The Aftermath

Chapter 5

Four months later...

You awake gasping for air and clutching at the empty space in the bed beside you, as cold sweat trickles down your spine. It had been months since the battle but you still awoke with blood chilling nightmares. You sigh heavily as you lay back against your pillows, trying to lull your mind back into a state of calm. You don't know how long you lay there in the dark before you finally give up the pretense of rest and decided to make yourself some tea. You grab a robe and belt it firmly around you before quietly padding out of your room and through your apartment, mindful not to disturb your roommate. It hadn't been long after Steve's decision that you had realized you couldn't stay at the complex, the place too full of hurtful memories. To everyone's dismay, you had tendered your resignation as an Avenger, claiming you needed time to heal. The loss of three of the most important people in your life had been a difficult blow that you hadn't taken well, depression threatening to swallow you whole. It had been Pepper who had offered you one of the many apartments that Tony had set aside, happily signing it over and handing you the keys, claiming it's what your brother would have wanted...a place for you to call your own...a place for you to heal. You had moved into the beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn Heights not long after, burying yourself in your sorrow.

Weeks had passed, weeks where you had shunned every attempt anyone had made at trying to reach out to you, perfectly content to waste away in your misery....until Bucky had shown up. It had been a rainy afternoon, the first cold breaths of winter chilling the air and making it even more dreary when Bucky had shown up unannounced and pounded like a madman at your door. You would never forget the mixture of anger and sadness that gleamed in the depths of his steel blue eyes when you had finally answered the door, emotions that painted his features more severely as he took in your appearance, thinner and more dull than it had been weeks before. He had raged at you, yelling at you for not taking care of yourself...for pushing everyone away...for not caring about your own well-being.

"Steve was an asshole for leaving the way he did. He was an idiot for leaving at all, but that doesn't give you the right to stop living. Seriously, what the fuck (Y/N)?" He had seethed although you could see the genuine worry in his face. "The (Y/N) I know wouldn't do this to herself." You didn't have the heart to tell him that the (Y/N) he knew had died during the snap...the woman that had been forced to rebuild herself during the following five years had died with Nat and Tony....whatever remained had been stripped away when Steve left. Even you didn't know the woman that was now left behind. It hadn't been up for discussion when Bucky had taken up residence in the guest room, declaring that if you weren't capable of taking care of yourself then he would make sure of it. It had been a few months now and the two of you had built a tentative life. You had developed a living situation and daily schedule that worked well and even you had to admit that you were doing better. You weren't well...but you were markedly improved and you knew that you had Bucky to thank for that.

You were only slightly surprised to find the dining room light was already on as you made your way towards the kitchen. Bucky startled as you appeared in the doorway, his body tense with concern as his gaze wanders over you before relaxing slightly when he sees that you're alright. "Shit doll, you scared me half to death. What are you doing up? Trouble sleeping?" he asks as you nod and duck into the kitchen, boiling water and fishing out a mug and a loose tea bag. "What are you doing up?" you ask when you return with your steaming mug in hand and lean against the doorframe to study him. He looked tired, dark circles grace his under eyes that are fully visible with his hair pulled back in a man bun, a dark shirt is stretched tight against his broad chest and shoulders and he leans over a notebook of some kind, where he had clearly been writing. He flips the notebook closed and your breath turns shallow as you recognize the worn brown leather journal that Steve had carried with him over the past few years.