Bucky sighed, pulling the crumpled yellow sticky note from his wallet. He looked at it like it carried a prison sentence, but instead, scrawled across in his hasty handwriting was a single name and an address.
Rebecca P. Barnes Proctor
Timber Creek Village
990 Progress Parkway
Shelbyville, IN 46176
He glanced up at the building in front of him, noting the numbers stacked on the white trim of the doorway. The gps had indeed taken him to the right place, even if he wasn't sure if he wanted to be here at all.
The sun creeped downward behind an overcast sky, casting the nursing home in a dark gray light. The neat wooden architecture faded into black against the warm lights from within. Bucky had long since stopped being impressed by modern styles of architecture, but he had to admit that the place had a homey feel to it. Every room seemed to have a porch of some sort with white picket chairs resting lazily around the lawn. A flag clanked gently against the pole which towered over the neat rows of flowers at his feet.
He swallowed, breathing in the subtle sweetness of the blossoming trees. He glanced at the note in his gloved hands again. He had carried it for weeks, maybe months, transferring it from pocket to pocket until he realized he would destroy it all together unless he started keeping it somewhere safe.
After all, he didn't want to waste the months he'd spent trying to track down information on his last living family member.
Gripping the note firmly, he finally pushed his feet forward on the sidewalk, his steps hitting in time with the flag against the pole. The front door swung open like a breeze.
The inside reminded Bucky of a hunting lodge, which he realized was probably the point. It was cozy, a rock fireplace surrounded by couches drew his eyes in. A fan spun lazily on the ceiling.
The receptionist looked up at him with a smile.
"Can I help you?" She said sweetly.
He did his best to look non-threatening, flashing her a small smile back.
"Hi—um, yeah. I'm looking for a patient here?"
Her eyes darted across him like a laser, scanning right through him. She must have been able to see how lame he felt, how desperate.
"Sure thing," She answered. "Do you have their name?"
"I—yes. Yes, I have her name, it's Becca. Rebecca Barnes Proctor?" He held the note up as he spoke.
She eyed it over the top of her glasses before turning to her computer and striking her fingers across the keyboard.
He felt a wave of embarrassment and guilt wash over him. Why was he doing this? No one said he should track down his family, nor has he ever had the time to do so. Until now…
"Ah, here we are. But it looks like visits to Rebecca Proctor are strictly prohibited to immediate family. Do you have identification?" Her blue eyes bored into him.
He bristled at hearing his sister's name sounding so different. So foreign…
She's a Barnes.
"I have identification." He said, pulling his wallet out again. He handed her his driver's license. It was a new one, specifically given to him a few months ago by someone involved with his pardon. He still wasn't sure how they'd convinced the Brooklyn Driver's Division to print his actual birth date on it, March 10 1917. The tiny piece of plastic glared at him with its condemning information, giving him away to everyone who looked at it. It was like a secondary punishment for being the Winter Soldier.
As if being the Winter Soldier hadn't been punishment enough.
"I'm sorry," The girl said, scanning it over. "Is this a misprint? I'm not seeing how you're related…"
"I'm...uh...I'm Rebecca's brother." He mumbled.
She looked at him again, eyes darting between his face and the card. Her eyes suddenly widened like saucers.
"Oh my god." She whispered. "You're him."
The expression on her face was a mix of awe and horror, like he was glowing with glorious, holy demonic fire.
He hated it.
"I have documentation." He stuttered. "I—I've been pardoned and I—"
"Um, no no, it should be fine." She bit her lip. Her eyes flashed to his arm, his gloves. "Just, um, yeah. Room 104. Down the hall to your right."
He stared at her. Really?
It seemed too simple.
"Thank you."
"Of course." Her lips turned to a tight smile. "Um, James, right?"
He nodded.
"Right, I do have to say, Rebecca has Alzheimer's so she may not be fully aware of who you were—who you are or what's going on."
"Okay."
"Also our visiting hours are over in thirty minutes." She pointed at a decorated clock.
"104?"
"Yes."
He nodded again as he turned down the indicated hall.
The off-yellow walls closed in around him as his footsteps crashed against his ears like ice. Faint sounds from behind patient doors invaded his personal mind space. Soft voices moaning. Muted TVs.
A few of the doors we propped open, and Bucky risked glancing inside. One old man lay frozen in the nursing home grade bed. His face was frozen in a smile that didn't reach his eyes, which fixed firmly on the opposite wall in a hollow gaze.
Another lady sat slumped in a wheelchair pushed into the doorway of her room. Her head lifted as he passed.
"Hey baby, come 'ere." She muttered in a gravelly voice.
He shot her a half smile, but gave her a wide berth.
Her head sagged back down once he was gone.
His heart beat furiously as he read the numbers on the next few doors.
95.
97.
More open doors. More sickly people. He didn't look in. These rooms were dark anyways. Undecorated. Empty save for the occupants.
104.
The door was closed when he finally reached Becca's room. A boisterous purple, blue, and pink wreath dangled on it, decorated with a wooden cut out word scrawled across in the most obnoxious cursive that it took Bucky a full ten seconds just to realize it said 'family.'
He smirked, despite the slight tremor in his right hand. He ignored it and pushed the door open.
Warm light pooled in the room like a blanket. It flared from a small side table, illuminating the walls in its gentle light. Dozens of childish drawings covered them. It was like wallpaper. What space the drawings didn't cover were taken by about 15 or so fully framed hung photos.
Bucky choked as he recognized some of them.
Like the one of him and his three sisters. Mary, Frances, Becca, and him. They'd taken it a year before he'd been deported.
The other pictures were much newer, some from the early 90's and even some that must have been taken within the last ten years. He thought he recognized Becca's face in the quick glances he stole, only her face was so aged.
"...Patty?" A voice rasped from the bed. "Is it 8 already?"
Bucky froze.
The person laying in the bed shifted, rolling from her side to face him.
Her soft but aged eyes landed on him. They were blue, just like his, but framed by wrinkles that testified of the long happy life he should have had. The life that was stolen from him.
Despite what the receptionist had said, only a moment of confusion echoed in Becca's expression before her lips split into a wide smile.
"Bucky?"
Her voice shook with the burden of years, but god if she didn't sound just like their mother. Bucky didn't realize he was crying until the gentle plink of a tear hitting the ground caressed his ear.
"Hi Becca." He smiled through the soft words, but unlike before, this one was genuine.
"Come here."
It wasn't even close to a command, but Bucky's feet instantly responded, moving him forward into the chair at her bedside.
Her frail hands, shaking visibly, reached out. He took his glove off his right hand and met her hands halfway, bringing his still gloved hand underneath as support. Her grip was gentle, as if a butterfly landed on his hand, but Bucky felt a strength coursing through him, like the serum, but a warm rush instead of icy pain.
"It's about time you visited me." Becca's eyes twinkled as she teased him.
He breathed out a laugh. "I didn't have much time to." Tears were now free falling from his eyes. "I thought about you though, when I couldn't come see you. I missed you and Franny and Mary."
"We missed you too." Becca looked away at one of the photos. "I always said you'd come back. Look who was right all along Fran!"
They both laughed at that. Becca and Fran were always trying to outdo each other.
"What happened to them?" Bucky asked. "All I could find was obituaries."
"Fran and Mary got old like me!" Becca exclaimed. "Only they didn't last as long. Mary was too stubborn to go to a nursing home, and...well Fran got cancer a few years back. She went out in her sleep though."
Bucky's heart ached. His two youngest sisters had lived their whole lives...without him. For all they knew, he was dead. Missing in action, and they'd had to carry on like that was true.
Why wouldn't they?
He knew logically why, but the pure knowledge that he had been alive that whole time twisted his stomach.
I should have been there too.
"What about mom? And dad?" He pressed.
Becca frowned, loosening her grip on him.
"They died not too long after you left." She rasped. "A few years, maybe, but it was a car accident. The police said the driver was drunk, but I think it was just the wrong place at the wrong time."
Wrong place, wrong time they said…
Bucky's breathing hitched. Was it karma that his parents had been taken in a way that was so similar to most of his victims?
"It broke all our hearts, especially after losing you, but nowadays I just write it off to Barnes luck. We always seemed to get the worst life had to offer." Becca finished, her eyes tracing over his face sadly.
Her whole frame was smaller now. Just a fraction of the sister he'd known. Becca was only two years younger than him, or had been, and they'd been best friends. They shared the same humor, told each other about dating. Hell, they used to sneak out together and meet up late with friends on the streets. They'd shared the best moments of childhood together.
She'd been the hardest to say goodbye to. Other than Steve.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you." He muttered. "You didn't deserve to go through all that alone."
She smiled.
"It wasn't your fault. We found ways to be happy." Her bony hand pointed around the room.
Bucky took a moment to fully look at all the pictures. In each one, he found her. She was surrounded by people. Children. A wedding photo showed her and her spouse. A more recent one showed her looking similar to how she was in the bed before him but surrounded by dozens of people. He recognized faces across the photos. They were all her family. Her children and grandchildren.
His extended family.
"It won't be long until you and I are back together though."
What?
"What do you mean Becca?" He asked, tilting his head.
"I'm tired of being old Bucky." She answered. "I miss my husband and you and mom and dad. I'm ready to go."
"No, no, Becca." He grasped her hand tighter. "We are back together! I'm real, I'm right here with you."
"You neve came home."
"I tried—"
"They said you were dead, but I always knew you'd come back. I guess Fran was right after all."
"Becca…"
She let go of his hands. His open palms now rested empty on the mattress.
"I had a son." Her voice shook with tears. "He had dark hair like yours and the bluest eyes."
Tears spilled down Bucky's cheeks.
"We named him James after you."
No…
"James Buchanan Proctor." She coughed. "They all would have loved you. Uncle Bucky."
She broke out in a coughing fit. Bucky sat frozen, staring at her before offering her a glass of water from the table.
He didn't know how to take the new information. It was...a lot. He shoved it aside.
"Are you okay?" He managed to ask her when the coughing subsided.
"James, I haven't been okay in 30 years." She rasped. "I'm old."
"You and me both Becca." He laughed, wiping his face.
They shared a brief smile, the impossible, yet sad moment etching itself into his heart. A brother and sister, separated by war. Tearfully reunited 90 years later.
"They said you were alive." Becca's voice was quiet now, more drawn inward. "They said you were on TV. A terrorist. My older brother, a terrorist!"
Bucky frowned.
"I told them it wasn't you." She continued. "Bucky's dead. He never came home. But he...he would never. He wouldn't hurt anyone."
He sucked in a breath. "Becca I—"
He what? Was he going to tell her that she had been mistaken? Did she need to know that yes, her brother had been alive all those years. That yes, he'd been tortured and brainwashed and he'd killed hundreds of people?
"I—"
"It's a shame they'll never meet you."
"Bec—we can still. I can—I…"
But how could he? How could he really go up to any of his nieces or nephews? What would he say? Hi, I'm Bucky, your long lost uncle. I used to be a serial killer, but I'm different now! Let me into your lives?
No.
They would know. They would see through. They would see how empty he was. And why would they want him around anyways? They'd lived their whole lives without him. He was broken...partially fixed but still broken.
The smiling faces across the walls pushed in on him, surrounding him.
He could never be around them. By blood, they might have been family, but they would never be his family.
His stomach stopped twisting. Now it was just empty. Like the old man staring at the wall.
"Becca I'm sorry—" He stopped.
Her eyes were drooping shut, and despite everything they'd just talked about, she looked so peaceful. He couldn't bring himself to keep her awake.
So he slumped back in his chair, pulling his glove back on.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a soft knock at the door.
"Rebecca?" A nurse pushed into the room, wheeling a small cart with medicine and food on it. "It's time—oh, I'm so sorry I didn't know she had a visitor!"
"No, it's fine." Bucky abruptly stood. "I—she's falling asleep and I'm on my way out so…"
The nurse smiled, moving out of the way of the door. "Well she does love her family visiting. Come see her again, okay?"
His eyes watered, but he licked his lips and smiled. He gave her a short nod as he exited the dim room.
The walls of the hallway shrunk as he strode through them, like a dragon's claws relaxing their hold on him. He didn't stop when he got to the lobby, nor did he give the receptionist a second look as he pushed straight through to the doors. He didn't stop until he stepped back into the cool air outside.
And there he leaned up against the flagpole, sucking in a huge breath. His hands shook so he stuffed them in his pockets.
The United States flag hung limply above him, surrounded by darkness. Despite it's stars and colors, the overcast sky abandoned it to hang, strung out and isolated on a quiet road in the tiny, midwest town.
Bucky wouldn't come back. Becca deserved some peace of mind about him while she lived out her last days. He'd return for the funeral, but that was it.
There was no home for him in Shelbyville, Indiana. Not with the Proctors, not with Becca—
His train of thought was cut short by a buzzing in his pocket.
He frowned, pulling his aggravating flip phone out and looking at the screen.
It was Sam.
This was the eighth message he had sent Bucky since...well since everything.
Sam: Hey man, I realized I invited you to the Smithsonian next week but never offered a ride. You could come with me. I really think you should be there. It's going to be a big day, but just shoot me a text back. Or call. Whatever works!
Right.
Sam had invited him to some event at the Smithsonian. Bucky honestly hadn't thought about it more than when he'd read Sam's last message.
He scrolled back on the text screen. The last message had been two weeks ago.
Sam: Bucky, hey. There's a big Captain America honorary event happening on the 27th at noon at the Smithsonian. They asked me to speak at it, but I figured, you're cap's best friend. You want to come with? I think it will be really nice.
Let me know!
And a few days before that.
Sam: Hey Buck. Give me a call when you can, okay? There's something I'd like to talk to you about.
Even further.
Sam: Good news man, I've just been stationed at an Air Force base near Brooklyn. What do you say you and I grab some lunch sometime next week?
Let me know! You can text, or call!
Sam: Hey Bucky, how are you holding up? Give me a call if you ever want a friendly ear to talk to. I'm always available.
Bucky swallowed with only an ounce of guilt as he shut the phone and shoved it back in his pocket. Sam's pity was kind, but somehow it made him feel even worse. After all, Sam had a life, he had a family. Eventually, if Bucky never answered Sam would forget about him and move on. That was his plan anyways.
He didn't want to bother anyone else.
He sighed, blinking away the last of his tears from his tired eyes.
The flag hung limply behind him as he walked away, heading back to Brooklyn.
AN:
Heyyy yo! I posted this on my AO3 account, so I figured I should post it here too.
I couldn't not write a tfatws fic after the show literally changed my life :')
I love Bucky so much. His character arc is LITERALLY so important to me!
Some fun (or not fun) facts about Bucky's family from the comics (and the MCU):
- The Barnes family is originally from Shelbyville, Indiana
- Rebecca Proctor is his oldest sister's name (from what I could find)
- Rebecca died of Alzheimer's
- Their parents died when Bucky's siblings were really young and a few of them ended up in orphanages
- Bucky is the oldest of three (if you pause the screen on Bucky's plaque at the memorial in Captain America: the Winter Soldier you can read the whole description for him there, but it mentions this)
- Aaaannnnnnd in tfatws he said "I have a sister" meaning one of the other Barnes is still alive :)
Thanks for reading!
~Gamma