Edelweiss || Bucky x Reader

Chapter Three

Panting, I come to a stop in front of the recruiting center. Bucky walks away from it, shaking his head. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a scowl.

"I already tried talking to him." He says low by my ear as he puts his arm around my shoulders. "Let's go."

"Are you kidding?" I say, shoving him off. "He can't keep doing this."

"Look, Y/N," He huffs, coming to a stop. His voice has become sharp and impatient. "Whether you like it or not, he's an adult. It's not up to you what he does."

"James. Buchanan. Barnes. You are out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm just going to leave him to try to enlist again!" I say, shoving him off. His head tilts slightly to the side, disbelief written all over his face. It's probably been 11 years since I've called him James. The name still doesn't feel right in my mouth, but at least I've got his attention. "He's going to get himself killed, or as you said, thrown in jail!"

"Y/N, we talked about this, you know they won't take him!" He's raised his voice. I don't think he meant to, but it doesn't matter. The anger in his eyes is harsh and unnatural.

I take a step closer to his chest, our faces inches apart. I want to make sure he hears this.

"That's not a chance I can afford to take and you know it," I whisper with pointed words. My voice is steady, but it's taking a lot of effort to keep it that way. A few people have begun to stare, the stress of their eyes on me sending me over the edge. A single tear slips between my lashes, his eyes following it as it slides down my cheek.

Bucky glances around at everyone staring at us and then back down at me. He realizes his tone, frustration melting away. His regret is clear in the shine of his eyes. "Y/N, it's my last night... let's just-" He says in a much softer voice, reaching out, but I slap his hand away.

"Don't touch me," I say as I clear the trail of mascara from my face with the back of my hand. My heart beats in my ears. My hands shake. Body warm with adrenaline. The filter between my brain and my lips is nonexistent. And I say something I shouldn't. "He must mean nothing to you, huh, Barnes? Nothing."

"Y/N, I'm sorry-" Bucky tries again.

"You should go find Darla," I say, pushing him away from me. "I'm going home."

...

With shaking hands, I fumble with the keys to my apartment door. It opens after a kick to the bottom left corner, just like always.

I've lived here forever, it's where Steve and I grew up. There's the bedroom we shared and the other one that was our Mom's. Then there's the blue-tiled kitchen, which isn't anything special. Bucky used to sit on the counters, making fun of Steve and me when we couldn't lift ourselves next to him. They must've been 13 at the time, making me 10. Then there's the expensive-looking armchair that I still have no idea how we afforded, which sits by the window. A good 30 books are stacked haphazardly next to it, formerly Steve's, and now mine. The floors are all light brown hardwood, except for the bathroom, whose floor consists purely of white tiles stained yellow by time.

I shut the door behind me and collapse against it, hot tears falling freely down my face. Guilt finally hits me square in the chest. I shouldn't have yelled at Bucky. I shouldn't have pushed him away, and I should've apologized. I should've stayed. He's trying his best and I know it. I know he's just as afraid as I am. I just want to keep him safe. He'll be fighting on the front lines. Bullets blazing day in and day out, each one equally capable of being the last thing he ever sees. The same boy who takes spiders outside instead of killing them will have to be firing back. Even if he does make it back alive, he won't be the Bucky I know. Just thinking about shoves another flood to my eyes.

"I'm sorry Bucky," I say through tears, as if he can hear me. "I'm so sorry."

I know he can't. I know he might never hear my voice again at all. And I don't know what to do with that truth but cry.

...

When I finally find it in myself to sleep, I dream for the first time in years.

The sky is made of dark blue and maroon swirls, like Van Gogh's Starry Night defiled by war.

It overlooks a battlefield.

Steve is sprawled out on the ground, a bullet shot through his stomach. The pool of blood around him takes the shape of a rose. Bucky kneels next to him, frantically removing his shirt to access the wound. There are soldiers everywhere. They're shouting, but their voices are distorted and wrong. Bucky is panicking, he has no idea what to do.

But I do.

Suddenly the sky is a plain, ominous grey. The hurling bullets are louder than the men they're tearing apart. The misplaced beauty of the rose is gone and Steve's blood behaves the way blood should. It spills. It spreads. It stains.

Suddenly, the dream ends and it's real.

Steve's dying and I'm the only one who can save him.

I try to yell out to him as I sprint, "Bucky, I can help!"

But he can't hear me. He can't see me.

"MEDIC- I NEED A MEDIC!" Bucky wails in utter desperation. His voice cracks.

"I'M HERE BUCKY!" I scream. "BUCKY I'M HERE!"

I watch as the life leaves my brother's eyes. Watch him go limp. Watch Bucky realize what had happened. Watch no one come to help. All I can do is watch. Bucky grabs Steve's lifeless body in his arms and holds his friend, sobbing.

And right next to them, utterly invisible to the world, I cry too.

I cry until the sounds of boots crushing dirt stop in front of us.

A faceless man raises his handgun and aims at Bucky. Time slows as he pulls the trigger. Suddenly I know I'm whole again and I throw myself in front of the man's bullet.

It catches me in the chest.

I hit the ground.

And then I wake up.