(A/N: Sorry for the delay. This one was very long and emotional. Has a lot of my Bucky headcanon in it. There is non-graphic discussion of the sister's suicide near the end of this chapter. Hope you like the read.)
Walking through the front door, cat carrier in hand, you were surprised to find Bucky sitting on the couch. He had been gone on one of his weekly visits with Steve and you hadn't expected him home for another few hours. Yet there he was in his worn out t-shirt and jeans, perched on the edge of the cushion, studying something in his hand. It had taken all of two visits to decide he didn't need to dress up every time he went to hang out with his friend. Certainly, he was pretty damned good-looking in those button-ups he'd picked out, but you had to admit that sometimes the sight of him looking so comfortable warmed your heart a bit. Whatever he was holding, he tucked into his palm before twisting to offer you a tight half smile over the back of the couch by way of greeting.
"Didn't expect you back so early. Date get cut short," you teased, hip-checking the door closed behind you as you moved into the living room.
"Steve got called out for somethin'," he replied, barest hint of gruffness in his voice. A mission, you surmised. You knew he didn't mind you giving him shit about going out. Hell, over the last couple weeks, a bit of teasing now and then had become a shared past time. You could only guess it was some sort of worry for Steve.
"Wondered where she'd got to," Bucky spoke again after clearing his throat. He tipped his head toward the carrier in your hand.
"Just a vet visit," you smiled as you set her down on the coffee table to sit at his right. "Figured I'd schedule it for when you were out. Didn't want to bore you with sitting in a waiting room for a long time."
He shifted some to look through the grate as Potato let out a pitiful mew. There was worry etched on his face and it made your smile grow wider. "She alright?"
"She's fine," you assured and reached to open the door. "It was just her yearly check-up and shots. Perfectly healthy. Well… she's put on a couple pounds. I blame you, by the way."
Bucky shot you a look from the corner of his eyes, devious smirk pulling languidly at the corners of his lips. You snorted at him in mock annoyance even as the cat poked her head out of the carrier. She stepped onto the table slow, timid, her nose working the air. Green eyes flashed from you to Bucky with a little merr. Then, she shot off the table with enough force to send the carrier back almost a foot and bolted down the hallway. Almost as quick, Bucky was turning in his seat to watch her scamper off. The surprised question on his face had you sucking in your lips to keep from laughing.
"She does that after every vet visit. Might be a housecat now, but there's always gonna be something a little feral in her. And few wild things like to be caged up against their will," you informed. Of course, of all people, Bucky Barnes could understand something like that. It was written in his features when his eyes seemed distant before finding yours again. You gave him a comforting smile. "We'll see her again in a few hours when she's done sulking."
As you closed up the carrier to tuck under the coffee table for the time being, you caught sight of a box on the floor next to Bucky's feet. It wasn't very big, bit more than shoebox sized maybe, but had flaps that were partially opened. When you quirked a curious eyebrow at him, Bucky seem to grow slightly tense again. There was a flash of something like pain in his eyes when they went from you to the box to his cupped left hand where he'd palmed whatever it was he'd been looking at when you came in. Seeing how uncomfortable he was, you were prepared to leave it well enough alone. But after considering his metal hand a moment, he huffed a sigh.
"Steve," he began, though he paused to drag his tongue slowly over his lips. "Steve managed to scrounge up some old photos. Let me bring 'em here to look at, see if they jogged any memories, but..."
"Have you looked through them yet," you asked, folding your knee up onto the couch to face him better.
Bucky shook his head with tight lips and lifted his left hand a bit. "Just this one."
"Do you wanna show me," you offered quietly. When he looked at you with his brows knitted in confused surprise, you gave a small shrug. "You don't have to. Just thought I'd ask."
He looked at his metal fingers again, features somewhat grave. Slowly, he uncupped his hand and brought it closer for you to see. It was weathered, yellowed and tattered a bit at the edges, gray-scale. It was a photo of Bucky in an Army uniform, hat tipped to one side of his head. He was fresh-faced, clean shaven, looking off somewhere beyond the camera.
"Wow," you breathed, heart fluttering a little despite itself. "You look so..."
"Young and dumb," Bucky filled in his own description with a snort.
You shot him a disapproving look, but you saw his shoulders relaxing somewhat as you both continued to study the picture. "Do you remember this one?"
"I don't know," he shook his head again, bowing over the photo as if looking harder and closer could give him the answer he wanted. His fingers moved to comb through his hair, gripping it a bit harshly near the ends.
"Thinking you might wanna cut it," you asked as you watched him closely.
He leaned down to put the photo in the box at his feet, his only response a quiet "I'm not that guy anymore."
"Well, you're not that other guy either," you informed in as casual a voice you could. He glanced over at you when you continued lightly "You've gotta be a new Bucky. Bucky 2.0... Or 3.0. I'm not sure how the number system would work in this case."
There was the barest hint of a smile on his lips as you reached up to tuck some of those wayward strands of hair behind his ear, giving the locks an affectionate tug. Turmoil over old pictures was something you were intimately familiar with. Maybe it wasn't quite the same case as his, your pain from the memory and his from the lack thereof, but you felt a kinship in it. Thinking about that fact a moment gave you an idea.
"You're a little nervous about going through them, aren't you," you said gently, more a statement than a question. The distress in his eyes when he looked at you was all the confirmation you needed. Taking a deep breath, you rested your hand on the back of his forearm, though whether it was to soothe him or yourself, you couldn't quite say. "What if... what if I brought out some of mine?"
His brow furrowed again, head tilted in piqued interest. "I haven't seen any pictures out around the house."
"There's a reason for that," you chuckled a little, though even you could hear the bitterness in it. "You're not the only one a little put off by old photos. But misery loves company, so what d'ya say?"
Pulling his gaze from where you touched him, Bucky searched your face for a long moment, uncertain. Then, with the barest of nods, he said "Yeah, alright."
"Alright," you repeated with a small smile, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. You grabbed the cat carrier as you stood. No sense leaving it behind when you were going that way as it was. "I have to pull them from storage. Be back in a minute."
You'd be lying if you said you didn't know precisely where that actual shoebox of pictures was collecting dust. Even despite hiding it in the furthest reaches of your makeshift storage room, the one that used to be a bedroom, her room. It used to bother you, being back there, but you supposed having kept it cluttered with odds and ends for long enough had made it easier. Hardly caused an issue at all anymore, except a twinge of sadness once in a while. You felt it now, but you'd be damned if you let Bucky suffer alone if you could help it.
After depositing the kitty carrier and picking up the photos, you made a stop in the kitchen pantry for a dust rag. The often untouched liquor shelf caught your attention. Bucky didn't have a problem with the beer and wine Steve brought over for dinner a few weeks prior. And you knew you could certainly use a little bit of liquid courage. So, you grabbed the practically full bottle of decent scotch and two tumblers from the pantry before returning to the living room.
Bucky raised an eyebrow when he saw the bottle, but didn't look put off in the slightest. In fact, he was already grabbing one of the glasses from your fingers as you spoke. "Misery might love company, but it still has a soft spot for booze."
"Scotch," he questioned lightly, spinning the bottle by its neck to read the label after you set it down.
"Well, I've got vodka if it's too much for ya, old man," you teased while plopping back down on the couch beside him.
Eyeing you with a bit of amusement, Bucky pulled the cork on the bottle. As he poured you both a few fingers of the amber liquid, you took the time to wipe the thick dust from the box you'd brought out. Luckily, it all stuck to the little microfiber cloth instead of billowing into the air. A mouth and nose full of dust would not have paired well with the glass of scotch Bucky was handing you. You took it gratefully and quickly pulled a gentle sip, letting the warm sting of it coat your mouth before swallowing it down.
"I've got an idea," you finally said, watching Bucky bring his own glass to his lips. "How about we swap boxes? I'll show you pictures from your box, you show me pics from mine. That way if one of us has an issue with a photo, the other can just tuck it back in the box. How does that sound?"
Bucky gulped down his mouthful of scotch and gave his glass an approving look, tipping it up to you in a silent thanks. Then, he sat his drink on the table before reaching down to lift his box onto his lap. Fingertips brushed over cardboard as he gave it a considering look, but his eyes found yours again, tense edges softening, and he held the parcel out for you to take from him. You tried to blame those first few sips of scotch, but you knew it was something about this bit of trust Bucky showed you that made you a little delirious.
Handing over your photos, you slipped off your shoes so you could sit crossed-legged to face him. Another swallow of scotch was in order for both of you, but Bucky especially as he eyed the box balanced on your thighs with mild apprehension. After giving the fire in your belly a second to settle, you offered him an encouraging smile. "Do you want to pull the first picture?"
There was a minor twitch in his jaw, determination in his gray eyes. "You first."
"Okay," you nodded slightly. If that's what he wanted, you would oblige. Opening the box in your lap, you saw the photo on top was the uniform pic you'd both looked at already and you brushed it aside carefully. The one beneath it was equally as tattered, grainy black and white. Two boys sitting on a stoop, each with an arm thrown about the other's shoulders. It took you a moment to realize the bigger boy was Bucky, baby fat still hanging on at his cheeks, and the other, frail slip of a child, was Steve Rogers. You gnawed at the insides of your cheeks to keep from giggling as you presented the picture to him.
Bucky blinked a little, and though you knew he had impeccable eyesight, he still tucked his knee up onto the cushion beneath him to lean in for a closer look, curious bent to his brow. The corners of his lips quirked upward a fraction of an inch as his eyes scoured the photo. "That's... That's me and Steve."
"I thought so," you grinned at him. "Do you remember anything about this one?"
"I think... that mighta been my parents' place," he began, voice questioning. He heaved a breath through his nose. "I'm not sure."
"Hey, that's okay," you consoled when you saw frustration start to line his forehead. Quickly, you tucked the photo back in the box. "We'll put it away for the moment. Now, your turn."
You took another gulp of your scotch as Bucky unlidded the box to rummage through the pictures. He stopped suddenly, eyes going a little wide, and his slick smirk made you wonder what embarrassing horror he might have found. The photo he finally held up to you had you covering your eyes with your free hand at the very first glance. "Oh my god! Really? That one?"
Peeking through your fingers, you saw Bucky with an eyebrow raised at you despite trying to hide his smile behind a drink. With a laughing sigh, you went ahead and explained yourself. "That's a sixteen year old me doing my best chimpanzee impression at the zoo's primate house. I should've burned that! In fact..."
But when you went to snatch it from him, Bucky already had it far out of your reach. He shook his head even as he tilted his chin toward you defiantly. "Nah, I don't think so. Your turn."
The clinking of bottle on tumbler, the slosh of liquid, the deep rumbling drag of the heavy-bottomed glasses across the wooden table, and Bucky's intermittent chuckles were music to your ears as the night continued on. Of course, most of his amusement was at your expense, but that was alright. You were warm and fuzzy, and you could admit that it wasn't only the alcohol that had you swimmy in your own head. Something told you Bucky was nowhere near as far along as you, probably that supersoldier metabolism of his, but he still seemed to relax and his smile was a little easier. Even the progression of mostly unremembered photos didn't look to bother him so much as time went on.
Third drinks poured and you were several rounds into this little game when you saw the brilliant spark of recognition light up his eyes. The picture seemed innocuous enough, a young Bucky with a black eye and a shit eating grin. Holding it up for him to see, you noticed words scrawled on the back.
"Photographic evidence that Bucky gets in fights too. SR."
As you read the message aloud, Bucky's face began to mirror the picture, grin wide and toothy and arrogant. It softened his face, made him look so young, so happy. When the fingers of his right hand gently plucked the photo from your grasp, they brushed over your skin. You had to swallow down the skip in your heartbeat before you spoke again. "I take it you remember this one."
"Yeah," he answered, voice a little distant as he nodded slowly and pulled the picture in for a closer look. His tongue slid over his lips to drag the bottom one in between his teeth, a huff of laughter shaking his shoulders. All you could do for a moment was stare dumbly at him when his eyes turned back up to you. "Jesus... me and Stevie were goin to see a movie and there was this gal standin around by herself, a real looker. So, I cozy on up to her, all gallant, spoutin off poetry, when outta nowhere her boyfriend shows up. Clocks me good, can't really blame the guy. But, shit, Stevie was laughin so hard I thought he was gonna have an asthma attack."
"Holy crap," you chuckled through the hand over your mouth. "You were reciting poetry as a pick-up line to a random girl?"
"Women love poetry," he shrugged, confident, giving the photo back to you. He looked thoughtful as he sipped his scotch, trying to recall something, though there was still a smile on his face. "Did... Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."
You looked up from putting the picture away, rolling your eyes, slow grin spreading over your face. "Seriously? Young Bucky Barnes strutting around quoting Shakespeare? Lord have mercy!"
"How do you know I strutted," he asked in mock affront. Your raised eyebrow was a silent challenge for him to deny it, but he dropped the charade with a contemplative smirk. "I think I knew more than just that. But nothin charmed the ladies like the Bard."
Bucky's eyes slid to yours, mischievous and daring right back for you to say otherwise. You just shook your head and laughed, gesturing to the box in his lap. "Alright, Romeo, pick another pic."
With a self-satisfied look, he went about complying with your playful order. It took him a few seconds of looking before pulling out a glossy color photo of a couple smiling, washed out with too much light. You knew it from countless viewing, and despite the history, it managed to pull a little smile from you. Maybe you could blame the alcohol, or, like your sister's bedroom, things were getting easier to deal with over time. Or perhaps having someone to really share them with made all the difference. Your brain was just fuzzy enough to let you not worry too much about it in any case.
"That's my mom and dad... and me," you told him and smiled wider when you saw his confused look, as there were only two people visible in the picture. Reaching out, you tapped your finger over your mother's stomach. "I'm right there."
Bucky seemed to get the idea, nodding slightly as you continued. "According to my mom, that was one of the last pics where they're happy together. They got divorced when I was really little, I hardly remember him at all. It's okay though. Sometimes, people just don't mesh. And we got along fine without him."
"And your mom," Bucky asked, the mirth gone from his voice as he tucked the picture back in the box.
"Bad car accident about 8 years ago," you replied before taking another drink. You made it a point to keep your voice fairly casual, already upset that you'd brought down the good mood. "Technically, she was alive when they pulled her out of the car, but she flatlined at the hospital."
"I'm sorry," he offered, seeming as equally apologetic for bringing up the subject as for the situation itself.
You gave a slightly dismissive shake of your head, wanting to get back to better thoughts. "It is what it is. Let's move along, shall we?"
A few more round of pictures passed. Yours were mostly distant relatives from old family get-togethers or old high school friends you hadn't seen in ages. Bucky's were mainly him and Steve, vaguely remembered, but you could see the strained nostalgia on his face, even as both of you chuckled at the good little memories he could recall. You were almost finished with your current glass of scotch, and starting to feel tipsy, when you pulled a photo of what looked like a teenaged Bucky, proud smile on his face, and Steve on a sidewalk with three younger girls, all holding ice cream cones.
"Ice cream parlor posse," you teased, flipping the picture around for him to see.
The grin that crossed Bucky's face was gentle, though maybe a little bittersweet. "My sisters."
"Sisters," you squawked out, surprised. You turned the picture around to look at it more closely, not caring that your mouth was hanging open in astonishment. "Bucky, you had sisters?"
"Yeah," he nodded, even as you managed to reposition yourself beside him so the two of you could look at the photo together. He leaned a little closer to you and you told yourself the sudden burst of warmth across your skin was the scotch doing its job when Bucky began to point at each girl. "Mary, Eleanor, and Rebecca. I was the oldest. Only boy."
"They're so pretty," you mused, looking over their features. All dark hair and winning smiles. You glanced up at Bucky with your own grin. "Do you remember when this was taken?"
"Nah," he shook his head, though the corners of his lips were still quirked up. "Know it was taken a long time before I shipped off, though. They were all grown up by then. Hell, I think Mary already had a husband. Didn't need me to look after 'em anymore."
You chuckled at him a little as you put the photo back in the box. "Bet you were a great big brother."
"Tried to be, I guess," he replied gravely, gulping down a large mouthful of his drink. There was pain in his eyes again as he regarded the glass in his fingers, but he seemed to brush it off a little with a shake of his head, a raise of his eyebrow. "Even still, I didn't remember my own sisters until I saw that little girl at the clothing store. Reminded me of Becky, so precocious. I asked Steve about them later. Said he didn't bring it up 'cause he worried it would upset me."
"I'm sure he was just looking out for you, Buck," you offered gently. It made you wonder though. When he came home from his first visit with Steve, he'd been a little withdrawn, slightly upset even, but didn't seem willing to talk. You figured he'd let you in on it if he wanted to, whenever he was ready. Maybe this was him being ready.
"I know," he nodded with a tight smile. It softened some when he looked back up at you. "I know."
"Did you find anything out," you asked, quiet, as you leaned your shoulder against his, trying to offer a small comfort.
"They're..." He paused a second, like he was searching for the exact word he wanted to use. "Gone. All three of 'em."
"Aw, Bucky, I'm so sorry," you consoled. You reached your free hand to tuck around his bicep and pressed your slightly numbed cheek onto his shoulder, hugging yourself into his arm. It felt like he relaxed some of his weight into your partial embrace. And you were more than happy to accept it.
After a few moments, he cleared his throat and it sounded like he was making a conscious effort to lighten the mood, just like you had earlier. "Mad as hell I missed out, but I guess I shouldn't be too upset. Turns out they all lived long lives. Mary and Becky both got married, had a couple kids a piece... Hell, I guess that makes me an uncle."
"Uncle Buck," you snorted in amusement, straightening back up to look at him. He gave you a curious tilt of his head, though he still smiled somewhat, and you just waved him off. "Never mind. You said Mary and Becky had kids. What about Eleanor?"
"Ellie?" He surprised you by giving a fond little laugh, smile widening. "Never was one for the fellas. She lived with a ladyfriend until she passed."
"A ladyfriend? You mean…" Of course, you knew exactly what he meant. It just caught you off guard how offhanded he'd mentioned it. "Wow, that's awesome! And you seem pretty cool with it."
"Why the hell should I care," he shrugged, nonchalant. "So long as she was happy and the gal was treatin her right. Just hope the rest of the world didn't shit on her too bad."
"That's very progressive of you," you grinned, a little impressed with the attitude he was taking.
"Progressive." Bucky gave an annoyed grunt into his scotch, shaking his head slightly before taking a drink. "Never could understand people who gave a shit about all that, especially in a war. Someone does their job, why's it matter?"
He paused a moment, thoughtful expression on his face, reeling in memories that bobbed to the surface of his mind. This one came with a knowing smirk when he looked at you again. "Knew a few gals liked women… or men and women. Fellas, too. Never bothered me any. And shit, if you don't think there were guys tryin to get an eyeful-a me back then, you're crazy."
You rolled your eyes at him, though you couldn't hide the amusement in your voice as you brought your glass to your lips. "Well, aren't you a little cocky?"
"Ooh," Bucky cooed smoothly. There was something almost wicked, suggestive, in that low voice of his and those gray eyes. "Much more than just a little, sweetheart."
Snarfing that sip of scotch up the back of your nose was not a pleasant experience. It stung like hell even as you sputtered out a shocked guffaw. "Oh my god, oh my god! Bucky, you did not just fucking say that!"
You shoved his shoulder playfully, laughing so hard at his raunchy innuendo that your ribs were starting to ache and your eyes were watering. Bucky let you knock him aside a couple inches before rebounding easily. The grin on his face was wide and triumphant. Gray eyes squinted, but were soft and happy as he chuckled along with you. And you were glad to have your merriment and the scotch to blame for your blushing cheeks.
"Jesus, Bucky, that burned," you whined out, wheezing as your uproar died down and sniffing and snorting a little through your nose. Your fingers gripped loosely at your aching sides while you shot him a look of feigned hatred despite the smile trying to keep hold of your face. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that, Barnes?"
"Hey now," he countered, pointedly. But his face was still bright with mischief as he started sifting through your photos again. "My ma was a saint."
"Yeah, for putting up with you," you quipped back, giving him another slight nudge with your knee at his thigh.
Even with his head ducked, you could see his pleased expression at your comeback. It made your heart swell to have him so easygoing with you. Pride, you told yourself. Though you really were telling yourself that entirely too often lately. Your elbow was propped on the back of the couch, cheek resting in your palm to watch him with your somewhat swimmy gaze, when Bucky's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.
"Talk about an eyeful," he snickered gently, letting out a low whistle and pulling a photo out of the box to hold up for you. "Now this looks like my kinda gal."
The picture was as old and weathered as any of the ones in Bucky's box, grainy grayscale. A woman stood on a beach in dark bikini briefs and top, twisting at the waist to smile coyly over her shoulder at the camera in a pose as glamorous as any movie star from that era. One hand held a tropical drink, the other resting on the back of her hip. It had always been one of your absolute favorites and you were fairly sure you had contributed to most of the wear and tear at its edges over the years. "That's my grandma. My mom's mom."
"No kiddin," Bucky asked, casual, quirking a tiny smile at you.
"Yep," you nodded. You polished off your scotch in a quick gulp, an act that would have made her proud. Gesturing around vaguely, you added "This was her house. Mom moved us here after my dad left, so grandma helped raised us. She was a pistol. Quick wit, sharp tongue, and still the kindest person you'd care to meet."
"She's beautiful," he said in his tone that made it sound like the indisputable truth as he looked back down at the photo. "You look just like her. And from the way you describe, you sound like her too."
You blinked a few times, surprised, wondering if you really just heard him say that. But even as buzzed as you were feeling, you knew you had. You felt your face and ears and neck grow hotter, your mouth go a bit dry. Certainly, he'd paid you a few minor compliments before, mostly about your cooking, but this... Bucky thought you were beautiful? No, it had to have been the alcohol that was making you read more into it than he meant. Right? Before you could even begin to think of a response, you saw him flip the photo over to read the back and his brow furrowed heavily. You knew the inscription there by heart. Honeymoon, Ft. Lauderdale, FL, 1948.
"Jesus Christ," Bucky huffed as he put the photo back in the box. He looked up at you with a doleful shake of his head. "I'm old enough to be your damned grandpa."
This was firmer ground for you. As he took a sip from his glass, you offered him a genial smile, though your voice dripped with sarcasm. "C'mon, now, Buck. You don't look a day over... 60, I'd say."
The wry look he gave you had you chuckling while grabbing for the bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Cork having long since been set aside, you held it up as a silent offering of another. He accepted by holding his glass out. You clinked the bottle a little too hard on the tumbler, no surer sign that you were past halfway to drunk. Yet you still poured yourself some more, noting that the bottle was much much lighter than before. When you started to tip too far toward the table, probably looking wobblier than you actually felt, Bucky's right hand shot out to grab your arm and steady you.
"I'm good," you smirked at him, answering the silent question in his face. But you put the cork back in the bottle as a form of appeasement while gripping his elbow to right yourself. And if Bucky's lithe fingers seemed to linger a moment longer on your skin than necessary before letting you go, you chalked that up to kind concern and tried not to dwell on how much you enjoyed it. "Okay, my turn."
Shifting through the box, you tried to find something that looked particularly interesting. You realized as you looked that aside from the first photo you saw, there were no pictures of Bucky or Steve from the Army. That was just as well, because surely if Steve hadn't thought of that, Sam would have. Besides, if Bucky really wanted to see them, there was that whole exhibit at the Smithsonian. You were just considering if maybe you should visit there one day yourself when you saw a folded piece of heavy paper near the bottom of the box.
You had to undo two folds, revealing a painted scene unfortunately marked with worn holes at the creases' stress points. The majority was still intact, though. It was a winter scene that didn't quite reach the edges of the paper, brush strokes trailing off. A small copse of evergreen trees blanketed by tufts of snow, but decorated with little blobs of multiple colors and bursts of silver and gold. Ornaments and tinsel on Christmas trees. There were grayish smudges and short strokes that circled the ground between the trees. Footprints tracking through drifts. And white specks that littered the entire scene. Powdery snowfall. Though time had dimmed and cracked the pigments, it was still so detailed and darling.
"This is so precious," you breathed, grinning so wide your cheeks were hurting when you presented it to him. "Do you remember anything about this?"
Bucky leaned forward for a closer look. As he studied the picture, he licked his lips thoughtfully, teeth dragging along the bottom one, brows furrowed, and his voice sounded more like a question than an answer when he said "I… I made this."
"You painted this," you asked, hearing the utter amazement in your own voice.
"Yeah," he nodded slightly as though everything was becoming clearer as he spoke. His eyes were a little distant, still studying the picture in your fingers, though a smile ghosted across his lips. "For Stevie's mom. He was sick one winter… Nah, Stevie was sick every winter. But one winter, we musta been… 11? 12? I stopped by to check on him while he was laid up in bed and his Ma was home from work already. She was always frettin, so worried about him. Don't remember how… I'm sure I was a little shit and said somethin about it, but it was about Christmas time and his Ma mentioned how she felt bad about not bein able to afford a tree. I made this for her. Figured I'd give her a… a whole little forest fulla Christmas trees as a present."
"That is... ridiculously sweet," you said softly. There was a silly little pang in your ribcage as you looked over the picture again, a part of you wanting to squeeze it tight to your chest. Or maybe it was Bucky you wished you could do that to. Instead, you just gulped down a mouthful from your glass. "This painting is really fantastic, Bucky. I had no idea you had such talent."
"Nah, Steve was the one with talent," he countered, taking his own swig of scotch. He contemplated his drink a moment, pleasant nostalgia on his face as he rolled the glass between his metal fingers. "Took a class together... hell, he shoulda been teachin it. I just fooled around for kicks. He was a real artist."
"I'm sure what Steve did was great, but you shouldn't discount this. It's incredible, especially for an eleven year old," you insisted. "I mean, seriously, if it still looks this wonderful now, I can only imagine how phenomenal it was when you first painted it."
"Tryin to gimme a big ego over somethin nearly a century old," he asked with a disparaging chuckle.
"The fact that it's still here doesn't do that for you," you replied. Bucky's expression fell to confusion as he looked at you over the rim of his tumbler. Clucking your tongue at him, you carried on. "Steve's mom must have loved it, Buck. She kept it. Then Steve kept it. And then someone kept it for Steve. Someone or other has been seeing the value of it all this time. Maybe it doesn't hang in a museum, but that doesn't make it not amazing."
You let that sink in for him a moment as you took another pull from your drink. When he didn't respond by the time you felt the burn of scotch in your stomach, you decided to continue more casually. "Maybe you should think about painting again."
"I don't think so," he shook his head slightly, but there was no animosity to it, maybe even a bit of amusement, as though the idea of it was ridiculous.
"Why not," you questioned while carefully refolding the paper to deposit back in the box. "You had fun with it before and it could be a... a good creative outlet for you."
Without any other prompting, Bucky began to shuffle through the rest of your photos. Still, he took the time to reply "Like I said before. I ain't that -"
"Ain't that guy anymore," you overlapped his words, rolling your eyes playfully and waving him off. "Okay, sure. You are not the same Bucky as before. Doesn't mean you might not have a few things in common."
He huffed an exasperated laugh at your antics, gingerly picking through the contents of your shoebox album. It didn't seem right to press him, your point having been made well enough for the evening. So you watched him search. Let your mind swim blankly in the alcohol fog where it didn't matter that you were admiring Bucky's strong jawline or the curve of his nose or the dimple in his chin or the width of his shoulders. God, but he really was so good-looking, even with that scruff on his face... or perhaps that was part of the reason. In so many of the photos he was dashing and lanky and almost pretty, but the man in front of you was more rugged and handsome and built like a brick shit house.
Before you had a chance to debate the finer points of either version of Bucky, he flashed a photo your way that completely derailed your inappropriate train of thought, slamming into your chest at full force, and you didn't feel quite so drunk anymore. The moment you dreaded from the very second you made the suggestion to swap pictures and stories. Still, you smiled weakly, because the memory captured in the picture wasn't itself sad at all. Two young girls in oversized sweaters and jeans, standing next to a huge bundle of upright corn stalks, grinning in excitement.
"That's me and my sister," you informed, taking the photo from his hand. You saw his gaze turn to piqued interest as he watched you. "This was at the local harvest festival. I'm 10 here and she's 13. Our mom and grandma took us when we were little to see the farm animals, play the games, see what new fair foods they came up with. Then we started going by ourselves when we got older. Sorta became a tradition, y'know? Just the two of us. We went every year until she signed up. Had plans to start going again when she came home, but..."
You trailed off, already feeling the tears welling in your eyes. Sniffling against the sting of your nose, you handed the photo back to him. "But plans change."
Bucky took the offending picture and quietly tucked it back in the box on his lap. But you could see it in his eyes. You'd seen it countless times, in the faces of almost everyone who knew about your sister's death. Just by his expression, you could tell Bucky wanted to ask. He would ask. And whether it was because of the scotch or the need to vent or just because it was Bucky asking, you couldn't say, but you'd tell him. Heaven help you, you'd tell him.
"What happened over there," he finally spoke after a long moment, face soft and curious, not sickly sympathetic like you were used to seeing. It wasn't quite what you had expected him to start with, but it seemed fitting. He already knew the outcome, just didn't know the cause.
"I never found out the details," you answered, tossing back the rest of your glass's contents as you twisted to plant your feet firmly on the floor, setting Bucky's box by your discarded shoes. You slid the tumbler a few inches from you on the table, just to hear the comforting wooden rumble, elbows propped on your thighs. With another gentle sniffling, you continued, slow. Because it hurt. It hurt so bad. "Something she wasn't supposed to tell me, or maybe just didn't want to. All I do know is that she was leading her team on a mission and something went wrong. That old tune you've probably heard a million times before. Heavy casualties, mostly fatalities. In the end, she was the only one who made it back home. PTSD, survivor's guilt, losing the soldiers she led... no wonder, man. No wonder."
You paused to scrub your hand down your face, feeling your cheeks already growing hot and wet despite how much you were trying to avoid it. Bucky had shifted beside you, moving to mirror your posture, glass and shoebox of photos joining the rest on the coffee table. You could only manage a quick glance to his face. It was still curious, still all questioning concern. More. He wanted more. Fine, you'd give him that.
"It's how I met Sam," you tried in vain to reel back your emotions a little. "He and his partner Riley were the ones that pulled her out. Saved her life. They struck up a friendship when he started checking in on her while she was recuperating enough to come home. After Riley died, Sam came back and started doing support groups for veterans. He reached out to her, invited her to the meetings. She went once a week for months. And it seemed to help... for a while. I went with her sometimes, for support, to see what I might be able to do to make things easier. I... I should've gone more. Should've paid better attention. Should've..."
Bucky's right hand on your back silenced the wild babbling he must have heard coming on in your voice. It shocked you to stillness a moment, a warm and unexpected comfort between your shoulder blades that nearly crumbled the already leaky dam trying to hold back your tears. People had tried to console you before, but somehow you felt more solace in this little gesture from him than you had in all the others. Yet, you waited to hear him say what everyone always said. That it wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. And rationally you knew it was true, but that knowledge didn't change the sinkhole in your heart whenever you got to thinking about it too much.
He didn't offer those platitudes, though. Instead, in a low and careful voice, he asked "Were you the one who found her?"
The sobbing, laughing sigh that bubbled out of your mouth was particularly ugly sounding. How absolutely morbid and intimate a question. How absolutely important. Because you knew exactly why he would ask such a thing in such a way. He wanted to know just how bad it was inside your head, how deep the trauma went. Something about it was oddly relieving, in a macabre sense. It was an honest question, concerned and caring in its own odd little way. Bucky was asking you to confide in him. He had trusted you with his quiet pain so many times, how could you offer him any less than you asked of him?
With a slight shake of your head, though nearly enough to make your sloshy head dizzy, you finally gave your strained answer. "No. She, uh... she drove out to a secluded spot. Called 911 and told them where to find her body so no one else would. The chief responded himself. Saw pictures of the car on a cops desk that night at the station. Dunno if I was supposed to, but I did. It wasn't pretty."
You realized your vision had begun to blur, watery, as you felt Bucky's thumb brush ever-so-gently against your back in a small, soothing motion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you let the tears roll down your cheeks silently, trying to gather yourself together with your chin tucked to your chest. After taking a few moments to steady your breathing and push the images from your mind, you eventually let out a soft huff.
"Jeez, what am I doing? I'm supposed to be helping you through your shit, not blubbering about mine," you chuckled darkly, hearing your voice all nasally and full. Swiping a hand quickly at your face and wanting desperately to change the subject, you turned to smile over at him through trembling lips. "Hand to god, I'm not normally a sad drunk. Usually, by now I'd be wanting to dance. I bet you used to dance, huh?"
"I suppose I probably did," he replied thoughtful, light, obviously understanding what you were trying to do, hand sliding from your back to rest behind you on the couch.
"Well, what d'ya say, Buck," you urged with a little sniffle. "Wanna move the coffee table and cut a rug?"
Bucky shook his head gently and gave you an amused smirk. "Even if I could remember every step, maybe now ain't the best time."
"Just as well," you shrugged. The suggestion had been half-hearted as it was. Still, you laughed at yourself, sounding bitter in your own ears. "That's me, though. Always ruining the mood. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why you even come back after your visits with Steve. I can't be helping you much."
"You help," he replied, smirk having fallen. It was that matter-of-fact tone again, gaze distant as he gave a quick glance to his metal fingers dangling between his knees. "You make things a little easier."
Somewhere between the fuzziness of your brain and the fullness in your chest, you found yourself leaning over to press your lips to the stubble of Bucky's cheek in a soft kiss. You held them there for only a heartbeat, yet as you pulled back, he turned his head to face you. There was a shared breath as his gray eyes searched your features, for what, you weren't exactly sure in that moment. But you offered him a small, thankful smile while you retreated from his personal space.
"Think I'm gonna call it a night, Buck," you sighed in exhaustion, lids having grown a bit heavy, limbs loose and weary. Gesturing toward the the boxes, you asked "You gonna stay up and go through these?"
"Yeah," he licked his lips with a nod, brow knitted slightly.
Shouldering against him familiarly to bring his attention back to your face, you wagged a playful finger at him in a mock scold. "If they get to be too much, don't hesitate to wake me up. Okay?"
The corners of his lips quirked up in a tired grin. "You got it."
You nodded with an air of authority as you went to stand. It was too fast. Or you were too drunk. Either way, you promptly felt lightheaded, swaying a little on your feet. Bucky had his right hand up in an instant, fingers gripping into your jeans at your hips to keep you from toppling. With a quick shake of your head, you regained your footing and snorted your annoyance at yourself.
"You gonna make it okay," he questioned, looking up at you concerned. His grip had loosened on you, but his hand had not moved.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," you assured. You patted his hand sloppily until he let you go. "Four or five glasses of scotch on a near empty stomach isn't my brightest move, but I can make it to my bedroom unassisted."
Bucky's head ducked in understanding, but you could still feel his attention at your back, almost as palpable as his hand had been, while you made your way carefully around the couch to the hall. You were sure if you teetered even an instant, he would have been on you like lightning. But you didn't falter again though your brain seemed to slosh a bit as you rounded into the bathroom for a pit stop.
Once back out in the hall, you chanced to see Potato slinking against the baseboard, headed the way you came from. Her eyes turned up to you, leery, as she paused. It took everything not to giggle at what looked like a pouty posture, but you managed to speak in what you hoped was a quiet voice. "Gonna go keep Buck company?"
As was usually the case when talking to the cat, she made a noise in response. This time an almost purring mrrow. Nodding in approval, you let her go on her way and turned for your room. You barely managed to change into your night clothes before you were face first in your pillows.
Groaning, you tried to fight your brain back to sleep. Even through closed lids you could tell it was morning and you squeezed your eyes tighter. Remnants of a dream were clinging to your memory, most of the details already fading away. All you could remember was a busy, sunny beach and Bucky grinning in his dress uniform, hat cocked to one side and paint dark like dirt under his fingernails.
The scotch was a dull ache in your temples when you finally opened your eyes. You had been right about morning, the sun peeking in through the window shades. It didn't seem like you'd moved around at all during the course of the night. The alcohol must have zonked you out good. Rolling over onto your back, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position and paused a moment to let the pounding subside. When your vision focused, you immediately saw your trashcan by the side of your bed where it definitely had not been when you fell asleep. On your bedside table was the jug of water from the fridge, condensation forming on the outside, and the bottle of headache medicine. Propped up between the two of them was that photo of teenaged you doing your chimpanzee impression. And despite the budding hangover, you couldn't help but smile.
