In case you've ever wondered how much emotional devastation I can cram into one chapter...here's this.
Chapter 38: Six Months Away
They made good use of the camera and notecards. Steve wrote him something nearly every day, and he found it on the table when he came home from soccer. Most of them were various permutations of "I love you" but sometimes he'd include a quote he saw that day or an anecdote about whatever weird shit the neighbors were up to. They also took to playing an extended game of "How awkward a picture can I sneak of my husband?" Steve didn't quite have the stealth that Bucky did, so Bucky's collection of snapshots grew faster than Steve's. His personal favorite was catching the instant Steve saw him with the camera and threw his sketchbook at him. All of the moments they captured they placed in the album along with the notes, for Bucky to keep forever.
He stopped working on his autobiography, choosing to spend his free time with Steve instead. It didn't feel right to try to publish his life story as it evolved before his eyes. Bucky didn't know if he'd ever finish it, now that the tragedy that would etch itself into his history loomed so near in the future. He didn't want to set that to paper until he had time to process it, and he had no idea how long that might take. Maybe he'd simply write up to Steve's BOS diagnosis and end the story there. It felt wrong to give his published life story a false happy ending, but whatever. That was a problem for another day.
Steve brought up the cat conversation again, the one they'd had back when Jim's previous dog died. Back then, it had seemed like an event so far out on the horizon, but now they were sailing right to that edge. Bucky promised that he would get a cat after Steve left. That was a promise he knew he could keep.
One weekend in January, Parker asked if he and MJ could come visit. Bucky found that somewhat suspicious, considering they'd just seen each other two weeks ago at Christmas. He asked Steve if he'd be up for it, and of course he enthusiastically agreed. Steve never felt better than he did in the wake of one of their friends coming to visit.
The Weavers arrived on Saturday afternoon, and Bucky could instantly read on Parker's face that he had something important to share. He'd never been a proficient liar or secret-keeper. MJ denied Bucky's request to take her coat, insisting she was chilly. Bucky didn't believe her. Steve already had so little meat left on his bones that he was always cold, so they kept the heat turned up to nearly scorching. If Steve shared these suspicions, he didn't let on.
"How are you guys?" Parker asked innocently enough.
"Still buzzing from Christmas spirit," Steve replied with a fond smile.
"Yeah, I don't think I'll ever forget that Christmas," Parker agreed.
"Me neither," Bucky said. He certainly didn't ever want to.
The conversation stalled. Not much conversation-worthy had happened in the past two weeks. The lull only increased Bucky's suspicions. Steve got right to the point. "What brings you two up here?"
"We, um…have some news to share," Parker began.
"We didn't want to say this in front of everybody at Christmas," MJ continued.
"Because we didn't want to make it about us."
Bucky wondered if they'd ever actually get to the point. MJ answered his question when she blurted out, "I'm pregnant."
He and Steve both stalled like a lagging webpage. It took a solid thirty seconds for the news to sink in. "That's amazing," Bucky uttered. Not too long ago, he and Steve had talked about one day becoming uncles, and he couldn't wait to—oh no. The news finally sank in for real. MJ wasn't even showing yet, at least not enough that a simple coat couldn't cover it. Depending on when the baby arrived, Steve might already be long gone. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he couldn't even tell if they were of joy for Parker and MJ or sadness for Steve.
Clearly, Steve was thinking the same thing. He asked with a grave seriousness, "When are you due?"
"June sixth," MJ said.
That was six months away. There was no guarantee Steve could make it that long. Even if he did, he'd only be able to stay for the first few weeks or months of the baby's life. Certainly not enough to solidify himself in their memory. Without an impossible miracle, he'd be known to this baby only in photos and stories.
"Do you know if it's a girl or a boy?" Steve asked.
"It's a girl," Parker answered. "And…we've already decided on a name. We want to name her after people who've touched our lives, so…we decided to call her Carol May."
"Parker, that's amazing," Bucky said.
"I can't think of any name more beautiful," Steve agreed.
"Thanks." Parker's nervousness evaporated into a purely joyous smile. "We're really excited."
Steve latched onto Bucky's sleeve. "I want to meet her," he announced.
"I really hope you get to," MJ said. Nobody mentioned the frailty of that hope. It was too sad to dwell on in the face of such happy news. They spent the next hour talking about nursery designs. Steve promised he'd draw them a cute picture they could frame. Parker and MJ promised they'd send pictures once they got it painted and decorated. Bucky allowed himself to get excited and ignore the relentless onslaught of what ifs.
After the Weavers left, Steve turned to Bucky with a familiar glint in his eye. "I'm going to meet that baby. I have to."
Bucky didn't know what to say. Six months was…a long way away, and if he'd learned anything in the past three years, it was that chronic rejection never followed a predictable timeline. His lack of a response must have indicated his nonexistent confidence. Steve's determination crumbled into desperation.
"Bucky, I have to. She's Parker's kid, she's Carol. I—I can't miss this." Tears tumbled down his face as his breaths shortened into little more than shallow, panicked gasps.
"Okay," Bucky said, because how could he not? What was he supposed to say?
"Bucky, please." Steve grabbed him forcibly by the shoulders and, with a strength Bucky thought long gone, wrenched him around so they faced each other. Bucky gulped, fighting back tears as Steve's glistening blue eyes implored him to listen. "I have to meet her. Please…please don't let me die before then." He wrapped his arms around Bucky and buried his face in his chest. Bucky collapsed under the weight of him and all he'd just asked for.
It's not up to me.
Bucky couldn't guarantee Steve would make it six months. He couldn't keep him alive through sheer force of will. If he could, he'd never die, at least not until Bucky did. Steve was asking him—begging him—to do this, and he couldn't. Bucky couldn't grant what very well might be his husband's last request.
"Steve…" he began, floundering for what he could possibly say that wouldn't devastate them both. "Steve, I don't know what to tell you." Truthful, but certainly not helpful. "You know I'd never make a promise I can't keep, and this…this is out of my hands. It's your fight, Steve, always has been. As much as I wish I could, I can't fight it for you."
Steve's cries turned to rasping coughs, but when he finally got his breath back, he asked, "Will…will you fight it with me?"
"'Til the end of the line."
Whenever that might be.
~0~
Six months was a long time. Steve had no idea if he could make it that long, but he was determined as hell. If history was any indication, when Steve was determined as hell, he got what he wanted. Yet even Steve's determination couldn't halt the relentless onslaught of chronic rejection.
His oxygen prescription changed from only as needed to sixteen hours a day, then eighteen, then twenty, and by March he needed it constantly. Every knob of his spine now stuck out, when they used to be padded with muscle and a healthy amount of fat. It made lying on his back uncomfortable even on a soft mattress, but he couldn't sleep lying flat anyway because it made it harder to breathe. After the third night in a row that he woke Bucky by rousing with a gasp from a breathless sleep, he relocated to the second bedroom. The room he'd chosen to die in.
Sleeping separately proved more difficult than he'd ever anticipated. Steve didn't recognize just how much he'd come to rely on Bucky's presence to fall asleep, and now without his warmth, he found it difficult. Bucky felt the same. He wanted Steve to come back to their room. They argued about it for days.
"Bucky, lots of people do this when their spouse is terminally ill. It helps ease the transition. You'll get used to sleeping without me now, and it won't be as much to cope with all at once when I die."
"And I'm worried that you're going to die in there, and I'll be so far away that I won't be there until it's too late."
"I'm not just going to suddenly drop dead," Steve insisted.
"But the thing is—yes you are! You could stop breathing in your sleep and I wouldn't know until I checked on you the next morning and found a corpse!"
Steve couldn't argue with that. So they compromised. He wore a pulse ox to bed, one wirelessly connected to a monitor in Bucky's room that would sound an alarm if his pulse deviated too far from his norm or if his oxygen sats dipped too low. Steve didn't like that it made him feel like being in the hospital, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Bucky's peace of mind.
They had to get a shower chair because standing long enough to actually get clean, even while wearing oxygen, made him too short of breath. Bucky asked his teammates who used them which brands they preferred to help make the decision. Steve was happy with it. Though it represented his decline, it also allowed him to continue doing this task independently. And the list of things he could do by himself was rapidly shortening. Even cooking drained his meager energy reserves.
His PFTs and x-rays looked progressively worse at each appointment. The doctors estimated he had maybe a few months. "Will I make it to meet Carol May?" he asked every time. They never gave him a confident yes or no. He knew they couldn't, but it would've been nice to hear. Steve knew it was getting close, but he didn't understand just how close until his mother called him one Wednesday in late March and told him that they were going to look at burial plots that weekend.
"I know it seems early, but I just want to be prepared," she explained.
"No, I get it. It's a good idea. Let me talk to Bucky, and I'll let you know."
That was going to be a fun conversation. He deliberated for two days how to tell him, and finally spoke up the day before they were due to visit the cemetery.
"Bucky, I, uh…I need to talk to you about something," Steve announced.
"Yeah?" He sounded concerned. Rightfully so.
"My parents want to…" Steve hesitated, still unsure of the least morbid way to word this. "They want us to go with them to…to choose a burial plot."
Bucky visibly tensed. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
"But…that's so soon. We don't…you don't need it yet."
"I know, I know. They just want to be prepared, stay on top of things so they're not blindsided when…when it does happen."
"I guess that makes sense. And…I'm invited too?"
"Yeah, of course. Frankly, this sort of thing matters more for you than it does for me." Steve would spend the majority of his time there dead; it was Bucky and his parents who'd see the place alive. Mom already knew which cemetery she wanted: the one associated with her church, and Steve agreed when she proposed it. How could he say no? As she reminded him, she and Dad would one day rest there too. His only reservation was worrying that Bucky wouldn't want him to be too far from this home.
"Yeah, I guess it does," Bucky said, voice barely audible. If just discussing it muted him this drastically, Steve dreaded what actually browsing the cemetery would bring.
~0~
They stood at the entrance, Steve with an oxygen tank slung over his shoulder, flow already cranked a bit higher than his at-rest dosage in anticipation of all the walking. Nowadays, he couldn't make it farther than one end of the house to the other without growing short of breath. His parents stood on either side of him, Dad with a map showing available plots and Mom with her hand wrapped tightly around Steve's. Bucky stood a few paces behind. Steve would've preferred him by his side, but he didn't dare kick his parents out of the spots they'd claimed. Everyone was far more sensitive than in any other circumstances, and he didn't want to cause any emotional breakdowns if he could avoid it.
They started on the path, passing countless stones engraved with names, dates, epitaphs, and drawings. Most had a cross on them somewhere. Steve found himself doing mental math with each stone they passed. Eighty-one. Seventy-eight. Ninety. Seventy-five. Sixty-three. Eighty-four. All decades older than he'd ever live to be. A small flame of rage ignited behind his solar plexus.
"There's a bunch here," Dad announced, pointing to a fairly empty swath of land back by a thick hedge.
"No," Mom said. She pointed to the hedge. "I don't want to think about the sorts of critters living in there."
They moved on. Dad suggested another spot which Steve vetoed because it was near another stone bearing the name, "Pierce." They probably weren't related, but it still gave him bad vibes. Mom nixed the next because it was too far from the path. And the one after that because it was too close. Steve knew this wasn't anyone's preferred social outing, but Bucky's silence worried him. He hadn't said a word since they set foot here. Steve let his parents keep going and fell into step beside his husband.
"You okay?"
Bucky shoved his hand in his pocket and shrugged.
"Yeah, this…this sucks. Sorry my mom's being so high-strung."
"'S fine."
"They're both under a lot of stress." Steve paused. Bucky said nothing. "You know you get a say in this too, right? You might not be buried here, but you might visit sometimes."
Bucky stopped in his tracks and lifted his gaze from the path in front of him. He met Steve's eyes with a mix of shock, dismay, and betrayal in his expression. The cemetery fell silent but for his parents' distant footsteps and the puffing of his oxygen.
"What are you talking about?" The words came out slowly, pointedly, his tone low and dangerous.
"Sorry," Steve began. "I know you'll visit. I just…am not ready to picture that yet, so I said it as…a hypothetical."
"Shut up."
Steve stopped talking, breathless from such a long sentence. Bucky still seethed. At a loss, Steve waited for Bucky to have the next word.
Bucky took a deliberate breath. "What do you mean…I might…I might not be buried here?" The last four words came out a crackling plea.
"Oh. Well, I just thought, you've got decades ahead of you."
"Don't remind me," he muttered.
Steve continued, pretending that comment didn't rend his heart in two. "You might meet someone, and one day want to be buried next to them."
"Fucking hell."
Steve knew to expect everyone around him to be more volatile as his time ran out and emotions ran high, but he didn't understand why Bucky was so mad at him. They both knew that Bucky's life would continue long after Steve's, and Steve was well aware of the fact that life might include another significant other, even another spouse. He would never demand Bucky remain alone in his widowhood out of respect for the dead or whatever. Steve wanted him to find happiness again, despised the thought of him wasting away in his grief for half a century.
"You're not even dead yet and you're already thinking about me replacing you? Just how shallow do you think I am?"
"Not at all!" Steve thought quite the opposite. Bucky's loyalty ran deeper than anyone else he knew, and that's what terrified him. "You will never replace me, I know that, because I could never replace you. But Bucky, you don't seriously expect to live the rest of your life single, do you? You don't think I expect that of you?"
"I expect to miss you," he said flatly. "And to find comfort in knowing that I'll get to lie next to you again. Whether or not I lie with another person before then is inconsequential."
Steve's heart felt like it hammered to a stop in his chest. Bucky was already pre-grieving. How many hours in the last few years had he spent thinking about ways to comfort himself in the aftermath? Probably most of them. Lately, Steve had been so busy thinking of all the ways Bucky would move on that he forgot to remember he needed ways to move with.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I shouldn't have assumed what you wanted to do, especially when it comes to something as…permanent as this. If this is where you want to be buried…" and God, those words stung, even though he spoke of a distant eventuality; Steve suddenly gained a whole new perspective of just how awful being here for this reason must've been on his entire family. "…that's fine with me. More than fine, actually. I think…I'd probably be lonely without you," he concluded.
Bucky collapsed against him with such force he nearly pulled them both to the ground. "I'll be lonely without you," he murmured. Steve couldn't do anything about that. He let Bucky cry and remained latched onto him for as long as he needed, and waved off his parents when they approached with a thick air of concern about them.
Eventually, Bucky let go and dried his eyes. "Will you help choose a place?" Steve asked simply. "For both of us?"
Bucky nodded.
