Chapter 3
They finally settled on a rental house in a tiny farming community just outside of Walla Walla, Washington. It was quaint, the white paint was peeling from the shingles, and the air smelled vaguely of cow manure and worse from the paper mill 50 miles North. It also was situated on 476 acres of land complete with cherry trees, apple trees, pear trees, and of course, peach trees. It was home.
Steve and Bucky signed the agreement on a Sunday afternoon and moved in the next morning. They were taking over the land on a month to month basis--the woman renting it to them explained how her parents had recently passed and the property had been left to her. She had memories of running through the orchards, of hauling hay and feed for the horses, of waking up at dawn and working the land with blood and sweat. She figured it was the only honest work she’d ever done in her life. She figured she still didn’t want to give up her CEO salary out in Seattle to come back to the farm life in a world where farmers were extinct, food was lab-grown from inorganic material and flavored with technology.
Steve asked her if she’d consider selling the place. She looked over at Bucky and her eyes narrowed, in almost recognition.
“We’ll just stick with the month to month for now.”
***
“Do you miss it, Buck?”
They were walking out way behind the house, down along a little creek that ran perpendicular to the property. Bucky kept walking, eyes ahead.
“Buck.” Steve nudged at his shoulder a bit.
“Hmm?”
“Do you miss what you had? Being a hero? Saving the world?” He was still looking at Bucky’s face, so he saw the shadow of pain that flickered across, before Bucky returned his gaze and snorted.
“I don’t think I was ever much of a hero, Stevie.”
Steve grabbed ahold of Bucky’s hand and purposely led them over towards a large rock that perched on the bank of the water. It had become their evening sitting spot, where they could lean, back to back, against each other and listen to the world.
“You’re just as much a hero as I ever was.” He murmured it softly, but the words hung, heavy in the air.
Bucky looked over at him, and gave a weak smile.
“No. I don’t. I don’t miss anything anymore.” His smile grew, then faded again. Steve could always read Bucky like an open book--he never could hide an emotion to save his life. He spoke again, more pained this time. “Do you? Miss it, I mean?”
Steve thought for a moment. They reached the rock and took a moment to settle in next to each other--Bucky’s arm around Steve’s shoulders.
“I don’t miss anything anymore.” Bucky squeezed his hand and he continued. “When I was young, I thought I was missing the chance to do something great--something good. Then, once I got that, I spent a hundred years missing what could have been.” He looked up and Bucky was watching him, his dark eyes so serious. Steve leaned over and kissed him deeply. He closed his own eyes for a moment and reached his hand around the nape of Bucky’s neck, pulling him closer, then let go. “There’s nothing left to miss.”
“Oh, Steve.” Then Bucky leaned back in and their lips met again.
The stream burbled on, and somewhere among the orchard, a pheasant began to call.
***
Bucky bought a horse.
It seemed a little wild, and it seemed extremely imprudish, and it certainly was mad, but he noticed the way Steve looked with yearning towards the empty stables each day. He remembered vividly the stories Steve used to tell while they ate Sarah’s bean stew on the third floor of the tenements--the stories of saving the world, then riding West, and escaping into the sunset and never looking back.
They saved the world. They had each other. And now they had a horse.
His name was Adolin, and even though Steve wrinkled up his nose at the foreign sounding word, as soon as he tried it out the colt gave a whiney of delight.
Bucky also hired a stable-hand to come during the days. She was a weathered, older lady named Elisa and Steve spent most afternoons shadowing her. He was determined to learn how to properly care for the young horse and do everything exactly correctly. She was a good sport--she showed him how to muck the stables, and haul the feed, and brush Adolin’s coat. Steve relished every moment, while Bucky looked on with a smile on his face.
His dreams weren’t as frequent anymore. His moments of frozen terror were fewer as well. His memory wasn’t returning. Oh, he would get the occasional vivid image that would imprint itself so suddenly and permanently that he knew it was a part of his past, but there were still gaping holes that would never be filled. The edges seemed less jagged now though--they seemed almost soft, like he could skim over each and patch it closed carefully, filling it with the stuff of the now.
It was an epilogue of sorts, and though the current threatened to advance as he waded deeper, he was not afraid.