What I’m talking about when I’m talking about Soft Bucky
If Steve’s Mister Leadership, then Bucky’s Mister Nurturing. He grew up the eldest kid in a busy family and there’s no way he doesn’t know a thing or two about infant care. Soft Bucky who had always harboured some little aspiration of going to college, but gladly took a job out of school instead because his family was stretched thin enough as it was. Soft Bucky who dreamed of one day spending the summer in a cabin in the mountains with Steve, where Steve could practice his sketches and Bucky could finally write that novel he knew he had in him; the clean air would do them both good, he reasoned, and you could see so many more stars without the city lights to get in the way. Soft Bucky who wanted to show all the wonders of the universe to Steve. Soft Bucky who always had Steve’s back in a fight, and was there to ice down his bruises and bandage his scrapes. Soft Bucky who was never afraid to give Steve a damn good talking to when he was too stubborn to slow down and put his own needs first. Soft Bucky who’s always longed for a little family of his own, but never really let himself dream of it because fellas like him didn’t get to dream of nice things like that when he was coming of age and realising that the only person he ever wanted to make a little life with was his best friend Steve.
Soft Bucky who was proud to be posted with the 107th when he was drafted, and was the damn best at what he did because he wasn’t about to let his men down, not because he revels in battle, but because he is loyal and kind. Soft Bucky who’s first question when Steve burst in to save him (because of course, if anyone was going to be there exactly when he needed someone, it was going to be Steve), suddenly so strong and tall, was not how it happened or what amazing things he could now do, but whether it hurt. Soft Bucky, who quietly deferred when he saw that he was not the only one who looked at Steve and saw that he was made of the most beautiful stardust in all the universe, whose love would become a ghost story, a tale told in a whisper, an almost, and a can’t-be, because that was all a fella like him could hope for in those days, but Steve was happy, and he would be grateful for that.
Soft Bucky who fought and fought and raged before he would let himself become submerged, until there was nothing and no-one left to live for, who watched some blank and ersatz version of a person using his body, over and over, for things he could never unsee, clawing at the walls of his mind, until Steve and his stupid stubborn fists punched through with a few little words and set him free, and in his shame and confusion, for fear of the hurt he had done, he ran.
Soft Bucky who spent two years keeping his head down, drifting from country to country while he pieced together his history, following a labyrinthine treasure map until he found himself. Soft Bucky who could have spent those two years, and all the intelligence he had in him, hunting down all the people who had hurt him and picking them off just as easily as he could shoot a row of cans off of fence posts with a sniper rifle, but who chose not to take revenge. Soft Bucky, whose revenge is just to live, and be kind.
I’m talking about Soft Bucky who at first was afraid to tell Steve how much he remembered to protect him, who was so torn between regret that he had caused Steve so much trouble, and gratitude that, at long last, he is back where he belongs.
Soft Bucky who’s going to be in therapy for years, who still wakes up in a cold sweat, haunted; soft Bucky who bristles at the idea of taking orders, of being controlled, who mentally maps out all the potential exits every time he enters a room for the first time, but slowly lets himself feel safe. Soft Bucky who has friends he loves who love him too. Soft Bucky who finds purpose in using his hands to create rather than to destroy: kneading flour and water together into soft dough to bake bread, feeling the comforting scrape of pen against paper as he scribbles down old memories and new stories in his many notebooks - and later, using wood reclaimed from old barns to build beautiful nursery furniture as they await the arrival of the new member of their family.
Soft Bucky who still upbraids Steve in no uncertain terms if he catches him going out without a scarf in winter, who loves his family and friends more than words can say, who likes going to the farmer’s market on Saturdays and brunch on Sundays.
Soft Bucky who lives with gratitude and love, who finally gets to live the things he never let himself dream of, because somehow, he and Steve woke into a world where fellas like him can, so they do.
That’s what I’m talking about.
