Birthdays and Ghosts
Bucky had never liked birthdays.
Not as a kid—though back then, they at least MEANT something. The scent of homemade cake filling the apartment, Becca pestering him about what kind of present he wanted, his mother singing Happy Birthday just slightly off-key while his father ruffled his hair.
Not as a soldier—because when you were in the middle of a war, survival was the only milestone that mattered.
And certainly not now, when his birthdays felt more like an unwanted reminder of just how many years he had missed, of how much had been stolen, of how many people had been left behind.
He didn’t celebrate anymore.
Didn’t acknowledge it.
He just let the day pass, tried not to think about it, tried not to count the years since the last time Becca had hugged him and called him “Buck” with that warm affection only she could get away with.
Today, he didn’t even bother getting out of bed.
The sun was already creeping higher, filtering weakly through the blinds, but Bucky stayed where he was, stretched out on his side, staring at nothing.
His phone buzzed. Again.
He ignored it. Again.
It had been vibrating all morning, but he hadn’t checked the messages, hadn’t even looked at the screen. He already knew who it was.
Sam.
The first text had probably come at midnight, because Sam was THAT kind of person, the type who would actually give a damn, who would REMEMBER.
And that was the problem.
Bucky didn’t WANT today to be anything.
Didn’t want people acknowledging it. Didn’t want to hear Happy Birthday from anyone who wasn’t family, because the only people he wanted to hear it from were long gone.
His phone vibrated again, the persistent buzz grating against his nerves. He let out a slow, tired sigh, grabbing it off the nightstand without checking the messages, flicking it to silent before tossing it onto the mattress beside him.
The silence settled again.
Empty.
Hollow.
And yet, he didn’t move.
Didn’t get up. Didn’t eat. Didn’t try to do anything except wait the day out.
Maybe, if he stayed still enough, let himself fade into the sheets, the memories wouldn’t press so hard against his ribs.
Maybe, if he just let himself disappear for a few more hours, it wouldn’t feel like he was living in the shadow of a life that had ended decades ago.
He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply through his nose, trying to breathe around it, trying to shake off the ache curling in his chest.
But the weight didn’t lift.
Didn’t ease.
And when his phone buzzed again for an emergency call, he didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed.
----------
Bucky wasn’t sure when he had fallen asleep—if he had fallen asleep at all.
The hours had stretched long, blending into one another, and even though the sun had crept its way through his window, spilling dim light over the floorboards, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t tried to move. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing heavy against his bones, though he wasn’t sure if it was from lack of sleep or something deeper.
Birthdays weren’t supposed to be like this.
Not when he was a kid. Not when Becca would wake him up obnoxiously early, bouncing on his bed, demanding to know what kind of cake he wanted, her laughter filling up their tiny apartment like it had enough room for it. Not when his mother would hum as she mixed batter in a worn old bowl, not when his father would come home from work with a small wrapped gift, usually something practical, but always thoughtful.
Those birthdays FELT like something.
Felt like they MEANT something.
Now, they just felt like a cruel joke.
A reminder of everything he had lost.
Of everything that had been ripped away from him.
Another year he shouldn’t even have, another year where the people who should be here weren’t.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand for what had to be the tenth time that morning. He didn’t look at it.
Didn’t need to.
It was Sam.
Had to be.
Because Sam was the only person who would care enough to try. The only person who would remember.
And Bucky didn’t want him to remember.
Didn’t want to hear Happy Birthday from someone who wasn’t Becca, from someone who wasn’t his mother or father, from someone who hadn’t known him before everything changed.
Because it didn’t feel right.
Didn’t feel like a celebration when it was just another year he didn’t deserve.
So he let the messages go unread. Let the calls go to voicemail. Let the minutes slip by, dragging him deeper into the haze of exhaustion and nothingness, until the sound of knocking shattered the silence.
Bucky barely reacted.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t even bother to acknowledge it.
It wasn’t going away, though.
The knocking came again—sharp, deliberate, not hesitant in the slightest.
And then—
“Barnes, I SWEAR to God, if you don’t open this damn door—”
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
Sam.
Of course it was Sam.
He should’ve KNOWN Sam wouldn’t just let this go.
Wouldn’t just let the silence be.
Bucky stayed still, heart pounding against his ribs, willing Sam to just… leave it.
A pause.
Then—
Something jingled.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open just as the lock clicked.
He barely had time to register what was happening before the door swung open, and Sam strolled in like he owned the place, looking equal parts annoyed and determined, his fingers still holding onto a damn lockpick.
Bucky closed his eyes again.
Because of COURSE Sam could pick locks.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.
Sam shut the door behind him. “Would’ve knocked again, but figured you’d just keep ignoring me.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Didn’t even move.
Sam sighed, stepping deeper into the apartment. “Man, you really weren’t gonna answer, huh?”
Still, nothing.
Because Bucky was still stuck in his head.
Still weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of existing, of breathing, of making it through another birthday that didn’t feel like his own.
Sam’s footsteps were quiet as he moved toward the bedroom.
And when he reached the doorway, he paused.
Bucky knew what he saw.
A mess.
Curtains still drawn, the air stale from hours of stillness. The sheets tangled around Bucky’s legs, his body motionless, his expression slack with something too heavy for words.
He knew he looked bad.
Felt it in the way Sam didn’t speak right away.
For a long moment, Sam just stood there, like he wasn’t sure what approach to take.
Then—
“…Alright,” Sam said quietly, stepping forward.
Bucky barely tracked the movement, barely blinked when Sam pulled out the chair from the desk and sat down beside the bed.
Didn’t protest when Sam reached out, pressed a careful hand against his shoulder, his touch firm but not forceful.
“You in there, man?” Sam asked, voice softer now.
Bucky wanted to answer.
Wanted to push past the fog, shake himself out of it, do anything other than lie there like a lifeless weight.
But he couldn’t.
His throat felt tight, his chest heavy, and the words wouldn’t come.
Sam didn’t push.
Didn’t tell him to snap out of it, didn’t fill the space with empty reassurances.
He just stayed there, his grip steady, fingers curling just slightly against Bucky’s shoulder, grounding him without pulling him too hard.
“Hey, man. I’m here. You’re not alone,” Sam murmured, like he already knew what was circling in Bucky’s mind. “Even if you feel like you are.”
Bucky swallowed, his jaw clenching as something thick settled in his throat.
Because Sam was right.
That was exactly what this was.
Exactly what today always felt like.
Like being alone in something too big to hold.
Bucky finally—finally—moved.
Just a fraction.
Just enough to turn his face slightly toward Sam, to crack open his eyes, to let him be here.
Sam didn’t smile, didn’t act like this was a victory.
Just stayed.
After a long moment, he let out a slow breath. “I brought pie.”
Bucky blinked, brow furrowing slightly. “…Pie?”
Sam nodded. “Apple.” A small pause. “Figured you wouldn’t want a cake.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, something small tugging at the edges of his mouth. “You breaking into my apartment and bringing me pie?” His voice was rough, but the sarcasm was there. “Real nice, Wilson.”
Sam smirked softly. “You’re welcome.”
Bucky let out something close to a laugh—quiet, barely there—but it was there.
And Sam—
Sam just patted his shoulder again, grip lingering, warm.
“Alright,” Sam said, leaning back. “You gonna get up now, or am I gonna have to physically drag you out of this bed?”
Bucky sighed, the weight in his chest still there, but no longer as suffocating.
And for the first time today—
He moved.
Sat up, scrubbed a hand down his face, let himself breathe.
Sam nodded, satisfied.
“Good,” he said. “Now eat your damn pie.”
Bucky huffed.
But when Sam handed him the fork, he took it.
--------
The first bite of pie was slow. Hesitant. Not because Bucky didn’t want it—he was hungry in the way that came from forgetting to eat, a dull emptiness in his stomach—but because he wasn’t sure if he deserved it.
But Sam sat there, watching him, arms crossed, his expression hovering between patient and expectant, like he wasn’t going to let Bucky get away with not eating.
So Bucky took a bite.
The taste was warm—cinnamon and sugar melting over soft, baked apples, the flaky crust crisp against his tongue. It was good.
It reminded him of home.
Not in the way that hurt, not in the way that made him want to crawl deeper into bed and disappear again, but in a way that settled something in his chest. Something quieter. Something almost grounding.
Sam nodded, satisfied. “See? Told you pie makes everything better.”
Bucky exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re really leaning into this whole forcing me to be functional thing, huh?”
Sam nodded with mock solemness. “It’s a full-time job.”
Bucky let out a quiet huff of breath, not quite a laugh, but close. He took another bite, the motions coming easier now, his body slowly catching up to the fact that food was necessary, that maybe this moment was necessary, too.
Sam leaned back in the chair, watching him carefully but without pressing. The room was still dim, the curtains drawn, casting long shadows against the walls, but the weight of the silence had changed. It wasn’t as suffocating.
Bucky swallowed another bite, resting the fork against the edge of the plate. “You really broke into my apartment just to give me pie?”
Sam snorted. “Broke in because you wouldn’t open the damn door. The pie was extra.”
Bucky arched a brow. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
Sam smirked. “Well, you’re sitting up and eating, so yeah, I’d say it worked.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. He should be annoyed. Should be pushing back against the fact that Sam had forced his way in, had forced him out of bed, had forced him to be here.
But, somehow, he wasn’t.
Somehow, this—sitting in silence, eating pie while Sam made himself at home in his too-empty apartment—felt better than being alone.
Sam studied him for a second, something softer flickering in his expression before he finally nodded toward the couch. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this damn bedroom. It’s depressing.”
Bucky sighed, but didn’t argue.
Didn’t protest when Sam grabbed the plate from him, carrying it out like this was his place, like he belonged here.
Bucky swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cold floor. His limbs still felt heavy, his body still sluggish, but he was moving.
And maybe that was enough.
—
By the time they settled into the living room, Bucky felt marginally more human.
He was still tired, still worn down in the way grief and exhaustion could do to a person, but at least he wasn’t in bed.
Sam dropped onto the couch like he owned it, legs stretching out, one arm slung over the back. He turned on the TV, flipping through channels like this was just another regular night, like he hadn’t pried Bucky out of an episode of self-destruction only half an hour ago.
Bucky sat at the other end, pulling the throw blanket over himself more out of habit than anything. His apartment was cold, but he didn’t feel it, not really.
“Anything specific you wanna watch?” Sam asked, still clicking through options.
Bucky shrugged, staring at the screen without really seeing it. “Something mindless.”
Sam hummed, flipping a few more times before stopping.
Bucky glanced over, his brows drawing together. “Is that Shark Tank?”
Sam smirked. “Yup.”
Bucky blinked. “You watch Shark Tank?”
Sam grinned. “Hell yeah. I love watching rich people beg other rich people for money.”
Bucky shook his head, a real laugh slipping out this time, quiet but genuine. “You’re ridiculous.”
Sam leaned back, smug. “But you’re watching it, though.”
Bucky sighed, but let himself settle against the couch, gaze shifting back to the screen.
They didn’t talk much after that, letting the show fill the space between them. But the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. Wasn’t empty.
It was just there.
Bucky let himself breathe in it.
After a while, Sam spoke again, voice softer now, more thoughtful. “I know today sucks.”
Bucky swallowed, fingers tightening against the blanket.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Sam sighed. “But you don’t have to do this alone, man.”
Bucky’s throat felt tight again, something thick settling in his chest.
But he nodded, because that’s all he could really do.
-------------
The meeting had been dragging on for forty-five minutes, and Bucky had heard maybe five of those minutes in total.
He was there, physically at least—sitting at the long oak table in his congressional office, wearing the same crisp suit and tie as always, hands folded neatly in front of him. He was nodding in the right places, letting his staffers drone on about policy concerns, committee schedules, and whatever else needed his attention.
But his mind?
Somewhere else entirely.
The weight of his birthday still sat in his chest, heavy and unmoving. It had passed—another year gone, another reminder that he was still here while so many others weren’t—but the feeling hadn’t left. It had clung to him, dragging behind him like an invisible chain, making everything feel just a little duller.
His office had noticed.
His chief of staff, Natalie, had started lowering her voice when she spoke to him, treating him like a bomb that might go off at any second. His interns had been tiptoeing around, their usual enthusiasm dialed down to something cautious. Even his senior advisors, hardened professionals who had worked under actual war criminals before, had been casting him sideways glances, like they were debating whether or not to say something.
Nobody had said anything yet.
But they felt it.
Bucky felt it, too.
And the worst part? He didn’t even have it in him to fix it.
He was trying. Trying to pay attention, trying to focus on the words being thrown at him, but they felt like background noise, a dull hum that never quite cut through the static in his brain.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Bucky barely had time to register the movement before a very determined Sam Wilson strode in, still in full Captain America gear, shield on his back, tactical gloves on, sunglasses perched on his nose like he had just strolled in from a mission.
Every person at the table fell silent.
Heads snapped toward the door, some eyes widening in alarm, some in confusion.
Natalie, ever the professional, recovered first. “Captain Wilson—”
Sam held up a hand, cutting her off completely.
“I need Barnes,” he announced, voice booming in the small room. “Emergency meeting. Right now.”
Bucky blinked.
The entire table turned to look at him.
He stared at Sam. Sam stared back.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Natalie, ever the poor soul in charge of managing Bucky’s life, hesitated. “I—Congressman Barnes is in the middle of an important—”
“This is classified Avenger business,” Sam cut in smoothly, way too smooth, like he had planned this nonsense.
Natalie frowned. “What kind of—”
Sam clapped his hands together, looking unreasonably confident. “Can’t say.” He turned to Bucky. “But it IS urgent. Right, Barnes?”
Bucky exhaled slowly.
Let his gaze drag over Sam, taking in the very deliberate set of his shoulders, the way he was waiting for Bucky to call him out on his bullshit.
Bucky could do that.
Could make this whole thing difficult.
Or—
He could leave.
He could let Sam pull whatever ridiculous scheme this was, let him do whatever the hell he was planning, and step out of this meeting before his entire team started staging an intervention.
After a long, slow pause, Bucky sighed and pushed back his chair.
The entire table went stiff.
Natalie blinked, clearly trying to decide whether or not she should fight this. “Sir—”
Bucky stood, straightening his tie. “Captain Wilson says it’s an emergency.”
Sam grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Glad you understand, Barnes.”
Bucky gave him a long, flat look before glancing back at the table. “We’ll pick this up later.”
Nobody moved.
His entire team was still staring, clearly not sure if they should be concerned or relieved.
Bucky didn’t wait for their approval.
Instead, he turned on his heel and followed Sam out, ignoring the many, many confused stares burning into his back.
The second the door shut behind them, Bucky exhaled sharply. “What the HELL was that?”
Sam just started walking down the hall, like this was normal. “That, Barnes, was me getting you the hell out of that depressing-ass meeting before you bust a blood vessel.”
Bucky frowned, matching his stride. “You just interrupted a congressional meeting.”
“You were about five minutes away from falling asleep.”
“I was NOT—”
“You ABSOLUTELY were.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “And what, exactly, is this emergency?”
Sam sighed. “You.”
Bucky stopped walking.
Sam, realizing this, took a few more steps before pausing and looking back. “Barnes.”
Bucky inhaled slowly. “You lied about an emergency to get me out of work?”
Sam shrugged, completely unrepentant. “You haven’t been yourself since your birthday.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “I’m fine.”
Sam arched a brow.
Bucky exhaled through his nose, looking away.
Sam nodded, stepping closer. “Listen, man. I know you’re not one for big, sappy conversations, so I’m not gonna push you into one. But I can see it. You’re not okay.”
Bucky swallowed.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the weight of exhaustion still there, pressing into his skin.
Sam sighed, lowering his voice. “So, we’re going out.”
Bucky frowned. “Going where?”
“Somewhere that isn’t your depressing-ass office.”
Bucky huffed. “That’s not an answer.”
Sam shrugged again. “Nope.”
Bucky stared at him.
Sam stared back.
And, reluctantly, Bucky realized—
He wasn’t getting out of this.
Not unless he physically fought Sam in the middle of a government building, which, considering how many damn security cameras there were, wasn’t the best idea.
After a long pause, Bucky let out a slow, suffering breath. “This is stupid.”
Sam clapped him on the back, already steering him toward the exit. “No, Barnes. This is helping.”
Bucky let himself be dragged along, shaking his head, wondering how the hell he had let his life come to this.
----------------
Bucky barely had time to process what was happening before Sam was opening the passenger door of his truck, waiting expectantly, one hand resting on the roof like this was just another day.
Bucky scowled, hesitating on the curb. “You gonna buckle me in too, sweetheart?”
Sam didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk, didn’t snap back like he usually would. Just gave him a long, steady look, unreadable behind the sunglasses perched on his nose.
Bucky felt his stomach tighten.
Because Sam always bit back.
It was their thing, their rhythm—Bucky pushing, Sam pushing back, both of them giving as good as they got.
But today?
Sam just tilted his head, expression calm, but firm. “Get in, Barnes.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his gaze as he climbed into the truck, ignoring the way Sam’s lack of reaction made something twist in his chest.
The door shut with a solid thunk, and then Sam was circling the front, sliding into the driver’s seat with that same quiet, measured presence, like he had all the time in the world to wait for Bucky to get himself together.
The engine rumbled to life, and they pulled out of the parking lot, slipping into traffic like this was normal.
Like Sam hadn’t just interrupted his entire workday to drag him off to some mystery destination.
Bucky slumped against the door, watching the city flicker past, trying to shake off the thick feeling in his chest, the exhaustion that clung to him like an extra layer of skin.
Sam didn’t speak for a while.
Didn’t explain, didn’t offer a destination, just drove—smooth and steady, one hand resting against the wheel, gaze set on the road ahead.
Bucky turned his head slightly, watching him.
Something in Sam’s jaw was tight. Not angry, not impatient—just… focused. Like he’d made up his mind about something and wasn’t going to let Bucky talk his way out of it.
Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You gonna tell me where we’re going, or is this some kind of hostage situation?”
Sam huffed a quiet breath, eyes still on the road. “You’re not that lucky.”
Bucky’s lips twitched slightly—almost a smirk, but not quite.
Because Sam still wasn’t playing along.
Still wasn’t biting.
And that—
That made Bucky’s stomach sink a little.
Because it meant Sam had seen through him.
Meant that Bucky hadn’t been hiding things as well as he’d thought, that the mask he had carefully kept in place since his birthday had cracked enough for Sam to notice.
They drove for another ten minutes, slipping deeper into the heart of D.C., until Sam finally slowed, pulling into a quiet lot near the National Mall.
Bucky barely noticed when the truck rolled to a stop.
He had spent the entire drive in silence, eyes fixed on the passing streets, hands curled loosely into fists against his lap. He had expected Sam to fill the space, to keep talking in that easy, casual way that made Bucky forget, for just a moment, that there was something wrong.
But Sam hadn’t spoken.
Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t tried to bait him into bickering like he usually did.
He had just driven, steady and silent, like he knew—like he felt it too.
And now they were here.
Bucky didn’t move.
Didn’t look.
Because he knew.
Knew the place before his eyes even registered it, before the weight in his chest could tighten, before the cold realization could settle into his bones.
The World War II Memorial stretched before him, polished stone gleaming under the dim afternoon light, the fountains murmuring softly in the distance.
Bucky’s stomach twisted.
Sam cut the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt, but didn’t move to get out.
He turned to Bucky instead, watching him closely.
Bucky exhaled slowly, forcing his fingers to unclench. “I’ve seen it before, Sam.”
Sam studied him for a beat before nodding. “I know.”
Bucky let out a sharp breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Then why—”
“This isn’t where we’re going.”
Bucky blinked, turning to him. “What?”
Sam pushed open his door. “Come on.”
Bucky hesitated.
The cold pressed against his skin, a warning.
A reminder.
Something in his gut told him that whatever Sam had planned, whatever this was—
It was going to hurt.
But Sam was already walking, already moving across the pavement with the quiet, unwavering certainty of someone who had made up his mind.
Bucky swallowed hard, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and followed.
The main plaza of the memorial stretched around them, scattered with tourists and history buffs, people taking quiet moments to read the names etched into the walls, to reflect on the weight of it.
Bucky had been here once.
Had stood in front of his own name, carved into stone like a marker for a life that had ended, like a ghost watching his own funeral.
Had walked away before he could think too hard about what it meant.
But Sam didn’t stop at the wall.
Didn’t even slow.
Bucky frowned.
They veered left, heading toward a smaller, gated section of the memorial grounds—one that Bucky had never paid attention to, had never noticed.
And then—
Sam stopped.
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
Beyond the gate, a separate honorary burial ground stretched before them, lined with neatly arranged headstones.
His vision blurred slightly at the edges.
“Sam.” His voice was rough, uncertain. “What is this?”
Sam exhaled, stepping forward. “Something you’ve been avoiding.”
Bucky didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Sam glanced at him, then back at the graves. “You never asked where they were buried.”
Bucky felt something sharp press against his ribs.
“I—” His voice caught. He swallowed, throat dry. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t want to know,” Sam finished for him. “I get it.”
Bucky closed his eyes.
Because he hadn’t.
He had never asked.
Had never wanted to face the truth of it, had never been able to bring himself to search for the places where his mother, his father, his SISTER—
Where they had been laid to rest.
Because if he never LOOKED, if he never KNEW, then maybe—
Maybe he could pretend they weren’t gone.
Maybe some part of him could still believe he could go HOME.
His breath hitched.
“Bucky,” Sam said, voice softer now. “They’re here.”
Bucky forced his feet to move, his body feeling like lead as he stepped through the gate, as he followed Sam down the row of markers, each step bringing him closer to something he wasn’t ready to face.
Then—
His name.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Engraved into polished stone.
A mockery of a death that hadn’t been his.
A memorial to a man who never made it home.
And beside it—
Bucky’s vision swam.
George Barnes.
Winifred Barnes.
Rebecca Barnes.
His breath left him.
His chest locked up.
They had been here. HERE. All this time.
And he had never known.
Never looked.
Never let himself.
His legs buckled before he could stop it.
He hit the ground hard, knees pressing into damp grass, hands trembling as he reached out, fingertips ghosting over the letters of Becca’s name.
Rebecca Barnes.
His baby sister.
His Becca.
Bucky made a sound—a quiet, ragged thing that barely scraped past his throat, but it was enough.
Sam was beside him in an instant.
A steady hand on his back, grounding, warm.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, trying to hold it together.
But the weight of it—
The years of not knowing, of not looking, of pretending—
It came crashing down all at once.
His breath stuttered. His shoulders shook.
The sky darkened.
And then—
The first drop of rain.
Cold against his skin.
A second.
Then a thousand, a slow drizzle turning into something heavier, something that blurred the edges of the world around him, something that matched the storm inside him.
He clenched his jaw, trying to swallow it down, to keep it inside, to not break, not now, not—
Sam shifted, his grip tightening.
“Bucky,” he said, low and steady.
Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, tried to say something—anything—but it came out as a choked sound, something he barely recognized.
And then Sam moved.
Didn’t speak, didn’t ask, didn’t give Bucky the chance to fall apart alone.
Instead, he wrapped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him in.
Not forceful. Not demanding. Just solid.
And Bucky—
Bucky let himself fall into it.
Let himself collapse against Sam’s shoulder, his hands gripping uselessly at Sam’s jacket, his breath staggering against the weight of it all.
Sam held him.
Held him through it.
Through the shaking. Through the rain. Through the years of grief Bucky had never let himself feel.
And for the first time since he had woken up in the twenty-first century—
Since he had clawed his way back to something like living—
Bucky mourned.
--------------
The rain hadn’t stopped.
It had settled in, steady and unrelenting, soaking through Bucky’s clothes, making the weight in his chest feel heavier, like the world itself had taken notice of his grief and decided to make it tangible. He stood there, rain dripping from his lashes, his knees still pressed into the cold, wet ground in front of the gravestone marked Rebecca Barnes.
He had spent decades convincing himself he wasn’t allowed to mourn.
That whatever pain he had—whatever grief—was secondary to everything else. That he had no right to sit in his own sadness, not when he had been the one to live, not when he had taken so much more from the world than the world had ever taken from him.
But here, now, staring at the names of the people who had loved him, who had waited for him, who had died believing he was gone—
The walls he had spent years building crumbled.
His breath hitched—short, uneven, like something was splitting open inside him, tearing apart the carefully constructed armor he had built around his grief. His hands clenched into fists against his thighs, fingernails biting into the soaked fabric of his pants.
“Bucky.”
Sam’s voice was low, steady.
But Bucky couldn’t look at him.
Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t do anything but stare at the gravestone, at her name, at the undeniable proof that Becca was gone. That she had been gone for longer than he had even been awake.
“She was just a kid,” Bucky whispered, voice raw.
Sam didn’t speak.
Didn’t push.
Bucky swallowed, eyes burning, shoulders shaking from something that had nothing to do with the cold.
“She was just a kid,” he repeated, voice cracking. “And I left her.”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut.
“I never came home.” His voice was barely audible now, rough and broken and small. “I never got to see her grow up.”
The words sat heavy in the air.
The wind pushed against them, curling around the gravestones, rustling the trees.
Bucky’s breath stuttered, his pulse pounding, his hands gripping his knees too tightly.
“You think about what she would’ve been like?” Sam asked quietly.
Bucky let out a shaky exhale. “All the time.”
Sam nodded, like he already knew.
Bucky swallowed, his throat tight, his heart aching.
“She wrote me letters,” he admitted. “During the war.” His fingers twitched, aching to hold them again, aching for something that no longer existed. “She—she always thought I was gonna come home. She believed it.” He let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “She told me she was gonna have a big cake waiting for me. Said Ma was teaching her how to bake.”
He wiped a hand over his face, not sure if it was rain or tears running down his cheeks.
“She waited for me, Sam.” His voice was shaking now, grief pressing into every syllable. “She waited. And then she had to bury me instead.”
Sam’s chest rose and fell in a deep breath, like he was feeling it too.
But he didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t cut in with reassurances or empty words.
He just let Bucky speak.
“I wasn’t supposed to come back,” Bucky rasped. “This isn’t—this wasn’t—” He exhaled sharply, his head dropping forward, fingers curling into the soaked grass. “I feel like I died back then, Sam. Like I never really came back.”
The admission tasted like blood.
Like something he had been holding in for too long, something rotten that had been sitting in his chest, festering, waiting to be let out.
Sam stayed close beside him, the mud soaking into his pants, the rain making slow trails down his face.
He didn’t look disgusted.
Didn’t look pitying.
He just looked at him.
Bucky let out a shuddering breath, blinking hard.
“I feel like a goddamn ghost.” His voice was quieter now, hoarse. “Like I’m just… walking around, pretending to be something I’m not.”
Sam’s jaw clenched. “Bucky—”
“I’m so TIRED, Sam.” The words cracked apart, barely pushing past his lips. “I wake up every day, and I—” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know WHY I keep doing it. It’s like I’m just waiting for the moment when—”
He cut himself off.
Swallowed hard.
The words sat there, unfinished.
But Sam heard them anyway.
Something in his expression shifted—something fierce, something unshakable, something that made Bucky feel like he was being seen in a way that he hadn’t let himself be seen in decades.
Sam reached out.
Gripped the back of Bucky’s neck, firm but gentle, the warmth of his palm cutting through the cold like an anchor.
“You DID come back,” Sam said, voice steady.
Bucky’s throat tightened.
Sam held his gaze.
“And yeah, man, maybe you didn’t come back the same. Maybe it doesn’t feel like you’re you anymore. Maybe you don’t even know who that is.” His thumb pressed lightly against the tense muscle in Bucky’s neck. “But you DID COME BACK.”
Bucky’s breath shuddered.
His hands shook.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to—” He gestured vaguely, frustration curling at the edges of his grief. “How to move on. How to let any of this go.”
Sam exhaled slowly, the rain still trickling down his skin, soft and relentless.
“You don’t have to move on.”
Bucky frowned, throat raw.
Sam’s grip on his neck tightened just slightly, grounding.
“You CAN’T move on,” Sam continued, voice firm. “Not until you come to terms with what happened. With ALL of it. You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen, can’t just shove it down and hope it goes away.”
Bucky swallowed hard. “And if I don’t know how?”
Sam held his gaze, unwavering.
“Then let me help you, Buck.”
Bucky’s lips parted slightly, his breath shallow, his chest too tight.
He wanted to argue.
Wanted to push back.
Wanted to say this isn’t something you can fix, Sam.
But—
Sam wasn’t trying to fix him.
Wasn’t trying to pull him out of this.
He was just here.
Just holding on.
Just refusing to let Bucky drown in it alone.
And Bucky—
Bucky didn’t realize he was moving until his forehead pressed against Sam’s shoulder, until his hands gripped weakly at Sam’s jacket, until the weight of everything spilled over in one deep, gut-wrenching sob.
Sam held him.
Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch.
Just held him tight.
Let him break.
Let him fall apart in the cold, in the rain, in front of the names of the people he had loved—the people he had lost—the people who had waited for him.