Denial
The sun was shining through their bedroom window despite the March chill. A soft ray illuminated a golden skin buried beneath the bedsheets. The figure moved slightly to the rhythm of slow, soothed breathing. On the bedside table sat a vase filled with flowers freshly bought that morning. The smell of newly-baked pancakes wafted into the room as a tall, blond man entered, carrying a breakfast tray. He looked longingly at his sleeping lover, contemplating the sense of fulfillment he felt.
It was perfect. Simply perfect.
He decided to enjoy the calm of the morning a little longer. He set the tray down on the bedside table and reached for a sketchbook he'd left there the day before. Multiple scribbled sheets littered the bedroom floor; it had become a habit now, not really having room to display them on the wall. All represented their artist's muse.
And the one the blond was decorating right now was no exception.
He drew for about ten minutes, until he heard the sheets rustle under his model's slight movements. He put down his sketchpad and leaned towards him.
"Wake up, sleepyhead..." he murmured, running his hand over the dark-haired man's back. The incomprehensible mumblings he received in response made him chuckle softly. He bent down and placed a tender kiss on his cheek. "Happy birthday my love."
The brunet stretched painfully, then held out his arms to the blond for a hug. "Thanks Stevie," he murmured still asleep, followed by a chaste kiss on Steve's lips.
He shifted in bed so the two could lie in each other's arms. The dark-haired man's left hand wandered into his companion's hair. His fingers massaging his skull brushed occasional rays passing through the window, tinting a ring on his ring finger.
"I could do this all day..." hummed Steve. "I love you Buck."
The brunet's laugh enveloped him like a soft pillow made of clouds. He closed his eyes, awash in love and happiness, hugging his body tightly to his own.
But when he opened them again, the bed was empty. The warm atmosphere was gone; the weather outside was sullen, relative to his mood. The spot beside him was cooled by the absence of body heat. Instead of his companion's angelic laughter, a deafening silence took its place.
Steve sighed, dejected.
Seventy-three years.
It had been seventy-three years since James "Bucky" Barnes had left this ground.
It had been seventy-three years since Steve Rogers had wandered aimlessly in the world of the living, when the best part of himself had departed seven decades earlier.
In fact, it's "only" been six years since Steve carried that grief wherever he went, praying every night to one day see that face he missed so much.
When Captain America woke up five years ago, he had lost everything a second time. He had tried to join him. By crashing that plane, he had hoped to find him. But now he was opening his eyes to a whole new era in which he knew nothing, nobody, and where his soulmate wasn't.
Was this hell, then ? Was this the price to pay for being two mistakes of their time ? Was this the punishment for their forbidden love ?
He had everything.
Their situation had never been perfect. He often lacked money or resources, he was cold when winter came, he had dysfunctional health, but no matter:
Even when he had nothing, he had him.
So yes, he had it all: joy, warmth, tenderness, gentleness, laughter, love. When he'd received the serum and a generous salary commensurate with his status, Steve had felt invincible. At last, he could give his companion the life they had dreamed of. At last, he could offer him protection against the world. Finally, he could take his courage in both hands and ask his.
But no. Once at the front, the blond learned that his companion was missing. He'd rescued him even though he was severely wounded and traumatized, and less than a year later, he died helping Steve capture his own torturer.
He had nothing left.
Nothing but his grief and his eternal love for a departed soul.
They had been happy. So happy.
He'd seen his body after the accident. He'd gone to pick it up himself. His pale face, his glassy eyes, his frozen body, and all that blood, most of which had come from his severed left arm. He'd wanted a ceremony, a real one. He had used his name to organize the preparations. He had managed to obtain a short delay for the body while the coffin, the Takhrikhim and the tombstone were collected. He didn't know much about Jewish ceremonies, being a Christian himself, but he'd done his best and ironically, he knew that Bucky, had he been there, would have told him not to worry so much about it. But he meant well. He'd wrapped him in the white shroud himself, and he'd had to close the straw-filled coffin on his own. And he'd done it all alone. The Howling Commandos had offered to help, but Steve wouldn't have it. Besides, without them around, he could mark the inscriptions "Beloved son, brother, friend and lover" on the stone without attracting anyone's curiosity. Moreover, he was Captain America, he had no right to show his face when all hope had left his being.
The letter to his family had been heartbreaking, as much for them as for the blond. Rebecca Barnes, his little sister, had refused to believe him. She insulted Steve and blamed him for not saving him. Steve didn't blame her; after him, Becca was the closest person to Bucky and he knew that in her place, immoral as it was, he would have done the same.
He'd always found the contrast between her and Buck amusing. She was impulsive and strong-willed. He was calm and much more diplomatic. In a way, he was grateful for the gulf between their personalities: he couldn't bear to read any words his lover might have uttered.
In her reply, Becca had torn the letter in several places where the lead of her pencil had crushed too hard under the rage. The tears of Winnifred Barnes, her mother, were still visible on the yellowed paper. Both women had stayed in the United States and were devastated that they hadn't been able to see him one last time. They were even more devastated that they hadn't been able to bury him at home.
Then Hydra, the bombs, the plane, the explosion, the crash, the ice and poof... 2012.
The Avengers, Loki, Hydra again and poof... today.
For Steve, it was all there was to remember.
After several minutes of trying to stem his tears and untie the tight knot in his throat, he managed to get to his feet.
A dream, it was just a dream.
And often in that thought, he didn't just include his night dreams.
He had to get rid of his dark thoughts. Like every morning, he prepares to go for a run. Joining Sam is good for him: he feels less lonely, despite what his heart may think.
Today Sam wants to break new ground; he's taking him running by the lake in Central Park. It's still early; the tourists haven't arrived, which leaves them free to enjoy the soothing sounds of trickling water, chirping birds and leaves rustling in the breeze.
They stop at the foot of a tree to catch their breath. Two squirrels are playing not far from them. They're adorable, with their fiery furs looking so soft.
Bucky loves squirrels. When they were little, the brunet's childhood dream was to set up a shelter for them. He even tried to tame one. It was a total failure, but they'd had a good laugh about it. The memory made the blond chuckle softly. He took out his phone and pointed the lens at the little fur balls in front of him, ready to take a picture. He could show it to Bucky lat-...
His smile faded in a second. He lowered his phone.
He didn't like squirrels that much anyway.
Sam behind him frowned, confused. He watched a motionless Steve without saying a word. His friend didn't talk about his traumas, which was a normal but unhealthy reaction. He didn't know what was bothering him at that very moment, but he did know that these torments had been haunting him for a long time, and that keeping them to himself wasn't helping. He'll never force him to do it, but sooner or later, Steve will have to move on if he doesn't want to sink.
They silently made their way back to the Tower, Sam leading him on a detour that would surely bring some relief to his friend.
They passed through a shopping alleyway that the blond crossed almost every day. Unlike the rest of the city, this corner retained a certain old-world charm, if only in its cobbled roads and weathered buildings. Steve loved passing through here. It was the only road that gave him a semblance of familiarity. In a technopolis like New York in search of modernity, he didn't think he'd ever find a place that gave him such hospitality and nostalgia at the same time.
Of all the small shops clustering in this passageway, the only one that interested him was the florist, as always. He's a regular at this little store. The old man who runs it has almost become a close friend at this point. He knows Steve's partner's tastes inside out, yet always manages to make each bouquet unique.
Steve stopped without a word. Sam suspected he wanted to offer them, only he didn't know to whom or for what reason. The blond came out with a bouquet in shades of yellow and orange. Bucky's favorite colors. Sam refrained from asking any questions, having learned over time that they would only upset Steve.
Once back in his quarters, Steve takes a long look at the flowers, lost in emptiness. They wouldn't end up on a bedside table ready to greet Bucky when he woke up. They won't be cherished, admired or smelled. They will only be delicately placed on the right side of the bed, where he should have been. His heart clenched at the thought that today he would have to take the Quinjet to the Swiss Alps to lay a second bouquet in the place he treasured as much as he hated. March 10 was the second date he dreaded most.
He set about preparing lunch for himself. He cooked some vegetables and chicken, stirred them in some cream and brought out two plates which he filled abundantly.
Only when it was time to set the table did he remember.
He hated this habit. And yet he never did anything to lose it.
The empty place in front of him, with the plate he always forgot not to fill, taunted him. As with every meal, he finished his first plate bitterly, then exchanged it for a full one and finished it in turn.
His body needed to consume a lot of food anyway.
Then he went about his duties as Captain America, meeting after meeting, training after training. Every gesture was unmotivated. Every word devoid of presence. Sometimes he told himself that this was the success of the Project Rebirth, the one that had given him that dose of super-serum in 1943: to turn him into a machine whose sole purpose was to serve the nation.
The Avengers paid no more attention than that to his "distress", as Sam called it. Tony assailed him with remarks and cynical jokes, teasing him about the fact that Banner had seen more gigolos in his bed than Captain America himself.
Banner, who was too busy in his laboratory to say hello to the rest of the team from time to time. Just like Clint, who was enjoying his family life, something Steve deeply envied.
Thor didn't stay on Earth much either, and when he did, it was simply to see his Midgardian girlfriend.
In sum, every day was the same. But the final straw was that simple message from Natasha. That recurring message offering him a new date with a stranger almost every night, which he never went on.
This message that reminding him that he was alone. Except she was wrong:
He already had someone anyway.