#altnl

One month later

Out by the woodshed, Bucky lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes the sweat from his face. Sorting through the pile of wood, he finds the best piece, balancing it on the chopping block. With an easy swing, the sharp blade arcs through the air and the pieces tumble into the growing pile.

Chopping wood seems unnecessary this late in the season, but he likes the work. Manual labor feels cathartic, and he relishes the pull of his muscles with each swing. Besides, even though he runs hot, he knows she doesn’t. If he has to put in some elbow grease to keep her warm, he’s happy to do it.

Spring is so tantalizingly close, he can almost taste it.

More and more of the ever-present world of white disappears daily, the shining sun turning the world beyond the cabin into a slushy mess of mud. So muddy in fact, they’ve gotten her truck stuck twice.

The first time they got it out no problem, but the second time - Bucky has that memory tucked away forever. While the wheels spun uselessly, he got out to push, which was a nice idea in theory. Until the truck leapt forward and he face planted in the mud. When she hit the brakes and jumped out, she ran around back to find him staggering to his feet, covered head to toe in black muck.

Of course, her surprised laughter turned to shrieking when he chased her through the slop until he caught her, picked her up, and threw her in a snowbank, his fingers tickling the entire time. They rode home dripping wet and covered in mud, barely able to stop laughing. When they arrived, Bucky pulled her into the shower with him until they were both perfectly clean and thoroughly interested in getting dirty again.

Yes, spring is a magical time.

Life feels new. After a long, cold, dark winter, he can finally see the other side and everything it offers. It’s like being born again, his life with her brimming with hope.

Taking a deep breath of the clean air, he selects another chunk of wood.

Above the sharp thwack of the ax, he hears a faint sound floating on the breeze.

Shading his eyes, he sees a figure walking along the road. Even from here, he sees a bright red stocking hat pulled low over his head, a hitchhiker’s bag strapped to his back. There is a brief flutter of nerves, before his stomach eases. The slope of broad shoulders and bouncing walk are telltale signs, but then he hears the whistle of a familiar song. Embedding the ax into the chopping block with a dull thunk, he whistles the tune in return. Strange words he unconsciously knows from another time.

Praise the Lord, we’re on a mighty mission

All aboard, we ain’t a-goin fishin’

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

And we’ll all stay free

Dusting off his hands, Bucky ambles down to meet the man, a relaxed grin on his face.

“Still singing that damn song?” Bucky greets him. “Anyone tell you the war is over?”

Steve Rogers pulls off his stocking hat with a theatrical groan and uses it to mop the sweat from his face.

“Classics never die,” he huffs. Running sweaty fingers through snarls of golden hair, it sticks straight up in an awkward mohawk. “God damn, this was a fuckin’ walk. You got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Grabbing Steve in a giant bear hug, Bucky lifts him off his feet and Steve squawks in protest.

“You’re such a little shit. Come inside. Got someone you need to see.”

*****

On the porch, Bucky removes his mud-covered boots and neatly lines them up beside the front door; raising his eyebrows, he points for Steve to do the same. Steve grins at the domesticity and follows suit, before following him inside.

“Hey darlin’?” Bucky calls and there’s an answering shout from above.

Dressed in old wellies, jeans, and a knobby grey fisherman’s sweater she appears, trying to zip up her jacket as she trots down the stairs.

“Buck, if you actually want potato soup tonight, I have to go into town. I didn’t realize when you said you ate all the bacon, you literally ate all the bacon. There were three pounds of it, how did you even -” looking up, she stops.

Astonishment floods Steve’s face when he sees her, but he schools it quickly. Standing up straighter, he nervously tries to smooth his hair, before eventually recognizing the futility and shoving his hands in his pockets. He gives her a bashful smile instead.

“Hey. I’m, uh, sorry for just showing up. Probably should have called, I just -”

The words are struck from his lungs when she bounds forward and throws her arms around him, knocking him back a step. Steve hugs her tight, glancing in surprise at Bucky who looks on fondly.

“You never have to call, Captain Rogers. You’re always welcome.”

“Christ, no,” Steve grimaces when he releases her. “Call me Steve, please. Get enough of that Captain bullshit at home.” Catching himself, he looks momentarily horrified. “Shit, I mean shoot, sorry, pardon my language.”

“Please,” she says with a laugh. Elbowing Bucky, she winks. “Let’s not pretend I haven’t heard worse from him.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky wraps a playful arm around her neck. “I told you, it’s how I spice up my vocabulary. Science says swearing makes me smart.”

Rolling her eyes, she pokes her fingers into his belly and he grunts breathlessly.

“God, you two are adorable,” Steve says seriously. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

Placing his whole hand over Steve’s face, Bucky shoves him away while she laughs, her arm curving around his waist.

“Want me to go warm up the truck? Pull it around for you?” Bucky asks, and she kisses his cheek.

“No, I’m good. Stay here and catch up. Maybe get Steve some food, I’d hate for him to starve,” she says.

“I love her,” Steve stage whispers.

Grabbing a bundle of tote bags, she heads outside, stomping carelessly through the muddy yard. On the sunny porch, the two men stand shoulder to shoulder, waving as she drives the clunky old truck down toward town. Once it disappears, Bucky turns to Steve and claps him on the back.

“Come on asshole, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

*****

One carton of eggs and a loaf of bread later, they sit on the porch with steaming cups of coffee. Bucky tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Steve sits back in his chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“It all sounds insane, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks quietly.

Fiddling with his coffee cup, Steve scratches absently at his beard. “Maybe. Maybe not. We always knew there were others. Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t perfect, but it must’ve been enough for him to survive. Whatever survive means.”

“Yeah. I guess so. ”

Taking a long drink of coffee, Steve frowns at his boots before looking up to Bucky. “So, you buried him then?”

There’s a defiant edge to Bucky’s voice when he responds.

“Just felt right. He was a soldier, not a lab rat.”

Steve shrugs casually as he sits forward. “I get it, don’t need to convince me. We don’t have to tell anyone.”

Amused at the blatant lack of adherence to the precious world of protocol, Bucky gasps.

“Goodness gracious, I’m clutching my fuckin’ pearls. Did I just convince Captain America to commit treason?”

“Well you always were a terrible influence. So many bad decisions, all because of you,” Steve says loftily.

“You’re so full of shit,” Bucky laughs. Steve grins wickedly, knowing full well all their youthful indiscretions came from his ridiculous decisions; not that he’ll ever admit that one to Bucky.

At the thought of their past though - it makes him wonder.

“Can I ask something?”

“Hit me,” Bucky says easily. There are a couple minutes of silence, while Steve tries to find the words he wants.

“When she wipes memories, that’s - that’s it? They’re gone for good? We couldn’t - like, there’s no chance of getting them back?”

Bucky smiles ruefully. “No. I was curious, so I asked. But she said it was absolute. Looked so miserable when she told me, I’m sure as shit not mentioning it again. Besides,” he contemplates the blue sky beyond the porch railing, “it doesn’t matter. What do I need all that for anyway? Got her. Got you. That’s enough.”

The relief in Steve’s reply is palpable. “Good. I hated your dumbass running around trying to dig up the past.”

“Me too,” Bucky sighs. “Only did it ‘cause I thought I should. But now - I’m just worrying about the future. Those are the only memories I need.”

They sit in companionable silence, gazing out into the cool morning. In the treetops, birds chatter back and forth, and Steve feels himself relax. An unfamiliar peacefulness steals over him, filling him from head to toe; he almost doesn’t hear the quiet question.

“Stevie?” Looking sideways, he finds Bucky watching him calmly. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired. Just want a normal life, a home with her. Something quiet. Is that - will that be okay?”

The hesitancy in Bucky’s voice hits Steve like a fist to the face. Turning away, he blinks back tears and clears his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, Buck. Of course that’s okay.”

That unspoken weight always dragging Bucky down disappears. With Steve’s words, the decades seem to fall away and there - the fleeting image of Sergeant James Barnes flashes across his features. Lighter. Softer. Carefree and full of laughter, wanting nothing more than to hang up his boots and find a warm home with the girl he loves.

“Thanks,” Bucky whispers looking back into the clear morning, a contented smile on his lips.

With the crisp breeze swirling around them, the soldiers sit in silence. One light haired and one dark, with two matching pairs of blue eyes, and two gigantic hearts.

*****

The sun is just beginning to sink when Bucky announces he’s going to go clean up the woodpile before it gets dark. The night air blows sharp when he opens the door, ushering in the wintery chill that still insists on arriving when darkness falls.

“Nah, stay here and catch up,” he urges, when Steve goes to grab his jacket. “It’ll just take me a few minutes.”

“Thanks love,” she murmurs and Bucky beams at the pet name, a happy bounce in his step as he heads outside. Grinning at Steve, she goes to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of beer from the depths, popping the tops and handing one to him.

“Cheers,” she says, clinking them together and he nods shyly. Pulling out knives and cutting boards and stock pots and skillets, she assembles everything for the potato soup Bucky begs her to make at least once a week. Salted water is simmering on the stovetop, before Steve finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Scrubbing potatoes, she looks up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

Steeling his nerves, Steve frowns. “For not coming back. For letting you deal with his death alone. Always promised him, if something happened, I’d do my best to take care of you. And then I just -” he breaks off.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she reaches over the counter and squeezes his hand. “You just saved the world,” she says gently.

Swallowing hard, Steve looks down. “Still. My best friend’s girl, and I let her down. I let both of you down.”

Releasing his hand, she picks up her knife and starts dicing the potatoes.

“No, you didn’t. If I’ve learned nothing else in this life, it’s that you can’t stay in the past. What’s done is done, and now we move on. We’re all here now, Steve,” she says quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve lets the tension of his apology melt away. “He always said you were smart.”

“Hmmm, did he now?” she says with a mischievous grin and Steve can’t help the responding smile; it feels infectious.

The kitchen radio plays in the background, filling the small kitchen with the punchy sound of trumpets and piano, the world of old French jazz. Steve watches her cook, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“How come - how come you didn’t call? Didn’t tell us you were here?”

Without replying, she lays out slices of bacon and starts chopping. Immersed in her task, it takes her a minute to respond.

“When I heard they found you, I almost came to New York. But then, I imagined telling you what happened and - I was too ashamed.” Setting the knife down, she looks up and he sees deep sadness in her eyes. “The last time I saw him, he had no clue who I was, and I had no idea if he was still alive. It all seemed impossible. And then I saw him come back, and I just - you were with him and I was so relieved. He had you. I knew you’d do everything in your power to help him recover. After what I did, I didn’t think I should be part of that.”

Canting her head down, he sees her shoulders slump slightly. Steve knows that feeling better than anyone, what it means when you can’t save someone. Particularly when you can’t save Bucky Barnes.

“Back then, you saved him. During the war. I hope you understand, I hope you know.”

She doesn’t speak, but finally looks up. “Know what?”

He gives her a gentle smile. “How much he loved you. Never shut up about it. Used to drive us all crazy with all his sighing and his mooning around.”

The brilliant smile she gives him lights up her whole face and Steve feels his own lips curve in response. Both of them automatically glance toward the front door when they hear Bucky’s boots clomping up the porch steps.

“I know,” she says, her eyes shining bright. “He tells me every day.”

*****

Steve has more than a thousand stories about Bucky, from growing up in Brooklyn to traipsing across the European front to all their avenging these past few years, and unfortunately for Bucky, Steve seems dead set on relaying every stupid thing Bucky’s ever done. The worst part is, he can’t even refute the stories - Steve could be making everything up, and Bucky can’t even call him out on it.

A fact he continually points out and a fact Steve blithely dismisses.

“Trust me,” he says with a sage nod. “Captain America would never lie.”

“That is the biggest crock of shit I ever heard,” Bucky states. He looks mildly put out when she shushes him.

“Hush Bucky, I need to hear this story.”

“Uh, no you most certainly do not,” he replies, as Steve tells about the time him, Bucky, and Sam were stuck in a safe house in Mexico and every time Bucky went to sleep, Sam moved everything in the apartment three inches before convincing Bucky the place was haunted.

“Well for fuck’s sake, there are aliens aren’t there?” Bucky exclaims. “Why the hell not ghosts?”

Scooping up a huge spoonful of soup, Steve swallows it down and gives him a serious look. “That’s true Buck. And that’s why I supported your idea of having a séance to contact the ghost. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.”

“I hate your face so hard. Remind me why you’re here again?” Bucky groans. Leaning back, he slings an arm around her chair and tucks his face against her neck. “Don’t believe anything he says. He lies,” his plea is muffled.

Patting his head, she scratches her fingers in his hair just like he likes, and he hums delightedly. “Don’t worry, I think you’re very adorable.”

“I am very adorable,” Bucky mumbles.

Lifting up his bowl, Steve slurps down the rest of his soup; smacking his lips, he gives them a mysterious smile. “Actually, there was another reason I came to visit.”

Bucky pulls away from her and glares at him. “Was it to destroy my happiness?”

“No, that’s just a fringe benefit,” Steve says cheerfully. Shoving away from the table, he goes to his oversized backpack and starts digging. Pulling something free, he comes back to the table and sets a cloth bag in front of Bucky.

“It’s a bag,” Bucky deadpans. “Inside a bag.”

“Smartass. Open it.”

Wiggling his eyebrows at her, Bucky un-cinches the bag and pulls out a leather satchel.

“It’s a bag, inside a bag, inside - a bag.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re hilarious?”

“Literally everyone who’s met me,” Bucky says with a grin. Glancing curiously at the worn brown leather, his smile begins to fade. Something about the bag seems insanely familiar, and he racks his brain -

And he catches his breath. Wide-eyed, he looks back up at Steve.

“Wait. Is this -“

“Yep,” Steve says, eyes sparkling. “You’d left it back at the base camp, must’ve gotten stuck in some of the camp containers they shipped to headquarters. Anyway, I spent the last three weeks banging around the SHIELD archives trying to see if I could find anything - there’s so much shit down there by the way, like an episode of hoarders - and then I was digging through this moldy ass box, and there it was.”

“My bag,” Bucky marvels. Excitement fills his face, bright sunrise in the evening. “From the war, from before. All my stuff.”

“All your memories,” she says breathlessly, squeezing his thigh.

“Go on,” Steve encourages. “Open the damn thing, I’m dying to know what the hell you kept in there. You never let me see anything.”

The leather straps are fastened tight, decades of moisture and dust creating a concrete knot that takes several minutes to unravel. It creaks irritably when it finally gives way and Bucky tugs it open. One by one, he pulls out items.

A book appears first. Front cover torn, they see a copy of ‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’, one of the compact armed service editions published for soldiers. Some of the pages are stuck together and as he thumbs through it, Bucky sees familiar handwriting. Notes he scribbled in the margins, passages he underlined. Words and phrases pop out like friendly messages from another life. Flipping toward the end, he finds his favorite line, one that caught his fancy when he read the book again last year.

“Dear God,” he reads, voice wobbling slightly, “let me be something, every minute of every hour of my life.”

He touches the words with a cautious metal finger and looks up to find her watching him, a soft look in her eyes. Leaning over, he gives her a kiss and she brushes his hair back.

“You were always something, no question about that,” she says and Bucky smiles.

The next item is a thick sheaf of papers. Folded into neat rectangles are a set of maps, the ones he and Steve received from the Priest in her village, before they headed out on that last mission.

“Oops,” Steve says sheepishly. “Guess we never did get those back to the church.”

Two white, army issued packs of cigarettes follow; when Bucky tips out a Lucky Strike, it crumbles to powder in his fingers. His silver lighter is next, scales of brownish-red rest covering one side. As he tries to light it, the coils give a harsh screech.

“Okay, I was gonna give up smoking anyway,” he shrugs.

When he pulls out a dented flask and unscrews the cap, a faint wisp of whiskey floats out. Steve makes a gagging noise and shudders.

“Holy hell, I remember that garbage. Dugan bought it off a medic at a field hospital in Germany. Cross my heart, it was the worst shit I ever tasted. Gave me nightmares.”

“I remember it too,” she pipes up, looking slightly nauseated. “He convinced me to try it once and I haven’t tried whiskey since.”

Bucky grins at them both and plunges his hand into the bag again, this time, jerking back with a curse. Cautiously, he reaches in again and discovers an open switchblade. Carved below the marble handle in flaking gold are the letters JBB.

“Becca gave that to you, before you shipped out,” Steve says quietly. “She sold her pearl earrings to buy it.”

Rubbing the white marble gingerly, Bucky gently folds down the blade and sets it carefully aside. It hurts for a minute, and his throat works hard to swallow down the emotion.

“Anything else in there?” she nudges lightly, and he shakes himself from the reverie.

Reaching into the bag, his hand bumps something. Buried at the bottom, he feels a soft bundle, a rectangular parcel wrapped in old green cloth. When he pulls it free, he has to unwind it several times before they discover what lies beneath.

Bucky blinks when he sees it, his heart leaping at her soft exclamation.

“My letters,” she says, wrapping her arm around him and curling closer.

“Your letters,” he repeats faintly. Sudden tears fill his eyes and he surreptitiously wipes them away, gruffly clearing his throat.

Handling the paper reverently, he brushes his fingers over the faded handwriting. The whole bundle is tied together with a broken boot lace, and it takes a few tugs before it releases.

Eleven letters.

Eleven letters, written just for him. Eleven of his very own memories, real and tangible and full of her love. Something he knows he kept in his coat pocket every day, drawing comfort and strength from her words, while he battled through the horrors of that unending war.

Unfolding the first one, he takes a deep breath.

10 March 1944

Dear Jimmy,

I wanted to write this on your birthday, so I could fill it full of all the things I wish we could do, if you were here. Maybe next year, everything will be possible. The war will be over, and your day would look something like this.

We could spend it in Paris, how lovely that might be! We could sleep in, no need to get up early. I might wake you up with a kiss, one on your cheek, then on your nose, then on your lips, and then I’d make you breakfast in bed, strong coffee and fried eggs and sizzling slices of bacon and fresh croissants, and we could spend the morning reading the papers and laying in the sun. Then we might go for walk down by the Seine, see the bridges and the booksellers, throw coins in the river and make wishes. Eat chocolate cake and drink bottles of wine. Whatever your heart desires my love, it would be your day. Maybe that night, we would be walking home, and hear a musician playing in the streets and we could stop and dance. Just you and me, holding each other in the moonlight.

And when we get home, I think I’ll take you upstairs to soft sheets and soft pillows and all kinds of things that are rather inappropriate for this letter, but I can certainly tell you one thing - sleep would not be on our minds.

Something to dream about for next year.

But if you remember nothing else on your birthday, I hope you will remember there’s a girl in France who loves you with all her heart.

6 June 1944

…and please don’t ever tell Steve, but I laughed forever at your letter. Such a demure, solemn man when I met him, I keep picturing him covered in mud and so frustrated with all of you! I do hope his knees are feeling better, give him a hug from me.

Sending you all my love, now and always.

19 August 1944

Dear Jimmy,

I’ve never been to a drive-in movie, but I must tell you, I think it sounds wonderful. I have no doubt we could show those kids a thing or two, because the simple truth is that I could spend my entire life kissing you. There would be no need to ever stop, I know that much.

The days of sunlight are long now, and so often I lay out in the field behind the house, where the grass grows tall and the world smells like wildflowers, and I think of you until long after the stars appear. The sweet taste of your lips, the rough feel of your hands, the sound of your voice when you say my name. How much I love the red highlights in your beard and the dimple in your chin and the way you purr like a house-cat when I scratch my fingers through your hair. Everything you are, your kind heart and your curious soul, it fills me with a wanting I cannot explain.

Do you know, when I fall sleep, your face is the last thing on my mind? Sometimes I still believe this is a God, because He lets you into my dreams every single night.

30 December 1944

My love,

Just this morning, I let you go again. Back into this wretched war. It feels unforgivable, letting you leave. My heart fled with you and I admit, tonight I am having trouble remembering to breath.

You are the one thing that gets me through everything. Isn’t that so strange? I had no idea my heart missed you, until the day we met. There are so many things I want to say to you. Things I want you to know about me, who I was and who I am. So many things I want to learn about you.

But now, if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear your voice. It’s there in that lost place between sleep and awake, where you tell me good night darling, that Brooklyn drawl coloring your words.

There is nothing I want more than a life with you. Sitting on the porch while the sun sets, holding your hand. Falling asleep wrapped in your arms. Loving you until there is nothing but grey left in your hair. I miss you so much. Please, please, please come home soon.

Resting her head on Bucky’s shoulder as he reads, she follows along in silence, reliving every word, every phrase, every bit of punctuation. How familiar it seems, even after all this time.

When Bucky finally sets the last letter down, he turns to her. Tipping his head down, he touches his forehead to hers and closes his eyes; cradling his face in her hands, she rubs her thumb over his lips. Neither one speaks. Old letters and faded memories and quiet breaths are the only words they need.

*****

The evening is late when Steve flops on the couch and gets comfortable. Digging through the hall closet, Bucky returns with a couple pillows and a fuzzy blanket and tosses them over.

“Alright Rogers. You need a teddy bear? Glass of milk? Bedtime story? Should I check under the couch for monsters?” he asks and Steve flips him off with a huge yawn.

“G’night, asshole.”

“Night, punk.”

Flipping off the lights, they leave him snug in the warm darkness downstairs, the flames burning low in the fireplace. Steve watches as they walk upstairs together, Bucky patting her on the butt as she walks ahead, muttering something that makes her laugh. Buried in the couch cushions, he smiles drowsily as he listens to their quiet voices get ready for bed, the calming footsteps above, the soothing laughter gliding down the stairs.

It sounds perfect.

Like a home.

Slowly and surely, the firelight lulls him to sleep.

*****

Standing in the bedroom doorway, her mouth curves up at the image.

Leaning against a pile of pillows, Bucky sits with all his letters spread around him, shuffling through them again. They haven’t left his hands all evening, so perfectly enamored with his small treasure, something he never expected.

“Would you like me to write them for you again? So you have fresh copies?”

Squinting up at her, he contemplates the offer, before shaking his head.

“Nah, already have them memorized. Besides, now you can write me new ones. I like to be romanced.”

“Hmm. I had no idea this relationship would be so much work,” she teases.

Gathering up the letters, he places each in the correct envelope, wraps them back up in a fresh piece of cloth, and tucks them into the drawer of his nightstand. Giving her an outrageously sultry look, he clicks off the lamp and pats the bed next to him invitingly.

Slipping under the sheets, she immediately tucks her cold toes against his leg and he yelps at the icy feel, but lifts his arm automatically, letting her nestle into her favorite spot against his chest.

“Good god, you need to wear socks to bed,” he says with a shiver.

“No, I don’t. I have you,” she says happily.

Smothering a laugh, he rolls to face her. Face to face on the same pillow, two pairs of eyes adjust to the dark room. When she traces the back of her knuckles down his cheek, he catches her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you,” she breathes.

Comfortable silence fills the room, and as the minutes tick by, her eyes grow heavy. Sleep never comes easy for him, so Bucky watches her instead, content to fill his sleeplessness with nothing more than the curves and shadows of her face. He can hear her heartbeat slow, her breathing steady, and right before she goes under, a thought pops into his head.

“Darlin’, can I ask you something?”

“Course,” she says sleepily.

“All the stuff you’ve kept over the years, what you had hidden around the house. Why’d you do that? Hide it that way?”

Slow fingers trace up his chest as she thinks, and her voice is low and raspy with a reply.

“I know what it means to lose everything you’ve ever known. Instead of having it all up here,” and she taps her forehead, “I keep things everywhere. Never all together, so I can’t lose everything at once.”

“Are there more things in the house?” he asks curiously, and she hums.

“Lots more,” she answers, and snuggles closer. Closing her eyes, she presses her lips to his skin. “Can I tell you more tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

A moment later, her deep, even breaths tickle his chest and Bucky keeps watching, mesmerized by the sight. Everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed, right there. Wrapped up in his arms.

Around them, the room is blanketed in darkness, deep blacks and shades of gray and he thinks about all those memories he’s collected. All that color, good and bad, and what it means to have a past. And then he thinks about the future, free from the turmoil of war, with nothing ahead but the delicate blue of her cool touches and the bright gold of her sunny smiles and the rainbow of color he hears when she laughs.

So many colors. So much time.

The paintbrush in his head lays down to dream. Closing his eyes, Bucky drifts to sleep.

---

Overhead, the world is a vivid cornflower blue, fat puffs of white rolling lazily across the sky.

Eyes closed, Bucky lays between her legs, arms around her waist, head pillowed on her belly. Swaths of wildflowers and fresh green grass surround them, and the colorful patchwork squares of her old blanket absorb the mountain sun, enveloping them both in cozy bubble.

The meadow is quiet, but not silent. Wind rustling nearby trees, the occasional buzz of a honeybee, the distant chatter of birds, her soft breaths. Everything melds together, until Bucky is lulled into a haze of relaxation. Teetering on the edge, sleep almost takes him, until an errant thought pops up.

Words bloom in his head, familiar black ink on a yellowed letter. A field full of flowers. Middle of nowhere. Just the two of them. 

Something he’s ached for, since the day he met her. Suddenly breathless, his heart beats faster, sweat pools in his palm, and he knows. This is it. This is exactly right.

And so, he takes a deep breath.

“I was thinking, maybe, um - there’s something I’d like to do. Just you and me.”

“Sure,” she hums, drowsy from the sun and warm weight of him sprawled atop her.

Pushing himself up, he sits back on his knees. Digs into his pocket, fishing out a small black velvet bag, a token he’s taken to carrying everywhere, just in case. Swallowing hard, he feels the slight prickle of sweat around his collar and he wonders exasperatedly why, after everything, he still gets nervous. 

But he knows, really. Because he wants everything to be perfect. For her. 

Always for her.

Nervous fingers fumble with the satin strings of the bag, and when it finally tugs open, two rings slip into his hand. Sunlight winks off the smooth silver bands and her face softens. 

“I ordered them a long time ago,” he says, and she hears the tremble in his voice. “Wanted to have them, just in case maybe you - you did. Want to. Get married. To me, I mean.”

Huffing at his clumsy delivery, his nose wrinkles in apology, but she doesn’t mind.

Sitting up, she knee-walks over, climbing into his lap. Plucking up the bigger ring, she lifts Bucky’s right hand. Kisses his knuckles and begins to speak.

“Bucky Barnes, I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you. I promise to always love you, to protect you, to stand at your side from now until the end of my days, and to - to always be your memory, whenever you need me,” her voice is strong, the words coming easily. Sliding the ring onto his fourth finger, she smiles and whispers one more thing. “You’re the love of my life.” 

It almost seems like a dream. So beautiful, so perfect, it cannot be real.

But it is. It is. She is real, and she loves him, and Bucky feels those remaining rips in his soul finally heal, with the comfort of her vow. 

God, he loves her. So damn much.

No words are good enough, nothing can compare, but he opens his mouth to try anyway and they tumble free, desperate to reach her after decades of waiting.

“I promise to love you with every breath, every beat of my heart, every memory I make. Every single day for the rest of my life. And if there’s a world after this, I swear to you, I will find you there and keep loving you. Because this love?” Bucky places his hand over his heart and she twines her fingers with his, squeezing tight.

“It never leaves,” she finishes softly.

The late afternoon breeze swirls around them, the raucous scent of wildflowers sailing on the wind, and Bucky slides the ring slowly onto her finger, eyes wide as he drinks in the sight. As he makes a brand new memory.

When he looks up, he finds her watching him, a smile curving her mouth. He curls his hand gently behind her neck, tugs her closer. Leaves delicate kisses on her forehead, her cheek, her nose. 

And there it happens. Under a canopy of blue sky, with vows of forever and two silver rings, the long awaited promise is fulfilled and Bucky kisses his wife. 

*****

MISSION REPORT

WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

He doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t. But orders are orders. Tucking the white notebook into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath.

And he walks toward the little cabin.

*****

The bedroom is quiet. Kneeling on the bed, they face either other.

Staring blankly into his lap, Bucky is frozen in place. Across from him, all he can hear are her quick, short breaths, growing steadily faster the longer they sit in silence. Distantly, he notices his fingers are clenched so tight in the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, they’re moments from ripping apart.

“Say something,” she finally whispers.

Bucky slowly looks up.

Blatant fear rests in her face, and it makes him want to wrap her in his arms. Soothe it away and tell her everything will be okay, that he understands what happened, and he knows why she did it and he loves her no matter what.

Those are the words he should give her. They sit on his tongue, ready to be used. And he wants to use them, he really really does. But he doesn’t.

Because right now, Bucky has never felt so god damn lost in his entire life.

“What am I supposed to say?” he asks instead.

Shivering under the glare of his shocked disbelief, she fumbles her words. “I wanted to tell you Bucky, I did -“

She reaches for his arm and he involuntarily jerks away.

“But you didn’t,” he interrupts, and she recoils at the betrayal in his voice. “You didn’t tell me.”

Licking her lips, she tries again.

“I wanted - Bucky, I wanted to tell you so damn much. From the very beginning, but you were doing so well, and - and we were doing so well together, and I just wanted you to remember first. I wanted you to remember us first.”

Once again, she tries to touch him and once again, he wrenches his arm away.

“So, you lied, instead,” he says coldly.

Alarmed at the ice in his tone, she shakes her head. “No! I never lied to you Bucky, everything I told you was true. Everything about you and me, every single word, it was all true, you know that, you know it was, don’t - please don’t -" she chokes on the words as they tumble free.

Her fingers reach for him again. He pulls back again.

“How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You left out the most important part of the god damn story!”

“I know, shit, I know I shouldn’t have, but I just - Bucky, you said before, you said it didn’t matter - you said it wasn’t - that it wasn’t my fault, please!”

She reaches. He shies away.

Every time he withdraws from her touch, the light inside her dims. Finally, she stops trying. She tangles her fingers in her lap instead.

“That was - that was before I knew - you had to do that to those men, but - but I was - I was - how could you do that to me?” He hates the way his voice rises hysterically, but he can’t stop it. The question is like a physical blow and she cowers from his words.

“Bucky, I’m so sorry -“

“You ruined my life!” he shouts, and she quits breathing. “Everything I was, you just - you took it. Who I was, where I came from, what I believed - you broke it all. You broke me.”

Shrinking into herself, she has no reply. Tears spill down her face as she accepts his anger.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Scrambling backward off the bed, Bucky finds himself riding the dangerous edge of a full-blown panic attack. Looking at her there, sitting in the pile of soft blankets where he held her and kissed her and -

Shaking fingers comb through the wild tangles of hair falling over his face, and he feels tiny scars scattered across his scalp. Physical residue of horrific memories he still cannot remember.

Gathering her courage, she tries to speak again, but he stops her.

“Don’t,” he says forcefully. “Just - don’t.”

Looking around the room, he sees the glowing red embers of the fire, sees snowflakes drifting by the window, sees the pile of his dirty socks in the corner and her small jewelry box propped open on the dresser. All these small fragments that make up their life.

Their life here. Their life together.

It should be enough to rein him in. His heart wants it so much.

But apparently his brain has other ideas.

Spinning around, he goes to the closet and yanks the door open. Snatching up his duffel bag, he finds the pile of his neatly folded laundry tucked on the top shelf. Gathering everything, he stuffs it haphazard in the bag. Zipping it shut, he heads for the door.

“What are you doing? Bucky? Where are you going?” her voice rises in panic. Struggling off the bed, she follows him. “No no no, wait, please wait! Please, Bucky, don’t leave, please! Talk to me, tell me what I can do.”

It’s almost enough. The desperate plea nearly breaks him. Everything in him is screaming to stop, to drop the duffel bag and bury his face against her and cry until he’s empty. But he’s so god damn confused, he can barely see straight.

He forces himself to ignore her.

Rushing downstairs, he hears the soft thump of her bare feet chasing him, but he keeps going.

More pieces of their life together are strewn down below. Empty mugs with damp tea bags on the kitchen counter, a paperback book with one of his gum wrappers marking her page, the fluffy blanket Bucky wrapped around them both as they cuddled by the fire. Tiny remnants of a perfect life, a beautiful picture he never knew he craved, until he held it all in his perpetually mismatched hands.

Reaching the front door, Bucky shoves his feet into the boots he keeps lined up below the coat rack. Trembling fingers whip through the buckles and laces, and then he grabs his white jacket and jams his arms through. Without bothering to zip it up, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

Cold air swirls around him, the freshness of a beautiful morning spilling in.

With one foot outside, he abruptly halts. Breathing hard, his entire body vibrates under the strain of the anguish that sweeps through him.

Because he cannot help himself, he looks back.

Surrounded by the comforts of their home, there she stands. The love of his god damn life, hugging herself while she watches the man who promised to love her forever, as he walks out the door.

Bucky feels his heart thumping uncontrollably, smashing against his ribs, boom, boom, boom. Screaming at him to stop and listen. To let her explain and forgive her. To love her unconditionally and forever.

His heart thumps harder, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and those sketchy memories that haunt his nightmares, the wash of red blood and the stench of black death, those painful colors that painted the life of the Winter Soldier, fill him with sick horror and it makes him dizzy.

“Please, Bucky,” she whispers. Broken. “Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses, but he turns away. Slams the front door, hoists his bag over his shoulders, and leaps down the short flight of steps. With no plan other than escape, he bolts for the thick grove of pine trees opposite her house.

Knee deep drifts of snow blanket the yard, and he feels the icy bite of wet cold seeping through his pants as he trudges along, but it doesn’t matter. He keeps stomping until he reaches the cover of trees, where the thick white tapers away and the path is easier to navigate.

Breaking into a slow trot, he winds around the wide trunks of the silent forest. Now and then, he sniffs and angrily wipes away the tears that won’t seem to stop.

On and on he goes, his slow jog eventually changing to a flat out run. One mile turns into two and then into five. In the thin mountain air, his breath comes harsh and ragged as he runs faster and faster, away from the horrors of a past he can’t remember and the crushing disappointment he left on her face. On and on he runs, until suddenly, the terrain curves up, so he drops his head and sprints, scrabbling at slippery black rock. The duffel bag bounces crazily at his back and he loses his grip once, smashing his face against the icy granite. Swearing viciously, his nose gushing blood, he crawls back to his feet and keeps running.

Bucky climbs and climbs and climbs, until all of a sudden, he skids to a stop.

Spread out before him, is an alien world. Glittering white stretches into infinity, sawtooth mountain peaks clawing at the distant blue sky. In the open, it is fiercely cold, but he jerks off his stocking hat, sighing in relief at the feel of air on his blisteringly hot neck. Sweat slides down his back, pooling between his shoulder blades and he gulps down the dry air, relishing in the ache it forces into his lungs.

Folding his fingers atop his head, he tips his face to the dazzling sunshine. Slowly, his panting lessens. Slowly, he feels the wild anxiety dissipate. And slowly, he begins to understand what he’s done.

“Oh my god,” he exhales. Staring up into the deep blue sky, dread creeps up his spine. “What the fuck did I just do?”

Knees buckling, he falls hard, the sting of cold soaking through his pants. A shaking hand wipes away the blood still trickling from his nose and he closes his eyes.

Bucky Barnes will be the first to admit, sometimes he makes terrible decisions.

Sometimes they’re just normal terrible, like the time he ate four platefuls of spaghetti and then challenged Sam to a five-mile run. By mile two, he was puking up tomato sauce.

Sometimes they’re slightly more terrible, like the time he refused medical treatment and insisted on digging three bullets out of his thigh himself. He passed out near the end and cracked his head on the ceramic floor of the med bay.

Sometimes they’re pretty terrible, like all those times he forced himself to stand in a Hydra base and relieve every hideous memory that inevitably resurfaced. That just proves he’s an idiot.

But now and then, he does this. Makes such a monumentally terrible decision that nothing positive can come from it. And this one here just might be the most catastrophically stupid decision of his entire fucking life. He should have stayed. He should have dug his heels in and worked through this with her, but like a god damn coward, he ran.

“You dumb idiot sonofabitch,” he growls.

Above the whistle of wind whipping around, he hears a quiet chirp chirp sound and a striped chipmunk scurries past. The small creature stops when it sees him, popping up on its haunches and sniffing the air. Bright eyes watch him, and Bucky has the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

“I really fucked that up, didn’t I?” he asks. The chipmunk twitches its fluffy tail in agreement and Bucky grunts. “I know, I just - I fuckin’ panicked. One minute I’m asking her to marry me and the next she’s telling me - well, you know.” The chipmunk tilts its head. “Okay, so maybe you don’t know, but believe me, it was insane.” Another chirp, another head tilt. Bucky groans and buries his face in his hands. “Jesus. You’re right. I’m a god damn idiot.”

Shame flares red-hot in his chest. How could he have done this to her? Left their trust behind and walked away?

In the crisp morning air, clarity arrives like a clap of thunder.

Despite decades apart, despite every cruel twist of Fate, despite the unending brutality Hydra leveled against them both, despite everything in the world conspiring to keep them apart - nothing worked. With only muscle memory to guide them, somehow, against all odds, they found their way back to each other.

Because this right here, is what it means to love someone with every piece of your heart.

The simplicity of that realization brings a deep comfort to his soul. He knows then, exactly what he has to do.

“I have to go back,” he announces. Jumping to his feet, he grabs his bag and shrugs into the straps. “Tell her none of it matters. None of it does matter. I get why she did it, I would’ve done the same damn thing, if I thought I could save her.” Bucky nods at the chipmunk. “Thanks man.”

Turning around, he picks up his trail and he heads for home.

*****

The trek back seems shorter. Or maybe he’s just anxious to get back, but in no time at all, Bucky picks out the familiar markers that mean home is just over the horizon. Unable to contain himself, he starts to sprint.

Relief fills him when he plunges through the trees, finding the house exactly as he left it.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, water bubbles merrily in the nearby stream, the pile of wood he was chopping lays unfinished by the shed. Everything in its place, everything perfect, everything -

Wrong.

There is no discernible reason for it, but feeling is overpowering. It slams into him, like a punch to the face.

Something is wrong.

Pulling up short, he goes completely still.

All those threats he imagined lurking in the darkness last night feel suddenly real, magnified in the morning sun. There are no screams, no cries, no blood, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary, but still. Swinging his bag around, Bucky crouches in the snow and digs through his pack until his fingers find a gun. Shaking a round of bullets from the clip stashed inside his coat, he slips them into the chamber and snaps it shut. Rising slowly, he raises the gun, eyes darting back and forth across the quiet landscape. Picking his way carefully through the snow, he’s within a few hundred feet of the house when he sees it.

Footprints.

Coming from the opposite direction, leading in a straight line to her front door.

Bucky feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.

“Fuck,” he spits out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Something suddenly crunches under his boot. Glancing down, he drops to one knee, his eyes tracking every direction, while he reaches blindly for whatever made that sound. Fingers touch a hard edge, and brushing away a dusting of snow, he picks up a white notebook.

Eyes still roaming cautiously, he balances it on his knee and flips it open.

Written at the top of every page, the words “MISSION REPORT” are ground into the paper. Thumbing through page after page, he finds shaky block letters in gray lead, short sentences and rambling comments and odd words jumping out at him.

Krakow. Pain. New soldiers. Old signals. Pain. Electricity. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Utterly bewildered, Bucky flips to the last few pages.

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.

---

MISSION REPORT: LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL ELIMINATION PLAN.

---

MISSION REPORT: SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS.

---

MISSION REPORT: BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

---

MISSION REPORT: WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

---

Bucky reads it all twice, trying to make sense of the words. They look like diary entries, the barest details outlining the sketch of a person’s day.

Kind of like the notes Steve jots down sometimes, so he can fill in a more descriptive report later. Like the kind Sam sometimes writes in the notebook he tries to hide, so he can examine his own thoughts and mood swings. Like the kind Bucky sometimes marks on the back of grocery receipts, when he gets stuck inside his head and needs a way to set the anger free.

Mission reports are the hallmark of any good soldier.

Any good soldier.

An idea suddenly pops into his brain. Insane, irrational, and entirely ludicrous.

Tucking the notebook into his pocket, he grits his teeth furiously and raises the gun again. Picking his way through the snow, he reaches the shoveled path and when he hits the front steps, his feet choose the places he already memorized, where the creaking whine of the wood is silenced.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear, but finds nothing. Praying he is dead wrong, Bucky turns the handle slowly and eases the door open. Stepping into the doorway, he finds himself momentarily snow-blind from the world of white, so he blinks quickly.

The inside world takes shape. All the basics of a comfortable life remain, just as he left them this morning.

A crackling fire. The smell of coffee. The hum of a fan. A low radio playing staticky jazz in the background.

In the dim light, the barrel of his gun finds the face of someone kneeling by the fireplace.

Except there are two people kneeling there.

She sits on her knees, her arms folded behind her back. Dressed in sweatpants and a heavy sweater, thick socks on her feet, she still shivers uncontrollably. Crouched behind her, digging a gun into her neck, is a familiar face, one Bucky recognizes from a blurry photograph.

“What kind of soldier leaves his home base completely unprotected?” Henry Lewis asks. His voice is low and hollow, guttural tones of a man who hasn’t spoken in a long time. “You failed to even lock the door, I walked right inside. I expect she thought I was you, she came running at the sound.”

The resemblance to the photos is there, with only slight differences. After years of electricity and experiments, his curly black hair is now a shock of white, illuminating his dark eyes. He looks like a young man, mid-30s at most, but the haunted look in his face speaks of decades of nightmares.

When she meets Bucky’s eyes, he sees dazed shock fill her features. Swallowing hard, she keeps her eyes focused on him and tries to speak.

“Henry, I know you’re upset. You should be,” she says quietly, never looking away from Bucky. “But he has nothing to do with this. Let him leave, and you and I can figure out what you need to do. Please.”

“No, I need him here,” Henry answers, his mouth at her ear. “He has to be here for this.”

Still aiming the gun at the pair, Bucky eyes his angle, gauging his chances of taking Henry down with a single shot. The mechanics of it bounce through his head and he comes up empty. He tries to get Henry talking while he strategizes.

“Lieutenant, how are you here?”

“How am I alive, you mean?” Henry clarifies. “That’s a long story. Without a happy ending, I’m afraid. Let’s just say the serum they gave me wasn’t quite as effective as yours, but it still covered the basics.”

Bucky glances to the photos scattered across the coffee table, of soldiers and experiments.

“So, you were one of the first, then,” he states. The gun in his hand is steady as he keeps it raised, still waiting for the right angle. “You volunteered?”

“Fuck you, I never fucking volunteered,” Henry snaps. “I never would have gotten involved if I knew what the hell they were.” Nostrils flaring angrily, his lips press into a tight line. “My unit, the men I trained and served with, all of them were dying out in Germany and there I was, stuck behind a god damn desk writing reports. They said they could fix my leg and I wanted a way back into the war.” His gaze flicks quickly to her. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Tears spill down her face at the comment. “Henry, I was always proud of the man you were,” she whispers.

Henry says nothing. Simply clenches his jaw, his eyes back on Bucky. When he speaks again, his voice is hard.

“When they put me under, it was 1959 and I was in the Ukraine. They left me there. Useless forgotten tech. No one thought twice about the old soldiers they kept in cold storage, but decades later the tech in the place went to shit and the cryo tank stopped working. I was the only one who woke up. That was in 2016.”

A bead of cold sweat drips into Bucky’s eye and he blinks it away, shuddering at the thought of returning to cryo. Of remaining locked in that cold darkness forever.

“What then? You went back to the old bases?” Bucky questions. His gun drifts a hair to the right, still searching for a shot, but Henry knows exactly what he’s doing. Tugging her closer, he digs the gun at her neck in deep and she flinches. Bucky swears under his breath and gives up the angle.

“At first, the only thing I remembered were the locations of the bases where I was stationed. I went back to all of them, launching distress signals and trying to find someone to help. But you and your friends were the only people who ever came.”

Christ. How fucking wrong could they have been? All this time, Bucky thought they were smashing Hydra’s broken tech, but there was so much they missed.

“We thought it was the technology,” Bucky says tightly. “Never found anything at the bases, thought they were all breaking down.”

“No,” Henry says. “I was always good at hiding.” A tiny, reluctant smile curves his lips. “The day you were shot, when she found you, I was sitting in the bar. You walked right by me. Barely glanced in my direction.”

Bucky has an epiphany then, remembering the occupants of the bar with perfect clarity. Specifically, a lanky man with a ragged fur hood drawn around his face, one hand encased in a black wool glove - the other hand splayed bare on the table.

“The glove,” he says slowly. “The one I found up at the base. That was you.”

Henry nods once. Stares searchingly at Bucky.

“I’ve been in the shadows of your life Barnes. The night she wiped you, I was there for that as well. They sent me to fetch her for the procedure.” Henry seems confused for a moment. “I think they were testing me. To see if I remembered.”

“Oh,” she breathes, realization dawning. “I saw you hesitate, when you came into the cell. I remember now." Henry twitches at her statement.

“I know,” he says sharply. “You always remember. The rest of us don’t have that luxury.”

Bucky sees her face crumple at the words. He feels a flash of anger at the insensitivity.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply. “Lieutenant, why are you here? What do you want?”

Henry doesn’t answer. He changes the subject.

“I stood there in that room while the two of you said goodbye. I watched her comfort you. Everyone could see how much she loved you. It made me so fucking angry and I couldn't say anything, they wouldn't let me. But I couldn’t understand why she was with someone else. She was supposed to love me, that's why she left me those memories of her.”

At the hurt in his voice, she tries to turn to face him, but he won’t let her move. “They told me you died, Henry. They said they killed you, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

Henry talks to her now, his voice a little lower. “The last day we were at the base, before we moved out, I snuck away and left food by your door. Unlocked in in case you wanted to leave. I had no clue why I was doing it, but something told me that I should. So, I did.”

“You saved my life,” she says, closing her eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“I had to,” he replies softly. “It was like I had to do it.”

There, for a brief, shining moment, Bucky sees the gun begin to lower. But then Henry remembers himself, remembers the anger he keeps inside, and he rolls his shoulders back and presses it harder against her.

Watching him closely, Bucky tries again.

“You still haven't answered the question. Why are you here?” Still, Henry says nothing. Frustrated, Bucky tries something else. “Fine. Then do you know what happened to Richter?”

Henry’s lip curls at the question.

“I killed him.”

Her eyes fly open at the words, palpable relief in her face.

“Not that any of us here are sad about that,” Bucky says, “but why?”

“Because he was an asshole who deserved it,” Henry sneers. “I had more control after a mission and I started to remember things about him. Got so mad, I gut-shot him, wanted him to suffer.” His eyes narrow and he muses quietly to himself. “I never should have done it that way.”

Nerves tensing at the comment, Bucky grips his gun a little tighter. “Why? Why was that a bad thing?”

“He was still alive when I went over to him. He said something to me.”

“What did he say?” There is no answer and Bucky asks again. “Lieutenant. What did he say to you?”

Henry sits up straighter, his gun still pressed to her skin and he glares at Bucky. “He gave me one more mission.”

“And? What was it?”

No answer. Instead, Henry fists his hand in the back of her sweater and pulls her to her feet. Using her as a shield, he moves closer to the door.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky barks. “Dammit, what was the last mission you received?”

Still no answer. Henry holds her tight against him and she stares mutely back at Bucky.

The love he sees there takes his breath away.

When Henry finally speaks again, the words are harsh. “She did this to both of us, you understand that right? Everything that happened, it was because of her.”

“No,” Bucky says fiercely. “She had no choice. They gave her no choice. Surely you understand that. You have to see that.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But I love her,” Bucky says simply. “I’ve loved her every day since I was twenty-seven years old. Nothing can change that.”

“Sometimes,” Henry says wearily, “it’s the things we love most, that destroy us.”

Bucky sees the devastation in her expression at those words. But still there, steadfast beneath it all, is that all-consuming love. The kind that doesn’t give up.

She loves him. He loves her. Nothing else matters.

“She could take every last memory again and it wouldn’t change anything,” he says, speaking to her now. “I told her, this love would never leave, and I meant that. If I lose it all again, I’d still find my way back to her.”

There is pity in the gaze Henry levels at him. Bucky glares defiantly back and behind Henry’s dark eyes, is a minuscule shift. A hint of relief appears, before quickly fading.

“Well. Okay. I guess that’s it then,” Henry says calmly.

“Wait,” Bucky says quickly. “Hang on, you still haven’t - tell me about your final mission.”

Without replying, Henry tucks he against him and shuffles toward the front door. Bucky tries to come closer, but he shakes his head warningly and shoves the gun into her harder. Bucky keeps his distance.

The door is still open, and Henry nudges it further, until they’re backing out onto the porch. There he pauses, giving Bucky a hard look.

“Think about it. You know exactly what the mission was,” Henry says flatly, and Bucky feels his stomach plummet. “I have to end this now.”

Wrapping one arm around her waist, Henry lifts her down the stairs, the gun still tight against her. Like a magnet, Bucky follows, the gun in his hands now coated in slick sweat.

Out in the icy world, Henry keeps going backward, pulling her through the snow. Bucky can see her shivering violently now, the wet cold soaking through her socks and thin sweatpants. Further and further he drags her, Bucky stalking every move, his throat clogged with fear.

Finally, they stop.

“Henry,” she says, her voice cracking. “Henry I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.”

“I know you are,” he says gently. Kissing her temple tenderly, he looks back at Bucky and places the gun carefully to the exact same place his lips just touched. She chokes back a sob.

“Lieutenant put the god damn gun down,” Bucky calls, fighting to keep his voice even. “I can help you. Let me help you.”

“No, you can’t,” Henry says calmly. One long, thin finger caresses the trigger and then blue eyes meet bottomless black ones.

What he sees, cuts Bucky Barnes down to the bone.

The pleading expression on Henry’s face is something Bucky knows intimately. How many times through the years did he give that same look to other people? Handlers and henchmen and horror-struck victims. The look is gut wrenching desperation, the kind that begs for one single thing above all others.

This is the look of someone asking for death.

Please, it says. Kill me, it says.

“No,” Bucky says urgently, desperation soaking into the words. “God dammit, don’t - don’t make me do this.”

“You know I have to,” Henry says and in the cold mountain air, the finality of his words is obvious.

“Lieutenant,” Bucky grits out and Henry tightens his arm around her.

“She’s my mission,” he whispers.

There it is. This cannot end until the mission is complete. Years of training, brainwashing, torture. All of it culminating in the burning desire to complete the given mission, no matter the cost. Bucky knows that feeling like no other.

“Please,” Bucky croaks out one final time. “Put the gun down, I’m - I’m begging you. I know you don’t want to hurt her.”

“No. I don’t,” Henry agrees. But then his finger squeezes tighter on the trigger and Bucky sees him silently mouthing two words.

“Do it.”

One man squeezes a trigger. Another man takes the hit.

The sound of the bullet making contact is jarring. During the war, Bucky learned to hide the flinch, to keep the stoic mask in place with every kill, but it roils his gut all the same. Across from him, Henry Lewis drops like a marionette cut from its strings. The gun falls harmlessly by his side and in death, his lips curve up in a relieved smile.

Bucky waits a beat, before throwing his gun aside and running for her. There’s blood splattered on her clothes and across the side of her face, but she's reaching for him and he sweeps her into his arms as she tumbles forward.

The echoing ricochet of the gunshot ripples away and world is silent for a fleeting moment, before the birds resume their bright chatter. Burying her face against his jacket, she clings to him and she breaks. Great heaving sobs rip from her throat, ugly sounds of absolute dejection, of fear and relief and heartbroken sadness. Cradling her in the snow, Bucky rocks her against him and lets her cry.

“It’s okay,” he keeps saying, over and over. Finally, he scoops her up and carries her back toward the house. “It’s okay honey, I’m here. I won’t let go.”

*****

Deep in the heart of the forest, where the snow struggles to reach, Bucky stops walking.

Easing down the body from his shoulder, he unstraps the shovel from his back and starts to dig. Once he breaks through dead pine needles and the first frozen layer of dirt, the rest is easy. Through the years, he’s gotten good at digging graves.

As he digs, he thinks.

This man, with serum pumping through his veins, was one of the world’s first super soldiers. His body and blood would be a veritable gold mine of information, every scientist on the planet would be dying to get their hands on him, slice him apart and peek inside. Find out what made him tick. Perhaps he should have brought the authorities in for this one, there was so much science to learn, so much to discover.

But Bucky thinks about dignity and honor. About what it means to be a soldier, back then and even today.

And he says fuck it.

Instead, he carries Lieutenant Henry Lewis, of the British Army’s 506th battalion, to the base of a towering pine tree in the mountains of France and gives him a real burial. One fit for a soldier.

Out here, he digs alone. Back at the cabin, she had said her goodbyes. Standing on the porch, he gave them privacy, watching from a distance as she spoke to Henry, occasionally pausing to think, to wipe her eyes. When she placed a hand on the cold body wrapped carefully in her softest pair of bed linens, she squeezed his arm and smiled. Bucky never plans to ask what she said in that goodbye. That was for them alone, and he knows that every love story deserves a proper ending. He would never begrudge them theirs.

An hour later, he tamps down the mound of dirt. Dropping the shovel he sighs, clapping the rough texture of earth from his fingers. Tilting his head back, he looks up to find streaks of purple and red filtering through the thick branches soaring overhead.

Color, he thinks. Painting a new memory. This is one he plans to keep to himself. Life is funny like that sometimes.

Death always brings sadness, but there is beauty in one thing. For Henry, all those vibrant memories that made up his life will live on, held in her hands, never to be forgotten. Bucky smiles when he realizes the same can be said for him. The memories of his past held tight in her hands, accessible any time he needs. But all he really wants, is the chance to create new memories together. The past is done, he just wants a future with her.

And he gets one. She said yes.

He’s so damn lucky.

Darkness begins to descend, and he feels that aching pull toward home. But before he leaves, Bucky thinks of one last detail.

There is no gravestone here, this soldier will not rest among that familiar sea of identical white stone, each inscribed with those key details. Name. Rank. Military brand. Birth. Death. Those final black and white bits gifted to every soldier, forgetting the unending sea of color of their lives.

Slipping a knife from his boot, he crouches down and digs his blade into the tree. With a few twists of his wrist, he carves a rough cross deep into the base of the tree trunk. He gazes at the small token for a minute, before sliding the knife back into his boot.

Standing with an inaudible sigh, he backs away. Straightens himself up. Snaps his feet together and offers a sharp salute to the unmarked grave.

“Rest easy, Soldier,” he murmurs.

And then Sergeant Bucky Barnes turns and heads home.

*****

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 (flashback)

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 (flashback)

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 (flashback)

Chapter 8

Chapter 9 (flashback)

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 (flashback)

Chapter 12

Epilogue

ALTNL Headcanon

Beautiful Moodboard (thank you Salina!)