Bittersweet Buckbean
The kiss they'd shared just last week felt far away. Bucky felt even further.
He'd withdrawn into himself that night, to the point that Rose felt like she was living with a ghost. She hated the feeling, hated feeling helpless to fix it.
But how was she—or anyone—supposed to fix this? How was she supposed to unravel decades of violence? How could she ever begin to heal a man who had hurt so many and had been hurt tenfold himself?
She couldn't. She didn’t know how.
But Rose could make Bucky coffee and waffles in the morning. She could put a blanket over his shoulders when he fell asleep in the corner of her living room. She could sit beside him, hold the unyielding metal of his hand, and let him know he wasn't alone. So that's exactly what Rose did.
“I'm heading to the studio," Rosemary called from the doorway. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" The lilt of her voice was almost pleading, he heard the way it quivered with every word.
She sighed. "Okay...I'll be back soon. Remember to eat something for lunch. There's leftovers in the fridge."
The apartment door clicked shut, her key wiggled in the lock, and Rosemary's footsteps faded down the stairwell. Bucky sat on one of the kitchen barstools, a cold cup of coffee in front of him.
He should feel bad. He should regret his behavior from the past week. But Bucky didn't feel anything past the pervasive numbness—the cold—that had seeped into his flesh. He couldn't form a coherent thought past the dull buzz fogging his mind. Bucky looked at the plate in front of him. The stack of waffles was drooping to the side, weighed down by syrup that had sat too long and soaked too deep. He blinked. The reflection in the glassy surface of his coffee blinked back.
Bucky pushed away from the counter. He was on his feet before he even know where he was going. It took a moment to realize he had nowhere to go. Bucky stood in the middle of Rosemary's apartment. The traffic outside and the clink of his metal hand clenching were the only noise.
He needed to move, to run, to do something other than claw at that metal door in his mind. So he did the only thing he could do without leaving the apartment: recon.
Bucky stalked through the apartment, checking and re-checking that every room was clear and secure, that there were no weak points for infiltration, and that the knives he'd stashed around the apartment on that first night were still in place. They were. Having checked the bathroom three times over, he moved to the next door in the hall.
The hallway closet was stuffed to the brim with coats, spare linens, and some of his own clothes, which Rosemary had bought for him just a few short weeks ago. He worked systematically through the mess, starting with his own clothes, moving to the linens, and then the coats. He patted down the pockets and lining of each one before moving to the next. When the last coat was checked and cleared there was only one thing left. The box.
It sat on the top shelf, deliberately shoved into the furthest corner. Even for Bucky it was almost too far to reach, so he knew Rosemary never reached for the box. He yanked it down, surprised by the full weight of it in his arms. On top of the box, under a thin layer of dust, was a single word scrawled in blue sharpie. Tara.
The air around him stilled. His mind whispered to him not to open it, to just shove it back into place and forget. But curiosity gnawed at him. Bucky sank to the floor right there in the hall, the box in front of him.
His mind was a mess of muffled sounds and memories, all of them rattling against that impenetrable steel door. Though in truth, he’d stopped trying to understand the desperate screams that echoed from inside. The few memories that slipped through the cracks had been too painful. Bucky wasn't so sure he wanted to remember the rest. So he sat there, staring at a plain brown box with a layer of dust on the lid.
It was the quiet, aching realization that Rosemary had her own vault, that spurred him to move. Cold fingers peeled the lid back and set it on the hallway floor right there beside him.
The first thing he saw was a book, old and worn, the spine cracked and peeling like it had been read a thousand times. Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery. Bucky set it aside and reached into the box again. He came up with a dark blue sweatshirt. It was worn, not as badly as the book, but it had clearly been a favorite item at some point. He brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled. Flowers. Despite how long it must've been stashed away, the fabric somehow still smelled like Rosemary, along with the faintest hint of something fresh and salty. The second scent settled on the back of his tongue, tasting like the sea. He set the sweatshirt aside and pulled out a photo album. It was a large, leather-bound book that sat on top of a couple disposable cameras and a few film canisters. Bucky shook one of them and the film rattled inside. He opened the book.
The girl in the first photo was no older than three. She wore a flower print dress and smiled broadly at the camera. The field of yellow flowers around her was a stark contrast to the deep brown of her eyes and curls, but she was still the brightest thing in the frame. Bucky turned the pages and watched the girl age, watched her grow into an adult, watched the light leave her smile.
He'd never seen Rosemary smile as brightly as she had in that first photo. But he kept turning the pages and some of that light seemed to come back in more recent years. Each page revealed a new facet of her, a new expression for him to memorize. Rosemary standing in an art gallery. Rosemary on a hiking trail. Rosemary on the beach, her head thrown back with laughter. Every frame bled light and dripped with love. Whoever was behind that camera during Rosemary’s older years had somehow captured what Bucky felt every time he was near her. Every picture filled him with a warmth he didn't know what to do with.
When he couldn't bring himself to turn another page, Bucky set the photo album among the growing pile of stuff on the floor around him. A few more pieces of clothing sat at the bottom of the box. Bucky pushed them aside and his fingers touched something hard. He pulled a black velvet box out from beneath the clothes and just held it in his lap. It was about the size of his hand, tiny particles of dust clung to the fuzzy exterior. Heart in his throat, Bucky opened it.
Inside, cushioned on a velvet pillow, were four items. A paper, carefully folded into a small square, two rings, their golden bands dulled from age, and beneath it all, a Silver Star Medal. Bucky's fingers trembled as he brushed them over the polished medal. He hissed when a sharp pain struck the side of his skull and a memory flickered across all that whiteness in his mind. A Silver Star, an old man with a kind smile, a pinch on his cheek. Familiar.
He picked up one of the rings, ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry. Twisting gold vines wrapped around the band on either side of a central fixture, which held several thin red diamonds that curled into each other like rose petals. The stones glimmered beneath the meager hallway light, but something else caught his eye. He brought the ring closer and read the minuscule text engraved inside the band.
I don't want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.
The ring fell back into the box, clattering against the medal. Bucky hurriedly stuffed the folded paper back into the box and snapped it shut. Whatever was written there, it wasn't his to see. All the things piled around him were stuffed hastily back into the brown box, the lid was pressed down, and the box was shoved back onto the closet shelf.
Bucky paced the living room floor, a cold, pressing feeling stirred behind his ribs with each step. He needed to go, needed to run. He couldn't just sit in this empty apartment and allow himself to be driven over the edge by photos and rings and old sweatshirts. But he couldn't rest until he understood, could barely breathe under the weight of not knowing all the information.
"Bucky?" The front door clicked shut as Rosemary entered the apartment, calling out to him.
Bucky closed the closet door and stepped into the living room. The tension in Rosemary's shoulders eased.
"Hey," she sighed, "I couldn't focus at work. I just—" she broke off, turning those big brown eyes down to stare at her shuffling feet. "I can't stand the silence, Bucky. I can't do it. So let's just talk, please, I hate being left in the dark—"
"Who's Tara?" Bucky cut her rambling short.
Rose's stomach dropped. Her keys clattered to the floor. "How do you know—"
"I found the box."
Blood pounded in Rose's ears. Bucky marched closer. The hand he reached out to her was blurred by the tears gathered in her eyes.
"You found the box," she mumbled and squeezed her eyes shut. A tear rolled down her cheek, its path cut short by a warm hand that cradled her face.
"Seems like she was important to you,” Bucky said in a gentle rasp.
A whimper escaped her trembling lips. "She was—" a sob she'd been holding back for years finally broke through. Rose forced her eyes open and looked up into icy blue instead of soft brown. "She was my fiancée."
Dark brows scrunched low over those blue eyes. Rose couldn't stand being on the receiving end of that look. She couldn't take Bucky looking at her with shock and barely masked pity. The tote bag slid off her shoulder and Rose collapsed into Bucky's chest with a sob.
He was warm and solid and—despite all their turmoil—safe. So Rose let herself crumble in his arms, trusting that he'd catch the pieces.
Bucky didn't hesitate to wrap both arms around her. They stayed like that for a while, his fingers in her hair, her tears on his shoulder. When Rose's sobs eased and Bucky's fingers began to brush gently through her hair, he spoke.
"You loved her." It wasn't a question.
"Yes." She answered anyway.
"And lost her."
Rose whimpered, a broken little sound. "Yes."
"How?"
Rose shook her head, burrowing further into the crook of his neck. Bucky held her tighter.
If he'd found the box then he must’ve seen the note. He must've read the tear-smudged ink that haunted her.
"Please, Bucky. I can't—"
A cool hand brushed the back of her neck.
"Okay," he said softly. "Tell me when you're ready."
Rose cried harder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Bucky pressed a lingering kiss to Rose's hair and held her until her sobs turned to sniffles.
"C’mon," he murmured, pulling her down the hall with a warm hand wrapped around hers.
Rose followed wordlessly, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan.
They stopped in the bathroom and Bucky dropped her hand, not before giving it a comforting squeeze, and began fiddling with the shower knobs. Water splashed into the tub, steam rising from the falling stream. Bucky tested the temperature with his living hand and put the drain stopper in place. When he turned to face her, Rose had both arms wrapped around her middle.
"Come here." He held out a hand and Rose nearly broke.
She placed a trembling hand in his and let him pull her further into the room. Steaming air hit her face and she shivered.
Careful fingers brushed over her shoulders. Rose let Bucky peel the cardigan off her arms. It hit the ground and his hands came to rest on either side of her neck. His thumb pushed her chin up so she'd meet his eye.
Rose looked up at Bucky through slowly gathering tears.
Here was this man who had no doubt committed unspeakable acts, who had suffered god knows what, and yet he was holding her so carefully, like he was scared she'd break between his fingers. Something small and aching bloomed anew in Rose's chest.
"I can do the rest," she whispered into the air between them.
A cool thumb brushed over the pulse in her neck. Bucky nodded and left without a word, shutting the door behind him. Rose pressed one hand to her sternum and the other over her mouth, holding back another bout of tears. It passed slowly, but it passed.
Rose stripped out of her dress, leaving it strewn on the tiles as she sank into the bathtub. The water was too hot, but the ache across her skin distracted from the one in her soul. She turned the water off and sat back. Water swirled around her for a moment before stilling. Silence sat thick and heavy in the air.
"Bucky?" she croaked.
"Rosemary," he called back to her, his voice right outside the door.
She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Will you sit with me?"
The door clicked and eased open. Bucky entered with a rush of cool air and a hand over his eyes. A startled laugh broke from Rose's lips.
"What're you doing?"
Bucky walked into the bathroom as if he didn't even need to see the room to navigate it. He turned and dropped to the floor, his back pressing against the side of the tub.
"Manners," he said.
"Manners?" Rose raised a brow at the back of his head.
He grunted once in affirmation but didn't elaborate. Rose didn't press the issue, she liked his manners.
They sat in amiable silence, with only the occasional splash of water echoing in the small space. Bucky never turned his head. Rose took the opportunity to study him.
He sat perfectly still, barely even showing signs of breathing. But when Rose sat up a little higher she saw that his hand, his metal hand, had found the thin shoulder strap of her dress and was running the fabric gently through unfeeling fingers. Her nose stung with a fresh wave of incoming tears.
"Thank you, Bucky," she mumbled.
"For what?"
He didn't see the watery smile Rosemary gave him, but he felt her fingers, warm and wet, rake through his hair. Bucky shuttered on an exhale. She did it again.
"For coming back to me."
His brow furrowed. "I never left."
"Yeah...but you pulled away," she sniffled and raked her nails against his scalp again. "In my experience people who retreat into themselves don't come back."
Bucky felt her words seep in between his ribs, thick and heavy like the air around them.
"What brought you back?" Rosemary asked in a whisper.
"You did. The photos in that album. You looked so happy, so—" he wracked his brain for the right word. "Light."
Rose gave a pained chuckle. "Yeah, Tara had that affect on people. At least she did before..." her voice trailed off. Her fingers stilled in his hair.
"She loved you," Bucky said out of the blue.
"You can't know that..." her voice quivered. "You never even met her.”
"It's in every picture, the ones where you're older," he explained. "They're not just photos, they're...moments." He chose the word carefully. "Moments that she wanted to remember, and they're all of you."
He hadn’t known Tara, but he knew that his words were true, because somewhere between the steel vault and the endless expanse of white inside his mind was a small corner that bloomed with color, and each careful stoke had been painted by Rosemary’s hand.
Water splashed behind him, wet arms wrapped around his shoulders, and for the second time that day, Rosemary buried her face in the crook of his neck. He hesitated to touch her. For a moment, his fingers just hovered over the bare arms circling him before finally settling on her skin. A quiet sigh brushed against his neck.
"Hey Bucky?" she whispered.
"Hm?"
"Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
Trembling fingers turned his chin and warm lips pressed to his. Bucky kept his hands still on her skin and kept his eyes squeezed tight even when Rosemary's tongue brushed his, even when her fingers dug into his hair, even when a quiet whimper escaped her lips.
Manners.