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“No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away…”
– Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man
Last week, they had buried Natasha. It had been a quiet farewell under the blooming birches; the coffin dressed in red, white and blue. The day had been beautiful and bright and nothing like today, when the rain clattered against the window glass.
“Where’s dad?”
Steve peaked up over the edge of the newspaper and looked at the little girl sitting across from him. Their daughter, all icy eyes and dark hair, looked back at him. She was dressed in a pyjamas woven by strings from the rainbow itself if the multitude of color was anything to go by. Her cocoa hair loose and wild from bed.
“He’s still sleeping, honey,” Steve said with a kind smile as he folded the newspaper twice, putting it aside.
“Why?” she asked before biting into the piece of toast. A red smear of strawberry jelly stuck to her chin, which she messily rubbed away using the back of her hand, chewing loudly before gulping it all down with some juice. “He’s always awake when I wake up,” she said.
Despite the years piling on, Bucky woke with the rooster every morning. How he always got up at four-thirty unprompted and did his thing – ran his miles on the treadmill, did the laundry, took stock of their kitchen cabinets and wrote shopping lists, and last but not least, cleaned up all their kid-induced toy clutter. All that, before breakfast, which he, of course, made as well.
When Bucky suddenly wasn’t there, things fell apart and for a week straight, Steve had tried to run the house. He let the pile of dishes in the sink, the overflowing hamper and peanut butter and jelly toast without the peanut butter speak for how that was going.
It wasn’t that Steve didn’t mourn – because he did, the lack of everything was a sign of that. Natasha had been his friend, like a sister he had never had and he mourned her as that. But Bucky—Bucky mourned her as a lover.
Steve couldn’t remember ever seeing his husband so unhinged and downtrodden; defeated by something that would come for them all in the end. After the funeral, he had simply shut himself inside their bedroom, hiding behind the excuse that he didn’t want to cry in front of the kids.
“He’s—” A sharp, ear-piercing shriek cut him short, head snapping to the left. Next to him, their baby son moaned displeased over a slice of apple that had fallen onto the floor; small hands trying to reach over the edge. Steve offered him a fresh slice with a tired sigh and finished without thinking, “—sad.”
“Why is he sad?” she asked. When Steve looked back at her, he saw so much of Bucky in her. She looked thoughtful; one elbow braced on the table, chin resting in her palm. “He shouldn’t be sad; he has been sad foreveeeer.”
One day, they would talk about last week. About how the dog resting by her feet wouldn’t be there one day to greet her with that propelling tail and crazy bark. About all the spider-themed birthday cards and soulmates and—
—that day was not today, Steve decided as the knot in his chest tugged.
His shoulders slumped with a heavy exhale as he nodded. “I’m with you on that.”
She tilted her head, lips pursing to the side as she glanced at the piece of toast in her hand, distracted. “When will he be happy again?”
“I don’t know,” Steve lied.
“Can we make him happy?”
“Maybe,” Steve shrugged, the idea of trying curling his lips. “We could try.”
She sat straighter in her chair, eyes widening. “How?”
“Well…” Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table and smiled. “What makes you happy?”
She squinted her eyes, paused and Steve could practically see the cogs move inside her little head. She smiled brightly, the whole of it lighting up her freckled face as she replied, “Pancakes – and ice cream.”
“Okay.” Steve smiled as he nodded. “Maybe that’ll make Bucky happy as well. Do you want to help me make them?”
It was a stupid question because she was up and about the moment after. Steve had her dig through the cupboard after ingredients while he cleaned away their sparse breakfast, adding to the mountain of porcelain in the sink. After that, they worked together. Steve did all the measuring, she did all the whisking and as he flipped the pancakes in the pan later, she stood side by side, watching with keen interest all while she chirped about tonight’s dance class.
Thirty minutes later and they had a plate worthy for a cookbook. The stack of pancakes high, topped off with one scoop of vanilla ice cream and another of raspberry, both already melting from the heat.
“Here, you’ll have the honor,” Steve said as he passed her the stacked plate.
She nodded eagerly, eyes wide and mouth rounded. “I almost want to eat it,” she confessed, giggling.
Steve chuckled. “If you ask him nicely, maybe you can get a bite. If not, we’ll make more later.”
“You promise?”
“Promise,” Steve said as he picked up his baby from the chair. The little guy had most of his fingers in his mouth, smiling feebly around them as he looked around like a hooting owl. From the counter, Steve picked up the napkin wrapped cutlery and the steaming cup of tea with his free hand. “C’mon, let’s go. Be careful with the stairs.”
Behind them, Sparks paws clicked against the wooden floor and together they made their way upstairs, taking the left turn and padded down the dark corridor. At the very end, their bedroom door stood closed, looking eerie in a way that made Steve’s heart sink and mind wander.
Was this how they had found Natasha, he thought, expecting the day to be like any other, only to find her cold between the sheets?
The thought stayed with him as his little girl awkwardly opened the door using her elbow, pushing it open to reveal a sea of shadows. The curtains were closed in their bedroom, hiding the foothills of discarded clothing on the floor and the air within was boxed in, stale and heavy. Bucky laid curled on his side on the big bed, left arm shoved beneath the pillow, eyes closed; duvet pulled all the way up to his chin.
“Wakey, wakey Ducky,” she sing-songed as the rounded the big bed, climbing awkwardly on top without using her hands, parking herself next to Bucky. Steve took the long way around the bed, stopping by the windows to pull open the curtains and setting the window ajar, airing out the smell of grief.
“Oh hey,” Bucky murmured as he propped himself up on his elbow, dark hair wild and matted. Eyes glossy with sleep, lips coming open in genuine surprise. “You made pancakes?”
“Papa helped,” she confessed bashfully.
“Is that so?” Bucky slowly rolled over on his back, scooting up the bed so he rested his head and shoulders against the headboard. “It smells delicious,” he said smiling and although it wasn’t something that stretched from ear to ear, something lit behind his red-rimmed eyes.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, hoisting the plate so high that it was practically in Bucky’s face.
“A little,” Bucky said softly. “But put it on the nightstand, sweetie, I want to hug you all first.”
She did as she was told before climbing back onto the bed, curling up at his side. Suddenly, Steve was torn between watching and wanting to eternalize the moment with the click of a button. But when Bucky gently patted the mattress to his left, Steve settled for the former.
“Come here you two.”
Steve quickly found his place next to Bucky, pulling out his own pillow and placing it over Bucky’s cold arm before laying down, their son cradled against his chest. The gleaming arm came around his shoulders tight, palm planted softly on the back of their baby. Even Sparks jumped up and found peace at their feet, tail wagging back and forth.
Up-close, Bucky smelled of old sweat. But that didn’t stop Steve from breathing his head full of him.
At Bucky’s other side, their daughter was curled up like a ball, head propped on his shoulder, looking up at him and said, “We wanted to make you happy again. Are you happy now?”
Bucky kissed her forehead and hummed. “Very.”
“We love you,” Steve said and watched as Bucky turned his face toward him, gloomy smile on his lips. He tilted his head enough and kissed Steve gently.
“Yeah,” their daughter agreed. “We don’t want you to be sad anymore. You should eat the pancakes and come out and play.”
And to that, Bucky pulled them all closer, his arm whirring next to Steve’s ear. Today, it was a soothing sound.
“I won’t be,” Bucky promised, sounding so strong and determined despite looking so bent out of shape. Steve’s whole chest ached. “I love you all more than you can ever know.”
This was Bucky, who loved as he lived – with fierce, unquestionable devotion. But some days, even the sun seemed to shine less; bothered with clouds thick and dark and unending. For as long as Steve could remember, Bucky had always looked at Natasha in a certain way. How he had looked at her as if she had been a unicorn among horses; something otherworldly made of nothing but beauty and grace. Even in her old age, she had looked stunning, looking as if she would make it to a hundred years without a hitch.
But she hadn’t.
She was gone, swept from mortal coil and as they had lowered her into the ground, Steve was convinced that a part of Bucky had gone with her.
And to Steve, that was alright. Because he had done the same, left a part of himself in that deep grave. Because he knew how it felt to lose a lover, to be half of a whole. Just like Peggy had been a big part of Steve, Natasha had been something monumental to Bucky. A founding pillar for the man he had grown to be after the fall. She had saved Steve, saved Bucky; saved the world more than once. She had been an incredible woman; admirable and loyal and good, so damn good. She was someone both of them would have wanted to have in their daughter’s life more than just the annual spider-themed birthday card.
But at the very least, Bucky wasn’t alone in this, because Steve knew how it felt to lose a dance partner.
The next day, Steve found Bucky in the garage.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going golfing,” Bucky said casually, as if this was just another day and not the first day out of bed. “With Clint.”
Steve smiled tenderly and nodded. “Do you have your clubs?”
Bucky looked around. In between their bikes and winter tires and boxes of old clothes, they could be anywhere. “Somewhere,” he said.
Later from the kitchen window, Steve saw the blue car pull onto their driveway. He watched how Clint, old as the wind, stepped out of the car and how Bucky walked up to him, steps long and hurried. Steve watched them embrace, clap each other on the back and pull apart, their smiles sad.
“I think the pancakes worked.”
Steve looked to his left and saw their daughter staring up at him wearing a proud smile. She turned her gaze out through the window, small arms crossed over her chest and chin held high.
Steve smiled and said, “You have the best ideas, Natalia.”