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Summary: Bucky acts on a World War II superstition and gets a comfort he never expected in return.
A/N: This takes place after Thunderbolts, but is spoiler free since I haven't seen it.
No one noticed his tags had been Steve’s. A carry over of a past life. An antiquated superstition. No one noticed when he showed up with new ones. The metal, cold and heavy around his neck. It felt wrong, baring his own name for the grim reaper. No one believed that anymore, but that didn’t stop the chills.
If he asked you, he was certain you would laugh, you would tell him no, superstitions had no place in your life of intellect. You knew there was no truth, no proof; only a soldier’s fear. He couldn’t ask you, but a primal fear pushed him forward; hoping you’d comply without question.
“Hey, Doll. Can I have your dog tags?” you stopped reviewing your briefing notes. Something in his voice sounded alarm bells in your head. Unsure. Afraid. Scared.
“Um, why?” Measured and careful. Calm. If Bucky was nervous, you were on the edge of panic.
“It’s a thing we used to do. Please?” he was being intentionally vague. He was either up to something or he assumed you were capable of telling him no.
“Bucky, I need a real answer.” Your fingers followed the chain, absentmindedly. Regardless of his reason, they were his.
“They say soldiers can’t die without their tags. Steve and I had traded during the war and neither of us died. We should have, but we didn’t.” you’d heard this before, a tale told in hushed tones at basic, shot down by Sergeants. You’d never seen it in practice.
“And now you need mine?” he glanced away, nodding his confirmation without eye contact. Awaiting the no, he knew was coming.
“Yes, Doll. To protect us.” Something about his voice made him sound small. One denial away from breaking. You hated it.
“Alright. Do not lose them.” you slipped them over your head, the warm metal making contact with his palm. He slid his over your head, watching them rest beside your heart.
“They’ll be with me, always.” A vow, deeper than any promise he had ever made before. His vow to keep you with him, alive, for as long as he lived.
“Hey, Bucky.” He'd turned to walk away, but the softness of your voice pulled him back. As if compelled.
“Yeah, Doll?” he hung on your words like the solely provided him life everlasting.
“I love you too.” The deeper meaning of the tags, to ensure loved ones went home to their families. A soldier’s love. He could have asked John. Bucky chose you to carry with him, to protect, to have nearest his heart. You to love.
You spent all night running your thumb over the embossed metal. Like braille to the blind. You tossed and turned, sleep evaded you. A simple fact keeping you awake. You loved him. Not just as a friend and teammate; but a bone crushing, all consuming love. Maybe you’d known it all along, keeping it buried under a facade of camaraderie. But it was present now, right at the forefront of every thought. You slipped out of bed, your feet carrying you towards peace. Towards Bucky.
The Watchtower was silent, but your heart hammered as you snuck further down the hall; closer to him. You knew he kept his door unlocked in case of an emergency. You also knew he had heard you the moment you arrived on his floor. He wouldn’t be startled. But you were. By love, but you were.
The knob twisted without resistance. You weren’t thinking. This had to be the worst idea known to man, but you did it. You moved to the empty side of the bed and slipped under the covers. You were lost in how natural it felt. In the pale moonlight, you knew he was shirtless. You also could see that he was watching you.
“Doll? What’s wrong?” Your eyes landed on your tags, splayed over his bare chest; you reached for them, transfixed. His words, in the present, echoed meaninglessly in your ears, but you found yourself answering in the fog.
“I couldn’t sleep.” The simplified half truth. The full truth was you weren’t in the right place. A foot grazed a bare thigh. Bucky was bare, but unmoving in your presence.
“Are you okay?” You were off. Distracted and distant.
“I’m alright now.” You laid down and fell asleep instantly. He was everywhere. Every thought bled Bucky. It was the best rest of your life.
The next morning, it took you a moment to remember where you were. Water was running and the spot beside you was vacant. You knew enough to feel like you should be horrified, but you couldn’t find the feeling. Not when it had felt so right. Words brought you back to the here and now.
“How are you feeling this morning? You were pretty out of it last night. You had me worried.” Now you were horrified. You’d snuck into your best friend and leader’s bed without explanation.
“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m fine, really. I’m so sorry.” you were panicking. A thousand thoughts of all of the various ways he’d banish you away from him spiraled through your mind.
“Easy now. I’m not mad. Confused and concerned, but never mad. Just talk to me.” A brief calm swept over you. Threatened only by the vortex in your head of your own making.
“You’ll hate me if I tell you.” Self-doubt drenched you in ice water. No amount of reassurance would calm the building storm. It was unlike you, Bucky noted. Always so sure and fearless, unraveling now.
“I won’t. It’s not possible.” your lips and brain divorced, moving on their own to tell secrets of your heart.
“I love you, I don’t know how I ended up here, but I’m not sorry because it's where I belong.” he paused, short circuiting from your admission.
“Just to clarify, in my bed or with me?” he didn’t dare let himself hope anymore. The crushing disappointment served far better torture than anything Hydra had produced.
“With you.” The only two words he hadn’t known he needed. The two words, better than any therapy session he had endured. He’d demand them to be etched on his headstone for as much as they meant to his wounded soul; made so much more precious by the lips they spilled from. With you.
Camera's going to cut to Ovi randomly in the second period and we're totally going to see him actually eating that Subway footlong and Flaming Hot Cheetos with his bench Coke.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Christine Chaundler - Every Man's Book of Superstitions - A.R. Mowbray & Co. Ltd. and Philosophical Library Inc. - 1970 (illustrations by Margaret Francis)
Help me out, witchcraft and folklore folks! Have any of you heard of a superstition about not putting shoes, even new shoes in a box, on a table or chair? It’s one of the few superstitions that makes my husband twitchy, but I’d never heard it before.
