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Steve thumbs through Bucky’s water-stained Bible. The yellow pages crumble beneath his fingers. Outside, the wind whips the trees against the windows. The clouds are a sickly green and so heavy with rain that they seem to scrape the ground. Steve has no way of knowing how bad the storm will be. All the weather stations stopped broadcasting a year ago, when—
When.
Soft footsteps, small as a cat’s, pause just outside the room Steve’s in. Wanda’s room, with her acoustic guitar lovingly zipped into its black case. The door creaks slightly. Steve’s so used to this that he doesn’t even look up, just moves the Bible up so that Rocket fits under his arm. The raccoon wasn’t affectionate before, but sometime over the long, silent winter, he started curling up by people. At first, Steve assumed it was for warmth, but as they emerged from the darkest, coldest days and Rocket continued burrowing against whoever he could, Steve started to think that maybe Rocket was just lonely like the rest of them. Lonely, and afraid, and sick with grief.
Rocket’s soft ears twitch against Steve’s arm. “What’s that?” he asks in his raspy voice.
“Bucky’s.” It’s all Steve needs to say. A branch scrapes the window, shaking the glass. Steve carefully turns the Bible’s creaking pages, wincing when the binding pops.
He only noticed the day because Bruce of all people mentioned it. He’d gone out yesterday searching for food and come back with a live chicken and a few dozen eggs. “Seasonally appropriate,” Bruce had said as he carefully set all of the eggs in the nearly-bare fridge. When Steve had stared blankly at him, Bruce had shrugged, one shoulder closer to his ear. “Easter.”
Easter. Steve can hardly believe it. No one had mentioned Christmas as snow drifted against the compound and they survived on flavorless MREs. To remember Easter feels impossible—miraculous, if this were a world where miracles occurred anymore.
Easter cuts through Steve to his marrow. Easter means a year since Bucky turned to ash three feet from his arms.
A tiny, furry finger taps Steve’s arm, pulling him to the surface. His ears hurt. Rocket’s hand waves at the Bible. “What does it say?”
“Oh. Uh—a lot of things.” Steve doesn’t know how to convey thousands of years of religious beliefs to someone who’s never been to Earth before. The last time he tried was, god, seven years ago, explaining Christianity to Thor back in the tower, in Tony’s penthouse. Everyone was filled with booze and Indian food. Tony laughed so hard tears pricked the corners of his eyes. They prick Steve’s eyes now. “I wanted to—” Wants Bucky in this room, lying on the seafoam shag rug, tossing a baseball in the air and heckling Wanda while she practices guitar the way he used to tease Becca while she practiced the flute. Wants Sam to watch the storm from the side door, Coke in hand, stepping outside just in time to feel the first cool spray of rain on his face.
Most of all, Steve wants to be hiding under the wooden pews at St. Francis, Easter 1923, rolling marbles to Bucky along the smooth floor. He wants his mom to grab him under the armpits and hoist him up, brushing the dirt from the knees of his pants and hissing empty threats of what happens to naughty boys who embarrass their mothers in God’s own house. In ’23, he tantrumed, going deadweight and causing all the trouble a four-year-old could. But if he could go back, he would twist in Mom’s arms until he could wrap his spindly arms and legs around her and bury his face in her shoulder. He would rest a hand on her chest and feel her heart against his palm. He would breathe in the sweet incense wafting from the altar. Bucky’s laughter would spill towards him, and Steve would pull it around himself like a quilt.
He wants Bucky to be there right now. Not in oblivion. Forget heaven or hell, Steve isn’t picky about where he ends up once he finally dies, he just needs to find Bucky there.