A/N: It's about time Bucky got his own fic. This is meant to be similar in tone, style, rhythm, etc. to my other pieces (for Steve and Tony) that I've written lately.
Title quote from Julius Caesar.
This is for redhatmeg and for Anna of Evendim, who requested Bucky fic.
The first memories that come back aren't Steve on the helicarrier, or on the bridge.
They're memories of Steve on the first day of fifth grade, voice already cracking, already too-deep coming from that reed-thin frame.
"I'm Steven." His shoes were too big; the heels were stuffed with newspaper.
"Bucky."
And Steve's face had cleared. "Steve's better," he had said. His surprise had been tangible; he hadn't expected Bucky to pay him any mind.
He'd introduced himself anyway.
...
Bucky stretches out on a tattered mattress somewhere in Romania, somewhere he hopes no one will be able to find on a map.
Somewhere Steve won't find.
He knows Steve's looking. Steve, who didn't drown because Bucky carried him out. Steve, who never stops hoping.
Steve, who didn't jump after him when he fell the first time—
Steve, who shouldn't think he had to.
...
The thing that scares him most, if he's being honest—and he's alone, so there's no point in lying—is that he doesn't know which memories are tangled up or locked up, and which are lost forever.
The museum display tells him that he is the oldest of four siblings. Is, or was.
He imagines they are all dead now, or near to it.
He doesn't look for them. What he wants to say, if he could find the words, is that Bucky Barnes really did die long, long ago.
For some reason, Steve Rogers didn't.
...
I'm with you 'til the end of the line.
He rakes his fingers through his hair, tugs at it, wanting pain. You get used to pain, when it's all you know, and sometimes you need it.
He doesn't even get to feel a man's guilt. He's not really sure that he is a man anymore; just something worn down to sharpened points. The perfect weapon—it cuts both ways.
A dog on a chain. Nobody should throw their life away saving that.
With you 'til the end of line. If he could tell Steve one thing, it would be that the this is the end of the line, and Steve should let go.
It wouldn't do any good. Steve is always all in, all at once, and stubbornness is one of his strong suits.
...
Steve finds him.
Steve finds him, and the past finds him too, catches up with him in the present because of 1991 and a backroad and a secret that cracks wide open behind Tony Stark's eyes.
I knew your father, Bucky wants to say. I knew him, and then I killed him. And I'm sorry.
He hadn't recognized Howard Stark at the time, except as his target.
The mission is the mission is the mission, and Bucky never got to ask questions.
That doesn't make it any easier to seek forgiveness.
...
Steve is whole and strong and righteous, even when his heart is breaking.
Steve can do this all day.
Bucky wishes he didn't have to.
Steve's better.
...
Bucky goes back under. It seems like the right thing to do. He's not worth saving, but that doesn't stop Steve. The least Bucky can do is not get in his way.
On ice, he can wait forever.
He tries to fill up his mind with good memories before his brain shutters into silence.
This is Bucky Barnes, immortal. This is the end of the line.
Steve is with him, and Bucky wishes he didn't have to be.
But Steve Rogers is immortal too.