#ghost!bucky

Standing in line at a hippie shop you had to ask yourself, in all sincerity, what the fuck am I doing here again? I mean, how integrally sound and spiritually communicative can the products from a place called Lovely Rita’s be anyway? but lurched ahead in line towards the cashier anyways.

“Is this all?” They say, a perfect mix of judgmental and apathetic seeping from their monotone as you gaze upon their layered unwashed hair.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“$30.54.”

It takes the utter silence of the car ride home for the severity of the last few weeks to weigh on you. What, with moving into a new house, hoping to renovate it, only to find you weren’t the only one living there. It had all begun with objects disappearing a reappearing. Then, your friends started to complain of cold spots, shadows, the usual, but it had reached its peak when one day your friends had come over to help you paint and claimed to have seen a man in your bedroom window as they pulled into your driveway. This is when the activity really kicked up.

After all of this, you had decided to look into the history of the house but were disappointed by what was found online, leaving you to resort to the library. Looking through their database you were able to find all of the properties' previous owners, and interesting enough, one death on the property. Intrigued, you clicked.

NAME: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

STATUS: DECEASED

DATE OF BIRTH: MARCH 10, 1917

DATE OF DEATH: NOVEMBER 16, 1951

CAUSE OF DEATH: PNEUMONIA

It was paired with a newspaper clipping.

Sargent Barnes died on the evening of November 16 after a week-long battle with pneumonia. Mr. Barnes died at home surrounded by friends and loved ones. He is survived by his mother and sister. His work with Captain Steve Rogers as a member of the Howling Commandos was instrumental during the war, before being honorably discharged due to amputation and experimentation from the Germans.

That was when you had decided to look into communicating with the dead.

Opening your front door, you begin to wonder why exactly you had never seen James yourself. Obviously, he was there, but why was he too shy to show himself to you. You sit the bag from the shop down near your couch and mutter a soft, “that better stay there” before heading to the shower upstairs.

Now, it is one thing to be afraid of mirrors. It is a complete other to step out of the shower only to find a pair of eyes staring at you through the steam in the mirror that aren’t yours and then have them be gone right after you’ve blinked.

Enter James. You quip silently. No, this isn’t funny. Rushing downstairs, robe still on, hair still wet, you rip the ouija board out of the bag, fumbling with the plastic and tearing its box a little in the process.

“James,” You say, voice shaky and unsure, “if you’re in here, I need you to talk to me. Please.”

No answer. No knocking. No flickering lights. No movement from the planchet. Not even a single gust of wind. No James.

“Goddamit James! This is my house and you will cooperate! Talk to me!”

Nothing. You begin to wonder if James is even real. If ghost even exists. And then:

Slam!

“What the fuck was that?”

You trek your way back upstairs, to find your bathroom door (the one you had left distinctly open) slammed shut.

Overwhelmed, you find yourself crying on your bed for a good, long while.

When you finally get up and find it in yourself to get dressed, you decide to try to speak to James one final time.

With the ouija board set and the candles lit you find yourself asking, “James, are you there?”

Silence.

“James, I’m so sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just frustrated, is all.”

Again, you could hear a pin drop.

“I won’t bother you again, sir. I’m so-”

“Y’know, no one ever really called me James but my ma.” His voice comes with cold breath on your neck, sending shivers down your spine and emulating goosebumps.

Spinning around to face him you realize how handsome he is. His file didn’t include a picture, and never in your wildest dreams had you thought he’d be so suave. His charm is obvious, even as a specter.

“My friends usually called me Bucky, just somethin’ I got stuck with as a kid.” He flashes a smile, debonair and perhaps even cheeky in nature.

“Oh, I–, hello.” You blush, his charisma clearly flustering you.

“I’ve seen you around quite a bit, doll. Been trying to get your attention for a long time. Guess it finally worked.” He chuckles lightly but keeps his baby blues locked on your own eyes.

“Took you long enough.”

His smile is palpable as he pulls you in, “Listen, I dunno if the men these days are any good for dancin’, but I’m gonna let you know, I’m always here for a good time if you need me.”

You walked towards the couch, dropping your bag, you slowly sat down.

You felt a presence next to you and you didn't need to look to know who it was. What was the point in looking? You still wouldn't be able to see him.

Corner of your lips turned upwards when you felt the warmth on your hand. As always, It made a shiver run down your spine.

Your head fell back of the couch and a deep sigh escaped you.

When did you become so numb?

Where did all of your feelings go?

What happened to your friends?

How come the only person who brought joy to your heart was dead?

You felt as if your heart weighed tons and it pressed against your lungs, making breathing difficult. A lump formed in your throat and you tried to swallow it but it wasn't going anywhere.

You were sick of crying. You were sick of headaches. You were sick of living. When would this end! 

Another deep sigh escaped you and you felt the warmth around your shoulder. Your only friend.

At first, his presence creeped you out. When you used to fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a blanket draped around your shoulders. Or when the windows closed because you were cold. You would freak out. You thought there was someone in your house. Therefore you went to the police but they said you were just being paranoid. So you bought a gun and camera equipment just to be safe. But the problem was completely different from what you expected. You thought you were going crazy when you realized that it was a ghost. You thought you had finally lost it.

But After a little while, you learned how to live with him. You tried finding out who he was and he even helped you. Gave you the hints and after a few days, you realized you were living with Bucky Barnes. A world war two hero, a soldier, a good man. He had died on the battlefield and was now living in his house with you.

You breathed out and the first tear fell. It rolled down your temple and you sighed. You didn't even know why you were crying. You felt utterly sad and without any reason. Which is almost worse than having a reason. And it was all your fault. Life was treating you well. You head no right to be sad. To feel this lost. You were the one that was pushing everything away. There was no one else to blame for this except you. 

You didn't even wipe your tears as they continued to fall. You were used to it. Before this you hated tears. You felt uncomfortable when you used to cry but now it felt as if they were a part of your face. You lied down and felt a hand run over your head playing with your hair. It always calmed you down. It always made you feel better. 

You were tired. You were always tired. They would tell you maybe you didn't sleep well. But that's not it. You slept just fine, tired out from crying. It wasn't your health. Physically you were great. But mentally there was something seriously wrong. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm lying in your legs," you whisper and a small smile made its way up to your lips. "God that sounded dirty." you laughed but soon it turned into another sob, as more tears left your eyes.

"You know, I'm happy you stayed. It feels nice to have someone here." 

you wanted him to know how grateful you were that he stuck around. Even if he wasn’t real. Even if he was part of your imagination. It felt nice knowing there was someone to come home to. That you meant something to someone and maybe you didn't, but it was nice to think that way. 

"Do you think I can come there with you?"

He knew what you meant. That thought was always there. The thought of ending this. It was so beautiful, so tempting but thought of not knowing was about to come after this always stopped. But Bucky was there, so how bad could that be. You wanted to see him. Actually touch him. But he didn't want it if meant you taking your life away. You knew he would be mad. And you didn't want the person you lived for to be pissed at you.

The angry tug against your hair made you whine. This was your way of communication. Nothing meant yes. Tug against your hair meant no. But he was always gentle with you. Never this rough.

"Okay. I got it." You groaned as you scratching your scalp. 

Your hand fell from your hair and another deep sigh escaped you. You closed your eyes. Giving in to his soft touches. You just didn't know what was the point of you living. You already were practically dead. You just had to get up and make yourself do things that kept your body going. You didn't understand. Why were you still alive.  

"I'm just tried. This world sucks. Does that world suck too?" There was nothing and you smiled. Of course, he wasn't giving you the answer. He was dead watching you hate the life he would give anything to have. You felt bad for him as if you were the reason he wasn't alive. As if you killed him. You didn't know why, but you felt guilty.  

"I'm sorry," you said as you drifted off to sleep. Tired from crying. Tired from life.