Chapter Text
Ten months later
“She lives here?” Steve asked, looking up at the shiny new mass of glass and brick that was designed to echo the old warehouses that used to line the Red Hook waterfront a century ago.
“Selling out to the man has its perks,” Bucky said, reaching for the buzzer.
Becca lived in a two-bedroom on the top floor, with an unobstructed view of New York Harbor that made her breathtaking rent seem like a steal. Bucky hadn’t been back since moving to Winter Village, and he couldn’t help but feel a little sick as he remembered that first wobbly elevator ride up with her, still off balance without the arm and weak as a puppy from his weeks in a hospital bed. By the time they reached the top, she was practically holding him up.
Now instead of leaning on his sister he was holding Steve’s hand as they rose past floor after floor, balancing just fine despite the missing weight on his left side. With them were a rolling suitcase and a sealed box of advance copies of his book that he’d waited to open until Becca could be there.
When they reached the top, Steve hefted the box while Bucky took the suitcase, and they made their way down to Becca’s apartment. The door was already open and she was standing there in leggings and a sweatshirt, clapping eagerly and leaning out as far as she could without letting the door slam behind her.
“Hurry up, you idiots,” she said. “I can’t move. The door will lock behind me and I want to hug you.”
Bucky and Steve both laughed and they picked up the pace a little. Bucky instinctively glanced up at Steve, but saw that his face was relaxed and his breathing was easy.
“I’m fine,” Steve murmured, catching Bucky’s eye.
“Yeah, you are,” Bucky said lasciviously, and Steve laughed.
“Come here, Mr. Author,” Becca said when Bucky reached her, enfolding him into her soft, strong arms and kissing him hard on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
Bucky squeezed her hard and shut his eyes as Becca said what they were both thinking next, “I wish Mom and Dad could be here.”
“Me too,” Bucky said.
“They’d be proud of you.”
Bucky couldn’t say anything for a minute, just nodded into her shoulder before pulling away and clearing his throat. “Come in for the hug, Steve,” he said roughly, waving his boyfriend over.
Steve grinned, shifted the box onto his hip, and stepped awkwardly into Becca’s embrace.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, then kicked the door further open behind her and waved them through. “Come on in.”
Steve whistled a little as he looked around. It was a large apartment, by New York City standards, and Becca had furnished it with the kind of exquisitely eclectic taste you’d find in a home decorating magazine. “This is gorgeous,” he said.
“It’s ridiculous,” Becca said, then nodded at Bucky. “But I wanted to make sure this one always had a place to come home to.”
Bucky winced a little, knowing that he had never extended Becca the same care, but he was getting better at not blaming himself too much about it. His work had been important and he had to remind himself that Becca had always supported it.
And now he could make sure the dacha would always be theirs. If Sam’s sales projections were correct, they would finally be able to pay off the mortgage with the holiday season sales of his book. (It sounded more impressive than it was—after 25 years, there wasn’t that much left on the mortgage, but it would still give him and Becca both some much-needed breathing room once it was gone.)
He knew it was stupid to measure a person’s worth in money, but it meant a lot to him to be able to do this. She had done so much for him. He could at the very least do this.
And, to be selfish, it meant he wouldn’t need to leave Winter Village to start over. He had begun freelancing for the local newspaper, and because that paid barely enough to cover the gasoline he burned to get to his stories, he also took a job as an assistant at Visions Photography in the main square.
Wanda had been skeptical at first—she knew exactly who Bucky was, and had been a little starstruck and confused when he showed up one day to answer his help-wanted ad—but Bucky was dead serious about the job. He had done some portraiture and studio work in college, but most of that knowledge was either long gone or so obsolete it was irrelevant. There was so much relearn about lighting, posing, eliciting expressions—he was certain he was getting more out of the arrangement than she was, but she didn’t seem to mind paying him one bit.
And to his surprise, he enjoyed it more than he thought. He would always be a journalist at heart, but the more comfortable he got with his artistic side, the brighter his world seemed to be. There was more than one way to tell a story with a camera, he was learning.
It felt good to learn that.
Steve, for his part, had settled in well at the clinic. It had been hard at first, of course, but after the first few months something changed. He smiled more quickly now, laughed more easily. Some of that had to do with the pacemaker, which his doctors had determined he needed in March. As much as he hadn’t wanted to need it, the peace of mind once he had it was immense. He hadn’t had an episode since. Even so, every night that he slept over, Bucky pressed his fingers to the flat, hard disk buried under the skin beneath his left collarbone, just to reassure himself.
That was most nights, because Steve still spent most of his time at the dacha. He was slowly renovating his mother’s house on the weekends, and at first he had stayed with Bucky to stay away from the dust, but then staying there had sort of morphed into living there, and now he had half the dresser and half the closet and half the medicine cabinet, as though he had been there forever.
They’d discuss it eventually—who Steve was renovating his mother’s house for, exactly, and where he would live when it was done—but Bucky was fairly certain that with every board he replaced and every wall he painted, it was less and less likely that Steve would ever move back in.
At the end of July, they’d publicly come out as a couple—by way of a candid photo Becca snapped of them standing on the porch together, Steve embracing Bucky from behind, resting his head against Bucky’s as they watched the sun set over the lake. They’d each shared it on their respective accounts at the same time, and that was that. To their relief, it only made a few gossip blogs and a couple of mostly supportive tabloid blurbs. Bucky knew it meant there were parts of the world he would never work in again because of it, but he’d come to terms with that. He was never going back.
But it was okay. It was.
That wasn’t his life anymore. Couldn’t be his life anymore. Not just because of his arm, but because he couldn’t imagine his life without Steve now. Couldn’t imagine coming home and not being able to talk about his day with him. Couldn’t imagine watching a bad movie on the couch without resting his head in Steve’s lap. Couldn’t imagine watching the sunset on the back porch without Steve by his side. Couldn’t imagine falling asleep without the sound of Steve’s soft breath beside him.
They hadn’t spent a full day apart since Steve’s surgery in the spring, which had unfortunately coincided with Bucky’s cousin’s wedding. Steve’s father had gone down to Houston with him instead, while Bucky and his sister went out to Indiana. That week apart had made it clear that Bucky didn’t ever want to spend that much time away from Steve again.
The Indiana trip had been good, though. It had been good to see his family again, and yes, it had been awkward at first, and everyone kept tripping over what to say or how to help, but after a day or two, most folks chilled out and it was just—kind of like it always had been after some time away. That was the thing about a good family, he thought. You could always just pick up where you left off.
He and Steve took the suitcase into the small second bedroom, and pain momentarily flared in his stump as he remembered those first long, hard weeks fighting the fire in his damaged nerves before they finally began to accept their fate. He was glad to be back here under much better circumstances. He and Steve began the quiet, efficient business of unpacking and ironing shirts for tonight and tomorrow.
Tomorrow. His book launch.
To his surprise, everyone he wrote about had agreed to be included in his book—even Mariam’s conservative parents, who had been so angry at their daughter 12 years earlier that she had expected to be disowned for her role in the Jasmine Revolution. They had been shocked by her activism, true, but they told him that as time passed and their grief healed, they said they would give anything to have her back. If Bucky’s book would let her live again, at least for a little while, then he had their blessing.
And now it was going out into the world, and Bucky had never felt more naked in his life. Sam had once sent him a Hemingway quote that said, “Writing is easy. You just sit down at the typewriter and bleed,” and he had never heard anything more true in his life.
But before he could let himself get too worked up about the launch, he had to focus on tonight, because tonight he was meeting Steve’s dads for the first time. He wasn’t sure which made him more nervous.
“Just remember not to finish his sentences for him. You don’t need to rescue him,” Steve was saying, and Bucky realized he was briefing Becca, who had come in to iron tomorrow’s dress.
“Got it,” Becca said, her gaze flicking effortlessly between the iron and Steve, though if anyone needed that advice less, it was Becca. There was a reason she was her firm’s best trial lawyer: She had an uncanny ability to read a person and know immediately how to connect with them. Bucky wished he had even half of whatever magic that was when he was working his sources.
“And he’s an architect, right? Or is he the engineer?”
“He’s the architect. Howard’s the engineer,” Steve said. “Mechanical engineer. Mostly aerospace.”
“Oh good, that was what I read up on.”
“You studied to meet my boyfriend’s parents?” Bucky asked.
Becca laughed and blushed. “Habit. I do that for all my clients.”
Bucky laughed and gave Steve a rueful shrug. “Sorry, babe,” he said. “I didn’t do the homework.”
Steve laughed and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “They’ll forgive you.”
Bucky pulled a mock anguished face and grabbed Steve’s arm. “But will you?” he asked melodramatically, and both Steve and Becca collapsed in laughter.
Oh, that felt good—hearing the laughter of his two favorite people in the world, together, in one room, on the eve of one of the most important days of his life so far. He couldn’t stop smiling.
This was good, he thought. This was all he needed.
***
At 7 on the dot, Becca’s buzzer sounded, and an unfamiliar masculine voice intoned in an old-money New York accent, “Joseph Rogers and Howard Stark to see Ms. Barnes.”
“That man grew up with a butler, didn’t he,” Bucky said.
“That would be Howard,” Steve said, as Becca buzzed them in.
Bucky levered up from the counter where he’d been leaning and smoothed his shirt for the fourth time in the past half hour, checking the pin on his sleeve one last time.
“You look great,” Steve said softly, winking.
Somehow, it seemed to take forever for them to make their way upstairs and yet when the knock came at the door, it seemed to take Bucky by surprise.
But then an old, well-honed shot of adrenaline took over. If he’d had his camera right now, it would already have been lifted to his eye. It’s happening, his body told him. Let’s go.
Howard was first through the door, carrying a large bouquet of fall flowers and a paper bag clinking with the shifting weight of what Bucky guessed were several bottles of wine. His hair was fully gray, though he was still trim and spry for a man in his mid-70s. He dropped a kiss on the side of Steve’s head and shifted the bouquet so he could shake Bucky’s hand. “Howard Stark. Delighted to meet you,” he said, with a kind of brisk warmth that told Bucky that he knew how to work a party.
Bucky took his hand and smiled back. “Bucky. Nice to meet you.”
But he had a hard time focusing on Howard because Steve’s father had come in right behind him, exactly as Bucky remembered him from the funeral. Tall, blond hair going to gray, longish and swept back, and a pair of hip dark-framed glasses that, together with the hair, would have told Bucky he was a successful architect without Steve ever needing to say anything. He glanced around the room with a strained smile before landing on Steve.
“Hey, Dad,” Steve said, hugging him. Joseph didn’t speak but beamed at him and ruffled Steve’s hair. “This is Bucky and his sister Becca.”
“Nice to meet you,” Becca said first, shaking his hand and then, with her trademark tact, grabbed Howard’s arm and added, “Excuse us while Howard and I put those gorgeous flowers in some water.”
With one fewer stranger in the entryway, Steve’s dad seemed to relax a little. Bucky extended his hand and Steve’s dad took it in both of his. He opened his mouth and his eyelids fluttered for a moment as he considered his words. “Hello Buck-k-Bucky,” he said, grimacing slightly before restoring his smile and taking a deep breath. “I’m happy t-to meet you. I’m—Joseph.” He spoke very slowly and deliberately, as though he’d practiced his greeting ahead of time.
“Hi Joseph,” Bucky said. “I’m happy to meet you, too.”
“C-cong-cong-g-congratul-l-l—” he winced and took a sharp breath in. “I’m happy about your— .” He opened his mouth as though to say more, then changed his mind and just squeezed Bucky’s hand and beamed at him.
“Dad’s one of your biggest fans on Instagram,” Steve said, grinning at his father. “I made sure they both knew how to use it before I went up for the first time. Had no idea I’d turn him into such an addict.”
Joseph gave a knowing smile and squeezed Bucky’s hand again, nodding in agreement.
“You didn’t tell me I had the whole family following me,” Bucky said, blushing. “But thank you. I’m glad you like my work.”
Without letting go of Bucky’s hand, Joseph turned his sunshine smile back toward Steve and pulled him into a sideways hug and ruffling his hair again.
Bucky felt a small, sharp twinge of jealousy as he remembered his own father doing the same thing, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on it because Howard had bustled back over with his coat over this arm.
“Joseph, darling, let me take your coat before you troth them in marriage right here in the foyer,” Howard said—pronouncing foyer with a flawless French accent.
Joseph chuckled and let Howard help him out of his coat, patting his cheek when he was done. Bucky could see why Steve had wanted to shout his fathers’ praises from the rooftops the minute he got the microphone to do so. It was impossible not to see the love they had for each other.
“Come, sit,” Becca said, waving them over from the living room. “Let’s try this incredible wine Howard brought.”
“Bucky, how is that camera rig you invented working out?” Howard asked as they took their places around the coffee table.
“I don’t really use it much anymore, actually,” Bucky said. “Now that I’ve got all my cameras at my house upstate, I usually just carry two or three with me, each pre-set for different types of shots. Now all I have to do is remember to grab the right one.”
“Heavy, isn’t it?”
Bucky shrugged. “I’m used to it. It’s an old combat photographer trick. You didn’t have time to swap out your lenses or do more than adjust your focus when things were—” he shrugged. “Busy.”
“Back in fighting form, then?” Howard asked, then glanced at Steve. “Do you have plans to go back?”
Steve cleared his throat, but Bucky waved him off. “No, it’s okay,” he said. “I can’t work fast enough for that anymore. I’m learning portraiture now, and I have some ideas for a documentary series about people who live in tourist towns. There are a couple of good galleries upstate who show photography. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but you gotta start somewhere, right?”
“Indeed,” Howard said. “Starting over is difficult, but sometimes it leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.” He looked at Joseph, who smiled and clinked his wineglass to Howard’s.
“So how long have you two been together?” Becca asked.
“Oh, dear, how old are you now, Steven?” Howard asked.
“Forty-two,” Steve said, grinning as Joseph laughed and swatted Howard’s knee in mock indignation. “That means your 25th anniversary is in two months.”
Howard responded with mock surprise. “Oh, I knew it was a big one this year,” he said. “Rebecca darling, how about you? Are we keeping you from someone special tonight?”
“Rebecca-darling has no interest in sharing her home with anyone,” Becca said, grinning, then pointed at Bucky. “This one excepted.”
“And only under catastrophic circumstances,” Bucky said.
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect you to actually make good on that,” Becca scolded him with a laugh.
“Blame it on Vladimir Putin,” Bucky said.
“I’ll send him a sternly-worded email tomorrow,” Becca said.
“I like your style, young lady,” Howard said, lifting his glass.
They all laughed, but after a moment everyone’s gaze seemed to drift instinctively to the cardboard box on the floor next to the coffee table.
“Ready to open it?” Steve asked Bucky.
Bucky took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” he said, his stomach suddenly twisted into a knot so tight it was hard to breathe. Becca found some scissors and handed them to Bucky, and then wordlessly, as if they’d planned it, steadied one side of the box while Steve steadied the other.
Bucky opened the scissors and drew the blade down the tape holding the flaps together and held his breath as he pushed them apart.
He had a book.
A big one, too: sized for display on a coffee table and heavy with thick, high quality paper chosen to make his photos as sharp and brilliant as possible. Becca and Steve held the box while Bucky lifted the top book out and placed it on the coffee table.
“I’m afraid to look inside,” he breathed. He wasn’t sure why—he’d already seen the proofs—but this was real in a way that the proofs would never be. This was finished. His work was done.
An unexpected clot of grief bubbled up in his throat, and he closed his eyes against the tears that had suddenly sprung up.
“Hey,” Steve said, moving to Bucky’s side and rubbing his back. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky said, shaking his head. He tried to laugh a little at himself but all he ended up doing was sniffling.
Joseph silently offered a handkerchief.
“It’s just—” he started as he accepted Joseph’s handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “End of an era, I guess. I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard.” He shook his head and shot Joseph and Howard a rueful smile. “Sorry about this.”
“Hush,” Steve said. He pulled Bucky into a sideways hug. “It’s okay. What’s that thing Clint said? Hard things are hard.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, nodding against Steve’s cheek.
To his right, Becca put her hand on Bucky’s other shoulder. “Take as much time as you need.”
But if he waited a minute longer he was afraid he’d never do it at all. So Bucky sucked in a deep breath and nodded and then reached forward again and opened the book to the dedication page.
To my sister Becca, for everything.
“Oh no, now I’m crying too, you jerk,” Becca said, reaching for Joseph’s handkerchief, and Bucky laughed and knocked her shoulder with his.
He didn’t want to break the spine, so Steve carefully held the left-hand leaves down as Bucky turned each page. There was Mariam, in full color, angry and determined and gloriously, breathtakingly alive. There was Silvia, half-lit in harsh late-night neon; and Sharbat, a schoolteacher from a small village near Kandahar looking grimly at the smoking wreckage of her school; and Efsan, the Kurdish journalist who acted as Natasha’s interpreter when they were reporting in Mosul after the fall of ISIS; and Yianna, a member of a small group of volunteers who patrolled their strip of beach on the island of Chios with blankets and food for the Somalian and Syrian migrants who staggered ashore nearly every day.
There was Destiny, a teenager who lived just a few miles away in Queens, carrying a sign bearing a photo of Breanna Taylor and staring down an obviously angry cop as the protest surged behind her. The cop was looking sideways right at Bucky, and three seconds after Bucky took the picture the cop had tried to grab his camera. Bucky had flashed his press badge and their argument over his right to take that photo distracted the cop long enough for Destiny to melt back into the crowd. It was the closest he’d ever come to deliberately interfering with a story. The picture had appeared on the front page of the New York Times—his first major front-page picture ever, but not his last.
That had been his photo of Margaryta, a 13-year-old girl sitting on a Ukrainian train bound for the Polish border, with her 6-year-old brother by her side and her 5-year-old sister in her lap. Bucky had gone to the train station with Yelena just a few hours after landing in Kyiv and found Margaryta and her father wrangling the little ones onto the train. They had no idea exactly where it was going, except away from this. Their father had just been conscripted, and their mother was trapped in Odesa, where she’d been visiting her ailing grandmother. The mother had a cousin in Krakow, however, so they decided to put their children on the first train they could get onto headed that way. Each child had the cousin’s name and phone number written on their arm with magic marker. On their backs, under their shirts, the father told Yelena, he had written each child’s name, their address in Kyiv, and the mobile phone numbers for him and his wife. Just in case.
What had struck Bucky the hardest—and his editor, too—was the startling bravery on Margaryta’s face. Her jaw was clenched and her mouth pressed into a thin, tight line, and her eyes were red from crying but hardened now, as the weight of responsibility settled into her bones. Her feet did not quite touch the floor of the seat she occupied, but she was determined to take care of her siblings and get them to safety no matter what she had to do.
She had, by the way. A few weeks later Yelena had called the number written on Margaryta’s arm and managed to reach the cousin. It had taken about eight days for her to find the children, but she had and they had settled in as well as could be expected in her tiny apartment. A makeshift Ukrainian school had been set up at a church nearby, and they had already made some friends. But Margaryta insisted on holding her brother’s and sister’s hands every time they left the house, no matter how short the errand might be, and she didn’t seem to want to play anymore. She had not yet spoken about those eight days the children had spent on their own, the cousin said. She wasn’t sure if Margaryta would ever be a little girl again.
“I remember that one,” Howard said, startled. “It was on the front page of the Globe. You took it?”
Bucky nodded, not quite looking at him. That’s not the point, he wanted to say. She’s the point. That little girl is the point. Every child is the fucking point.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joseph take Howard’s hand and nod.
“I don’t think any parent on the planet could have seen that photo without imagining their own children,” Howard said, meeting Joseph’s gaze. Joseph nodded again. “It made the war real.”
“Did it?” Bucky said, a little angrily. “Because that war’s still going on. Afghanistan’s completely fallen. The drug cartels are still as strong as ever. The cops aren’t any better. Every war, every tragedy, there’s always one photo of a kid that everyone says will finally make people understand, and still, nothing ever changes. Not even when it’s a pretty little white girl that Western politicians can imagine playing with their own kids. So what good did any of these pictures actually do?”
“They mattered to the people in that book,” Becca said after a long minute. “Every person in that book agreed to let you include their pictures for a reason. You made them feel seen. And that gives people hope.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” Becca said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“She’s right, you know,” Howard said gently, still holding Joseph’s hand. “Don’t underestimate the importance of being seen.”
“You did good, Buck,” Steve said softly, squeezing him tight. “This”—he used his index finger to tap the page he was holding open—“is an incredible legacy.”
Bucky shook his head and wiped his eyes.
Becca squeezed his arm again and opened her mouth to speak when the oven timer went off. She laughed and then Bucky laughed and then they all laughed, and his anxiety began to bleed away. He had no illusions that what he did would change the world, but maybe it did make a difference, even just a small one. Maybe he could let himself believe that.
***
After dinner, Joseph insisted on washing the dishes, and caught Bucky’s eye and nodded toward the sink as he stood.
“I see Joseph is about to have a fatherly chat with your boyfriend, Steven,” Howard said with a mild smile. He looked at Becca next. “Perhaps we’ll give them some privacy.”
Bucky detained Steve long enough to get his help rolling up his right sleeve before joining Joseph at the sink. A year ago he couldn’t imagine letting someone help him like that in public. Now it was just a part of his everyday life.
Joseph silently offered Bucky the choice of a sponge or dish towel. Drying usually resulted in fewer broken glasses, so Bucky chose the towel and Joseph began to fill the sink.
Joseph hadn’t spoken at all during dinner, aside from the occasional laugh or hum of agreement, and yet he had developed such an animated presence that Bucky hadn’t realized how silent he’d been until he cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and began to collect his next words.
“I want t-t-to thank-thank you for bei-ng-being—” Joseph’s eyelids fluttered a little—“being there for—Steve after Sarah d-d-died.”
“Of course,” Bucky said. “To be honest, I’m not sure what either of us would have done last winter without each other. I think we were both pretty lost.”
Joseph gave him a sympathetic nod.
“Taking over his mom’s place at the clinic seems to have really helped,” Bucky said. “I’m sure you can see. He’s really happy there.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows and pointed at Bucky.
“And with me?” Bucky asked, and Joseph nodded. He felt his face heat up. “I’m really happy with him, too,” he said, then felt his face break out into a goofy grin.
Joseph smiled and tapped the temple of his glasses as if to say, I know. I can see it plain as day.
“He’s a good man,” Bucky said, glancing over his shoulder. Steve was refilling the wineglasses as Howard and Becca chatted. He caught Bucky’s eye and winked.
“Sarah d-did-did a g-good job,” Joseph said, glancing back at Steve as well. He had a soft smile on his face as he caught the exchange between them.
“You both did,” Bucky said.
Joseph gave him a rueful smile, then opened his mouth and began to assemble what Bucky gathered was an important thought. “I reg-regret being t-t-too afraid of the press t-to l-let St-Steven t-talk—talk about us,” he said carefully.
“Oh, no,” Bucky said. “Trust me. He understands completely.”
“T-tomorrow,” Joseph said slowly, shaking his head. “We’ll be in a room full of report-t—reporters. If an-n-anyone ask-asks, I want you both—t-t-to—it’s okay t-to—t-t-t—” Joseph winced again, and then pushed out the rest of the sentence in a single breath. “Saywhoweare.”
“You’re sure?” Bucky asked.
Joseph nodded, then opened his mouth again. “Bec-c-c-c—your sist-sister was right,” he said after a long pause. “It’s important t-to be seen.”
***
By eight o’clock the next evening, it was done. The book was listed online and stocked in bookstores. He had signed nearly a hundred copies and he was cupping his aching hand around a sweating pint of cold beer. He sat quietly at the bar while the party swirled around him, filling the small, wood-paneled pub that Becca had booked for him.
Across the room, Steve’s dads were talking to Nick, while in the far corner near the stage, Natasha was having a suspiciously long conversation with Sam that involved quite a bit more kissing than Bucky would have expected from a professional networking situation. In another corner of the bar, Maria Hill was tolerantly listening to Peter, periodically nodding with an amused smile on her face. Bucky would have bet money that Peter was going to get one of Maria’s calls sometime soon.
Not many other of his subjects had been able to come, but Destiny and her mom had showed up, as had Yianna and her husband. Silvia was there too, resplendent in a purple dress and her signature eye patch, holding court with a small clutch of reporters and gesturing as emphatically with her vape pen as she had with her Marlboros when she and Bucky had last met. Junior’s parents were there as well, and Becca had taken them under her wing.
It had been hard to meet them—they had all cried a little, and there had been hugs, and Bucky had a hard time holding himself together when they thanked him for telling the story of their son. But it had been okay. He’d needed it, if he was being honest with himself. He knew it wasn’t his fault, or Yelena’s, but the guilt was hard to wash away. He’d needed the closure.
Yelena had, too. It had been a close thing, getting her a visa, but she’d managed to fly in less than an hour before the party started. She was sitting next to him at the bar, scowling at the shot of American vodka the bartender had placed before her.
“Are you going to drink that or just be angry at it?” Bucky asked in the stilted, American-accented Russian he’d learned from his mother. Yelena turned her scowl toward him and poured the shot down her throat, shaking and grimacing as she did.
“I’m proud of you, Yasha,” she said, patting his arm, sparing her ears by replying in English.
“I still miss it,” Bucky said. “Every day.”
“I know,” she said. “But look, you get the chance to do something I probably won’t ever be smart enough to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Walk away before you burn out.”
“Yel—” Bucky said.
“No, no,” Yelena said, waving his concern away. “I’m fine. I’m crazy, but I’m fine. This is something I have to do, you know?” she said, clutching her hand to her heart. “This is my war, too. I don’t get to walk away from this one.”
Bucky reached over and pushed a stray lock of hair way from her face. “I know,” he said. “Come visit when it’s over, hm?” he asked. “I’ve got a spare bedroom. Bring Antonia. Try to remember what peace feels like.”
Yelena quirked him a half-smile and waved the bartender over for another vodka. “All right, Yasha,” she said. “It’s a deal.”
Just then Steve appeared and took the seat to Bucky’s left and ordered another beer.
“Where did you disappear to?” Bucky asked.
“Carol Danvers from Generation Q asked about my dads.”
“Is there going to be a story?” Bucky asked.
Steve shrugged. “Maybe a small item for social media,” he said. “I’m not the story of the day anymore. You are.”
“Thanks, I hate it,” Bucky said, leaning back against Steve’s chest.
“Hush. You’re doing great,” Steve said, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s waist.
“You are too cute,” Yelena said, picking up her vodka as she stood. She shook a cigarette out of her pack and stuck it into her mouth. “I hate this country. You can’t even smoke inside anymore.”
“How did you survive four months in Ukraine with her?” Steve asked as she made her way through the crowd to the door.
“She’s an acquired taste,” Bucky said. “But damn, it’s good to see her.”
Steve squeezed him tight. “I’m glad I got to meet her,” he said. “I’m glad I got to meet all of these people.”
“Yeah? I thought walking into a room full of reporters would be hell for you.”
“As long as they’re not looking at me, I’m fine,” Steve said. “Every one of these people is a part of you. Why wouldn’t I want to get to meet them?”
“I suppose they are,” Bucky said. “You know your mom wanted you to write a book,” he said. “Maybe that way I’ll finally get to meet all your people.”
“Maybe I will,” Steve said, laughing softly. “Or we could just get married and throw a big wedding.”
Bucky laughed and looked back at him. “Really?” he asked, not sure if he’d believed what he’d heard.
Steve shrugged. “If you want to,” he said. “We don’t have to. I love you no matter what. But it could be fun? Astronauts do know how to party.”
Bucky laughed and awkwardly swiveled around to face him. “You are a giant dork,” he said, kissing Steve. “And I love you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Steve said, grinning.
Bucky kissed him again. “The answer is yes.”