I give you the eighth installment of Rage, Rage.
Chapter Seven - Wreck
"Ma?" Matilda asked, pushing into the room. Her voice was muffled by the surgical mask and she picked her way through the dark bedroom, doing her best not to spill the thin soup or water was was carrying. "How are you feelin'?"
Sarah was hacking into her hand and Matilda stopped by the bed, patiently waiting for her to stop. Finally, the woman gasped and fell into her pillow. When she dropped her hand, she rasped out, "I'm gettin' worse, sweetheart."
Matilda flinched. "I know." She set the bowl and glass down and fished the rag out of her pocket. Without a word about it, she began cleaning the phlegm and blood off of her mother's palm. She took in the way the woman was shivering. "Cold?"
"Always."
Matilda tucked the rag back in her pocket and went about tightening the blankets around Sarah in hopes of keeping her warm. "I know the window is making it colder, but you need the fresh air."
"I know."
"Are you hungry?"
Sarah shook her head and the frown that tugged at her face just make the gauntness to her cheeks worse. "I know I should eat, but I just can't."
Matilda pulled up the chair next to the bed and sat down. "Ma, please just try. Please."
Sarah sighed and then devolved into more coughing. As Matilda cleaned her hands again, she murmured, "Okay. I'll try."
"Thank you." Matilda picked up the bowl and filled the spoon. "Careful," she murmured, spooning the thin soup into Sarah's mouth. After a few bites, Sarah shook her head. Matilda's heart fell. "Ma, please. Just . . . ." She sighed and set the bowl down. "Okay. Okay." She supported Sarah's head and helped her take a couple sips of water. "You're doing better," she whispered. "Hold still." Matilda helped her lie down better and wiped away the sweat building on her forehead. "You're doing so much better."
Sarah laughed weakly, though it was muffled by her hoarse breathing. "I know what sickness looks like, Matilda. And I know you're lying to me to make me feel better."
"Is it working?"
"No."
Matilda sighed and then smiled, though she knew Sarah couldn't see it through her mask. "I'll get Oz. How does that sound?"
Sarah made a hum of agreement. Matilda gathered up the soup and left the room. She poured out the soup and set the bowl in the sink. Then she clutched the edge of the counter tightly with one hand and stripped off her mask with her other. She forced down one sob and then another, but she couldn't stop the tears down her cheeks. Once she'd somewhat steadied herself, she reached for the mask to put it on again.
Knock knock knock.
Matilda froze, looking towards the door. She put the mask down with shaking hands and hurried clawed away the evidence of her crying as she made her way to the door. When she opened the door, she found Howard standing there. "Howie," she hissed, stepping out and closing the door behind her. "What are you doing here?"
"Barnes and Steve have been worried," Howard said, shrugging. "They asked me to check up on you and your Ma. Well . . . Steve was the one that did most of the asking." He reached for her. "Have you . . . been crying? You look—"
She sidestepped his hand. "Don't touch me. I don't wanna risk you getting sick."
He looked alarmed. "You're sick too? Why didn't you tell—"
"No, no, no." She shook her head furiously. "I'm not sick. I've been takin' care of Ma for three weeks and I haven't gotten sick, so I think I'm safe, maybe? But I can't say the same for you."
Howard swallowed thickly and pulled his hand back. "Right. How's she doin'?"
"She's . . . alive." Matilda hesitated and then repeated herself more strongly. "She's alive."
"She's getting worse?"
"I didn't say that."
"You meant that."
She dropped her gaze and hunched her shoulders. "Yeah . . . . Yeah, I did." Matilda reached back and twisted the doorknob. "You should go."
"Okay." He reached for her again as if to hug her only to quickly catch himself and draw back. "Okay." He turned away.
She stepped back into the house and locked the door. After grabbing her mask and the book, she moved back towards her mother's room and pushed her way inside. "Ma, you still up?"
There wasn't an answer.
Matilda stopped by her bed and stared down at her. Sarah's chest was rising and falling shakily and sweat stood out on her brow again, but her eyes were gently closed and her hands unclenched. Matilda sighed in relief and set the book on the nightstand. "I'm goin' to work now, Ma. I'll check up on you when I get back."
There was no answer, of course. Matilda backed out of the room and into the bathroom, where she stripped down out of her clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was cold and Matilda shivered as she used it to practically scrub herself raw. She shut the water off before too long—they couldn't afford anymore than what she'd already used, given Sarah hadn't worked for weeks and Matilda had managed to wheedle her hours down so she could take care of her.
After shimmying into her clothes and grabbing her bag, Matilda stepped down the apartment building stairs while braiding her damp hair back. She stopped in front of the empty spot where her bike was supposed to be and frowned.
Oh, right.
She'd let Steve take it since staying with Bucky meant he was farther from work.
How could she have forgotten that?
"Tilly."
Matilda squeaked in alarm and jerked, hitting her head on the engine block. With a groan and a hand to her head, she straightened. "Bucky? What are you doing here?"
"Checking up on you."
"Howard already checked up on me."
"Yeah, a week ago." Bucky leaned against the side of the car and stared down at the engine. "How are you feeling?"
"What, you don't want to know how my mom is feeling?" She wiped her hands on her oily rag. When he didn't respond to that, she took a deep breath. "I'm fine."
"Ya know," he said, tilting his head to the side, "I've known you for a long time, Tilly. I can tell when you're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm fine. I'm—" Her voice cracked and she snapped her mouth shut, teeth clicking. Bucky gave her a knowing look and she scowled. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Just that! I'm fine, okay? I, I'm—" She growled in frustration and tossed her wrench angrily at her workbench. Her toolbox jolted to the side and spilled all her tools onto the floor. "I'm fine!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bucky murmured, stepping forward and hesitating. "Tilly."
"I'm, I'm, I'm fine," she choked out, shoulders shaking. She rubbed her face, desperately trying and failing to keep back tears. Matilda stumbled forward into him and her grease-slicked fingers dug into his shirt. She finally gave in to her sobs.
Bucky pulled his arms around her and murmured, "I didn't mean to upset you," into her hair. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head, sniffling. "N-no, I'm sorry for yelling," she whimpered. "I'm just . . . ."
"I know." Bucky tugged on her braid and murmured, "You don't have to apologize."
"Yeah, I do." She pulled back and rubbed her face, eyes red and puffy. "You don't deserve to be yelled at." And then, a moment later. "Shit."
Bucky blinked. "What?"
"Sorry, I—" She winced. "I got oil all over your shirt. I'm sorry."
He looked down at the new black spots and smudges on his shirt and shrugged. "It's fine. I wear this to the docks, so it's not a big deal." He reached out and used his knuckles to brush away a few of her remaining tears. "You don't have to apologize for being upset, ya know."
"I have to apologize for yelling."
He shrugged. "If you want to." Then Bucky sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Listen, no matter what, Howard and I are here for you and Steve. Ya know that, right?"
She sniffled and nodded once. "I know."
"Good morning, Ma. I have some broth for you." Matilda set down the bowl and turned on the lamp. "Ma?" She frowned when Sarah didn't stir. "Ma?" Matilda leaned over her and felt the heat drain from her face. Sarah's chest wasn't moving. Matilda pressed her fingers against her throat, searching for a heartbeat. "No, no, no. Ma? C'mon?"
Sarah was still. And she was cold.
Matilda tripped back. "Um, I . . . . Um . . ." She stumbled out of the room and stripped off her surgical mask, gasping for air. "Right, right, right." Matilda fumbled her way to the phone and barely paid attention to what she was doing as she flipped through the phone book and dialed a number. She gave the address and then hung up.
The next few hours were . . . a blur, really. They arrived and took her mother away. Matilda stripped practically everything from her mother's room that could be contaminated and bagged it up tightly before hauling it out to the dumpster. She scrubbed the entire apartment clean and ran some water for her own clothes before scrubbing everything she'd worn for the past month with soap across the washboard. Finally, she washed herself in the shower until her skin was raw and red.
Matilda stared at herself in the mirror, adjusting the collar of her dress. Her eyes itched but they were dry. She nodded and stepped away. "Okay," she told herself. "Let's go."
She hunched her shoulders she walked, keeping her coat tight around herself. It was sunny and goddamn it shouldn't have been sunny. What right did the sky have to be happy right now? Matilda ducked her head and let her memory lead her.
When she stopped, she found herself standing in front of a familiar door. After a moment of hesitation, Matilda knocked and then stepped back, pulling her coat closer and shivering despite the fact that it wasn't actually that cold out. She sniffled, although her eyes were burning curiously dry. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. She had to put on a brave face. For Steve.
The door opened. "Tilly? How's your mom doing?"
She'd been ready for Steve and the way he always hung on every word she said. She'd been ready to depend on his indomitable will when she delivered the news. She'd been ready to be the big sister again; that made it easy to compartmentalize her own feelings and not have to face them.
She had forgotten to account for James Barnes.
The moment she met those sea foam blue eyes, every inch of her plan melted and suddenly that void she'd kept deep inside rose salty to the surface. "Bucky," she rasped.
His smile faded almost instantly and his expression folded into one of concern. "Matilda?" He reached out a hand to her.
She took a shaky breath and lifted her hand. But then she changed her mind and stepped forward, throwing her arms around his middle and burying herself into his chest. He stumbled back just a step in surprise. But then a strong arm came up around her and he shuffled backwards. The door creaked closed and his second arm came around to hug her. She inhaled deeply, leaning into the support he was offering. He didn't smell the greatest—too much like salt and sweat from the docks, and she could only assume he'd worked late and had been too tired to clean up like so many times before—but she didn't really mind.
"Is Steve here?" she whispered.
It took a couple heartbeats—and his were far more strong and steady than hers—for him to respond. "No. He's working. Won't be back for a good bit." He rubbed her back. "Let's get your coat off and get you a seat. Coffee or tea?"
She sniffled and pulled back, hurriedly wiping away the few tears that had escaped. "Um, tea." Her fingers trembled as she struggled to unbutton her coat.
"Here," he murmured, nudging her hands out of the way. As he unbuttoned her coat for her, he asked, "When?"
Matilda took a deep breath and turned so he could slip it off of her. Then she smoothed out the skirt of her dress. "Sometime last night. I didn't know until I went in with breakfast and . . . and she—"
"Okay," he interrupted softly, brow creasing. He reached up and touched her chin. "Okay, I understand." He took her left hand in his own and then curled his right arm around her waist, turning her towards the apartment's living room.
As he helped her sit down, she said, "I just came to tell Stevie. I don't want to bother—"
"Matilda Rogers, don't be stupid," he said, drawing back and crossing his arms. "It doesn't suit you."
She stared up at him. And then a smile played over her lips. "Okay."
"That's better." He reached out and tugged on one of her curls. "Alright. Tea is coming right up." He stepped into the kitchen and started heating up water. "There's a blanket and pillow next to the couch."
She glanced to the side. "What for?"
"Steve's been using them. But I figure you might want to take a nap, right?" He put the water on to boil and then moved to stand in front of the couch again. "Can I sit?"
She shifted to the side. "It's your home," she pointed out.
He sat down and shrugged. "I know. Still nice to ask." He reached over and pulled at one of her curls. "Alright. Talk to me."
"About my mom?" she asked in alarm.
"If ya want. Or you can tell me about what the weather was like on your walk over here. Or about your planning for your company. Whatever you want."
"Okay." She cleared her throat and wiped gently under her eyes. Matilda cleared her throat and gestured towards him. "Can I . . .?"
He shrugged and lifted his arm towards her. "I haven't washed up yet," he warned.
"I noticed." With that said, she pressed up against his side. His arm draped down around her and she reached up, curling her fingers around his hand. "Steve's been working more on his art lately. He's improving a lot."
"Hmm. I'm sure."
"He drew me the other day. Just pencil, but he makes me look pretty."
"You are pretty, Tilly. I'd like to see that drawing sometime."
She giggled hoarsely. "I'll let him know." But then the laugh cracked into a sob and she turned, pressing herself into his shoulder. "What am I going to tell Steve?" she gasped out. She felt him start playing with her hair again as he sighed deeply. She screwed her eyes shut and felt a few hot tears escape.
"I can talk to him," Bucky murmured. "If that would be easier for you."
Matilda looked up suddenly, blinked through her teary vision. "Wh-what? I can't make you do that, Bucky."
He chuckled and then reached up, rubbing his knuckles against her wet cheeks. "You should know by now that you can't make me do anything, Rogers. I want to help. Let me talk to him." The teapot began to whistle and he cleared his throat, dropping his hand. Bucky got to his feet, pulling away from her, and she watched as he moved to the kitchen. Neither of them said anything as he prepared her tea. When he returned and pressed the teacup into her hands, he said, "Well?"
"Okay. If you're sure."
"I am."
She sipped at her tea. "Thank you," she whispered. "And thank you for letting Steve stay here. I honestly don't know what we would do without you."
He chuckled a little. "Let's not find out. How about that?"
"That sounds nice," she agreed, reaching up and tugging on his sleeve. "Sit down."
Bucky smiled and sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her. "How are you feeling?" he murmured.
"Don't make me answer that." She leaned against him, eyes drifting closed.
"I won't."
"Thank you."
The knock was quiet, but it was more than enough to catch Bucky's attention. He glanced back at the couch, where Matilda was curled up with the pillow and blanket. He set down the tea he was making and moved to the door, opening it just as the knocking started again. "Steve," he greeted quietly, putting a finger to his lips.
Steve frowned in confusion, the look exacerbated by the exhaustion on his face, and stepped through the doorway. He caught sight of Matilda on the couch and stilled. "Buck?" he asked, voice breaking. "Is . . . ." He cut himself off, taking a shaky breath.
"Tilly said she died in her sleep," Bucky murmured, closing the door. "That she was gone when she went to give her breakfast. Nice 'n' peaceful like."
Steve's bag slipped a bit from his shoulder and he fumbled with it. Bucky reached out and took the bag from him. "Come on in," he said softly. "She's been out for a little while now. She was pretty tired when she showed up."
Steve just nodded but didn't move from his spot as Bucky set his bag aside. He sniffled and rubbed his face. "We knew it'd happen eventually, but . . . . Oh, god." With another sniffle, he shuffled over to the couch and crouched down beside it. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder but stopped himself. He turned and leaned against the couch, burying his face in his hands as he slid to the floor.
"You okay there, pal?" Bucky asked carefully.
Steve didn't look up but he did manage a nod. Bucky stepped forward and sat down next to him. "You're a shit liar, but I'll believe you if that's what you want."
Steve didn't answer for a long, long time and Bucky contented himself with listening to his breathing to make sure he didn't have an asthma attack. Finally, Steve pushed himself shakily to his feet. "I'm tired," he whispered.
"Take the bed," Bucky said, looking at up at him. "Get some sleep."
"Thanks, Buck." With that, Steve stumbled away into the bedroom.
Bucky sighed and leaned his head back against the couch, letting his eyes close. He let out a sigh and gave in to the tiredness that had been pulling at him ever since Matilda had shown up hours ago.
What felt just a moment later, Bucky jerked awake to the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, and then glanced back to find that Matilda had sat up. She drew her hand back and offered him an exhausted smile. "Sorry," she murmured. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"'s fine. Did ya need somethin'?"
"Um, Steve came back?" she asked hesitantly. "Did you— Is he— I mean—"
"I told him," Bucky assured her, shifting so he could see her better. "He's sleeping right now."
"Thank you." She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. "Join me?"
Bucky turned and climbed onto the sofa next to her. "How are you feeling?"
"Awful. Sorry for not wanting to tell you that earlier." Matilda hesitated for just a moment before curling into his side. "Hey, Bucky?"
"What is it?" he murmured, tucking his head down against hers.
"How did you deal with losing your mom?"
He thought about that for a moment before rubbing his hand over her shoulder comfortingly. "I had you. And Steve. It was hard, but I knew I'd be okay."
Matilda sniffled. "Oh. I . . . I think I'll be okay too, then. You'll be there for me, right?"
Bucky shifted and she looked up to find him staring at her, frowning just slightly. "Of course, doll. You don't have to ask that. I'll always be there for you."
"Always?"
He played with one of her curls and then nudged her head back down against his shoulder. "Always, Tilly." He pressed a kiss against her hair and tightened his arms around her. "I promise."
Matilda fixed his tie silently, listening to the way his breathing was a little more raspy than normal. She finished and dropped her hands, tilting her head to the side. "Stevie?"
His gaze flicked up. "Yeah?" he mumbled.
Matilda sighed and lifted her gaze up to the cloudless sky above them. Then she took Steve's hand in hers and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "It might not seem like it, but it's a beautiful day."
He flinched violently. "How can you say that?" he whispered. "It's Ma's funeral. How can you look at that and still . . . . How?"
"I'm not saying it feels like it," she assured him. "And I'm not even saying I see a beautiful day right now. But that doesn't mean it isn't."
"Juno . . . ."
"C'mon, Stevie," she urged, tugging on his hand. "They're waiting for us."
Bucky shoved the bed firmly against the wall with a grunt. He straightened and brushed off his hands. "Is that the last of it?" he asked, glancing towards Matilda. He paused in concern when he saw how pale she was. "Tilly?"
She jumped. "Um, yeah. That's it." She ran her hand through her hair and shook her head. "I'll unpack. Um, could you help Steve straighten up his room, now?"
"Of course." He started past her but paused, reaching out and sliding his hand around her wrist. "Tilly?"
She looked up but didn't say anything.
"You'd tell me if you weren't okay, right?" he asked, voice serious. "You'd tell me?"
"Of course I would."
It didn't convince him and he studied her guarded expression for a bit before sighing and letting his hand slide away from her wrist. "I don't believe you," he murmured before stepping out of the room. She closed the door behind him. Bucky sighed and pushed his way into what used to be the twins' shared room but now was just Steve's. "Need help?"
Steve looked up from where he was trying to shove his bed to the corner with the window, huffing and red in the face. "Uh, yeah."
Bucky rolled his eyes. "Punk. I'll do the heavy stuff."
"I—"
"Get your other things." He pushed him aside and began moving the bed. When that was done and he had adjusted the nightstand accordingly, he looked back to find Steve standing in front of his small shelf. He stepped up next to him, glancing across the sparse belongings. Steve was holding a worn picture frame in his hands, inside a black and white picture from years ago. Sarah was smiling, a hand on each child. Steve was grinning widely at the camera, clutching Matilda's hand. And Matilda was glancing at Steve, smiling quietly.
"I miss her," Steve mumbled.
"Yeah, pal. I get it." Bucky messed up his hair. "Hey, you're taking care of Tilly, right?"
Steve looked up with a frown. "Of course," he said, as if it was obvious. "But it's hard when she doesn't want to talk to me."
"She doesn't want to talk to you?"
Steve shook his head. "She woke me up last night because she was crying and she left for work way early so she didn't hafta talk about it."
Bucky sighed, looking from the picture to the shelf. Next to a few trinkets and faded photos that Steve had collected over the years sat a creased page. Bucky picked it up and flattened it out. This must be the drawing Matilda had been talking about. It had clearly started out as a hurried sketch, but then confident lines had been darkened to finish off the product. The entire scene was laid out in varying shades of grey, though the background was mostly sparse and shadowed. Instead, the focus was on Matilda. She was working on something at the table, chewing on the end of her pen as she studied the papers in front of her. Her hair was in a bun but a couple curls had come loose around her face. And though her expression was partially hidden by her hair, Bucky could just imagine the clever look in her eyes because it was the same look she always got when working on something challenging.
"You can have that."
Bucky jumped, quickly folding the paper back up. He glanced to the side to find Steve staring at him, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Wh-what?"
"I said 'you can have that.' It's good, right?"
Bucky hesitated and then unfolded the drawing again. He took in the way that Steve had captured Matilda's focused air—the way she was lost to the world completely when concentrating on a project. "Yeah. Yeah, it's good."
"We don't have a picture of just her or I'd give that to you. But this is a close second, I guess."
Bucky folded up the page and put it back on the shelf, clearing his throat. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm not dumb, Buck." His sharp tone made Bucky look at him and Steve was frowning. "I know exactly why that date with Laura didn't work out. Juno doesn't 'cause she's oblivious. She's so smart, but sometimes she just doesn't have any idea. But I know." Steve tilted his head to the side. "You're dizzy."
"I . . . ." Bucky cleared his throat. "You're a punk."
Steve smile and took the drawing, holding it out to him. "Take it."
Bucky stared at it for a long moment before accepting the paper. "Thank you." He tucked it away in his shirt pocket. "That, uh, that means a lot," he mumbled.
