bucky barnes was talking to a headstone.

the rain had let up just enough for the marble to glisten under a slate grey sky, the clouds hanging low over brooklyn like a wool blanket pulled tight over a wound. the cemetery was quiet—most people visited their loved ones in the warmth of morning sun, not in the haze of a wednesday afternoon when the air still tasted faintly of gunpowder and something sweet, like fading roses.

your name was carved into the stone. worn, but legible. dates, too—even though he knew in his bones that 1945 hadn’t been the end of you. not really. not to him.

bucky stood stiffly in front of the grave, fingers clutched around a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums, crushed just slightly from the grip of a man who hadn’t figured out how to mourn in seventy years. in his other hand, tucked under his arm, was a worn paperback copy of the hobbit. first edition. you used to say you’d read it when he came back from the war.

at his feet were the dried, preserved remains of previous bouquets—he'd evidently tried to make up for lost time, since leaving wakanda.

“you always said you'd hate a proper headstone,” he murmured, running his fingers over the etched name—yours—as if trying to rewrite it with touch alone. “guess someone didn’t listen. figures.”

a pause. his jaw ticked.

“steve told me you were gone. i didn’t cry. didn’t let myself.” his vibranium hand hovered awkwardly near the headstone. “didn’t know how. didn’t think i deserved to.”

the flowers were placed down gently. the book followed, set like an offering. then he just knelt there for a while, head bowed. he looked older than he should have. not physically—the cryo had seen to that—but in the way he carried himself, like atlas under the weight of the sky.

the sentiment would have been sweet, if you had not been stood directly behind him. you stepped on a particularly crunchy leaf to make yourself known, because clearing your throat would've been too awkward, for your tastes. surprise.

you were not a hallucination brought on by grief, though for a moment he was half-convinced he’d finally cracked under the pressure of guilt and deep-set regret. well, if anyone was justified to crash out and watch the world burn, it might've been him. he stared up at you, frozen in place like he’d been caught committing a crime, such as vandalizing a grave.

“...am i dead?” he asked hoarsely, a scowl shadowing his blue eyes. “is this hell?” he was already rising to his feet slowly, like he wasn’t sure if the air around you was real. yeah, he was totally hallucinating. maybe bob had been right, and losing sleep over avengers copyright was unproductive. “no, you—” he started, then stopped, exhaling through his teeth. “you’re not dead.”

a familiar crease was forming between his brows, and his chest was heaving now. not from exertion, but from panic. you were here, and not six feet under. the grave marker behind him suddenly felt obscene, wrong, like the punchline to a very cruel joke. “if you're not...then why the hell did everyone say you were?”