Chapter Text
1.1
The word on the street is that Death, the omnipresent force, is a skeleton in a dark rope with a pointy hat that wields a scythe, who is also a horseback riding enthusiast, a French writer described Death as a fat woman. Every assumption is either true or false, because no one, not even God himself/herself/themselves know(s) - whichever God(s) you believe in - have seen Death in person. Death has never, in the history of the universe, shown his or her or their true face. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat with the obvious difference that when you open Schrödinger’s box, there’s a 50% chance you get to pet a fluffy perfectly alive cat. But if you open Death’s box, there are only dead cats with different causes of death.
Death doesn’t mean to come as rude or standoffish, on the contrary, Death has taken a special interest in human beings since its creation for the stubborn pursuit humans have for eternal life. Death thinks it’s cute. In fact, Death is also the pioneer of the concept humans later dabs ‘equality.’ Death still resents Birth for taking credit for the progress humanity has made in that regard. ‘born equal my ass.’ Death argued as such at his last meeting with Birth, ‘there are people born with organs missing you dipshit.’
The reason why Death doesn’t show up is simple - it’s too busy. As you are reading this sentence, several thousand people just died on Earth, not to mention the mosquitoes, cockroaches, and the grass in the park no one knows the scientific term for. The point is, there are just way too many deaths. So Death, who invented capitalism at the same time as other omniscient buddies, outsourced its job.
They are deaths, with small d. There are different deaths that oversee animals, plants, microbes, from there the animals division are divided into those that oversee animals with 6 or more legs, animals with 2 legs, and animals with no legs - a system after several thousand years of practice has proven to be the most efficient, although management in charge of animals with 2 legs complains about high burnout rate more often than others.
Bucky is an intern at the humans section at the 2 legs division. Most intern gets sent here or the insects department. There are half a dozen deaths crammed in a small office, each with their own section of the Earth to deal with. Bucky’s predecessor has overworked itself from the 16th to 19th century and collected its pension to play poker in heaven.
Being death requires very little expertise, which might come as an insult to many humans. They don’t need training or special abilities, they don’t decide how or when one dies or where one goes for afterlife. Those responsibilities fall in several other jurisdictions. deaths, like Bucky, only receive files of people who are supposed to die, with a flick of the mind, and poof, the person is dead. The files then are transferred up the chain, its contents watered down as they go, by the time it reaches Death with capital D, the whens and whys and hows and wheres are all reduced to ‘all departments fully functioning.’
In the first week of its job - which is equivalent of roughly a decade on Earth - Bucky starts to understand why its predecessor quit. Half the planet is embattled, thousands of people die every day, often not in one piece. Men, women, children. They die, with no memorials, no burials, sometimes without anyone else knowing. Bucky is death, but it isn’t devoid of sympathy, not yet anyway.
So when Bucky sees the file for Steven Grant Rogers, it suddenly has a moment of weakness. This poor thing isn’t even fully a human yet, his mother is 7 months pregnant and is supposed to miscarry after being kicked in the belly by a drunk patient. Who the fuck kicks a pregnant nurse who works three jobs, who had just lost her husband to mustard gas? Bucky will gladly take that bastard’s life.
So it’s decided. Instead of taking the baby’s life, Bucky picks out his file and locks it in the drawer. No one would know, no one needs to know. Oh, the beauty of bureaucracy.
However, the next day, Bucky sees this name again. This time, the baby’s born but his heart condition won’t allow the newborn to survive. Bucky sighs. It’s as if this tiny human isn’t meant to live a full life. But Bucky’s already saved Steven once, another won’t make much of a difference.
Days later, Steven Grant Rogers’s name lands on Bucky’s lap for the third time.
Bucky: #@!%#&$#U*&
The young death intern decides to pay this human a visit, teaching him a thing or two about the value of life. The irony is not lost to Bucky, Death doesn’t value Life, death makes humans value life, though some people refuse to take the lesson. At least this human can learn to appreciate the risk Bucky’s taken and the fact that it’s quite busy without having to save his ass every day.
Now perhaps is a good time to describe Bucky, what it looks like, after all it’s going to show up at Steven Grant Rogers’s house. Yet, bear in mind that Bucky was not born but made into existence, like all deaths, without a certain look, rather, a look is assigned to them by whoever or whichever’s life they are going to take. For example, deaths at the insect department often are seen as a bird or a spider in the eyes of the unfortunate bug. deaths therefore takes many forms, but interestingly the only constant in all departments is the form of a human. No one at the Bureau of Death has raised questions about this phenomenon yet, mainly due to a lack of communication at every level.
So what does Bucky look like in the eyes of Steven Grant Rogers?
Bucky shows up in Steven’s tiny bedroom in New York, America. The room is decrepit but tidy, looking out the window, there is just a whole neighborhood of similar rooms with people just as miserable as Steven and his mother, Sarah. It’s nighttime, the sky is dark, and Steven’s room is only dimly lit by the street lights spilling through the window. Bucky looks at it reflection in the glass - it, no, he is a boy, maybe 10, with curly brown hair and brown eyes, his skin is delicate, a healthy rubicund complexion.
The boy in the bed is nothing like, if not the opposite of, Bucky. He is 6 years old but he looks even smaller, so thin a butterfly can push him over. His hair is blond, his eyes, although closed, Bucky knows are blue, the same as his mother. His skin is almost translucent, tiny blue veins visible, needle marks dotted the backs of his hands, and his face is flushed red as his immune system fights to keep the boy alive from the disease, from Bucky.
Bucky feels a strange pang of guilt.
He’s so...vulnerable. fragile. Bucky can’t fault him for what Fate throws at him, not when he’s so tenaciously fighting it.
Bucky moves to sit by Steven’s bedside, watching as Steve shivers, and shivers again. He’s awake.
“who are...”
Bucky thinks it’s better not to announce himself death, so he says, “you can call me Bucky.”
“Bucky.” the boy repeats, doesn’t find it slightest odd that someone just appears in his bedroom.
One of the most fascinating things about humans lies in their ability to imagine. They come up with hundreds of gods, deities, and other supernatural beings, they write books about them, full of courageous adventures and odd sexual encounters, they sculpt, paint, play instruments, they create something called art. They also create nations, states, enterprises, symbols, and games. Basically, every aspect of human life is built and threaded by their imagination. Even tiny humans, such as Steven, are capable of imagination. Imaginary friend, that’s the term. Tiny humans are obsessed with imaginary friends. Steven must think Bucky is one of them.
“you’re very sick.” says Bucky.
“ ‘m feelin’ be’r.”
“don’t lie to me.” because Bucky is supposed to take his life tonight.
“not lyin’.” Steven barely rasps the words out before he falls into a fit of cough, so bad he can hardly breathe.
The bedroom door is swung open and in comes Sarah Rogers, the woman who is supposed to lose her baby before he was born, the woman who shoulders so much hardship on her slim frame but never breaks. She rushes over to Steven, crunching down next to the bed, and helps him to sit up so he can breathe properly. She tests his forehead with her hand and sighs, inaudible under Steven’s violent cough.
“have some water, sweetheart.” once Steven’s done coughing, she fetches a water cup and holds it next to his lips. Steven gulps the water down fast. “good boy.” she coos, “you’ll feel better tomorrow, I promise.”
“can we hafa pear pie?” asks Steven.
“whatever you want, Stevie.” she kisses him on the forehead. “I’ll get you a new towel.” because the old one is burning up like Steven.
Bucky watches the exchange in silence - not that Sarah will hear or see him. deaths are only visible to those they are about to take, otherwise humanity will descend into a state of constant fear and chaos from seeing deaths in every corner. Bucky is touched by the resilience and love this mother-son pair have demonstrated. Fate is not kind to them, but they don’t bow. They fight.
And it’s only fair to have someone from up there to help the humans fight Fate. Or maybe Death is from down there, but Bucky is not particularly interested in that debate.
Sarah comes back moments later, placing a new towel on Steve’s forehead, followed by a kiss on Steve’s cheek. Steve moves his lips, muttering a thanks, but no sound comes out. She sits on the bedside, her bony fingers brush Steve’s sweat-soaked hair, and waits until Steve’s asleep again before letting tears drop.
1.2
Bucky goes to work three days later and sees Steven’s file again. This time the boy is 12 years of age, cause of death is a complication from a severe food allergy, not because he is careless but because some punk at school can’t stomach the fact that Steven reported his misconduct to the head teacher and miscalculates the dosage by a million.
So he’s also saving a kid from the potential fate of manslaughter at the ripe age of 14. Fate’s gonna be pissed if he was caught.
The Staff Manual of the Bureau of Death is an elaborate, extensive, voluminous work, including even how to handle a strike. However, the section dedicated to deaths occupies only one line with double space: every life is equal before Death. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s broken the only work ethic rule here for the fourth time. But rules are meant to be broken. Even the big D itself ‘allegedly’ broke the rule with that Jesus guy, so he feels justified.
This time Steven’s in the hospital where Sarah works. It’s children’s ward, many of them are in dire situations just like Steven, some even worse. Bucky tries not to think about that, so he looks only at Steven: the boy is attached to an IV and a mask to help him breathe. He is still malnourished, skinnier, and smaller than kids his age, his skin is covered by red rash, his neck looks like an apple has stuck in there, swollen, and his veins look like they’re going to burst out of that paper-thin skin.
Steven is semi-conscious, the machine he’s attached to beeps evenly, his heart jumps a little faster, a little stronger when Steven notices Bucky’s presence.
“thought you’re a dream..” he speaks, fog forming in the mask.
Steven’s voice is extremely low, his tongue is swelled up too, syllabus meshes together. Fortunately - or unfortunately, Bucky is not human and therefore not limited to human senses.
“I’m not a dream.”
“are you...” Steven takes a breath, “my guardian angel?”
Bucky almost laughs. “no.”
“oh.”
Either Steven doesn’t know what more to say or he really needs to devote his effort to forcing air down through the wind pipe and into the lungs. For a minute or two Steven just breathes, loudly, slowly, painfully, in and out.
Bucky has taken many human lives, some give in, some embrace, some, like Steven, fight. Bucky is always amazed by fighters because how do you fight a sneeze? How do you fight the passage of time? Why do humans fight death? Out of hubris or love? Why live, Bucky wants to ask, when life has never been easy on you?
Maybe he should ask Steven when he’s in better condition.
“Buck?” Steven calls his name - no, not his name. A nickname. It’s new. It’s weird. “stay?”
Bucky really shouldn’t stay. Instead, he asks, “do you want me to?”
“you were gone when I ‘s up last time.” Steven says - pleads, “just ‘til ma’s back. She’ll be here in the morning.”
Sarah is still holding two jobs just to keep the family afloat. If Bucky were to take Steven today, she wouldn’t even be here to say goodbye. What the hell does Fate have against them?
So Bucky says, “ok.”
A tiniest smile appears on Steven’s face as he closes his eyes, relaxing a little at Bucky’s assurance.
For the next 10 hours, Steven vacillates between unconscious and semi unconscious, sometimes he seems completely unaware of Bucky, sometimes they talk, no more than a few exchanges before Steven runs out of energy. Bucky stays as promised, a mixture of feelings accumulates inside of him and he is scared of the uncertainty it brings.
death is scared.
When Sarah arrives, bleary eyed and emaciated, Bucky leaves.