Work Text:
Let the Wolves Enjoy My Bones
Oh, the world is dark
And I've looked as far as I can see
When the years have torn me apart
Let me be
Darkness gathered at the edge of the forest, pressing and grabbing at the shining facility with greedy hands. Talon-tipped fingers of shadow inched ever closer, threatening to encircle Bucky’s throat and squeeze the life out of him. From his vantage point, safely contained behind a wall of glass windows, he could look out over the entire jungle if he wanted. But not now; not in the deepest part of the night when the shadows ruled and the stars reigned above.
T'Challa was kind enough to give Bucky a room with a view to the outside world. A kindness he didn't deserve, not after everything he'd done. But the king saw the facility in Siberia, where he'd spent so much of his time as the Winter Soldier, and was wise enough to realize how much it would affect him to be lodged in a windowless room. That place was a tomb, devoid of life and light. So unlike this place.
The Soldier—or was he Barnes? It was hard to separate the two, even now. Whoever he was, he went to cross his arms over his chest, and found his hand grasping at air. He looked down and felt that familiar pang of fear at seeing the black, rubber sleeve covering what was left of his metal arm. Gingerly, he placed a finger on the material. Not so long ago, he would have been able to feel the sensation. But after Siberia… a lot of things changed that day, some more than others.
The Wakandan scientists had been helpful in containing the damage to the machine part of him. Not that it truly mattered. The nerves in his shoulder were destroyed beyond repair a long time ago. Hydra science officers with too much ambition and too little care saw to that. But the metal allowed some small sensation, which was enough to make him feel partially human when they seized his mind and made him someone else. Made him a monster.
Now, there was nothing. No whirr of machinery as electrical systems read the signals passed down from his brain, forcing the metal to move as quickly as his flesh-and-blood arm used to. No pulse of power at the sheer force he bent to his will. No wonder at the tiny, delicate movements he summoned to handle the most fragile of objects.
When he thought about it, the arm hadn't been all bad. It certainly had its uses, and got him out of more than one sticky situation. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't glad to be rid of the thing that helped turn him into Hydra's favorite weapon. The only problem was… now he felt nothing. Where there was purpose and drive before, now he just felt lost. Even though that purpose hadn't been his own, and the drive was fabricated, it was something. Something was better than nothing… wasn't it?
Leaning forward, he laid his palm flat against the glass and stared out as far as he could see. The jungle trees—normally a vibrant green—were black as pitch, reminding him of the ocean at night. Swaying in the gentle breeze, he could almost imagine himself on a boat.
A fragment of a memory came back to him then. Streams of sunlight on blonde hair and a woman laughing. Salt air and hot wind, whipping at his clothes. The snap of a sail and the screech of a bird. Warmth and light. Laughter… love.
It slipped away before he could grasp it fully; grapple with it and force it to stay. Quickly, he crossed to the desk where he kept the most precious item he owned in the entire world. And he truly owned it; no one else knew of its existence, not even Steve. It was the only thing entirely his, and he'd keep it that way for as long as he could. Bucky threw the drawer open and found a pen, laying the journal down on the empty desk space.
With only one hand, mundane things became increasingly difficult. But he'd always been adaptable—even before Hydra—and was learning to work through his disability. A glass paperweight proved to be very useful as he placed it in the middle of the journal, forcing it to remain open so he could write.
Before the last wisps of the memory escaped, his pen flew across the page. Penmanship had never been his strong suit—that was Steve's thing—but his choppy script and slanted letters made sense to him. That was the only thing that mattered.
Ever since that day on the Potomac, he'd been jotting down words to form the abstract images of his memory. As the days and months wore on, the images slowly became clearer, more coherent. The only problem was that he very rarely had any context to place on those slices of his former life. Sometimes, he could figure it out based on facts he knew about himself. A farmhouse surrounded by stalks of corn reaching towards the heavens. That was his childhood home in Indiana, if the museum exhibit was to be believed.
But, more often than not, he didn’t have a clue what the images meant. The memory of the boat… it held no meaning beyond the vague senses of feeling sometimes picked u[p. He knew he'd been happy that day… but goddammit why was he happy? Was that woman laughing at a joke he'd told? He didn't even know if he was funny; there was no room for humor in the Soldier's mind. Why were they on the boat in the first place? Did he enjoy sailing? Or was he just trying to get lucky with the girl?
There were so many unanswered questions; so many days he'd lived and lost to the eddies of the torture he'd endured.
And then there were other memories. Memories he did his best to set on fire, to destroy. Those were the ones that plagued his nightmares and made it impossible to sleep. As he lay there sobbing, curled into a ball and weeping like a child, the Soldier would take over and he could hide. Days, sometimes weeks, passed and the Soldier wore his skin when he couldn’t function. Without a directive, the Soldier went into autopilot, going through the motions to survive day-to-day. It was his greatest blessing, and his greatest curse.
Most days, he could control it. Other days, something would happen that was unexpected—a loud noise or police vehicles coming too close—that would spur the Soldier into action. Sometimes, Bucky could hold him off; convince him that they weren't in any danger, and that he was capable of handling the situation on his own. Other times, the Soldier was too strong. Even now, just thinking about him for too long, Bucky felt that imposing presence press against his mind.
"Get the fuck out of here." Anger colored his voice, but even he knew he sounded weak. And that was one thing he could not afford to be around the Soldier. That bastard was smirking, inching ever closer to seizing control. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and braced against the desk, concentrating every ounce of his willpower into resisting the other half of himself.
Minutes stretched on like hours as they pushed against one another, until a sheen of sweat broke on his forehead. He imagined a shield. Not like Steve's, but big enough to protect himself and push back. Finally, the Soldier slunk back into the darkest corners of his mind and settled down. Bucky's breathing gradually slowed and returned to normal. The tension left his shoulders and he was able to stand up straight again, although he was a little dizzy. These battles of the mind didn't happen very often, but when they did, it always left Bucky feeling tired.
The room seemed smaller than before, like the walls were closing in. A sudden need for fresh air overtook him, and Bucky slipped out of his room into the common area beyond that linked his living quarters to Steve's. A long couch sat near the windows, facing a flat-screened television on the opposite wall. To his left was a small kitchen just large enough for a single person, shining and clean from disuse. Directly ahead of him was the door he knew led into the room identical to his; a room which Steve Rogers now occupied.
If he quieted his breath, slowed his heart rate enough and stood absolutely still, he could just hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of the man beyond the door. It was better that he was sleeping. Bucky needed to wrestle with his thoughts; come to a decision that Steve could not help him make.
The thoughts had plagued his mind for weeks now. Although King T'Challa was more than gracious, and the people here treated him like a real human being, the world still felt a bit off kilter, like he was twisted on some self-sustaining axis. An axis which only he occupied. Steve tried to join him on that axis, but every time he got too close, Bucky felt himself careening off course again.
It wasn't that he didn't know Steve. Of course he knew him. He was Captain America for fuck's sake. And he also knew they'd known each other a lifetime ago. They'd known each other pretty well. They were... best friends, he thought. It was hard to remember sometimes.
The happy memories would come to him and Steve would be there. First, he was small and weak... then, he wasn't . But there were other memories too; fuzzy memories that didn't make any sense with what he knew as fact. Those ones, Bucky was pretty sure Hydra planted. Maybe they'd known, and maybe they hadn't. But some part of Zola and his successors knew Captain America would always present a threat to their greatest achievement. Well, second greatest...
Even now, being in such close proximity to Steve... he had to fight—no, he had to rage —against the Soldier's instinct to eliminate the threat. And that was the part that scared him the most; the part that prompted this idea in the first place.
Bucky couldn't trust himself around Steve, the one person he needed to trust himself around. There was a tightness in his chest he couldn't put a name to whenever he thought of Steve and everything they'd been through. Not just since D.C., but before, too. Back before the train and the long plummet into the ravine. That tightness didn't come from the Soldier's desire to kill, kill, KILL... No, it came from Bucky himself.
Steve sacrificed so much for him. He'd given up his goddamn identity for him. No matter how much the Soldier pushed him away, Steve kept coming back. And when the Sokovian painted him a murderer—when the entire world had been hunting him—Steve moved heaven and earth to help him, to keep him safe and prove his innocence. For all that—for the entire world—what could Bucky give in return?
A giant pile of fucking nothing .
Bucky felt his phantom arm clench its fist, shuddering at the tingling sensation of nothing being where something should. He needed to get out of here, away from these walls and this stifling air. He needed to breathe.
A glass door on the wall of windows led to a wide balcony, hanging overtop a concrete veranda far below. Quietly, Bucky pushed the door open, softening its closing behind him, and padded on silent feet across the warm stone. Though the sun set a long time ago, its heat was still trapped in the platform. But the air all around was cool and refreshing, filling his lungs, calming his raging nerves. The night was alive with voices; animals, insects, and people. Far off, a waterfall raged over a cliff, roaring in perpetual triumph.
He closed his eyes for a moment, drinking it all in. It'd been so long since he'd been able to just enjoy his surroundings. As many fantastic and exotic places the Soldier had seen, Bucky never enjoyed a fucking second of it. Enjoyment was the direct opposite of what he'd experienced. Now, he just felt guilty for enjoying it; enjoying anything, really. How could he think he deserved to be happy? What had he done to—?
The Soldier suddenly bristled in awareness. They weren't alone.
"Do you find your lodgings to your liking?" a musical voice asked from the deep shadows. Bucky cursed himself for not scanning the balcony before he came out here. Even though he was in, quite possibly, the most isolated place on the planet, he was not completely safe from his enemies.
Lucky for him, this man was not one of them. Bucky inclined his head in a show of respect to the king of Wakanda, relaxing his clenched fist and standing with his back to the balcony railing. "It's very comfortable, Your Majesty," he said quietly, willing an unfamiliar softness onto his face. It was an effort to appear normal, something he'd been working on daily for the past two years. And his mouth tripped over the foreign honorific. The Soldier would have delivered that line with calculated composure, but not Bucky...
Out of the shadows, T'Challa stalked towards him with a feline grace. But there was nothing predatory in his movements or in his gaze. Rather, he seemed to inspect Bucky, searching for something but never revealing on his face what that thing might be. His hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes remained slightly narrowed as they turned toward the jungle.
"And my country? Do you find that to your liking as well?" he questioned further. Bucky couldn't be sure if it was loaded or not, but he had no reason to lie.
"I think it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen." Bucky inched away from the man before him just slightly. They'd reconciled with one another after their earlier misunderstanding... but the Soldier was ever present, and the king of Wakanda was nothing less than lethal.
"Yet you find no happiness here." It wasn't a question. Bucky felt his muscles freeze and his eyes slide over to the man beside him. Whatever he'd been about to say, T'Challa never gave him the chance. With the smoothness of a dancer, he pivoted to face Bucky full on, his face its usual mask of calm. "It has not escaped my notice," he continued, devoid of judgment, "that you draw deeper into yourself every day."
The words lodged in Bucky’s throat. He wanted to lay bare all the thoughts raging in his mind, set them loose and be free of their constant, pounding presence... But the Soldier held him back, his unwavering sense of self-preservation kicking in at the least convenient moment.
"I... Well, it's not—"
"You do not need to wear your mask around me, Mr. Barnes," T'Challa interjected quietly.
Bucky started at the idea. It was too alien. He didn't even fully remove his mask around Steve; why would he show the fucked up mess that lay beneath to a man who'd tried to kill him only a few weeks ago?
"Yeah, well..." He tried to sound unaffected, like he wasn't shattering underneath this façade. "I'm not really sure who's hiding under there, so... I'll keep it on for now, if ya don't mind."
T'Challa gave a small smirk, and looked down at his feet. "If you wish," he conceded. "But there is one who deserves to see underneath. Don't you think you should allow him that small favor?" The question was innocent enough on its surface, but Bucky sensed the deeper meaning swirling just beneath.
Why was T’Challa saying this? Bucky had done his best to seem like he was making progress here in Wakanda. How had its king seen right through him? He shifted uncomfortably and rolled his shoulders, wincing as his bone ground painfully against the mangled mess of metal. The scientists had done their best to make him comfortable, to lessen the pain that was slowly gnawing away at him, but they could only do so much.
The truth was, he hadn't allowed himself to forget the pain. They poked and prodded and pumped him full of medicine, but at the end of the day, he always flushed those pain pills down the toilet. Sometimes, he'd wake in the middle of the night and have to shove a pillow over his face to muffle his screams. Bolts of fire seared down his left shoulder blade and over his back, seizing him up. He'd lie awake for hours, unable to fall back asleep from the pain and afraid to, in case he was overcome by a nightmare. His mental and physical trauma made it impossible to rest.
So now, he'd force himself to.
And somehow—damned if he knew—T'Challa saw right through him and figured out what he aimed to do. Or maybe what he was just contemplating doing... Hell, he didn't know. But maybe talking about it would clear his mind. God only knew there’s too much shit floating around in there as it was.
"Am I crazy?" Bucky suddenly blurted out. When he said it out loud, it sounded completely stupid. And he just hoped his instinct about T'Challa was correct.
The king gave him a knowing look. "It is a wise man who can admit his failings," he said, not unkindly.
"Yeah, I sure as hell have plenty of those," he replied with a chuckle. And Bucky was surprised to find it was genuine. "But I mean... is this the right thing to do?" He wasn't sure why sought the validation of a man he barely knew, but it was the only tether he had right now. He'd hold onto it for dear life, as long as he could.
"Only you can answer that, Mr. Barnes. No one else can make this decision for you." The king's words hit him like a stone, sinking deep down and settling like a lead weight. Something ached in his chest; maybe it was understanding, but Bucky wouldn’t inspect too closely. His shell was thin, and the Soldier lurked just underneath.
"I can't trust him... I can't trust myself," he admitted slowly, clenching his fist opened and closed in a rhythmic, calming ritual. "I want to be who they want me to be, but I can't. Not while he's still around."
"Then you have already made up your mind?" the king questioned, narrowing his gaze.
Bucky's eyes darted around wildly, trying to find something to focus on that wouldn't stare right back. But there was nothing except stone and cold, unfeeling metal, widening that hollow feeling. He couldn't keep running, not if he ever wanted to move forward. And fuck, did he want to get past this.
He needed to admit it out loud. But more than that, he needed to admit it to himself; both halves of his whole. The Soldier was alert, always on the lookout for imminent threats. As the words bubbled up in his chest, he felt the Soldier tense up, ready to strike at any moment. It wasn't in his nature to panic, but Bucky thought he could just detect the Soldier's fear leaking out.
"I have to go back under," Bucky finally said, willing steel into his voice even though he felt as unstable as the waves of the sea. "For everyone's safety, I have to go back under. It's the only way. At least, until..."
The thought faded into silence. He hadn't actually thought that far ahead yet. What was the purpose of going back into cryo? Was he hoping the Soldier would go away on his own? Or did he just assume that someone would help him figure it out?
Silently, he cursed himself and his stupid fucking assumptions.
"Until... what, exactly?" T'Challa prompted, edging closer.
Bucky swept his eyes to the stone floor, shutting out the pounding pain in his head. If the Soldier had figured out what he was doing yet, he couldn't tell, and he really didn't care. It was time for him to take back control, permanently.
"You all have been willing to help me so far," he started slowly, daring a look back up at the king, "and I know I don't deserve a single damn piece of your generosity. But I have to ask... I have to beg for your help again. Whatever Hydra put in here—" he tapped a finger to his temple, a little harder than was probably necessary "—I need it gone. It puts everyone in danger, not just me. The things I've done... I couldn't live with myself if I ever did them again."
T'Challa seemed to chew on this for a moment, never taking his eyes off the broken and defeated man begging for his help. Bucky didn't care if he seemed weak, not like the Soldier would. He'd reached the end of his rope, and he was desperate for someone to help him not tie a noose.
"It seems it is fortunate we found one another, Mr. Barnes," T'Challa finally replied, standing up a little straighter. Bucky gave him a questioning look. "Some of the world's most renowned neuroscientists reside here in Wakanda. If I ask it of them, they will do everything in their power to remove that which you seek to bury."
A rush of air escaped Bucky's chest in a sigh of relief, and his shoulders sagged. But his mind raced over the king's words.
"And... will you? Ask them, I mean." His fingers rubbed against one another nervously. Bucky wasn't sure when he'd picked up that habit, but it'd been happening more and more lately. It reminded him a bit of when the Soldier used to tinker with his rifle, adjusting the sights and taking it apart to do a thorough cleaning. The muscles remembered what to do, without him telling them.
"I think you have an enormous capacity to do some good in this world," T'Challa said. "The day is swiftly approaching when you will be needed, and I will do what is necessary to make sure you are ready when it comes. Besides, I would help you find some measure of peace, if I can."
Gratitude bubbled in Bucky’s chest and threatened to spill out of his throat. "I... I dunno what... Thank you," he managed to choke out, fighting against the raging horror coming up underneath. Maybe the Soldier knew what he was planning, or maybe he didn't. It didn't really matter; Bucky was in control, so he needed to act quickly, before he lost it and the Soldier did something stupid.
"You would be wise to inform Captain Rogers of your decision," T'Challa continued in that calm way of his, so full of wisdom for one so young. Bucky gritted his teeth, but nodded all the same.
The battle he faced was one he didn't look forward to. But it was one he needed to win, no matter the cost. If he had to break Steve's heart to do it, then so be it. For the first time in years, he felt a fraction of the weight he carried lifted from his shoulders. This was the best option he could think of, for his safety, and everyone else's.
Sunshine greeted him when he opened his eyes. Bucky was surprised to find that he hadn't dreamed anything at all after coming back to his room. No endless replays of innocent people being slaughtered at his hands; no fields full of their dead and mangled bodies; no flames engulfing him and incinerating whatever was left of his soul.
When he drew himself out of bed, he actually felt somewhat refreshed, even only functioning on a few hours of sleep. He showered quickly and then dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white tank top. His stomach rumbled, and he remembered he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. Bucky made his way to the kitchen, feeling oddly at peace after the events of last night. But that peace shattered as he opened his door into the common area, finding something other than daylight awaited him.
Steve sat at their breakfast table, hands gripped in front of his face and staring down at the tabletop in blank silence. As Bucky stepped into the large room, Steve's eyes flicked up, losing some of their hardness. But his face didn't break into its normal grin at seeing him; it remained oddly stony as he sat up straight and folded his arms overtop one another.
"We should talk," Steve said quickly, dispensing with any niceties they might fall into.
On heavy legs, Bucky crossed to the small table and sat down, never taking his eyes off the other man's clenched jaw and tense shoulders. Maybe he hadn't been as careful as he'd thought last night.
As he sat down, Bucky tried to keep his face calm, even though he was anything but. This was a confrontation he'd hoped to have a little more time to prepare for. No such luck.
"What's up?" he asked innocently, leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide in an air of comfort.
"Can we not do this? Please?" Steve said, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.
Quickly, Bucky placed the front two legs of his chair back on the floor, bracing his hand on his knee and leaning heavily against it. "Okay," he sighed, "should I go first?"
"What did you two talk about?" Steve cut in, not even giving him the chance. So Steve saw him... Fuck.
"A lotta things," Bucky mumbled with a shrug, looking down at the table to avoid the hurt look in Steve's eyes. "But mostly about... what has to be done."
"Nothing has to be done." Steve's tone took on a certain forcefulness that Bucky had only heard a few times before. "You're safe here, Buck. And the scientists are workin’ on gettin' you fixed up. What is there to do?"
Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, furrowing his brow. "I'm safe? You know that isn't true," he ground out through clenched teeth. It wasn't that he was angry; he was simply trying to maintain his control. If the trembling of his hand was any indication, he was doing a shitty job. "If there was one journal, there's gotta be more. I don't know who's left from those days... but I'm not takin' any chances. Not when other people's safety is on the line. You remember Berlin, right?"
"Of course I remember Berlin." Steve slapped his hand against the table, making it shudder under the sheer force. "But this isn't Berlin, Buck. This is the most secure place in the world. No one can reach you here."
"You don't know what they're capable of, Steve," he replied harshly, eyes full of fire. "Those two years after D.C... I spent them hunting down every last operative I could think of. Most of them, I got... Some of them, I didn't. The ones I didn't aren't just extremely good at hiding. They're lethal —"
"But not as lethal as you." Steve's voice went quiet as he said what neither of them wanted to discuss. Bucky's eyes flashed as they met Steve's, anger boiling in his chest.
"Not me ," he said, dangerously quiet. " Him. "
Steve leaned away from the table a bit, his face uncertain. He seemed to be grasping for something, anything he could say. "But if we could use it to our advantage, learn to control—"
"There’s no controlling him, Steve!" Bucky didn't mean to yell, but it didn’t escape his notice how Steve referred to the Soldier as "it". Slowly, Bucky took a few, shuddering breaths to calm himself. "Believe me," he started again, quieter this time, "I've tried. You think I didn't try to fight him with everything I had back in Berlin?"
"You fought it in D.C., and you saved me."
"That was different. And you might not always be there to bring me back. I've run through every possible scenario for weeks now, Steve... Cryo is the only option."
Steve's shoulders suddenly sagged and his face fell. " Weeks? " he managed to croak out. "You've been wrestling with this for weeks and you're just now tellin’ me?"
"I knew you'd fight it," Bucky replied quietly. "This was somethin’ I needed to decide on my own. And I have decided, Steve. It's done." Bucky knew there was more Steve wanted to say, but he didn’t give him the chance. Swiftly, he stood from the table and headed out of the room. There'd be no harm in starting his testing early today, and he couldn't stand the look on Steve's face anymore.
It just might convince him to change his mind.
The time came a week later. In the days leading up, Bucky had kept his conversations with Steve shallow, never giving any indication of the conflict raging inside. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was the right choice, but the Soldier was still fighting him to the bitter end.
Looming before Bucky was the cryo chamber, metal and glass glinting under fluorescent lights. It seemed to mock him, laughing like it knew this was his only option. It was the last thing Bucky wanted to do, but it was the only choice that one-hundred percent guaranteed the safety of the people around him. The one person he'd give up anything to protect...
Steve stood close by, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes downcast. The small woman in front of him kept her face glued to the tablet in her hands, checking and rechecking the diagnostics coming from the sensors placed on his body. When she was satisfied with the readings, she removed the sticky pads from his skin and walked back to her workstation, leaving the two men with some small measure of privacy.
A thousand frantic thoughts passed over Steve's face, but he didn't give voice to any of them. Instead, he said, "You sure about this?"
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke the same words he'd told himself a hundred times. "I can't trust my own mind," he said softly, looking away for a long moment. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff outta my head, I think goin' back under is the best thing... for everybody."
"But what about what's best for you, Buck? Why is this the only option?" Typical Steve, pushing in the face of defeat. A last ditch effort to find a solution.
Bucky shook his head, allowing a few pieces of hair to fall into his eyes. A helpless smile made its way to his face. "I can't share my head anymore, Steve. I need him out."
"And if they can't fix it; if they can't undo what Hydra did to you?"
The thought had crossed Bucky's mind more than once in the last week. But there was too much at stake here; he couldn't afford to consider that failure was an option. In his mind, it wasn't an option. It couldn’t be. Slowly, he looked back up at Steve, who had inched closer to where he sat on the patient bed.
"Well, then I need you to make me a promise." Steve shot him a questioning look. "If it comes to that... I need you to promise that you won't fight it, that you won't tear the world apart to find an answer. If the smartest people in the world can't figure it out, then I might as well accept that I'm stuck with the Soldier inside my head forever. But I need you to understand, Steve... I don't wanna live like that. I'd rather stay in until he's gone, than live one more day with him hovering over my shoulder. Can you promise me that?"
Steve seemed taken aback at the force of his words. Bucky could tell Steve was conflicted, but he set his jaw and stood his ground. After seventy years of having someone else control his every step and action, he was going to take control for himself. This was his choice to make alone.
Finally, Steve let out the breath he'd been holding. "Okay," he said quietly, completely defeated. "If this is what you want..."
"It is," Bucky affirmed again, glancing over at the cryo chamber, open and waiting for him to crawl inside its quiet comfort. Steve followed his gaze and held out a hand, a small, sad smile upon his face. Bucky grasped his forearm and hauled himself up off the table, leaning against Steve's shoulder when he swayed slightly.
Slowly, they walked toward the chamber, shoulder to shoulder. Three feet away, Bucky stopped and drew in a steadying breath, turning to face Steve. For his part, Steve stayed quiet. There wasn't anything more he could say now. Bucky's mind was made up, for better or for worse.
Like a freight train, a memory hit him, bringing a smile to his face. Days long ago when they'd been terrified of the future, but brave—or maybe just stupid—enough to live like it didn't bother them. A technology expo and a heartfelt goodbye; it formed a lump in his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Bucky offered Steve an unconvincing smile. "Don't do anything stupid 'til I get back," he said, echoing the words from the memory.
Steve's face lit up when he realized, and Bucky saw the tears come to his eyes. "How can I?" he asked with a lopsided grin. "You're taking all the stupid with you."
Bucky leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulders, slamming his eyes shut and memorizing the feeling. Steve grasped him tightly, shuddering against his chest. "Punk," Bucky laughed quietly.
"Jerk." Steve pulled away, the look on his face revealing there was so much more he wanted to say. But he didn't; this was how the goodbye was supposed to be. It wasn't goodbye, after all.
Bucky stepped forward into the cryo chamber and turned to face out, settling into the padded rests. The woman with the tablet came over to the chamber and punched some buttons on a control pad at his right, offering him a reassuring smile. The glass barrier slid shut as he nodded his thanks, and then she retreated back to her workstation.
Steve just kept staring at him with that mournful look. Bucky wished there was something he could say to reassure him, but he wasn't entirely confident this would work either. He just had to put his faith and trust in other people, and hope for the best.
Blinking slowly, he turned his face toward the windows behind the woman's workstation, gazing beyond and out to the horizon. Sunrise peeked over the mountains, bathing the world in orange and pink, lighting up his face. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, when he looked back at Steve and saw him smiling fully. Fittingly, it was the last thing he saw before his eyes fell shut and frost covered the glass of the chamber.
The dreams that lay beyond the ice were ones of long ago. Summer days spent with his sisters; long nights with Steve at his mom's place in Brooklyn; cold winters in Europe, hunkered down in a foxhole. But they were all his, as vivid and real as the day he'd lived them. In his cryogenic sleep, Bucky could relive the life he'd lost; he could be free, and remember.
And just beyond the horizon, daylight waited.
When I die let the flames devour me
When I die set me free
When I die throw my ashes to the breeze
When I die scatter me
***
Daylight is waiting for you