Chapter 12: The things we love most

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MISSION REPORT

WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't. But orders are orders. Tucking the white notebook into his coat pocket, he takes a deep breath.

And he walks toward the little cabin.

*****

The bedroom is quiet. Kneeling on the bed, they face either other.

Staring blankly into his lap, Bucky is frozen in place. Across from him, all he can hear are her quick, short breaths, growing steadily faster the longer they sit in silence. Distantly, he notices his fingers are clenched so tight in the fabric of his threadbare sweatpants, they're moments from ripping apart.

"Say something," she finally whispers.

Bucky slowly looks up.

Blatant fear rests in her face, and it makes him want to wrap her in his arms. Soothe it away and tell her everything will be okay, that he understands what happened, and he knows why she did it and he loves her no matter what.

Those are the words he should give her. They sit on his tongue, ready to be used. And he wants to use them, he really really does. But he doesn't.

Because right now, Bucky has never felt so god damn lost in his entire life.

"What am I supposed to say?" he asks instead.

Shivering under the glare of his shocked disbelief, she fumbles her words. "I wanted to tell you Bucky, I did -"

She reaches for his arm and he involuntarily jerks away.

"But you didn't," he interrupts, and she recoils at the betrayal in his voice. "You didn't tell me."

Licking her lips, she tries again.

"I wanted - Bucky, I wanted to tell you so damn much. From the very beginning, but you were doing so well, and - and we were doing so well together, and I just wanted you to remember first. I wanted you to remember us first."

Once again, she tries to touch him and once again, he wrenches his arm away.

"So, you lied, instead," he says coldly.

Alarmed at the ice in his tone, she shakes her head. "No! I never lied to you Bucky, everything I told you was true. Everything about you and me, every single word, it was all true, you know that, you know it was, don't - please don't -" she chokes on the words as they tumble free.

Her fingers reach for him again. He pulls back again.

"How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You left out the most important part of the god damn story!"

"I know, shit, I know I shouldn't have, but I just - Bucky, you said before, you said it didn't matter - you said it wasn't - that it wasn't my fault, please!"

She reaches. He shies away.

Every time he withdraws from her touch, the light inside her dims. Finally, she stops trying. She tangles her fingers in her lap instead.

"That was - that was before I knew - you had to do that to those men, but - but I was - I was - how could you do that to me?" He hates the way his voice rises hysterically, but he can't stop it. The question is like a physical blow and she cowers from his words.

"Bucky, I'm so sorry -"

"You ruined my life!" he shouts, and she quits breathing. "Everything I was, you just - you took it. Who I was, where I came from, what I believed - you broke it all. You broke me."

Shrinking into herself, she has no reply. Tears spill down her face as she accepts his anger.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

Scrambling backward off the bed, Bucky finds himself riding the dangerous edge of a full-blown panic attack. Looking at her there, sitting in the pile of soft blankets where he held her and kissed her and -

Shaking fingers comb through the wild tangles of hair falling over his face, and he feels tiny scars scattered across his scalp. Physical residue of horrific memories he still cannot remember.

Gathering her courage, she tries to speak again, but he stops her.

"Don't," he says forcefully. "Just - don't."

Looking around the room, he sees the glowing red embers of the fire, sees snowflakes drifting by the window, sees the pile of his dirty socks in the corner and her small jewelry box propped open on the dresser. All these small fragments that make up their life.

Their life here. Their life together.

It should be enough to rein him in. His heart wants it so much.

But apparently his brain has other ideas.

Spinning around, he goes to the closet and yanks the door open. Snatching up his duffel bag, he finds the pile of his neatly folded laundry tucked on the top shelf. Gathering everything, he stuffs it haphazard in the bag. Zipping it shut, he heads for the door.

"What are you doing? Bucky? Where are you going?" her voice rises in panic. Struggling off the bed, she follows him. "No no no, wait, please wait! Please, Bucky, don't leave, please! Talk to me, tell me what I can do."

It's almost enough. The desperate plea nearly breaks him. Everything in him is screaming to stop, to drop the duffel bag and bury his face against her and cry until he's empty. But he's so god damn confused, he can barely see straight.

He forces himself to ignore her.

Rushing downstairs, he hears the soft thump of her bare feet chasing him, but he keeps going.

More pieces of their life together are strewn down below. Empty mugs with damp tea bags on the kitchen counter, a paperback book with one of his gum wrappers marking her page, the fluffy blanket Bucky wrapped around them both as they cuddled by the fire. Tiny remnants of a perfect life, a beautiful picture he never knew he craved, until he held it all in his perpetually mismatched hands.

Reaching the front door, Bucky shoves his feet into the boots he keeps lined up below the coat rack. Trembling fingers whip through the buckles and laces, and then he grabs his white jacket and jams his arms through. Without bothering to zip it up, he hefts his bag over his shoulder and pulls the door open.

Cold air swirls around him, the freshness of a beautiful morning spilling in.

With one foot outside, he abruptly halts. Breathing hard, his entire body vibrates under the strain of the anguish that sweeps through him.

Because he cannot help himself, he looks back.

Surrounded by the comforts of their home, there she stands. The love of his god damn life, hugging herself while she watches the man who promised to love her forever, as he walks out the door.

Bucky feels his heart thumping uncontrollably, smashing against his ribs, boom, boom, boom. Screaming at him to stop and listen. To let her explain and forgive her. To love her unconditionally and forever.

His heart thumps harder, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and those sketchy memories that haunt his nightmares, the wash of red blood and the stench of black death, those painful colors that painted the life of the Winter Soldier, fill him with sick horror and it makes him dizzy.

"Please, Bucky," she whispers. Broken. "Please stay. Don't leave me."

It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses, but he turns away. Slams the front door, hoists his bag over his shoulders, and leaps down the short flight of steps. With no plan other than escape, he bolts for the thick grove of pine trees opposite her house.

Knee deep drifts of snow blanket the yard, and he feels the icy bite of wet cold seeping through his pants as he trudges along, but it doesn't matter. He keeps stomping until he reaches the cover of trees, where the thick white tapers away and the path is easier to navigate.

Breaking into a slow trot, he winds around the wide trunks of the silent forest. Now and then, he sniffs and angrily wipes away the tears that won't seem to stop.

On and on he goes, his slow jog eventually changing to a flat out run. One mile turns into two and then into five. In the thin mountain air, his breath comes harsh and ragged as he runs faster and faster, away from the horrors of a past he can't remember and the crushing disappointment he left on her face. On and on he runs, until suddenly, the terrain curves up, so he drops his head and sprints, scrabbling at slippery black rock. The duffel bag bounces crazily at his back and he loses his grip once, smashing his face against the icy granite. Swearing viciously, his nose gushing blood, he crawls back to his feet and keeps running.

Bucky climbs and climbs and climbs, until all of a sudden, he skids to a stop.

Spread out before him, is an alien world. Glittering white stretches into infinity, sawtooth mountain peaks clawing at the distant blue sky. In the open, it is fiercely cold, but he jerks off his stocking hat, sighing in relief at the feel of air on his blisteringly hot neck. Sweat slides down his back, pooling between his shoulder blades and he gulps down the dry air, relishing in the ache it forces into his lungs.

Folding his fingers atop his head, he tips his face to the dazzling sunshine. Slowly, his panting lessens. Slowly, he feels the wild anxiety dissipate. And slowly, he begins to understand what he's done.

"Oh my god," he exhales. Staring up into the deep blue sky, dread creeps up his spine. "What the fuck did I just do?"

Knees buckling, he falls hard, the sting of cold soaking through his pants. A shaking hand wipes away the blood still trickling from his nose and he closes his eyes.

Bucky Barnes will be the first to admit, sometimes he makes terrible decisions.

Sometimes they're just normal terrible, like the time he ate four platefuls of spaghetti and then challenged Sam to a five-mile run. By mile two, he was puking up tomato sauce.

Sometimes they're slightly more terrible, like the time he refused medical treatment and insisted on digging three bullets out of his thigh himself. He passed out near the end and cracked his head on the ceramic floor of the med bay.

Sometimes they're pretty terrible, like all those times he forced himself to stand in a Hydra base and relieve every hideous memory that inevitably resurfaced. That just proves he's an idiot.

But now and then, he does this. Makes such a monumentally terrible decision that nothing positive can come from it. And this one here just might be the most catastrophically stupid decision of his entire fucking life. He should have stayed. He should have dug his heels in and worked through this with her, but like a god damn coward, he ran.

"You dumb idiot sonofabitch," he growls.

Above the whistle of wind whipping around, he hears a quiet chirp chirp sound and a striped chipmunk scurries past. The small creature stops when it sees him, popping up on its haunches and sniffing the air. Bright eyes watch him, and Bucky has the uncomfortable feeling of being judged.

"I really fucked that up, didn't I?" he asks. The chipmunk twitches its fluffy tail in agreement and Bucky grunts. "I know, I just - I fuckin' panicked. One minute I'm asking her to marry me and the next she's telling me - well, you know." The chipmunk tilts its head. "Okay, so maybe you don't know, but believe me, it was insane." Another chirp, another head tilt. Bucky groans and buries his face in his hands. "Jesus. You're right. I'm a god damn idiot."

Shame flares red-hot in his chest. How could he have done this to her? Left their trust behind and walked away?

In the crisp morning air, clarity arrives like a clap of thunder.

Despite decades apart, despite every cruel twist of Fate, despite the unending brutality Hydra leveled against them both, despite everything in the world conspiring to keep them apart - nothing worked. With only muscle memory to guide them, somehow, against all odds, they found their way back to each other.

Because this right here, is what it means to love someone with every piece of your heart.

The simplicity of that realization brings a deep comfort to his soul. He knows then, exactly what he has to do.

"I have to go back," he announces. Jumping to his feet, he grabs his bag and shrugs into the straps. "Tell her none of it matters. None of it does matter. I get why she did it, I would've done the same damn thing, if I thought I could save her." Bucky nods at the chipmunk. "Thanks man."

Turning around, he picks up his trail and he heads for home.

*****

The trek back seems shorter. Or maybe he's just anxious to get back, but in no time at all, Bucky picks out the familiar markers that mean home is just over the horizon. Unable to contain himself, he starts to sprint.

Relief fills him when he plunges through the trees, finding the house exactly as he left it.

Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, water bubbles merrily in the nearby stream, the pile of wood he was chopping lays unfinished by the shed. Everything in its place, everything perfect, everything -

Wrong.

There is no discernible reason for it, but feeling is overpowering. It slams into him, like a punch to the face.

Something is wrong.

Pulling up short, he goes completely still.

All those threats he imagined lurking in the darkness last night feel suddenly real, magnified in the morning sun. There are no screams, no cries, no blood, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary, but still. Swinging his bag around, Bucky crouches in the snow and digs through his pack until his fingers find a gun. Shaking a round of bullets from the clip stashed inside his coat, he slips them into the chamber and snaps it shut. Rising slowly, he raises the gun, eyes darting back and forth across the quiet landscape. Picking his way carefully through the snow, he's within a few hundred feet of the house when he sees it.

Footprints.

Coming from the opposite direction, leading in a straight line to her front door.

Bucky feels the ground disappear beneath his feet.

"Fuck," he spits out. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Something suddenly crunches under his boot. Glancing down, he drops to one knee, his eyes tracking every direction, while he reaches blindly for whatever made that sound. Fingers touch a hard edge, and brushing away a dusting of snow, he picks up a white notebook.

Eyes still roaming cautiously, he balances it on his knee and flips it open.

Written at the top of every page, the words "MISSION REPORT" are ground into the paper. Thumbing through page after page, he finds shaky block letters in gray lead, short sentences and rambling comments and odd words jumping out at him.

Krakow. Pain. New soldiers. Old signals. Pain. Electricity. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Utterly bewildered, Bucky flips to the last few pages.

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: CONTACT MADE BUT RESPONDENT ELIMINATED. BASE DID NOT REVEAL INFORMATION REQUIRED TO PROCEED TO NEXT RENDEZVOUS POINT. HOLD AND WAIT. WITHOUT ADDITIONAL SUPPORT MISSION FAILURE IS IMMINENT. REQUESTING BACK UP FOR –

---

MISSION REPORT: NEW OBJECTIVE IDENTIFIED. RECONNAISSANCE REQUIRED TO DETERMINE APPROPRIATE COURSE OF ACTION. OBSERVATION WILL CONTINUE FROM A SAFE DISTANCE.

---

MISSION REPORT: LAST MISSION PARAMETERS RECALLED AND RE-ACTIVATED. APPROPRIATE TOOLS COMMANDEERED TO ADDRESS ISSUES AND SECURE ADDITIONAL SUPPORT. SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT WILL BE UNDERTAKEN BEFORE PROCEEDING WITH FINAL ELIMINATION PLAN.

---

MISSION REPORT: SECOND ATTEMPT AT CONTACT ESTABLISHED. AWAITING RESULTS.

---

MISSION REPORT: BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

---

MISSION REPORT: WAITING IS THROUGH. THE MISSION ENDS NOW.

---

Bucky reads it all twice, trying to make sense of the words. They look like diary entries, the barest details outlining the sketch of a person's day.

Kind of like the notes Steve jots down sometimes, so he can fill in a more descriptive report later. Like the kind Sam sometimes writes in the notebook he tries to hide, so he can examine his own thoughts and mood swings. Like the kind Bucky sometimes marks on the back of grocery receipts, when he gets stuck inside his head and needs a way to set the anger free.

Mission reports are the hallmark of any good soldier.

Any good soldier.

An idea suddenly pops into his brain. Insane, irrational, and entirely ludicrous.

Tucking the notebook into his pocket, he grits his teeth furiously and raises the gun again. Picking his way through the snow, he reaches the shoveled path and when he hits the front steps, his feet choose the places he already memorized, where the creaking whine of the wood is silenced.

Pressing his ear to the door, he strains to hear, but finds nothing. Praying he is dead wrong, Bucky turns the handle slowly and eases the door open. Stepping into the doorway, he finds himself momentarily snow-blind from the world of white, so he blinks quickly.

The inside world takes shape. All the basics of a comfortable life remain, just as he left them this morning.

A crackling fire. The smell of coffee. The hum of a fan. A low radio playing staticky jazz in the background.

In the dim light, the barrel of his gun finds the face of someone kneeling by the fireplace.

Except there are two people kneeling there.

She sits on her knees, her arms folded behind her back. Dressed in sweatpants and a heavy sweater, thick socks on her feet, she still shivers uncontrollably. Crouched behind her, digging a gun into her neck, is a familiar face, one Bucky recognizes from a blurry photograph.

"What kind of soldier leaves his home base completely unprotected?" Henry Lewis asks. His voice is low and hollow, guttural tones of a man who hasn't spoken in a long time. "You failed to even lock the door, I walked right inside. I expect she thought I was you, she came running at the sound."

The resemblance to the photos is there, with only slight differences. After years of electricity and experiments, his curly black hair is now a shock of white, illuminating his dark eyes. He looks like a young man, mid-30s at most, but the haunted look in his eyes speaks of decades of nightmares.

Dazed shock is obvious in her face, when she meets Bucky's eyes. Swallowing hard, she keeps her eyes focused on him and tries to speak.

"Henry, I know you're upset. You should be," she says quietly, never looking away from Bucky. "But he has nothing to do with this. Let him leave, and you and I can figure out what you need to do. Please."

"No, I need him here," Henry answers, his mouth at her ear. "He has to be here for this."

Still aiming the gun at the pair, Bucky eyes his angle, gauging his chances of taking Henry down with a single shot. The mechanics of it bounce through his head and he comes up empty. He tries to get Henry talking while he strategizes.

"Lieutenant, how are you here?"

"How am I alive, you mean?" Henry clarifies. "That's a long story. Without a happy ending, I'm afraid. Let's just say the serum they gave me wasn't quite as effective as yours, but it

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