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This can’t be right.
James Buchanan Barnes, aged twenty-eight, a Howling Commandos sniper who had never devoutly worshipped any god——was now standing in the ice and snow, staring at the old woman before him, who looked perfectly ordinary.
Strictly speaking, he was not standing. Bucky’s gaze shifted from the half-buried, motionless blue figure in the snow—his own corpse—and, with something like scientific curiosity, he shook his now half-transparent hand. Snowflakes passed through it without the slightest resistance. The wind and snow seemed to grow more violent at his movement, roaring as they swept through the valley, letting out a hysterical scream.
Accepting his own death wasn’t all that hard, really.
Bucky looked at the way he was now floating in midair and sighed, unsure whether he should lament dying so young or be surprised that souls actually existed.
On the battlefield, death was more common than lice, visiting everyone equally. He had seen too many people fall—generals and soldiers alike—ending up rotting in the mud. He had never thought he’d be the special one, and he’d prepared himself countless times to face death head-on.
Now it was just another boot hitting the ground, echoing hollowly. Only… God, maybe it was the living who had it harder.
What would Ma do when she read that cold obituary? And Rebecca, the little crybaby—she’d probably cry her eyes swollen.
And Steve. That little guy who used to get bullied and brawled in the streets was now carrying the shining title of “Captain America” and leading the whole Howling Commandos. Thinking of that put a block of ice in Bucky’s chest.
He knew all too well that deep-down, stubborn streak in Steve—the kind that charged ahead no matter the cost. Back in Brooklyn’s alleys, Bucky could still be there to take a few punches for him. But now? Who was going to keep this fool from running headfirst into an even deadlier crossfire, or from being used as a pawn by politicians and generals?
“James Buchanan Barnes?” The slow, unhurried voice of an old woman broke the silence. Only then did Bucky realize he wasn’t the only “presence” in the valley. Even though he knew this scene made no sense, instinctively, he still felt a flicker of guilt for having drifted off in thought.
“Uh, yes, ma’am. Just call me Bucky.”
Don’t argue with women old enough to be your grandmother. Granted, finding an old woman here in the middle of a deadly blizzard was unusual. But when she lifted her head, her gaze was gentle and calm, and something about it made it strangely hard for Bucky to feel wary. Even that heavy knot of worry in his chest seemed to ease a little.
She was wrapped in a plain wool shawl, as if she were just standing on some Brooklyn street corner, chatting about the weather—rather than speaking to a newly dead soul in the middle of a desolate mountain valley.
“Bucky.” She nodded, her voice gentle yet cutting cleanly through the howl of the storm. “You still have things you can’t let go of.”
“Most people do, don’t they, ma’am?” Bucky gave an easy smile, making no move to ask how she knew. Seemed some legends weren’t entirely made-up—but not entirely right, either. After all, this “Death” before him carried no scythe, and wore no black cloak.
“Death isn’t my business,” the old woman said evenly, answering the question he hadn’t voiced. “And this appearance tends to make things easier for people to accept—saves a lot of unnecessary trouble.” Her tone was flat, without the rise or fall of emotion, simply stating a fact.
“You’ve already recognized your death, so that makes things simpler.” She pulled her shawl a little tighter, speaking as casually as if they were chatting about the weather. “Some people… step into their ending before the story has turned its last page. That isn’t what the ‘story’ wants.”
“They can be given another chance to choose.”
Choose? To Bucky, it felt even less real than the first time he saw one of Hydra’s energy weapons. He glanced down at his half-transparent hand, then at the “him” lying in the snow—Choose? Choose what? A more dignified pose to lie in?
“Two paths, child.” The old woman cupped her hands together as if she were haggling in a market, her words clear and leaving no room for doubt.
“The first—you can come back to life.”
“…Huh?”
It was as if a giant pie had dropped out of the sky and smashed what little clarity Bucky’s mind had left into a complete mess. In the haze that followed, he even had the stray thought—could a soul faint?
“Don’t look so shocked, child.” The old woman gave a wink far too sly for her age. “‘The story’ always has the right to pick a character it likes and keep on writing.” She said it lightly, as though she were merely talking about which bakery made the softest bread.
“The second path—” she held up a second finger, “your best friend gets to marry the love of his life, and they’ll stay together for the rest of their days.”
“Wha… what?”
Why those two choices? Bucky’s mouth opened, but the howling wind and snow rushed down his throat, choking off any sound. Come back to life? That sounded like something out of a cheap novel. And Steve getting married… the thought rattled around in his head like a loose marble.
“That’s just the ‘story’s’ taste, nothing more.” The old woman answered the confusion in his mind once again. “You can only choose one path.”
Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but she gently yet unmistakably interrupted him. “I mean it literally, child. No rush. You can take your time to think—after all,” she curved her lips into a subtle smile, carrying a knowing humor, “what you’re least short of right now is probably time.”
Her words pricked Bucky like an icy needle. Time? He glanced down at his half-transparent hand—indeed, the dead are richest in time, enough to drown themselves all over again.
Even the wind and snow in the valley seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his answer.
But—his inner scale barely wavered. Worrying about Steve, wanting him to be okay, was almost instinct, carved into Bucky’s very bones. That Steve, beaten and bruised in the Brooklyn alleys but never giving up, and the Steve now carrying the Stars and Stripes, burdened with even heavier responsibilities… he deserved that steady happiness.
“Oh, have you made your choice?” The old woman’s usually calm and gentle face showed a rare hint of surprise, then softened into a kind smile. “Have you really thought it through?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bucky returned her smile. “Please… let my best friend live a happy and peaceful life. That’s enough.” The words left no heavy weight in his chest; they felt light, almost as if the wind and snow might carry them away.
The old woman looked at him, her kind smile deepening, with a hint of… satisfied approval? “As you wish, Bucky Barnes.” Her voice grew ethereal, and her figure began to blur in the storm, like snow melting into air. “May your friend… be happy. And may you…” The last words faded like a sigh, lost in the wind.
Then, an irresistible warmth wrapped around Bucky’s cold consciousness, as if sinking into the deepest sleep. He yielded, waiting for eternal peace to come.
——————
This can’t be right.
Thought he’d be entering either heaven or hell, freshly minted as a spirit, Bucky Barnes was now experiencing his second great shock of the afterlife.
The body he had possessed stood quietly at the edge of the banquet hall by a large floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the carefully tended garden basked in bright sunlight, the light streaming through the crystal-clear glass and casting bright patches across the floor.
Inside the hall was a buzz of pre-celebration activity and anticipation. Guests spoke quietly in small groups, and an almost tangible joy floated through the air. In the distance, a man with slightly messy hair and an arm in a sling seemed to be trying to direct the setup, only to be yanked away by a sharply dressed woman without so much as a word of protest.
If Bucky hadn’t overheard the phrase “2023” dropped like a bomb from a few unusually shaped guests nearby—why was there even a moving tree?—he might have been able to calmly appreciate the preparations for this grand event.
“You still have a long road ahead,” a somewhat deep voice spoke. It took Bucky a moment to realize it was the body’s owner talking to himself, the words soft as a sigh. “Like a nightmare… it will go on for a long, long time… but… nightmares do end.”
Bucky listened, confused. Nearby, the soft murmur of people’s conversations drifted toward the little corner. “Oh… Captain, so this… getting married after the war… that’s nice… Steve, he…”
Steve.
A wedding.
That choice… did it even come with aftercare? Could people still attend as guests?
Too many questions crowded Bucky’s mind. But… if it really was Steve’s wedding, the path he had chosen, then why had seventy years passed?
Steve can’t already be an old man, can he? Bucky shivered involuntarily, quickly trying to convince himself not to picture that shocking image.
No, no… those guests just mentioned “after the war.” The 1940s war couldn’t have lasted seventy years, right? A new battle? If Steve could still go into the field, that meant he hadn’t reached the point of shaking white hair and frailty. Maybe… the serum slows aging?
But… a new battle? That thought hit like a cold stone, heavy in Bucky’s chest, stirring a bitter ache he couldn’t quite name. Seventy years… Steve… you fool, still fighting? Late worries twisted around his heart like a tight vine.
Still… no matter what, it was his wedding now. Oh, my little Stevie, finally chasing the one in his heart. Bucky suppressed those untimely pangs, quietly feeling it deep in his mind.
“There you are!”
A cheerful female voice broke into his thoughts. A woman with reddish-brown hair and a bright face hurried over, her smile warm. “Finally found you! Natasha said you’d probably be hiding here daydreaming.” She casually patted the shoulder of the body he was inhabiting. “Come on, we need to touch up your makeup before the ceremony starts.” Without waiting for a response, she tugged him along, expertly urging him forward.
Bucky followed passively, guided by the body he was inhabiting, as the woman led him through the crowd toward a relatively quiet lounge area. Another red-haired woman seemed to have been waiting there, head down as she arranged bottles and jars. Seeing the pair approach, she lifted a faint smile and teased, “Playing hooky before the ceremony? Steve’s so nervous he nearly tore the doorframe off the lounge, and you’re calm as can be.”
“Don’t tease me, Nat.” The body shook its head, replying with a small laugh, “Just needed a breath of fresh air.”
“Excuse denied.” Natasha stepped forward, taking charge of adjusting his bow tie with precise, efficient movements. “Over there, Sam’s still trying to help Steve, though it’s barely making a difference. Seeing him so anxious, you’d think this isn’t a wedding, but a rematch against Thanos.” She adjusted the tie while muttering softly, her words carrying an almost imperceptible care beneath the complaint.
“Wanda, touch this up a little. I’ll need to head over there again later, otherwise who knows what kind of look Clint and Thor will come up with.”
Wanda gently raised her hand, fingertips glowing with a faint crimson light, softly brushing his temple. “Just a tiny flaw. Don’t move.”
“Aren’t Thor and Loki already banned from the makeup and styling part a few days ago?” A calm, refined Black man entered the lounge, smiling and nodding at the three. “Though if Loki gives a reasonable suggestion, it’s still worth considering.”
The group chatted casually, but Bucky could no longer keep up with all the unfamiliar names.
His full attention was captured by the figure in the mirror—
The man in the mirror wore a sharply tailored dark suit. His long, deep brown hair fell to the side of his face, his features much more mature, fine lines at the corners of his eyes marking years of hardship. His jawline was still sharp, but now carried a hint of determination. Yet the most striking detail was under the sleeve of his suit—the left hand, gleaming with the cold metallic shine of a prosthetic.
This… this is his face.
A more mature face, a face that belongs to Bucky Barnes.
Even though he was in the midst of a lively wedding, the wind and snow of the valley still roared around him, tearing all his doubts and thoughts to shreds.
I… I survived?
But why—
“All set, groom? How do you like the look?”
“Absolutely perfect. Thank you so much to you and Wanda.”
“Do you think the Captain won’t just freeze on the spot when he sees Bucky at the ceremony?”
“Of course he will. Wanda, no matter what—Bucky Barnes, even if he walked up in an Adidas tracksuit—Steve’s eyes would stay glued to him.”
The chatter gradually rose above the howl of the wind and snow, but the word “groom” struck Bucky’s newly recovered thoughts, shattering them all over again.
He was completely unable to think, dazedly following his future self through the crowd.
Steve and… my wedding?
He, James Buchanan Barnes, a recently departed soul from the snowy mountains of 1944, was now, in an utterly unimaginable way, attending his own wedding—Steve Rogers’ wedding.
Was this “aftercare” a little too surprising?
Surrounded by friends, he walked toward the arch leading to the ceremony lawn. Bucky could feel the steady steps of this body, carrying a vigilance etched almost into bone, yet strangely softened by the warmth and sense of belonging in this moment. He could hear his future self’s efforts to steady his heartbeat, feel the strange texture of the metal arm beneath the suit, and… a deep, almost overflowing sense of anticipation buried in his chest.
Beyond the arch, the sunlight was just right. On the lush green lawn, simple yet elegant white chairs were arranged, filled with a colorful array of guests. Bucky immediately spotted the moving tree from before, with a peculiar raccoon seated beside it. The calm, refined Black king sat in the front row, a gentle smile playing at his lips. Sam Wilson, mentioned earlier, stood just to the side of the arch, dressed in a crisp groomsman suit, doing his best to maintain a serious expression, though the mischief in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Then, Bucky’s gaze locked onto the end of the red carpet.
Steve Rogers stood there.
He wore a perfectly tailored suit, outlining his still broad shoulders and upright posture. Time seemed to have left little mark on him—perhaps the serum kept him in his prime—but in his brow rested a calm far deeper than before… and a nearly transparent tension that Bucky had almost never seen on his face.
The sunlight caught his golden hair, casting a soft halo around him. His hands were nervously clasped in front of him, knuckles slightly pale, eyes locked like radar on the figure approaching from the arch, his blue eyes filled with an almost unbelievable focus and a tenderness on the verge of overflowing.
Do the dead still have hearts? Bucky felt as if his own had skipped a beat. God… Stevie… you look… too perfect. The young soul whispered inside him, awe spanning seventy years.
Future Bucky took careful steps toward Steve, feeling the muscles in his body tighten—not from nerves, but as if a habitual defensive posture were trying to relax. He could almost hear Steve’s heartbeat quicken, feel the heat of that gaze even from over ten meters away, nearly piercing him. Young Bucky could even catch the subtle roll of Steve’s Adam’s apple, the visible swallow.
Hey, big guy, steady now—don’t fumble on the red carpet.
Friends beside them continued their speeches, recalling shared memories and marveling at the long journey; guests below offered blessings, joy and laughter dancing hand in hand.
But Bucky—no matter which Bucky—had eyes fixed solely on those deep blue eyes. They swirled with pure, almost dizzying delight and a warmth that could melt ice. Their fingers intertwined, palms pressed together, as if to confirm each other’s real presence. Each step echoed through time, carrying them toward the destination marked by vows and rings.
“Grooms, please exchange rings!”
Steve took the ring box with a near-tremble. He carefully opened it, revealing two simple yet lustrous platinum bands resting quietly inside. He drew a deep breath, as if undertaking a task more daunting than lifting Mjolnir, and then gently held Bucky’s left hand—the one with the metal arm.
His fingertips trembled ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he gently cradled Bucky’s wrist from below. His astonishingly blue eyes remained locked on Bucky’s face, as if drawing courage from those beautiful eyes that had weathered so much. His voice was low and steady, clear in the small space between them: “Bucky… I'm with you to the end of the line.”
“I know, I know,” future Bucky whispered softly, his voice nearly hoarse. “I thought I had already reached my end, but…”
“But we still have tomorrow, and more tomorrows, every single tomorrow.” He choked back a sob as he slid the other ring onto Steve’s hand.
Tomorrow… we still have tomorrow…
Bucky, the Bucky of 1944, slowly detached from his future body, floating above the joyous scene. A tremendous wave of happiness filled him, almost overpowering the unresolved questions still lingering.
You still have a long road ahead…
He felt himself gradually pulling away; voices and light seemed separated from him by a hazy pane of glass, slowly drifting further. Darkness familiar yet distant began to spread again.
In a daze, he heard footsteps in the wind and snow—someone dragging him, pulling him toward an even colder, farther place.