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Often, at night while he was recovering in Wakanda, he’d lay outside in the cool grass and stare up at the stars.
Sometimes he didn’t think of anything at all, he just watched the sky and appreciated the silence. Sometimes he’d think about his past—Shuri may have taken his programming, but no one could take his memories—and the horrific things he’d done. The things they made him do, he’d try to remind himself.
But most of the time he’d think of Steve. Of their past together, of their present, and of their future too. Maybe, just maybe, he dared to dream on nights when the starlight was most brilliant, they’d get years and years together, they’d have a family together—they’d get to grow old together.
...
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured against his lips. “And I’ll miss you the entire time I’m gone.”
“What will we do without you? The world needs you.”
Steve pulled back, laughed softly, then brushed his mouth again against Bucky’s. “The world will still have Captain America. Trust me.”
He’d misunderstood. Bucky didn’t care about Captain America in the least. He’d been asking about Steve Rogers. What would the world do without Steve Rogers?
What will I do without you? I need you.
“I do. I do trust you.”
“Then watch the water, Buck’. After I’m gone, just watch the water.”
Bucky didn’t say anything back. He didn’t voice the words that were desperately trying to escape. “Please. Please stay. I love you. I’ll be better. I swear, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll do anything. Please don’t leave. Don’t leave me. Steve—please.”
Instead he just wrapped his arms around Steve and breathed him in.
...
“I’m gonna miss you, buddy.”
“It’s gonna be okay, Buck’.”
The arms that wrapped around him now were strong, but anything than true. He was happy Steve couldn’t see his face. If he could have, he’d have known what his words made Bucky feel.
“Liar,” he thought as he pulled away.
“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” His voice was drowsy and deep, desperate not to crack.
Steve didn’t say he’d miss him too.
...
He refused to cry. He wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t. Standing there, watching him step up onto the platform, the sounds of a memory played in his mind like an old victrola record:
“I don’t know if I’m worth all this, Steve.”
“What you did all those years, wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice.”
“I know. But, I did it.”
And then, in the silence of the plane, Bucky swore he heard Steve say: “You are, Buck’. You’re worth it to me.”
But he wasn’t, was he? He couldn’t possibly be. Steve hadn’t actually said he was. Steve wouldn’t be leaving if he was.
This couldn’t actually be the end of the line, could it? But, Steve wouldn’t be leaving if it wasn’t.
And before he could drag himself out of the memory, the moment came and it went.
Steve was here and then... he wasn’t.
...
And then he was again.
Bruce and Sam looked around in confusion, but Bucky knew. Steve had told him exactly where he’d be. So he slowly turned around, towards the lake.
He then, once Sam followed and the realization dawned, nodded at him.
“Go,” the gesture said. “You go because if I do I’ll shatter into a million pieces and I’ll never be able to put myself back together.”
And Sam, in the silent understanding way he’d adopted with Bucky, didn’t question him or argue. He just went.
...
He was not enough. Of course he wasn’t. It had been foolish and childish and reckless to ever think he was. Steve? He was good. Steve Rogers was a good man. Hell, he was worthy.
He was worthy in the eyes of the Gods, even.
And Bucky? He wasn’t good. He’d never be worthy. Perhaps once he had been, but not now. Steve deserved to be with someone good. He deserved to be with someone worthy of him. That person wasn’t—could never be—Bucky. And he’d known that. He’d always, deep down, known that. And still, if only for a little while, he’d believed Steve when he said he was. He believed Steve when he promised to never go away, never leave him again.
But that had been before there was a way out—a way back. Who was he kidding? If he could go back and never fall into Hydra’s hands he would. The way he was, though? Now? He’d never be worth anything to anyone no matter what he did.
...
He knew what was coming. Just a few hours ago they’d discussed it. So when the moment came he braced himself, clenched his jaw, and curled his shaking hands—flesh and metal—into fists.
He watched their conversation. Watched the shield come out of its case. And then he tipped his head again at Sam as the man looked back, asking for permission. “Go,” the gesture said once more. “Take it. It’s yours.” It didn’t matter that he didn’t even want it. He didn’t deserve it.
He didn’t deserve anything. He didn’t deserve to watch this moment any longer.
So he didn’t. He turned his back to both men and he walked away.
...
“Yo! Yo man, wait. Hold up,” Sam panted when he finally caught up to him. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky sighed heavily, stopping and placing his hands on his hips, his head tipped up towards the sky. “I just—I don’t want to see him.”
“What?” Sam laughed. “Are you kidding me? He’s your best friend—“
Bucky whirled around and from the look on Sam’s face, his sharp inhale, and his defensive step backwards, he knew exactly how his own face must look. Cold—like ice, like winter.
“No,” he almost snarled. Like an animal. That’s what he was, after all.
“No. That man,” he jabbed a finger towards the west—miles away now—towards the lake. “That man is not my best friend. He never was. And I’m not discussing this. Not with you, not with him, not with anyone. Never. Do you understand me?”
The implications, the double entendre, must have been clear enough, because as he stared at Sam he watched the slow realization slip over his features. A kaleidoscope of emotions—disbelief, confusion, anger, calculation, shock, and then acceptance. He turned away before the final emotion could take its place—pity.
“Yeah,” Sam murmured. “Yeah. Alright. I understand.”
“Good. Now, please, leave me alone. I need,” Bucky paused for a moment. Breathed in the chill of the autumn night air. “I need some time.”
“Yeah,” Sam said again. “Alright.”
...
Tony’s—Pepper’s— property was vast, miles and miles with nothing but trees, and forest, and wide open spaces. So he walked until he found a clearing on the edge of the estate, and in the tall grass he laid down and looked up at the stars.
Now he cried. Not the great heavy heaving sobs he knew he needed to. Instead his tears came slowly, softly, silently. He let his mind, which had been so tightly wound for days, slowly unravel itself. He let himself dream. Just for a moment.
Not of old men this time, but young ones. Not of an ending—an endgame—but a beginning.
After all, that was all he had now.