You had the blue note sapphire eyes
To back up all those gazes
To pierce my guard and to take my soul off
To faraway places
...
So don't cry for your love
Cry tears of joy
'Cause you're alive
Cradled in love
- "Cradled in Love" by Poets of the Fall
Sam joined Bucky in a large room full of exercise equipment. One last Hydra agent had attempted to take cover behind a stack of weights, but Sam burst unexpectedly through a side door and finished him off before he could turn around.
Bucky continued through the door at the far side of the room. He was conscious of Sam's heavy breathing behind him as they raced down the hallway, but he didn't slow down. He threw open door after door, searching with increasing desperation for some sign of their quarry.
Then he kicked open a door to a room that looked like some kind of lab, with test tubes and beakers scattered all over a long table. A man in a lab coat stood at the table, frantically stuffing papers into a briefcase. He let out a cry of alarm and ducked behind the table, but not before Bucky fired a shot at him. The man let out a grunt of pain.
Bucky stepped forward, but suddenly the table flipped over, sending shards of glass and splashes of chemicals towards them. As Bucky and Sam jumped back out of the way, the scientist scrambled towards an open door leading to an adjoining room, clutching his bloody arm.
"They're here!" the man screamed. "Do it! Now, before it's—"
Bucky sprayed the man's back with bullets, dropping him mid-sentence. He rushed into the next room. Two more scientists in lab coats were pushing through a door at the far end. He shot them down before they could make it over the threshold.
Sam ran into the room behind him, leaning against a cabinet to catch his breath once he saw the coast was clear. Bucky glanced around the room, already moving towards the door. It looked like an operating room of some kind, filled with blinking lights and gleaming medical equipment. He passed by a cart full of scalpels and other metal implements, all spattered with blood—
Bucky did a double-take, then turned around fully. A gurney had been pushed up against the far wall out of the way, topped with what at first glance had looked like a pile of bloody rags. But when he looked again, he realized what it was.
A body. A very small body.
Numbly, Bucky stepped closer and pulled the rag aside.
Her throat had been slit. The little girl, surely no more than two years old, lay in a puddle of her own blood. Thin wisps of golden hair clung to her neck in reddened clumps. Her eyes, a glassy greyish-blue, stared up at him. They looked more surprised than scared, as if trying to understand why her life had come to such an abrupt end.
Sam muttered a curse as he joined Bucky. "We're too late."
The faintest whimper of pain met Bucky's ears from the next room. Right...there were more...
Bucky cautiously opened the door the scientists had been trying to escape through, which led to another operating room. For one heart-stopping moment, Bucky thought he was looking at the Chair again, with its clasps and restraints. But then he realized why it had foot rests designed specifically to spread the legs apart...
The young woman who lay in the hospital bed didn't have her feet in the stirrups. They dangled over the end, a steady trickle of blood dripping off one of her toes and into a puddle stretching toward a drain in the floor. She was dressed in nothing but a loose hospital gown that bore a large red stain between the legs. She let out another tiny whimper, clutching at the front of her gown.
"Sam," Bucky said hoarsely.
Sam hurried past him, immediately reaching to check the woman's pulse and peering into her eyes. Bucky followed on legs that had turned to jelly.
He knew who she was. The only person she could be.
Sam gingerly lifted the edge of her hospital gown, then bit his lip and let it fall again. He turned and started opening cupboards, hastily rummaging around for something. "She's bleeding a lot," he said shortly. "Maybe a miscarriage."
Sam found a towel and a roll of bandages and set to work. The woman let out another small whimper as the cloth touched her, and a tear trailed down her cheek, but that was all.
Part of Bucky felt he ought to be helping Sam in some way. Another part looked at the spreading stain on the hospital gown and knew neither of them had the right equipment, nor the right experience, to help her before it was too late. And a third part simply couldn't tear his eyes away.
She looked just like the photograph, only twice as exhausted and a thousand times more real. Sweat pooled in the premature lines of her face, which was already pale from the blood loss. Slowly, her light blue eyes rose to find his.
He wondered what she saw. Another man to be frightened of? Someone who would give her only more pain? Did she see the resemblance between them? Or was she so far gone that she had no coherent thoughts left at all?
What he saw was just...a girl. A child who had been buffeted about and used by others. What tiny scraps of joy she might have been able to glean for herself in this wretched life had been ripped from her, again and again. Yet somehow...some way...she had managed to keep going all this time. How exhausting it must have been, to keep living like this for 23 years.
All of these thoughts flitted through his mind in a second or two as he looked deep into this girl's eyes. Eyes that looked just like his. He reached out and gently covered one of her cold hands with his. "It's all right," he murmured. "You can rest now."
Her eyes filled with tears, her chest heaved with a gasping breath, and then she let it out in a long, long sigh. She closed her eyes, her head rolled to one side, and she fell still.
Sam reached over with bloody fingers, taking one of her hands to feel for her pulse again. After a moment, he gently placed it back on her chest and bowed his head in defeat.
Bucky stared down at the poor girl. They were too late to stop this. Too slow to save her. He'd gotten here just in time to watch her die.
He still clasped her other hand in his. It was ice cold. It...It was...moving?
Bucky looked closer. He'd thought at first that she was clutching the hospital gown to her chest, but now he realized that her hands were cupped protectively around something underneath the gown.
Hardly daring to breathe, he pulled down the cloth just far enough to make out a tiny, weak form curled up on her chest, where her heart had been beating until a moment ago. The tiny mouth opened, struggling to draw breath.
"Sam," he said in a strangled whisper. "Sam, help me."
Bucky was afraid to touch the infant with his rough, cold metal hand, but he gingerly slid the fingers of his right hand between the baby's cheek and the mother's chest, cupping its head in the palm of his hand. Sam helped him carefully lift the little body with its sprawling, stick-thin arms and legs. The baby was covered with blood and grime; no one had bothered to clean it up. The umbilical cord even still trailed from its tiny belly.
Sam found another hospital gown in one of the cupboards and tore a corner off to wrap around the tiny infant, turning it over ever so carefully in his arms. It was a boy, Bucky saw as he set his gun aside and took off his jacket, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. A tiny boy, so minuscule he could almost fit in one of Sam's hands.
Gingerly, Sam passed the boy to Bucky, who tucked him inside his shirt, nestling him against his warm chest. Moving slowly and carefully, Bucky sat down on the floor, hardly daring to move his right arm at all for fear of jostling the baby.
"He's so tiny," Bucky whispered, staring at the boy's scrunched-up little face.
Sam looked down at him worriedly as he attempted to wipe some of the blood off his hands with the rest of the hospital gown. "Yeah...he looks premature. What he really needs is a hospital. There's...not much we can do for him here..."
Bucky couldn't take his eyes from the tiny fingers curling into a fist against his skin, snagging one of his hairs in its tight grip. The thin chest, whose ribs he could count, shuddered as it struggled to rise and fall. He was just too young. He wasn't ready to breathe on his own.
Was this what heartbreak felt like? Bucky felt as though he ought to be crying. Panicking. Maybe shaking his fist at Hydra, or at the heavens, demanding to know why it had to be this way. Instead, he felt strangely calm.
"Get Steve," Bucky said, still staring down at the baby in his arms. "Hurry."
Sam walked a few paces away and started talking to Steve, giving him directions, but Bucky blocked it all out. The only thing that mattered was this little boy in his arms, whose every breath whistled and wheezed through his lungs as if it would be his last. But every time Bucky thought no more would come, the boy's chest would heave once more and the clock would reset. He just kept fighting.
"You know what, pal?" Bucky murmured to the boy, who hadn't even opened his eyes yet. "You remind me of your papa. Every time life would knock him down, he'd just get right back up again. Sometimes I didn't think he'd make it, but somehow he always did. Yeah...you remind me of him a lot. Think I'll name you after him. Think I'll call you Grant. How's that sound? Yeah...Grant."
The baby took another shuddering breath, his little forehead wrinkling. He was too weak to even cry.
Ever so gently, Bucky rocked Grant back and forth. Softly, he began to sing a lullaby his mother used to sing for his sisters. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird..."
He kept singing, the words coming freely to his lips even though he hadn't thought of them in decades. He kept singing even when Grant grew completely still in his arms. He kept singing even when he couldn't hear those shuddering breaths anymore.
Warm, strong arms wrapped around him as he came to the last line of the song. "You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town..."
"Buck..."
When he squeezed his eyes shut, Bucky felt tears leak from the corners of his eyes. "I'm s-sorry," he choked out. "I couldn't...I couldn't save...your son."
Opening his eyes, he saw Steve reaching out to gently brush his fingertip against Grant's tiny cheek. Bucky carefully shifted the too-light burden in his arms, handing the body over to Steve. Steve's strong hands dwarfed the infant's body, but he held it with infinite care, like it was made of glass. Just as he would if Grant had lived.
"No, Buck." Steve looked up with tears in his eyes, cradling the baby's body close to his heart. "You made sure he knew love every minute of his life. Do you know how...how rare that is?" He closed his eyes as tears trailed down his cheeks. "Thank you, Buck. Thank you." His hands full, all he could do was lean forward and press his forehead to Bucky's.
Bucky let out a shuddering sigh, scrubbing the tears from his own cheeks before gently drying Steve's on his sleeve. "They...took all of them. They killed them all, Steve."
To Bucky's amazement, Steve smiled slightly. "Not all of them."
Bucky looked over Steve's shoulder and saw a little boy standing in the corner, warily watching the proceedings. He looked timid and uncertain, but he was alive. At least one victim of Project Legacy would get a second chance.
There were no more Hydra agents in the base. The few who hadn't been killed in the initial attack had chosen to kill themselves rather than be taken prisoner. The entire base was filled with blood now. It was like a giant tombstone, a monument to all the lives that had ended there.
Steve's arms were heavy with the bodies of his children, and yet the burden was far too light. After a thorough search of the base and multiple scans from Tony's suit, they hadn't been able to find any more than the boy Steve had found, and the babies Bucky had found near his daughter. They couldn't find the other boy they'd seen in the photos. He would be two years old. Walking. Beginning to talk. But he wasn't there.
Steve didn't want to consider what that meant.
Two babies in his arms, wrapped up in clean cloths. Grant curled in the crook of his left arm, the girl with the slit throat in his right.
They were so small.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
The children in his arms should have been warm, either clinging to him or squirming to get down. Even if they'd been terrified of him and screamed their heads off the whole way back...anything would be better than this.
But their bodies were still.
Bucky walked alongside him as they trudged through the snow to the Quinjet. He carried his daughter's body, wrapped up in several sheets they'd pulled off beds in those cell-like rooms. They'd washed all the bodies as best as they could, but Steve could still see red staining the cloth in places. Red, leaking out to stain his hands.
The boy—the one person from this base who had survived—struggled through the snow at Steve's side. He hadn't said a word except for an occasional yes, sir when Steve had spoken to him directly. He'd just hung back in a corner of the room, watching everyone with those big blue eyes of his. He would tense up whenever anyone looked at him, but he hadn't made any move to run away or hide, which Steve had half-expected him to do. Steve supposed that, even at such a young age, the boy must have realized his best chance of survival was with them.
Once they reached the Quinjet, Sam hurried ahead to press the button that raised the little table in the middle. Usually, they used the table for looking at maps or occasionally laying someone down if they were injured. Now, Bucky carefully set his precious burden on its hard surface, brushing his fingers lightly over the part of the sheet covering her forehead. Steve gently situated the shrouded bodies of her children in her arms.
Sam put a comforting hand on Bucky's shoulder, but Bucky hardly seemed to notice. He just stood staring down at the bodies.
The others didn't say anything as they slowly filed in, but Steve could feel their gazes on him. Understanding. Supportive. Sympathetic.
He glanced to the side and saw his son standing huddled in a corner, watching them all warily. Did he understand that his mother was dead? Did he even know who his mother was?
Natasha's arms wrapped around him, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear. "I know...you were hoping..."
As much as he appreciated her care and concern, in that moment her sympathy was like a knife to the chest. He pulled away from her embrace as gently as he could. "We need to get back," he said quietly. "There's a lot to do."
Clint headed for the cockpit and the others found seats as he prepared for takeoff. Steve turned to the boy, who was still watching everything with an intent look on his face. "Hey," Steve said softly, "you need to sit down and strap in now, okay? We're getting ready to head out."
The boy immediately headed for the seat Steve indicated and sat down, his short legs dangling off the edge. Steve helped him buckle up, having to tighten the straps all the way. He tried to move slowly and carefully, remembering how skittish Winter had been at the beginning whenever he or Sam had gotten too close. But though the boy watched his every move closely, he didn't seem too frightened. At least, he didn't cower or start hyperventilating, which was what Winter probably would have done.
That returned his attention to Bucky. He still stood at the table, looking down at the children they hadn't been able to save. His face was an expressionless mask.
Steve crossed over to him and tugged gently on his arm, trying to pull him back to find a seat. But Bucky's grip on the edge of the table remained strong, and he didn't budge. So Steve stayed with him, putting an arm around Bucky's shoulders instead.
Stretched out before them was the sign of their failure. Maybe if they'd gotten here sooner...if they'd come here first, instead of the other base...or if he'd simply thought that maybe, just maybe, the files Natasha had leaked two years ago were important enough to get started analyzing right away...
Was this his fault? He never would have dreamed of something like Project Legacy in a thousand years, but...didn't it exist because of him? Bucky had been turned into Hydra's tool as a way of responding to the threat he had posed as Captain America. And Project Legacy would never have succeeded if they hadn't used him as an unwitting donor...
He hadn't intentionally put any of this into motion, but it was because of him that this woman and two of her children lay dead in front of him.
Steve looked down at his free hand. Blood was caked under his nails, in the creases of his skin. Their blood. His blood.
Slowly, his hand curled into a fist. He wanted to scream. Better yet, he wanted to go back in time and kill every single person responsible for this with his own hands.
He was so useless. There was nothing more he could do for the ones who had died. And that killed him.
At that moment, he raised his head and found his one living son watching him. As soon as their eyes met, the boy dropped his gaze again, shrinking back into his seat. But he peeked up again, glancing furtively between Steve and the covered bodies.
What was he thinking now? Was he wondering what they were so sad about? Did he understand the significance of who was under the sheets? Did he realize they were bodies? Did he even know what death was? This boy was so young...
His thoughts trailed off as he realized that the boy didn't even have a name yet. Steve knew how essential a name would be for his son's identity. That was practically the first thing he and Sam had done for Winter, after all. Winter hadn't just been a convenient handle. It had helped them separate him from the restrictive identity Hydra had forced on him. Once he had a name, he was more than just Hydra's asset. He was a real person.
It was the same for this boy—if not even more so. For his whole life, he'd never had a real name. Boy was what Hydra had called him. That and the awful conglomeration of letters and numbers they'd used for his identification. M28122011J01. J01 for short. Still so impersonal. So inhuman. How could anyone look at a kid and call him J01?
Maybe he could give him a name that started with a J. A good, strong name. One that would withstand a lot of use.
Steve's gaze slid over to Bucky. James? Or maybe...
"Jacob," Steve said aloud. Everyone turned to look at him, but he had eyes only for his son.
He crossed over to the boy, who looked up at him with a brow furrowed in confusion.
Steve squatted down to look him in the eye. He forced a smile, his heart filling with affection despite how heavy it felt. "That's your name now, son. Your name is Jacob Rogers."
The boy—Jacob—just blinked at him.
Sam walked over and bent down, holding out his hand with a grin. "Nice to meet you, Jake! I'm your Uncle Sam. Here, gimme five!"
Jake shrank back, looking uncertainly between Sam's grinning face and his extended hand.
Sam stood up again with a wink. "We'll work on that later," he whispered conspiratorially.
The setting sun shone gold and red on the huge windows of the Avengers headquarters as the Quinjet slowly sank through the air. Inside, the jet was much quieter than it usually was after a mission. There was no chatter. No banter. Everyone was just quietly minding their own business.
Steve had decided where to bury them. There was a low hill overlooking the curve of the river, sheltered from the wind by the forest. It wasn't used for anything. The only way to reach it easily was by following a meandering path through the forest, which branched off into several trails that were good for running. He and Bucky had discovered it one day while exploring the grounds on one of their walks.
It was secluded. Undisturbed. A perfect final resting place.
When he'd told Bucky his thoughts, Bucky had nodded, but not made any other response. During the whole ride back, he hadn't moved from his silent vigil over the bodies. When the Quinjet touched down at the Avengers compound at last, he carefully began to gather his daughter's body in his arms again.
Steve gingerly picked up the bodies of his children as well, then glanced over at Jake. The boy had already unbuckled himself and stood at attention, looking up at him as if awaiting orders.
He hesitated, but just then Sam tapped his shoulder. "I can take them," he murmured. "We can...get started...while you get Jake settled in. We'll wait for you."
Sam's eyes were warm with sympathy and understanding. As Steve carefully handed over his precious burdens, he couldn't help wondering what it would have been like if those two had survived...
Steve abruptly turned away from Sam and Bucky leaving the Quinjet with their shrouded burdens. He had to focus on the work that was right in front of him, or he'd fall to pieces. As the other Avengers began gathering up their things and heading inside for some well-earned rest, Steve turned to his son and forced a smile.
"Come on. I'll show you your new home." He held out his hand for Jake to hold, but the boy just looked at it in confusion, so Steve turned it into a beckoning motion instead.
Jake followed at his heels as Steve led him into the building and up the stairs to the living quarters. "I can show you around tomorrow," he said, making sure to shorten his strides so Jake could keep up. "But for now, let's just find you a place to sleep, okay?"
Only when headquarters had come into view through the cockpit of the Quinjet had Steve suddenly realized he hadn't thought through any of the logistics of bringing a little boy here. They hadn't prepared a room for him, hadn't gotten him clothes or toys or books. They'd just been in so much of a hurry to get to that base and put a stop to Project Legacy, there hadn't been time for any of that.
To begin with, he decided to just have Jake sleep in his bed. They could work out a different arrangement later if necessary. When they reached their suite and Steve pointed out the different rooms, he noticed the way Jake eyed one in particular. "Do you need to use the bathroom?" he asked. "Um...do you need my help?"
Jake shook his head, but he didn't move.
"Okay. Uh...you go ahead, and I'll just get your room ready."
Jake scurried in, not even closing the door behind him. Steve closed the door for him.
While Jake was taking care of business, Steve quickly grabbed some clothes from his room, tossed them into Bucky's for later, and did his best to straighten his room somewhat. There wasn't time to change the sheets, but at least Jake would have a soft bed for tonight. Better than what he's used to, he thought darkly.
When Steve stepped back into the common room, he found Jake standing next to the bathroom door, staring into space. As Steve started towards him, there was a soft knock on the door leading to the hallway. Natasha poked her head in and said, "Can I help?"
Steve had been planning on leaving Jake alone to join Bucky and Sam, but Natasha offered a welcome alternative. "Yeah...could you just watch Jake while I...?"
"Of course," Natasha said before he could stumble his way to the end of the sentence. She bent down to look at Jake and smiled. "Hey there, Jake. I'm your Auntie Nat."
"She'll be right out here if you need anything, okay?" Steve said.
Jake looked solemnly at Natasha, as if sizing her up. "Yes, sir."
"Okay, come on. Bedtime."
Steve led Jake into his room and pulled down the covers, watching those wide eyes glancing around the room, taking everything in. Was he comparing it to the narrow room with the hard cot he must have slept in at the Hydra base?
"Sorry, I don't have any pajamas for you yet," Steve said, fussing with the pillows. "I'm afraid you'll have to sleep in those clothes tonight, until we can get you some more. But I'm sure you're pretty tired."
Jake was just standing there, on the other side of the bed, looking at him. He made no move to climb in and get under the covers.
"Aren't you tired?" Steve asked, looking at the way Jake's eyelids were drooping. It had been a long, exhausting day for all of them.
"Yes, sir."
After a moment, Steve stepped back from the bed. Of course, it was probably frightening for the poor boy to make himself so vulnerable as to lie down right in front of a grown man he didn't know at all, no matter how compliant he'd been so far.
"Okay," Steve said, backing towards the door. Jake was acting much like Winter had in the beginning—on edge, unwilling to give Steve the slightest opening. Unfortunately, the quickest way for Steve to help him feel safe was probably to just leave.
"Go ahead, take off your shoes and get into bed. Just try to get some sleep, all right?"
"Yes, sir." Jake immediately bent down to untie his shoes.
As Steve backed out of the door, he said gently, "Good night, Jake. I love you."
Jake looked up at him with utter consternation, as though he had no idea what those words meant.
You may not know what they mean yet, his heart whispered in a silent vow. But you will. You will.
Bucky straightened, wiping his grimy forehead on his sleeve. Even for a supersoldier, digging a six-foot hole was surprisingly strenuous work. Though the work probably went faster for him than it would have for someone who tired more easily.
Bucky had pushed himself as hard as he could, making sure the hole was neat, the corners even with each other. He tried to focus on the motions of digging the hole, rather than on why they needed one.
Well, three. There were two smaller holes, one on either side of the one he stood in. Sam had worked on those, and Steve had pitched in once he'd turned up. Bucky tossed his shovel up onto the ground just above his head, next to the pile of dirt. At least it was easy to measure the depth of the hole. He just had to make sure the top of his head was level with the ground.
Steve poked his head into view. "Ready?" he asked softly.
Bucky nodded, holding his arms out to receive the cloth-wrapped burden Steve laid ever so gently in them. It was probably just because Bucky's arms were tired after so much digging, but he thought the body felt even heavier than before. Like a leaden weight dragging him down to the depths of the earth.
He gently laid the body down on its bed of earth. Furtively, he glanced over his shoulder, but neither of the others were looking into the hole. They were probably putting the other bodies in their graves. So Bucky carefully pulled back a corner of the sheet, just enough to see her face again.
Her face was rigid, her skin a ghastly pale color. There was no mistaking that she was dead. Whoever she was, she was gone now. But he leaned down anyway and placed a soft kiss on her forehead before covering her up again.
The first kiss. The last.
As he straightened up, he saw two hands reaching down to him. "Here," Steve said, leaning over the hole.
Bucky grasped Steve and Sam's hands, letting them help him out of the hole (though Steve did most of the work). They stepped back from the three graves, brushing dirt off their cold, stiff hands.
What now? It was January, so there weren't any flowers to lay on the graves. And it wasn't like there was a priest handy to sprinkle holy water or speak some kind of benediction. He tried to think of funerals he'd been to before, and the kinds of things people would say at them. The problem was, they hadn't known any of these people before, so they couldn't share fond memories.
All he could think of was a saying—or maybe it was a Bible verse—that hung cold and heavy against his heart. All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.
Sam's voice broke the silence. "I just remembered something my dad used to say at funerals. Do you...mind if I...?"
"Please," Steve murmured.
"'He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart.'" The words sounded vaguely familiar; Bucky was pretty sure he'd heard them before too. "'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'"
A choked sound made Bucky look to his right. Steve covered his face with his hand, shoulders trembling. He stood that way for only a moment before he abruptly turned to Bucky and pulled him into a crushing hug. His chest heaved with enormous sobs.
Each one seemed to scoop a little more out of Bucky's chest, till he was hollow and empty. He felt like he was a thousand miles away from his body. Or maybe he was still in the dirt with her. Maybe he belonged there.
Still Steve clung to him. As if he had the answers. As if he had any comfort to give. As if he were strong enough to carry this weight.
But he wasn't. He was hollow, a man made of glass that had begun to crack long ago. He had nothing to give. He hadn't been able to save Grant, or that little girl with the golden hair, or the young woman who had been their mother.
All he could do was bury them. And hold Steve, as if that did anything to fill the void.
How could he feel so empty without them if he hadn't even known them?
Steve clung to him for a long time, not saying anything, just crying. Weeping for all they'd lost before they'd ever been able to claim it. The wretched sobs that made Steve shake all over sounded painful, as if each one were torn straight from his heart.
And yet Bucky's eyes were dry. He just stared over Steve's shoulder at the cold hillside, at the three holes and the three mounds of dirt slowly turning to lumps of shadow in the dying light. Why couldn't he cry? Why couldn't he dredge up even a single tear for the ones who deserved so much more?
So he just stood there, staring at the graves, listening to Steve's cries, and feeling Sam's soothing hand on his back.
By the time Steve finally pulled away, miserably mopping at his eyes, Bucky knew what he wanted to say. "I...want to name her. Before we..." He gestured at the piles of dirt.
"Okay," Steve said shakily, sniffling.
Bucky walked over to the largest dirt pile and grabbed a handful of it. He stood at one end of the hole, over her head. Underneath that shroud lay a girl that should have been alive right now. She should have been happy, or at least free. She should have been his.
"The only thing I can give you now is a name," he said quietly. "I wish I could give you more. But...your name is Mabel."
He dropped the handful of dirt into her grave. At least now, she wasn't nobody.
Steve and Sam both trooped over and dropped handfuls of dirt into the grave as well, murmuring Mabel's name. Next they stepped over to the smallest grave, and dropped handfuls of dirt over Grant's tiny corpse, murmuring his name as well.
When they crossed over to the final grave, Sam asked softly, "You thought of a name for her?"
Steve nodded, leaning down to grab a handful of dirt. He opened his mouth, but it took a few moments for him to speak. Finally, he said tremulously, "Eve. Your name is Eve, sweetheart."
Bucky let dirt trail through his fingers, whispering, "Eve..."
They stood there for several minutes more, contemplating the three graves in silence. Then they slowly picked up their shovels and began to gently fill the graves again. A cold night settled in around them as they worked.
To Bucky, every shovelful felt heavier than the one before.
Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
- Job 1:21
Author's Note: For those who may not be aware, James and Jacob are alternative forms of the same name, which means "supplanter." Grant means "great, large," Eve means "to live," and Mabel means either "lovable" or "my beautiful."
Rest in peace, my brain-children.