Work Text:
I am not land or timber
nor are you
ocean or celestial body,
but rather we are
the small animals
we have always been.
The land and the sea
know each other
at the threshold
where they meet,
as we know something
of one another,
having shown,
at different times,
some bit of flesh,
some feeling.
We call the showing
knowing instead of practice.
We seem to say,
at different times,
A feeling comes.
What is the metaphor
for two animals
sharing the same space?
Marriage?
We share a practice,
you and I,
a series of postures.
Here is how I
become a tree
[ ]
and you
[ ]
a body in space.
Dear --- Donika Kelly
“So– what do you miss most about growing up?” Sam asks, on a particularly boring plane ride to some dangerous place. He and Bucky had been working together against the Flag Smashers for a little while now, and Bucky’s complete and utter silence was starting to get to him. He had no idea how Steve could ever stand the guy – all he does is scowl and glare. He’s like an animal; like a dog. Bucky constantly insists that Sam talks too much, and Sam is sure he’s going to get a complaint for even daring to ask Bucky a question.
Instead, Bucky answers “The bananas,” not looking up from the small, leatherbound notebook in his lap. Bucky may not talk much, but he writes quite a lot. Sam doesn’t have even the slightest clue what, though.
Bucky’s blunt answer takes him by surprise. He really expected something like “you not being around” – but, bananas?
Sam snorts, covering his mouth with his hand to stop himself from laughing. Bucky’s face darkens as Sam starts to laugh.
“Hey, screw you, man–” Bucky starts, but Sam quickly waves him off.
“I’m not laughing at your answer. Its just that–” Sam grins, “--Steve gave the same exact answer when I asked him.”
Bucky’s face shifts, his expression unreadable. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, man,” Sam scoots a little closer to Bucky so that they aren’t sitting on opposite ends of the row of seats. “Bananas and Bucky– well– bananas and you. That's the answer Steve gave.”
“Did Steve mention the prices? That's something I fuckin’ miss. Everything is so expensive.” Bucky smiles slightly like he’s trying to throw a dog a bone. Give Sam something to talk about from his time.
Sam nods, smiling. “I took Steve grocery shopping once – you should have seen the guy’s reaction to milk in plastic containers.”
Bucky huffs out a dry laugh “No, he’s right for that. Why the fuck is everything plastic now? Did they run out of sheep for wool? Sand for glass? Did all the flax plants die like the fucking bananas?”
“It's cheap, and cheap is easy,” Sam says with a shrug. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know what flax is. “But– besides bananas and 25-cent sodas in glass bottles, what do you miss? Really miss? Most of all?” he pushes. He wants to be able to crack Bucky open, to see his feelings or something. Sam wants to see what Steve saw in him.
Bucky closes the notebook in his lap and sets down the pen he had been writing with. He has this far-off look as he thinks. “It’s stupid.” He answers finally after a long moment of quiet.
“I don’t think it is. If you miss it, then you miss it.” Sam says easily – like bananas weren’t a stupid answer in the first place.
Bucky looks away. He traces his fingers over the metal panels of the back of his hand. It's a nervous habit that Sam’s noticed him do a few times now. Facing away from him, Bucky’s voice is so soft, that Sam almost has to strain to hear it. “I think…most of all… I miss dancing.”
“Dancing?” Sam echoes. He carefully controls the expression on his face to something neutral. He simply can’t picture the Winter Soldier himself, dancing. The only image that pops into his mind is a Bucky-filled rendition of Singin’ in the Rain. It takes all of Sam’s willpower not to crack a smile at the thought.
“No one dances anymore, man.” Bucky’s statement snaps Sam out of his thoughts. Bucky was shaking his head. His gaze is distant and, in the dim lights of the airplane carrier, almost glossy.
Bucky continues, his voice small and strained: “We used to dance– god. The world never stopped feeling like it could end tomorrow, and we still danced.”
Sam watches him closely. The way Bucky was getting tense and choked up – it was completely unfamiliar. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man show any sort of emotion other than rage before. Except, a memory rings, clear as a bell–
“ Your mother's name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes. ” There was a fondness there. Sam can remember that clearly as day. It was disorienting at the time. The man had just tried to kill them, but when he looked at Steve, his expression became soft and warm. Thats what Steve saw – that bright, blind, unyielding affection. Sam had seen it too, but he didn’t know what to make of it at the time. He thinks he might, now.
“Did you and Steve– ever go dancing?” Sam asks carefully. The question under the question hangs in the air.
Bucky bows his head to hide a small, saddened smile. “Steve never could dance for shit; he had two left feet” The finality of the statement almost stings. It almost feels bitter.
Sam opens his mouth to speak, but it just falls into a fish's open gape. There's so much he wants to ask, but he doesn’t have a single idea of how to approach the topic. It seemed old military policies were still ingrained in him.
“He wasn’t a fairy, if that's what you’re trying to ask.” Bucky’s tone is direct, rueful. It makes Sam’s stomach flip.
Sam can’t help but let out a weak stutter, trying to backtrack from this conversation. “Look– its not, I don’t mean–”
Bucky looks away. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Sam tenses. Clearly, this was something Bucky needed to talk about. Maybe that's why he was always so silent – fearful that the second he opened up, everything would come pouring out, right in front of Steve. But Steve was gone, and here they were.
“He left because of me.” The statement is final. Bucky’s tone is soaked in bitterness and hurt. He was tense, all coiled up like a spring. The sight makes Sam’s chest tighten.
“Why– why do you think that?” Sam asks slowly. He’s never once thought of Steve making the decision for any reason but his own
Bucky’s hands tremble in his lap. He grabs at his pants, feeling over the folds of the rough fabric. Slowly, he breathes. “Steve knew what I was.”
The words filter in slowly. Sam opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again “He never judged you, for what you did as the winter soldier.”
Bucky shakes his head slightly. His gaze is distant. Light filters through the windows of the helicarier, just enough to highlight the wetness in his eyes.
He doesn’t say anything, but Sam puts the pieces together easily enough. Steve knew what he was. Steve wasn’t a fairy. Oh, god. Did Bucky really think that's why–?
“Buck– ” Sam’s voice comes out watery and trembling. He’s so sad and so angry, that Bucky would ever be made to feel like Steve would reject him over that, of all things. “Steve loved you. More than anything else in the world.”
“Not more than Peggy,” Bucky argues sharply. Sam doesn’t know what to say to that. How to prove to him he’s wrong.
Sam takes a deep breath. He’s never agreed with Steve stepping down, but it wasn’t Sam’s choice. He never had a right to say anything about it, but it hurt. Steve leaving hurt so goddamn bad. To think, it must have hurt Bucky so much worse. “Steve– y’know how he is. The second he gets an idea in his head, that's all there is.”
Bucky scoffs. His shoulders stoop downward slightly as he relaxes, just a little bit. “Tell me about it. He’d lie, n’ cheat, n’ steal, n’ punch anything and anyone if it meant he got what he wanted. He just– didn’t want…”
“Look,” Sam starts to speak slowly, carefully. He looks at Bucky in the eyes – the man’s were a cool, ice blue, almost greyed out. Sam can’t help but notice a lingering pain in his expression, settled deep in the thickness of his eyebrows and barely–there crow's feet. Bucky certainly doesn’t look his age, but the emotional exhaustion makes him look older. Sam almost reaches out to take Bucky’s hand but stops himself. They’re probably not… there yet.
“I may not have known Steve for as long as you have, but I promise, you meant the world to him. Hell, he became a wanted criminal just to try to clear your name.”
Bucky looks like he wants to argue, but he stays quiet. Traces the metal of his hand out of habit, and watches Sam closely.
Sam sighs. “I don’t quite understand why Steve made the decisions he did, but I know it wasn’t your fault. He never judged you for who you were; he never judged anyone for that. Do you want to know how I know that?”
A shrug. Sam takes it as a good enough answer to continue. “Because he never had a problem with me. ”
Bucky’s face shifts, like he's somehow speedrunning the five stages of grief in a moment. Sam stares at him, half expecting Bucky to say some out–of–pocket ‘clearly grew up in the 30’s and has repressed internalized homophobia’ bullshit. Instead, Bucky just looks away, softly muttering “ Oh. I see. ”
“Yeah. So– don’t blame yourself.” Sam says finally.
Bucky nods. He doesn’t quite look uncomfortable with Sam, but his body language has an unsteady undercurrent He clearly wants this conversation to be over
Sam feels like any progress they made got deleted at a moment's notice. That's somehow said the worst imaginable thing Bucky’s ever heard. Maybe it was – Bucky’s always so sensitive when Steve gets brought up, maybe that's why he’s gone completely quiet. He was already buried back in his book, content to ignore Sam again.
Well, shit.