rare is acceptance?" Natasha asked, with the practiced cadence of memorization. "How rare is grace?"

He frowned.

"As rare as sunrise on still water," she continued. "As rare as quiet before the storm." A hesitation, and then: "Ivan told me that. He liked saying it, especially when he was talking about why Russia would win the Cold War."

"You mean to say that acceptance is not rare at all," he said dryly.

She shifted, hair so bright it might as well have not been night; he could tell it was red even now. "No," she said. "...maybe. But I always took it to mean that so few people notice those things, that's what made them rare; you see them, yeah, but not everyone knows they exist. Not everybody pays attention. So… it's as rare as the people who see those quiet, ephemeral things, as rare as the people who value them- and that is, as far as I can tell, something- beautiful. But also, something rare."

Bucky just shrugged, and tried not to remember the color of blood on snow, sighted only when it was morning; his nightmares had always been vivid, but after meeting Steve when had he ever needed an imagination? Steve was as thin as he could be and still be alive; the war was as vicious as not; Hydra had quite easily broken him. These were the stuff of his nightmares, yes, but one more, now: a gun in his hand, Natasha crumpled on the ground, pointing at Stephanie and not hesitating to pull the trigger. Acceptance was rare, he thought, but he would have to accept these dangers in his head, these mine-fields, and move forward with grace.

"Yeah. Steve- he accepted me. All of me. The good, the bad; he didn't just not see it, you know, Nat?" A half-grin, curling over his lips like muscle memory; Bucky Barnes- the old one- had smiled a lot. "He saw it. But he loved me despite it. He had the biggest heart I ever knew, the strongest spine, his body didn't match up with his mind so often, but when it did he was fucking brilliant. Then- then Erskine. And he could give him what I couldn't. I was- I don't know what I was," he said, teetering on the edge of laughter and tears. "But it wasn't good. And I wasn't in a good place."

"Were you ever?"

"Ha-fucking-ha, Romanov," he said, without malice. "I'm happy with what we have. I'm happy with Steph and you. But I'm not happy with this. Here. I remember- liking it. I think. But- I did. This- I want to go back, Natasha. I want to- do some good."

Natasha stared. Her eyes were pooled in the hollows of shadows, the sockets keeping them dark. He couldn't see it, but her silence told him what she felt; after all this, his resolve hadn't wavered? How? Why?

And Bucky didn't think he could explain it. It wasn't something- normal. Wasn't something he could give a concrete reason for. But there was a part of him that loved the rhythm of gunshots and weight of the knife; there was a part of him that might very well be broken.

There are no explanations, he did not say, for something like this. What I can do, what I cannot do; that is mine. There are no words I owe you for this.

"Okay," she said finally. "Okay, Bucky. We'll look for a base tomorrow. If you think you're ready- we'll do it, alright?"

…

"That was easy," he remarked in an undertone to Natasha.

And it had been; she had held Stephanie through the entire mission, sitting on a bluff two miles from the base while Bucky raided it below. There were no calling cards left there, and no mercy shown, either- the Hydra supporters were killed, and it was a kinder death than they were owed, according to Natasha. Bucky walked out ten minutes ahead of schedule, and the place imploded on itself with bombs he'd found inside, carrying a sizeable chunk of surveillance technology and information.

"It was," she told him. "But they weren't expecting us. And if we go for more people, then-"

He yawned. "Bigger bases, you mean?"

She nodded. Stephanie was a warm, heavy weight in her arms. God- what a cheerful, uncomplicated life she had; how much Natasha wanted her greatest worry to be something less pressing than food or sleep. "Yeah. We'll need both of us, Bucky. Which means either waiting for a decade while Stephanie grows old enough to stay home alone safely, or finding a babysitter." She sent a dry look at him. "I'm leaning towards the babysitter side, in all honesty."

"I can see why," he said.

"Do you agree?"

Bucky hesitated. Then- "Yeah. But, it's just, who?"

There was dried blood on his right eyebrow, she realized fondly. And they were having a conversation on babysitters like a true married couple; oh, Ivan, she thought, if you could see me now. Destroying what I was brought to love. Loving when I was never supposed to know how- that was the problem, don't you see?

You cannot ask me to love a country, and not love a man.

You cannot teach me to love, and then tell me whom to love; the heart is fickle, Ivan. The heart is so very fickle. I love him now, yes, but I will not make any vows for eternity. Forever is so very long. I might grow- but I know that I will always carry the ghosts of that love, just as I did for you, for Russia; the difference is this: I might forgive him. But I cannot forgive you.

…

"I was thinking," Natasha said, hesitantly, "your sister."