Written to: Dead Sea - The Lumineers, crosspost from AO3
Tintinnabulation: The sound "that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells;" the sound that lingers after a bell has been struck.
Bucky comes to, his head pounding, to the chimes of bells overhead. He winces as once, twice, thrice, they ring, loud and strong, ripping cracks right through his brain until he feels like he can see his heartbeat in the red network of veins that overlaps his eyes.
He gets to his knees, steadying himself on the nearest cobbled wall and trying to see past all the redness and the bright white light that seems insistent on making him miserable. He can feel the aftershocks of the noise vibrating through the ivy-covered stones.
Once his eyes have adjusted enough to be useful, he finds himself staring at rows upon rows of white, orderly gravestones, the headstones broken with pearlescent marble statues of angels and crosses. He swallows dryly, unsteadily pushes himself off the wall, and staggers towards the cemetery.
The names skim past his eyes, and he finds his heart stopping at every grave that starts with an "S," though he has absolutely no idea why.
He pauses to catch his breath, rubbing his hands over his face, his distinctly non-metal hands, so fleshy and warm, and he looks down at them in wonder, flipping the right one over and tracing all the veins that run along the back of his hand with his left index finger, wondering why he finds this so incredibly fascinating. Hasn't it always been this way? He looks over his shoulder at the church in the distance, ivy walls and stained glass windows, and feels a knot in his throat, wondering why, why, why is this so familiar, and how come he can remember a place he's never been before?
He looks down at the graves in front of him. Unadorned, plain, weeds straggling across their surface, the engraved letters already starting to fade away.
Joseph Rogers.
Sarah Rogers.
He swallows roughly, holding his breath as he lets his eyes travel to the grave next to him. It is brand new, fresh, and the soil has only recently been dug up.
Steve Rogers.
And though he doesn't understand - how can he be dead? His best friend, that scrawny little 4-F soldier, he didn't even go to war, and he's dead? How? - he finds himself screaming himself hoarse, until -
"Hey, wake up, come on, Bucks, wake up."
A firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the depths of sleep. Blue eyes, sleep roughened hair and a five o'clock stray shade of stubble staring down at him. Concerned, worried. Glad.
He sits up, gasping, finding himself drenched in a cold sweat.
"A nightmare?" Steve asks, sympathetic, as he rubs feeling into Bucky's tense shoulders, and Bucky finds himself staring at his hands and finding unspeakable comfort in one flesh, one metal.
In the distance, a bell rings once, twice, thrice, calling the parishioners to mass, and Bucky turns his head into the crook of Steve's neck and finds salvation in the scent of soap and safety and love that clings to Steve's skin.