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Bucky dreams of a memory.
In the memory, it is cold outside. Snow falls thick and heavy beyond the thin window pane and cold creeps through the cracks and along the creaky floorboards. But wrapped up in two thick quilts that smell of pressed lavender and cedar from the chest under the window, he doesn’t feel the cold. And he’s…content. He thinks. His legs are outstretched under the blanket and one is tangled with Steve’s. Where they touch it is hot and he cannot fathom moving away.
Bucky is nine years old.
“I’m not really sick anymore, Bucky,” Steve says, also nine years old, his eyes huge in his thin face and so very blue, “You don’t have to stay and keep me warm,” which is stupid because that’s when it’s the most important time Steve needs to stay warm. He’s still weak from the bought of flu he’s getting over and no wonder, as he’d been bedridden for two weeks. Even so, he does look a little better.
“Who said anything about hafta?” Bucky asks, voice loud and challenging because he doesn’t want to go anywhere. He’s perfectly happy staying right where he is, one leg tangled with Steve’s, pressed close all the way to their shoulders. Steve looks at him and his smile is small but bright.
“You’re a good friend, Bucky Barns,” Sarah Rogers announces from the doorway and Bucky beams at her from his place on her son’s bed, “I don’t know what Steve did to be blessed with such a loyal friend like you but it must have been something good,” The praise makes him blush and Steve giggle, wiggling a bit so his shoulder nudges Bucky’s.
“Nah, Mrs. Rogers, Steve just needs someone to keep him alive with all those fights he picks,” he says half-jokingly and enjoys Sarah’s soft laugh and Steve’s indignant squawk. He relents, though, when Steve looks fit to hit him with his pillow a few times, “I just mean you got so much good in ya that you can’t mind your own business when you see someone else doing something bad,” he grins a toothy grin, “even if it ain’t so good for your health.”
“You start fights too!” Steve returns, still annoyed, though Bucky can see he’s pleased too, underneath it all.
“Only so you don’t start them first!” he says back, logically, and thinks there really will be a pillow fight for a moment for how they glare at each other before Sarah clears her throat pointedly. Steve glances away with a stubborn tilt to his jaw but the tiny amount of fight in him quickly dissipates.
“Goodness, you two,” Sarah says with a sigh, though her voice is full of love, “One minute I think even a crow-bar won’t tear you apart and then next you’re nagging at each other,” she shakes her head.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky mumbles and under the blanket, reaches for Steve’s hand. It’s there, waiting for him and he ducks his head to hide his smile as they weave their fingers together.
“Well, that’s alright then,” Sarah says, still sounding amused, “Bucky, lad, I rang your parents to make sure it was okay you stayed over. Though in this weather, I could hardly send you outside,” they all glance out the window and Bucky can see how the snow is piling up under the dim streetlight outside. He barely stifles his excitement; a sleepover at Steve’s and a snow-day tomorrow? Suddenly the world seems like a pretty perfect place.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rogers. Ma says that sometimes she forgets she even has a son, since I’m here so much,” he’s proud of that for some reason, though he can’t put his thumb on why. Sarah raises one eyebrow and he shrugs, looking sideways at Steve who is still watching the snow fall outside.
“We like having you here,” Sarah says quietly. Steve holds Bucky’s hand tight under the blanket and Bucky feels himself go warm again.
“I like it here,” he says, though he doesn’t say why he likes it here so much. It’s because of Steve, of course, but he feels a little strange admitting it. He is happy wherever Steve is. Sarah’s smile is soft on her thin face and Bucky thinks Steve looks just like her. They are both very beautiful.
“Would you both like to hear a story before bed?” she asks and that makes them sit up a little straighter because no one tells a story like Sarah Rogers does.
“Yes, please!” they chorus and she laughs, coming in to the room so she can perch comfortably at the end of the bed.
“Very well then,” she clears her throat and Bucky and Steve settle in, sharing heat and a suppressed kind of excitement. Sarah’s voice, with its gentle, lilting Irish accent, is soft when she begins, “There was once a young girl who lived with her father who was very ill. She cared for him as best she could but his decline was steady and inevitable. They lived far from the village, up in the wild, rolling hills where the wind cried lonely at night and their only neighbors were the wolves and the ravens. Because of this, when she needed to get food or medicine for her father, she had to walk all the way down to the valley and through the glen in order to get what she needed.
“Now, usually she would go very early in the morning so she would be back home before dark. But one day, a storm blew in from the sea and rattled their little house until she was sure it would blow to splinters and get swept away. It lasted for more than two days and at the end of the second day, her father’s health suddenly took a rapid turn for the worse. It was mid-morning of the third day that the storm finally exhausted itself, leaving behind an eery silence and heavy clouds that swallowed much of the light. But her father’s breath rattled in his chest and he needed medicine if he was to live.
“So she put on her cloak and kissed her father’s cheek and promised him she would be back as soon as she was able,”
“Does she make it back in time?” Steve interrupts a little breathlessly and his mother laughs her kind, warm laugh. Her blue eyes are full of love when she answers,
“Have patience, Steve!” just like she always does because Steve always interrupts. Impatient to get to the end, to make sure everyone is okay. Sometimes they are, sometimes not. Bucky likes the ones that end tragically himself but they always make Steve quiet and pensive. When Sarah knows she won’t be interrupted again, she continues on with her story, “Now, she knew that she would have to hurry if she had any hope of returning before it got too late, so she started down out of the hills, dodging windswept branches and muddied ravines until she reached the glen. All the while, the day remained dark and still and she thought several times she heard someone following her. But every time she turned around, she was all alone.” Next to Bucky, Steve shivers a little and Bucky squeezes his hand reassuringly.
“By the time she reached the glen, she was certain something was not right. But she had to get the medicine and she was almost to the village so she pressed on, into the darkness of the trees.
“The storm had pulled down many old trees, some even blocking the thin footpath so that she was forced to go around them. To leave the trail was dangerous because it was very easy to get lost in the darkness of the trees. But she was careful to keep the path in sight and soon was nearing the other side. She made it to the village by the middle of the afternoon and was greeted warmly by the apothecary, for she was a frequent customer and a friend. As she made her way out of town with the medicine, she helped a pregnant woman carry her laundry inside and fished a young boy’s toy from the mud and dried his tears with her fingers. They were small things but they slowed her down enough that the sun is beginning to set behind the cloud cover.
“With all due haste, she rushed from the village and made her way back into the woods. But before she could get very far, she came across an old woman, craggy and hunched with age,” Bucky is caught by the image and blurts out,
“Like Mrs. Fitz three doors down?” Steve cackles next to him, the sound a little rough with leftover sickness. Making Steve laugh always leaves him with a well of warmth in his chest and he beams at Mrs. Rogers when she rolls her eyes.
“Bucky Barns, I’m going to make you carry her groceries up the stairs for a week for that, see if I don’t,” Sarah scolds him, though there is a twinkle in her eyes and a gentle curve of a smile hiding at the corners of his lips. Steve is still giggling a little at his side and Bucky has to get the last word in.
“Well, it’s true! I think her wrinkles have wrinkles!” Steve loses it again, flopping back against the pillow. Sarah sighs.
“Bucky,” she chastises but he can see how she watches her son laugh with a poorly concealed smile of her own. So Bucky just shrugs and laughs too and feels lighter than air when Steve sits back up and settles even closer than before. Sarah eyes them both for a moment with her lips pursed, “I can stop if you to want, since you seem more interested in fooling around,” which makes both of them sober quickly.
“No!” they both cry and Steve says, “Please, mama, we’ll be good now,” with his blue eyes huge and pleading. Bucky has seen Sarah buckle under that look more than once and she nods now, face softening a little.
“Well, good,” she looks at them for another long moment, one eyebrow raised, like she is waiting to make sure they’ve settled down. With the threat of an unfinished story hanging over their heads, both know to keep their comments to themselves. Finally Sarah nods and continues where she left off, “This old lady stood between her and the path so she had no choice but to stop, even though she could feel the day quickly waning. Already, by the dim light coming through the trees, she could see that it was well past mid-day. She tried to go around the old lady but before she could, the lady hailed her.
“‘Young woman, a moment of your time,’ she pleaded, and the girl stopped, even though every minute is precious.
‘I’m sorry but I must be on my way. My father is very sick and in need of medicine from the village,’ she said, desperate to be away but the woman waved a bony hand at her beseechingly.
‘Just a few moments of your time, lass, I promise you. I am not strong enough and need a little bit of a hand, from time to time,’ the old woman begged and the girl hesitated because she has a kind heart and could not bear the thought of this old woman suffering simply because of frailty that comes with age. So the girl agreed, though urgency nipped at her heels as the day grew darker. She followed the old woman through the woods, off the trail and into the brush so that she was quite turned about by the time they reached a tiny, crooked cottage. It was tucked between two great oaks and a lovely yellow light spilled between the leaves, though she knew the sun has been hiding behind the clouds all day.
“The old woman showed her the giant pile of wood she needed chopped so she might survive the winter and the girl despaired of ever returning home in time. She tried once more to kindly beg away so she might go home to her father,
“‘Please, I really must be getting home. I fear that if I do not get medicine to my father, he will die,’ but the old woman persisted,
“‘And if I do not have this fire wood, then I surely will perish too! It shall not take you very long and then you can be on your way to take care of your father’ what she said was so reasonable, the girl agreed. She picked up the hatchet and set to work, tirelessly chopping the wood until there was a neat stack at her feet. So used to doing all of the work around her own home, the girl was strong and it nary took an hour to finish. The old woman was mighty grateful but she had another task for the girl before she let her leave.
“‘The storm last night damaged my door and I cannot keep out the wolves if the door does not close,’ she said so the girl agreed again and rehung the door so that it was once again sturdy and closed firmly. When she was done, the old woman said, ‘Just one more thing, lass, and then you can return home,’ she led the girl around the back of the cottage and showed her a truly overgrown garden, ‘I fear with my back, I have been unable to pull the weeds and soon my plants will be choked out and I will have no food to last me through the winter. You do this for me, I shall be forever grateful,’
“By now the girl was upset but she agreed because she could let the old woman starve and pulled the weeds as fast as she could. Her fingertips get bloody for she had no gloves and her arms were full of scratches from thorns. She finished as quickly as she could but by then she was tried and by the time she was done, it was very late. When she stood and brushed her knees free of dirt, she found herself alone. There was no sign of the old woman and the golden light was beginning to fade. If she looked closely, the cottage seemed shabbier than she thought at first glance.
“She had tarried long enough, though, so she started to go back around the front of the cottage. But there was a rustle and soft cry of pain in the brush and when she looked, she found a small silver fox caught in a trap. He cowered when he saw her but she hushed him, voice as gentle as her aching fingers when she freed him. Instead of running away, however, he looked at her with round, sad eyes and said,
“‘Thank you, human. But if you have encountered the old woman, beware! You cannot trust her!’ and then he was off, leaving the girl shocked and frightened. She had already begun to figure out that she could not trust the old woman and she took off, running back through the trees as fast as she could without tripping and taking a spill. The gold light was long gone and the cottage was in ruin.
“It was nearly dark by the time she reached the small footpath again, even darker under the thick tree cover and she thought she might cry for how long she had been detained. But just as she began to despair at ever returning home, out of the darkness trotted a great grey horse that came to a halt in front of her.
“‘Oh, what are you, then?’ she breathed, for it was a beautiful creature, with liquid dark eyes and a coat that shone even in the dim light. His coat was like silk under her fingers and he bent on one knee in invitation. ‘Will you take me home to my father?’ she asked, once again full of hope and the horse bowed it’s head in acknowledgement. So she mounted onto its broad back and the horse stood in one smooth motion she barely felt. She winded strands of the thick grey mane around her hands and said, ‘please, take me home.’
“The ride was like flying; the horse’s gait was smoother than air and he was fast, galloping out of the glen and up, into the hills in a matter of moments. Wind pushed its fingers into the girl’s hair and she thought maybe things will be okay after all. The horse took her all the way up to the top of the hill where her and her father’s house sat, right to her front door. She thanked him with a kiss to the side of the neck and jumped down.
“‘Father!’ she called, running full tilt into the house with a smile on her face, ‘Father, I have fetched you more medicine!’ but her father did not answer. For a moment, the girl doesn’t understand what she was seeing. An empty house, weathered with time. The roof caved in over the kitchen and the back wall buckling under the weight of time. Like it has been abandoned for many long years. The girl, terrified, rushed into her father’s room and fell to her knees.
“For the bed wasn’t empty. Upon it were bones, the skull of a man turned towards the door and one hand still reaching, like he had died calling for someone.” Bucky, enraptured by the story, almost jumps when he feels a heavy weights thump onto his shoulder. When he glances over, Steve has rested his forehead there, golden hair spilling over Bucky’s shirt. If he looks, he can see Steve’s lips pulled into a frown and he tightens his hand enough to let Steve know he’s there.
Steve peeks up at him, eyes blue as the sky, and gives Bucky a tiny smile.
“Stricken with grief, the girl stumbled back out of the house,” Sarah continues, her voice soft, “and where she had left the horse standing was a beautiful woman. Her hair was a wash of gold and her eyes green as grass and her smile was lovely and cruel. The girl, tears wet upon her face, marched up to her without fear.
“‘Why?’ she cried, anguish thick in her throat, ‘I know that you did this! Why?’ for surely this was the old woman from the woods.
“‘You did me a good turn, helping me in the woods. So I sent you a horse to get you home swiftly. But you also stole from me and for that, you came home fifty years too late,’ the woman’s eyes flashed, cold as winter snow. The girl did not know what she meant at first and then realized the woman meant that she had stolen the fox when she set him free. Anger and grief grow dark in the girl’s breast and she snarled when she cried,
“‘You are cruel and terrible, you horrible creature! I denounce you and banish you from these hills forever more. Never will you set foot upon these hills and within the glens again! And I will hunt you wherever you go so you cannot do to anyone else as you have done to me,’ with these words, thunder rumbled and the beautiful woman stumbled back in shock. The girl pointed at the doorway to her house, ‘My father’s death is the price. You and you people are no longer welcome here. Begone!” and with these words, the woman was gone, leaving the girl alone upon the hills where she wept for her loss.
“After that day, no one in the village saw the girl. But some say, if you are lucky, you will catch a glimpse of a girl walking the moors, a little silver fox at her side, like a sentinel guarding anyone who travels through the hills,” Sarah’s lilting voice fades into silence and for a moment, Bucky is sure he can hear the shrieking wind and the bitter weeping of a heartbroken girl. But when he glances at Steve still leaning on his shoulder, the only thing he can hear is their combined breathing and the soft hush of snow outside the window.
“Alright, boys,” Sarah says softly, like she’s afraid to break some kind of spell, “now you’ve had your story, it’s time for sleeping.” They go without protest, letting her tuck them both in, still side by side, legs and hands tangled together. She kisses them both on the forehead and then slips out, closing the door so they are left with only the light from the street lamp outside. It is eery and brighter than normal because of the snow and Bucky turns his head into their shared pillow so he doesn’t have to see it.
Steve is quiet for a little while, breathing only holding a tiny hint of a wheeze, though his eyes stay open. Bucky can see them shining in the darkness.
“What do you think the moral of it was?” he finally whispers, breath warm on Bucky’s cheek, “They always have one, right?” Bucky shrugs.
“I dunno, Stevie. Not all stories have a moral, I think,” if it did, the only one Bucky could think of is don’t help a stranger because they might be evil and screw you over. He doesn’t say that, though, because it would only upset Steve more.
“She was really brave, though, wasn’t she?” Steve says thoughtfully, “She lost everything but she took that loss and used it to protect everyone else. I wish I could be like that,” to which Bucky snorts loudly. It earns him a glare but he just holds out his free hand.
“You are like that, Steve, no doubt about it. Selfless and the strongest guy I know,” Steve is looking at him, eyes bright in the darkness.
“You don’t really believe that, Buck,” he whispers, voice full. Bucky untangles himself from Steve’s grip and turns onto his side so he can look down at his friend.
“I believe every damn word, Stevie. You gotta know that,” Steve stares at him for a moment then nods, settling back onto the bed. Satisfied, Bucky lays back down, curling up so he can press his forehead against Steve’s skinny shoulder and wrap his arm around his chest. It is warm there, tucked away under the covers with the most important person in his life. Even so, even though he is safe and Steve is safe, he can hear the wind again, sobbing, crying over distant hills.
“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is barely a breath and Bucky answers with only a soft hum, both of them halfway into dreams, “If that was us in the story, and I was the one who was sick. What would you do?” Bucky sighs and doesn’t even have to think about it.
“I wouldn’t leave you, Steve. I would keep you safe no matter what,” he means every word. When they drift off, they dream of gentle snow and a warm, lilting voice that keeps them safe throughout the night.
**
Bucky wakes between one moment and the next, breath even in his chest and memory thick behind his eyes. The ceiling above him is still unfamiliar as is the lonely bedroom in which he awoke. For long moments, he examines the memory that washed up in his dreams. It feels…old, like the photographs that Steve keeps in the back of his sketchbook, soft and sepia tone and fuzzy around the edges. It feels like all the others that have come back that are from before. There is something familiar about the story that Mrs. Rogers had told that night and it makes Bucky antsy.
Knowing sleep is far from his grasp, he slips out of the bed and silently makes his way down the hall and into the living room. It’s a small house but convenient and comfortable. When Steve had brought him back, he’d tried to settle them back into his own apartment but there were still three bullet holes in the wall and blood on the floor and Bucky was there barely an hour before he was out the window and up onto the roof so he wouldn't lose himself.
Sam Wilson didn’t hesitate to let them stay at his own house when Steve asked, even if he and Bucky have to alternate sleeping on the couch as there’s only one guest room.
Steve is sprawled on the couch, the only blanket kicked down to bunch at his feet. His chest is bare and his sweatpants ride low over his hipbones. He is lovely, even though Bucky fights a strange instinct to cover him back up before he catches a chill. He wants to examine the impulse more closely but then Steve stirs and his eyes are little slivers of reflected light when he wakes.
“Mmm, hey Buck,” he whispers, rubbing a hand over his face, “You alright?” it’s only been a couple days since they’ve been back and Steve has been protective and worried. Bucky reaches down and nudges Steve’s legs so there’s room for him to sit down on the couch. Steve swings his feet around to the other side and sits up, close enough so their shoulders are touching.
“I dreamt about that story your mother told us,” he begins, voice sounding a little wooden even to his ears. It usually is. He forgets often that he has a name and isn’t just the Soldier anymore. But Steve just looks at him steadily.
“She told us a lot of stories,” he says calmly. He’s always calm, no matter what memories Bucky’s brain dredges up from its deep, dark depths. Bucky fiddles with the string on his own sleeping pants, the metal of his arm flashing in the ambient city light coming in through the windows.
“The one about the girl and the old woman,” he knows Steve remembers as soon as he says it, a frown etching lines between his eyebrows.
“I remember it,” he confirms softly, “Is there a reason you’ve singled that one out? Or have you remembered others?” Bucky shakes his head. He knows Sarah used to tell them stories often but this has been the only one he’s remembered in detail.
“Just this one,” he responds and pauses, staring at the point where their thighs almost touch, “I don’t…know why this one. They don’t come back in any kind of order. But…” he sighs and rubs his eyes with his metal fingertips. They are cold when they press against the thin skin. When he looks back at Steve, his eyes are watchful and worried, “I just feel like there is a reason that this one was important,” he shrugs, because that’s the best answer he has. Steve nods and they are quiet for a while. Bucky can tell Steve is still tried, his head drooping a little, but Bucky is reluctant to leave his company just yet.
“You don’t have to stay on the couch,” he blurts out before he can think about it. Steve shakes his head, a protest already on his lips,
“No, Bucky, you had the couch last night,” deliberately misunderstanding. Bucky fiddles with the draw string again, unable to look at Steve.
“I meant…we both don’t have to sleep on the couch…tonight,” it takes Steve a minute to get it and then his face is flooded with uncertainty and something else that Bucky has no name for. Something warm and bright and hopeful. He nods and follows Bucky off the couch and back into the guest room. Bucky waits for Steve to lay down and then curls up next to him, curling one leg around Steve’s and resting his forehead on a broad shoulder. Like they used to do. Steve’s breath hitches and a moment later, his hand comes up to tangle with Bucky’s, resting on his broad chest.
“You did what you said you would, you know,” Steve murmurs into the quiet, a smile in his voice. Bucky rolls his head so he can see how Steve’s eyes are closed, how he looks more relaxed than Bucky has seen him, well, for as long as he can remember.
“Would what?” he asks and Steve glances over at him.
“Kept me safe,” a lump collects in Bucky’s throat and he lays back on his pillow, breathing in cooler air away from Steve’s body. He did, didn’t he? The promise and the feelings behind it when he made it remained, even when he couldn’t remember saying the words. He doesn’t say anything, once again staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It is better, that he isn’t alone, that there is Steve’s warmth at his side. The unfamiliar bedroom doesn't feel so lonely.
“Yeah,” he whispers and gently squeezes Steve’s fingers, just as he’d done all those years ago. He’ll worry about the story in his dream in the morning. For now he soaks in Steve’s warmth at his side and feels sleep steal over him again, dreamless and safe.
There is no howling wind in his head; for the first time since he fell, it is silent.
tbc