First there is cold. Then there is nothing and darkness. But it doesn't hurt as it usually does. And just as soon as he feels he is about drift off again into unconsciousness, there is a soft light which coaxes his eyelids back open.
He raises his head. All is silent with the exception of a low, rushing whisper of wind; fog swirls in slow motion up into immeasurable space, yet he knows that the soft glow must have a source. He follows it, as if it is a North Star his survival has suddenly placed dependence upon.
He is only half-surprised when it leads him to a chipped, decrepit fire escape ladder. His cautionary instincts oblige him to pause a full minute before curiosity overrides. As adeptly and quickly as his one arm will allow, he clambers up the rungs. His bare feet and hand feel the cold metal, but no clattering sound is made as he ascends: up and up until at last there is the relief of a landing.
The fog breaks, and on the landing is a large, worn out chair, and a figure sitting. She turns her head as he slowly approaches.
His breath catches in his throat.
June 1943. He threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, kissing her cheek, his smile straining to suppress tears which threatened to join hers. "Mom. Hey. It's okay. We ain't gonna say goodbye, all right? We'll be seeing each other again before we know it."
It's her.
Her eyes meet his. They are warm and smiling. She knows. Knows everything. And it's okay.
He shivers in the scrubs he's been wearing ever since he went under. She opens her arms and he collapses into her embrace. There is a colorful knitted afghan draped over the side of the large chair, and she pulls it over him. He tells her he has missed her, and he wonders if she can forgive him for having ever forgotten her. As if she has read his thoughts, she shushes him gently. She runs her fingers through his hair and remarks at how long it has gotten. She also tells him that she loves him, and is so, so proud of him. She knows, she understands, and for the first time, contented peace pushes the pinching guilt aside.
He closes his eyes. And there is darkness. And then there is nothing.
• • • • • • • • • •
There are voices. Familiar voices. Steve. Others? Sam. Oh help us.
And when he opens his eyes, she is still there.
He tells her about Steve, and what he's been doing. He tells her about Sam, about Steve's other new friends, about the Wakandan king who showed him mercy, and the people in the hospital who were kind to him. He tells her about the few friends made in his scattered temporary homes across the world over the last couple of years, and about all the new things he's discovered and relearned and tried. Even though he feels like she already knows, he tells her how hard it's been at times, and that he never thought he'd have been able to do them, but he did. She tells him again that she is proud of him, and hums a tune which overwhelms then soothes him with familiarity.
• • • • • • • • • •
He opens his eyes, and echoes of what he heard in the darkness ring softly in his head. When he tells her, she replies that yes, Steve was wishing him a happy birthday. His heart twinges and his eyes well up as he thinks of Steve coming to visit him and receiving expected silence as an only response.
• • • • • • • • • •
He opens his eyes, and they are too heavy: everything is so heavy. And too bright. And cold. A woman's voice speaks in tones to reassure him, yet it is not the right voice. A hand pulls a blanket more closely around him, and the light dims a little, but it is not the right light. Not the right hand...
He calls for her, but his voice is cracked and hoarse.
And then another voice... "Hey, Bucky. You with us, pal?" Steve.
But I didn't say goodbye.
It's okay.
Everything starts to come back as he finally gives in to wakefulness.