To Make It Home
He had a beard, nowadays.
At first, he'd tried trimming it with a knife. A shaving kit wasn't exactly easy to come by; running water less so. But it just got to be too much work, so he left it as it is, growing dark and full for the first time in his life, and already tinged with grey.
His right hand and both feet were scarred and calloused from climbing, no matter how much he tried to wrap them. He wore several layers of clothes, lashed tight to his body with leftover twine, and they smelled warm and musky of human sweat and river water. He carried food, a bedroll, water for drinking, flint, a knife, and enough tinder for a small fire, all on a pack on his back.
But most precious, and perhaps the most comfortable of anything on his person, was the long swatch of cloth wrapped around and across his torso and shoulders, and slumbering in it against his chest, his son.
Terrain was rough. He'd take the roads if he could, but the Event had thrown the landscape into such a jagged mass of abrupt cliffs and rock spires that even the pavements were impassable at times.
He didn't bother to count the houses he'd seen fractured in two, one half on a high cliff overlooking the other half crushed below, or neighbors separated by a sudden mile-deep chasm in the ground, or a city folded over itself like some obscene tidal wave. Skyscrapers lay horizontal now. The survivors set up meager market stalls in what were once cubicles, bartering and trading wheat for shoes, or clothing for milk, or even more precious, fresh beef or lamb or fish.
He followed word-of-mouth networks from settlement to settlement. Speaking every language in the mainland continent of Europe helped. Most people thought him crazy for trying to traverse the hostile landscape on his own, so soon after the Event, and with such a young child—but he was determined.
"I have to get home," he said, a dozen times over in a dozen different languages. "If you can't help me, I'll find the way myself."
And out of compassion, or pity, or dismissive resignation that he was an incurable lunatic, they'd help.
Besides, he wasn't the only one who was a lunatic. Every now and then, after his right hand was raw from climbing and his left whirred and whined with exertion and rust in the humidity, he'd find a rope, a ladder, a path cut through the underbrush, left there by some kind traveler who came before, and he'd take it with a whispered prayer of blessing that wherever they were now, they were safe, and had found their way home.
The Netherlands, at least, remained almost unchanged. That was to be expected. Its people were resourceful. Except where the Event had shattered one of their enormous dams, flooding the area where they'd so meticulously built factories and industries, life continued with a relatively shocking stability.
That's not to say they weren't downtrodden. Everyone had lost someone. If they hadn't fought in the War, they'd been at home when the ground opened up beneath them. When he made his way to the coasts, and, through word of mouth, found someone who used to be a seafarer and asked for his help, the gnarled old man regarded him with a stinking glance through his one good eye.
"No one's dared to cross the ocean since It happened," the old man growled. "You're a fool if you think you can."
"People have done it before, with less than we have now," he answered in Dutch.
"It's unsafe."
"Everything is unsafe."
"No one will come to save you."
"I won't need it."
"You're a madman, boy!" The old sailor started to his feet and threw down his cigarette. "Is it suicide you want? I can show you to the dam where our young people have been throwing themselves off for the ocean to break their bones on rocks. At least you won't bring a crew down to their deaths with you. Think of your child. Leave him with one of our women, if you still have a heart. They've lost enough of their own."
The words stung. The anger and despair behind them stung harder. He moved his calloused right hand reflexively over the little bundle on his chest, where his son was asleep.
He was small. Far smaller than he should have been. Finding a wet nurse was always his first priority when he entered a settlement, but the travel between them could take hours—maybe an entire day. If he found someone very kind, he'd be able to pack milk in plastic bags for the travel, but so often, the little guy went hungry, and the squalling cries broke his heart.
Maybe this was his fault. Maybe he should give up. Maybe he should settle down here, carve out a life, raise his son to adulthood, and pray every night that everyone else was all right, and they'd remember him...
No. No. They had to know. They deserved to know. They had to know the sacrifice she'd made.
She'd already been in labor. He'd heard that stress can cause that to happen. He'd taken her somewhere safe, far underground, hoping they could wait it out.
But as the ground rocked beneath them, and the walls began to crack, she didn't retreat somewhere safe, but ground her nails into the armrest of her chair and pushed herself to her feet.
"No," he'd blurted, "no, no, no, sit down—"
"I'm going out there."
His jaw fell open. "You can't."
"They need me."
"No, I mean you literally can't, you're in labor, you're gonna—"
"Do not tell me what I cannot do!" she'd cried, and red energy pulsed from her eyes like whisps of cloud or jets of fire.
The ground shook. A long fracture line crawled up the wall.
He realized, whether it was here, or on the surface, they were going to die.
So he set his jaw, nodded, and with a grim smile, said, "Okay."
That was the last word he ever spoke to her.
He did his best to offer cover fire from the ground, but bullets seemed to do nothing but annoy It. It batted him away, sent him flying, for his skull to crack on a tree.
He was dizzy and disoriented, rolling onto his elbows to lift his head.
And when he did, he saw her flying.
Lifted up on red energy, as it swirled and billowed around her, and pulsed from eyes full of anger like he'd never seen before.
She was carrying his child. She was about to give birth. She should have been helpless.
She wasn't.
She screamed, with the fury of a thousand demons, and unleashed such hell upon It as he'd never seen before. Missiles and rockets and heavy machinery hadn't even left a scratch, but bombarded with red, It screamed at a pitch that could shatter the shy and writhed and burned and cowered.
For a moment, he thought she'd win.
And then, It knocked her out of the sky.
He caught her, before she hit the ground. Screamed her name, helplessly, into her pallid face. She didn't stir. Didn't answer. There was no pulse under the fingers he pressed to her neck.
He felt like a part of his soul had been ripped out.
Wounded, It recoiled, its shadow finally no longer tainting the blue sky.
And there, among the jagged rocks and the turf thrown up into sheets of lonely grass, hoping against hope and numb with shock and grief, he pulled out a knife and did the single most horrible thing he'd ever had to do.
His hands were shaking as the blade dug deep. Blood and water answered it. He didn't know what he was hoping for, when he reached inside.
A moment later, a tiny, squalling, bloody lump lay in his hands. It squirmed, gurgled, and began to cry.
He nearly collapsed.
A boy.
His son.
And he bent down over the little one, his wife dead and sawn open on the grass beside him, his hands bloody, and his newborn son squalling in his arms—and he wept.
His eyes were hard as the mountains he'd climbed as he turned back to the old sailor. "I am thinking of my son," he said. "I'm doing this for him. He deserves to grow up around his family. If you won't help me to cross the ocean," he said, and decided to put a spin on it, "I'll find a way to fly."
The old man regarded him with a piercing eye. Then, with a rough sigh, he told him a rumor he'd heard of an upcoming expedition, wherein a few dozen brazen fools meant to take a barge across the Atlantic from Bristol.
He stood there, stunned. Then thanked the man, shaking his gnarled hand, and asked if he knew of anyone who might be willing to take a boat across the English Channel. The old man said he knew no one personally, but perhaps he might be able to find a fisherman willing to barter with him.
So he bid his goodbyes, and after ensuring that his son had something to eat for the evening, set out on the long trek down to what was once France.
It was winter before the expedition was ready to set sail. He'd learned everything he needed to be a sailor himself—working at the shipyards a lifetime ago helped—and he pulled ropes and carried cargo with snow on his shoulders and cheeks flushed with the cold.
His baby was still tiny, but he could sit up now, and smiled a broad, toothless grin whenever he saw his father.
He'd smile back, but still made his heart ache.
The little one had brown eyes, just like his mother.
Well, he thought, as a puff of his breath floated away on the air in white vapor, this is new.
The headquarters was exactly where he'd remembered it to be. Granted, it had sloped down the riverbank a little bit, and the river itself had violently changed course and sported a few waterfalls that it hadn't before, but it was still the same spot he remembered.
But it was better reinforced now. Around the perimeter, armored trucks with a dusting of snow made an impassable fence.
A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered that the building might have been commandeered by someone else. Another answered, no—a little extra security like this was justified, especially against the roving bands of thieves and squatters.
Here's hoping they recognize me.
He stumbled through the snow towards the embankment. His feet were raw with travel and numb with the cold. He'd had to bundle his son up even tighter to protect him from the snow, and it was a heavy weight that threatened to pull him face-first into the whiteness.
A head popped out of the truck, and after it, a silhouette in armor and heavy coat. The haircut was new. Tattoos poked out from the long sleeves. But that wasn't what interested him.
In the man's hands was a bow and arrow.
"Holy shit!" The archer leaped down from his perch and into the snow. He stared with wide eyes, fumbling in the air for a moment with his hands, gesturing to his weary visitor.
He couldn't help but grin, despite the fatigue and the grief. "Hey, Clint."
Clint then burst out laughing. "Oh my god! You know, is it redundant to say we thought you were dead?"
His smile faltered, and his hand moved to the bundle on his chest. "Wouldn't be far off."
Clint's face fell. "You..." He moved forward, trying to get a closer look.
With a sort of weary pride, he pulled up the little cover so Clint could see.
The baby still slumbered against his collarbone, safe and secure.
Clint's expression was complicated. "She's..."
He knew who he meant. He shook his head and gnawed his lip, and exhausted tears poked at the corners of his eyes.
Clint huffed and turned away. His eyes and nose were starting to redden. "Dammit," he hissed.
He was quiet. "I'm sorry, Clint."
Clint sniffed wetly, shook his head, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "No," he said hoarsely. "S' okay. A minute ago, I thought the both of you were..." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "Yeah. It's good to have one of you back."
It didn't make him feel better, but for a moment, now that his grief was shared, it was lighter.
But there was still a ways to go until they got inside. Clint accompanied him across the wide lawn. He could feel his feet dragging in the snow.
The baby stirred and whined against his chest, little feet digging into his lower ribs. He set a hand on the bundle and fought the tears.
"Shhh, s' okay," he whispered. "S' okay. We're home, pal. We're home."
Clint looked wistful, and stared at his snow-covered boots.
After a moment, Clint lifted a small radio to his lips. Amazing—did they set up a tower somewhere? "Uh, hey, Cap, got a visitor for ya. You'll probably want to see this."
He bit down the swell of joy and relief in his chest, hearing that Steve was alive, and instead grinned shakily. "You don't wanna jus' tell him who I am?"
"Nah." Clint grinned, despite the lingering grief in his eyes, and pocketed the radio. "Don't wanna spoil the surprise."
They reached the door, and Clint instructed him to hide behind a pillar. He could feel his heart thumping as the door creaked open, and a new set of footsteps sounded on the pavement.
"What's this about, Barton?" asked a wary, but authoritative voice.
Steve.
It took every ounce of strength in his body to keep his knees from giving out, or his throat from sobbing.
He hadn't heard that voice for four long, long, lonely months.
"Like I said. Got a visitor." Clint backed up and nodded to him.
When he stepped out from hiding, the first thing that greeted him were blue eyes that shot wide like dinner plates, and a blonde-bearded jaw that dropped to his shoes.
"Bucky?"
Got a beard. That's new. But despite the inner snark, he couldn't help but grin, and the tears returned. "Hey, Steve."
"Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god." He rushed forward, and immediately Bucky was swallowed in warmth and two strong arms.
Every bone in his body screamed in relief and triumph.
HOME!
Steve's skull knocked into his, and Bucky realized that he was pressing a fierce kiss to his cheek. Bucky laughed and kissed him back.
This. This was worth it. This was worth the travel, the raw feet and calloused hands, the sleepless nights as his baby cried and he wondered if he was doing the right thing. This was worth the effort to make it home.
Too late, Bucky realized he was crying.
Steve squeezed his chest, and the baby yelped in protest. Steve backed up, eyes wide.
Bucky chuckled through his tears. "Hey," he said hoarsely, and lifted the flap to see the little pudgy face, blinking indignantly up at him with those brown eyes. "Sorry, pal. Kinda crushed ya there."
"Oh my god," Steve whispered, a gentle hand brushing over the bundle. Then, his voice got meek and low. "Stephen, right?"
"Stephen." Bucky smiled. "Yeah."
Steve shook his head in awe. Then he frowned, and turned to Clint, and, seeing the grief there, looked at Bucky with a kind of pity and heartbreak.
Bucky shook his head. "She fought her best," he said, but his throat clogged and he couldn't say anymore.
Steve nodded, put an arm around his shoulders, and dragged him inside. "It's okay. It's okay, you can tell us...you can tell us later. I'm just..." His chest lurched, and he pulled Bucky closer to him. "God..."
Bucky leaned against him, letting himself be dragged inside into the warmth. "I know," he whispered, and he shut his eyes. "I missed you too."
-fin
A/N: Inspired in part by Death Stranding and written in one afternoon. Is this canon to the AU? Who knows! I definitely don't! But it sure was fun.
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