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You were napping, completely unaware of the news that was coming. An argument had broken out at the 99th Precinct over what to do, the squad torn over calling you or going to tell you in person. They were all emotional, all dealing with what had happened that afternoon in their own ways. In the end, Captain Holt headed to your home, the one that you had shared with Bucky since you’d gotten married four years prior. Holt had called in a favor from a neighboring precinct. Captain Steve Rogers was joining him on the solemn journey to the Barnes home.
Steve and Bucky had been best friends since childhood. They went through the police academy together. Bucky had no interest in being a superior officer. He was content with his job as a detective in the 99th precinct. He had worked in Steve’s precinct until two years prior, being transferred to the 99 once Amy Santiago had become a sergeant.
You worked as an EMT, enjoying a day off with your daughter. You woke up when your phone went off. You felt a pang of anxiety when you saw Steve’s name. He was working. He and Bucky both worked the day shift. You had been taking a nap while your daughter took hers. Your last shift had been exhausting and the three year old had gotten sick the previous evening with a stomach bug.
“Hello?” you asked.
“Hey...I’m here, could you come let me in?” he asked.
“Uh...sure?” you said, confused. Steve had a key. He’d always had a key. Something wasn’t right and you knew it. You checked on your daughter before heading down the stairs to the front door. When you opened it to see Captain Holt standing with Steve, you knew.
“Won’t you come in?” you asked, allowing both men entry. You weren’t surprised Holt had called in Steve. Not when it came to Bucky, when it came to you.
“Steve?” you asked when they sat down.
“Bucky was shot. We came to get you, bring you to the hospital. They were rushing him to surgery as soon as he was brought in. Peralta told the ER doctors they had telling you covered. Peggy’s on her way to babysit and I’m driving you to the hospital. Captain Holt will stay and wait for Peggy to get here,” Steve explained. Your mind was racing. This couldn’t be real. Not Bucky. Not your Bucky.
You felt numb as Steve rushed you to the hospital. It wasn’t long before Amy showed up with Rosa and Gina. You had never seen Rosa Diaz shaken. Steve hadn’t told you much, only that Rosa and Bucky had gone to ask a witness some questions and that Bucky had been shot. None of you spoke as you sat waiting. Steve had called Sam. You knew Sam would start passing the news along if Peggy hadn’t already. It was a system you had hoped would never need to be used.
Four hours had passed before you were allowed to see him. Four painful hours filled with anxiety. He was in the ICU in critical condition. You sat by his bedside, holding his hand, waiting for the doctor to come in. Bucky’s father had passed the previous year, leaving his mother, his sister, and his grandparents who lived in Jersey. His mother had been on a trip to Florida with friends and was rushing to get back home. Sam had gone to get Bucky’s grandparents to bring them up to the city. Rebecca had arrived at the hospital shortly after you had, and the two of you sat by his bedside, clinging to the hope that he would be okay. Rebecca had married Sam the previous year. You remembered a time when Sam and Bucky could barely be in the same room without arguing. Years had passed since then, and Bucky had gladly stood up at their wedding as one of Sam’s groomsmen.
You weren’t surprised when it was Bruce who walked in. Dr. Bruce Banner was someone you’d known a long time. It came with the territory of your jobs. He was also the husband of Sharon Carter, who had become a dear friend and who was a cousin of Steve’s wife, Peggy.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.
“You’re sorry?” you asked, confused by what he was apologizing for. As he explained, you and Rebecca clung to each other tightly. You were going to have to make some difficult decisions, decisions you didn’t want to make.
Saying goodbye was never easy. You laughed to yourself that maybe good was only in there to soften the blow. Goodbye held permanence to you. You never cared for the word. Goodbye was an ending. Goodbye was finality. Goodbye meant it was over, really over. There was no coming back from this goodbye. There was no happy ending, no moment where Bucky would walk through the door again yelling “I’m home”. No more sounds of little feet charging down the hallway to greet him, with you close behind.
“I don’t know if I can do this without you, Buck. I don’t want to,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. You had made the most difficult decision of your life. You knew well enough to know holding on was only putting off the inevitable, prolonging the pain you knew would linger. It didn’t make it easier. You blinked as tears fell. You had been torn on bringing your daughter. You and Bucky had had that discussion one night, when you had been pregnant with her.
You and Bucky laid in bed, his hand laying on your bump as the baby kicked, a soft smile on his face. The eleven o’clock news was on the television. Another officer had been killed in the line of duty. Bucky’s smile dropped. He hadn’t known her, not really. But he knew of her. Sergeant Hope Van Dyne had a husband, a step-daughter, and a two year old daughter. They had met in passing before, Scott Lang was a childhood friend of Steve and Bucky’s. Keeping in touch had been made difficult when Scott had moved out west, returning to the city when his wife landed a job with the NYPD.
“Babe?” you asked when you noticed the sudden change in Bucky’s demeanor.
“Scotty called me yesterday. Asked what he should do. Cassie wanted to see Hope. She’s old enough that he brought her down to the hospital, but their little one. He refused to bring her, didn’t want to traumatize the kid, seeing her mom like that at such a young age. At least Cassie’s at an age where she can communicate, you know? Addie’s not,” Bucky said. He was starting to ramble. You took his hand in yours, rubbing your thumb in a circle, a soothing gesture.
“I’m making lasagna to bring over. Though, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve got more than enough food,” you said. He sighed, running his free hand through his hair.
“If I’m ever in that position, promise me you won’t bring her. Not unless she’s old enough to ask. Not unless she’s old enough to understand,” he said.
“James,” you said, a frown appearing on your face. You rarely called him by his first name. It was reserved for the bedroom, for intimate moments between the two of you, moments of exasperation, and serious conversations.
“Please. Promise me. I don’t want our daughter’s last memory of me to be like that. It’s bad enough that yours would be. I don’t plan on getting hurt like that, but...damn it I’m scared. It was a routine stop. And now she’s dead and her...just promise me,” he said cutting himself off. You turned toward him, moving your hand to cup his cheek.
“I promise you, James Buchanan Barnes. I will always protect our daughter and any other children we have,” you said. He pulled you into a kiss, and the conversation drifted into a forgotten memory.
“Mrs. Barnes?” a nurse asked. You looked up. It was Sharon.
“Sharon, please,” you said, your voice flat. She gave you a sad smile, her own eyes watering.
“Sorry. I...I’m sorry. This is never easy,” she told you. You nodded. You understood. Calling you Mrs. Barnes helped her remove herself from the situation, away from the reality.
“I came to check on you. Whenever you're ready,” she said, taking your hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze.
“What if I’m never ready? How can you ever be ready for something like this?” you asked her.
“You can’t be. But you have to be. Is she coming?” Sharon asked. You shook your head.
“Bucky and I agreed if this kind of thing ever happened, the only way she’d be here is if she was old enough to understand. Maybe she’ll resent me for it one day, but...I can’t bring myself to bring her here. She’s been asking about him. Shar, how do I tell my three year old daughter that her daddy isn’t coming home?” you asked, breaking down. She pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into her shoulder as she rubbed circles on your back.
“How do I tell her?” you asked again, your voice barely more than a whisper as you sobbed.
“You’ll find a way. You don’t have to do this alone,” she said, her own voice cracking. You were waiting on the others. Bucky’s mother, grandparents, and sister soon arrived with Sam, Steve, and Peggy. Natasha and Clint were the last ones to arrive. You weren’t sure if Jake or Rosa were going to show up. You had asked them to come. You knew they were both close to him. Hell, you were close with them and Rosa Diaz was a difficult person to get close to.
Peter Parker had volunteered to watch your daughter that day. He was often around the station getting volunteer hours. It had turned into the kid from Queens babysitting your daughter when you needed someone to watch her. You sent him a quick text to check in on how things were, and you weren’t surprised when you got a near immediate response.
“It’s going to be okay,” Steve said as he pulled you into a hug. You knew it wasn’t an instant thing as they started taking him off life support. You had all been sent out of the room when they started switching off machines and removing him from the very things keeping him alive. When you were brought back in, you sat by his side, his hand in yours. You excused yourself for a moment, needing a second to breathe.
It wasn’t much later that they called his time of death. If you had been sobbing before, it couldn’t compare to the sound of your heartbreaking as his mother held you tight.
It was late when you got home. Peter was asleep on the couch. You sent his aunt a text, saying he could stay the night since you didn’t want to wake him. It was a Friday and you knew the kid had been overworking himself lately with his school work.
You checked on your daughter, tip-toeing into her room and kneeling beside her bed, leaning to give her a kiss on her forehead. You wanted to cry, but found you had no tears left. The morning would bring a new difficulty. Explaining to your daughter that her father wasn’t coming home.
You stepped into your bedroom, the first time since you’d gotten the news. You had been staying with Steve and Peggy, your daughter excited to have been spending time with her aunt and uncle. Bucky’s favorite t-shirt still lay flung on the bed. It was an old Vans Warped Tour shirt from 2009. One of your long standing traditions. You both loved and hated that shirt. It was worn at this point, from over a decade of wear and tear. But you loved the memories. You pulled it over your head, taking in the scent that was distinctly Bucky, before pulling on pajama bottoms and crawling into bed, holding his pillow close.
You were restless through the night. You were up by seven and found yourself making pancakes. Peter was still asleep on the couch. You checked on him while the first pancakes started to cook. You were never as good as Bucky when it came to pancakes. You always insisted he was a magician.
When the pancakes were done, along with some bacon and sausage, you went to wake your daughter. The smell of pancakes excited her. It broke your heart and you kicked yourself for choosing the food.
“Where is daddy?” she asked, confusion laced in her voice. Your lower lip wobbled a bit as you did your best to contain your emotions.
“We’ll talk about that after breakfast. Now, mama made some pancakes. I know I’m not as good as the Pancake Wizard, but I’m sure you’ll like them,” you said as you picked her up. She giggled as you lifted her high in the air. You knew Winnie and Rebecca would be coming over after breakfast.
Peter offered to do the dishes before he headed home, something you weren’t about to argue with him about. You sat your daughter down in the living room. You still weren’t sure how you were going to tell her. She understood her father had been hurt, that he had been in the hospital. But this was uncharted territory. She tilted her head to the side as she looked at you.
“Why are you sad mama?” she asked.
“Because...because daddy isn’t coming home,” you said, choosing your words carefully.
“Where he go?” she asked you. You swallowed, trying to keep your tears at bay.
“He died, sweetheart,” you said, ripping the bandaid off. Her brows furrowed as she tried to think about what that meant.
“What’s that?” she asked. It was difficult finding the words, but eventually you did. By then, Bucky’s family had arrived, and so had your parents. Winnifred Barnes took charge of helping you explain it to your daughter. You had expected the tears and you held your daughter close as she cried. You thought your heart couldn’t break anymore than it already had until you heard that sound.
It was sunny the day of the funeral. It hurt a little more. Wasn’t it supposed to be raining? Wasn’t the weather supposed to reflect your heartbreak, the fact that he wasn’t going to walk back through the door?
You had met Bucky in high school when you’d gone to Brooklyn to hang out with Natasha after her family had moved up to the city to be closer to her grandmother, who refused to leave the city. Services were set to be in the city, but he was being buried in Jersey, the same place his father was buried. His grandparents had lived not far from your small hometown. His parents had moved to the city before he was born. You remembered that day so vividly.
You and Natasha were walking down the street when someone knocked into you and you fell. Natasha had whipped around.
“Watch it Rogers,” she snapped.
“Sorry! I’m running late! If I’m late again Mr. Weston is gonna fire me,” he said before running off. A boy with dark brown hair helped you to your feel.
“Sorry about him. He really needs the job. I’ve never seen you around before,” the boy said.
“I’m friends with Nat,” you said.
“Well, friend of Nat, do you have a name or am I just going to have to call you beautiful girl?” he asked. You felt your face heat up at the comment. You saw Natasha roll her eyes before you gave the boy your name. He introduced himself. James ‘Please call me Bucky’ Barnes. You swore you fell for him in that moment.
“I’d ask if you were ready, but I don’t think you ever will be,” Natasha said from the doorway. You looked at her with watery eyes.
“I don’t want to go,” you told her, your voice soft. She entered the room, placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you from the window.
“But you have to. I’ll be there. Steve will be there. You’re not alone. You are never alone,” she said, pulling you into a hug. You broke in that moment. You let out a sob that bordered on a scream as she held you tight.
You saw the line of news reporters outside. You hated it. Vultures capitalizing on your grief. You had put your foot down and told Holt you wanted no news media at the funeral. They had no right. You always hated when they would show funerals of fallen police and firefighters on the television, as if their families lost the right to grieve privately because of their loved one’s occupation.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get through this,” you admitted when your sobbing calmed.
“You’re not alone. We’re here every step,” she said. You nodded. Heading to where the services were being held, officers from all over lined the streets, along with other first responders. You felt numb. You were half focused until Steve stood to speak.
“Detective James Barnes was more than an officer. He was a loving son, grandson, brother, husband, and father. Bucky is...was my best friend. I don’t know life without him. Many of us here don’t know or remember life without him. Some people would describe him as quiet, moody, and hard to talk to. But once you got to know him? You would learn that he was a quiet comedian. He loved to go fishing and had a sweet tooth that drove his wife mad because there was never anything too sweet for him. When we were in high school, she made him a cake that had more sugar in a single bite than could have been considered healthy to prove a point. Bucky ate the whole thing,” Steve said. You laughed a little at the memory.
He told a couple of other stories, like how worried Bucky was when your daughter was born and how he once rescued your parents’ cat from a neighbor’s tree using nothing but some rope and a laundry basket. He talked about the days where Bucky would get him out of trouble when he’d get into fights. It was the first time you had smiled in days.
Your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest as silence fell over those gathered once more. You knew what was coming. You’d heard it before. End of watch, last call, the final farewell to the fallen. A call that would never be answered. No one ever thought it would be them sitting on the hard chair, listening as their loved one’s badge number was read out with the words “end of watch”.
You weren’t surprised Jake was speaking in place of Captain Holt. It made sense. Jake was one of Bucky’s closest friends at the 99, even if they didn’t always see eye to eye.
“Barnes was...when he first started at the 99, we hated each other. This stupid, sexy , blue eyed and broody man comes into the precinct and sits down at Amy’s old desk. Like, who did this jerk think he was? But he soon became one of my closest friends. I’ve been struggling to find the words to say what I need to say. The precinct won’t be the same without him. He was the reigning Halloween Heist champion. I still don’t know how he pulled it off with just a shoelace and some glitter,” Jake said. You chuckled at that. Your heart ached as you listened to him speak. You hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to him or Rosa. They both seemed to be avoiding you. Sam told you to give it some time. You knew he was right, but you were still worried about them both, even in your own grief. Rosa had been there and you couldn’t shake the feeling that she felt guilty.
The drive from the city to Jersey saw streets lined with more people, a solemn procession down the Jersey Turnpike to the shore. As you went through your hometown, two ladder trucks sat with their ladders raised facing each other. You had roots in a close knit community. You and Bucky may have lived in Brooklyn, but everyone knew the two of you. Everyone knew his grandparents, knew his parents, knew his sister.
The graveside service was a blur, all the while lost in your thoughts and your tears, the tears you feared would never stop falling. Your daughter climbed in your lap.
“Ok mama, no cry,” the toddler babbled, placing her hand on your cheek. She was still so young, at an age where she wouldn’t remember him, wouldn’t remember Saturday morning pancakes, the daddy-daughter days where Bucky would take her to the park, to Build-a-Bear, even though you insisted she was still too young to fully appreciate it, the days he’d do her hair for her because no one could say no to those eyes and the look she’d give you. Bucky wasn’t the greatest at styling hair, but your daughter never cared much about that. She loved it because her daddy did it.
The cemetery started clearing out, leaving you with your friends, your family. You stood to place your flower on the casket, your daughter following suit. Slowly, the others started leaving, until it was you and Rosa. Rebecca and Sam had taken your daughter with them.
“It should have been me,” Rosa said, her voice cracking. You shook your head.
“Don’t think like that Diaz. You start thinking like that and you’ll never forgive yourself,” you said.
“The perp was aiming for me and he jumped in front of me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead,” she said. You pulled her into a hug. She was stiff for a moment before she wrapped her arms around you and let herself sob.
“You know that’s who he was, Rosa. He’d have done that for any of you. Don’t let this guilt eat at you. He wouldn’t want that. I don’t want that,” you told her.
“He should still be here,” she said. You held her tighter.
“But he’s not. And that hurts. But it’s life,” you said.
“You should hate me, scream at me. Something. How are you so calm?” she asked. You sighed.
“Because you’re my friend. And I know my husband. Even if he knew the outcome, he would have taken that bullet every time. You hear me? Every time. You’re riding with me,” you said, nodding toward the waiting car.
Routines were hard to break. You found yourself reaching for him in the mornings, the remnants of a dream at the forefront of your mind. The cold side of the bed was a reminder that it was a dream, that he was gone. Some days you were on autopilot, pouring two cups of coffee, making his just how he liked it, before remembering you only needed coffee for one. His laundry sat untouched. You couldn’t bring yourself to wash it.
Rosa had become a fixture around the house. If Jake and Amy weren’t over for dinner, she was. A quiet understanding existed between you and the 99. They would always be welcome. They would always be family. It was why two months after his death, Rosa, Gina, and Amy were sat in your bedroom with Natasha while you paced, three pregnancy tests sitting face down on the dresser. Jake was in the other room with Charles. You questioned your decision to leave your daughter in their care.
“Well?” Gina asked, giving you an expectant look.
“I can’t look. I can’t,” you said.
“Then I will,” Amy said, picking up the tests.
“You do realize she peed on those, right?” Rosa asked, an amused smirk on her face. Amy dropped them before apologizing.
“Might as well read them out, Ames,” Gina said. A smile emerged on Amy’s face.
“You’re pregnant,” Amy said. For the first time in two months, you smiled. You had chalked your last missed period up to the stress of everything. Sure, you and Bucky had been trying for another child, but you didn’t think you were pregnant, you didn’t dare to hope that you were.
Your first appointment, you couldn’t bring yourself to go alone. You asked Rosa to join you.
“No,” she said.
“Rosa, please? I can’t do this alone,” you said. The other woman glared at you.
“Fine. But only because I can’t stand the sound of crying,” she said, crossing her arms.
Seven more months passed by, and Bucky’s birthday arrived. You were officially on maternity leave. You brought your daughter to the cemetery, flowers in hand. She was another year older, having turned four in February.
“Any day now, Buck. Our son will be here,” you said as you sat on the cold ground, thankful for the lack of snow. You placed the picture your daughter had drawn under a rock in a protective sleeve, before securing it with a metal stake through the holes meant for a binder. A small collection had amassed there over the previous months. You would swap them out every so often, placing them in a box you kept at home.
You had barely gotten in the door when you felt a strong contraction. You looked toward the photo on the mantel. It was a photo of you and Bucky from the day your daughter was born.
“You...you know what Barnes, fair play, fair play,” you said to the empty room. You waited a bit before you called someone. Steve and Peggy were on their way to watch your daughter. Natasha and Rosa on the other hand were set to be your support in the room.
Just shy of midnight, your son was born. You had told Bucky once upon a time, that you wanted your son to share his name. He had laughed and agreed, but only if his middle name was Steven. You had smiled at that. James Steven Barnes. You looked at Rosa.
“Would you like to hold your godson?” you asked her. Her eyes widened.
“My godson?” she asked. You nodded.
“Yeah, Diaz. Bucky and I talked about it a long time ago,” you told her. It was true, you had. For the two of you, it hadn’t been a religion thing. You wanted to know that your kids would be in good hands if something happened. Steve and Nat were your daughter’s godparents. Jake and Rosa would be your son’s. Between the four of them, you were confident that should something happen, your kids would be well cared for and loved.
You were still healing. The hurt would never go away. You hated the word goodbye. But you knew. This goodbye wasn’t forever. Bucky wasn’t gone, not truly. You looked at your daughter and saw his smile. You looked at your newborn son and saw his eyes. Your weekly conversations with his mother revealed more stories you hadn’t heard before. Bucky may have been gone, but he was woven into the very core of your life. You could see him in the jokes that flowed between the 99 when you’d hang out with them, in the way Steve was teaching Peter how to defend himself, even though he swore up and down he was doing nothing of the sort. You saw him in the way you’d catch Natasha jamming out to music you knew she used to hate when you’d walk in on days she was watching your daughter. He lived on in all of you.
You closed your eyes to rest as the last of your visitors left your hospital room. You swore you could hear his voice as you drifted off, a smile on your face.