Bucky: A Fictional Narrative

“Hey, Buck.”

They approached each other, moving at a pace better left to angry, wounded animals. Such descriptors could very well have been applied to the pair of them; they had only been battling for a year.

It was the older of the two who stopped first, the hesitation in his eyes unclear to any average man, but his opponent knew better. His opponent knew far too much. At that moment, James Buchanan Barnes was afraid, very, very afraid.

“Sun’s gettin’ real low,” the blond crooned, a jarring contrast to the state of him. His hair was dishevelled, his face caked with soot and blood, yet still, he managed to do the one thing he hadn’t done during the entirety of their relationship: smile.

To his credit, Bucky never broke face, at least,

It had been the strongpoint of their relationship, the shared trauma, the unfailing ability to save the other, but it wasn’t enough.

It was Bucky who was first to pull Brady into his arms and even as Brady spoke, he paid it no mind and held fast to the smaller man. It may very well have been the last time they held each other.

“They’ll wipe you. After this, you won’t even remember that I existed,” Brady explained in that insufferably matter-of-fact voice that Bucky had come to love, “It’s for the best. Why think when you have the option not to. Why remember?”

“Moy dorogoy,” Bucky whispered, pressing his lips to Brady’s brow, “Shut up. Where you go, I go.”

“Evidently,” Brady said. He aligned himself so that he was close enough to feel the last bit of warmth he’d ever receive. “Make it count.”

Even through the layers of leather, the pair of them could feel the cold bite of each pistol. The countdown was silent and Bucky’s finger slipped over the trigger like he had promised. It was only after he had fired the first that he realized he was still standing.

Why was he still standing?

Only one had been

It was the dead of winter. He had always confessed to hating the winter.

“No,” he repeated, as if saying it would make it untrue.

The screaming would last a long time. Eventually, someone would hear him.

—

“You… you lied. Baby, mIlaya moyna… You were always the best liar. Why did you lie to me?”

Even as they swarmed around him, even as he held Brady in his arms, rocking him gently as if coercing him out of a long nap, even as he tasted the metallic tang of blood against his lips, Bucky spoke as though he’d get an answer.

“You can count on me like one, two, three,” he sang brokenly, “Was that how it went? All these years and I never once bothered to put it on my iPod. I always had you to sing it to me.” He laughed, laughed hard as the government agents in their black clothing and with their black guns struggled to free him of the white corpse in his arms.

“Will you sing it for me again? One last time, Bradoshka. Either that or our daughter will have to sing it. Do you know she’s waiting? We can’t keep her waiting, baby. Wake up. Please. Please, darling, wake up.”

—

Hey, Buck. Sun’s gettin’ real low.

“What?”

Bucky looked up at the new arrival, eyes blazing something