i looked for peace in all the wrong places (till you found me)
Your son was murdered…by the Winter Soldier.
And that was me.
I didn't have a choice.
Bucky stepped out of the door, heart pounding, fighting back his tears. That look on the Nakajima's face when he'd told him the truth about his son, that clenched-up devastated expression so twisted in anguish and betrayal- it would haunt him forever. Steve, Sam, his therapist…they'd all been wrong.
There could be no forgiveness for Bucky.
He didn't deserve it. There was nothing, nothing he could do now to make up for a century's worth of crime. All those lives he'd recklessly took. All that annihilation.
He stumbled through the narrow, quiet corridor all the way to the men's washroom which mercifully enough, was empty. Locking the door, he sank to the floor, his insides flaring as though gutted with a million tiny knives and he let the tears flow.
He thought he'd done the right thing. He had wanted to make amends, to apologize to all the families he'd unwittingly torn apart, offer them an explanation if not closure.
But no matter what his therapist had said, there could be no closure about certain things. He'd lived long enough to be certain of that, at least.
He thought of the small altar in the man's apartment, with the Buddha figurine and his son's photograph, and the warm jasmine incense that the father dutifully lit every evening, sweetening the entire room.
He could still smell that faint scent on his collar, a reminder of all the blood he could never wash off.
It burned him.
And yet, just after his confession, in that moment when the words of truth had left his mouth, he'd felt it- a faint, rustling glimmer of peace- which like a leaf caught in a forest fire, quickly burned up when he'd looked up to the man's aged face that seemed to be carved out of pain itself.
He'd hurt him without ever meaning or wanting to, just like he'd hurt countless others, so nameless and faceless now.
He rolled his fingers into fists, as he cried and cried.
Ever since Steve had brought him back, and Sam and the other Avengers had taken him under their wings, with righteous suspicion at first and later with grudging respect, and then his rehabilitation at a remote Wakandan village, he'd felt that faint hope, that perhaps, maybe, given enough time…he could be okay and find peace or some semblance of it, in this strange modern world.
Hell, he hadn't wanted a normal life- he was way past that by now- but at least (he'd childishly thought) he could try for peace.
And it would be a lie to say that he hadn't found it at all. Especially, in the last few weeks, when he'd been travelling with Sam, chasing down the Flag Smashers, using his Super Soldier powers for what both he and Sam believed was a worthy cause.
And Sam had looked at him…the way Steve once did. Like he was a human who wasn't tainted by all that shit in his past. That who he was…around them, in the present moment, was enough.
It was a strange and beautiful thing, that feeling.
And then Sam had wielded the shield, like he was always meant to. It had filled him with so much pride to watch Sam talk to the Senators and ensure that Karli's death was not in vain. Sam had taken on Steve's mantle, like it had belonged to him all along and he just hadn't been aware of it.
Because if he was wrong about you, maybe he was wrong about me too.
Steve had been right about Sam, so was he right about Bucky then?
Dusklight trailed through the tiny windows, casting a soft, purple shade, and the water droplets on the floor glimmered. It reminded Bucky of Steve slowly sinking into the water, and then diving after him as though some unseen instinct had taken control, overriding his Winter Soldier programming.
Someone had turned off the fluorescent lights in the washroom, leaving the farther cubicles in shadow. Slowly, Bucky got up, reaching for the basin with his vibranium arm for balance. He turned on the tap, letting the rush of icy-cold water still his trembling fingers.
He sighed, taking slow, steady breaths.
He'd been a killer, yes, but not anymore.
He washed his face and slowly looked into the misty mirror.
"I'm not a killer" he stated simply. A ghostly silhouette stared back at him.
He didn't believe it, of course.
He was afraid that he never would.
Somewhere, far in the spaces where dream and memory blur, he thought he heard the sound of gunfire, terrified hitched breaths, strangers begging for mercy, and then the smell of smoke engulfing him and something burning, always and forever.
His mouth tasted like ash.
His face crumpled in grief and shame.
"No", he whimpered softly, to the half-darkness.
Just then, his phone rang.
He let it ring for a bit before finally answering it.
It was Sam.
"Hello, Buck. Just checking in-"
Bucky let out a choked sob.
"Bucky, are you alright? Is there anything wrong?"
"Sam, I…I…" He sputtered.
"Where are you, right now?"
"I told him, Sam! I told him, finally and…"
"Told whom? What are you talking about, Buck?"
Sam's voice was urgent but soft.
Bucky thought he didn't deserve the kindness.
"I…I…told Nakajima that I killed his son. As...as...the Winter Soldier."
Sam sighed loudly. "And?", he asked kindly.
"He…he looked at me, like I was a murderer. Like, like his shock, the hurt- Sam, he was so betrayed-"
"You did the right thing, Bucky." Sam's voice was clear as a knife. "Not knowing how his son died would've killed him. You owed him the truth."
Bucky remained silent.
"You did the right thing," Sam repeated.
"Then why…" Bucky rasped, "…does it hurt… so much?"
He thought he could hear Sam thinking, trying to pick out the right words to say.
"Because not telling him would've hurt you even more."
He let out another sob.
"Sam."
"I'm here."
"Will…will you see me? Please?"
Sam laughed. "I'm already on the way. I had Redwing trace the call to your location, but traffic's a bitch."
A small smile tugged the corners of Bucky's cheeks. "I'll wait outside."
He waited for a few more minutes in the emptiness until his breathing steadied and then slowly made his way outside, to the sidewalk.
The air was chilly and windy. He passed by the Japanese restaurant and saw a glimpse of the broken-hearted Nakajima with the waitress he'd gone on a date with. She seemed to be comforting the old man. Their eyes briefly met, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but then she turned away.
He didn't wait, but walked on.
There wasn't anything else he could do.
A certain lightness was returning to his chest, as though a weight was slowly easing off. It hadn't stopped hurting, but it hurt a little less, like a break between fights.
"Oi!" A familiar voice called after him, "I thought I told you to wait!"
Managing a smile, Bucky turned to face Sam, striding down the street in his usual dark clothes. His heart melted. Sam didn't need a suit to make him Captain America- it was there in his posture, in his steely determination, in his frankness.
Surely, the Winter Soldier didn't deserve a friend like him.
Sam gave him a quick, tight hug.
For a moment, Bucky didn't breathe. It was soft, painless bliss, and then the moment ended because he or Sam had let go.
"Well, you look like a mess," Sam announced, placing an arm gently on his back.
He shrugged. "I'll be alright."
"Fancy a drink?"
"I've got scotch at home."
"Then I guess we're headed that way?"
It was strange, Bucky realized that he'd stayed over at Sarah's house and had even helped Sam repair the old family boat, and yet he'd never had Sam over at his apartment.
He needed to rectify that right away.
"That'd be great," he responded gratefully.
It wasn't a long walk to the apartment, but Bucky wished it could've gone on longer. They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. Sam asked if Bucky had heard from the Wakandans, and he in turn congratulated Sam on clearing Isaiah Bradley's name and the new museum exhibit in his honor.
They could've been two old friends, on an evening stroll through the softly-lit streets.
"Pretty sparse, isn't it?", Sam asked when Bucky unlocked his apartment door.
Bucky glanced at his room which was mostly empty except for a couch, a table, a rickety bookcase and a blanket and some cushions on the hardwood floor.
"I didn't exactly get time to redecorate." He let on a small smile.
Sam's eyes narrowed, taking in the shabby couch. "You sleep on the floor?"
Bucky pursed his lips. "Well, it was a thing Steve and I shared, back when we were kids. We'd put all the cushions on the floor and sleep on them. But after his mother died…he wanted to be more alone, I guess." He shrugged and went to the small adjoining kitchen and took out two whiskey bottles from a moldy-looking fridge.
"That's quaint," he heard Sam call out, brushing off the dust that had accumulated on the couch.
"Sam, do you still miss Steve?" he asked suddenly, offering him a bottle.
Sam took it and popped open the cap, but he didn't answer the question. He walked around the room and then sighing, sat on the couch.
"Everyday", he answered at last.
Bucky nodded slowly and sat beside him. Their knees brushed, but they took no notice. "I did too, but not anymore, I guess. He feels like someone I knew in a dream or a past life."
Sam laughed softly. "I know. It does feel like that sometimes, yeah."
"To Captain America." Bucky lifted the bottle, bringing it closer to Sam's and looking him in the eyes. "Cheers."
Sam smiled, comfortably looking at Bucky. "Cheers," he replied and took a sip.
It turned out that Bucky's small fridge contained in fact, several bottles of scotch and Sam's phone had Marvin Gaye's entire discography preloaded. The music swayed softly through the apartment, above the laughter of the two men sitting on the couch and tap-tapping to the beat.
A memory of the 1945 World Fair and dancing with two pretty girls, returned to Bucky. It was the night before everything had changed for him and Steve, and between them too. A silent tear trailed down his cheek. Sam noticed it and gently wiped it.
"It's okay," he whispered.
Bucky nodded, unable to speak, surprised by the softness of his friend's touch.
He realized that it would take years to come to terms with his guilt and grief, to mourn the life he once had and the life he could've had, had he not been forced into HYDRA's Winter Soldier program. Steve was just one aspect of it, and there was so much more, menacingly waiting just below the surface.
At length, after the third or fourth bottle, Bucky said, "You'd said instead of avenging, I had to make other people feel better, help them, be of service. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah," Sam replied quietly.
Bucky swallowed.
When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, "What if it's not enough? What if it's never enough?"
Sam… his eyes beseeched.
The last notes of the song faded to a close. Sam shook his head, looking intently at Bucky's pained expression, the terror and uncertainty glittering in his sad eyes. "You won't know for sure, but you still have to get up every day and do the work. And keep doing it."
He paused, looking pensive, and then added, "And trust that you're doing the right thing."
Bucky let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "But I…don'…trust myself."
He sobbed.
He felt Sam draw closer, a strong hand on his shoulder, rubbing his back.
"Buck, Buck. Listen to me." Sam's voice was insistent, urgent, like a steady light in the thick mist. "Look at me."
Trembling, Bucky looked into his eyes.
"I believe in you. And I always will."
It was the steadiness in Sam's voice that struck him, the fact that there was no hesitation to the truth of his words. It loosened one of the tighter knots in Bucky's chest and his breathing eased.
He pulled Sam close to an embrace, burying his tear-stained face in the crook of his best friend's neck. He cried softly, shaking, as Sam held him, tightly, fiercely. His touch, his hands felt like a lighthouse beam guiding a tossed ship through the storm.
Sam felt so solid, so real. Bucky breathed in his warm scent, a hint of lemongrass powder and faint sweat and something salty, a faraway trace of the sea that could've been just his imagination.
He mumbled softly, lips against Sam's skin. "Will he...can he…ever forgive me? For what I did to his son?"
Sam's grip tightened. "I don't know mate, but you need to forgive yourself. You're not the Winter Soldier anymore. You're more than your past."
Bucky didn't reply, but just clung to his words, to Sam, steadfast as a rock, like a drowning person gasping for air.
It was Bucky who let go after a while. He didn't look up at Sam, and instead fixed his gaze onto an ant crawling on the floor.
"Any better?" Sam asked, shifting away from him.
"Yeah," he replied, darkly.
"That's good, because I've been meaning to ask you something."
Bucky sharply turned his gaze to Sam. "What is it?"
Sam blushed, very faintly and averted his gaze. It did not escape Bucky's notice, as his brows furrowed and his heartbeat quickened.
"Well, Sarah and the kids are doing a cookout tomorrow, at the boat. The whole community is gonna be there. Our own celebration. I'd really like you to come."
Surprised, Bucky opened his mouth and closed it, without saying anything.
Sam laughed. "We'd love to have you around. And Sarah hasn't forgotten how you helped us fix the boat."
A grin lit up Bucky's face. "I'll get cake."
They sat on the couch for a bit, talking lightheartedly about things which included another playful warning from Sam about not flirting with his sister to which Bucky pulled a face that could've meant anything between "Dare me" to "We'll see". Sam talked about a new lead Torres was presently investigating and about Walker who seemed to had gone off the grid. After a while, he checked his watch and said it was time for him to leave.
But at some point, in the conversation, Bucky's arm had found the small of Sam's back and wasn't ready to relinquish his position. "Stay the night", he said without thinking. "You take the couch, I'll sleep on the floor."
"No, no, I've gotta go," Sam answered quickly. "There's lots to do tomorrow. I have to help Sarah set up the barbecue and…" He trailed off but didn't get up from the sofa, didn't brush off Bucky's hand on his back that had suddenly gone very still.
"We can start off early, tomorrow. I'll…I'll get the groceries." Bucky realized later that he'd been pleading.
"I…" Sam glanced around the room, as though hoping something would jump out at him. But nothing did and so he replied, "I suppose I could. I'll have Redwing park the truck nearby."
Bucky's voice was very quiet. "Thank you."
Sam laughed. "Hey, maybe I will keep the nightmares away."
"I know you will, Sam."
Sometime later that night Bucky woke up from a dream, in which he and Sam had been chasing Karli down a seemingly endless tunnel. Just when they'd almost caught up, panting, Karli turned and Bucky realized with panic that it wasn't Karli after all, but Zemo, who stood with his head tilted to one side, a knowing snigger on his face, as if he knew a joke that Bucky didn't. It was a strange dream, Bucky thought, as though Zemo's expression was a puzzle he should've solved.
He wished fervently that Sam was beside him, just to feel safe, and then he realized with a jolt, that Sam was in fact, sleeping right beside him.
(What a strange feeling, to have one's wish granted)
The events of last evening came rushing back and Bucky surmised that at some point Sam must've gotten exasperated at the softness of the couch, and had decided to snuggle next to Bucky, asleep on the floor, amongst all the cushions. It reminded him of a fond memory of curling next to Steve on windy summer nights, as children.
He smiled softly in the bluish semi-darkness, gazing fondly at Sam breathing next to him.
You're not the Winter Soldier anymore. You're more than your past.
I believe in you. And I always will.
And for now, Bucky realized, his sleepy eyes brimming with tears, that was more than enough. With a contented sigh that he hadn't felt in years, he put his arms around his best friend, thinking happily about the cookout and the boatparty tomorrow and the flavor of cake he would bring.
He wondered if the kids would like Oreo.
A/N:
So Bucky tells Nakajima that he was the one to kill his son, and boy, he looks so tortured, and my mind went, "Huh? That's a face fanfics are made of!" and so here we are.
Can I just… take a moment to process The Falcon and the Winter Soldier?! Like, damn, the show was so good, and SamBucky so perfect?! And as someone who's trying to battle trauma mostly on her own and whose mental health plummeted in the pandemic, watching Bucky slowly heal from his nightmarish past, felt so so good and hopeful? Like I FELT it Bucky when he told his therapist that all he wanted was "peace". Ah.
And like, my country (India) is facing a massive healthcare crisis, I graduated six months ago and I still don't have a proper gig, and my anxiety is at an all-time high, there's another lockdown, I don't know when I'll see my friends next…and in the middle of it, this show suddenly gave me a faint thread to hold onto.
Sorry for the ranting. Idk if anyone even reads these, but I just finished rewatching the show for a second time, and I HAD to write this fic, and I just wanna talk about this series with someone. So lplease tell me what you think- I'd appreciate any comments or feedback- and if you'd like me to write more of this ship. And if you have fic recs, please tell me! All my thoughts are SamBucky at this point, lol.
And I'm on tumblr as ladyofthelake666, so feel free to say hi.