Chapter 10: The Cabin
"Use the walker!" Sam insisted as he trotted ahead of Bucky and unlocked the cabin door.
"I don't need that damn thing." Bucky walked slowly but steadily over the uneven ground. "I told you not to bring it."
Sam deposited the bags just inside the door and took a look at the tiny interior. Steve's cabin was bare-bones, with a wood-burning stove in the far corner, a matchbox kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, metal sink, a few cabinets, a three-drawer chest, a loft with a bed, and a single first-floor living area with a sofa and small coffee table. An open doorway in the far wall showed a compact bedroom filled almost wall-to-wall with a queen-sized bed.
Sam took a breath. The next few days were going to be interesting. "Please tell me there's a bathroom inside?"
Bucky hobbled through the cabin door and looked around, then pointed to a doorway barely visible in a cubbyhole off the living room. "There."
"I'm glad it's summer. I wouldn't want to be hunkered down here during the winter. Why the hell couldn't he get a place with electricity?"
"The point is to be off the grid," Bucky said, his right arm wrapped around his side as he made his way to the dusty couch and, with a sigh, eased onto it. "There are solar panels on the roof, enough to power the refrigerator and an outlet." He waved a hand. "The outlet will be live once you turn on the power."
Sam scanned the place again. "I don't see a refrigerator."
"It's a small one behind one of the cabinet doors," Bucky replied.
"Well, that'll be helpful. I'll be right back. I'm going to grab the cooler."
Sam ran back to the car, pulled the large cooler out of the back seat, then raised his car's key fob and clicked the lock, hearing the beep! beep! He suddenly realized how unnecessary it was to lock anything out here. Trotting back inside, he dropped the cooler on the floor, closed the door, grabbed a couple of pill bottles and a bottle of water from the pack on the floor, then went to the wood chair near the couch and gave it a quick dust-brush-off with his hand before sitting down.
"Nice place," he said.
Bucky's lip curved into a lopsided smile. "I slept in a hut in Wakanda, a bunker in Siberia, this isn't bad at all." Bucky eyed the pill bottles. "I don't need those."
Sam sighed. "The doctor said not to let your pain get away from you, and since you still have a lot of donor blood in your system, you're not going to be able to rely on that supersoldier pain tolerance." He held the bottles and water out. "You're grumpy when you're in pain. Grumpier, anyway, so take these for my sake if not your own."
Bucky rolled his eyes and took the bottles, popping one pill from each and downing them with a gulp of water. "Thanks." He set the water bottle on the side table, which was coated with a fine layer of dust.
Sam gave the place another once-over. When was the last time anyone had occupied the cabin? "We really need to clean this place up."
Bucky tilted his head back and closed his eyes. "Yeah. Doc says I have to take it easy, though." The edges of his mouth twitched upward for a split second.
Asshole. Sam glared, even though the look was lost on Bucky. "Yeah. Guess I'll be your maid."
"Cinderella, more like it." Bucky smiled as he kept his eyes closed.
"Funny, but, yeah, that's me for the next week or so, and I'll even cook for you. I tried your cooking once, and that was one time too many." Bucky hadn't cooked a single meal for over 70 years, so it wasn't surprising his culinary skills took a hit, assuming he ever had any.
When Bucky didn't respond to the dig, Sam leaned forward and studied the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest. The road trip had been a long one, and once they'd gotten to the rural roads, it had been bumpy. Bucky hadn't complained, but Sam knew the jostling had to be painful.
It was too early for the pills to be kicking in. At least Bucky was getting rest and, hopefully, the pills would keep him out for a few hours. That position, though, with his head tilted back….
Ouch.
He should probably wake Bucky up and get him repositioned. Probably. But he'd wait a bit, maybe do some dusting in peace first. A half an hour or so in that position wouldn't hurt the man too much.
Sam pushed to his feet and opened the door to let the dust out once he started cleaning, then rifled as quietly as he could through the cabinets until he found a pile of old rags. There weren't any cleaning supplies, so he tried the faucet. To his surprise, after a brief rattle, water flowed. Bucky had said there was a well, but Sam hadn't seen it driving up. He had seen a large propane tank, however. That must be what fueled the kitchen stove.
Wetting the rag, he set to work dusting every surface until the place was as spic and span as he could get it with the limited supplies. It had taken several re-rinses in the sink but, as he surveyed his handiwork, he had to admit he'd done a good job. The place didn't look half bad.
The only thing left to dust was the sofa, and that would have to wait. At the moment, Bucky was sprawled on it, snoring softly, his mouth open, a dab of drool in the corner of his mouth.
Sam pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo, grinning as he returned the device to his rear pocket.
He decided to let Bucky sleep a bit longer while he worked on putting together a late lunch. The small refrigerator couldn't hold much, but he managed to stuff a case of beer and the lunchmeat and cheese in it. The small freezer compartment just barely held the steak he'd brought with ambitions of grilling.
Not that he'd seen a grill or expected one, but he had a vision of cooking caveman style over a fire pit…which reminded him of the spices. He reached into one of the packs and brought out the fancy steak seasoning he'd picked up on the way.
They were refined cavemen, after all.
A grunt, thud, and a muttered "Fuck" had him spinning around. Bucky was on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, clutching his side, curled inward. Sam hadn't even heard his friend stir.
"Shit, man." Sam was at Bucky's side in seconds, crouching down. "Nightmare?"
Through gritted teeth and forced breaths, Bucky nodded.
"I hope you didn't pull any stitches. I should've woken you and had you change positions, lay down. Sorry. I thought about it."
Bucky's breathing steadied and he uncurled, rolling slowly onto his back. "You're not seriously apologizing for this, are you?"
Sam moved the coffee table out of the way and held his hand out. The vibranium hand wrapped around his while Bucky used his right arm to brace against the couch as Sam helped him gently into a sitting position.
"I'm your nursemaid for the next week or so," Sam said, trying for a light tone. "I take my job seriously."
Bucky flashed a look that Sam couldn't quite interpret. "I appreciate you being here and helping me, but I'm a hundred and seven years old, and I've had worse than this."
Really? "Worse than being skewered alive sideways?"
"Yeah."
Shit. The fall from the train when Bucky lost the arm, Sam hoped, because he didn't want to think what else might be worse than becoming shish kabob. "Okay, but we all need help once in a while." Sam sank onto his butt. "What's going on with you man? Why are you so determined to push everyone away?"
Bucky's tongue worked the inside of his cheek as he stared at the open front door. A gentle breeze wafted inside, glinting on the airborne dust particles. "I'm living an overextended life. You said it yourself."
"Geez, do you listen to everything I say?"
Freaky Magu. Cyborg. He killed just about everyone he ever met. Sam made a mental note to be more mindful about the words that came out of his mouth. Bucky had one hell of a memory, and though he came off stoic, Sam knew there was always a lot going on beneath the surface.
"You know I'm just messing with you most of the time, right?" Sam added. "Will you tell me where your head is at? I read your latest journal," he held up a hand at Bucky's irritated glance, "and I'm not sorry. What were you doing? Trying to save more lives than you'd taken as the Winter Soldier? Free people being used as slaves? Until someone killed you…and that's why you left the arm. You were on a suicide mission. Am I wrong about any of this?"
Bucky took a moment before answering, his gaze distant. "I didn't have a death wish, if that's what you think, but, yeah, I wanted to shift the balance of my life. I can't erase the lives I've taken, but I can even out the ledger. Hydra did this to me—gave me the serum, trained me—so why not use it for good? Fighting is all I've done for almost 90 years. I don't know how to do anything else."
"Ninety?"
"Even before the War, I was fighting off bullies and boxing." He shrugged. "They gave me a pardon, sent me to therapy, but what's after that? I'm trying to figure it out, and it's harder than I imagined it would be."
Finally, something familiar to Sam. It echoed the words of so many war veterans—men who had often served a decade or two, sometimes less. Not 70-plus years, and most of that involuntary.
It wasn't a surprise Bucky was having a hard time adjusting to civilian life and figuring out what he wanted to do. He'd had no choices for 70 years, and now suddenly, he was dropped into modern society, given a pat on the shoulder by the legal system, and told to stay out of trouble.
Bucky had no support network, and his only real friend disappeared to live the dream. Sam had seen too many traumatized veterans take their own lives even with a strong support system.
"What do you want to do?" Sam asked.
With a shake of his head, Bucky looked at him. "That's the problem." He took a deep breath, wincing slightly from the movement. "Sam, I just don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with this overextended life of mine. I can't have a normal relationship or a job or the life that Steve went back for. The Winter Soldier legacy follows me. I cut my hair, cover up the arm, and most people don't recognize me…until they see the arm or I tell them my full name. No one, not even you, is 100% sure I won't just snap one day." He gave a pained, lopsided smile. "Not even the Wakandans." He raised his arm. "Hence, the secret failsafe to detach the arm." A hard chuckle escaped, followed by another wince. "To be honest, I can't blame anyone. Sometimes, I wonder too. Can I ever really be normal after everything they did to me, everything they made me do? And," his voice cut out for a moment, "they did a lot."
That was most Bucky had opened up since Sam had known him, and the significance wasn't lost on Sam. Bucky trusted him enough to be honest and vulnerable. Bucky wasn't one to trust easily…another side effect of Hydra.
Sam took a moment to collect his thoughts before he responded. Words were important. What could he offer that wouldn't sound trite or hollow? He didn't want to say the wrong thing again because if he did, he could lose the trust he'd gained, and Bucky would shut down.
"There aren't any easy answers, Buck," Sam said finally. "I said before that you have to do the work, and I meant that, but about you being of service to Winter Soldier Victims…that can be re-traumatizing, for you and for them. I'm sorry I didn't think about that before. You don't owe anyone anything. No matter what I say or what Dr. Raynor encouraged you to do—with making amends—the truth is, and this is one hundred percent the truth—you don't have anything to make amends for. You did nothing wrong. You had no choice in the things Hydra made you do. You were a victim, just as much as those you killed as the Winter Soldier. Steve was right when he said it wasn't you doing those things. He wasn't wrong about you…don't think I didn't register that nugget during our little couples session with Raynor. Steve knew you better than anyone, and he was right about you from that day on the bridge. He told me you'd remember him, and you did. I was right about one thing, though. You have to stop looking to other people to tell you who you are, including me, Dr. Raynor, the media, or some random asshole you meet on the street…including, and I know this is going to be a hard one, the victims of the Winter Soldier."
Bucky was staring into space, but Sam knew he was listening.
"About what you're supposed to do with your life," Sam continued, "no one can tell you that except for you, and, yeah, I know how hollow that sounds. Things aren't going to be easy, and it's probably going to take you a while to figure out your place in the world, now that you have your freedom and choices. Thanos wasn't that long ago, and then you had the legal mountain of crap to deal with. Give yourself time, man. Look how far you've come in just the past year. Hell, to this day, I'm still amazed at how far you came all on your own, after you pulled Steve out of the river, disappeared, and kept me running circles around the globe looking for your ancient ass. I wasn't even sure if you'd try to kill me if I found you."
Ah, the things he'd done for Steve.
"Ninety-ten chance."
"Which is the ninety?" Sam asked.
Bucky gave a weak smile. "Depends on when you might've found me."
"Great." Sam tried to imagine how that meeting might have gone. Would he have ended up being throat-tossed against a solid object that time? He punched Bucky lightly in the thigh. "So, after you heal, are you going to head back out hunting human traffickers like a one-armed avenging angel, because if you are, I'm coming with you."
"I'm going to take some time here," Buck said, sweeping an arm around the cabin. "It's quiet, but, yeah, I found a sense of purpose for a few months. I know what it's like to be a…slave. Helpless. No one came for me because they didn't know I was alive, and it's the same for the victims of human traffickers, except this time I can help them."
"We can help them," Sam corrected.
Bucky gave one of the shy smiles that transformed his face into pure innocence. "Okay, we."
"I still don't think you should have given away all that money. And anonymously? Crap, at least get the credit."
"It would have cheapened it if I did it to get the credit."
"I saw the news. Everyone pretty much suspects the anonymous donations to the Winter Soldier victims and the cashier's checks sent to the San Francisco girls are you. The media finally picked up on the cross-country, one-armed, super-strong rogue Avenger."
"I'm not an Avenger."
"You sure?" Sam grinned and pushed to his feet. "I'm going to make us something to eat." He held out his hand. "You need help?"
Bucky looked at the hand for a moment as though he were going to brush it off, then sighed and nodded, grabbed Sam's wrist and used his other to push against the couch and ease upright.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Bucky said, then shuffled out of the room like an old man.
Sam finished unloading their food and supplies from the bags. He brought too much junk food, like the three bags of chips and a dozen energy bars, but better safe than starving. The nearest grocery store was 20 miles away.
First aid kit in hand, he opened one of the kitchen drawers to stuff it inside but found it already occupied by a metal box. White masking tape was stuck to the top, with "Bucky" handwritten in black marker.
-0- -0- -0-
Bucky stood in front of the mirror and inspected the incision across his abdomen. The stitches were just under the skin. They weren't visible and wouldn't need removal, but everything looked as it should. Hopefully, he hadn't popped anything during his tumble off the couch.
He folded the waistband of his sweats down to avoid irritating the incision, then scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and the face staring back at him looked…old, with crow's feet and a furrow between his brows.
Maybe he looked older because he didn't have the full effects of the serum, or maybe he looked older because…he was getting older physically, not just chronologically.
He didn't know his precise physical age, but if he remembered all his time out of cryo accurately, he'd put himself at 40ish. Some of the dates were fuzzy—repeated freezing and memory wipes had taken their toll—but just looking at himself, he figured late 30s, at least.
He'd lived a hard life, and that was evident on his face. Sometimes, when he stared into the mirror, he remembered the young man he used to be. He missed that guy. Sometimes, he even mourned that guy.
He wasn't yet comfortable in his own skin, but with time, he hoped he'd get there…when there was more distance between James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. When the nightmares were fewer and he'd built a bigger cache of new memories. Memories not about handlers, assassinations, and mission reports. Hopefully good memories. He really needed to work on that.
Padding back into the living room, he saw two plates with chips and sandwiches along with a beer and a glass of water on the coffee table. Water. Right. Because of the meds. He was pretty sure his moderately enhanced system could withstand combining meds and a beer. Could he get drunk now? That might be something worth testing out later.
As he walked further into the room, he saw a metal container about the size of a shoebox perched on the arm of the chair.
"Thanks for lunch," Bucky eased himself onto the couch as he grabbed the box, noting the masking tape scrawled with his name, in Steve's handwriting. He looked up at Sam. "What's this?"
Sam shrugged. "I haven't opened it. I found it in the kitchen drawer."
There was a button on the front. Bucky pressed it, a latch unclicked, and the top popped up a crack. He lifted the lid, revealing a square, blue envelope and a long, white envelope, both addressed to him.
He opened the white envelope first, pulled out one sheet of paper, and unfolded it to see Steve's handwriting again.
Bucky,
I'm glad we had a chance to talk before I left. I know you wished I'd stayed, but I also know you would never ask. This is something I need to do.
I meant it when I said I'm with you 'til the end of the line. I didn't see this as a possibility when I said those words, and I hope you understand this is something I need to do, for more reasons than one.
I wish you had agreed to come with me, even though with what I'm planning, it would be…awkward.
I've thought about this ever since I realized time travel was possible. Seeing Peggy with the photo of me before I took the serum was the final push.
I can't go back and live a happy life in the past knowing what would be happening to you. I couldn't sit by and let things play out the way they did. End of the line means something.
Bucky's eyes stopped over the last few words. He knew what they meant. What had Steve done? When he had gone searching, and where? Siberia? One of the Winter Soldier's missions? Was he successful and, if so, at one point was that James Barnes rescued?
Because it wasn't him. He was never rescued. He understood the basics of Bruce's explanation. It was impossible to change our pasts. Any significant changes in the past would create a new timeline.
"What is it?" Sam asked.
Bucky glanced at him, shook his head—he couldn't muster an answer just yet—and dropped his eyes back to the page.
Things may not work out. I'm not sure if I'll create a new timeline or if there's any way I'll be able to see you and Sam again, say goodbye, and pass on the shield. I have an idea about how to do that with the quantum GPS if things end up happening too differently. I've taken extra Pym particles just in case.
Sam's a good man. Give him a chance. Be his friend. Let him be your friend. Find a way to be happy. If you can't, I've left something for you. You'll know the spot when you see it. It's one of the reasons I bought this property.
Goodbye, Bucky…for now.
Bucky gripped the page tighter. Goodbye, Steve. His eyes grew hot, and his vision blurred. He wiped quickly at his face.
"Hey, you okay?"
Bucky kept his gaze low as he handed Sam the letter and opened the blue envelope. It held photos, encased in plastic. When he unwrapped the photos, the top one caught his breath.
The image was slightly worn but still in surprisingly good condition. Steve was smiling, a toddler in his right arm, a vaguely 1950s look about his wardrobe. The man next to him with the cocky grin was unmistakable, right arm slung over Steve's shoulder and the left one… still attached and looking normal.
"Holy shit," Sam whispered.
Bucky flipped the photo over. The date on the back read 'July 4, 1952.'
There were three other photos. 1945, Bucky with his folks, in uniform, medals on his chest. 1973, Bucky with a terrible, shaggy hair cut, tight pants, bell bottoms, giving an irate look to the photographer. A woman he didn't know stood next to him, arm wrapped around his waist. Peggy was in the background, a mischievous smile on her face.
The last photo was taken in 2014. An old man sitting in a plaid chair, but the eyes and the smile were both familiar.
So, that's what I'm gonna look like when I'm old.
The envelope contained a folded white piece of paper that he just noticed, and he pulled it out. It was another letter from Steve.
Bucky,
I'm an old man now, so I hope you can read my writing. I got to you that day in the Alps, not the Russians. I couldn't bear the thought of you spending one day being tortured by them, I made sure you were safe, and I reunited with you in 1949.
We lived a good life. The only thing I regret is that it wasn't a life you got to lead. You still can, though. Go find that life.
The gift I left for you (decades ago for me) is waiting in case you change your mind. I checked. Not sure where you'll land if you end up using it, so if you're considering it, think carefully. I still don't really understand how all this works, but for me, it worked out pretty wonderfully.
-Steve-
"I can't believe it…"
Bucky looked up to see the photos in Sam's hands, jaw slack and eyes riveted on the image of Bucky and Steve in 1952.
Trying to wrap his mind around what had happened was…almost impossible. He filled in as many of the gaps as he could imagine. Steve rescued him in 1945. While the other Steve crashed the Valkyrie into the ice, this Steve must have met up for that dance with Peggy. He must have told Peggy and that Bucky something.
What had that conversation been like?
Who was the woman in the photograph with her arm around his waist? His girlfriend? Wife? Had he married and had kids?
A well of anger surprised him, and his fist crumpled the paper before he realized what he was doing.
"Bucky?" Sam asked, voice gentle
He stole my life. It was a stupid thought, but there it was. Steve had rescued some other version of James Buchanan Barnes who lived a happy life…but it wasn't his life. Nothing could change his past.
Steve wanted Peggy and the old Bucky back, and he'd gotten both. Good for you, Steve.
He pushed to his feet, ignoring the pain in his torso from the sudden movement, and dropped the crumpled paper. He needed air. Outside, the sun was low. A gentle breeze brushed through the trees.
"What's going through that cyb…uh, mind of yours?" Sam asked, walking up alongside him.
Bucky didn't answer. He couldn't. How the hell was he supposed to wrap his head around this? Why had Steve left the photos? Seeing them felt like salt in deep wounds that hadn't even gotten close to healing.
That's what his life would've been had Steve gone back for him the first time.
"This silent thing you have going on worries me," Sam said.
Bucky took a deep breath, glanced back at Sam, and mustered an answer. "That's the life I should have had, but someone else got to live it. It stings a bit, that's all."
"I'm sorry. I can only imagine. All this is mind-blowing." Sam's hand brushed his back. "Do you know what he might have left you, or where?"
The end of the line. He knew exactly where to look for whatever Steve had left. "Yeah, I know where it might be."
He walked around the cabin, over the uneven terrain, his pace a bit too fast for his battered insides, and he almost tripped.
Sam's hand caught his elbow. "I told you the walker would be a good idea."
No way in hell was he going to let Sam take a photo of him using a walker. He'd have to endure countless age jokes. "I'm fine, but thanks."
He made his way to the edge of the property where the abandoned train tracks sat, a cross beam marking the end of the old line. Lowering himself gingerly to his knees, he scanned the dirt, looking for any sign to tell him where to start digging. There was a patch of ground with weeds slightly less overgrown than the rest. That was as good a place to start as any.
"Oh, no you don't," Sam said. "You'll pop something open. I saw a shovel on the side of the cabin. I'll be right back."
Bucky waited until Sam left, then…
"You do that, and I'll post the photo I took of you drooling on the couch all over social media!" Sam yelled.
With a sigh, Bucky leaned back on his heels and waited. A moment later, Sam appeared with the shovel and started digging. About two feet down, he hit something hard and worked the shovel around it.
Bucky leaned over and pulled out the black, waterproof stash box. When he opened the lid, he saw two vials of Pym particles.
"Who knew Steve was a klepto…" Sam muttered.
Bucky smiled. Steve was a lot of things, and not the choir boy everyone thought. Mostly a choir boy…but he had a mean stubborn streak and a penchant for bulldozing his way through the rules.
"You need a GPS or something to work with that, right?" Sam asked.
Where there's a will, there's a way, Bucky thought. Steve gave him the raw materials. If he decided to blow this century, he could figure out the rest.
"Well, that explains why he gave me schematics and told me to keep them safe," Sam said.
"What?" Bucky looked up at Sam, who was leaning on the shovel, his expression torn between anxiety and awe.
"Steve left me the schematics for the time travel GPS. I had no idea why. He just told me to keep them safe. I guess he had this in mind. You know, in case you couldn't steal one." Sam's gaze was probing. "You gonna take him up on the offer?"
Where would he go? If he traveled back to the 40s, it probably wouldn't be in the new timeline Steve made. It would be a timeline where Steve was in the ice, and…
It was tempting, though. He could go back to a time that felt familiar, see his folks and sisters again. Hell, he could rescue Steve from the ice.
If he did, there'd be no Captain America to stop aliens from destroying the planet in the 21st century.
Bucky pocketed the Pym particles and stifled a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. Being downgraded to almost normal sucked. He'd forgotten how long it took to heal.
"So?" Sam began shoveling dirt back into the hole. "You blowing this joint?" His tone was casual, but he kept his eyes on the ground, and there was tension in his shoulders.
Was Sam actually worried he might leave?
Going home was tempting, but the reasons he stayed hadn't changed since that day, almost a year ago, when Steve told Bucky what he was planning and asked him along for the ride.
"No." He slapped Sam on the shoulder. "I'll hang around a bit."
Author's Note:
Happy Wednesday! Thanks, as always, to the wonderful Fictitious for beta-reading. I thought quite a long time about what Steve might do when he went back in time-and going through a happy life knowing every day that Bucky was somewhere in the world being tortured, abused, and/or sent on missions to kill wouldn't be it. Steve would do what he's always done -find a way to fix things. We've got one more chapter left, which I'll post a day early (Saturday). FYI, if you like Bucky Barnes, check out my other works - they are all Bucky-centric.
