Chapter Text
Prologue
The first time I learned of Bucky’s relationship to the previous Captain, Steve Rogers, I stumbled upon it by chance.
That day, the new Avengers were on a simple mission to capture American fugitives carrying a new variant of the superserum discovered in the ruins of Siberia. Bucky had been struck in the shoulder shielding a civilian during open field combat in the city. When I went to check on his wound, I saw the corner of his dog tag fall through his tattered collar. The silver reflected the sun’s glint, clearly polished regularly, without a single scratch. In the middle, in steady lettering, carved the name STEVEN GRANT ROGERS.
In the moment, what had piqued my interest, surprisingly enough, was not that Bucky carried a memento of his fallen comrade. Though never explicitly explained, I knew that Bucky had a complicated relationship with Steve Rogers through the words of my sister a few years back. However, the tag greatly intrigued me, for as we were both soldiers, we understood the significance of wearing another man’s tag. Had he wanted to be recognized as Steve Rogers in the wake of death? I desperately wanted to seek answers.
Bucky was reserved, but not necessarily quiet. The shadows of the cheery man he once was occasionally peeked through his fatigued exterior, and I came to learn that he was a comical and witty man. I looked through what remained of his files at SHIELD, albeit mostly redacted or lost, and learned that he had known Steve Rogers since young childhood, spending at least a decade with each other before inevitably separating during the first drafts. I had thought that we shared the same childhood sentiment; me with Natasha, him with Steve Rogers. And I even envied him, because I had not a single fragment left of my sister that I could remember her by. At the time, I could not understand anything beyond what I had read. There were no words in between the lines that I could capture, and I believed that, no matter what he decided to reveal to me, it would fall between the boundaries of what I imagined, and would not surprise me any more than I was when I glimpsed those tags. I would soon come to learn that it was completely different.
After pestering him for months, Bucky caved under my persistence. Perhaps he didn’t see a point in hiding, or perhaps he was truly annoyed by my incessant tactics. He sighed and sat me down in his room, which used to be Steve Rogers’ during the first Avengers’ days. I perked my ears up, a brand new mug of coffee steaming hot in hand, and I motioned for him to begin. What ensued, I had never anticipated, nor expected from him.
I would listen to his story, from the very beginning, of his life unfolding from his mother’s cradle, to the neighborhood playgrounds, then the back alleys of a bustling Brooklyn afternoon, and the draft, the war, the sunsets by the Wakandan mountains, and finally, to Steve Roger’s death. When his lips finally pressed together, following a soft, shaky breath, I tasted salt in my mouth. I wiped my face and noticed that it came away wet. I had started crying, I could not pinpoint when.
He had loved him deeply, against the time, the tides, the noise of opposition. He spoke of their life slowly and softly, often averting his gaze, and I saw the melancholy curl of his lips that slipped out without him noticing. He fiddled Steve Roger’s tag in his fingers, caressing gently, as if lost in some distant memory with no will to return to the present.
I was as if a child with mannerisms untaught, mouth agape, mind whirling, unable to shake the overwhelming haunting of his words as it pinned me in place. A tear trickled down my cheek, and I had felt almost a splurge of anger in that moment as it fell off my chin. An unfettered anger, directly at what, exactly, I had not known. At the world, at Steve Rogers, at SHIELD—even at Bucky himself. My emotions orbited around itself, desperately seeking an outlet from the cages of my bones. For a myriad of reasons that I could not elaborate in an appropriate amount of space, I stormed out in a frenzy, breathing acutely, and grabbed my chest in a surge of fright.
My tears kept falling, and I had no strength to wipe them away. Fear gripped onto my heart in a familiar fashion that I remembered, nibbling and gnawing at my flesh like an internal parasite. I recognized it as the same sensation that overtook me when I learned of my sister's sacrifice during the five years I was blipped away. I knew I experienced that fear because I loved my sister. Yet, right now, what was I feeling? Was it possible to feel sorrow for a man's heroic but tragic life, despite never meeting him?
No, I had come to another conclusion. It must have been because of the independent variable in the equation, the one that connected it all—Bucky. He had traced over his life with Steve Rogers with such tenderness, that even I, who had never seen nor worked with Steve Rogers in my entire life, came to mourn his death. I did not know much of love myself, but I knew that Bucky shared it with Steve Rogers, and, even to my own surprise at the time, I believed in it. And I knew, woefully and regrettably, that he will be pained whenever he is reminded of it for the remainder of his life, like an itch just out of fingers' reach.
In the moment of that realization I knew that the story had to be told. To whom, I did not yet know. Yet I insisted that they must be told, and be heard by anyone that is able, for Bucky's sake as well as mine. And perhaps, for the late Captain's sake as well.
Steve Rogers and Bucky shared the common ground of a prolonged life that extended well beyond that of a regular man. The tragedy may be that, their lives were long, but the years remained short and bitter, for whatever time they shared were unavoidably fleeting and fragmented, estranged by a cruel verdict of fate. That night, I shut myself in my room, contemplating over the words I scribbled down on a lousy diary I hadn't opened in months. I ended up working alongside Bucky Barnes for the next five years of my life, and during those five years, he shared many memories with me that I ended up documenting in these pages. He seemed to start seeing me as a form of solace by recounting these narratives, almost as avowals or confessions, and I grew closer to him, finally closing off this book in the summer of 2031 after Bucky announced his official retirement from governmental duties. He gave me permission to do whatever I wanted with what I had learned, whether that is to remain in the privacy of this diary or to release into the public. I still felt conflicted, and didn't feel it in my right to expose or discard memories that were once held tremendously dearly by my comrade. On the night of my final mission as an Avenger, I organized my writings into a more coherent manuscript and attached whatever Bucky decided to gift me over these years, and I left the manuscript hidden in the Avenger's tower, free for anyone's taking or perusal after my passing or final resignation.
I cannot predict where these stories will end up, and frankly, hold no interest in its future whereabouts. If however, you, reader, can heed my one sole request, I pray that you tread these lines with delicate gentleness, for these sweet words were once exchanged between two souls who found comfort and happiness in each other's presence and embrace.
Reader, if you feel that these conditions are agreeable, then I’ll tell you the story, from the very beginning.