Work Text:
The twenty first century is different.
It’s different but it’s okay.
Food is tastier.
Bananas are different.
Technology is everywhere. Steve’s alone. Not physically, no. He’s always surrounded by people. People like Natasha. Natasha is nice. But she’s not him.
The Smithsonian has an exhibit about Bucky. The many Wall of Valor at SHIELD facilities have his name. Fleeting fragments of him Steve can hold onto. His face, his name. But he’s not here. He’s not there. He’s nowhere.
And yet, he’s everywhere. Fucking twisted irony. And Steve wants to throw up.
If there’s a grave, he’s not there either.
It’s windy in Brooklyn, and Steve hates it. It’s windy, and Steve just wants to draw. It’s windy, but the pages can’t keep still, and Steve just can’t.
He can only stare at the river, stare at it and let the wind hurt his eyes. He can only stare, still, and remember the way the wind used to carry Bucky’s laugh when they were kids. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear it.
It snows in Brooklyn, and Steve hates it. He’s always hated snow. He’s always hated the unrelenting, vicious bite of the cold creeping under coats and scarves. The unforgiving cold that meant his chest would hurt. And Bucky would be worried, cough after cough, winter after winter. How many nights did they spent lying in the same bed, sharing body heat, sharing dreams and fears, sharing love?
It’s summer in Brooklyn, but he’s not there. Steve’s away from home, if he can still call it home. He’s away just because he can. Or maybe just because he can’t be in Brooklyn. Not with the heat. Not without him.
He’s away and he stops only when he sees something so foreign he can breathe again. He stops at the edge of a ripened grain field. He stops and breathes in the dusty, warm smell of grain. He stays there, breathing in and out, forcing himself to do it. Because he’s far from home, if he can still call it home, and he’s alone, really alone, and he’s breathing the smell of grain, but he can’t stop thinking about him. About all those times Bucky asked him stupid questions, silly questions, questions Steve didn’t know how to answer.
Hey, Steve, what does ripened grain smell like?
It rains in Brooklyn. A sweet, gentle rain that washes away the contours just enough that Steve can pretend it’s 1939 all aver again. Warm rain, thin enough that sneaks under Steve’s shirt without being intrusive. And Steve closes his eyes, tired, and it’s 1939 and he’s peaceful under the gentle rain. He’s peaceful, and Bucky sneakily wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and smiles against the nape of his neck. He smiles and everything is perfect.
And Steve can pretend even with himself that his face is wet because of the rain.
It’s night in Washington, and soft stars shine at night. It’s night in Washington but Steve is awake. He’s awake and his heart is broken. But for the first time in over seventy years, he can really breathe. He won’t stand at Bucky’s grave and cry, because Bucky’s not there. He did not die.
He did not die.