Steve’s tears seemed like they were drowning him these days and he just couldn’t swim up for a breath of fresh air. He’d lost every single person who mattered around him and was left alone. He’d wanted to be good, he’d done everything he could, but it seemed that he’d inherited Tony’s fear. His worst fear hadn’t been everyone he cared for and loved, dying. It’d been that he wouldn’t. That he’d be the last one standing. And that he was. What hurt the most was that Bucky wasn’t there with him, to hold him, to kiss him, to love him. If he had been; maybe, just maybe: Steve wouldn’t be here, doing what he was going to do. The familiar words that Bucky had sung as they’d danced on the creaking wooden floor, in a time long forgotten, still echoed in Steve’s brain.
Oh, won’t you dream a little dream of me, Stevie?
Steve could still remember how that shit-eating grin had taken over Bucky’s face and made him appear inhumanly beautiful, ethereal. Bucky had loved him the way no one else had, the way no one else could. Life without him was bleak and dull, as if the world was not in color anymore, but in monotone shades of black and grey. Of course no one could’ve known back then, but it’d been enough for Steve. It had been enough to have Bucky to himself in that god-awful Brooklyn apartment. Bucky was the one who’d made it a home. Steve missed the way Bucky used to crawl into bed, even when Steve was small and frail and ill. He was constantly warm, like a furnace. Steve was always cold. They complemented each other so perfectly.
Oh, won’t you dream a little dream of me--
The tears stung as they travelled down Steve’s cheek. He didn’t like to think about the good times he had with Bucky, becoming sentimental only made him sadder than he already was. He’d tried to get back in the game, to follow orders and serve, but it just wasn’t the same. He felt hollow and no amount of trying could take away that horrible, consuming feeling. He looked at the gun in his hand, feeling its weight that reminded him of his purpose. The thing was that he couldn’t die, not naturally at least. Without a fatal wound to finish him off, that super-serum body would just regenerate and regenerate until the end of time. He was the closest thing to immortal to exist. Yet, he wanted nothing more than to die.
Oh, won’t you dream a little dream of--
He still saw Bucky sometimes, in his dreams and they were the closest thing to happiness that Steve experienced these days. Somehow, Steve was convinced he’d be reunited with Bucky in whatever came after life, he hoped that was how the universe worked, because he didn’t know what to do if it didn't. Those grey eyes would haunt him consciously and unconsciously, so did his tender smile and those kind, comforting words and the feel of his skin against Steve’s. The present tears running down Steve’s cheeks turned into horrifying, pained sobs. It never got easier, so Steve would make it easier. He deserved a break, for once.
Oh won’t you dream a little dream--
Steve’s breathing quickened as he put the gun under his jaw. Putting it to the side of his head could leave him alive and he wanted to do it right, no resurrections this time. No second tries. Putting it straight to his temple made Steve feel like he was going to chicken out and he needed to be strong this time, strong for his Buck. Steve winced and took a step back because it was almost as if he felt something touch his shoulders. It didn’t frighten him though, on the contrary-- it felt welcome, comforting. For a second, Steve didn’t feel so alone, it was almost as if his Bucky was there, coaxing him through this. The thought made Steve realise his purpose, and so he placed the gun in its rightful place: under his jaw, yet again.
Oh won’t you dream a little--
Steve had already tidied up his belongings, written his will and goodbye notes to Natasha, Clint, Bruce, even Tony, and the rest of the members. Living or dead, they’d made a difference in his world and they deserved to have his last words, scribbles and sketches either way. Steve didn’t want to leave anyone a mess to clean up, so he’d transferred his obscene amount of money, that he didn’t even feel like he deserved, to different charities. It was all done anonymously of course, he didn’t want to raise any suspicions. He didn’t want anyone to try to talk him out of this. It was his choice, and god-damn, he deserved to have a say for once.
Oh won’t you dream a--
‘’I’m sorry,’’ Steve whispered to no one in particular. Maybe it was directed towards his Ma’ because she’d been a catholic and suicide was a sin. Perhaps it was to his dad, who no doubt would think him weak, weaker than the skinny, disease-ridden thing he once was, in a time long ago. Steve just didn’t want to hurt, he just wanted to sleep. Everything around him reminded him of better times, times when the people he loved, and more importantly; Bucky was around.
Oh, won’t you dream--
Steve pulled the trigger and heard a click. Fuck. He’d been so stupid. He’d forgotten to put the bullets in the gun. He let out a ragged, panicked breath and picked up the box of them that he’d bought, no questions asked, from a store in town. It had been too easy getting a hold of the bullets, far too fucking easy. It should’ve been harder. Yet it wasn’t. When he tried to get some bullets out, his hands shook too much and he dropped the packet. The clinging of bullets on the wooden floor echoed throughout the silent apartment.
‘’Fucking hell!’’ His ma’ would’ve washed his mouth out with soap for that, Bucky would’ve told Steve how sexy he was when he used those saintly lips of his to utter curse words.
Oh, won’t you---
He steadied his hands and entered the bullets into the magazine, one by one.
‘’Get your head in the game, Rogers.’’ He could almost hear Bucky say it, visualise that smirk of his. For the third time today, after too much time wasted and procrastination, he once again, put the gun under his jaw and closed those baby blues of his.
Oh, won’t--
‘’Goodbye,’’ Steve whispered as the sob lodged in his throat threatened to make its appearance.
Oh--
Steven Grant Rogers pulled the trigger of his gun, that cold Brooklyn night, the tenth of march. It was James Buchanan Barnes’s birthday, though none of them were there anymore to celebrate it.