Chapter Text
Healing was in no way linear for Bucky. He had expected it to be a constant (albeit slow) path to feeling better, but it was in fact the exact opposite. He went weeks upon weeks without having a nightmare, only to find himself cursing in a foreign tongue again, drowned in restless sleep.
Life for Bucky was more… normal than it had once been, for lack of better word, but it was still unpredictable. Bucky was still lost at sea, unsure when the next storm would hit. Rolling gray clouds always seemed to linger on the horizon.
But there was one constant in Bucky’s life, you. Funny enough, the man he had grown so fond of always seemed to be changing. Trying new haircuts, learning new instruments, exploring new cuisines. But he was there, always there. Always willing to talk with Bucky, or just sit next to him if that was what he needed.
After Steve left, things had been terrible, but it had also given Bucky some time to process, time to think about his relationship with Steve. Of course, anyone would be upset if their best friend of seventy years left suddenly, but Bucky wasn’t just upset.
At times he felt like his insides were scraped out, replaced with a frantic cacophony of emotion. Other times he was completely empty, a fragile, translucent shell of a person without his oldest companion. There was a crushing weight on his chest every morning when he woke up, which made it impossible to make it out of bed at least a couple days every week.
Of course, you noticed this. Nearly every day Bucky was able to drag himself out of bed and out of his apartment, he went to your small bookstore around the corner. The first couple times he came around, you’d just smiled at him and complimented on his taste in novels. Every time you spoke he etched your words into his notebook. “Sucker for the classics, huh? Me too.” and “Oh, Lord of the Rings! Great choice.”
The more Bucky visited, the more open and talkative you became. For instance, he learned that you had just opened the bookstore a month ago, you were a singer and “also played guitar pretty badly”, that your favorite tea was vanilla-chamomile with honey, and that you loved the smell and the sound of the rain.
Slowly, over time, it got easier for Bucky to get up in the morning. He went to the bookstore most days of the week, just to look around and talk with you. One particular autumn day, Bucky took a closer look at the rainbow-colored flags around the shop. Of course he’d noticed them before, but he’d never bothered to ask what country they were. When he did, you laughed a little.
“Uh, they’re pride flags. Y’know, like queer pride.” Queer pride? Were you queer? Bucky was curious, but… he didn’t quite know how to ask the question. Of course he knew a lot had changed around the topic since the ‘40s, but he didn’t know exactly what had changed.
“Are you… Do you have pride?” He asked. You smiled, holding back a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah I do,” You placed Bucky’s books into a small paper bag. “...do you?” Bucky was dumbstruck. He had never been asked that question before.
“I um… I dunno…”
“Well, that’s okay. It took me a while to figure things out too.” You said, handing Bucky his bag. “Honestly, I’d say I’m still figuring that out…”
That night Bucky had a lot to think about. He had never really considered the possibility that he was queer, but the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to be. There was an actor Bucky had always particularly admired in his teenage years, Monty Clift. He watched Clift’s debut film Red River over and over even though he wasn’t particularly fond of Westerns... Now looking back, it seemed that if Clift was a woman his so-called “admiration” would’ve been an obvious crush.
And what about Steve? He grew up alongside Steve, he had shared an apartment with him for nearly seven years, and shared a bed more often than not on account of Stevie always being so damn sick and cold.
Bucky shut his eyes and remembered those long winter nights when the pneumonia was especially bad. Steve shivering against his chest, Bucky pulling the blankets back up over his bony shoulders. “It’s okay, Stevie, I’m here…”
Did he… love Steve? Bucky didn’t know.
He groaned and rolled over in bed, the early morning sun providing just enough light through the curtains for him to make out the time. Seven twenty-two. He would have to wait. Your bookstore opened at ten.