#bucky-centric

“It’s not an argument of what James Barnes deserves, that’s a complete strawman. It’s a question of what he can handle. The man has had an incredibly difficult life, one that’s produced well documented instances of PTSD and dissociative attacks. This is not a man equipped to handle the kind of stress the Avengers are put under every day-”

“He was a monster, plain and simple. And maybe we can believe Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers here, maybe the monster has been taken out, but what kind of scars did that leave-”

“I mean, in all honesty, how can he ever be trusted? How will we ever know?”

“Hey.” A foot kicks at his own, knocking Bucky out of his miserable recollections.“I know that face. This plane is a That-Face Free Zone.”

He kicks back at Tony. “It’s nothing, Punk,” he says, mustering up some semblance of a smile. It just makes Tony grimace, then crawl over so he can sit beside him.

“How ‘bout just no faces at all?” he asks as he settles. “For a former super spy you have horrible facial control.” Bucky stiffens up beside him and Tony sighs, taking his hand. “James.”

James. That’s all its ever taken from Tony. His name, said in that fond, slightly impatient tone. “James,” Tony had said, finding James in the aftermath of a panic attack that had ended in the destruction of his living room. “James,” he had said when he built a new arm and the first thing Bucky did with it was play fetch with the bots. “James,” he had said when Bucky had finally surrendered and kissed him. “What took you so long?”

Now Tony sits with him, patient, staring out the window so James feels distinctly unenclosed. He hadn’t been like this at the start of their relationship and its nice, sometimes, to think that Bucky has taught him some things, too.

“They’re not wrong,” he finally says, and Tony takes that as his cue to finally turn and look. “The news. I’m a complete mess three days out of five. I remember all of it, everything I did, so it’s all still there in my head. I can’t be trusted.”

“I trust you,” Tony responds immediately. “Am I an idiot?”

“No.”

“No, James, I am very smart.” Bucky smiles painfully and Tony clenches his hand. “Look, you being an Avenger? That’s always your choice. I’m sorry if we’ve pressured you-”

“You haven’t-”

“Oh, we totally have. Especially Steve. But you’ll need to discuss that with him. As for the rest - those vultures have only ever seen skin-deep, trust me on this. If I listened to them, let them dictate my life, I’d’ve ended up face down in a ditch bleeding Patron by the time I was twenty five.”

Bucky pulls his hand away so he can wrap his arm around Tony and hold him close. “You hate tequila,” he mutters, and Tony laughs.

“See? They don’t know anything. All they saw of me was a drunken overgrown fratboy and all they see of you is the Winter Soldier. Thing is, yeah, they’re not wrong every once in awhile, but they never have all the story. The Winter Soldier is not everything you are. You’re Buck, you’re James, you’re Sergeant Barnes.

“And by the way, you’re only a mess two out of five days. At most. The other three?” Tony smiles at him. “You are the best, the bravest man I have ever known.”

“Jeez, Tony,” Bucky breathes, because he never knows what to do with these pep talks. He wants to believe him, but he is constantly surrounded by heroes nowadays, and he is always reminded of his bloody past and how painfully he falls short, how impossible it seems to ever come back from that, even when he sleeps every night next to a man who did just that. He drops a kiss on Tony’s head and leans back into the chair. “So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise, Buck. A surprise. Your dementia is showing again, old man.”

“I’ll show you old-” Bucky tips his boyfriend over in the seat.

“Oh God, I’m so glad you believe in stubble-”

“Believe? Facial hair’s not like Santa Claus, doll-”

“James.”

They touch down in Washington, DC. Tony takes them to a hotel first to freshen up, which for some reason means busting out the baseball caps and shades for both of them. Then they hope in a car that drops them off at the Mall. Tony leads them to the National Museum of American History and Bucky stops dead.

“The Smithsonian? Tony, I’ve been here before…”

“Yes. When you had just broken your brainwashing. Somehow I’m thinking you weren’t exactly absorbing all that you could.” Tony looks at the ground, the space where Bucky has taken a step backwards, and grabs his hand. “I just wanted you to see something, but we can leave.”

Bucky stares up at the building. The last time he’d been here was a blur of memories without context and a constantly building terror at what had happened to him. He had been scared. But Tony is with him now. “No, I’m fine. Show me.”

The Captain America is as busy as ever, and this time Bucky notices how many of the exhibits bear a tiny inscription under the description: Donated by Howard Stark and the Stark family.

Tony smirks when he notices where Bucky’s gaze is lingering. “Yeah, let me tell you there is nothing quite like meeting the men your dad quite literally collected.” Bucky waits for a moment to see if his smirk goes sharp and sad, but Tony just wanders on. He’d let go of his anger about Howard around the same time he’d let go of his anger towards Bucky.

They stop in front of the glass wall bearing his name, date of death (which bears a new addendum in tiny print of his miraculous recovery in 2016), height, serial number, rank, and a summary of his life. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Tony murmurs.

“Five hundred words or less,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he does, but Tony just smiles sympathetically at him and takes his hand, leading further.

They pass wall after wall of Steve Rogers, Captain America, Brooklyn’s Favorite Son, and American Legend. Bucky can see where the facts have gotten muddled: for example, he knows for a fact that the assault on the HYDRA base on the border of Luxembourg was planned by Dugan, not Steve, and was a smashing success, but facts rarely stand up to myth. “Bet Steve hates that.”

“He does. We’ve been petitioning to make them get their asses in gear and change that for years,” Tony groans lowly. 

Tony tugs him further, further into the exhibit, a part Bucky never visited before, too skittish about lingering last time. There is a wall with a long line of booths cordoned off by black curtains. The Howling Commandos: From the Other Side, a banner reads overhead, and Tony leads Bucky into one. They squeeze onto a seat, Tony puts his arm around Bucky, and then he presses play.

An old man appears on screen, looking to the side as if listening to someone. He nods, and chuckles. “My name is Peter Montcourt,” he says, his French accent extraordinarily thick. “I was nine years old when the Howling Commandos liberated the town of Bayeux from Axis control. My hometown.”

“I had lost a brother, a father, already. My town was overrun with Nazis, Italians. People disappeared during the night, never heard from again. Everyday we heard - it might be you. You might be next.

“Then one night we heard gunfire and explosions and I remember thinking that this was it, they had grown tired of watching us, now they were killing us all. A soldier burst into my house with a gun, and I stood over my mother, but the shot never came. He was gunned down.

“I never met Captain America. Steve Rogers did not liberate Bayeux. He was leading another push. Bayeux was liberated by-”

“It was me,” Bucky breathes, tears in his eyes as he remembers, and Tony’s hand smooths down his arm.

“Sergeant James Barnes. The same James Barnes who gunned down the man who wanted to hurt us. He came into our house after that, he told us who he was and that he was a sniper, and asked us kindly if he could take a position in my room upstairs, because it had good sightlines. We of course agreed. He told us to hide, but I stayed and watched him. He remained calm, and efficient. He never panicked. He was very brave.

The man grows a little teary-eyed. “People do not talk about Bayeux much, because the very same day Captain Steve Rogers freed a POW camp near Lyon. But I do not forget. None of us in this town do. We owe Sergeant Barnes and his men our lives. I was very sorry when he died. He was a good man.”

The video freezes and Bucky lurches forward, pressing his hand against Montcourt’s face. “He grew up, James,” Tony whispers. “Had a family. All because you saved him.”

“I’m not him,” Bucky says hoarsely, tears nearly blinding him. “I’m not the sergeant.”

“Mm. But he is a part of you.” Tony intertwines their fingers. “I just…I wanted you to see, know, I guess, that you are…more than the Winter Soldier. More than whatever they call you. That there’s as much greatness in you as darkness. You were a good person, Buck and…we can’t all be war heroes. Sometimes we’re just victims. It doesn’t diminish you or what you did or what you can do. I’m - shit, I’m sorry, I’m so terrible at this. I just thought you should see.”

Bucky is quiet for a very long time, staring at Montcourt. He remembers that little boy and his mother. He had remained in their home for three days, defending it and taking out enemy soldiers. The woman had brought him food that he never ate. The boy kept him awake with conversation. They had been the brave ones.

He withdraws his hand and places it over Tony’s. “Thank you,” he tells him, and the other man smiles tentatively. “I - I get it.” He isn’t the Soldier or the Sergeant. He’s just Bucky now, with shades of all of them thrown in, but maybe…maybe that isn’t so bad. At the very least, he remembers how to be strong and good. And if he needs a reminder, he has Tony and Steve and the Avengers.

They don’t get to decide what he is or isn’t. Only Bucky does that. And he doesn’t have to be a hero. He can just be…an Avenger.

“Are there more?” he asks, gesturing towards the screen. Tony’s smile goes full-blown and Bucky can’t help it, leaning forward to kiss him soundly. “I love you.”

“You, too,” Tony replies softly, pulling away. The moment goes soft and sweet for a moment, but that was never Tony’s particular style and sure enough he pulls away, his grin going positively wicked. “Ninette three booths down tells a charming story involving you, her, Dugan, my dad, two goats, and a modified washing machine. I would love to hear your version of it.”

Outside the booth an old man is waiting his turn with his wife. He steps aside for Bucky and Tony but freezes dead when he catches a good glimpse of Bucky’s face, looking back over his shoulder at the Barnes Memorial for a moment before turning back. Bucky freezes when the man raises his hand, but he merely salutes.

His nightmares haunt him relentlessly.

Is a nightmare still called a nightmare if it still goes on during the day, when he has his eyes wide open and the sun is shining and the birds are fucking chirping? He doesn’t fucking know. 

Everybody’s got their demons; either wide awake or dreaming. The problem that he has is that he doesn’t even fucking know if he’s awake or dreaming, half the time. It’s terrifying. 

But he’s alone, with no one to help him distinguish the differences. 

(He’s so scared.)

But it isn't all bad, is the thing. Because sometimes— sometimes there are good dreams. 

There are dreams of a brown haired family, with laugh lines in their faces. Dreams of a set of parents who love deeply and widely, of three little girls who he gets to watch grow up until they become adults. (Or, well— mini-adults. The youngest is still a teenager, but he doesn’t think he could ever see the other two as ever being actual adults.)

There are dreams that have a backing track of laughter that echoes in the most melodious tone that he’s ever had the pleasure of hearing in all his years alive. There are dreams filled with voices of people speaking in the most soothing and comforting voices that he thinks he could listen to forever. 

There are dreams of a school ground, and a small blond boy who is nothing but skin and bones— but fights like he’s three times bigger than he actually is, with a heart far too large for his body. He’s drawn to this boy, in his dreams, and his older brother instincts kick in and he feels this strong desire to protect this kid. And the kid doesn’t take too kindly to that. He’s not even a kid, really. He’s only a year younger than himself, but his size makes people think he’s so much younger.

The kid’s the first proper friend that he’s ever made without an ulterior motive of getting more jobs, or an extra piece of bread. The kid’s the only best friend that he ever remembers having. 

Then— there are also dreams of soft hair and pink lips that curve into the most goddamn beautiful smile that he’s ever seen and eyes that change colour under the sunlight like some kind of toy out of a cereal box. 

(He thinks that even with all the fancy tech now, nothing can even fucking compare to the eyes that he dreams about.)

He dreams of a laugh that clings to him like a catchy song and hugs him like a fucking blanket. He dreams of a playful grin— a tongue poking out slightly between two rows of teeth, a middle finger being flicked up in his direction before there’s a pillow flying at his face.

He hears himself laugh, and then he’s looking at himself as he laughs— the sound something so foreign that he doesn’t even recognise it, doesn’t even believe it, not until he sees himself (in his dreams) laughing.

He never thought he would ever make that sound again. Never thought he would make that sound ever. 

But— there he is. 

He’s laughing, with his head thrown back, hands gently tossing the pillow back. The corners of his eyes crinkle and his eyes shine like he’s only ever seen in other people.

And it’s all because of—

He’s looking back at those eyes again. Eyes that look right back at him. He thinks he can pick out every strand of colour, every different shade. He thinks he could stare into those eyes from the time the sun sets, until the sun comes up— so that he can see up close how they change colour when the light from the sun hits those eyes in a certain way. 

He wants to catalogue every fucking shade, every fucking line, because they’re the most brilliant eyes he’s ever seen. He thinks—

He thinks that those eyes are eyes that he wouldn’t mind looking back at for a long, long time. 

Because they aren’t just anyone’s eyes. They’re Y/N’s. Y/N— who is kind and caring and funny and compassionate and everything that he once was, a long time ago, but no longer isn’t.

(He reckons he’s incapable of ever being like he used to. But he wants to— god, he wishes he could be as he once was; be the person in his dreams. Be Bucky.)

Those eyes are Y/N’s— who makes him feel like he isn’t as fucked up as he actually is, like he’s normal, when he clearly isn’t. Who sits with him on the sofa and silently watches the TV with him, never even questioning it when he drifts away from himself. Who makes him feel a warmth spread throughout his insides in a way that he didn’t think he was capable of ever being privileged enough to feel. Who never pressures him to talk about what he’s done as the Soldier, or about the nightmares that he knows he’s made very obvious about having. (Not intentionally. He just— he never doesn’t have nightmares.)

Those eyes are Y/N’s— who smiles at him and makes him feel like, in that moment, everything is okay. And if everything went wrong and he died, right then and there, he’d still think himself to be the luckiest goddamn man alive because he’d died looking at that smile and into those eyes that are the only semblance of home that he’s got left. 

A home that he might not have anymore, because— 

Everything he’s done has been a mistake. His entire system—his blood, his veins—runs on those mistakes. Every single thing he’s ever done—every order he’s followed without question, every life he’s taken—they’re all mistakes that he’ll never be able to rid himself of. 

But this?