Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the ways to go, this wasn’t the worst.

Bucky himself had been an arbiter of death for a long time. Whether it be a gun, a knife, or an “accident,” the means hadn’t mattered so much as the result. He had been indiscriminate in his victims, did as he was told without question, without even the ability to question the how and the why. Those people he had killed had been nothing more than animals to him, their whimpering pleas nothing more than white noise, the luckiest of them put down easy with a bullet between the eyes. He too had been an animal, a machine, unfeeling and uncaring and unrepentant at least until the cycle had been broken and decades of guilt had been thrust upon him. Only when the jigsaw pieces of himself came back together and made him a person again did he feel a single thing for what he had done.

It was only fitting, then, that the former Winter Soldier died as his victims had: alone, confused, and wishing for more time.

As ironic as it was, the details surrounding his own impending death were murky. He remembered being asked to do a favor by a friend, remembered that refusal hadn’t even been considered. He remembered going somewhere to some place to do something but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember the specifics. What he did know was this: things went wrong, Bucky was separated and captured and taken somewhere far away, and he was destined to die in the midst of a failed escape attempt. Go figure.

At least he had taken out some of the bastards who did this to him in the process. Drugged and isolated with no hope of any backup or rescue, Bucky had steeled himself to either get away or die trying. He had spent far too much of his life as a prisoner, like hell he would die as one. There had been attempts made by his captors to hamper his escape, some more successful than others, but most had fallen at his hand. He couldn’t even muster the typical guilt that taking a life now brought him. The last had been the luckiest of them all and had managed to strike a dagger true into Bucky’s chest, right into his heart, before he too had fallen.

Bucky hadn’t registered the fatal wound dealt to him at first. He had stumbled around a corner and along the dark corridor, traced bloodied hands along its walls as he scrambled to find an exit of some kind. The exhaustion had been easily attributed to the cocktail of drugs still making their way through his system, meant to keep him docile while whoever took him decided what to do with him. Inexplicably, he had fallen to his knees when his weight was too much for his legs to bear. He had continued to crawl and only when that too failed did he glance down at his body in confusion and find the long blade still protruding from between his ribs. Only then had he understood that there was no getting out of this.

Denial had quickly given way to acceptance, perhaps a little too quickly, but Bucky thought he was more than due for this. He was over a hundred years misplaced without looking the part and with decades more promised for his long life. His family, his friends, his former self were all long gone to the ravages of time. Steve was gone—the peaceful way, at least—having done his time and lived his life properly. Bucky Barnes was more than misplaced; he was a remnant of a life that should have ended when he fell so many years ago. To die wasn’t only inevitable, but overdue.

He leaned back against the damp wall in this dark place and sighed as best he could with aching lungs. Yes, he was used to dying; to do it permanently was nothing exciting. Every time his mind had been wiped, Bucky had died, and every time he had awoken from cryo, he had been born anew. Death and birth over and over again for decades, each time without knowing the lives he had lived a hundred times before. If real death was like cryo, like going to sleep and giving up to peaceful oblivion, then it wasn’t so bad.

Damn, if it didn’t hurt for the time being, though. He could feel the blood draining in all the wrong places, the jerking hiccups of his slowing heart as it tried to do its job yet only hurt itself in the process. His lungs, too, were giving up on him. They filled with something other than air that tightened the space within him and made every desperate gasp come out as a wheeze.

“Shit,” Bucky’s croak echoed into the empty tunnel. He really was going to die here. He thought he had survived worse than this before, but that was proving to be a lie faster than he could think it. Already, the edges of his vision were getting darker and darker. He could feel his body shutting down. All his strength was gone. This was it.

Acceptance gave way to panic gave way to something even worse: fear. As tough as he liked to act, as much hell as he had already been through, Bucky didn’t really want to go. He had finally hit his stride in this new life. He went through therapy, he bought a bed, he was known in his neighborhood not as the Winter Soldier but as the grumpy guy who helped old ladies cross the street and saved people from dropping heavy objects. He had something of a job in the occasional missions he worked with Sam and while that was satisfying in some ways, Bucky had been thinking of winding his life down for good. Retiring, maybe finding a nice spot out in the country with solitude that wasn’t too isolated to make him a hermit. Hell, maybe he’d try to do some real work and run for office. He had never imagined his life getting to this point, but he was content. He wanted to see how the next few years played out.

And, shit, Sam.

If Bucky didn’t actually die, then Sam would kill him for pulling a stunt like this. Begrudgingly, against all odds, they were friends, good friends—not that Bucky was exactly doing numbers in that department. They worked together, hung out on their days off, made day trips to spend time in each other’s cities. Hell, Bucky had become well-acquainted with Sam’s family, too. He went south for vacations and holidays. He’d been to several of the boys’ birthday parties. Just the other week, he had promised Sarah he would take a look at her car the next time he visited because the engine was making a funny noise every time it idled. He had bikes for Cass and AJ in his apartment, unassembled and ready to be gifted for Christmas this year. Bright red and silver, Sam had teased him about agonizing over the color choices but had assured him they were good picks, nonetheless.

Worse than the acceptance, worse than the fear, there it was: regret. Bucky didn’t want to leave Sam and his family that had amazingly welcomed someone like Bucky into their lives. He wanted to be there for Christmas this year, he wanted to hear them call him “Uncle Bucky” just one more time, he wanted to sit on the porch and sip beers with Sam as they watched the sunset and talked about absolutely nothing at all. Bucky was supposed to stop being so reckless, he was supposed to die when he was old and gray so Sam, up in his years as well, could make jokes at his expense in the eulogy and reminisce about a life well-lived. Bucky wanted all that, damn it, and more.

He wanted to live.

Too little, too late.

He made one last half-hearted attempt to get moving, emboldened by the horrific thought of his corpse being found here or worse, never being found. For Sam, for Sarah, for the boys, he could try a little harder. His body didn’t get the memo. He managed to scoot maybe two inches before his limbs well and truly lost the last of their strength and he slumped to the side.

Bucky felt terrible for doing this to Sam again. He had lost Riley, he had lost Steve, and now he would lose Bucky. He hoped it wasn’t his ego talking when he thought that the two of them had grown close. He hoped he was wrong, and that Sam wouldn’t be devastated by his death. Maybe Sam would shrug it off, pour out a beer in Bucky’s name, then visit his grave maybe once or twice before moving on. It was well past his time, he might say. Then Sam would continue to be a great Captain America, a hero talked about for generations to come. Maybe he would build a team, his own gaggle of Avengers with whom he would watch over the world like guardian angels. And one day, when he was older and weary, then maybe he too would pass the mantle of the shield onto the next voice of a generation. He could retire and take it easy and maybe he would be married by that point, maybe he would have a couple of kids raised by his gentle hand, maybe even grandkids. Sam would have a long, fulfilling life. And just maybe, every now and then, he would remember how a long time ago he used to have a partner named Bucky who was grouchy and off-putting and had done a lot of bad things but for a short while, they were friends. That would be good.

Bucky’s cheeks were wet. He really had a knack for attaching himself to the unattainable. First with Steve, that rotten punk who went on to be a hero to the world. Now with Sam, another man destined for greatness. Bucky was always the one left behind, the one chasing that greatness. It wasn’t so bad, though, to be just adjacent to great people. It made him think that redemption might be possible.

Things would be okay, even if Bucky wouldn’t be around to see it. He quirked a smile. Yeah, Sam would be okay. They would all be taken care of, Bucky was certain. If it was possible to miss things in death, then Bucky would miss Sam and the hope he had brought his life, but things would be okay. He could rest in peace knowing that the world could move on without him as it already had.

Things might even be better where Bucky was going. He might get to see his parents and his sister again. He might get to see the Howling Commandos as they were back in the day. He might get to see Steve even, wherever the hell he ended up living the rest of his days. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?

That darkness was getting really close now. There was no hallway to be seen, not anymore. Bucky couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. There was no pain, either. He couldn’t feel that skipping beat in his chest. Any blood that drained from him was warm like a hot summer rain washing his skin. He couldn’t move. He might have fallen to the side, he couldn’t tell. His last coherent thought was nothing more than a fool’s wish: Take care, Sam.

From there, it was only vague sensations. He wasn’t alone in a tunnel in darkness away from anyone who had ever cared about him. No, Bucky was warm, and content. It was like true peace. By the time he was gone, he didn’t even know it.

Chapter Text

It took three weeks before Sam got the call.

The first week had been a living nightmare. Sam was kicking himself for the way the mission went down. A simple bit of recon turned into a full-on ambush, a trap that had been sprung the moment they stepped inside. Bucky, with his super sharp intuition and keen battle senses had barked at Sam to split up and go high for some coverage, that they would meet up when the coast was clear. The situation had been too dire for him to argue. It was only much later when Sam’s repeated calls to Bucky’s comms went unanswered, when he swept through the building once, twice, a dozen times, when he found nothing at all that he realized Bucky was missing. Sam hadn’t panicked at first, as much as his body had wanted to. He was a man of action, this wasn’t his first rodeo. No, it was only when he had tread every path he could think of, scoped out every inch of every surface in a ten mile radius that Sam had let himself be afraid.

He had spent three sleepless days out there as he followed every flimsy lead he could possibly find. He had barked up every tree he could think of until he finally listened to the voices telling him to retreat. Torres was hunting down a few of his own leads. Sharon and her people were already on the case. Someone, somewhere would be able to track down Bucky. Sam running himself ragged in circles wasn’t doing either of them good. Tail between his legs, he had retreated to DC, woke himself up early every night with nightmares about whatever hell Bucky was going through and drove the intelligence community insane with his constant pestering.

The second was somehow even worse. No matter how many times Sam pulled the Captain America card and waxed poetic about how this was a matter of national importance and you need to get more people on this, his words fell on deaf ears. If progress was being made, Sam didn’t hear about it. He was going insane being told by all kinds of people that they would handle the situation that yes, they did hear Sam the first time when he said this was urgent. He tried and failed to dig up any substantial leads on his end. There was that same nightmare every night, Bucky promising that they would see each other soon before he vanished into dust.

The third was too normal. Sam caved and called Sarah and listened to her request for him to come home. She gave him a firm hug and a hopeful speech and plied him with childhood recipes until the tension in his shoulders receded somewhat. There’s nothing more you can do to help him right now, she had said. Try to take your mind off things and before you know it, he’ll be back. Cass and AJ knew something was up, knew that Bucky was going to be gone for a while and it was making Sam upset, so they were on their best behavior. They did their chores and if there were arguments, they dwindled fast with a glare from their mother and mumbled apologies to their uncle. They asked Sam to play with them in the yard and watch their favorite movies and make pancakes for them on the weekend. Being around his family was nice, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel good to be idle, not when Bucky was going through who knew what. The same nightmare, over and over again.

Then, a phone call.

Sam was cleaning the dishes from breakfast when his cell rang. He wiped the suds from his hands as quickly as he could and dove for it, nearly braining himself on the kitchen counter in the process. “Sharon, please tell me you have something.”

A pause on the other end of the line. Long enough that Sam thought it was a misdial. She cleared her throat, “Actually, Sam, I do.”

His heart soared. His fingers shook with the adrenaline that came from relief. “Really? What’s going on?”

“We found him, Sam.” She sighed, “We got him.”

Sam beamed, “That’s great! How is he? Where is he? Man, I hope he’s ready for me to kick his ass after the shit he pulled.”

Somewhere in the living room, sat in front of their morning cartoons, Cass and AJ giggled at the curse words. Sarah chastised him from her own spot on the couch, reminded them that just because Uncle Sam used adult words didn’t mean they could. Sam leaned out of the room and offered a thumbs up.

“About that, Sam,” Sharon cleared her throat again. “He’s gone.”

His brow furrowed, “What do you mean? You just said you found him. Did that bastard already try to leave the hospital?”

“No, Sam.” Her deep breath crackled across the line. “Bucky’s dead.”

Not even for a second did that register in Sam’s mind as being true. It just wasn’t possible, it was ridiculous. He laughed, “Yeah, good one, Sharon. Hey, would you tell Bucky to stop pulling you into his pranks for me? Not very funny. Where’s he at?”

“Walter Reed, but Sam—”

“Alright, I’ll get the next flight I can out of here. Thanks, Sharon.”

“Sam—”

He hung up before she could say anything further. Sam slipped his phone into his pocket and clapped his hands together with a cheer, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Bucky was safe, Bucky was in the hospital, Bucky was apparently well enough to rope Sharon of all people into his hijinks. That was good news.

Sarah tilted her head, “Any word?”

“They found him,” Sam said. He swept around the room and gathered his belongings. Though he had been back for a week, all of his stuff was neatly packed in his duffle bag and ready to go at a moment’s notice, just in case he’d received word that he was needed. “He’s at Walter Reed.”

Sarah slumped, “That’s good.” She rose from her seat and gestured for her sons to join her. “Come on, boys, say goodbye to your uncle. He’s gotta go take care of Bucky, now.”

They gave him enthusiastic hugs and said goodbye, made him promise to tell Bucky they said hi and that they missed him and hoped he would get better soon. Sarah made a couple of calls and secured Sam a ride to the airport with a family friend. She gave him a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek farewell. “Give him a big hug for us, okay?”

Sam spent the ride to the airport in a great mood, shooting the breeze with the woman who had been his junior high math teacher. He bought a ticket for a flight that afternoon and spent a few hours meandering around the airport, nursed a large coffee and expensive scone in an overpriced café to bide his time. The flight itself to Ronald Reagan wasn’t so bad. Sam was in a good enough mood that he didn’t mind when the flight attendant recognized him and asked for a selfie. He was more than happy to flash his charms and get a free meal out of it. The taxi ride to the hospital was good, too. He texted Sharon when he was pulling into his destination and tossed the driver a handsome chunk of change as a tip. Things were looking up.

Sharon was waiting for him in the lobby, her face carefully blank. Sam didn’t think much of it. In the years since she was forced to go on the run in Madripoor, her exterior had naturally hardened; it was the only way to survive in the world she lived in. Even now, pardoned and back with the CIA, those habits were hard to break.

“Hey, Sharon,” he greeted. “Good to see you. Where’s our guy?”

“Sam,” she sighed. “I—”

“Ah, hold it!” He held up a hand, “Just show me the way. Bucky can explain it to me himself.”

Sharon stared at him for a long time, something sharp in her eyes. Finally, she shook her head and gestured down the corridor. “This way.”

They made it to the elevator and went down several floors, down further than Sam had gone before. This wasn’t his first time at Walter Reed. Along with visiting various vets he had worked with over the years and Captain America himself at some point, he and Bucky had spent a few nights here as well. Never anything too serious or deadly, but enough to warrant some observation. Sam liked to think of himself as a model patient whereas Bucky was the exact opposite. From the moment he woke up in any medical facility, he was scratching at the walls trying to leave. Sam could imagine his patience was already worn by now, no matter what he had suffered through in the time he was missing.

The halls were chilly when the elevator finally reached its destination somewhere in the bowels of the hospital. Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned at their surroundings. Sterile white, pristine tile, a sharp stench in the nose. They walked along until they reached a thick metal door. A doctor in a white coat was there. Another man in business casual behind him with an empty gurney pressed against the wall. Torres too, who Sam had yet to hear from despite the many texts he had sent before and after his flight.

“Hey, Joaquin,” Sam greeted. “What’s going on?”

Torres’ face was tense, his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He swallowed before answering and even then, his voice cracked when he spoke, “Hey, Sam.”

That didn’t answer his question. He turned to Sharon, “Where is he?”

Sharon was all business with her straight posture and well-tailored suit. Her hands were perfectly still where she clasped them behind her back. “I tried to tell you, Sam, I wanted you to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

“Bucky is dead, Sam. It’s not some kind of joke or prank, Bucky is dead.”

The words bounced around his skull but didn’t quite land. There was a ringing in his ears. “What?”

“Bucky is dead,” Sharon repeated. “He already was when we found him. I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Torres echoed. His brow was scrunched together, his mouth pulled into a grimace. “We didn’t get to him in time.”

The ringing in his skull grew louder until it was all he could hear. All the blood in his body drained to his feet. His heart itself was cold and tremulous. His hands shook. He didn’t know why he was acting like this. Those were just words, they couldn’t be true, his body was overreacting to something fake. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Sharon sighed. “I liked to think of him as invincible, too, but it is.”

“He’s a super soldier, he is practically invincible! Check him again! Hell, he could be hibernating or some shit!”

“He’s dead, Sam.” Sharon gestured behind her to the man in the white coat. “This is Dr. Goode. He’s a pathologist here at Walter Reed.”

Another solemn face nodded to him. “I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances, Captain. I was the doctor responsible for performing your friend’s autopsy—”

“Autopsy?” Sam’s stomach flipped over itself. “You cut him up like some kind of test subject?”

“Barnes’ death is part of an ongoing CIA investigation,” Sharon snapped. “We had to proceed to determine cause of death.”

Sam was sick. He himself was dying. His lungs had forgotten how to work. His brain was numb.

“I assure you we treated Mr. Barnes with the utmost respect and care,” Dr. Goode continued. “For Ms. Carter’s investigation, we determined that a single knife wound to the heart was the cause of death. There was also—”

“He doesn’t need to hear this,” Torres snapped. Sam wasn’t aware enough to thank him for the interruption. A knife to the heart. In the swirling sea of white and tile, Sam focused in on the placard by that big door reading Morgue, the solemn man standing by the empty gurney.

The doctor nodded, “Of course.”

“I didn’t bring you here to argue, Sam,” Sharon sighed once more. That stoic face was unmoving, but Sam thought he could see the faintest glimmer of pity in her eyes. “I just thought you might like to see for yourself. Say goodbye.”

A thin wheeze escaped his lips, “It might not be him. There’s all kinds of technology out there now, and aliens. I wouldn’t put it past someone to try and keep him hidden, fake his death to make it easier.”

“Neither would I,” said Sharon with a nod. “But that’s not the case. We have checked in every possible way, I promise you. It’s him, Sam.”

Sam’s voice caught in his throat. He opened his mouth and couldn’t speak. He couldn't agree or argue or beg. Only choke.

Torres stepped to his side, grabbed his bicep in a gentle grip, “Come on, Sam, you should go see him.”

Sam still choked, but he managed to nod. He let himself be led step by step to the door of the morgue, let the doctor swipe his badge and open it with a soft beep. The air was somehow even colder inside, stank worse with strong chemicals. Walls of stainless steel cubbies latched shut and labelled. And a metal table at the center of the room, holding a sheeted figure. Sam stopped at the head of the bed. His breath caught when the doctor moved forward and lifted the veil to fold it down with grace. That was Bucky’s face, alright. Same dark hair and strong bones and if they were open, those bright blue eyes, too. There was a bruise on his left cheek bone. His eyes were sunken into their sockets, his skin sallow. He could be sleeping. He could be fresh out of cryo.

Shaking fingers reached out to press against the side of his neck where his carotid lay. The skin was stiff and hard under Sam’s fingertips; it barely gave when he pressed in search of that pulse. He had to be sure. Bucky had been presumed dead once before and been doomed to a fate worse than death. If this was real, if, then Sam would never forgive himself for not being sure. He kept his fingers there for a minute. Then two. Then long enough that Torres cleared his throat and gently pulled Sam’s hand away. Not once had Sam felt the beat of a living heart.

Death wasn’t a word in Bucky’s vocabulary. He had escaped death more times than Sam could count. He was vitalized by a serum that made gods out of regular men and weapons out of people. He could lift a truck without breaking a sweat, had done so once in Delacroix just to make Sarah laugh and make Sam huff with reflexive defiance. He survived bullets and had a metal arm for crying out loud. That should make any person invincible but especially Bucky. The guy didn’t know how to die. He never seemed ready to. He couldn’t.

Sam’s hand moved to the side of Bucky’s face where his flesh met his hairline. So cold. Bucky hated the cold. He would never voluntarily be laid out like this with only a thin sheet to protect him from the world. The cold reminded him of the worst times of his life. Once, he had admitted how much it made his arm ache. After that, Sam had vowed to knit him a damn blanket and that had made the man laugh. Now, Sam could see the line of hard metal where the arm met the sheet.

“Buck, Bucky,” Sam’s voice was so tight he barely recognized it himself. Bucky’s face was all wobbly and wet. “You gotta be honest with me, man. If you’re playing, no hard feelings, but this is your last chance to fess up. Otherwise,” his voice broke. “Otherwise I’m gonna have to think this is real.”

The room was silent. Sam couldn’t even hear the breathing of the others in there with him. He certainly couldn’t hear anything from Bucky’s chest. Couldn’t see any movement, couldn’t feel any life. No one could fake that.

“Okay,” Sam whispered and nodded to himself. The wet sheen over his eyes grew to be too much and spilled down his cheeks. A drop or two landed on that damn sheet and left a mark. “Okay.” He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, one warm the other cold. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, buddy.” Sam blinked and there wasn’t cold and metal, there was heat and blood and sand for an instant before it was gone. “The boys say hi, they really miss you.” He swallowed, “We’ll all miss you.” He leaned further and wrapped as much of Bucky’s torso into a hug as he could. Nausea rolled in his gut at the way Bucky remained stiff. That was one of the reasons that Sam knew Bucky was soft deep down; whenever Sam pulled him into a hug for even a second, all of his body melted with the relief of it. “That’s from Sarah. Take care, Bucky.”

Sam stood back up and tried to stamp onto his brain the feeling of saying goodbye. He took in every bit of Bucky’s face and memorized that, as well. He tried to reconcile it with the last time he had seen Bucky’s face alive, looking back over his shoulder and set with determination. He went back even further than that, thought of the night before that mission where they had gone out for burgers and Bucky had laughed at Sam’s joke so hard he snorted milkshake all over the table and the two of them had lost their minds over the mess he made. He hadn’t looked even close to the Winter Soldier then, not even when the stern waitress came back with extra napkins and chewed them out for acting uncivilized in a public place. That face, pure joy, that was the one Sam wanted to remember.

The sheet was pulled back up. Torres’ hand was bruising his arm. Sam cleared his throat, “What now?”

“Per his will, Barnes will be buried in his family plot. I’ll handle all that, Sam, don’t worry about it.”

“He deserves a funeral.”

“I know,” said Sharon, her voice soft. “I know, he’ll get one. I’ll get you all the details. Why don’t you go home, Sam? Be with your family.”

He didn’t remember nodding but he must have. He blinked and he and Torres were out in the hall. That huge metal door was closing, kept in such pristine condition that it didn’t even creak. Sam looked over his shoulder, watched the curve of that white sheet, didn’t look away until the door was shut for good.

Chapter Text

Torres didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let Sam go. His hand was a vice around his bicep as they backtracked through the hospital and took the elevator back to the surface. Sam’s mind, his entire body was numb, the only sensation he felt being that grip on his arm. He might as well have been adrift at sea, his movement completely out of his control except for that anchor. Sam had no will to fight in him as Torres led him outside and softly took him to the parking lot.

Sam blinked and they were in a car with Torres at the wheel. The hand on his arm was finally gone, tensed so hard around the wheel that the knuckles turned pale. Sam stared out the window at distant monuments as they drove into the city’s traffic, feeling absolutely nothing at all.

Eventually, Torres’ voice cracked as he said, “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

Those words popped the bubble of Sam’s stupor and reality came roaring back to him. His heart skipped a beat or two in his chest. Sweat broke out on his neck. An abrupt rage slithered beneath his skin and made him itch. “What the hell happened?”

Torres’ knuckles turned paler. “Sam, I don’t know.”

“Like hell you don’t know. You were there before me. You already knew. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Carter wanted to keep things quiet while we were confirming the details. It didn’t feel right to tell you over the phone.”

“Then tell me now; what the hell happened to him?”

“Sam, I don’t think it’s best—”

“How about you let me decide what I think is best for myself,” he jerked up his chin. When Torres remained silent, Sam pressed, “Joaquin.”

Torres sighed and bit his lip. “The guys who took him kept him on the move, that’s why we had a hard time pinning them down. They had access to some heavy duty drugs; we found them in Barnes’ system, likely kept him easy to control.” He took a shaky breath. Sam had to take a deep inhale and close his eyes at those words. “They must have miscalculated the dose at some point. Barnes fought off a dozen of them before one got in a lucky hit.”

A lucky hit. Bucky had practically made a career out of dodging lucky hits but it still did him in when it mattered most. “Where?”

“His heart, Sam.”

Sam shut his eyes again and swallowed, “I know that. I mean, where did he die?”

There was no answer. Sam glanced over to see if Torres had somehow missed his question. The other man was too focused on making sure his blinker was turned on while stopped at a red light. “Joaquin,” Sam tried again. “Where?”

“Bethesda,” he whispered. “We found him in a warehouse in Bethesda.”

A hand squeezed around Sam’s heart hard enough to make him bleed. He could look out his window and see Bethesda. He could throw a rock and hit Bethesda. How long had Bucky been kept there? Was it still while Sam was in DC, twiddling his thumbs instead of doing any real work? Or was it after he had gone back to Delacroix and fled when his partner had needed him before that city became his grave? “How long was he dead before you found him?”

“About a day. He killed the guys holding him captive, so there was no one left to scramble their signal and change locations.” Torres sighed, “He put up a real good fight, Sam.”

Not good enough. “I don’t care.”

“Okay.”

Sam didn’t ask anything else so Torres went quiet and the car grew tense. He went back to staring out the window, counted the lines of buildings he could see in the distance and wondered if one might be the warehouse Torres spoke of. Why the hell hadn’t Sam tried harder? Why the hell hadn’t they let him help? Why the hell had Sam let them stop him?

Torres took a right turn that didn’t make sense. Sam furrowed his brow, “My apartment isn’t this way.”

“I thought we were going to the airport,” Torres’ confusion mirrored his own. “Aren’t you going back to Louisiana?”

“No, take me to my apartment, I can’t leave just yet.” Sam’s stomach protested the thought, for a number of reasons, not the least of which being his dread in having to tell Sarah what had happened. Just the thought of speaking this into existence felt like too much to bear.

“I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“Well, tough. Take me to my apartment.”

Torres didn’t protest any further. He made the requisite turns that took him to the other side of town and stopped him at the base of their destination. He got out of the car even when Sam waved him off. He only gave up on trying to come in side when Sam shot a glare over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Sam. I’ll be in touch.” Finally, he drove away.

The apartment was exactly as Sam had left it when he went home a little over a week ago. There were dishes left in the rack to dry by the sink. The couch was rumpled and still had a blanket half-heartedly crumpled along the back from the sleepless nights Sam had wandered from his room and tried to drown out his fear with the TV. It was all too normal, too mundane.

He slumped onto the couch and held his head in his hands, “Fuck.” There was no way this could be real; Bucky wouldn’t have let something so stupid kill him. There was still the faintest glimmer of hope that someone had made a mistake. Maybe Bucky had faked his own death and had to make it real convincing to go deep underground for some reason or another. Maybe Sam would get a cryptic text from an unknown number with only a location and Sam would go there and find Bucky there, alive and well, and he would punch him in the shoulder then pull him into the tightest hug of his life and say you really had me worried for a second. That had to be it.

Sam’s phone buzzed and he scrambled to unlock it. Just a message from Torres. If you need anything, let me know.

The illusion shattered. Sam had seen Bucky for himself. He had felt that cold flesh and heard the silence where there should have been a pulse and breath. He had seen that face so unmistakable that Steve Rogers himself had recognized it some seventy years out of place with unlimited baggage behind it. There was no going back, there was no changing things: Bucky was dead.

Sam texted back, Give me all the files you have. He didn’t specify what for. Torres would have to be dense not to understand what Sam meant.

I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

Sam growled in the emptiness of his living room, Just do it.

He tossed his phone to the side and scrubbed a hand down his face. Sam could deal with this, he had dealt with it before. This wasn’t the first time he had lost someone close to him. With time, he could manage. But fuck, it didn’t hurt any less. He picked the phone back up; he owed Sarah a call.

She picked up on the third ring, “Hey, Sam, how’s Bucky doing? He hanging in there?”

His throat closed up. His mouth gaped open and shut but he found himself incapable of speaking. He was over a decade younger, muffling cries into his fist while his sister wiped away his tears and said you’re going to make yourself sick. He was a little older than that but still younger than now, listening to Sarah mourn the death of her husband over a crackly line thousands of miles away. Here he was now, breath stuck in his throat and eyes burning with the worst déjà vu someone could experience.

“Sam? You there?”

“Sarah,” he croaked. “Sarah.”

“Sam? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Sarah, he’s gone.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Sarah, Bucky’s dead.”

A pause over the line, then, “Oh my god. Oh my god. What?”

“Bucky’s dead, Sarah. I didn’t get to him in time.”

“Sam, this is not your fault, do not put this on yourself.” There was a rustling sound in the background, “I’ll drop the boys of with a friend and then I’ll come get you from the airport, okay? Hang in there, Sam, I love you.”

“No.” Sam cleared his throat and tried again when he thought it might come out stronger, “No. I have to stay here. I have to find out what happened, Sarah, I can’t leave until I find the guys that did this.”

“I get that, Sam,” she said slowly, as if talking to a frightened animal. “But I don’t like the thought of you being alone up there.”

“It’s fine,” he gritted his teeth. “I’m fine. I just wanted you to hear it from me first. Love you.”

“I love you, too, but Sam—”

He hung up before she could finish. She called three more times until she got the memo that Sam wasn’t answering and gave up. His phone buzzed with more texts that he ignored in favor of retrieving his laptop from the bedroom. He flinched when he booted it up and the wallpaper stared up at him, a group photo from a visit to Delacroix last summer. All of the Wilsons in front of the family boat and Bucky there, too, his arm shimmering in the sun and an easy-going grin on his face. Sam felt like he had been punched in the chest. Before he could change his mind, he went into his settings and changed his background back to the default.

Torres had finally left an email in his inbox with several encrypted attachments. The body of text was filled with more platitudes that Sam didn’t want to hear, something about being careful and taking care of himself and letting Torres know if he needed anything at all. Sam downloaded the attachments and deleted the email with a scoff. Then, he settled in for a long read.

These were all of the files and details kept from him for absolutely no reason other than bureaucracy. There were pages upon pages of logs, tracing every moment that had been wasted chasing false leads. Sam’s blood boiled with every word. He should never have listened when he was told to back off if this was the work they were putting in to find Bucky. Even with no real direction, Sam strapping on his wings and flying over the entire country would have been more useful than any of this shit.

Then came the videos. Surveillance footage, probably from the warehouse they recovered Bucky from if he went off of the gritty quality. A lot of nothing for a long time, then something. Several men in dark clothes jogging down the corridor, the unmistakable shape of Bucky being dragged between two of them before vanishing from sight. Several hours passed before something else happened. Action across the screen, blurred and grainy but still recognizable as Bucky dominating the people who had kept him for so long, his movements still precise if a little slowed by the drugs he was metabolizing. Sam didn’t begrudge him for the desperate brutality, not when he was fighting not like a man with a mission but as a man desperate for escape. Then, that lucky hit. Bucky snapped back the head of the last man standing, but not before it earned him a knife in the chest. He stumbled, pressed his hand against the wall, and shuffled around the corner and out of sight of the camera. Sam checked for the next file but that was the last of them. He replayed that last segment over and over again, watched the knife go in and out of Bucky’s chest as if the ending might have changed, as if something else might appear. But there was nothing more.

Sam dialed Torres and ignored the numerous missed calls and texts waiting for him. He didn’t even wait for Torres to greet him before spitting out, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The footage, man, where’s the rest of it? There has to be more.”

A pause before he replied, “That’s all there is.”

“Bullshit. I can take it, Torres, just send what else you have.”

“I’m serious, Sam, that’s all we have. I was there for myself, there’s no security camera down that other hallway. That’s all the footage we could recover.”

On his screen, Bucky stumbled, turned the corner once more, vanished. “There has to be more.”

“There isn’t. I’m sorry, Sam, I really am.”

Sam didn’t say goodbye before he hung up. That couldn’t be it. There was no way that there could be footage of the gruesome battle and the wound itself but not of the result. Bucky couldn’t just turn the corner and die. That would mean that Bucky was well and truly alone in those final moments. There was no one left in that warehouse when he finally went, no one in that corridor. There wasn’t even a camera there to capture his last breaths so Sam could at least retroactively be with his friend. Nothing.

He had thought that being there in the moment and witnessing Riley’s death firsthand was bad enough. There would never be wiping that memory from his mind, no matter how many years had passed. Somehow, this was just as bed. There were no witnesses to say exactly what Bucky looked like when he died. There was no way to read the blurry lines of his face through a camera’s lens and see if he was in any pain, if he felt at peace, if he even knew what was happening to him. So much of Bucky’s life had been documented in history, in the records of Hydra, in the news; his final moments would forever be a secret known only by the dead. Sam couldn’t even offer his friend some company.

He slammed the lid to his laptop shut. “Damn it!” He hunched over his legs and covered his ears, “Damn it!”

Sam picked his phone back up. Dozens of texts, many of them from people he hadn’t heard from in years, friends from Delacroix and DC all offering their well wishes. This must be in the news, already, stations clamoring to cover the official and final death of James Buchanan Barnes. At least Sharon had given him the courtesy of letting him know before the public announcement was made. He went back to his missed calls. A couple more from Torres. At least one every half hour from Sarah in the several hours since he had hung up on her. As if summoned, her caller ID flashed across his screen once more. He picked up.

“Sam? Thank God, are you okay? I was so worried.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she sighed. “I just want to help you. I hate that you’re dealing with this so far away from us.”

Us. “Shit,” Sam wiped his hand down his face. “Did you tell the boys?”

He heard her swallow over the line, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“How are they?”

“They’re upset, of course. They’re too smart for their own good. It’ll be a while for them to process this; they really liked Bucky.” Her voice thickened, “We all did.”

The boys had already gone through so much for ones so young. They had already lived through their dad’s death and Sam’s presumed death. Sam hated the thought of them dealing with more grief.

“But, we’ll be okay,” Sarah sniffled. “I really think you should come here, Sam, you shouldn’t be alone. I know how close you two had gotten, this won’t be easy.”

His eyes stung but even worse, his chest ballooned with anger. She had no idea what Sam was dealing with right now. He was destined to keep losing his partners, it seemed; he was some kind of awful bad luck charm. It didn’t matter that the risks of the job were all things they accepted with every mission they took, it was never meant to end this way. If Sam had been better, if he had been there, then this mess would have never happened in the first place.

“No, Sarah,” he snapped. “I’m not coming back, okay?”

“Sam, I just really think—”

“No, I don’t care what you think. If I had been there, Bucky would still be alive. If you hadn’t made me leave, I could have found him. I could have saved him. Going back to Delacroix is the last thing on my mind right now.” His chest heaved when he finished. The air burned, something awful and rotten curled in his heart.

After a long moment, her voice carefully even, Sarah said, “I know you’re hurting right now, I know you’re grieving your friend, but you can’t blame me for this. You can’t blame yourself for this. I’ll give you some time to cool off, then we’ll talk again, okay? I love you.”

She was the first one to hang up, this time. Sam stared at the phone, tossed it on the floor, didn’t care if the glass cracked. He opened up his laptop again and clicked on that final video. Rewound the last bit. Watched Bucky tumble out of the final frame, over and over again.

Chapter Text

Shelbyville was a small town in Indiana that Sam had never been to before, had never even heard of before. It was the birthplace of James Buchanan Barnes until his family had packed up and moved to Brooklyn in his youth. But Bucky had never told Sam this. No, he only learned about it from Sharon Carter of all people when he questioned why Bucky’s funeral was going to be held in the middle of nowhere. Now, he stood outside a cemetery in that small town, smelling the late summer heat from the cornfields, and wondered why he seemed to know so little about his friend.

There was the easy answer, of course. Bucky had never liked talking about his past before becoming the Winter Soldier. Sam had always attributed that to an innate distaste for sharing personal information combined with avoiding the pain that remembering his former life brought. The harder answer tasted bitter on Sam’s tongue. Had he never made Bucky feel comfortable enough to share these things with him? Had he not been a good enough friend?

Sam tried not to let his thoughts get too maudlin as he waited for the hearse to arrive, but it was hard considering the circumstances. There was a small crowd waiting with him, bigger than he had expected, filled with people he both recognized and didn’t. There were, of course, Sarah and AJ and Cass. He had fallen into his sister’s arms at the sight of her, mumbled apologies into her shoulder as she whispered forgiveness in his ear and rubbed slow circles on his back with a bouquet of lilies crushed between them. The boys were quiet and accepted firm hugs from their uncle, nodding their heads shakily when Sam asked if they were okay. Torres was there with a shaky smile and melted at the hug and apologies Sam offered him. There was Banner with a firm handshake and words of sympathy muttered to Sam, Lang uncharacteristically serious when he offered Sam condolences, Hope just as kind at his side. Rhodey in his dress uniform with a clap on Sam’s shoulder and a few words of support. There was a gaggle of people Sam didn’t recognize clustered by the entrance to the cemetery, a good mix of young and old with even a baby held in a woman’s bouncing arms, all with the same dark hair. Sam didn’t have to worry about uncovering who they were; the oldest among them approached Sam first.

He was probably in his seventies, might have been tall at one point but now hunched with the weight of his age. His dark hair was streaked with gray, his wrinkled hands leathery when he reached to shake Sam’s. His smile was small enough to be acceptable on a day like this, “I don’t believe we’ve met before. James Barnes Proctor.”

Sam’s eyes widened, “Sam Wilson. Are you related to Bucky?”

“He was my uncle, though I never had the honor of meeting him. My Mom would be furious if I didn’t give her big brother a proper send off.”

Sam swallowed thickly. He had known very little about Bucky’s family, only that his parents and sister had died long before he had been freed. There had never been any mention of further relatives beyond them. With one of them standing before him, he didn’t know if that was because Bucky himself had been oblivious or if he had ignored it. His chest ached. Yet another thing that had been stolen from Bucky.

Cass, from his mother’s side, peered up at the old man. “You’re Uncle Bucky’s nephew?”

James laughed at that with a wheeze, “That’s right, though I never did get to call him that.” He gestured vaguely at the group he had come from, “That’s my sister, Winnie, over there. My wife Margaret and our three sons and my nieces. Thought we ought to come out here and pay our respects. It’s the least we can do.”

Sam shared a glance with Sarah and wasn’t surprised that she was as misty-eyed as he was. All of this family that Bucky had never known about and would never meet. It wasn’t fair how much he had missed out on.

“I know you were close with my uncle, and I don’t know what you have arranged, but us Proctors have plenty of young, fit people who would be happy to carry him to the grave, if that’s alright.”

Sam swallowed. He had been hoping for the kindness of the staff from the funeral home and cemetery to act as pallbearers with him. Family was a pretty good choice. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

James clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand again, and shuffled back to the rest of the Proctors. Sarah’s hand found his and squeezed once before letting go.

Sharon sidled up to him as the hearse came rumbling down the gravel road and the two members of the honor detail saluted its passing. The funeral director came around back and spoke with one of the military men as he opened the rear and exposed the casket. Sam had seen that flag in this context dozens of time before, but he had yet to get used it. It was probably a good thing that he didn’t.

“He died in the line of duty,” Sam murmured to her. “I would have expected a little more.”

Sharon scoffed, “He technically wasn’t military when he died, Sam, just contracted. Besides, considering who he was, you’re lucky I was able to even get this for him.”

Sam frowned, “He was pardoned.”

“Just because you’re pardoned doesn’t mean people forget things,” she sighed. “Just be glad he gets this. It’s a pretty good deal, all things considered.”

There was no more time to argue because the casket needed to be moved. Sam strode forward and met with Torres and several Proctors at the ready and took the front position. As one, they lifted and began their procession towards the grave. Sam had carried Bucky before, usually when the other man had been reckless and was too stubborn to ask for a hand. Sam had swooped in anyways and chewed him out without missing a step. He had never been as heavy as he was now.

A small area was prepared by the place Bucky would be buried; a short line of a few chairs, a place beside the headstone where they sat the casket down. The grave marker already bore Bucky’s name, though the date would have to be changed from his presumed death decades prior. Sam wondered if they had removed an empty casket from this spot to make room for the real deal. His wasn’t the only grave of a Barnes here. Already, his parents lay to one side and his sister to the other, waiting for him to come home.

Sam breathed through the reflexive sting of bitter jealousy as the Proctors took up the single line of seats. They were technically the only family here, after all. Sam and his own family had no right to claim Bucky. But, those people had never actually known Bucky, they had only known an idea of him. They weren’t the ones to laugh at his stupid jokes. They weren’t the ones to have him over for dinner. Bucky had never slept on their couch and later in the guest room remade specifically with him in mind. He had never watched over their kids and gone on errands around town and helped fix up the family boat. To them, Bucky was more of a myth than a man.

A pastor took the lead after the rest of the attendees had quietly marched to the grave. He made the usual prayers and blessings, read scripture, gave a brief description of Bucky’s life and character that was typical of someone who had never actually met him. Then, he asked if anyone would like to come up and say a few words. Sam didn’t give anyone else a chance, though he doubted there was anyone here besides him who knew Bucky well enough to give his eulogy. His hands shook as he stepped before the casket, but he didn’t withdraw the little piece of paper tucked into his pocket.

As the days passed and reality had sunk in and Sharon had been kind enough to keep Sam updated on the simple funeral that was to be held, Sam had been tortured with inaction. She was taking care of all of Bucky’s affairs. There was no room for Sam to step in and say what he thought Bucky’s preferences would be. They had talked about death before, but never about the details. Death was always an ever-present inevitability for the both of them; when people did the kinds of things they did, it was only natural to accept that the risks they took would one day lead to their demise. Bucky had never said anything specific about burial wishes. Any serious conversation that leaned in that direction was derailed by his musings about having already been buried and what that must have been like. He didn’t find himself in need of anything else. They had joked about what kinds of ridiculous requests they might have at their funerals but only in the abstract. There had only been one request that Bucky had made with complete sincerity: whoever went first, the other would be the one to speak for them. That was the only piece that Sam could latch onto, so he did. He spent hours agonizing over what to say, wrote draft after draft until he settled on something that felt appropriate.

Now, standing before the casket, looking into the eyes of people who had barely even known Bucky, his prepared words felt like a disservice. If Bucky were here, he would tell Sam that speeches were his natural gift, that he should speak from the heart. So, he did.

“Thank you everyone for coming,” Sam began. “I know Bucky would be surprised by how many people came to send him off, but he would be pretty smug about it, too.” He chuckled to himself and looked back at the casket. “It might be ironic to say that Bucky died too soon, but it’s true. He spent so much of his life serving others in one shape or form that it’s easy to feel robbed with how suddenly he was taken from us. But, I’m honored to have known him as a free man. I’m glad that even though he died too soon, that he died free.” Bucky, stumbling around the corner, leaving his captors disposed in his wake. Yes, if Sam knew nothing else, he knew that he hadn’t died a prisoner. That was the smallest of comforts he could afford himself.

“Bucky was a stubborn guy. He never liked being the center of attention, he was always content to forsake glory and his own peace to do what he thought was right. Not just physically, Bucky was the strongest guy I ever knew. I don’t think there is anyone else in the world who could have endured what he did and still come out the other side a good man. He was a reliable partner and a great friend. There’s no one else I would trust more to have my back, no matter the circumstance. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he was always listening.”

Sam hadn’t been expecting to get choked up yet here he was, taking a pause for a few deep breaths, clearing his throat. If things had gone differently, they wouldn’t be in this mess. If he had stopped for just a second and refused to go along with Bucky’s plan, his friend would still be here. If they had stayed together, if he had been a little faster, if he had looked harder. If, if, if. He felt robbed. He wished he could turn back time and stop the two of them from ever going on that mission so even if Sam couldn’t have Bucky in this world, then at least some other universe wouldn’t have to mourn him too soon.

Bucky had become a permanent fixture in his life. There was never any point that Sam considered losing him. Bucky was supposed to help him renovate Sarah’s deck before winter. They had been planning on going out in the boat before the end of summer and preparing for a seafood boil so large it could feed the entire neighborhood. This school year, Cass was going to start learning a foreign language and Bucky had pledged his help as a tutor. They were already making holiday plans for AJ and Cass, planning on gifting Sarah with a cruise so she could get some time for herself while they watched the kids. It had never been a question of Sam doing it all alone, yet now, he wouldn’t have a choice.

Sam blinked hard and willed the tears to stay, at least until he finished. Oh, how Bucky would laugh at him now, to see him so weepy. “I’m grateful to have had him in my life. I’ll miss him more than he could ever know. I hope that wherever he is, he’s finally found peace. Thank you.”

He retreated to his sister’s side, kept his face stoic even as the tears finally fell and Sarah reached up to rub his shoulder. If he looked to his right, he felt as if he would see Bucky standing there in his dark leather with his arms crossed, shaking his head with a wry grin as he teased Cap for yet another cheesy speech. There was no one there, but Sam felt his presence still. He felt it so thick in the air that he could choke on it as Taps filled the otherwise silent graveyard with sound. A final farewell.

The flag atop the casket was raised and folded by the stoic soldiers with stiff motions. One carried the triangle to the front row and kneeled before James Barnes Proctor where he sat and said, “On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” James nodded and clutched it in his lap. The soldier fell back, the pastor spoke a few more words, and the casket was lowered into the grave. The attendees were invited up to say final goodbyes.

As the official family members, the long line of Proctors went up first to throw some dirt on the grave and mumble well wishes to a man they had never met. Sam was shaking. This was it; there was no going back after this. He was frozen to the spot. Only Sarah’s gentle hand guiding him allowed him to walk the final distance. She was composed and graceful as she plucked two flowers from her bouquet, gave them to each of her sons, and coaxed them into saying goodbye. Sam hadn’t noticed it before, too caught up in his own grief, but both of his nephews’ faces were wet with tears. Cass hiccupped as he tossed his flower into the grave. AJ wiped his eyes beneath his glasses and did the same. They both whispered stuttered goodbyes to Uncle Bucky, told him how much they would miss him. Sarah laid down the rest of the bouquet and wiped away a few tears of her own as she thanked him for taking care of her boys.

Sam took up a fistful of dirt and stared into the grave. He could still see Bucky’s face as clear as if it was standing before him. He could still hear his voice. With time, Sam knew these would fade but for now, he shut his eyes tight and pretended as if Bucky was right there, alive and breathing and able to hear him. “Thank you, Buck,” he tossed the dirt into the grave. “I love you, buddy.”

And it was over. The last of the well wishers made their rounds and the pastor wrapped up the service. Quiet conversation returned to the cemetery as the attendees departed, many of them pausing to say farewell to Sam and offer their final condolences. Sam stood at the back with his sister and nephews, determined to be the last ones to leave. Bucky would be officially buried by the end of the day, once and for all. Before their flight in the morning, they would say one last goodbye to his sealed grave.

James Proctor hesitated while the rest of his family shuffled to their cars. “That was a nice speech you gave, Mr. Wilson,” he shook Sam’s hand again. “Makes me wish I had gotten to know him.”

Sam nodded.

He hefted the neat flag still in his grasp. “Back in 1945, Mom was given one of these. She never wanted the world to forget her brother and what he did, so she donated it to the museum before she passed.” He held out the triangle, “I would like you to have this.”

Sam gaped and didn’t reach out at first. “You don’t have to do that.”

“We mourned his life once,” James said. “I think it’s only right that the people who actually knew him have this. Besides, I’m not the one who ever got to call him Uncle Bucky.”

His fingers trembling, Sam took the flag and held it close to his chest. “Thank you.”

James nodded and patted his shoulder, “Take care.”

Then, they were alone. It was time for them to leave as well, but Sam caught the glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. His heart skipped a beat and for a brief moment, he wondered if this was the moment where the illusion would break. Where he would look into the distance and see Bucky standing there, alive and well. Where he would hug the man within an inch of his life and scold him for scaring him. What Sam wouldn’t give for all of this to be one big ruse. Sam looked and didn’t find Bucky there, waiting for him, but another familiar face. He turned to Sarah, “Go ahead and wait for me at the car, I’ll be right there.”

Sarah searched his face and nodded before shepherding her boys away. Sam walked around the grave to a tree at the edge of the cemetery’s boundary. She was too good to have let Sam see her without purpose, so he took Ayo’s appearance as a summons. She looked well, wore a sleek black dress and a solemn face that Sam had never learned how to read.

“Ayo,” he greeted. “Thank you for coming.”

She nodded, “I have kept tabs on James. It was only right that I pay respects to our White Wolf.”

Sam never quite understood the relationship between Bucky and Ayo. It was an odd friendship born out of unusual circumstances. Bucky was tight-lipped whenever asked, only said that Ayo had known him at his most vulnerable and met him unflinchingly without judgement. He respected her greatly, regretted how he had betrayed her.

“I grieve with you,” she said with an incline of her head. “James had much life left to live.”

Sam was glad that he wasn’t alone in thinking that. His stomach sank with guilt, however, and the knowledge that someone else who had known Bucky would see how Sam had failed him. “I shouldn’t have let him go alone, I should have—”

Ayo cut him off with a sharp glare, “Do you not respect your friend? Great care was taken to give James the ability to make his own choices again. He would have stood by his decisions without any blame cast upon you. He would not tolerate your self-pity. Don’t do him the disservice of dwelling in past mistakes.” Her back straightened as she gazed upon the cemetery. Sam thought her eyes shined, but he couldn’t be certain in the shade of the tree. “James died a warrior’s death. As you said, he died free. Allow him the dignity of that.”

He thought over her words and smiled to himself, knowing she was right. Bucky would beat Sam over the head if he heard him talking like this.

“James is free, he is at peace,” she concluded with a final pointed look his way and departed across the grass. “Honor his memory.”

Sam watched her leave with his stomach still in knots but his heart just a little lighter. He watched a soft breeze sweep over the cemetery that rustled the grass of graves long buried. Then, he turned to find his family.

Chapter Text

Sam caved to his sister’s wishes and finally came home. It was the easiest thing to do in the world when she looked at him on the drive back from the funeral, her eyes wide and shimmering, and whispered, “I’ve seen you go through this before. I can’t let you do it alone.”

At the tail end of summer, the house was too quiet. It should have been filled with chatter of the boys wringing the most they could out of the final days before the school year. There should be running and accompanied scolding from Sarah to be careful. Loud cries from the living room as they played video games after finishing their chores. Shrieks of joy from the backyard as they played with their friends and chased each other down the block on their hand-me-down bikes.

There were none of the sounds of youth. The boys were quiet. They only left the house at their mother’s gentle coaxing as she encouraged them to visit their friends and regain some sense of normalcy. Unless summoned for dinner, they stayed in their rooms, did their chores without complaint. Sarah’s lip wobbled from the kitchen counter after a failed attempt to get them to stay downstairs and have a movie night while their summer bedtimes were still in effect. While he rubbed her shoulders, Sarah had sighed, “I know they need time, but I hate to see them like this. They miss Bucky, but I think they’re also realizing how dangerous the world out there is for you, too.”

An illusion of childhood had been shattered. The boys had suffered through the loss of their father already, but his death had been somewhat mundane in the grand scheme of things, a car crash that no one could have predicted. The boys knew the bare bones of what Sam and Bucky did. They had basked in the glory of their uncle becoming Captain America and held the shield enough times to be enthralled by it. They knew that Sam and Bucky fought bad guys and saved the day and so long as Captain America had his super soldier sidekick, everything would be okay. But now, that seemingly invincible super soldier was gone. If something could kill someone as strong and brave as Uncle Bucky, then what about Uncle Sam? It was something Sam would have to address with them at some point, just not quite yet. Not only were they not ready to hear that discussion, but Sam himself wasn’t ready to have it.

The first few days back home, Sam had tried to maintain a positive attitude. Bucky was gone, he was never coming back, but he wouldn’t have wanted Sam to wallow in misery over his death. He would have wanted him to keep living a good life and doing the work that he was proud of. That positivity had only lasted as long as Sam had been able to pretend that he wasn’t looking to the side in search of Bucky’s opinion every time he spoke. He had grown so used to Bucky’s silent support that he had yet to reconcile the silence as the man actually being gone. It had worn him down, sucked the life out of his attitude until a husk remained and he wandered the house as a ghost.

Sam stayed in the house more than the boys did. The same nightmare every time he settled down to sleep: his mind conjuring up the various ways Bucky could have died, always alone, always in agony. It was easier to avoid sleeping all together. His room went unslept in. He took up residence on the couch and let the low hum of late night TV keep him company until the exhaustion became too much and he was forced into unconsciousness for a few hours so the cycle could continue. Even without sleeping, Sam saw Bucky’s face every time he closed his eyes. Grainy and blurred as he had last been seen on the security camera before dipping out of sight. Sam was beginning to understand the madness that consumed Steve all those years ago when he learned that Bucky was just out of reach, leaving him haunted by memories. Except this time, there was no hope of Bucky coming back. This death was a permanent one.

Sarah was the only thing that held the house together. She made sure that they were all fed, tried to encourage socialization of any kind, came home early from work when she could just to check on everyone. She was running ragged taking care of them all; Sam heard the muffled cries behind her door over the murmur of the TV when she thought everyone else was asleep. He should have been the responsible brother and offered a shoulder for her to cry on. Even if they hadn’t been as close as Sam and Bucky, Sarah had come to care for the other man and the way he had wormed into her family. But Sam couldn’t muster the strength to change his clothes or brush his teeth on most days. He had lost the ability to cry. Numbness had stolen from him the fraternal instinct he had once prided himself on.

So, life crawled onwards. Sam helped out around the house until he could no longer bring himself to move. The boys no longer listened to their mother’s soft attempts to get them out of the house and were only seen for meals. The bags under Sarah’s eyes grew and grew and consumed with his own misery, Sam didn’t do a thing about it. Until she finally snapped.

Sarah slapped the mail down on the counter. Sam didn’t even flinch. “Sam, there’s a letter for you.”

“Okay,” he mumbled. There was some reality show on the TV. Bucky had always hated those, or at least claimed to hate them. Didn’t stop him from hovering behind the couch with his arms crossed and grumbling to himself whenever one was on.

“Sam.”

“I’ll look at it later.”

Sarah sighed, “You can’t keep doing this.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t know what there was to say. A gray fog had fallen over his days, one that took too much effort to peer through. It was just easier to let it hang around for as long as it wanted, and to let it burn off on its own.

“Sam, I don’t know how to help you.” Her voice cracked with one more call of his name, “Sam.”

He didn’t look up until he heard the change in her breathing as it caught in her chest. She was crying, thick tears dripping down her cheeks, sobs hiccupping in her lungs as she tried to hold them in. Finally, a spark of something in Sam, a stab in his heart that stood out from the dull and constant pain of the last few weeks. He stood from the couch and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled her to his chest and let her tears stain his old T-shirt. He rocked her back and forth in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he whispered into her hair. His eyes stung. “I’m sorry, I’ll be better.”

She shook her head, “No, I’m sorry. You lost a friend and I’ve tried to help you but I just don’t know what to do, Sam. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she gasped. “And the boys, I don’t know how to help them. It’s just like when their dad died, when we thought you died, but I don’t even remember how I got through it then.”

He shushed her, “It’s okay. I’ll talk to them, I promise. I’ll help, I’ll do better, I swear.”

Sarah pulled back and wiped her face with the corner of her sleeve. She shook his head where he could see, “I just want you to take care of yourself. I want you to tell me how to help you. I want you to talk to me.”

Sam was on the verge of exploding, but he was afraid of it. It had been easy to fall into the numbness the same way he had after Riley died. It was easier to feel nothing at all instead of pain. Living in a daze was the better alternative to actually thinking about what living would be like from now on. If he stayed in stupor for as long as possible, he could avoid thinking about the things that really hurt. To confront them meant moving on. To move on meant accepting the truth. It was always easier for Sam to give advice to others. He was a hypocrite in that way; he never wanted to practice what he preached.

But Sam loved Sarah and Sarah loved him and to keep continuing like this was only hurting her. Sam took a deep breath, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

She nodded, encouraging. Her hand traced up and down his arm.

“I can’t believe he’s gone. I thought that bastard would never die.”

“Me neither.”

“He was so strong, he fought the hardest out of anyone I’ve ever met. I always trusted him to have my back and he trusted me to have his.”

“I know.”

“But I failed him,” Sam choked out. “I wasn’t there when he needed me. I gave up too early. He died alone because of me.”

“It’s not your fault, Sam,” Sarah shook her head. “Bucky wouldn’t blame you.”

“I let him get taken again. He was a prisoner for so long, Sarah, and I let him die as one. That was the only thing he ever told me he was afraid of, being captured and losing himself again.”

“He died as himself, Sam. If he were here, he would tell you not to blame yourself, you know that.”

Knowing was one thing, understanding was another. The explosion that Sam had been afraid of finally arrived. The dam burst. Now that he was talking, he couldn’t stop. His face was wet. Before he knew it, Sarah had situated them both on the couch and wrapped an arm around his back while he held his head in his hands. “I failed him,” he confessed. “I’m so mad at him for leaving, but I’m the one who failed him.”

He thought of that damn surveillance clip, the last blurred moments of Bucky’s life that anyone would ever see. “He died alone. He must have been so scared and he died alone.”

His sister held him for a long time. All of that anger and fear and sadness welled up inside Sam and poured over. She let him get it out, didn’t interrupt him as he cried. When his sobs calmed to the point where he could breathe again, she pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “I don’t want to speak for Bucky, I didn’t know him as well as you, but I think he wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over this. He wouldn’t want to keep you from living your life. You can miss him forever, Sam. You can hurt because he’s gone. But this isn’t the end of things. One day soon, you’ll be able to think of him without that awful guilt. You’ll be able to remember all of the good times. That’s what he would want.”

Sam knew she was right, because he had lived it before. Because it was the nature of things. Death was the end of one thing and the beginning of another. It was a tragedy, it was agony, but it was inevitable. Sam could scream at the world for taking away the people he loved too early and it wouldn’t change a thing. He could only face it head on and learn to accept it. Mourn what was lost, remember all of the good that came before it. Live to honor the people left behind and never forget who they were. That was how Sam had survived before. He could survive it again.

“It’s not fair,” he still whispered into his sister’s shoulder. She nodded. “It’s just not fair.”

Chapter Text

There was a missed call every day from the same unknown number. Sam avoided his phone as much as possible, both to dodge the stray headline that might set him off and the constant stream of reporters wanting to be the first to get a quote from Captain America about Sergeant Barnes’ death. He let the calls come in and the voicemails pile up until his mailbox was full and he got some peace. If there was anything urgent—as in, world-ending urgent—then there were emergency back ups that would notify him regardless of his phone’s status.

That same number, however, matched the one inside the letter addressed to Sam from a lawyer in New York. He had dismissed it as spam mail, at first, when he saw where it came from. But Sarah had convinced him to open and keep it as not many people would have known to send Sam mail to his sister’s house. That was mostly true; his place in DC usually fell victim to hoards of all kinds of mail meant to catch Captain America’s attention.

So, he opened the letter. It was from an attorney in Manhattan, some fancy lawyer Sam had never heard of or met before but claimed to be the executor of Bucky’s will and wanted to meet at his earliest convenience. If it was a scam, it was one that was cruel and well thought out. It intrigued Sam enough that the next time that familiar number rang, he picked up. A relieved receptionist took Sam’s information, explained to him a lot of things in legalese that made his head spin, and set up an appointment for Sam in a few days to meet in person. With a physical deadline, it was time for Sam to leave home for the time being.

Sam didn’t think the boys had ever hugged him so long and hard in his life. They’d had a good talk a few days prior, a hard one, but still good. They had finally been able to communicate their fears and their sadness and Sam had reassured them as best he could without making any promises he couldn’t keep. The boys might never accept the danger he was in, they might take some time to grieve Bucky’s sudden loss, but they were good kids. With time, they would be alright.

The attorney’s waiting room was sleek and quiet when Sam made his way there. Sam couldn’t tell if the receptionist was always eager or if she knew what client she was serving; either way, she was very enthusiastic about getting Sam a cup of water and offering him coffee while he waited but otherwise left him alone. Within ten minutes, the door in the back opened and Sam was rushed inside.

The lawyer introduced himself as John and shook Sam’s hand before gesturing for him to sit. His office was as sleek and impersonal as the waiting room, neutral tones and a couple of fake plants, the only personalized elements being the law degree on the wall and a few law books on the bookshelf behind his desk.

“I have to be honest,” Sam said as he took in his surroundings. “I’m not sure what Bucky’s will has to do with me, I didn’t even know he had one.”

John folded his hands on the desk, “Well, having a final will and testament was a condition of Mr. Barnes’ pardon. In the absence of one, all of his possessions and savings would become property of the government upon his death. He seemed quite adamant that he didn’t want that to happen.”

Sam snorted, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“In any case, his final wishes pertain to you.”

Sam blinked.

John typed on his computer, presumably summoned the document in question, and cleared his throat. “Yes, aside from burial wishes that were relayed to Ms. Carter upon request, the rest of the will refers to you as his sole beneficiary. All of his possessions and savings are yours to do with as you please.”

Sam swallowed, “What?”

“Yes. He also had a life insurance policy which he named you a beneficiary on. If you don’t hear from the company within the next month, please contact me so I can get the process moving. Mr. Barnes also set up two separate college funds for Cass and AJ Wilson to be managed by yourself and Sarah Wilson until they turn 18. According to his wishes, the funds will be released at that time and if either of the boys do not end up going to college, then the money will still be released to them to use as they please.”

His throat was closing up. His head spun. Sam had never heard any mention of this before. “Where did he even get all of that money? I don’t understand. Why would he give it all to me?”

“Mr. Barnes was entitled to a pension, back pay, and a considerable amount of compensation as a condition of his pardon. As for your second question, I’m afraid I don’t know the answer.”

Jesus, Bucky, he thought with wry disbelief. If you were so loaded, why did you always make me pay for beers?

It was funny to think of how stingy Bucky had been, always complaining when Sam tried to make him pay for something and refusing to furnish his apartment with anything beyond bare necessities. It was only funny until Sam remembered that all this money was apparently his and Bucky had never made mention of it, not even once. “I’m sorry, I’m just confused. I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

“That’s beyond my purview, Mr. Wilson,” John said. “I am merely obliged to make sure everything is successfully transferred per the specifications in Mr. Barnes’ will. After that, it is entirely up to you how you use it.”

He got out several forms and explained dozens of things while Sam signed the lines where he was told. It might take some time for all of the money to transfer but if six months went without everything going to Sam, then he was to call the lawyer for assistance. Bucky’s apartment was paid until the end of the month. Sam was welcome to all of the possessions inside but if the end of the lease period passed with belongings still inside, then the landlord would remove and dispose of everything himself. Bucky had put Sam’s cellphone down and Sarah’s address as a good way to contact him, so he could expect copies of all of the documents and other items to arrive in the mail. When Sam had made his way through the mountain of paperwork, the lawyer made a few notes and asked if he had any further questions.

“I’m sorry, I’m still shocked,” Sam shook his head. “When did he do all of this? Why didn’t I know?”

“Upon his initial pardon agreement, Mr. Barnes just asked that all of his possessions be donated in the event of his passing. But last year, he approached me about updating his will. It was up to him to disclose the changes to you.”

Then, less than a year into their burgeoning friendship, Bucky had approached this lawyer and arranged for everything in his name to go to Sam upon his death and never said a word about it. It was such a Bucky thing to do that Sam couldn’t help but unleash an incredulous laugh. That bastard didn’t even give Sam the chance to thank him for it!

John shook his hand as Sam stood to leave, “Did you need a copy of his key?” Sam shook his head. He already had his own. “Alright. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch.”

Sam walked out of the office with his head in the clouds. His next stop was Bucky’s apartment, it had been even before the lawyer mentioned it, but he decided against hailing a cab so he could meander down the block and call his sister.

When he relayed what he had just learned, she was speechless. Then, she burst into tears. Then, she started laughing uncontrollably. “He didn’t even give us a chance to argue!” she exclaimed. “We can’t even thank him!”

Sam laughed along with her, his eyes moist, and hung up after they spent some time making some jabs at Bucky’s expense. Sam finally hailed that cab and puttered his way to Brooklyn, up the creaky steps he had tread so many times, and into the stale apartment. It was sobering to step inside and recognize that Bucky’s apartment looked as lived in as it had when he was alive. He had finally gotten a real bed and actually slept in it—at least, as far as Sam was aware, he did—and there was a shelf with some books he had collected tucked with great care. A couch, a TV, some kitchen supplies. All together, not much for Sam to get rid of. He got to work.

He handled the most impersonal stuff, first. Sam found one of Bucky’s neighbors smoking on the fire escape and told him he could have a free TV and couch if he could help Sam carry it, to which he eagerly agreed. He threw in the bed frame as well and even got the man’s help throwing away the mattress before he retreated with his spoils. Sam reassembled some cardboard boxes he found in the closet and packed away the kitchen goods to be donated at another time. The books were also packed into boxes, along with the few random knickknacks Bucky had tentatively begun to decorate the apartment with. A few cheesy magnets from airports he had visited, a couple of drawings that Sam recognized as Steve’s, some photos of Bucky and Sam and various others in Delacroix that made Sam’s stomach clench. One of those photos might be nice to display with Bucky’s flag. That box would be coming home with him to keep.

Night came and Sam slept on the floor like Bucky used to, cocooned in blankets as he tried not to let the emptiness of the apartment get to him. When he eventually fell asleep, dreams found them as always, but they weren’t so bad. It was a memory, one of the innocuous times they had flown back from a mission and just talked for hours. Sam remembered thinking that Bucky wasn’t so bad after all, that he wouldn’t mind asking if the guy would join him for drinks after they landed so they could continue their conversation. And they had. It had been great. Sam woke up with wet cheeks and an aching melancholy in his heart.

Clothing was next, still impersonal but slightly harder to go through. Sam couldn’t help but think of the times that he had seen Bucky in the various outfits with each one he pulled. Those would get donated, as well, but Sam couldn’t keep himself from hanging onto one of the leather jackets that was a little too broad in the shoulders for him. Bucky’s dog tags were nowhere to be found but that made sense as Bucky always wore them. He would have to ask Sharon if they were retrieved with the rest of his personal effects, but he doubted anything would come of that.

Bucky had always been a paranoid person so Sam knew better than to just scour the surface of the apartment. He found a false floorboard in the living room stashed with a go bag, various weapons, money in dozens of currencies, and several false identities—really, Buck? Those would have to be disposed of. Behind the brand new bikes in the closet—Sam choked up when he remembered helping pick those out for his nephews—there was a false backing that concealed more weapons and cash. This guy really didn’t know when to relax.

As he pulled the last of the guns out of the hidden pocket, a paper fluttered to the floor and caught his attention. It was a red envelope with Sam’s own name written on the front in Bucky’s unmistakable scrawl. He abandoned all thoughts of organizing everything else and took the envelope to the floor of the empty living room, brushed his fingers over the writing just to feel where once, the pressure of Bucky’s pen had been there. He tore open the top to unleash the contents.

It was a card with a pigeon on the front that stared at Sam with beady eyes. He opened it and realized it was a birthday card, likely meant for Sam’s impending one a little less than a month from now, not that he felt like celebrating. Sam didn’t know whether he should have been honored or insulted that Bucky apparently thought the perfect hiding spot for his card was the same place he kept his emergency supplies. He crossed his legs and settled down to read.

Sam,

Happy birthday. I’m twice as old as you but I have to say, you look way worse for your age than I do. You should work on that. Stress makes you look older, you know. You should take a week off and go on a vacation anywhere you want, my treat. You’re no use to anyone if you work yourself into the ground.

You should be proud of all the things you’ve done in the past year. You make your family proud, Sam. You’re a great Captain America and you’ll only get better from here. Learn from your mistakes, shake them off, and keep moving. You’re a good man, better than a lot of people deserve, but that doesn’t matter to you, does it? That’s your strength. You don’t need some stupid serum to make you great, you already are.

Take care of yourself, Sam. I’m honored that I get to call you my friend and I can’t wait to see where life takes us.

Happy birthday,

Bucky

Sam stared at the card for a long time. He held it further away so he wouldn’t accidentally smudge the precious ink with his tears. He traced his fingers along the looping letters over and over again, heard Bucky’s voice reading them in that nonchalant tone of his that always spoke of sincerity. Sam let the tears fall, he let that grief ebb and flow inside him like the swelling tide, and grinned from ear to ear.

“That jackass, he always had to get the last word!”