Title: We Almost Became When

Square Filled: Antique Shop AU

Warning: Swearing; hinted PTSD/PTSD coping; angst; creepy antique shop theme

Summary: Bucky comes and goes from that one Antique Shop in Washington, D.C. for that sense of familiarity; definitely not because Sam comes by every Thursday without fail, no, it wasn't that...

Word Count: 6537

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History in itself was a mistress: lovely, seductive, and young, and whoever fell in love with her would die in bed with lace tucked around their arms, bruised kisses on their neck, and palm prints tarnished on their legs, stained with the tragedy of their affairs and the patterned sheets of records of blissful blasphemy. It was melodic, a siren call to those practically obsessed with the idea that they were abandoned by the people in their timeline, offering the idea that they were born for an entirely different era. It's wicked, sick, and stained with the rubble of the columns of what was supposed to be the worshipping grounds of the gods.

Bucky Barnes wanted to be stained with the idea of history, almost being hurt to want something so badly; the desire to become burdened as a war hero and to stay a war hero was an "almost" to him.

He always believed that he was unfit to recall time itself, envisioning an entirely different reality than his own. He begs to have that control, to bend and mend broken bridges and crackling skies—to learn how to will reality with a swift flick of the wrist was a dream young Barnes didn't think was possible, so it stayed a dream. He was stuck in war days with a soldier for a father and a memory as a mother, his sister a letter and his lovers a flicker, and if only he could bend time and reality, he wouldn't have gotten this, no—He only received more war days and a soldier for a leader and a memory as a caretaker, his actions a letter and his consent a flicker, and he wouldn't remember that he once bent time and reality when he was lying on his bed, staring at his bedroom ceiling, all the ripe age of eight thinking that if that nosy kid Dicky hadn't thrown their ball in old Smith's house, then none of this (mess of a birthday) would happen.

Dicky hadn't thrown his ball into old Smith's gutter and never got it back, but Barnes wouldn't know. He couldn't know. Did he know?

This was probably the "almost" we hear about so much. Almost a perfect dress. Almost a pretty drawing. Almost a perfect writer. Almost a pretty date. Almost a perfect night. What is it about the word that made it so sorrowful? Was it because it spoke of a lesser quantity we should've gotten our hands on, and that we wished for it to be greater than it should be? We begin to want this "almost" with every breath we breathe that it almost defines us, enrages us because we cannot claim it. So, what? Almost perfect. Almost pretty. Almost mine.

Sam Wilson was that almost; to Barnes's vision, at least.

There was something off with the way Sam Wilson carries himself that made Barnes believe that the man cares nothing of the world. Sam Wilson isn't faultless, but he was almost perfect. Sam Wilson wasn't exactly bold, but he was almost fearless. Sam Wilson isn't particularly utopia, but he was almost what heaven would be like. To see Sam Wilson as anything before the latter descriptions were almost unacceptable—Sam Wilson is, Sam Wilson was, Sam Wilson will. This man, Barnes thinks, will be the death of him, and, honestly, who doesn't think of that?

It's a constant thought, Barnes would admit. He wishes to remove it, to distract himself away from the pull of this man, yet it seemed futile. It always seemed futile with Sam Wilson—when wasn't everything feeling as if it was almost ending?

The moment Barnes saw Wilson outside of the flames and debris, out of the suits and the gadgets, out of the smell of smoke and the taste of blood, outside the war zone, Barnes froze, stepped back, and stopped to breathe, because Wilson didn't smell like fire, didn't sound like whizzing planes, didn't look like a headstrong fighter—Wilson looked like Sam Wilson, and it almost scared Barnes to see the man so free like this, to nod his head to the song of classical music without a worry of any kind. Where? Barnes wanted to ask. Where is this haven, Sam? How, after all this gunfire, can you breathe so fine?

Where can one bury this much past and this much mistake?

It was a dainty little Antique Shop, one that was on an almost abandoned street, made itself known in a suburban home renovated to cater to little tchotchkes and furniture you can buy for at least thirty dollars. There were couches and tables displayed on the lawn, arranged for some party Gatsby would approve of; inside it was just as strange and welcoming, with open doors all day, it had a wistful appearance to its interior, but one that speaks of slippage. Every so often there would be a rag doll just lying on the floor, staring at you with its button eyes or realistically painted blue orbs. Say hi to me, it could've spoken, but you'd imagine it out of fear. This little family-run business was ineffable at best, one that seemed fitting somehow in Washington, D.C.

Where can someone find a paradox like this?

Bucky Barnes had found a paradox within a paradox in this shop his friend, Natasha Romanoff, had found on one of their missions so many years ago it seemed to pass the Avengers era. To visit something so calm and welcoming was a bottle of raging crows, clawing and screeching to be released; an aching numb nipped at their limbs as they enter every chance they get, and there's that same nauseous jitter they feel on their skin. Who am I? It seemed fitting to ask the old home, to give it their name, and to curl and be buried under its creaky floorboards. Your heart beating within the decaying wood, for it to scream unprompted to whoever disturbed the quiet, and to lay lifeless in a home such as this was just as tempting. It seemed fitting to give an offering of some sort to the old spirit that walked on the floors.

Barnes saw Wilson stand here alone, surrounded in the corner by bronze cages of all shapes and sizes, of all spherical and geometrical shape, and all rust and varnish, and Wilson was cozy and felt right at home gazing at something that Barnes couldn't catch with his eye. The golden hour sunlight hit the cages and Wilson at an angle, one that made everything dark and bright at the same time, as if the stars decided to encounter a solar eclipse for a moment, just for Barnes, to thank the soldier for entering the shop.

Almost, it seemed to sing in his ears.

Wilson caught Barnes's gaze and stopped breathing for a moment, and Wilson couldn't offer a word for the man, as if his breath hitched and dragged in his lungs. So he smiled, let the corners of his lips rise and his teeth show, just for the man who rendered him speechless. His eyes squinted at the light, but he saw the familiar silhouette quite clearly, all in his glory, metal arm and all—the thought of Barnes alone made Wilson smile longer and more genuine.

Barnes saw Wilson smile his smile, and history fell under siege in a matter of minutes.

Everything toppled down into fine ash when Wilson bit down his smile, only for it to become cheekier, one that was awkward and cute at the same time. Barnes tried to smile back, his lips forming a grin before it turned back into a silent gasp. You could almost hear their breaths get caught in their throat, almost suffocating themselves in the process. There was too much to think about; there was too much to bear. Barnes saw the smile and at the bare essentials of being human, he couldn't comprehend—it was so alien to Barnes that he almost didn't know what to do.

So Barnes let Wilson get away; exit the shop with what he bought.

This much past and mistake that lurked in Barnes were getting the best of him—it already has. It was always there, nagging at him, nipping at him, terrorizing him. It seemed unfair. To fear everything because it may die under one's touch seemed unreal. Blasphemy. Utter sickness. Who let Bucky Barnes disgrace his own name? Who let this man die in his own arms? Who let Barnes almost die?

Would it... Would it die?

Probably.

If Barnes could, Would he be able to take care of it? To take care of something, with love and compassion, maybe that would heal everything if the time let him? To decide for that choice is a dream Barnes wouldn't let it stay a dream if he acted upon it enough; it's almost close—too close; too close for comfort.

Coming back to the Antique shop seemed like a death wish—it was too close for comfort; it was too close for sanity. The shop almost peels down the walls of your mind, stripping your aching nerves as chillingly show as it could, and there you are numb on the creaky floorboards, paralyzed in fear and despair, too immersed in the shop to notice that it's stripping away the last bit of reality you could hold on; your hands barely shake under the pressure, and your skin seemed to lose its glow as if you were drained of life itself. Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't. That's not our concern, now is it? You've let the shop strip you down to your barest essentials, and here you lie in your bed, the one you've dug for yourself because, at the end of the day, it's your fault. It's your fault and they're your actions in the first place, aren't they? Barnes is the one to blame for his actions at the end of the day, for the terror that will be released upon him if he comes back terrified.

Nevertheless, Barnes came in the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that one, in hopes of seeing Wilson again.

Despite the thumps on the floorboard and the silent singing of the birds, the Antique shop stood tall in its mystery and history, making you wonder who it was built for, who it lived for, and who it died for. Barnes stayed in the area of the displayed furniture on the lawn, leaning back on a rocking chair as he let his eyes flutter closed, to imagine himself and this dark blinds being the only things that exist in this reality. Rocking slowly and gently, maybe that's how Barnes should treat it, now would it?

One of those days, several weeks spanning to a close half year, he's gotten Wilson's schedule down in black and white. It was magnificent—concise. Barnes thought he wouldn't see Wilson once more outside of Avenging, wouldn't see Wilson so free, wouldn't see Wilson just as human as Wilson always will be.

Barnes did see him, and now he comes by every Thursday to see Sam Wilson.

Many weeks of dragging Natasha with him to the Antique shop to subtly wait for Wilson consisted of leaving and entering the shop with the intent of buying more miscellaneous tchotchkes and trinkets for either personal use or for friends and coworkers. They've both bought that one case filled with tiny spoons for Steve Rogers who refused to use it for anything other than tea; they've bought a lamp made of feathers with a crooked base and body that is now displayed in the living area of the Barton household; they've bought scratched and useless vinyl that were now hung around the hallways of the Avengers Compound; they gifted Nick Fury with a pencil holder that could only carry two specific pencils of the same brand at a time which was designed like a Siamese cat; they've bought a vanity that was currently in Scott Lang's empty room in the compound, waiting to be moved to another user's room after another incident that includes a haunting. Barnes's own apartment, out and away from the compound, was decorated similarly; it was also filled with tchotchkes from his teammates. This became a pattern, just one-upping the other with the most ridiculous amount or quality of antiques.

Barnes almost forgot his actual problems when he was too busy finding the perfect radio to gift Tony Stark; to find the perfect gift was a distraction that was just endless bliss, one that makes your heart flutter and your head filled with air. It lifts you, and he has found the radio—now, for Wanda Maximoff next.

Wandering the aisles, Barnes stood surrounded by shelves of dolls and mini mannequins, arranging aside a row of Bisque dolls to catch a glimpse of the man from the other aisle that housed books of all kinds. Wilson was reading a pocketbook in his hand, completely invested in it as his eyebrows creased with the way his lips pursed in concentration. Barnes let his breath falter, gasping quietly as he took a step away, to seem as if he was just looking around. What would Wilson say if he found out Barnes was spying on him again, and furthermore, outside of his job as a spy?

Believe it or not, but Barnes was smitten; have you only felt the pressure in his chest cage in every time he saw Wilson's brown eyes settle upon his blue ones, then you'd ache at the innocence of it. Barnes didn't fall the moment he saw Wilson, but, God, the way he blissfully let Wilson take over Barnes's heart was sweet, and because Barnes didn't fall in love with Sam Wilson because of his looks at first—Barnes felt everything was genuine. He fell in love with the way Sam Wilson swooped in and caught him mid-fall after he saw Barnes jump off of a collapsing building knowing full well the man was afraid of heights; he fell in love with the way Sam Wilson grounded him and did not pressure him into finding himself so soon; and he fell in love with the way Sam Wilson says his name "James Barnes" as if it was the gentlest name he would have the honor of saying, speaking it as if it was almost like a piece of history that the historians rejected in favor of a lesser tragedy.

James Barnes felt comfortable in Sam Wilson's presence, which is all.

Barnes caught his eye on one of the Bisque dolls he had pushed aside. This kind of porcelain doll was not as glazed as you would expect for porcelain, as its skin was almost real, soft to touch perhaps and easily breakable, and quite heavy. He toyed with the hand of the doll, feeling the smooth layering that was pale as pale could be, pink and red highlighting the cheeks and joints that were further highlighted by the hair of the doll that felt as if it should be used for paintbrushes instead, quite smooth and auburn, yet worn and frizzy from the years it endured. She, the doll, had glass eyes, quite a striking blue, out of place and obviously worn. He felt his heart reach his throat when he turned to see the twin of the doll sitting and staring right back at him. The second doll had a dark complexion and her eyes were a striking green, her ebony hair in elaborate and frizzy coils, her working clothes with dirty fingerprints at the helm of the dress. Barnes held the doll by its waist, snickering to himself as he was struck by the similarities of the two.

Barnes carefully took her off the shelf and held her in his hands, cradling it as if it was a child. It felt weird to him, to carry something so delicate that carried so much weight with it. Maybe it was just his mind that he's looking into this too deeply, but he can't help it. There are some things Barnes just can't remember, or can't shake off.

Barnes saw Wilson look at him weirdly from the small window the shelf has given them. "Um, doll," Barnes chuckled, awkwardly cradling the doll in his hands. Wilson nodded nonetheless and went back to his business, taking a few steps here and there as read as his book. Barnes let his eyes linger a little longer, feeling himself let go of his composure, only for the doll to slip from his hands, catching it before it made a loud crashing noise. He fumbled and placed the doll back on the shelf, catching Wilson's eyes again. "Heavy porcelain. Heh."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wilson cracked a grin, biting his lip as he glanced for a moment at Barnes—then he walked away to another aisle, leaving Barnes to stand still in awe at the smile. Does Wilson know how much that smile meant to Barnes? Barnes hopes so; he didn't seem to have the courage to tell the man, nor had Barnes the wit to encounter Wilson at the end of the day.

Barnes nodded to himself mindlessly as he turned back to his window, no more seeing the mustard yellow sweater Wilson was wearing. He sighed to himself, checking for more dolls until the floorboards creaked for a moment; Barnes jumped at the sound, already wondering if he could almost hear the beating heart in the wooden planks. He liked to laugh at himself at times like these, especially this time—it was just Wilson, in all his glory and beauty, standing at the end of the aisle as he dog-eared his page without once leaving his gaze from Barnes.

"Creepy, huh," Wilson spoke, his eyes scanning the aisle filled with dolls of all kinds drowned in dim golden lighting but all his attention seemed focused on Barnes. He raised his eyebrows at Barnes in expectation.

Barnes nodded, biting his lip as he tried to stop himself from rocking boyishly on the heels of his boots. "Yeah. I like it," he said, looking around quickly.

They were then washed with a silence that seemed to tick.

Wilson chuckled, shrugging stiffly. "Nothing?"

Barnes's eyes widened. "What?"

Wilson waited for Barnes to continue, to speak up and voice out the words, but Barnes was dumbstruck, standing idly as he watched Wilson with wide eyes like a startled child. Wilson pursed his lips, the air suddenly turning awkward, as he turned his foot. Barnes still didn't say anything; feeling the words right at the back of his throat, Barnes was choking on them as he was unable to voice them. Wilson turned away after a few awkward nods of acknowledgment, leaving Barnes to watch helplessly see his love walk away.

Natasha came by in the aisle, showing off a miniature mannequin dressed in 18th-century clothes, and if anything, it was mostly a tchotchke rather than a jewelry holder. She must've seen Wilson pass by because she had the gall to tease: "What did my lover boy say," her eyes sparkled as she turned on her foot by the shelves.

Barnes buried his head in his hands, groaning. "Terrible. I was terrible."

"What did Sam say?"

Barnes sighed, his voice a croaky whisper. "Nothing. He said nothing. That's the worst part." He gasped. He looked behind, now worrying about the circumstances if Wilson was to suddenly pop out of nowhere. He could be there! He could be here! Barnes is already dreading the awkwardness.

Natasha watched Barnes with a bored look for a moment; she set the tchotchke on the shelf, crossing her arms as she met his eyes. "Hey. What's that I'm seeing? You've fought Nazis and you're going to whine because some guy didn't talk to you," her lips formed a frown, scoffing. "Fuck that, James, we're living in the twentieth-first century," she caught her eye on something, stooping down to grab a teddy bear on the bottom shelf, and Barnes had to laugh a bit as he saw that it was a worn Bucky Bear. "Look at this guy—" she pushed the bear into his face. "—he's fought in World War II and he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him," she brought the bear close to her as if waving it off. "and he's useless."

Barnes stared at the doll for a moment, then murmuring: "No he's not."

Natasha raised her hands in mock surrender. "You're right, I'm sorry," she pursed her lips teasingly. "He's only good for one thing and that's cuddling."

"I want to buy it."

Natasha thought about it for a moment before nodding carefully. "Okay, but I found him first."

"I saw an old Russian Folk Tale book," he jerked his head to the other side of the room. "By the clocks. I know a certain manipulator who would love it."

"Wanda probably would."

Barnes raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. Right. Wanda— Maybe a Russian. Maybe. But Wanda would, Wanda would."

Natasha scoffed, and they then shared a chuckle. "I'll check it out," she pushed the bear to Barnes's chest as he caught it. "You should check someone out too," she jerked her head to the side quite subtly; Barnes spotted Wilson's mustard yellow sweater at the end of the hallway, the back of it facing them as the man scanned shelves of trinkets. "Trust me. I know I'm a meddler..." she sighs, awkwardly poking the inside of her cheek. "...but, I care," her voice became small.

"I know," Bucky whispered.

"I meddle because I care, Barnes."

"You can voice it. C'mon."

Natasha sighed, smiling stiffly a bit. "I know," she nodded, her jaw slack. "I know, Jame... James." she took a shaky breath, looking away for a moment. "I just— think about things a lot, I-I, too much, nowadays."

Barnes nodded knowingly. "Welcome to the club," he spoke, his tone grave. "We care about a lot of things if we weren't cared for in the first place."

Natasha nodded quickly, her eyes glazed as her lips contorted to keep herself silent. She shook her head and began to walk away from the aisle, and Barnes followed despite his senses telling him, No. Let her go. Let her go? Barnes couldn't. It's not embedded in his code to just "let go." He needs that almost that pains him.

Her arms shook as she exited the aisle. "Tasha," Barnes spoke as he missed her arm by an inch, just as Wilson had come in the scene and engulfed her into a hug. Barnes kept his hands to himself as he watched the scene unfold before him; Natasha had her arms crossed on Wilson's chest as his arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders. Barnes stood to the side, fiddling with the Bucky Bear as he tried to blend into the background.

Wilson nuzzled into her hair before brushing it away from her face, leaning backward a bit to see her blank face. "Hey, Nat," he said, he glanced at Barnes with a smile at his bewildered and flustered expression. He turned back to Natasha. "What brings you to D.C.?"

Natasha smiled back, leaning away from Wilson's hug, but not enough for him to think that she was almost burnt by his touch. "Just coming to our daily routine of gifting everyone on the team," her hand settled on his bicep, and something burned in Barnes for that. "James wanted to piss Steve off again—"

"Hey," Barnes cut off.

"—we came to piss the Old Man Steve Rogers off," Natasha smirked, setting her hands on her waist this time, her head tilted cheekily. "How about you? I haven't seen you since... Sussex."

Wilson chuckled, glancing at Barnes subtly you would've missed it. He smiled back at Natasha and almost mirrored her posture. "Yeah. It's been two months. But I'm fine. Just got off of the Riddler case with the pilots."

"Ah. The one with Langcaster in Slovakia?"

"What files haven't you read?" They shared a laugh.

They looked at each other in the eyes in comfortable silence before looking over at Bucky, standing at the side with an uncomfortable posture and fidgeting hands. Barnes waved at the two, clueless to the boot. They both gave Barnes a grin and then nodded at each other.

"Anyway, I have to go check this book James is begging for me to check out," she took steps aside as she patted his arm. She glanced at the two of them quite accusingly. "So be nice, boys." She left without another word, only another raise of an eyebrow at Wilson and mouthing cheeky teasing in Russian at Barnes.

As Barnes watched her walk away and enter some random aisle, he had to suppress his "fight or flight" response. He wanted to follow her—to follow her and see if she was fine. This place resurfaced bad memories, ones that the two wouldn't think existed, only to be revealed that it was buried deep in their programming; to be lost in Russian winters and dark hallways, it should have ended there. Everything should have ended right there. For Natasha to leave so suddenly caused a spark in Barnes to die out; his mouth dried and his hands squeezed the bear. His jaw clenched and slacked, and he didn't know what to do with his feet as he let his lips slack.

Wilson only glanced at Barnes for a moment before glancing upwards at the hanging plants above them, and said, "You worry too much, your hair's gonna fall out," Barnes didn't meet his eyes; how could he? "Not saying I'm going to miss it, but you look better with hair," he switched his weight to his other leg, setting his hands on his hips. His eyes lingered on Barnes as if considering something. "Long or short."

Barnes instinctively ran his metal hand through his short hair, and the chilling cold of the metal brought him completely out of his faraway daze. He looked at Wilson, his stomach in twists; Wilson nodded at his hair. Ah. Barnes had just gotten it cut off a week ago when Wilson had complained about the hair whipping whenever they went for a flight. Feeling nauseous at the very thought of Wilson, Barnes could've almost fainted right then and there. Was it because of the flying or the man's presence? Barnes was not sure. He didn't want to know.

Barnes was able to usher out: "Thanks," he sounded breathless, like the many times he's landed from a flight. Sickened and tired, and almost high on the euphoria of being in close proximity to Wilson. "You don't look so bad yourself," he quickly added, as if he realized a mistake. "Your beard," Wilson laughed; Barnes felt his own cheeks flare. "Your— You shaved it. Shame. I was getting used to it."

Wilson wouldn't admit it, but when Barnes said that, Wilson felt the hair on his arms stand up on its tips, goosebumps running down that felt just right. "Sure," he said, internally screaming at himself at the smallness of the word. "You come here often? I mean, I do. It's become a routine."

Barnes began to lean against the end of the bookshelf, just gently, in case it couldn't carry his weight. He gave himself a pat on the back when he smoothly crossed his arms, now mirroring Wilson. "Don't pretend I see you lookin' from across the room," he slyly grinned at the way Wilson playfully rolled his eyes at him. It was always nice to be at the end of that eye. "I come here pretty often. Mondays, Thursday, you know, when schedules let me."

Wilson dragged out his hum, looking over in front of them to spot Natasha engrossed in a book she held in her hands, and if it was by coincidence or not, she stood in the same spot in the corner of the shop within the cages where Wilson had first spotted Barnes that month or so ago. Barnes was livid, all his alarms ringing—but Wilson stepped a bit closer, all his attention on Barnes as he asked: "With Nat, or?"

Barnes didn't want to lie, he wanted to speak the truth, and always the truth. Barnes alarms rang again, alerting him of external threats; this was Wilson; he wasn't a threat. Was he? The whole purpose of coming to the Antique Shop was to find a safe place for him and Natasha to delve into their pasts without being alarmed and coddled by people close to them, so it wasn't for Wilson, no. Wilson just part of the handsome deal of coping, that's all. Yes—No. That seemed wrong. Wilson wasn't a deal to sign, he just happened to be there. Wilson is also not a coping mechanism. Wilson was, is, and will—Wilson was just existing in his part of the world without Barnes just fine.

That just made Barnes more worried and antsy.

"Always," he spoke, and it was too forceful as if he was boasting, or rather, angry. He met Wilson's eyes in panic, only to see an emotion in them that spoke volumes of care and tenderness, and it was no wonder that everyone loved the man; there was just something so ethereal about Sam Wilson that pulled people towards him, and no one cared if what they're going through was dangerous—Sam Wilson was there. Barnes soften his voice, almost a flutter of a whisper as he continued, "...ist said it was nice of me to be going out more, so I bring her along. She's been there since day one in the talks, so, why not?" he scratched the back of his head as he trailed off.

"Talks?"

Barnes perked up at that, cursing at himself as he turned on his foot, running a hand down his face. "I wasn't supposed to say that," he whispered as if he was afraid anyone would be able to hear them. "Yeah—yeah. Group therapy, I guess..."

Wilson nodded slowly as if digesting the information. He shoved his hands in his pockets this time, his eyebrows gently creasing together. "You like it so far?"

"Which one?"

Wilson looked around the place. "This one. I like it because it's creepy as fuck."

Barnes laughed at that, biting down his lips to stop the bellowing laughter coming out of him. "Yeah," he agreed. "I love it so much, it's batshit crazy. You don't know if there's gonna be an aisle filled with books or creepy dolls—it's like they change it every day." He began to look around towards the iron chandeliers, hanging plastic plants, and the occasional boots and some clocks over by the wooden beams of the building.

Wilson sighed in relief, dramatically setting a hand on his chest as he leaned into Barnes and set a hand on his shoulder. "I thought I was the only one!" he hissed.

Barnes, honest to God, giggled at Wilson's enthusiasm. Barnes cleared his throat as he just watched Wilson who was painted in euphoria and was still gleaming in it. It washed over the man quite well, and it was as if no other emotion was fit for Wilson to possess. Happy—it was bad to think it was the only emotion acceptable, Barnes knows that, but Wilson just wears it so easily that Barnes can't help but think happy is just the default.

Wilson's face scrunched as he smiled, and his hand still hadn't let go of Barnes's shoulder. Let it stay there, Barnes wanted. "This yours?" Wilson nodded at the Bucky Bear that Barnes gripped tightly in his hands.

Barnes mindlessly handed it to Wilson, grabbing it quite giddily with both hands at the design of the iconic red and blue costume. "That's me," he blurted out before he could be able to process what he said.

Wilson squinted his eyes playfully at him, taking a foot back as he took the bear protectively. "Can I have it? I have a nephew who's a fan of yours."

Barnes stopped functioning for a moment, and there's that almost we see in Wilson. Almost perfect; almost unreal; almost—that's what he is. He wondered how he got so lucky this far, glancing at his shoes before looking back at Wilson. "Yeah, yeah, of course," he said, feeling all jittery inside as his lips quirked into a grin.

"You sure?" Wilson played with the bear by pushing the buttons of the costume, eyeing Barnes carefully, and it was almost as if Wilson was back in Bucharest, examining Barnes's every move and detail in plain sight, while also being so subtle and so hidden from the public eye. It was almost terrifying; almost exciting.

"Yes," he ushered, but then Barnes shook his head. "No," his eyes darted to Natasha who was eyeing the two men from afar, perched on the floor criss-cross as she hid half of her face with a book. "I—" he frowned, feeling slightly guilty. "Nat wanted it first. I'm sorry..."

Wilson shrugged, waving the bear around for emphasis on his next words: "No problem. There's a comic book store—" he pointed outside towards the windows, but Barnes had his eyes glued on Wilson. "—not far from here that sells Howling Commando merch," his eyes seemed to invite Barnes, grinning as Wilson turned on his foot, extending his arm, nudging the bear onto Barnes's chest."If you want to gift Captain America, you'd go there,"

Barnes nodded in thought. "But you're Captain America," his lips smirked, leaning his head a bit towards Wilson's strong figure, and it feels like watching himself flirt back in 1937.

Wilson shrugged, his lips frowning then turning into a cheeky grin. "I'll buy you something," he then left with a turn of his foot, fist-bumping with Natasha as they crossed paths.

Walking with a swagger with a book and a metallic birdcage in her hands, Natasha smirked as she stood beside Barnes watching Wilson walk away and towards where the counters would be. She placed the handle of the birdcage in his open palm in favor of the Buck Bear Wilson had left prior. It seemed ridiculous that Wilson left Barnes just because Natasha got hold of the teddy bear first, but that meant Barnes would have a chance to see him again, unprompted; the Bucky Bear was one thing, but there's that same "almost" that echoed that pushed Barnes to the edge, and it didn't matter if he couldn't seem to bend time and reality now because he, James Buchanan Barnes, saw a glimpse of a next time and an almost with Sam Wilson.

Barnes slowly turned towards Natasha, as if he just realizing her presence in the room. He shot her a look as he glanced down at the birdcage, a rusted gold with a perch inside. There was something ancient and, at the same time. new about the cage, and it felt only proper to rip his own heart out and place it inside, to see his own organ beat involuntarily inside an inescapable home. To hear it beat and fade into oblivion was unrealistic but the Antique shop has that kind of effect to its patrons; just slowly lulling into a dull slumber that makes you overthink and see things in a strangely askew perspective like this one.

"Catch his heart will you?" she said, her head tilting. "It flies away at sudden sounds."

Barnes nodded, and he felt his chest lift, feeling hollow and so full at the same time.

Time was wielded and sooner or later it was next Monday, all plucky and tired people lived on this day, and it was always tradition to commence here, right on the spot. Barnes and Natasha had gifted everyone again. He had given the radio to Stark, Natasha has gifted the book to Wanda, and everyone was livid when the two had gone and bought a vintage Howling Commando poster for Steve Rogers. It was nice to start the week slow like this, just acknowledging and existing with one another surrounded with piles of useless junk that meant more than its currency. It hurt, actually—just existing.

Once more, there's that want in Barnes that sang praises at random, one that alarms the body and tires the soul. It was painful because he didn't know what it was, he didn't know what was missing, he didn't know what he should be doing. All of this nonsense, just to go back to Thursdays and Sam Wilson because he couldn't have stopped right then and there in that Antique shop and speak, Almost a tragedy, almost an insanity, almost like heaven, and Barnes couldn't even admit those to himself even if his mind let him.

Yes, it was that "almost" that killed something in Barnes. Almost a perfect soldier, almost lost all memories, almost depended on letters, almost forgotten his consent. Everything just had to be an almost in Barnes's life—so that's just how it's going to be? To become some lost and forgotten statement that used to run like: "here is my purpose, my name, bury me in these ashes of what used to be me" is that what Barnes is all supposed to be?

He doesn't know. He couldn't know. He can't remember.

It was in Barnes's room where everything went silent and still for a moment. It was the same room he almost never used, the same one where he barely used it because he didn't think it was necessary to live among his friends. It was nicely well done now; nicely decorated. It was floor-to-ceiling vintage items. There was a record player in the corner as the wall was painted a nice shade of navy, decorated with wall to wall vinyl of singers he could only recall a few; his floor was carpeted a wine red, and there was even a ridiculous matching bed couch that was a relic to the one all the Avengers joked about while watching an old film noir; his wall opposite his bed had a few paintings that were either on canvas or on framed, and Barnes had to gather himself because they were Wilson's paintings; there were things like these that he would like to describe more, like the feeling of finding the old boots he left back in Brooklyn 1940 in his own wardrobe as if they never left his possession.

Barnes didn't deserve Wilson and his commitment to finding all of these antiques, vintage items, and stuff for him. Wilson disagreed, said Barnes deserves as much as the world could offer.

It's crazy because Barnes had just given Wilson his gift before opening that door. Wilson had been gifted with Barnes's own beating and passionate heart, a literal Bucky Bear with a plush heart stitched on its paws as it sat perched precariously on the swing of the birdcage Natasha has offered days ago. It was simple, but it meant volumes to Wilson, one that Barnes couldn't hear because Barnes was almost deaf by the love that revibrated in his own rib cage. It was strange; it was fulfilling. To see Wilson smile at his gift so freely was everything that could make Barnes helpless.

Wilson loved it, and Barnes loved him too.

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what do y'all think?

please do comment and vote! it's a lovely sentiment ♡

- france