Chapter 2
Seven months since you received the news. Seven months since you broke it off with Bucky. You didn't have the heart to make him watch you die. It wasn’t fair to him. He didn’t need to the dead weight of a partner who would die within a year of of diagnoses. He had enough on his plate.
It was his large year in college. His Fine Art degree was within his grasp. The last thing he needed was the burden of looking after you as you succumbed to your disease.
It started with blurred vision, difficulty speaking and swallowing. Intense insomnia and impaired thinking.
Your mother begged you to go to the doctor. After months of nagging you had finally relented and gone to see the campus nurse. It was close enough. She had taken no chances as you shuffled zombie-like into the room. Heavy bags framed your eyes, and you had long since lost the ability to form a coherent sentences.
They admitted you to the hospital immediately.
A multitude of test later, cognitive, reflexive, you felt like a pincushion by the time they finished with you.
Bucky was a mess, alternating between pacing and biting his paint stained nails. The doctor had asked Bucky to leave the room in a polite but firm manner before he pulled up a chair and leveled you with a grave stare.
“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” he said, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose.
The feeling of dread was nearly overwhelming. So acute you felt as though it might swallow you whole. You nodded for him to continue, the silence deafening.
“You have Jakob's Disease.”
You blinked a few times before the doctor realized you had no idea what he’s talking about.
“Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease is rapid mental deterioration. Usually within a few months. As the disease progresses, mental symptoms worsen. Most people lapse into a coma. Heart failure, respiratory failure, pneumonia, or other infections are generally the cause of death.”
Your entire world imploded in an instant. You were in your early twenties. This could not be happening to you. “What are my options?” you rasped, your throat feeling like the Sahara.
“No effective treatment exists. Our focus will be on alleviating pain and other symptoms. I’m sorry.”
A whimper had left your throat. You were going to die. There was no way out of it. “How long do I have?”
“A year. Likely less.”
Your world went white, his words ring in your ears. You life would come to a screeching and abrupt halt and there's was nothing you could do about it. So you nodded and smiled.
You moved out of Bucky’s apartment shortly after leaving the hospital. The last words you’d heard him say were, “Is it so wrong that I love you?”
It had broken your heart into a million pieces. You were inconsolable for weeks after, finally coming to the conclusion that subjecting Bucky to months of torture wasn’t what he’d signed up for.
It was painful, and you could feel your heart dying in your chest, feel the way his loss wormed it's way into your life. It was unbearable. The agony of living without his smile was worse than the knowledge that you were going to die. You were a shell without his light.
You had died as soon as you walked out the door and out of his life.
***********
You had no idea who phoned him or how he found out you were in the hospital, but he was here, standing at the foot of your bed, hurt and betrayal flashing across his face.
“Why didn't you tell me?” he demands.
His anger is like a hot poker through your head. It had been so long since you saw him last, so long since you were able to feel anything other than acute loss and fear. His presence had instantly lightened your heart.
“If Natasha hadn’t told me you were in the hospital I would never have known you were sick!”
It was inevitable. You should have known Natasha would run to Bucky as soon as you texted her. Perhaps you wanted Natasha to tell Bucky. It was getting so hard to think straight. You couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't.
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with you, Bucky. We aren't together anymore,” you reply.
He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you ever going to tell me why?”
You attempt a shrug. Moving your limbs had become increasingly hard over the last few months. Hell, you could barely walk now. “We weren’t working anymore,” you say quietly. You can't look him in the eye, he would see right through you.
“That’s complete bullshit!” he explodes, catching the attention from the nurses seated at their station.
“Keep your voice down,” you chastise.
“Fuck sakes, (Y/N)! Would you please be honest with me? For once?”
You lay your head on the pillow. It feels heavy, like lead weights tied to your ponytail. “Please leave,” you whisper.
Bucky slams a palm to the foot of your bed before storming out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
***********
It may have been hours or days before you sent the text. The passage of time meant little to your dying mind. It was nothing but a clock ticking down the hours until the sickness snuffed out your light. It was a simple one. One which conveyed all you felt.
Natasha had shown up somewhere in the course of the day. She was livid about the encounter with Bucky.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.
You turned your head and sighed. “I’m dying, Nat. He needs to live.”
Nat sighed and climbed onto your bed. She wrapped her arms around you and began to cry.
You don't have the strength to soothe her.
You fell into a coma three days later. Various tubes and machines hooked up to your lifeless body. For once you felt no pain.
Only one person remained at your side.
Your mother had long since said her goodbyes. She couldn't bare to watch you wither away any longer. Nat had joined her. Her tears leaving translucent tracks down her cheeks.
“Hey, baby,” Bucky crooned. His voice breaking halfway through, the tears flowed without shame. Lifting your hand to his lips, he placed a gentle kiss to the back, held it between both of his, and gave a tremulous smile.
“I came to say goodbye.”