Lament of the Gravedigger

There’s no easy way to talk about what happened.

Steve sat with his hands clasped in his lap. He had Bucky, and now he doesn’t. Steve made his mistakes. Again and again. And it cost him his best friend. It cost him the one person he’d ever loved. It cost him everything. 

One Week Before

Steve stepped out of the cab and glanced to the street sign at the corner, orienting himself. He’d only been to this part of the city a few times, all of them in the last two weeks. He checked his phone again. 5:14 am. Steve tugged his ball cap down over his eyes and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, shaking off the cold as he began walking.

Two blocks west. The building with the broken street lamp out front. That’s where he’d last caught a glimpse of Bucky. And if today was the same, Bucky should be coming back home any minute now. Steve only allowed himself to focus on one thing at a time. And so he tried to understand the patterns of Bucky’s comings and goings instead of speculating about where he was going and why. Steve didn’t consider himself to be very good at recon. He’d done a few stakeouts in his time with Shield, a stealth mission here and there. But the person he was following didn’t usually have heightened senses and years of elite training. A pit formed in his stomach as he imagined all the ways this could go wrong. He knew that if Bucky caught even the slightest scent of being followed, he’d disappear again. It was a miracle that Steve got a single lead on his location, and he knew it wouldn’t happen that way a second time. 

Steve scanned his surroundings. There weren’t many people out at this hour. A jogger paused at the crosswalk ahead. A man huddled under an old tarp on his right. He needed more cover, so he cut across the street and ducked into an alley. He crouched beside a dumpster and shrugged his jacked off, draping it instead over his frontside. He’d found some success in the past blending in with the homeless, and so he figured it was his best bet now. From this vantage, he had a clear view of the old brick apartments a little further down. 

He waited long enough for his joints to grow stiff. He felt pins and needles in his left foot and shifted a little to relieve the pressure on it. Impatience set in.

No good. 

The sky was growing lighter, and if the sun came up, his plan might be ruined. 

Just when he was losing hope, he saw a dark figure emerge from around the corner, walking briskly with his head low. His hair was hidden beneath a hood, and he was wrapped in a large coat, but Steve could tell from the posture that it was Bucky. Steve watched as he quickly and nonchalantly surveyed the street before entering through the door of the building. Steve waited, watching the windows carefully. Less than a minute later, a light flicked on in one of them. 

Fourth floor, third window from the left. Gotcha. 

Steve exhaled a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding. This was it. Nearly a year of searching since that day on the helicarrier. Countless false leads. Dozens of cities around the world. He’d practically abandoned his mantle as Captain America; and with Shield’s collapse came an uncomfortable amount of speculation about the hero’s whereabouts. But none of that mattered to Steve. What mattered is that he finally won. The search was over. 

Steve mulled over his options. He’d been rehearsing this moment every day. How he would approach, what he would say, how he would prevent Bucky from vanishing again? He had no idea what kind of mental state Bucky was in, if he remembered Steve, if he remembered himself. The only reassurance was that there hadn’t been a single report of Winter Soldier activity since the collapse of Hydra. And here Bucky was. Walking down the street in civilian clothing, coming back to a normal apartment. 

Despite the difficulty in getting a lead, actually finding him had been easy. Too easy. Steve’s gut told him it was probably a trap. There’s no way he could have been here, within eyesight of Bucky multiple times without the supersoldier noticing. But he pushed that down. He wanted to believe that it simply meant that Bucky was attempting to move on to a normal life.

He stood for too long at the corner of the alleyway. Should he just go and knock on the door? Should he wait for Bucky to come back out and stop him on the street? None of the options felt like good ones, each scenario likely ended with Bucky fleeing. The fear was paralyzing. Steve shook his head to quiet his mind, sucked in a deep breath, and made his way back across the street. 

Steve stepped as quietly as he could down the narrow hallway. Paint was peeling from the walls on either side of him, and the carpet beneath his feet was dark with years of stains and dirt. There was a distinct smell coming from it, like urine and mildew. 

Steve counted the doors and tried to measure the space, visualizing which door matched the window he’d marked from the outside. Based on the size of the building and the distance between doors, the apartments were tiny. One window per apartment, then, he decided. 

He paused in front of the third door from the end of the hall. Number 415. His heart was pounding in his throat, and he realized that nothing could ever fully prepare him for seeing Bucky again. Mouth dry and hands shaking, he reached up to knock softly. 

There was a long pause. No peep hole on the door meant that the chances of Bucky opening it were slim. 

“Bucky?” Steve said. His name came out as more of a croak. So he cleared his throat and tried again, “Buck?”

Silence. 

He considered for a moment kicking the door in. It was a thin door - old. It couldn’t be difficult. But he stuffed down his frustration and tried knocking one more time, leaning in close to the door. He imagined Bucky just on the other side, holding his breath and listening carefully.  

“It’s just me, pal. It’s Steve. I didn’t come here to– I’m not…” He sighed. “I wanted to see you.”

Steve grimaced at how pathetic he sounded, his voice was whiny and quiet. He was at a loss for how to seem less threatening. He had so many reassurances to give, but he couldn’t just keep spouting them off to a closed door. He stood there for upwards of fifteen minutes, beginning to feel more like a stalker than an old friend. 

He weighed it in his head. He needed to gain Bucky’s trust. This didn’t feel like the way to do it. Steve would rather have died than walk away from this door, from this opportunity, from Bucky. But he set aside his own feelings and leaned into the door one last time.

“I’m sorry, pal. You don’t have much reason to trust me, I know. I… uh… I hope you don’t leave. If this is your home, I won’t tell anybody. I won’t hurt you. Ok? Nobody else knows. I’ll leave you be. But I’ll leave my address here. You can come see me instead, maybe? I live alone.”

Steve pulled out a receipt from his pocket and scratched his address and phone number into the back of it carefully with his nail. Then he slipped it through a crack beneath the door. He hesitated, wondering if this was about to be the biggest mistake of his life, and walked away. 

The next week passed slower than ever. Steve sat in his little apartment staring at his phone, listening for the slightest hint of a knock at his door. His stomach churned with anxiety. He knew Bucky was long gone by now. Even if he did return to that dingy apartment in Boston, it wouldn’t matter. He fucked up. He had Bucky in the palm of his hand, and he let him go. 

He fantasized about marching back up to his door and pounding on it until it was in splinters. Rushing in and demanding that Bucky listen to him, that he come with him. But it was all too late. And Steve had made a promise: “I’ll leave you be.” 

How stupid was he to think that Bucky would be keen on reconnecting? They’d nearly killed each other a year ago. And before that Steve had abandoned him. Assuming he was dead for seventy years. Even if Bucky did remember him, he had no obligation to forgive him. 

Steve buried his face in his hands, and then shoved himself up to his feet, retrieving a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. 

The liquid burned as he gulped it down. His face was hot and tears threatened the corners of his eyes. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He felt like throwing something, and he envisioned smashing the bottle into the wall. Watching the shards explode in every direction. Instead he just sank into the dining chair again, feeling small and helpless, wondering how much whiskey he would need to block it all out.

He saw the screen of his phone light up a millisecond before it began buzzing on the table. 

Unknown

He jolted upright and smashed his finger into the answer button, fumbling with the phone as he lifted it to his ear.

“H’lo?” He said quickly. 

There was nothing coming from the other side of the line, and Steve pulled the phone away to see if the call was still connected. It was. 

“Bucky? Is this you? Hello?!”

He felt the blood rushing to his head as he strained to hear anything in reply. But he was met again with silence. 

“Please, just talk to me, Bu–”

Click.

The phone beeped three dull tones and the screen went dark. It had to be Bucky. It had to. 

He immediately redialed the number and waited through the rings. 

“I’m sorry, the number you have dialed is unavai–”

Steve ended the call and redialed again. 

“I’m sorry, the number you have–”

He took a shaky breath, and redialed for a third time, and when it sent to voicemail he pushed himself up, not even bothering to re-cap the bottle of whiskey, snatched his coat from where it was draped over the back of the couch, and stormed out the door. 

He couldn’t take this any longer. He was going to find Bucky. 

Steve was back at the door that had haunted his every thought since the week prior. There was no way that Bucky wasn’t halfway around the world right now, but this was the only place that Steve could start. 

Steve knocked, quiet but firm. 

“Bucky?” he said.

No answer. 

He knocked again and pulled out his phone to dial the Unknown number for the millionth time. 

He heard a faint ringtone from the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry, the pers–”

He hung the phone up, but he knew now. Bucky was here. 

He knocked again, harder this time. 

“Bucky, open up. Just say something, god damnit!”

A door down the hall creaked open and an elderly woman poked her head out. Steve made brief eye contact before she gave him a frightened look and shut the door quickly. 

Steve could feel himself sobering, but his head still swam with irrational and reckless thoughts. 

He pounded and pounded on the door, his frustration growing with each second that passed without an answer. 

Steve felt the wood give under his fist, and he pulled back, observing the splintered dent right at eye level. 

Fuck this. 

His anxiety and frustration culminated, and he kicked the door in. 

The scene in front of him was unthinkable. 

There was blood. So much of it. Dark blackish red and glinting in a puddle around his friend. Bucky’s body was frail, hunched against the wall just outside of the door leading to a small bathroom. 

Steve’s anxiety turned to panic as he dropped to his knees beside Bucky. It was immediately obvious where the blood was coming from. There was a large gash on his flesh arm, deep and angrily spilling. Steve pushed down hard on his arm above the wound. With his other hand he reached up to cup Bucky’s face and saw that it was pale and dotted with sweat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered open weakly. Steve’s heart lurched. This is… this could not be happening. 

“Bucky! Jesus. You’re alright pal, stay with me. It’s ok, you’re gonna be alright.”

Steve’s hands never trembled harder, but he was able to pull his phone from his pocket and dial 911. 

Bucky’s eyes, tired and sunken, watched him carefully. Steve adjusted his grip on Bucky’s arm and felt his foot slip in the blood beneath him as he spoke with the dispatcher. 

“What’s your emergency?” the woman asked.

“M- my friend. He’s hurt. There’s blood. A lot of blood.”

Steve’s voice was breaking as he gave the dispatcher the address and his name, and he was doing everything he could to stay calm. He felt Bucky’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bear to meet them. That’s when he saw the knife tucked in beside Bucky’s leg on the floor, just out of reach of his metal fingertips. 

Steve’s vision blurred. He’d done this to himself.

Why? Steve thought.

But the words spilled out of his mouth before he could help it.

“Why, Bucky?”

Bucky just looked at him, but his eyes were growing distant now. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry if I caused this. I didn’t mean…”

Bucky’s head started to roll to the side, and Steve dropped the phone to brace him. 

The dispatcher’s voice was faint and tinny, “Stay on the line, please. Help will be there soon.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s arm with all his might, and repositioned himself carefully to hold Bucky’s head against his shoulder. He could feel Bucky’s body giving, and his eyes were drooping. Steve brushed long strands of brown hair out of his face, but his hand was sticky with blood. He gasped, choking on a deep sob.

Please hurry. Please. 

A few of Bucky’s neighbors had gathered outside of the door, and Steve could hear them murmuring quietly.

Steve felt himself growing woozy in a way that he never had before. The neighbors’ voices sounded filtered, like they were playing through a small speaker. The dispatcher’s voice begged him to stay on the line from a thousand miles away. The room spun around him, and he felt as if he were falling. Weightless, his stomach in his throat. 

Suddenly there were hands on him, pulling him away, pulling Bucky away from him. He snapped back to reality, and slowly his vision came to focus. He saw paramedics, saw the red and blue lights flashing in through the window. One of the paramedics was saying something to him, asking him a question maybe. Steve just looked to Bucky, saw two others hunched over him, working quickly. He tried to call out, to beg them to save Bucky. But he couldn’t. He collapsed backward into the paramedic behind him and the man wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting his weight. 

Steve prayed to someone, anyone, the universe, even. He prayed for Bucky’s life. He couldn’t do this again.

This was the worst day.