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They laid his body out on the cold metal table. Each one of them hovered over him; each one of them had unspoken hopes that he’d beat this battle like he had every one before. Hours passed and Bucky watched as death settled in, seizing the muscles, tightening the bones. Death did not embrace. It gripped.
Tony entered the room at some point, but Bucky ignored him. He had to because if he didn’t, he’d reach across the room, become Death for Stark. Grip him, turn him, split him into a million particles. He’d break that family line one last time, obliterate it and turn it into a dynasty for history’s records. Bucky was history’s silent maiden.
He said nothing in the room full of hushed whispers and the occasional choked sob.
Here lies Captain America.
But for Bucky, it was here lies Steven Grant Rogers.
He’d been trained for this moment. His life was fragmented, full of holes and gaps in memory that he’d never fill, but this moment? This moment was muscle memory. This moment he feels prepared for, trained for, like no other mission. In the silence all he can remember are the times he hovered near threadbare blankets, inside cold rooms during the dead of winter, his head in his hands, praying to a god he knew wanted to exorcise him from the world. But he prayed anyway because someone had to, someone had to ask God to let Steve be in the world.
Eventually others came in. Officials and various anonymous personnel who started the process of mourning – the public ritual that would parade Steve’s deeds across streets and headlines and news sites until the next big story happened, until the day after when life moved on, leaving Steve once again in the mists of memory. No one ever thought about the day after until they were the ones living it.
These others didn’t touch Captain America’s body. Bucky wondered if it was fear or awe or both. Tony did reach toward his Captain’s hand at one point which had provoked the only spoken word from Bucky.
“Don’t.”
Tony had no right to touch those hands. He had only known them as weapons. He hadn’t known them when they sketched out skylines or when they drew intricate scenes of mothers and children having fun during a long ago Coney Island Saturday. He hadn’t known them when they laid against a swollen cheek in a dungeon built for death. He’d only known Captain America’s hands, those too large palms that were caricatures drawn by science. In here, for this brief time, Bucky demanded that Steve be allowed to live once more.
“Don’t.”
Tony stood back, his head hung down. Bucky knew he was mourning. He tried to feel something for this man but all he could muster was an urge not to kill him.
“Bucky.” Bucky glanced at Sam, Captain America’s sidekick and Steve’s friend. In another life they’d have been friends too.
Bucky finally looked up and around the room. There were so many others there now. The room was too full and too empty.
“It’s time.” Sam whispered as he nodded toward the cold metal table. Several men stood to the side. They brought a gurney in – another cold metal slab to carry Captain America off until they placed him in the cushioned coffin and laid him out for the public and heads of state. The ones who hunted Captain America would now pretend to mourn him. Rage slammed into his body and Bucky stood up.
“Out. All of you out.” He thought he screamed. He thought he spoke English.
“Barnes.” Tony stepped forward and put his hand up, some strange gesture of peace and consolation. Bucky stared at the hand, his gaze traveling up the ironclad body. He looked Tony in the eye for the first time since he tried to kill him.
“Out.”
“Stark.” Sam stepped up and pulled Tony away. “A few minutes, okay?” He nodded at Bucky and then gestured toward the rest. “A few minutes, but then we have to take him.”
The room emptied quickly except for the young Carter. She stood on the other side of the table, hovering near. Her fingers rested lightly on the table, inches from the body. She, too, seemed both afraid and awed. Bucky realized that even though she loved Captain America, he was the only one left in the world who knew Steve.
“Please.” He thought he whispered. He thought he spoke English.
She met his gaze. They stared at each other for a few moments, words not really needed as she slowly backed up, casting one last glance at them before she followed Sam out of the room.
Finally alone, Bucky slumped. His military posture cracked and he leaned on the table. His metal arm bent, the elbow scraped loudly against the cold steel. One more time, he thought, as he rested his head in his hands.
He reached out blindly, through the tears and lifted Steve’s stiffened hand. He slid the shield out from beneath the splayed palms, setting it gently down on the floor. He continued to hold Steve’s hand, rubbing his knuckles gently.
“Remember when you first started drawing? You were so good, right away. Just had an eye for the beauty, y’know?”
Bucky settled against the table, sitting on its edge. He kept Steve’s hand in his flesh one as he reached out with the metal hand, the bright fingers carefully pushing a stray hair away from Steve’s forehead. “I was so proud of you. Was sure you’d be a famous artist one day. These hands were gonna change the world. I guess they did.”
He laughed but it came out sounding like something between a sob and a cough. “I used to hate when you’d pick those fights because I’d see these hands clench up and I kept worrying you’d break them. You were so stubborn. Why were you so stubborn?”
“You should’ve stayed home, Steve. You should’ve let me die in that room. Why the hell didn’t you let me die?”
Bucky crawled up on the table. He touched their foreheads together. “Open your eyes, Stevie. Come on. One last time, okay? Just this once?”
No one was listening to the prayer. No one answered.
Bucky squeezed the rock hard hands. He closed his eyes. They were kids again in church, hiding in the back pew, praying for warmth or work or victory. Bucky breathed out, trying to force his life into Steve.
No one heard. No one answered.
“Bucky.”
He glanced up at Sam.
“It’s time. They need to come back in.” Sam helped him down. Together they laid the shield back on the table, under Captain America’s hands.
Bucky stood back and did nothing as they carried his body away.
There goes Captain America.
There goes Steven Grant Rogers.