Work Text:
Something I've never quite gotten used to about the Midwest is the goddamn heat. I get out of my truck and am welcomed by a wave of crushingly hot air.
“Jesus...” I murmur under my breath.
It's like walking through pudding, not even the slightest breeze. I'm starting to sweat immediately, my head already beginning to itch under my baseball hat and hair. The inside of the cabin I bought is hardly any better, but at least the sun isn't grilling me alive.
I'm unloading my groceries, basic stuff: Kraft Mac & Cheese, Lucky Charms, and some actual fruit from the market. Since I'm living on my own, I don't really need that much anymore besides the occasional ham and cheese sandwich.
My freezer is in desperate need of defrosting. I can barely shove the package of chicken fingers in there anymore. While I'm busy trying to wriggle the bag inside, the quiet electrical hum is pierced by the sound of a phone ringing.
I stay frozen for a second.
That's not my regular phone.
The realization hits me hard and fast. My throat goes dry, and I have to swallow, but this time it has nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with that ringtone.
I slam the freezer shut and open the kitchen cabinet.
Behind a dusty package of rolled oats is a little plastic bag holding a currently ringing phone.
The screen reads:
Sam Wilson
I stare at it.
Long after it stops ringing and just says Missed Call, I'm still staring at it.
It's still in the bag. I could just put it away again and only take it out on Sunday to charge it. But why do I still charge it if I don't plan on ever answering the damn thing?
I told myself week after week that it's just routine. That I do it because I've always kept it charged. But those lies feel weak today, now that it actually rang for the first time since I left.
I start biting the inside of my cheek.
Sam would've told me to stop because it's bad for my teeth or whatever bullshit reason he used to make up.
I quickly shake my head.
Stop thinking about Sam.
Just when I finally manage to move again and step onto my toes to place it back behind the oats, it rings again.
Still says Sam Wilson.
Might be nothing, I think to myself and sigh. But why would he call twice?
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and decide to fuck it and answer the goddamn thing.
“This better be a life-or-death situation, Wilson.”
A beat passes.
“Volkova, I was starting to question if this was still your number,” Sam says softly. “How've you been, little deer?”
I sigh. No one has called me deer in so long.
“Sam, come on. Tell me why you called,” I say quietly. “Please.”
My voice almost wavers.
Almost.
The line is quiet for a moment. It's like I can see Sam right in front of me, his brows knitted together and his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Kaia... it's Bucky,” he says carefully.
Fuck. Of course it's Bucky.
But then again... I kinda knew that before I even picked up, didn't I?
“He- he's not talking anymore. Just sits and glares the whole day. I mean, I really tried, you know? Sit with him, eat with him, and he just... he's just sitting.”
Sam sighs.
“You know I wouldn't have called if it wasn't bad.”
I stumble over to the kitchen chair and collapse into it.
“God, Sam... just do what he does best. Take him on a mission where he can plan every detail with his ingrained military precision and let him spend all of his focus on it. That's what he always did when things got hard,” I say quietly. “It's what he did instead of talking to me too.”
“Kaia, he hasn't been on a mission in weeks.”
The silence that follows Sam's admission seems to choke me.
So it really is bad.
I drop my face into my hands, the sweat I'm covered in suddenly making me feel cold despite the crushing heat.
“What is it you expect me to do? Huh, Sam?” I ask him straight up. “Want me to call him? He wouldn't answer. Want me to go to him and- and-”
“Kaia.” Sam interrupts me gently. “I'm not expecting you to do anything. I'm not even asking you anything. I was just calling to tell you. Because of your history with him.”
I can't help the almost bitter laugh that bubbles up in my throat.
“Yeah, right,” I murmur.
Silence follows. For more than one heartbeat.
I look around my kitchen, my space, the place I've built for myself. I've been quiet about it all, living like a hermit crab in my truck for a bit until I found somewhere that felt like me.
I haven't thought about going back to NYC in quite some time. Or at least I've been telling myself that. When I'm thinking about going back, it's nothing serious.
Just nostalgia.
Nostalgia that hits me unexpectedly when I'm standing at the market buying fruit or when my truck needs fixing and I can't help but remember everything he once taught me about cars. The memories are like a flare that can't be put out. No matter how much I try to drown it with distance, it'll always keep burning.
“Kaia.”
Sam's voice snaps me out of my thought spiral.
“Yeah, sorry. Still here,” I murmur quietly.
“It was nice hearing you. You can always call, you know that, right?”
Typical Sam. Making things seem so much easier than they are.
“I... yeah. Thanks for checking in,” I say softly.
When we both don't have anything more to say, I hang up the phone and drop it on the table in front of me.
The sound echoes through my kitchen.
I'm not sure how long I sit there, elbows on the table and my face in my hands. I'm not sure how many times I sigh or how many deep breaths I take.
All of that just to stand up and start packing a bag anyway.
I'm not going, I tell myself, grabbing a black shirt and stuffing it in.
I'm not driving God knows how many hours tonight, I tell myself, grabbing two water bottles and throwing them in.
I'm not going back after almost two years just because Sam called me once, I tell myself, reaching for my keys.
I tell myself a lot of things, and halfway through the twelve-hour drive I finally admit to my head what my heart already knew six hours ago:
I'm going.
For Bucky.
Not for whatever explanation my mind could've cooked up in the meantime.
Some of these roads I'm passing, I've only passed once before, when I left the tower and the life I had there. When I left Bucky behind.
We'd been together for some time. Three years, seven months, and eighteen days, but well... who's counting these things?
It's not like he's a bad guy. Not at all. He's just... he's Bucky Barnes. If I had any girlfriends, they'd probably say things like, “I told you so,” or “Anyone could've seen it coming that he doesn't talk about his problems or feelings.” And yeah, maybe I would've needed that, but would it have made a difference?
The radio plays softly in my truck. I've got my windows open, the evening breeze much gentler than the noon heat.
Bucky and I have always been like magnets, pulling each other in until we couldn't stay away from each other. But every time he didn't talk to me when something was clearly bothering him, or when he just went and got fully invested for weeks in missions instead of me... that's when I felt like he flipped. Instead of attracting, we couldn't get close.
I stop at a gas station in the absolute middle of nowhere. When I go up to pay, I see a Snickers bar next to the cash register.
Chocolate and peanuts. The goddamn thing that could soothe even a soldier’s heart.
It's what Bucky used to tell me. He only told me once before I started carrying Snickers bars with me everywhere. That's all it took.
I'm driving through the night, barely any other cars on the road. The night was always my time of day. The peaceful quiet of knowing everyone else was there but not bothering me with anything.
It's when Bucky and I used to talk, and it's when I felt I knew who he truly was. Maybe because his guard was down for a little bit. But when he started disappearing more often, withdrawing himself from everyone on the team, that's when even the nights wouldn't let me reach him anymore.
I tried loving him through it. God, if I'm being honest with myself, I never really stopped loving him at all. How does one just stop loving someone who touched your soul like a permanent marker? It might fade, but it never washes off.
I tried for so long and so hard until I felt like I was losing part of myself in his darkness, and that's when I had to stop. Bucky couldn't even look at me the day I left. But to me, it felt like the only way to fill my lungs with air again.
I had to leave.
I had to leave...
To my left and right, I'm passing exit sign after exit sign. Slowly but surely, I find myself back in familiar territory.
Just before I reach the exit, the one past the one you'd logically take because Bucky always hated driving too long through the city center, I have to kill the radio. The noise is getting too much, too loud, too happy.
Sam didn't exactly tell me where Bucky was, but I know. My heart knows it like a turtle knows the way to the ocean without thinking about it. Call it instinct or intuition or even an epiphany, but I park my truck right outside the old safehouse that S.H.I.E.L.D. abandoned years ago.
Now that the engine is turned off, I realize half of the buzzing in my bones wasn't the engine rumbling. It's just the beating of my heart.
I open the door and step outside, rounding my car slowly.
There he is.
Sitting outside on a plastic lawn chair.
Just sitting, like Sam said.
But when he hears my boots crushing through the gravel, he looks up. Blue eyes meeting mine for a split second.
I huff.
“It's not as hot as I thought it would be.”