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It took nearly five years—and at least three career changes—for Bucky to work up the nerve to see Steve again. Too bad it was too late.
He got the call on a Friday. The sky was an uncharacteristic shade of brilliant blue, just the right amount of fluffy white clouds souring high to have the perfect shade to sun ratio. Sam told him Steve had died in his sleep. His heart had just given out.
Peaceful, Sam called it.
But Bucky knew Steve had never really wanted a peaceful death. He just wanted it to mean something—to go out swinging, making a difference. Steve had told him so once, a long, long time ago.
That had been a summer night in the ‘30’s when Steve was just a little too sick. They were sitting together in his bed, flipping through some book. Bucky couldn’t remember the title.
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” Bucky had scolded him all those years ago.
Steve had merely laughed, though nothing about the conversation was funny. The same Steve who was dead nearly a hundred years later, the same Steve who wasn’t supposed to make it to twenty.
The phone call was short, maybe a minute long. Bucky had hung up on Sam the moment the words “If you need anything, I’m here—” left his mouth.
He didn’t tell his team. They had to hear it on the news.
Walker helped him pick out a suit. Yelena made sure he looked alive and well, though he didn’t feel either. Bob held his hand during the service. Alexei made sure he ate. Ava slept next to him that night.
Bucky didn’t remember most of the service. He knew he and Sam both spoke, but he couldn’t recall what they had said. There had been too many reporters there, it felt like a show. For nearly a week he wandered in and out of his own body, lost between memories he just wanted to forget and the weight of the ones he couldn’t remember.
His therapist told him to visit the grave alone, said that maybe it would help.
So he did that.
Almost. He took the cat with him.
He was wearing jeans, black ones with a frayed hem. He sat down, legs crossed, in front of the tombstone. They buried him next to his mom. There were piles of crap around the grave, flowers, American flags, nicknacks. Bucky tidied it all up, arranged it to make it look a little less like shit.
Alpine crawled into his lap.
He stroked her fur.
Looked at the name on the stone.
He sat there for a long time, just looking.
He wondered if Steve saw his congressional campaign, or if he’d watched the New Avengers press conference. He wondered if Steve was proud. He wasn’t sure.
Bucky told Alpine a few stories as they sat there, little anecdotes about what he could remember from before the war. The cat listened, more than content with hearing the stories.
He said a few words to Steve, told him about his team. About Sam. Some things he told him were important. Others weren’t.
He made sure to tell Steve about how proud he was of Bob: learning how to control his powers, learning a few of Bucky’s favorite knife tricks, taking care of himself, and healing some wounds.
He told Steve about how much Ava had grown to accept their little family.
About Yelena’s journey to leadership and sobriety.
Leaning on Alexei’s shoulder, finding an unexpected friend in the loud man.
Healing some of his wounds with Walker.
Making up with Sam.
He told him about his life, and said all the things he should have a month ago. A year. Maybe longer.
No tears were shed, though he wondered if they should have been.
His heart was heavy, he missed his friend.
And when Alpine began to whine for dinner, and the sun began to set on the skyline—turning the white, fluffy clouds pink and the blue sky orange—Bucky got up. Dusted off his jeans. Went back to his bike.
He would come back only a few days later to tell Steve about a new mission they went on.
It became a weekly thing.
They buried him in Brooklyn. Close enough for Bucky to visit.
And so he did. Often.
And each time he left the graveyard knowing he was going back to a tower full of too many pets, annoying people, and love.
“I think I’ll be alright, Stevie,” he said at one point or another. “You don’t gotta worry about me anymore. I’m taken care of. I’ll see you soon enough—just not too soon, yeah? I still got a lot of work to do here. A lot of work.”
He would come home after visiting Steve to dinner and music and movies and laughter. Sam would call and they wouldn’t fight. Alpine would rarely leave his side. Bad jokes were told, arguments were fought, battles were won. They did good. Became something good.
Yeah, Bucky was going to be just fine.
He had a home again, a family.
And it was pretty damn close to everything he’d ever wanted.
He was going to be okay. He had to be.
He had a job to do.