some-time writer

“Tell me again why we have to be out here in this weather, Barnes?” he shouts up at the man a handful of metres ahead of him.

“Because, Walker, otherwise we’d be completely visible up on the ridge approach to the target site,” he snaps out, face hidden by the scarf he has wrapped around it, and voice muffled.

“Christ, at least pick a slightly nicer route next time, Bucky.” John groans, tucking his hands closer into his sides.

Bucky’s response to his spectacular display of reluctance is to roll his eyes and trudge onwards, heedless of John’s bitching.

“Stop being so goddamn dramatic, Walker, and get a move on.”

“Fine, Jesus, but I will be even worse on the way down, I guarantee. We don’t even fucking know where this ghost site is, Buck.”

“Shut up and keep moving. Intel says we’re about thirty minutes out once we get to the ridge proper, then it’s a class four scramble onwards to our observation point.”

.

The wind howls over their heads, whipping flurries of snow up into the air, and sending it stinging against the exposed skin on their faces. Stumbling slightly as they finally crest the ridgeline, John grits his teeth and keeps moving, shivering again as cold trickles of snow melt down the gap between the collar of his gear and his neck. His numb fingers fumble at the hood of his jacket to draw it closer about him and ward off the bitter cold. Bucky is an indistinct silhouette some way ahead of him, just starting to make his way up and along the knife-edge rise of the terrain.

Screams echo in his ears, wreaking havoc in his mind. Desperately he shakes his head. To silence them? Remove them like water from his ear canal? 

Or out of disappointment at himself? Out of sheer disbelief at his own incompetence?

Too weak.

His hands tremble as he turns on the faucet; a failing attempt to rinse off the devastating colors of the dead because he can feel their presence nevertheless.

In his bleeding heart.

Flower petals of burgundy and carmine bloom on the bright sink, transient like the lives lost today, before they get washed down the drain.

The children. Someone’s babies. Lost. Dead.

Because he wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t strong enough. 

He wasn’t enough.

“John.” His name falling from Bucky’s lips should feel like salvation but it drives the shame, guilt, self-hatred deeper into his chest.

“John.”

It needs Bucky calling him a second time to get him to look up from his hands under the running water.

Bucky stands in the doorway of their bathroom, still in his mission gear. He’s covered in dust, drenched in sweat. His hair is tangled, strands of it clinging to his temples. Yet his eyes are kinder than John deserves.

“Yelena told me what happened.” The words are soft, understanding and John hates it.

Why is Bucky, why is everyone, so empathetic toward him when he couldn’t save them?

John opens his mouth to say exactly that.

The heavy sob tearing his throat to shreds takes him by surprise.

“Oh, my darling.” In two long strides Bucky’s reached him, strong, wonderful arms encircling him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

“I-I-I-I c-couldn’t save them,” John chokes out through heaving breaths and burning tears and the weight of the small children resting on his soul. He almost suffocates on the syllables, making today’s terrible loss more palpable, like ashes on his tongue. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t…I couldn’t…”

Someone’s children. Parents having lost their babies.

He’s crying. Whole body sobs, shaking him to his very core, splitting his rib cage open, hurting. His entire form shudders and Bucky holds him close, grounds him.

John clings to him, fearing to drown in the world’s pain if he lets go. “I wasn’t fast enough…I could’ve…I should’ve…”

“Sh, sh, sh, John…I got you…I got you.” Bucky holds him tighter, one hand curving around the back of his head as John’s legs give out and they both sink to the floor. “You did everything you could.”

John’s trembling so hard his teeth are chattering; the children's cries, their tiny hands reaching out to him, helpless and frightened, the scream that got stuck in his throat as the balustrade above them collapsed.

All the emotions, fragments and memories of those nightmarish last few hours come flooding back, a crashing wave pulling him beneath the surface.

“N-Not enough.” His voice is thin and watery, a rope on the verge of snapping. “I had almost reached them…if I only had…oh God…”

He buries his face in the safe darkness of the crook of Bucky’s neck, who whispers things to him that John doesn’t fully register.

When Bucky moves, John clings to him, whimpering, and at first he struggles against Bucky’s tender hands which carefully lift his face and make him look at him.

“Darling, please look at me…” How can Bucky look him in the eye after what he’s done? “John…”

Suddenly, lips are on his cheek, a gossamer touch and so, so gentle. With the utmost care Bucky begins to kiss the silvery pearls of salty sorrow from John’s face.

“You couldn’t save them but John…” Bucky cups his jaw as John tries to turn his face away, overwhelmed by his failure. “…how many did you save? How many are alive because of you?”

Another kiss just below his left eye.

“You did your best.” Lips on the right corner of his mouth, tender and soothing. “You do your best every single day, John. I see that. We all do.”

Bucky’s thumb traces a path across John’s cheek. The blue of his eyes is filled with pain like a weeping summer sky. For John. Because he understands.

“The painful truth is that you can’t save everyone.” A gentle pressure stops John from uttering a hoarse reply. “But you do save people. You’re the first to throw yourself into battle, into danger, without hesitation if there’s even the slightest chance of helping someone. You never give up, no matter how hard it is.”

The final kiss Bucky places directly on John’s lips which involuntarily open in a sigh of relief. He almost drinks in this touch, encompassing everything the mission has denied him, absorbs the love and faith Bucky gifts him with.

As they part, Bucky rests his forehead against John’s, and they spend a few seconds breathing the same air.

“You are enough, John.” Though Bucky whispers, his steely conviction is unmistakable. “It’s not your fault. You always try, and that’s all that matters.”

Nodding hesitantly, John intertwines their fingers, placing them in his lap. “What if…?” The question dies before it can see the light of day.

What if my thoughts get too loud?

Bucky’s soft gaze is brimming with warm compassion. His answer is firm and solid, yet as quiet as a secret shared only between the two of them.