Sebastian Stan Short Stories

Bucky Barnes [2]

"Daydreams"

Time: Post Civil War and canon to the storyline, very minor spoilers

*

"I wonder what he dreams about in there," T'Challa said offhandedly. He leaned against one of the many monitoring consoles that orbited the cryotank, his arms across his chest and looking impossibly casual.

"I thought he'd just sort of be in there," Cap answered. "I didn't think he would think about anything."

He had made it a point to check on his old friend at least once a day, usually first thing in the morning.

"I'm sure he must dream of something. Probably pretty girls and days gone by."

*
(Bucky's POV)

"I'm proud to present the Congressional Medal of Honor to the following men for their dedicated and heroic service to the United States of America in the battle to defeat Axis forces in the European theater," the president read from his small notecards. The five American Commandos waited patiently and somewhat nervously in the wings.

"Can you believe this? The Howling Commandos getting the Medal of Honor for being damn fools," Dugan asked, elbowing me in the ribs. "As if you need any help getting girls."

"I've got the girl I want," I told him. I found her in the crowd. Sitting next to Peggy, and the pair of them were beaming. Smiling like fools, because they were proud of two fools in uniforms. "It's Steve here who needs the help with women. He might be Mr. America now, but he's still got two left feet."

"That's Captain America to you," Steve corrected good naturedly.

"Honorary Captain Steven Grant Rogers," the President began. With all the grace he could muster, Steve turned around awkwardly and hurried out onto the small stage. Flashbulbs began strobing from the back of the room as every reporter vied for the perfect picture of Captain America accepting the Medal of Honor.

"Sergeant James Morita," the next name was called. Jim tugged at his uniform jacket and stepped out of the wings. The cameras never slowed down. As fast as they could be primed for a picture, that picture was taken.

"Sergeant Gabriel Jones," the President called out. A Marine handed him that ceremonial black box, and he fixed the medal around Gabe's neck. Still more pictures. This was history, and God forbid anyone miss a photo op.

"Staff Sergeant Timothy Aloysius Dugan," he said, repeating the process, posing for more pictures. Dugan had refused to shave for the ceremony, saying his facial hair is what made him stand out. It had taken a lot of convincing, guilting, and a call to his mother to get him to even tidy up the beard.

"Staff Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes," I heard. I saw people clap but I couldn't hear them. I was deaf to it all; I could only focus on one thing at a time and the medal was it. The President hung the star around my neck, and we both turned to face the cameras at the back of the room. God knows I wasn't looking at them. I was looking at my girl.

*

"And do you, James Buchanan Barnes, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the pastor asked.

There she was. My vision in white. The woman whose photo and best wishes and prayers had been carefully tucked into my left breast pocket on every mission. And now I was marrying her. It was the dream that had kept me going, kept me fighting, kept me alive. Coming home to her.

"I do," I answered. She began to smile at me like I was the only thing that mattered for the rest of her life. I knew thats what she was for me.

"Then, by the powers invested in me by Our Lord and the state of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife," the pastor responded. He paused comically while I tried my best not to run away with my wife and start the honeymoon early. "Please, kiss your bride."

And I did. To the whooping and hollering that only soldiers could make and the steady sound of clapping, I kissed my bride.

*

I had seen incredible things in my life. The ocean from an airplane, a damn super soldier, the Statue of Liberty, things I couldn't even explain. None of them compared to the sight of my son stomping haphazardly across the floor of our family home, smiling his mother's smile and making a beeline for my waiting arms.

He stumbled into my grasp and my wife and I began cheering for him excitedly.

"Look at you," I said proudly. "You're walking."

"Just you wait until he gets a little more steady. We'll never keep up," she said. She hiked the skirt of her dress up over her knees and crawled the short distance J.J. had just managed so she could sit next to us.

"Can we have another?" I asked jokingly, setting J.J. down so he could make another attempt at walking.

"I'm so glad you asked. I'm pregnant."

*

"I swear, it was easier to break out of a Nazi prisoner of war factory than it was to handle them alone," I said quietly as I flopped onto the bed, now free from laundry and toys and the three small children who thought it was just so much fun to corral their father in the very center of the bed. Luckily, once their mother was home from visiting family for the week she had reintroduced her special brand of love and discipline. Gone were the boys and their various sharp items that had plagued my sleep.

"Worse than Nazis? Lord, I must not be putting them in time out enough," she laughed while joining me in the bed. She laid right next to me and put her head on my chest.

"They take after me. It's why they're such a handful," I guessed.

"I'd say," she teased. "And you know I've always said I wanted to repaint the dining room. Grant and his interesting use of preserved tomatoes gives me the perfect excuse."

"I still don't know how he got them from such a high shelf," I wondered.

"Kids defy physics."

*

How much noise can a thirteen, eleven, and eight year old make on a Saturday morning? A lot, especially if the Saturday is also Christmas.

"Your children are awake, James," she said to me, halfway between a whisper and a groan. I looked over at her, only to catch her looking at me. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Barnes."

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Barnes," I replied. I managed to get a few not so innocent kisses in before a trio of wild animals busted through the bedroom door. All three wound up in the queen size bed, with the youngest, George, right in the middle between his parents.

"There's a bike down there!" Grant announced excitedly.

"Uncle Steve and Aunt Peg are down there too," J.J. said, sounding just as excited but knowing that was what his parents needed to know.

"I guess we're needed downstairs," I suggested.

"I think you're right."

*

"Hey, do you still have that blue dress?" I asked nonchalantly. My wife looked over at me from the sink from the corner of her eye.

"The dark blue one? Or the light one?" she asked.

"Dark blue. With that little white stripe down at the bottom," I clarified.

"I still have it," she said with a smile on her face. "But why are you asking?"

"Because this weekend, me and you are going into the city with Steve and Peggy, and we're gonna go dancing," I told her. I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, starting to sway slowly.

"We haven't been dancing since before Grant was born," she reminded me.

"I haven't forgotten how, if that's what you're implying," I joked. She spun around in my arms and put her hands on my shoulders.

"You always were a good dancer, James."

*

Author's Note:

It's always nice to imagine Bucky getting a happily ever after, and I might even add more to this or do a part two. But I know for a fact that I'll be doing a short story (probably consisting of a few parts) about what really happened to Bucky's dream girl. All of which won't be canon in the slightest.