Beginning
Fog hovers over the water like steam against a mirror as Bucky steps out of the hut and into the night.
There isn't a sound, not wind rustling the trees against themselves, nor any sign of life; other than the sound of his own bare feet cracking the forest floor underfoot as he makes his way to the mouth of the lake ahead.
His movements are almost robotic as he reaches the edge, kneels with one knee and pauses slightly before he extends his right hand, fingertips barely skating over the surface.
His own reflection becomes mildy distorted by the ripples from his touch, before being replaced by his younger self in his old war uniform, looking slightly dishelved. Hair tussled, uniform torn and that thousand yard stare in his retinas
His breath holds, as the altered reflection looks back at him asking "Who are you, really?"
Bucky wakes up and steadies himself, the dream clinging to his skin along with the sticky balm of the night air. He looks toward the entry, judging by the brightness of the moonlight creeping onto the floor from the breaks of the curtain, it's 3-maybe 4 in the morning.
He closes his eyes, lungs trying to catch with his heart as he tries to get himself to go back to sleep. Within a few moments, he sighs, his body conceding with the fact mind already knew: it wasn't happening.
He steps outside, and no matter how many times he's seen this view, he doesn't think it will ever fail to leave him momentarily breathless. The sky is unlike anywhere he's ever been; every constellation, every star and the milky way is visible, devoid of light pollution or skyscrapers. The wind sweeps past him as he closes his eyes and suddenly remembers his Father and him the last summer they spent in Indiana. The night sky, clear as this, wind hitting his face just as this as a small, ten year old him had constellations pointed out to Bucky by his Father. "And that one?" He asks, military tone hidden in the question.
"There." He says quickly, proving he hasn't forgotten.
"Very good, son. Never forget those stars. Even if we can't see them in the city anymore, you should never forget these."
"Because they guide us?" He asks.
"Yes. See that one? That reminded me where home was, when I was in the war. That one, is Cassiopeia, you were born under that star. Along with the winter star, but because it's spring, you can't see it now, it doesn't mean it's not there."
"Isn't that what maps are for, Pop?"
"Yes and no, Jay. Maps can break, get lost or even measured wrong. But the stars; even though they disappear for a short while, they never leave. Because all the stars you see, no matter how far, or how dark-"
"-the stars will always guide you back home." He completes the rest of sentence softly, in a forest of Wakanda far from the field in Indiana that was shrinking back to the realms of his heart; not entirely disappearing, but absorbing into the soft Earth around him.
The moment of calm is abrupted as he notices his right hand now on his left shoulder, where half a red star still remains. A wave of nauseating fear lands in the bottom of his stomach as he remembers the last thing he remembers Zemo saying. "I mean, your real home.", a dull red book he prayed had burned along with Serbia, and yet he knew, never did.
He walks to the edge of the water, following the repetition of the nightmare and swallowing the newfound lump in his throat before he slowly dips his hand in, splashing his face with the cupped water.
The dream has grown so familiar now, having been the only thing he's dreamt in the past few days. In English or Russian, his wavy reflection asks him "Who are you really?". Sometimes it's him in Azzano. Other times: Siberia. A part of him hasn't acknowledged that in every variation of the dream, the night sky is devoid of the stars.
Water drips from his face as he stares upward, the stars staring back at him silently. And a part of him worries if he can find a path back home again.