The glimpses into a life Bucky never thought was possible for himself. A world where he would find someone who he could love and be loved in return - a person he could start a family with. This is how an ex-assassin navigates the world of parenthood.
Summary:It would only be a month. Thirty days out in the field on some god awful mission, then he would be back in your arms. He had promised you that.
Warnings: Angst, emotional distress
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It would only be a month. Thirty days out in the field on some god awful mission, then he would be back in your arms. He had promised you that. Reciting it like a prayer into your skin the night before he left. You could handle a month. It would be gone in no time. You would keep the kids distracted, showing them pictures and videos each day, they wouldn't even know he left. Counting the days away. Forcing yourself to keep going on the thirty-first day. Screaming into your pillow on the thirty-fourth. Calling every person you had clearance to speak to at SHIELD for information, any please, on the forty-sixth.
You would know. You would fucking know if he was gone. That tungsten ring on your finger said as much. Couldn't scratch it if you tried, it was unbreakable. Those vows you said to each other on a muggy day in May, till death do us part, baby. And death hadn't taken you yet, you had fought and screamed and kicked and killed and forced your way past him at each and every turn, baby. The skeletal hand wasn't dragging you under anytime soon. You don't get to go somewhere I can't follow. And what about us, hmm? You promised, you son of a bitch. You would come back. You would stop taking missions. You would be a father and a husband. And I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be mad at you, baby. But where are you? Where the fuck are you?
A month turns to two turns to three. They're forgetting, you can tell. Gabriel especially. Rebecca doesn't recognize the pictures as quickly anymore. You have to keep saying, "that's daddy, sweetheart." You can see it in her eyes, he's unfamiliar to her. He's a character you keep insisting is real, like Elmo or Santa. She's almost three years old and she's forgetting him. Your heart aches from it.
Your mom is basically living with you now, helping where she can. Keeping the kids happily busy while you silently break down and pick up the pieces each day. Maybe she had been right, that initial shock when you told her you were dating the Winter Soldier. No, that was a selfish thought. You didn't regret a thing. You just wanted him back.
He missed the birthday. Their little boy's first birthday. Family and friends with hidden pity in their eyes gathered around as he smashed blue and white icing around his beautiful face. He has his father's face, your eyes. He's so smart, just studying everything around him. He's become such a cuddler, he would love it.
Becca had tried to take each and every present for herself. She's quick and funny and looks just like you, but with his sea-breeze eyes. She had laughed and danced and smuggled away toys without Gabe even noticing or caring. And he missed all of it.
It's been one hundred days since he left. You cross the day off on the calendar, go through the motions of another day without him - too numb to even cry after all this time. Suggestions of a therapist are floated around, but what good would that do? It wouldn't bring him back, wouldn't give you the answers you needed. You can put on a mask for the kids all day long, but that mask is starting to slip as the days pass.
The living room is dark and silent. No music plays here now. Not when you're alone. The monitor flickers between the two rooms: Becca sleeping sideways in the bed, a leg kicked over the sheets. Gabe curled in the crib with a dinosaur plush he got just two weeks ago. It's one in the morning. You don't sleep much these days.
Outside the window, two bright lights are moving. You stand, slowly. They move closer, dirt kicking up as the car drives towards the house. Black, nondescript. You fling the front door open, chest heaving. Hope? Please don't give me hope and take it away.
It pulls to a stop, engine groaning. The back door opens. A dark figure steps out.
You run.
Bucky only makes it a few steps before he's dropping his bag to catch you. Holding on for dear life, arms and legs wrapped around him. Please don't be a dream, please don't be a dream. He squeezes you so fucking tight. A metal hand holding you up, another hand cupping the base of your skull as he gives ragged exhales. You sob into his shoulder as days and months of longing hits you like a tidal wave. His eyes are shut as he grips onto you.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He breathes you in like a dying man. You wail in his embrace. His knees give out, but he holds you up as he drops down into the grass. You pull your head up to look at him, really look at him. His hair is cut shorter, a finely trimmed beard, but his eyes. Oh, his gorgeous eyes. So broken and haunted by the things he's seen and done. You grapple for him, hands flying to cup his face.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers again. Voice cracking.
You lean your head against his, tears falling into the space between you both. Shattering into pieces on the ground together. He came back. He's alive. But it's not enough. The world has taken him and shredded him and spit him back out again.
And you cry: for him, for your children, for the hell it put you all through. It will take time to heal and for the kids - oh god, the kids - to warm up to him again. And isn't that the most heartbreaking thing? His precious babies won't recognize the strange man in the house tomorrow morning. You have so many questions, so many rage-induced words to throw out into the night sky. But for now, you break down in his arms as he crumbles in yours.
