Status: Currently in progress.
Run
10 Dream
Bucky had a dream that night. It was, for the first time in maybe years, a happy dream and it was so real, so solid that Bucky could almost taste it. There was something distinctly memory-like in it and Bucky awoke with an itching desperation to know whether or not he had imagined the whole scenario or if it had arisen to him like a blessing from his broken mind.
The dream was simple. It was 1936 or 7 or somewhere around there and he was maybe ten or eleven from what he could tell. Steve was there, and Bucky barely recognized him compared to the Captain America he saw now. Steve was tiny, thin and skinny and sick, but definitely Steve. He had the same face, the same serious blue eyes. Steve had a cold in the dream, but it was a heck of a cold and he was bed-ridden. Bucky was there, he was sitting by his bed, kicking his feet over the chair.
“Steve,” said dream Bucky with two flesh and blood arms and a cocky expression to hide what was surely frightened uncertainty. “You’re gonna get better soon, kay?”
“Okay,” said dream Steve miserably.
“Did you do anymore of them drawings today?” Dream Bucky asked and Steve shook his head against his pillow.
“My notebook’s still over there. I didn’t have anything to draw,” he said. Ten year old Bucky smirked.
“You should draw me,” he said.
“I already drew you, stupid,” Steve said and laughed, but his laughter dissolved into coughs.
“Do you need your inhaler?” Bucky asked, concerned. Steve’s face hardened and he shook his head violently.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Okay,” Bucky said. There was a pause during which Bucky laughed a little. “You should draw me again.”
“Draw yourself,” Steve retorted. Real-life Bucky didn’t get to see how ten-year-old dream him responded because soon after that, he had awoken and stared at the ceiling for a full half an hour thinking about it.
It felt real. It felt like the realest memory he’d had in a long time, but still… It could still be just a dream. Bucky paced in his hotel room, thinking. Was it worth it, calling to ask? Bucky had written the whole dream down in meticulous detail into his journal, and then torn it out, and then wrote it in again after he changed his mind. He wanted to know, he had to know. Had that been him? Had he actually remembered something real and solid and full for once? Maybe he had just done something right, maybe he could replicate it and dream himself back all of his memories. But he was still stuck at square one, he was still at a loss for whether it was even legitimate or not.
Bucky’s hand hesitated over the phone many times that morning. He had Steve’s number. He remembered it from Nick Fury’s broken phone. Could he bring himself to call him?
Eventually, he threw down his memory journal on the counter and pulled on his jacket and left the hotel. He had work to find and Hydra members to run from. He had no time for hesitating over the phone like he didn’t know how to dial a number, feeling sicker and sicker over a dream that really had no relevance, and why should he? If Steve was important, he was important to a past version of him, to Bucky 1.0, not now, not ever, he could push him away, he could run from the whole thing and just run and jump and nothing but sky for miles, no concerns and sick feelings and confusing dreams and conflicting emotions and-No! Bucky made himself stop. He halted on the street and unclenched his fists slowly. He took a deep breath. He cleared his head. No running or jumping. No yelling in his own mind. He took another slow, slow breath. He refused to allow himself to become distraught and he pushed his feelings away again and forgot about it.
The dream was simple. It was 1936 or 7 or somewhere around there and he was maybe ten or eleven from what he could tell. Steve was there, and Bucky barely recognized him compared to the Captain America he saw now. Steve was tiny, thin and skinny and sick, but definitely Steve. He had the same face, the same serious blue eyes. Steve had a cold in the dream, but it was a heck of a cold and he was bed-ridden. Bucky was there, he was sitting by his bed, kicking his feet over the chair.
“Steve,” said dream Bucky with two flesh and blood arms and a cocky expression to hide what was surely frightened uncertainty. “You’re gonna get better soon, kay?”
“Okay,” said dream Steve miserably.
“Did you do anymore of them drawings today?” Dream Bucky asked and Steve shook his head against his pillow.
“My notebook’s still over there. I didn’t have anything to draw,” he said. Ten year old Bucky smirked.
“You should draw me,” he said.
“I already drew you, stupid,” Steve said and laughed, but his laughter dissolved into coughs.
“Do you need your inhaler?” Bucky asked, concerned. Steve’s face hardened and he shook his head violently.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Okay,” Bucky said. There was a pause during which Bucky laughed a little. “You should draw me again.”
“Draw yourself,” Steve retorted. Real-life Bucky didn’t get to see how ten-year-old dream him responded because soon after that, he had awoken and stared at the ceiling for a full half an hour thinking about it.
It felt real. It felt like the realest memory he’d had in a long time, but still… It could still be just a dream. Bucky paced in his hotel room, thinking. Was it worth it, calling to ask? Bucky had written the whole dream down in meticulous detail into his journal, and then torn it out, and then wrote it in again after he changed his mind. He wanted to know, he had to know. Had that been him? Had he actually remembered something real and solid and full for once? Maybe he had just done something right, maybe he could replicate it and dream himself back all of his memories. But he was still stuck at square one, he was still at a loss for whether it was even legitimate or not.
Bucky’s hand hesitated over the phone many times that morning. He had Steve’s number. He remembered it from Nick Fury’s broken phone. Could he bring himself to call him?
Eventually, he threw down his memory journal on the counter and pulled on his jacket and left the hotel. He had work to find and Hydra members to run from. He had no time for hesitating over the phone like he didn’t know how to dial a number, feeling sicker and sicker over a dream that really had no relevance, and why should he? If Steve was important, he was important to a past version of him, to Bucky 1.0, not now, not ever, he could push him away, he could run from the whole thing and just run and jump and nothing but sky for miles, no concerns and sick feelings and confusing dreams and conflicting emotions and-No! Bucky made himself stop. He halted on the street and unclenched his fists slowly. He took a deep breath. He cleared his head. No running or jumping. No yelling in his own mind. He took another slow, slow breath. He refused to allow himself to become distraught and he pushed his feelings away again and forgot about it.