Chapter 22: Grief
"I don't know, Steve, this seems a bit ambitious," Natasha said as she followed Steve into the lounge kitchen carrying the bag with one whole, raw chicken.
Steve carried the other three bags. "Well, this was my suggestion, and I think he took it as a challenge."
They set the bags on the nearest counter. Natasha watched curiously as Bucky, his metal arm reattached, rifled through them and pulled out each item out one by one, inspected it briefly, then set it on the counter. By the time he finished, the kitchen counters were cluttered with onions, olive oil, spices, lemons, chorizo, potatoes, apricots, breadcrumbs, chicken stock, and a bottle of white wine.
"You're just cooking one dinner, right?" Steve said.
"What are you making?" Natasha asked.
Bucky eyed the items cluttering the counter, and a flicker of doubt crossed his features. as if he suddenly feared he'd aimed too high. "Hopefully, lemon roast chicken with chorizo stuffing."
Natasha slid onto a stool. "Sounds good."
"Looks complicated," Steve said.
Natasha gestured to the cheap bottle of white wine. "You know, Tony has a huge wine collection here, much better than this stuff."
"This is for cooking," Bucky explained, rifling through the cabinets and pulling out a roasting pan. "I don't want to accidentally use a $500 bottle of wine."
Bucky set the oven to 350 degrees.
Steve bundled up the plastic bags and set them in a drawer. "So, what can we do to help?"
Bucky set four onions in front of Steve and handed him a knife from the block on the counter. "Start peeling and chopping."
Steve smiled and gave a salute. "Aye, Sir."
Bucky grabbed another knife for himself and spun it in his hand as he turned back to the counter and began chopping the chorizo. Natasha wasn't sure Bucky realized what he'd done. The motion looked automatic.
Natasha watched the speed with which the two men worked. Both were quick and efficient, but the elegance with which Bucky handled the knife displayed just how adept he was in their use.
"Can I be helpful?" she asked.
He finished dicing the chorizo and handed her the lemons, parsley, and apricots.
"Zest the lemons, then cut them in half, and chop up the parsley and apricots." He rinsed the knife and handed it to her, leaning forward as she took it. "Thanks, Natasha."
His voice dropped a bit as he said her name, and there was a glint in his eyes that she answered with the barest hint of a smile. She thought back to the night they'd spent together. He'd been hesitant, slow, and almost too careful—as though worried he might break her.
"Where's your sister?" she asked him.
Bucky looked outside and smiled. "Sam's giving her a tour of the grounds."
Natasha turned to look over her shoulder just as Sam made a pass in the air, carrying one very giddy 90-year-old woman. She was strapped in a harness attached to Sam like a tandem skydiver.
They hovered in front of the window and waved. Natasha, Bucky, and Steve waved back. Becca had a huge smile on her face, then Sam took off again. They could just make out the elderly woman's excited squeal.
-0- -0- -0-
"You cooked all of this?" Sam asked, as he finished a bite of chicken. "It's good."
"Thanks." Bucky offered a smile in return and glanced around at the faces at the table.
Sam, Steve, Natasha, Wanda, and Rebecca were there to try his first attempt at cooking a real meal for anyone other than himself… in a very long time, anyway. Steve was seated on his right, while Becca was sandwiched between Sam and Wanda. Natasha sat near him at the end of the table. Becca had taken a liking to Sam. Bucky wasn't sure if it was the flying thing or Sam's unceasingly cheerful disposition.
"I'm glad you have a prosthetic arm." Becca's gaze was on the vibranium hand jutting out of his long-sleeved shirt. "I've never seen anything like it before. It's beautiful and it looks like it serves you well."
"It is?" He pushed down the anxiety and self-consciousness that arose as he looked down at the artificial hand and absently flexed the fingers. "It does. Courtesy of Tony Stark."
"Oh! Fancy." She grinned as he looked back up at her. "I'm happy you got the best. You deserve it. I'll have to send that man a thank you card and some of my homemade toffee."
He was glad she'd never seen the monstrous chrome arm. He tried to recognize the sister he'd known in her weathered face. Her eyes and smile were the same, but everything else about her was so different from the image in his mind. It felt strange to see the sister who was six-and-a-half years younger than him looking like she could be his grandmother.
"Well, you've certainly come a long way in the kitchen," Becca said after she finished a piece of chicken. "I remember when you tried to make Mom pancakes for her birthday."
Bucky tried to pull the memory from his brain but came up blank. "I don't remember. When was that?"
Becca carefully lifted her wine glass with her impossibly thin right hand and took a sip of her Chardonnay. "I can't remember how old she was turning, but you were 15 or 16, I think, and you tried to make pancakes. The kitchen was a mess, and you burned the first two and filled the apartment with smoke."
Suddenly, it came to him. The smoke. His father frantically opening doors and windows even though it was twenty degrees outside. His sister Ruth teased him relentlessly, then helped him with the rest of the pancakes while Margaret and Becca cleaned up.
"I remember," he nodded, smiling. "The apartment smelled like smoke for the rest of the day. Dad wasn't happy."
Dad. George Barnes. Dark hair, light brown eyes that sometimes looked hazel. Fought in World War I. The only time he'd seen him cry was the day Bucky left for the war.
An ache so profound it stole his breath rose in his chest. He took a quick swallow of wine and blinked against the unexpected heat in his eyes. He felt Steve's arm brush against his as the other man took a sip of wine. He knew Steve had noticed his discomfort and the contact was intentional.
Steve took another sip. "I remember the time we tried to ditch you to go a carnival. We didn't want to take you along, so we snuck out." He winced and gave a chuckle. "I kind of still feel bad about that."
Becca laughed. "I remember. I heard you leave. I grabbed a box of macaroni and ran out barefoot to ask you what you wanted for dinner, since Mom and Dad would be out late."
"You guilted us into letting you come along."
She gave a quick nod. "Damn straight, I did. I was the youngest. I had to fight for everything." She turned to Sam. "Do you have any siblings?"
Sam flashed a smile. "A younger sister, Sarah."
"Well, I had three older siblings, and all I got were hand-me-downs and everyone trying to ditch me all the time."
"Come on." Bucky felt some of the weight lift from his chest, thinking back to those simpler times. "It wasn't that bad. I'm the one who had to live with three sisters. I never got the bathroom. You girls could all be in there together. Sometimes, Dad and I had to go outside to pee… in the snow. We almost got arrested once. And my senior year was hell." He glanced at Steve. "You remember. Ruth was a junior and Margaret a freshman. I couldn't date a girl without one or both of those two getting involved—dishing out dirt or running the girl off if they didn't like her."
Bucky would give almost anything to have those be his biggest problems again.
Steve chuckled, and the sound rang in unison with Becca's laughter.
"I do remember." Steve took a bite of his chicken. "This, by the way," he pointed to the plate with his fork, "is good. Those cooking shows paid off."
"Cooking shows?" Sam looked incredulous. "You watch cooking shows?"
Bucky shrugged. He could deal with whatever teasing Sam wanted to dish out. "Better than the reality stuff on TV I'm still catching up."
Becca looked straight at him. "I want you to come to Indiana and catch up with us. I'll be moving into a care home eventually. I'd like you to come and stay for a while if you can."
"I've got some things here I need to… take care of." Bucky shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Like getting the dormant psycho killer program out of my head, he added silently.
She sighed. "Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you all these years?"
He took a breath. She deserved an honest answer. "No."
An awkward silence hung over the table, then Becca sighed. "Okay." She gave him a sad smile. "I'm just happy you're alive. It's an answer to a prayer I never thought was possible."
Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, not sure how to respond. There was a time, long ago, when he was more comfortable with expressions of emotions—when he gave and received affection easily. Not anymore. He was in Hydra's control longer than he was Bucky Barnes, and those were decades when words sliced like knives through his skull and hands brought pain.
Natasha saved him. "So, Becca," she asked, "what was little Bucky Barnes like as a boy?"
Becca's entire face gleamed with delight. "He's almost seven years older than me, so I mostly remember him as a teenager. He was always brash, a bit full of himself, but he was kind and did well in school. Mom and Dad were proud of him. We girls vexed them more often than not, but Bucky, even though he did the same things we did, seemed to come out of it smelling like a rose."
"Oh, really?" Natasha leaned forward, giving barely a side-eye glance to Bucky. "Like what things. "
Bucky suppressed a groan as he shifted in his seat.
"Oh, you know, typical teenage boy things." Becca finished the wine in her glass and reached for the bottle, but Sam grabbed it and poured her more. She flashed him an appreciative smile and continued. "He'd stay out a bit too late with a girl. Blow money hanging out with Steve. Get into fights. Bucky was always defending Steve because Steve was usually picking fights."
"Picking fights?!" Steve sounded indignant and looked at Bucky. "Is that what you told her?"
"You ran your mouth more than Pee Wee Reese ran bases," Bucky said. "You know it's true, man."
Sam laughed. "Oh, so the truth comes out about Captain America."
"You were a punk." Bucky grinned at Steve.
"How did this become about me all of a sudden?" Steve looked at Becca and said, "You're supposed to be dishing the dirt on him." He jabbed a thumb toward Bucky.
"Classic deflection," Natasha chimed in.
Bucky shot her an unappreciative look.
"I never liked bullies. I only got beat up because I didn't let them run all over me," Steve said.
"Yeah, or anyone else you thought needed help." Bucky shook his head. "Your mouth wrote checks your fists couldn't cash." He tilted his head. "Of course, they can cash them now."
"But I've learned not to run my mouth so much," Steve said with a smile. "I've grown up a bit."
"You don't need to now," Sam chuckled. "Everyone knows you can deadlift a truck, so all you have to do is flex a bicep in one of those too-tight T-shirts."
Becca reached over and squeezed Sam's arm. "You have a decent set of biceps, too, young man."
Bucky saw a hint of red rise in Sam's dark cheeks. His sister was a shameless flirt. The only guy he'd ever seen her flirt with was Daniel Proctor, who she ended up marrying. But here she was, flirting with a guy young enough to be her grandson.
Wanda chuckled and glanced at Natasha, then said, "Well, she isn't wrong."
"Ah, if only I were sixty years younger," Becca said, giving Sam's arm a pat.
Sam gave her his winning smile. "Oooh, I'd be in trouble. I'd end up Bucky's brother-in…" His words trailed off as a horrified expression came over his face.
Bucky glared at the man across from him. "Are you flirting with my sister?"
"She's flirting with me, man," Sam retorted.
Becca waved a hand in the air. "I'm 90 years-old. I can flirt with whoever I want. It's the advantage of growing as old as I am—the freedom to say and do just about anything you want."
"Well, I'm almost 100 years old, and you don't see me…" shit. He remembered Natasha sitting next to him. She didn't count, technically. She'd come on to him.
"Don't see you what?" Natasha asked with an overly sweet smile.
Bucky decided it best to shift the conversation. "Putting the moves on Sam, even with those biceps."
Steve burst into a rare fit of laughter and Sam had the good grace to look even redder.
-0- -0- -0-
When dinner was over, Becca asked to see where he was staying. She'd be leaving in the morning, and this was his chance to spend some time alone with her and hear more about his mom, dad, and sisters. She already told him quite a bit the previous day, but he knew there was much more he'd missed. He wasn't sure whether hearing it all would help or hurt, but he knew if he let the chance slip, he would regret it. Becca wouldn't be around forever.
When they walked in, Becca saw the record player and walked slowly over to it. Her steps were a light shuffle, and Bucky hovered close in case she stumbled. Despite her careful progress, she seemed steady on her feet.
"You still like vinyl records?" she asked him, her hand brushing over the edge of the record player.
"Yeah, but this was here when I arrived." He smiled. "I know it's old-fashioned. The phones and computers these days can play anything."
She looked up at him. "There's nothing like the sound of vinyl."
He couldn't argue with that. "Would you like me to put something on."
"Yes, what do you have?"
He reached down and pulled out the stack of records and sank onto the floor. She remained standing, her hand braced on the cabinet, watching as he leafed through the jackets.
"Elvis," she said. "I used to have such a crush on him. Margaret did, too. My Daniel even got a little jealous."
Bucky grinned. "Were you always this much of a hot cake?"
"James Buchanan Barnes!" She kicked his ankle. "I can't believe you said that. Mom and Dad would turn over in their graves."
He grinned up at her and slipped the Elvis record from the sleeve. "I think you've had too much wine."
"Not at all, and red wine is good for you."
Bucky set the record on the turntable and positioned the needle, then turned on the player. As the music played, they stood near the turntable awkwardly for a moment, then he made his way over to the couch and sank onto the cushion. Becca followed, lowering herself gently next to him.
"Do you like Elvis?" she asked. "You used to love to dance."
He shrugged. "I hadn't gotten around to listening to him yet."
"You've never heard Elvis?"
"Nope."
"How long have you been here?"
He'd mentioned that once before. "A month and a half."
"Oh, right."
He'd told her earlier that he wasn't going to talk about it. He certainly couldn't explain where he was and what he'd been doing the six months he'd been on the run, or the assassination missions he'd been sent on over the past 70 years.
He tilted his head back and listened to Elvis sing about blue suede shoes. He appreciated the reprieve the music provided. The beat was catchy.
"He's good," Bucky remarked. "I've listened to a bit of fifties music. I like it."
"It's my favorite decade for music," she said. "I can't believe you missed so much. How long have you been free…before you came here? You said you were a POW?"
He stared at the ceiling as the song ended and a softer one began. "Becca, please don't ask me questions. I just…can't answer them."
"Will you come visit me in Indiana?"
He sighed. "I'll try."
He heard a hitch in her breath and lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were watering.
"Becca," he leaned forward, "please don't do that. I will. I want to. I just have to work some things out here first."
"I don't understand. I'm your sister. I never imagined that I'd get you back, and yet here you are. I don't have a lot of time left. I just want to get to know you a little bit again."
He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "I'd like that, too. But, I…" He took a breath. "I have issues I need to work on first."
She leaned forward and placed a tender hand on his metal wrist. He stiffened under her touch, but the vibranium limb didn't seem to bother her.
"PTSD?" she asked.
He cleared his throat. "Something like that."
"I don't care."
"I'm not…" He had to give her some basic explanation. He knew she wouldn't understand if he didn't. "I'm not always safe to be around. Sometimes, the stuff in my head gets the better of me. I'm working it out here, with a lot of help."
She nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. They did horrible things to you, didn't they?"
"Yes." A chill ran down his spine.
"The truth can't be worse than what I imagine."
"It is."
Becca looked at him quietly with sorrowful eyes, then placed both hands on the sides of his face. It was an intimate gesture. He still wasn't used to the feel of such a gentle touch. Her skin was cool and thin, her touch feather light.
"You're my big brother," she said. "I've carried you in my heart all these years. I love you, no matter what."
The tenderness in her voice reminded him of his mother. He saw her as the young woman he remembered—spunky, compassionate, smart. The one who followed him around more than the others. The one he'd gotten a black eye defending from David Shannigan.
A pang twisted in his chest, and her fingers brushed his cheeks. Only then did he realize his cheeks were wet. He felt his control slipping, a shiver touched his spine. He took a deep breath.
"Oh, Jimmy, it's okay. You know, Mom never gave up on you. They never found your body, and she set a place for you at the table every Thanksgiving and Christmas."
The image was too much for him. He bent forward, a sob ripping from his gut. Her hand snaked to the back of his neck, and he found himself leaning gently against her shoulder, trying not to hurt her frail body as his shoulders rattled with grief.
-0- -0- -0-
The next morning was goodbye. Bucky, Sam, Steve, Tony, and Natasha were on the launchpad with Becca.
Becca stood in front of Sam, smiling. "Thank you for giving an old lady the time of her life. I never thought I'd live long enough to know what it feels like to fly like a bird."
Bucky couldn't take his eyes away from her. She was the only real family he had left— other than Steve—and the only other person still alive who knew him before Hydra turned him into the Winter Soldier. She was the only person present who didn't know the killer he'd become. He vowed to do everything in his power to make sure she never found out. He wanted her to leave this world with an untainted memory of the man she remembered as her brother.
Sam opened his arms. "Come here, you daredevil." He gave her a fully-body hug, then pulled back and added. "Now, remember to keep in touch. You have my digits."
She nodded. "I'm going to show all my friends back home your photo and make them jealous."
Bucky was sure the two were doing this in front of him intentionally, having fun teasing each other and him. Sam was enjoying making an old woman giddy, and Becca obviously loved using the "90-year-old-lady card" that let her say or do whatever she wanted.
She shuffled to Steve next, leaned in, and gave him a hug. "It's good to see you again, Stevie."
Bucky smiled. He'd almost forgotten that little nickname his sisters had for Steve. The first time he tried it on Steve, he got a punch to the gut that wasn't strong enough to knock any of the wind out of him—though he pretended it did, at least a little.
She walked to him next and looked up with a sad smile. "I'm going to miss you, Jimmy."
Her right arm came up and her palm rested on the side of his face. Her thumb rubbed his stubbled jaw. He covered her small hand with his much larger flesh one.
"I'm going to miss you, too." His throat was tight. The words were barely a whisper. "I'll come see you as soon as I can." He hoped she understood.
She nodded, leaned in, and wrapped her arms around him. He enveloped her in his own.
"I wish Mom was here to see you now. Her hope kept ours alive. It wasn't until after she passed that we all allowed ourselves to accept your death. I'm sorry we gave up on you."
His breath shuddered through him, and he squeezed her as tightly as he dared. "Don't be. I gave up, too."
He couldn't even remember the exact moment he finally lost all hope. Little by little, after each failed attempt to escape, to break free or end his life, hope faded. Weeks of torment turned into months and then into years. The machine, needles, surgeries carved away at him bit by bit.
"You deserve a good life, big brother. Promise me you won't let whatever they did to you stop you from finding one."
"I'll try." It was all he could promise. If the world was really going to end in a little under three years, he hoped she passed away before then.
She lingered against him a few moments longer, then pulled back and wiped at her face. She looked into his eyes and held his gaze. "I don't want to leave. I'm afraid I'll never see you again…that tomorrow I'll wake up and think all this was a dream."
He knew how she felt. So many times in the earlier years after he'd been captured, he dreamt of home, only to wake up in a tiny, dark cell or strapped to a table.
She turned away and moved to Natasha. The redhead gave a warm smile. "Thanks for the stories of Steve and Bucky when they were young." She held out her hand. "You've given me plenty of good material to file away for future use."
Becca ignored the outstretched hand and gave Natasha a hug. "We barely got to know one another, but I hope you don't mind a hug from an old lady. Any friend of my brother is a friend of mine."
Natasha returned the hug. "I'm beginning to understand why Steve cares about him so much." Her eyes flickered briefly to Bucky, and a hint of embarrassment warmed his cheeks.
Bucky walked his sister to the Quinjet and up the ramp, then got her situated in one of the cushioned seats against the wall.
"I can't wait to tell everyone I got a ride in a fancy private Stark jet," she said, giving his cheek another affectionate pat. "Promise me you'll keep in touch, at least, until you can come see me again."
Bucky nodded. "I promise, Becca."
He made his way back down the ramp to the launchpad, then watched the ramp close and the Quinjet lift into the air. In seconds, it was gone. A warm, heavy hand settled on his shoulder. He knew it was Steve—the serum made him run warmer than most.
"You okay?" Steve asked.
Bucky turned to him and gave a half-hearted smile. "Yeah," he said, even though it felt like there was a crater in the center of his chest. "I'm gonna head back to the room, try for some sleep."
Steve nodded. "Okay, buddy."
They walked back inside and Bucky headed downstairs long enough to get rid of the others, then made his way to the gym. It was empty. He was exhausted, but he knew sleep wouldn't come soon. The ache in his chest was growing. He needed to give it release before it consumed him.
He went for a long punching bag. Steve worked out here. Things must be reinforced for super soldiers. He'd find out.
He punched the bag, tentatively at first. Half-heartedly. The dark mass of agony in his chest twisted. He thought of his mother, setting a place for him at the table on Thanksgiving. Christmas. Hoping he'd come home.
He punched the bag harder.
In 1951, she set a place for him at the table. In 1951 he was in North Korea, betraying his country, working for the Soviets, killing people.
He punched the bag again.
In 1959, she set a place for him, not knowing he'd just murdered a young woman and her lover—threats to Hydra.
He kept throwing punches.
1963. She died just after Thanksgiving. Had she set a place for him then, a week after he assassinated the President of the United States?
The things they'd done to turn him into a monster, he'd never get out of his head, even if Shuri and Abodon figured out how to free him of the programming. The horrible, terrible, humiliating, agonizing years…. the cramped cage with the electrified floor where he was forced to stand on one "safe" ten-inch square panel, shoulders hunched because his head hit the ceiling, for days on end, until he couldn't anymore.
"Stoy spokoyno, Soldat!" Stand still, Soldier! The Commander had barked. "Ili skazhi slova i eto konets." Say the words, and this ends.
The words that would earn him release… Hail Hydra. He didn't say them.
His legs trembled. Vertical lines of dark and gray were all he could make out of the bars around him. His eyes stung with sweat and tears. He was so tired. Five days without sleep. He knew this tactic. He'd learned about it in bootcamp. Sleep deprivation. Torture. They were wearing him down. Then, at some point, they'd offer him relief. Make him think they were being kind. Conditioning his brain to know that any good things would come only from them.
When his legs finally gave out, the floor crackled to life with the torment of electricity. He scrambled back to his feet onto the small "safe" square, slamming the top of his head against the cage.
"Stoy spokoyno, Soldat!"
Time slipped away. He began to dream of home, even before he realized he was falling asleep. His mother's blue eyes. Her smile. The smell of banana bread baking in the oven.
The floor slammed into him. The electricity followed.
Bucky pictured the face of that smug Commander. His brown eyes, gray hair, and square jaw. The words they wanted him to say finally slipped from his lips one day in the bitter Siberian cold. He was hanging outside by his wrists, naked, his arms behind his back, weights on his legs. He was so cold. His shoulders and arms were on fire. His right shoulder was dislocated, yanked at an unnatural angle. Night came and went. The words would get him a bed, a warm blanket, hot soup. He told himself to say them. They wouldn't mean anything. Say them before they broke him for real. It didn't mean he believed them.
He hated himself for saying the words. Steve would never have said them.
The Commander was no doubt dead by now. Still, Bucky beat the bag in front of him, punch after punch, until the ache in his chest turned to fire.
"Pozhaluysta, poshchadi moyu doch'" Please, spare my daughter.
The woman's tear-streaked face. Anya Petrov. Her daughter's name was Sophia. She was on her knees, placing her body as a shield in front of her child. The little girl's frightened brown eyes peeked out under her mother's trembling arm.
He raised the gun and put a bullet through the woman's heart. It went straight through to her daughter's head. Blood and brains spattered the wall behind them, and their bodies crumpled, the mother landing on top of her daughter.
The sound of his fist against the bag sounded like the thud of their bodies hitting the wood floor. The fire in chest ripped from his throat. His angry scream filled the gym. His right fist punched a hole into the bag and stuck there. The momentum of the bag as it swung back carried him with it. He slammed into the wall.
Bright, hot rage was all he felt as he yanked his arm out of the bag, wrapped his arms around it, and with a yell, ripped it from the ceiling and threw it toward the far wall.
It sailed two feet past Sam who stood stunned, flinching only when the bag crashed into the wall, cracking it.
"Jesus Christ!" Bucky was shaking, the rage threatening to erupt, other emotions simmering beneath it. "Why the hell are you here?" He snarled.
He'd almost killed Sam. Again. His legs buckled. He was on his knees, struggling to breathe, trembling, trying to keep from falling apart.
"Hey." Sam sank to the floor, crossing his legs nonthreateningly in front of him. "I heard you as I was passing by. I just came to see if… if you were all right. You're not."
"No." He gulped air like a man drowning. "Please go."
"You know, after that day on the freeway bridge, Natasha, Steve, and I were in the back of a black van. I'm pretty sure Hydra was just looking for a good place to kill us and dump the bodies. Steve… all he could think about was you. He told us even when he had nothing, he had you. Later, when we knew he would have to go through you to stop the helicarriers, I told him…." Sam paused and took a deep breath.
Bucky felt compelled to listen. Something in the man's tone captured him.
"What I said was," Sam continued, "I don't think he's the kind of guy you save. He's the kind you stop… I was wrong."
Bucky knew dozens of people who would disagree if they still could. "Don't be so sure."
"I've met you since then. I met the other you from the future. I'm sure."
That piqued his interest. "What was he like?"
"Badass and sad as fuck, but he wasn't the Winter Soldier, anymore. He made a point of letting us know that. He saved a little girl from Hydra agents when a firefight broke out in the streets of Atlantic City. Apparently, we became friends in that other timeline. He flirted with my sister and helped me restore the family boat."
Sad as fuck sounded about right. The comment about the sister struck a chord. "Turnabout's fair play, I guess."
Sam chuckled. "Your sister's adorable, but mine's actually much closer to your physical age. There's no way in hell I'm letting you two meet."
Bucky managed a smile he didn't feel as he tried to get a grip on the swirling mess of emotions battling inside. "Fair enough." He took a breath and pushed himself to his feet. "Listen, Sam…" he met the man's gaze. Now was the best opportunity he'd had so far to give that apology. "About what I said earlier, in the hallway outside of Dr. Abodon's office, when I accused you…"
Sam waved a hand in the air. "You're dealing with some heavy shit. Forget about it."
"I'm sorry." For so much. He choked back a sob.
For not dying before Hydra broke him. For letting them turn him into a killer. For whatever thing was in his brain that allowed him to raise a gun and murder a mother and her child. He folded forward, his arms over his head, desperate to banish the torment of memories. His mother had held out hope for him until she died. If she knew what he became….
"Bucky," Sam began softly, "hey, man, it's about time you let some of this out. I'll be right over here."
Bucky sucked in a breath. "Please, go," he croaked.
Silence lingered for a few seconds, then Sam said, "Okay. But if you ever want to talk about anything, there are a lot of people here who care about you and will listen."
Bucky listened to Sam's retreating footsteps, then the gym door opening and closing. Finally, everything inside him released, filling the room with a tumult of grief and anger.
-0- -0- -0-
The last time Steve had seen Becca, she'd been barely a woman—not quite 20 years old. Now, she was an elderly woman, 90 years old, with more lived experience than Bucky and him combined, even though they were technically older. She had an entire family that Bucky missed out on. He hoped his friend would take Becca up on her offer and get to know his extended family. Steve would give almost anything to have some family left. His parents both died before he joined the army, and as an only child, he was left alone.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, that he didn't register the footsteps as he turned a corner and almost ran straight into Sam.
"Whoa! There you are," Sam said, stopping abruptly, twisting to avoid a collision.
"Sorry, lost in thought." Steve noticed the worried expression on Sam's face. "Something up?"
Sam's large sigh was an answer itself. "Yeah. Go check on Bucky. He could use a friend right now, but tread carefully."
Steve's stomach sank. "Where he is?"
"I left him in the gym."
"Thanks."
By the time Steve got there, Bucky was gone, but a punching bag was on the floor near a cracked wall, bits of multi-colored stuffing jutting out of a hole with pieces strewn on the floor.
"FRIDAY, where's Bucky?"
"Exact location unknown," FRIDAY responded. "One moment…. He entered the stairwell toward the roof approximately three minutes ago."
Steve broke into a run, flying up the stairs and bursting onto the roof. Bucky stood at the edge of the roof, hands in his pockets. He was facing the river, back to Steve, and he didn't turn around even with the clatter Steve made in his arrival.
"Hey, Buck, you okay?"
Bucky looked over his shoulder at him. His eyes were rimmed with red, the skin beneath them puffy. He'd been crying.
He furrowed his brow as he studied Steve. "What's that expression on your face?"
Steve realized the worry he felt must be written all over him. "Just, didn't expect you up here."
Bucky sighed and turned his gaze back to the river. "It's only three stories above ground. I hope you're not worried about that, man. I wouldn't even sprain an ankle."
Steve's shoulders slumped with relief, and he felt foolish. Of course, it was only three stories. Even if Bucky landed the way he had last time, it wouldn't be enough to kill him.
"I just… like the open sky," Bucky continued. "I spent most of the last 70 years in a bunker, a tiny cell, or a cryo chamber. It was always dark, cold, and cramped. Being out here feels… nice."
Steve knew a little about the horrors Bucky had endured during his captivity, but the sheer magnitude of it was almost incomprehensible. Steve wasn't sure he wanted to know everything. Once he knew, he could never unknow, and yet there was a part of him that wanted to hear it all, to know what his friend had lived through. Even if hearing it gave him nightmares for the rest of his life, it was the least he could do. He let the guards on the train get the drop on them, and then he'd left Bucky for dead. By the time he made it back to search, it was too late. While he sat in that war-torn bar trying to get drunk, Bucky was in the hands of the Russians, being operated on, brutalized—the beginning of decades of abuse.
"My mom set a place for me at the table every Thanksgiving and Christmas," Bucky continued, his voice low and sad. "Can you believe that? Becca said Mom never gave up hope since they didn't find a body." His voice cracked on the last word, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "It would've killed her before her time if she found out what I became."
"Your folks loved you, Bucky. Nothing could change that. I'm sure they're looking down at you now, and…"
Bucky looked over at him. "I hope not." He bit his lower lip and his eyes grew dark. "The thing that keeps me from falling apart completely is that they never found out. They thought I died a hero. I hope they weren't watching everything that Hydra did to me, everything that I did."
God…Steve closed his eyes, his brain bringing up the page in the Red Book that clinically diagramed the metal filaments forced into Bucky's brain.
Bucky took a hard breath. "I stopped believing in God somewhere along the way. I'm not sure when. I prayed in the beginning. After so many unanswered prayers, I just stopped believing. My victims prayed sometimes—the ones that saw me coming. If there is a higher power, it can't seem to be bothered with us. So, I hope this is all we have, and when we die, it's a just a big Nothing. No Hell. No Heaven. No afterlife. Suffering has to end sometime. Eternity is too much to bear."
Steve couldn't think of a damn thing to say. The anguish in Bucky's voice lingered in the space between them, and Steve felt helpless in the wake of those raw, honest words. He let the silence reign, his eyes focused on the glistening current in the river below.
"This is a nice view," he said finally. "I can see why you came up here."
"Do you know if Becca was still alive in that future you visited?" Bucky asked.
"No, I don't."
"I hope she never found out about the Winter Soldier."
"I don't know if she did."
Bucky took a deep breath of the crisp air. "Sam told me what you said after you and I fought on the bridge… that even when you had nothing, you had me."
A lump of emotion lodged in Steve's throat at the memory. The brutal shock of that day was still a fresh memory. "It's true."
Bucky turned to face him. "I know how that feels. If I'd killed you that day on the helicarrier, I'd be dead, too. I couldn't have lived with it." His chin quivered. "Please don't die on me, Steve."
"Oh, hell," Steve moved forward and pulled his friend into a hug. "I'll do my best."
Bucky's hold was almost crushing, his chin resting on Steve's shoulder. "I know I'm a yuck for saying this, but I don't think I can get through this without you."
"End of the line. I meant it." Steve said, pulling back to look Bucky in the eye. "Whatever's coming, we'll deal with it together."
