Stucky One-shots

Three Times Bucky Barnes Spoke To Death

1927

The night descended like a heavy shroud, suffocating the world in darkness. A thick blanket of fog crept along the streets, swallowing the flickering lampposts in its murky embrace. Shadows danced ominously, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes that seemed to leer from the depths of the night. The wind mourned, a haunting melody that echoed through the desolate streets.

Bucky wrung his hands as he sat next to Steve's bed. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew that Steve wasn't breathing right. He looked up; out the window fearfully, tears evident in his innocent eyes. Branches scraped against windows, while distant howls pierced the silence, sending shivers down the spine of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the grip of the sinister night. A gust of wind swept through the room and Bucky placed a hand on Steve's chest, feeling his weak but steady heartbeat.

He closed his eyes and felt a presence in the room.

"Come out," he whispered, taking a deep breath, "I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of you."

The shadow emerged from the dark, donning a dark cloak, its skeletal fingers reaching forward. Death, trying to get a hold of Steve Rogers. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve protectively, tears rolling down his cheeks. Bucky cried when he was scared. And in that moment, he was terrified, no matter what he tried to think to convince himself otherwise.

It's just a fever, he thought to himself. He won't die, not now, not now, please. He didn't die in '22 or '26... he won't die now.

Bucky swallowed fearfully, looking up at Death with wide eyes. "Let's make a deal," he whispered, arms still protectively around Steve. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, getting faster and faster by the second. "Don't take him." You don't think you could stand it, having to bury him, his mind whispered to him, You love him. He shook the thought away and stared at Death with determination. "Don't take anyone else from me. Don't take someone else from me, please. Just-"

He hesitated. He knew how this worked—one for one. "Just..." Bucky paused and glanced up at the figure in front of him, "If you need to take someone away from this world, then take me instead."

Death stopped reaching forward and stared into Bucky's eyes—steel blue orbs. There was something in his eyes that Death itself feared, but perhaps it was just the bright sparks of resilience in his eyes. Or maybe it was just how he just had that sort of piercing eyes that saw right through you. Or perhaps the mystery of how his steel blue eyes could look as dark as the sky at midnight. They gave him a look of a deep ocean, of the never-ending water, right to the bottom, when mysterious creatures lurked in the dark. The look of knowing, of mystery, of wisdom, of trust, of betrayal, and they were all evident in his gaze.

Or maybe it was nothing at all.

Death stared at Bucky as if he was marking him.

"Promise me, don't take him. Or anyone else. Just me."

Death did nothing. He eyed Bucky curiously. Then he turned away and glided out of the window.

*****

1943

"Barnes, James Buchanan... Sergeant... 32557038....Barnes, James Buchanan... Sergeant...32557–" Bucky muttered to himself, over and over, as the serum made its way around his body, and he wondered how something so blue, like ice and snow, could burn like fire in his veins. Not even the bite of the European winter could cool the sear of the fire burning in his veins.

The eternal light in his heart had grown rampant into a wildfire that nobody could put out. Whatever had been put inside of him, he knew, would change him fundamentally. It would change him into the monster that he was trying hard not to be. No amount of ice-cold water, no dunking himself in forest lakes, no sub-zero nights would give him even a moment of relief from the burning in his core.

I want to die... I want to die...

Let me die...

Death... let me die...

"Let me die..." he croaked out.

But Death wouldn't let him. Death wanted him to die painfully.

Bucky wondered how Steve was feeling in that moment. He thought of the last time he had grasped Steve's chilled hands, always cold; never warm. He wondered if it was selfish to ask for Steve to find him in this HYDRA base. To feel the soothing chill of his hands. He wondered if Steve's cold hands would save him from the inferno in his heart. Was it selfish? Was it selfish, in a war that Steve had no reason to fight in, to ask for Steve to fight so he could the familiar, homelike intimacy of wrapping around him?

He closed his eyes, instinctively saying the words over and over again. Name. Rank. Serial number. Name. Rank. Serial number. Name... rank... serial number...

"Oh my God."

He heard the voice, but he felt like he was drifting.

A figure walked towards him, seeing him lying on the table, strapped down. He approached Bucky, and saw how badly beaten up he was. There were bruises on both his forehead and his cheekbone. He tugged on the straps. As the figure pulled at his restraints, Bucky felt his hands.

Cold.

And he tried to close his eyes in that second, to savour the cold, but he opened them upon feeling the cold hands shaking him in desperation. "Hey, Buck... it's me..." the figure called out to him, still shaking him. After a moment, Bucky squinted, and there was a flash of recognition in his eyes.

"St-Steve?"

"Steve. Steve..." Bucky repeated in utter disbelief.

Steve helped Bucky to sit upright and placed his hand on Bucky's cheek. His voice was choked with emotion as he muttered, "I thought you were dead." Bucky looked Steve up and down, his steel blue eyes finally alit with the light they usually held. A ghost of a smile appeared on his face as he whispered in reply.

"I thought you were smaller..." Steve smiled.

Bucky breathed slowly seeing the smile, and as Steve led him out of the room, he realised he didn't want to die. Not yet. He whispered to Death, Thank you...

*****

1945

"Bucky! Grab my hand!" Steve's desperate voice rang in Bucky's ears as the train sped past the snow. Bucky yelped as the pathetic bar— his single lifeline— broke off halfway. Steve shook his head, his mind unable to comprehend the alternative if he couldn't grab Bucky's hand, stretched out towards him.

He looked at the slow trickle of blood ran down his left arm. This is it... he thought to himself. His face was contorted with fear as he attempted to swing forward and grip Steve's hand. Steve took a step forward, on the edge of death, as Bucky attempted to grab hold of Steve's outstretched hand.

It was too late.

With a bloodcurdling scream, Bucky's hand lost friction on the cold metal bar. He fell from the train into the deep cold abyss. He reached his hand out, as if still hoping that Steve's hand would hold on to him.

Bucky felt like he was watching himself fall. All around him was cold. And then he whispered for warmth.

He was falling so fast that he could barely even feel it. He closed his eyes, his voice broken from screaming all the while. At that moment, he just wanted it to end.

The shadow of Death loomed over him as he landed on the ground. Am I gonna die now? he asked Death.

Death reached forward and grabbed Bucky's bleeding left arm before gliding away, and left him, lying in the snow, the ice turning red from the blood...