Work Text:
I stare at the canvas and all I see is green. The tip of my brush is pregnant with paint, but I can’t seem to find the right shade to capture the colour of Bucky’s uniform.
He was so excited when he came home that day, all dressed up, hat slanted over his slicked-back hair. I smiled and told him to kill some Nazis on my behalf. He had no clue that I was dying inside, watching him parade around in all that green.
The paint drips from the tip of my brush and mars the canvas. My hand snaps out in panic and smears it into the grooves of the starched linen. I stare at the ruined surface, my fingers covered in the wrong shade of green, and something snaps inside me.
Damn this stupid war, damn this stupid body, and damn Bucky for leaving me behind. I grab the tube of paint and give it a hard squeeze, watching in sick satisfaction as the greasy paint slithers down my fingers. The colour changes as it runs, thinning along my skin. The dark, deep green growing faint until it reminds me of grass on a sunny day.
We shared our first kiss on a day like that, laying in a bed of grass as vibrant as this. Bucky’s eyes were so clear, and I saw myself reflected in the depths of his lust-blown pupils. He had promised me, “I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”
I believed him then, and I believe him now. The memory of that summer day calms me and my hand moves as if possessed, fingers pressing into the fabric to smear unguided. I take a deep breath and cough on the exhale—my lungs still aren’t a hundred percent yet—but my hand is steady as it takes on a life of its own, slapping together shapes until they take on a familiar silhouette.
The brush lies on the floor next to my foot, paint drying on the delicate bristles but I really don’t care. My hands can’t move fast enough as I grab a second tube and the squeeze of black paint is oily between my fingers. I dab the paint onto the canvas, dragging my nails in greasy streaks to blend the colours, the shapes and shadows of a memory branded in my head materialises right before my eyes in bold strokes.
The picture practically paints itself; I can’t stop it even if I want to, and my spirit soars with this new-found freedom. Bucky hasn’t left me; he lives on inside me and this painting is proof that no matter where he is, a piece of him will always be a part of me.
The green feels right this time, the shade is perfect. I stand back from the easel and swallow back tears. That’s Bucky standing in the frame—my Bucky—wearing the colours of patriotism and sacrifice, and suddenly I’m dizzy with realisation.
I’m going to join him, no matter what it takes, and not a damn thing in the world can stop me.