Falcon

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Sam keeps Riley’s dog tags in the bedside table drawer. Like little hopeful keepstakes, they are nestled between the bible his mother gave him and a battered set of prayer beads he picked up on his first tour.  He doesn’t know that Bucky knows, that Bucky held the tags up in the early morning light when Sam was dead asleep, metal clinking against metal, thumb lightly tracing over the edge. Bucky knows that a little buried part of Sam still hopes it’s just a nightmare. The feeling is familiar. 

Bucky doesn’t know that Sam’s buried a little part of Riley’s death inside the inner most parts of him, tried to make himself forget watching Riley fall from the sky and wondering when it will be his turn. Bucky doesn’t know that Sam’s shoved never ending screams deep inside himself, swallowed cries again and again until it feels like he has to force it down with a fist. On bad days, words like “I’m fine” are vomited up with a false sincerity that he’s practiced until perfect and entirely believable. 

It’s three in the morning and Bucky’s in a dreamless sleep. And maybe it’s because he’s a light sleeper, maybe it’s because he’s always known this moment would happen. But he wakes with a start, the bedroom dead still and too dark for him to quite yet figure out why he’s startled to consciousness. There comes a hitch in breath on the inhale, a soft hiccup. Bucky turns quickly, silently. Organic hand reaches out in the dark. The sheets are still so warm beneath his palm. But it’s all empty space that leaves a subtle ache in his chest. He keeps reaching because he can still hear unsteady breathing. Fingertips slid over the edge of the bed and come to rest on his partner’s neck.

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