Chapter Text
She rattles off the numbers by heart. Her number, her name, her rank. It takes no thought, the only effort being the repeatable tremble coming from her chest and her lungs.
“Jamie Barnes, sergeant, 32557038”
Each breath is labored, each thought is foggy, and each movement is painful.
“Jamie Barnes, sergeant, 32”
Her shirt is sweat-stained, with blood dribbling down her face.
“55”
She can feel the wounds around her arms and her legs. They hurt. They ache. The flesh-deep pain of a horrific bruise. Her entire body is sore.
“70”
The back of her throat screams in pain. She can still relay her own feverish yells when they stuck her with those needles, like she wants to be alive in the body they were playing with. It’s probably ripped.
“38”
She wants home. The safety of Brooklyn, of her apartment next to Stephanie in bed. Of thunderstorms and huddling together for the winters.
“Jamie Barnes, sergeant, 3”
She clings to the numbers like a lifeline. In a way they kind of are. The only thing keeping her grounded.
“2”
From replaying the events over and over. From feeling the sore and painful bleeding muscles that riddle her broken body,
“5”
They did something to her. No one else survived, did they? They did something to her, and she doesn’t know what. Maybe she’ll die before she’ll know. Maybe she’ll live and never get to
“5”
There’s running outside of the room. The cold, blue-green, dark gray room. They’re fast, loud, and attention-grabbing. Ripping her focus from the muscle memory of the benumbed to the new intruder. Maybe they’d kill her off after all. A lost cause. She wants Stephenie. To hold her one last time
“Bucky?” A voice said. A remarkably familiar voice. She can’t let herself grasp onto it. She can’t. This happened before, when they first dragged her away into isolation. She saw her. She heard her. “Oh my god.”
But that’s not possible.
The wrong one rips apart the restraints keeping her tied to the table.
She isn’t repeating numbers anymore. Her mind wanders back, with no tether anymore. She can’t do anything. She CAN'T move, the sore ache running through her bone at the thought. The thought was too much.
“Bucky? It’s me, it’s Stephenie.”
And yet, she stares at her face as well. It isn’t like the one from before. The light of the blue-green-gray dark reflects off of her.
“Stephenie?”
But it’s not her. She doesn’t look right. She’s not supposed to be here.
She helps her up, sitting down on the table she was just bound to. She can’t help but stay away from the movement.
“I thought you were dead,” the girl said, grabbing Bucky and holding her tight. She sounds right. Her face isn’t correct, but it’s similar. Her body isn’t, though. It’s different, it’s weird, and the big feels are suffocating against the smells of the room. It’s Stephenie. It’s Stephenie.
She can’t help but bring herself to hold onto the embrace. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend it’s only the voice.
“I thought you were smaller.”
“Hey,” Stephanie whispers. It’s dark. Cold, she’s wrapped in a blanket, head against the window. It’s 8th Avenue. A corner store across from them has blackened their own lights. "Conserve the energy, save money, blankets, no heat" has been the motto for a bit.
“Yeah?” Bucky answered. She’s still, and has been for a bit, wrapped in three jackets as snow falls behind their walls. Lulling back and forward between conciseness, she doesn’t know why she whispers back. It’s only the two of them.
Stephenie is quiet. She doesn’t move or react at first. Just stares ahead of her more.
“Are you going to replace me?” And it’s almost like she’s losing her breath, digging farther into the pile of blankets.
Bucky looks toward her, tilting her head. She’s almost invisible. A pile of cloth. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She whispers.
“I don’t care about the double dates you keep bringing me on.” Stephanie decided on pressing her head to the cold glass of the window. “I don’t care for any of them.”
“Ok,” Bucky said, still staring at the pile of blankets consisting of her best friend. “I’ll stop bringing you on them. If you were uncomfortable, I could have always just ended it early. I care about you.”
“Do you really, though?” Stephenie said, turning to face her. “It’s just like—I feel like a side character next to you! Like, like nothing I do matters because I’m just going to be the best friend who dies, or—or just ends up in a chapter of the book to help you talk to a guy you like, and then you’ll get married and I’ll be left in the dust!” Stephenie had her hands randomly going out, settling to curling in on herself as her blankets were moved from her shoulders. “Because when you get married, where will I be? I can’t live with you anymore. And no man’s gonna want to be with a frail sick girl who can’t do anything. I want you to be happy, but I can’t see you being happy with me. And I’m selfish. I know that I’m selfish.”
Bucky opened her mouth. Closed it and opened it again. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a way to respond that wouldn’t make her shut herself out again.
“Well, that’s just dumb,” she decides on, heart pounding, trying to gauge her emotions. “I’d never leave you. Especially for some dumb man.”
“But I’m not like you.” Stephenie retorted, “You can just go out and get anyone you want wrapped around your finger and find the love of your life so easily, but you can’t! I’ve never cared about any of the guys you’ve put me up with, especially because you know how they feel about me. There’s no chance at a future for me. I’ll be a sprinter for the rest of my life. What would my mom think of me, ruining the Roger’s family name?”
“You can’t put words in her mouth.” She said while crawling across the bed next to Stephanie. “She wanted you to be an artist, to go to college, and to be healthy and happy. None of that requires you to get married. She never put “get a man” on that list because that wasn’t important. Your purpose isn’t to have kids or to make a man happy; your purpose is to make yourself happy. And what kind of friend would I be if I left you? I care about you. I really do. And I don’t know if you don’t believe me or what, but I’ll tell you as many times as I need to: I’m not going to leave you, because I need you too. If that means that I kick my husband to the basement so that you’re not lonely, so be it; he’ll survive with the spiders,” Stephanie chuckles. One of those wet laughs that makes you wonder what it means. Bucky drapes her arm around the pile of blankets, and even through the layers of cotton, she can feel the weight shift as Stephanie lies in her chest, still curled up in a ball.
“You always wanted to get married. I don’t want to get in front of your happiness,” Stephenie said quietly, tired and freezing and on the edge of a cold.
“Then you’ll be my maid of honor. Just you wait, I’ll make you wear some crazy blue ball gown so we can match.” She grinned, pulling Stephane’s light and frail body closer to hers.
“I thought you didn’t like dresses,” she yawned.
Bucky chuckled a bit, falling faster off the wall and pulling Stephane with her. She let sleep curl her hands around her.
She kind of just sat there. Drawing.
Bucky watched her through her dragging eyelids.
The sun blotted the tent, but if she didn’t look at the yellow canvas, it’s like she’s almost back at home.
She sits up slowly, yawning and stretching her arms. Stephenie’s face goes straight to her as she wakes; suddenly her shoulders drop in relief, tossing her her sketchbook, immediately opening her mouth to chatter.
Almost all of Bucky is still asleep, picking up the sketchbook, eyes still dropping, and opening to the first page. It’s been a long while since they’ve had the downtime to talk, to fall back into their routine. It was nice. If she didn’t look her in the eyes
“I’m about to finish this sketchbook. Gonna be sketchbook-less until we pass by a town that sells them. Fuckin sucks now that I have nothing to do with my hands; feels like I’ve been drawing every second I haven’t been talking to Agent Carter or the rest of the higher-ups.” She said, “I was scared to wake you. The nurses said you needed to rest, especially since they were out of any practical medicine in case you got an infection while your immune system was repairing itself.“
“Just like old times, huh?” Bucky smiled, looking up from the sketchbook. Each page was delicate in its own sense. Money had been tight; quantity over quality became the key when getting new sketchbooks. It felt closer to parchment on her fingertips rather than the fancy watercolor papers she’d use when they were in stock at the art store back on 7th. She cleared her throat, running a hand through her hair.
“Fair,” Stephanie shrugged, passing her a canteen. Bucky grabbed it happily, chugging it. Water is healing her dry throat.
“Agent Carter is in a lot of these, isn’t she?” Bucky remarked. The most recent of the sketches, nearing the end of the book, are all comprised of the official she saw so often around the camp.
Stephane blushed. “I got no one else to draw. Since you’ve been gone I can’t trust my memory for shit; every time I try, you come out wrong.” Following her description, under most of the pictures of Agent Carter, Bucky could make out the indentations from precise sketches. erased and edited.
“Got no more watercolors, I’d assume.” Bucky smiled.
“Don’t remind me. I tried with a few poisonous berry bushes, but it would just tear through the paper like acid. Annoying as all hell.” She complained, bringing her bag onto her lap and shuffling through it roughly.
Bucky closed the sketchbook, passing it to Stephenie, and lying her head back down on the cot. It was shit, but sleep was of a different nature.
She closed her eyes once more.
Of course that didn’t displease Stephanie. Moving her chair closer to the couch, running a hand through her hair, and continuing to talk.
“You wouldn’t get it; Agent Carter is so cool,” she said, annoyed. Bucky listened as well as she could, her tired brain latching onto the familiar feeling of her hands through her scalp. The repetitive nature of knowing she was safe was comforting. To hear the voice clear for once, she sank deeper into the ‘bed.’ “She’s got that British accent, and somehow she can get a whole room’s attention. I swear every time I try, I buckle under their eyes, and they just laugh. It’s humiliating.” Bucky hummed.
“It’s not fair people respect her and not me. I know it’s selfish, but she’s a woman, the same as me, and yet she can deal with everyone. Get their respect and all, and I can only get the equivalent of tomatoes thrown at me. I’m a walking experiment.”
She sat there, catching her breath, an injured hand placed unceremoniously against her beating heart and quivering chest.
She fucking hates it. Makes her feel weak.
And that’s the goddamn word of the day, because it plays on repeat in her head.
Weak, weak, weak, guard down, unprotected, danger, weak
And fuck her for that.
“Wake me if you need me.” Isn’t that what she repeated to her every time they slept over when they were kids?
“Wake me up if you need me.” Isn’t that what Bucky herself urged Stephanie to remember? Just in case she panicked?
“Wake me up.”
“Wake me up,” like either of them would ever have the courage to inconvenience the other. Fuck them, huh.
She buried her head in her knees, breathing still erotic.
The panic is horrible. But she doesn’t want it to stop.
It’s nice, in that shitty attention-seeking way, to panic.
She’d never be able to do that at home.
Not like that matters anymore.
She bit her hand, blood from the wound infecting her mouth. Her face, her body.
She wasn’t off duty. She needs to protect the camp. And yet, selfishly, she sits and panics.
Stephanie isn’t in Brooklyn anymore, so she can panic.
Fuck it, she has every right to panic. It’s her fucking life; she hasn’t been able to just sit and panic for so long. A fucking treat to herself. No one will find the group; they are still far away from any battleground or border. She’s allowed.
She’ll allow it.
She can’t look Stephenie anywhere but in the eyes. Because that’s not Stephanie.
No matter how many times she references things they’ve talked about or done before, she stares at a stranger. The stack of letters unsent to Stephane at home, the real Stephane, the one who’s skinny and short and sick and at home in Brooklyn, sitting on a bench in Prospect Park, drawing, is growing. And it shouldn’t be, because Stephanie is right next to her as she walks through the forests of Europe.
She always wanted to go. Late-night talks about exploring the world, of taking a plane together, of exploring Italy, and yet she’s in Europe right now. With an imposter by her side.
She wouldn’t have to be the one leaning on Stephane for valence. It’s not right.
She’s screaming in her head because she used to always talk to someone about this, and that person was Stephane. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.
She even acts different.
She keeps talking to Agent Carter, calling her Peggy, and she shows it because they’ve become friends. And Bucky just trails her around like a lost dog because she’s her superior now.
She’s stopped talking to her outside of downtime, and somehow every time they do, it’s not like it used to be. She’s more righteous somehow. She didn’t used to be. And now she’s ordering people around like it’s her job, and it is.
But Stephanie would never end up here.
Never
But every downtime she takes out her own on muscle memory and adds another letter to the stack.
She’s starting to wonder what to do with them. If Stephane got the ones she sent before leaving home to get needles stuck in her arms.
She hated needles.
Bucky did too.
And yet, Stephane volunteered. Volunteered to leave home, to leave Brooklyn. To kill. To be poked and prodded.
Bucky didn’t get the choice.
It would be so much easier if she never got that letter in the mail.
If she could have convinced Stephenie to stay in their apartment one more day before they went out again.
To hold her when she was still small. Still Stephenie.
Becca is back home.
Stehine also left Becca. They were friends; she promised her Stephane would be there in case she ever missed her. That there would be someone else to confide in. She’s probably wondering why she hasn’t sent any mail. Hell, maybe Dad and Mom got the letter in the mail from the state.
Ms. Jamie Buchanan Barnes, lost in combat.
Would they tell Becca? Would they care at all? Would they care about the fact that she was out here in the middle of the woods, panicking, about all the things that happened to her before that?
Maybe she isn’t the Bucky that opened that letter that day. Shit, she can’t blame new Steph for this if this is how she’s acting.
She wants her mom. To feel safe again, instead of being in the cold winds in the forests of Europe, phantom pains and needles having into her skin, crying, because she can still smell the blood of the people she killed. Even if they were bad people, she still killed them, didn't she?
Shit.
Her face is hot. No doubt red as fuck, with snot and tears messing into one on her pants and face.
She looks like a child; she wouldn’t doubt it for a second.
But she needs to clean up and go back to camp.
Someone else needs to take the next shift.
“Steph, Stephanie!” Bucky called from where she’d raced up ahead under the trees and through the snow, “The crocuses are in bloom!”
Stephenie’s slow. So achingly slow that Bucky, all 90 pounds of her, scoffs and crosses her arms as she waits for her to catch up.
She’s panting next to her, dropping to the ground, laying her head and limbs against the pavement, groaning and mumbling.
“You’ve got to stop running ahead of me! I can’t run in these shoes!” Stephenie complained, face red and arms crossed across her chest, embarrassed.
“You can’t run anyways.” Bucky teased, and Stephenie stuck her tongue out. She chuckled, and Stephenie couldn’t keep a grudge, and she joined in.
Bucky dropped to the ground next to her, arms on the pavement in between her knees, nudging Stephenie with her foot. “Look! Look at the crocuses!”
Stephenie hunched over, staring at the snow. The giant flurry from January still felt new in their mind. Walking around and laughing in the, for once, desolated streets of Brooklyn made the memory feel warmer than the snow beneath them.
It’s white. A tainted white, ice trapping the softer snow beneath it, with specks of dirt speckling the untouched ground. But bursting out from underneath was a vibrant violet.
Stephenie smiled a bit, leaning and laying her head on Bucky's shoulder.
The first sign of spring.