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When Rebecca wakes up that morning, the slight morning chill letting goosebumps rise across her skin, her eyes snap to the way sunlight pours in through the curtains, bleeding onto the too thin duvet. Her fingers twitch from where they grip the sheets, bunched up in her grasp. It’s become a routine, she muses to herself, sitting back against the pillows, solely focused on the light.
She’s becoming more and more like her brother lately.
If she looks out her window, she’ll see her garden—the garden Jules forced her to start when they were pups. His big brown eyes always had that effect on her, swirling with curiosity and a distant melancholy that made her hesitate. How could someone so young harbor such a thing?
She proceeds to look out the window, briefly ignoring her previous thoughts, nails tapping against the sill. She isn’t surprised to see Steve right in the middle of it all, looking around like an idiot before tilting his chin up to make eye contact, gracing her with one of those friendly waves of his. She waves back and turns to put on proper clothes to greet him.
The garden is sprawling with colors and life. Winnie was always one for abundance, which she herself latched on to, and it seemed she took it to heart by having four children.
Rebecca remembers everything. It’s hazy and dense like trying to see to the bottom of a jar of honey, except it’s not as sweet. She looks to her sisters, all alphas, and remembers the way they were forced to be strong in a world that did not cater to people like them. She sees snow and ice and red and brown eyes. She dreams of the Alps, a blue coat and stars.
She looks at the way Jules clings to Steve, his alpha, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails digging into pale flesh. She saw it as a pup, watched them grow up together. She’s seen this before. Only this time, there’s no tragedy, no audience heckling them or giving them a thunderous applause.
It’s quiet this time. It’s easy. And maybe that’s what’s better for him; for them all.
She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe, perking up at the sight of Jules—Bucky—grabbing Steve’s hand, happily waving to her, blowing her kisses.
She purses her lips, waving back. He’s tanned underneath the spring sun, hair pulled back behind his neck. And the way he looks at Steve—those eyes full of curiosity and melancholy even now—like he’s the center of the universe, the sun itself.
The flowers come up to their knees, the butterflies wisp past them like stars and for a moment, she thinks she’s lost him again.
But it’s clear, she thinks, hurrying back inside to grab her camera, quickly pressing down atop it to take a picture.
Forever etched in time, a little piece of this moment is with her until she’s six feet under.
Bucky kisses Steve, cupping his face, lips curled into a smile.
Rebecca’s shoulders relax, letting herself smile back.
She thinks she’ll miss him even in the next life too.