"I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

It's been three months since Bucky disappeared off the face of the earth, and this morning you found an envelope taped to your door. It didn't have an address or a name or a signature, but it did have a messy snowman scrawled in blue on the front of it. The unopened envelope is weighing like a millstone in your jacket pocket.

You still spend every Saturday at the coffee shop, if only because you can't bring yourself to break your routine. Tennyson's lines have been on repeat in your head all morning, but he never really seems to shut up any other day, anyway. It's hard to keep him out of your mind—harder and harder all the time, and you put it together a while ago that it isn't just the coffee in your empty stomach that's making you sick. It's the silence.

The bell on the door rings, signaling Daniel's arrival. "Hey," he greets you, taking a seat a little further down the bar. "Weather's finally decided to start warming up, huh?"

You offer Daniel a polite smile and nod. "Yep, looks that way."

He's right, of course. For the past couple of days, you've been feeling the early stages of spring creep up on you like an assassin. You are not ready for a change of season, yet. There's a part of you that wants it to stay winter until Bucky comes back, and then the world can pick up where it left off.

Then, the nagging voice in the back of your mind sings, If he comes back. Today, you can shut that voice down, but it's becoming more of a struggle to do that with every day that passes. Seeing Daniel every Saturday at the coffee shop every day for the past month hasn't helped.

It's not like Daniel isn't a sweet guy. It's just that when he introduced himself to you five weeks ago and bought your coffee, he made it clear that he was interested in more than just friendship. He was a perfect gentleman when you turned him down, but he's very persistent in at least the friendship aspect. That's just something you can't do right now, and you're not sure how to tell him. You're not ready to start fresh.

"Library keeping you busy?"

You wrap your hands around your coffee mug as if that will somehow signal the end of the conversation. "Uh, yeah," you answer. "Yeah, we're in the middle of restoring our poetry section."

"Oh, nice!" Daniel says, shifting his satchel up on his shoulder. "I'm a big fan of poetry, myself."

"Oh, yeah?" you ask as more of a pleasantry than anything else.

"Yeah," he continues. "I have sort of basic taste, though. I like Tennyson and stuff like that. You?"

"Uh," you start. "Yeah, Tennyson..."

"No kidding!" Daniel says a little too brightly. "What are the odds? We must have similar tastes."

Rather than mention the fact that you've only been reading Tennyson lately to cope with losing your best friend, you smile and nod.

"Hey, I, uh," Daniel says. "I've got this book club that meets once a month, and it's a really good time for friends to relax. It might be something you'd like if you're interested."

Sounds awful like something that would probably be good for you. You haven't done much in the way of socializing since... the event. A once-a-month book club would probably be a nice slow way of moving on. The only issue is that there is no moving on, really; not while you've still got an envelope in your pocket weighing you down.

You thank Daniel for the offer without asking for any information, and he must take it for the hint that it is because he says his goodbyes and retreats to his own corner of the coffee shop. Out of sight, out of mind, and you're back in your own head. It's unsustainable continuing like this.

With a deep breath and trembling hands, you take the envelope out of your pocket and open up the two-page letter inside. Your stomach drops at the first sight that confirms what you already knew; you would recognize that handwriting anywhere. The letter reads:

Sweetheart,

I don't think I can fit everything I want to say into one letter. Even if I could, I don't think I would have the time. At the lighthouse, I mentioned that there are things about my life that I can't tell you, but you deserve an explanation. This has to be vague if I wanna keep you safe. Sorry about that, but I'm gonna try to tell you everything I can.

I'll start with the fact that my name isn't Bucky Jefferson. I've gone by Bucky my whole life, but my first name is James. Jefferson isn't even close to my real last name. Sorry if you tried to track me down that way.

If you have been trying to track me down, you're not the only one. Sweetheart, I got so many people after me, it would make your head spin. As far as I can tell, you and Steve are the only good ones. (If Steve asks, we never met, okay? Promise me you're not gonna let yourself get dragged into all of this.) The first time I disappeared was because some of the bad guys that were after me finally caught up with me. Those people are gone now.

But there are some other people that are after me now, and this time I'm disappearing better. I'm sick and tired of running, but you're not safe as long as I'm around. I want you safe more than I've ever wanted anything before. Being so far away is gonna sting, I won't lie to you. But it would hurt worse seeing you in danger and knowing I could've stopped it.

I think that's about as far as I can go without telling you something I shouldn't, so I'll move on to the other thing I wanted to tell you.

Geez, I don't even know where to begin. I guess I'll start with the fact that I never thought I'd get better. Never thought anything would get better. I had enough good stuff taken away from me that I learned to expect it. I guess I don't know how you did it. If I could see you again, that's what I'd ask you. How did you manage to fix the way I see the world? How did you give me exactly what I needed to face the next day and the next after that? I don't get it at all.

I don't get how even though I'm having to leave the best thing that's ever happened to me, I'm not angry. It's like I can look at everything around me all the time and see you in it somehow. It could be snowmen or tea or old TV shows, and I'd see you there. Heck, I can feel you just living and being in every Saturday morning or anytime I feel the sun on my face. Somehow, I can be okay with doing the hardest thing I've ever had to do because I know you're gonna keep on being in the world.

So, I need you to do that for me. Okay, sweetheart? Be in the world. Go to your lighthouse and be with your friends. Keep baking cookies for your neighbors every winter. Work hard in that library, and keep making old things new. I'm out here, too, wishing I could do it with you. Take that for whatever it's worth to you, but it's everything to me.

I don't think that even comes close to covering everything, but I can't stay in one place for too long. Even just getting this to your door is going to be a risk, but you deserve an explanation. You deserve anything you want. I'm sorry that I couldn't be the one to give it to you.

I'll be yours always,

Bucky

You read the letter again. And again. And over again. Every line seems to lose its coherency with each reread. Or maybe that's just you.

So, this is it. This is how someone calls wraps on two years of friendship. Even still, friendship seems too trivial a word. It's not just that; it's time and music and books and old television and new languages. And this is how it all ends.

There's not even space in your mind to consider if all of this is the truth or not. It's too overcrowded with a growing, blooming grief that's keeping your hands trembling. It's making your breaths come harder. Your face, reflected in the mirror over the bar, is colorless.

Yet, however well you try to mask the oncoming panic, it still fails to go unnoticed. You don't even recognize that Daniel's walked back up to the bar until he starts talking. "Hey," he says, laying a cautious hand on your shoulder. He must see the way you nearly flinch because he quickly withdraws it. "Hey, are you okay?"

It hits you right in the center like a bullet in the stomach. There isn't a point to it anymore. There is no amount of pain in the world that will make it any better. There's not a word in any language that could bring him back.

You straighten your back and fold up the letter; it gets crumpled in your grip. Looking over at Daniel, you try to muster up a smile. It comes somewhat easier than before now that you know you can fake it. Now that you know you have to. "Yeah," you tell him, swallowing down a deep breath that you're determined not to need. "Yeah, I'm good."

You stuff the letter back in your pocket, but carrying it isn't any easier than it was before. Somehow, it's going to have to be.

Spring comes whether you like it or not. Nothing you could have done to stop it short of freezing time, and that's a little outside of your control. All you can do is keep an eye on the clock and watch as the year passes in shades of coffee and book clubs and Daniel's friendly smiles that you've been able to make yourself return.

The only thing that convinces you to go back to the lighthouse for your winter break is the responsibility of its upkeep and the insistence of your friends. Neither end up taking up much of your attention while you're down there.

You spend the last few moments of the long year pacing silent and alone up and down the freezing, rocky shoreline because you can hardly stand to be in the house. No one is there to keep the time but you. There's another Tennyson poem that you picked up in the past year, and it comes to you as the new year breaks and you're staring out at the midnight sea.

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die."

And die he does. Die he has to. Out there, there is some living, breathing version of Bucky who leaves you with a kiss and a letter. That Bucky feels you living in every day, or so he says; but you can't let yourself do that. If that Bucky—the one whose life is supposedly dangerous enough that you can't be a part of it—is your Bucky, there's always going to be a part of you that's reaching out to him. There's going to be a part of you that is him. You cannot live like that. Your whole life can't be one with missing pieces.

Daniel's the first person you contact when you get back to New York. You've had your fill of a life on hold, watching the clock tick along without you.

The seasons keep changing because they have to, and there are days when you can forget and your smiles are genuine. Daniel causes most of them, if you were honest with yourself. His sense of humor clashes with his sensible, responsible personality in such a way to make him charming. Still, it takes you almost the full year before you work up the nerve to ask him to come down to the lighthouse with you, but somehow you manage. You've got to keep going back anyway; there's no point in putting it off.

There in Connecticut, he gets along with your friends like a dream. His smile is dazzling and bright, and his laughter is infectious. They don't even ask about what happened to Bucky; but then again, you never told them either.

At one point as you're all gathered around a beach bonfire, one of your friends pulls you in by the arm and whispers, "Girl, you're keeping this one right? Please say yes."

With a laugh, you keep your eyes trained on the sea behind the fire and feel like answering that question and walking directly into the ocean would yield similar results. It would just be so sudden to start thinking about that kind of thing. Besides, as it turns out, it's totally beyond your power to keep anyone. There's not a single word you could say to make it happen.

On the final day there, you stay close to Daniel, folding your arms over your chest to keep your cardigan wrapped tightly around you as the wind whips at your hair. The waters are a little restless today, not that you have room to speak on that. After all, another winter is about to die.

"Break, break, break on thy cold gray stones, O Sea," Daniel mutters.

"Hm?" you question.

Daniel looks at you out of the corner of his eye and smiles. "You remember Tennyson's poem?"

"Oh, right," you say. It would be hard to forget. It was the "poetry minute" of the last book club meeting. Needless to say, that particular meeting was a trial to get through. Still, you take a breath and pick it up where Daniel left off. "And I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me."

And there it ends for both of you for a while, but you remain at the shoreline, watching it shift. Somewhere in the silence, Daniel puts his arm carefully around your shoulders, and you manage to find it in yourself to keep from moving away. And the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill. But, oh, for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is still.

Tennyson's words are getting stuck in your head again. You can't go back. You have to let them out. "Break, break, break at the foot of thy crags, O Sea," you continue. "But the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me."

Another long silence passes, and the words settle over your shoulders just like Daniel's arm. He squeezes you once before breaking the quiet. "You're pretty great, you know that?" he says, turning to head back to the house. "Not many people could just quote poetry like that."

You smile as you follow him, but you don't tell him the truth. Sometimes you wish you didn't have to quote Tennyson. Sometimes you wish that Tennyson wasn't the only thing you knew to help you Forget. Would that your tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in you, indeed.

Daniel doesn't disappear when you get back to New York, and you guess that's really all you can ask for. You meet up a couple of days after you return to catch up on some late-night reading for your book club, and he drives you home. The most normal, expected thing in the world, and you find yourself grateful for it. It has to be better than the alternative.

It's only once you're already inside your apartment that you realize that you've left your scarf in Daniel's car, and you shoot him a text to let him know. It's okay. He can bring it to you at lunch tomorrow, but of course he answers right away that he's not far and it's no problem. He'll bring it to you now.

It's another thirty minutes before there's a knock on your door, and you open it as wide as you usually would to invite Daniel in. But it isn't Daniel at all.

Funny. You used to think that if anyone bothered to ask you over the past two years what color Bucky's eyes were, you could've responded promptly that they were gray. No questions about it, and the hazy memory of that color used to settle over you at your lowest moments.

Now, looking at them so close, you can see you were wrong. They're gray, yes, but they catch blue in the warm light from your kitchen. Not any kind of blue you've known before. It's unique to him, you remember now. It's always been that way. It's him. Only him.

You feel like you could throw up.

It seems like an eternity passes before he finally says something. And thank goodness it's him to speak up first because you're not sure you would've ever worked up the nerve. "I hoped you were still here," he says with a small, timid smile. As though no time has passed. Like nothing ever happened.

It's still beyond you to even attempt a response, and the silence is starting to swell into tension. That's his voice that's talking to you. His voice. How has it been so long since you last heard it?

"Can I, uh," he starts, scratching at the back of his neck. "Can I come in?"

You probably shouldn't let him. What you should do is slam the door in his face and curse him until he leaves. At the same time, you can't be convinced he's not a ghost, and you're not terribly opposed to the idea of being haunted by him if that's the case. Ghost or not, you open the door marginally wider, just enough to let him pass.

He ducks his head, mutters, "Thanks," and just like that he's in your apartment again. As real and alive as ever he was, even if his hair is cropped shorter and he has less scruff than you remember. He scans the apartment, hands in his pockets as he turns slowly.

You stay by the door frame, hands clenching by your sides. It's the only movement you'll allow yourself just in case you screw something up and he disappears again. Like some kinda of nightmare that's only half-lucid.

"You sure changed things up in here," he remarks mildly, gesturing one-handed to the whole room.

The comment gives you an excuse to take your eyes off him and observe your surroundings. If things are much different than they were two years ago, you haven't noticed the change. Sure, maybe you've switched out some old furniture. Maybe you shifted everything just slightly more to your liking. It can't possibly have changed enough to be noticeable.

If he wants to see something different, he should take a look at his apartment. His former apartment. It was leased out to a small family two months after he disappeared. If he wants to see something different, he should look in the mirror.

"Well, you know," you answer as you lean back against the door until it closes with a deafening click. There isn't anything else to attach to that sentence. It just seems like the thing to say.

Sticking his hand back in his pocket, Bucky nods. It's another long silence as he seems to scramble for something to say. You keep your distance as a careful observer as he licks his lips and finally asks, "How have you been?"

"How have I been?" you repeat, monotone and incredulous.

"Still work at the library?" he asks.

What is this? What is he doing? He can't just hover around in your house like a phantom and make small talk. There is no world in which those words fit him, whether he's in the ethereal plane or not. "Yes, I still work at the library," you answer shortly. "And I guess you're... doing something else?"

Bucky smiles, and oh you miss him. The ache remains in the present tense. "Actually, it's kinda more of the same," he says. "Different management."

You bite the inside of your cheek to steady yourself, but your voice still comes out shaking. "Oh, really?" you counter, raising a brow and hating every wavering syllable. "That's funny. I thought you said whatever you were doing was 'too dangerous' to keep me around."

If that stings him, he doesn't show it. He just tilts his chin back, observing you down the slope of his nose in turn. "So, you did get the letter..." he whispers, apparently just to himself.

You open your mouth, but before you can answer, there's another knock on the door and not a moment too soon. There's no telling how much politeness you have left in you.

Without giving Bucky a spare glance, you turn to open the door. There's Daniel, finally, with your scarf like you expected.

"Hey, here's your—" he starts, cutting himself off when his eyes drift behind you. "Oh."

"Daniel—" you try.

"No, sorry, I didn't realize you had company," he says.

"I don't," you assure him. "Bucky was just leaving."

Daniel nods, but you can't tell whether or not he's buying it. "I can't stay long either. Just wanted to make sure you got this back. It's gonna be cold for the next couple of weeks." He looks back over your shoulder at Bucky and waves. "Hey, I'm Daniel, by the way. Nice to meet you."

Bucky clears his throat, and it's taking everything in you not to look back at him. "Yeah," he returns stiffly.

Daniel remains apparently unfazed and turns back to you, placing the scarf in your hands. "See you for lunch tomorrow?"

You hold the scarf close to your chest and nod. "Yep. Lunch. Tomorrow."

"Alright," Daniel says with a smile. "I'll see you."

It's only after Daniel is halfway down the stairs that you find the strength to turn back to Bucky. The corners of his mouth are twitching in some play of amusement, even if it never quite reaches his eyes. "Well," he says, somehow managing to be sardonic, "that was Daniel."

You bunch up your scarf and throw it in the corner by your shoes. "You have to go," you tell him.

His face falls along with his posture, even if it's just barely. It's maybe the first time he's been affected by anything at all this entire time. Either that, or he's a spectacular actor. In any case, you have to wonder how he was expecting this to go. He knows you. Or you thought he did, anyway. He's got to know that it's beyond you to just welcome him back with open arms. "Wait, can I just—" he starts, but whatever he's about to ask for is cut off when you snap your gaze onto him.

In the wake of the long silence, you find you can't bear the slow passage of time spent just looking at each other. "Can you what?" you press, impatient.

Pressing his lips together in a tight line, he seems to think it over for a moment. "Tomorrow's Saturday," he says.

"Yes?"

"Can we..." he starts again. "I don't know... How about coffee?"

The implication isn't lost on you. Saturday coffee, just like old times. Like there haven't been a hundred Saturdays between the last one spent together and this next one. "I can't," you tell him. "I have lunch with Daniel tomorrow. I'm not missing that."

"What about tomorrow night?" he says. "That's all I'm asking."

You march past him to start arranging the pillows on your couch absently, just to give yourself something to do. Just to keep your hands busy. Just so you don't have to keep looking at him. "I don't know what you think you're asking for," you throw over your shoulder as if it means nothing at all.

And Bucky, never one to pull punches, just says your name quietly. It's enough to make you freeze. "Just give me a chance to explain," he asks.

After closing your eyes for a bracing breath, you spin on your heel to face him. "I'm free at seven tomorrow night," you finally agree. "Just coffee and your explanation. Nothing else."

Bucky nods gratefully like you're some kind of judge letting him off with a light sentence. "Fine by me," he says. "I'll get out of your hair."

You offer him a sharp nod. "Thanks," you say. Then, without another word you retreat into the back rooms of your house, knowing that he won't follow you there. Some helpless part of you wishing he would.

Still, you wait for the sound of the door to close, finding that you never could have watched him leave again. Even just knowing that it happened takes enough out of you that all you can think to do is lie down, and yet sleep comes to you in patches if it comes at all.

Somewhere within the haze, the sun rises, but you don't notice it. You're not even aware of how numb and unresponsive you've become until you're already walking back to work from lunch the following day, and Daniel is waving in front of your face.

"Hey," he's saying. "Are you okay?"

You shake yourself, and smile. "Oh, yeah," you lie. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

Daniel worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "Okay," he says. "You know, you haven't really said much since you got here."

It's enough to knock your smile a little loose, but not enough to make it drop. You've had a lot of practice hanging on to it no matter what. "I'm sorry," you say. That's all you can say. Trying to work up an explanation with a foggy mind has never been your forte.

"Is this about the..." Daniel starts, but he seems to stop himself last-minute. "Your friend from last night?"

There it is: the drop. "What? No," you answer immediately. Then, with a breath, you begin to amend. "I mean... Listen, it's a lot more complicated than just..." Again, any kind of explanation eludes you.

Daniel offers you a sort of half-smile. "Hey, you don't have to explain yourself to me," he says. "I know we aren't... We're not like that."

"Yeah, I know. I know," you say, finding that there's a queasy feeling building in your stomach. Another deep breath. "But we're... We've been getting there, you know?"

At this, Daniel's smile spreads, and he offers a brief chuckle. "Well," he says. "I didn't want to jinx it by saying anything."

Somewhere, you manage to get a hold of your smile again, pasted on though it may be. "Two years in the making, right?" you say. "Gotta say something at some point."

"Even if we're still just working up to it?" he questions.

It feels like the safest ground available to you right now. You tap your heel against the sidewalk and nod. A glance at your phone tells you it's getting late; you must've been zoned out for longer than you thought. It's almost time for you to get back to work.

Yet, Daniel is still talking. "I guess, in that case, my only question is... do I need to be worried about Bucky?"

Not quite meeting his eyes, you press your mouth into a thin line and consider it for only a fraction of a second. You try to fit Bucky's memory into that space, that little moment in time and find that the only thing that makes the cut is the empty apartment and the unanswered phone calls. "No," you say, half to convince yourself. "He hasn't been a factor in a long time."

After work that evening, you change into something softer before coffee just to maximize your level of comfort. There's already an intangible itch pulling underneath your skin where you can't get to it, and your hands are shaking like they haven't in years. So, if the hoodie helps, it helps.

You arrive at the coffee shop after dark to find Bucky already inside waiting at a table, and you wave at him before hopping in line to order. It's about as much interaction with him as you can stomach, but it doesn't stop him from falling into line behind you. "How's it going?" he says.

You shove your hands into your hoodie pockets and shrug. "Eh," you say, relieved you don't have to look directly at him. "Long work day."

Bucky scoffs. "They're still trying to get you on the weekend shift?" he asks.

"Only at every opportunity," you say, rolling your eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

"Those sons of guns," Bucky mumbles.

"I know right?" you answer. Your tone sounds dangerously close to friendly, even to your own ears. "Little do they know, I'm always about a weekend away from a total psychotic break."

"Yeah, and it's their fault at that point," he says.

"Exactly," you say. "That's why I gotta get out of Brooklyn one of these days."

This much, Bucky doesn't offer any comment on. Ordering, at least, goes off without a hitch. It's not until you're sitting down at the table with two steaming glass mugs of coffee and you actually have to look at him that you remember that this isn't something you're supposed to be comfortable with. Your heart palpitations and trembling hands are also doing wonders to remind you of the fact.

"I guess..." Bucky starts as he settles into his seat. "I don't know where I should start."

You shrug. "You would know better than I would," you say.

He clears his throat. "Good point," he says. "Um, the night I left. How about that?"

"It's a start," you allow, expertly suppressing a cringe.

Bucky sips from his coffee as he thinks it over, and you keep your eyes trained on him like he'll disappear again if you blink. "Remember when you told me you used to think I was part of the mafia?" he asks. When you nod, he continues, "You weren't too far off."

Skeptical, you quirk a brow and purse your lips. "Explain," you say.

"A couple of years ago... do you remember the congressional hearings about SHIELD and Hydra?"

Another nod from you, and he's off to the races. The details about the SHIELD/Hydra scandal which you only vaguely remember overhearing from the news are filled in and rounded out. You begin to understand something of the structure of organizations and the role that Bucky played in it all. It all sounds so unbelievable, and it probably would be if he wasn't so clinical and precise with his explanation.

He's holding himself stiffly like he's in a job interview. Worse, like he's a defendant in court. You get the distinct impression that he's found himself in this position more times than he cares for, and you feel a twinge of guilt at being on the other end of it. But he promised you answers, and you've needed them for years now.

Once he's finished explaining everything he needs to about the Winter Soldier, you take a breath and start asking some of the more probing questions. "So, you were brainwashed," you say, swallowing hard and finding it hard to swallow. "And you're not now?"

"I'm getting some, uh, treatment for it," he explains. "Some plan from Wakanda that's supposed to help."

"Does it?"

He nods. "I think so," he says. "Haven't had any problems so far."

"But you weren't brainwashed when I knew you?"

"No, I was..." he sighs. "I apparently used to go on these benders during my time under Hydra's control. For weeks, sometimes months, I was able to break free of the programming and hide for a little while, but they would always manage to find me. Two years was a record."

You slink down into your seat with your arms crossed over your chest. "How's that?"

"I was hiding in plain sight," he explains. "I did what they didn't expect. I made friends. I had routines like any other normal citizen. Heck, even when they eventually found me, they couldn't get to me without drawing unwanted attention to themselves. They were not happy with you, I'll tell you that."

You pause. "I don't understand," you say. "What do I have to do with any of it?"

At this, Bucky seems to go cold again, but he regards you with such openness that the warmth couldn't possibly be totally gone. Slowly, he begins, "It... It wasn't your fault..."

You ask again, "What are you talking about?"

He takes a breath. "When they found me, they caught onto you and me pretty quick," he says. "What I did, I did to protect you."

He's still only speaking to you in vague terms and nothingness, but you guess old habits must die hard. "Yeah," you mumble. "So you said."

"You're talking about the, uh... The letter?"

You shut your mouth with a click and clench your hands around your mug, wondering how much pressure it can take before it shatters. "I got it," you confirm with a short nod, still not entirely able to meet his eyes. Instead, you stare at your reflection in your tea and realize that you look like you've lost a week of sleep instead of just a night.

"I guess you deserve an explanation about that, too."

You snort. "Oh, you guess so?" Clearing his throat, Bucky shifts in his seat and seems suddenly unable to meet your eyes. Before he even has a chance to begin, you speak up again. "Do you regret it?"

"Big question," he points out. "Which part?"

"Bigger question," you counter through clenched teeth, but you find that you can't narrow it down in any way that you'd be able to speak out loud. And so, finally out of questions and completely out of bite, you sit back in your seat. "What time is it?"

With a shrug, Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know," he says.

A long moment passes before you can say anything, and once you, you start with a sigh. "We can't just pick it up where we left off," you say. "I don't think I should have to tell you that."

"Believe me, you don't. You don't have to say anything," Bucky promises you. "Are you and Daniel...?"

"No," you answer immediately. Then after a moment, you amend that. "Not yet. He's just a good friend."

"That's good," he says with a nod as he clinks his spoon on the edge of his cup rhythmically. "What's he like?"

This isn't a vein of questions you were prepared for. "Different," you decide after a breath. "He likes people. He's an optimist. He's there for me."

Clink, clink, clink. Bucky's still tapping his spoon. "Have you taken him to the lighthouse?"

"Yeah, actually, we did go once."

"Oh," he says. "Well, that's good. I'm happy for you."

You feel the imitation of a smile on your face, but there's no joy behind it. "Thank you."

Bucky takes a breath, sets his spoon down, and struggles to put a smile on his face. You imagine yours and his must match. "Look at you," he says. "You've been living your life. It hasn't been too bad, has it?"

Here, you know there's no other option than to lie. "I've been okay," you confirm. "Why? Were you worried I wouldn't be?"

Pursing his lips, he shakes his head. "No, I... I knew you'd be alright without me," he says.

How you long for those days of honesty between you. In some ways, there's nothing you wouldn't give just to be able to look him squarely in the eyes and admit to him that you've been so far from alright that you might as well be on another planet, but those days are behind you. Now there's a wall that you can't seem to hurdle, and it's exhausting to keep trying. You begin to feel like it would've been better if he never came back at all.

He gives you his new phone number in case you may need anything, and with that the reunion is over. There is still no relief, but maybe now you have something you didn't have before: a clear path to moving on.

From there and into the next two months, you begin to make a distinct effort. You're more present for your dates with Daniel. You call your dates with Daniel dates, and you start to take a more active role in the remote management of the lighthouse. You don't think much about the fact that Bucky is a phone call away like he used to be years ago.

In fact, when you make your tea one evening and you notice the snowman mug that you had smuggled from Bucky's apartment to yours when he first left, you feel at peace with the idea of parting with it. The same with the jacket he'd let you borrow once that you forgot to return. Same with a myriad of other little knick-knacks and bobbles in your apartment that are mentally labeled "BUCKY" in capital letters. The letter you keep for yourself.

Additionally, you feel alright with texting Bucky that you have these things and that he's welcome to come to your apartment to pick them up. Your heart only sinks a little after he confirms that he'll be over later in the evening.

By the time he arrives, you've gathered up everything that was once his and placed them on the kitchen table, and you watch as he looks over the collection. He seems to struggle in places, as if there are still memories missing from Hydra's abuse.

It's only when he picks up the snowman mug and says, "Didn't think I'd see this fella again," that you feel compelled to speak.

"Yeah, well..." you say. "I don't know why I kept all these things."

"It makes sense to me," he says with a shrug as he places the mug back down on the table. "You're a carer. You care like it's the only thing you know how to do."

You feel blood rush into your cheeks. "Shut up," you mumble, moving to grab a grocery bag or two for him to pack his things into. "I'll help you carry these things down."

With a nod, Bucky packs up everything into the bags, and you both carry them down to his car. Once everything's secure, he checks his watch. "It's around dinnertime," he says. "Do you have plans?"

"Daniel," you answer shortly by way of explanation. In theory, though, it feels like you could probably stomach going to dinner with Bucky. Just once for old times. That must be what making an effort to be at peace means.

"Right," Bucky says."Daniel. I forgot. The optimist." The way he says it makes you think that he recognizes that in so many ways Daniel is his antithesis. As if you have any control of the kind of people you connect with.

"Jealousy is ugly," you tell him, even if it feels a little presumptuous.

"I'm not jealous," Bucky says immediately and a little too defensively. "I'm happy for you."

"You keep saying that."

"It's true," he insists. "Just wanna make sure he's taking care of you is all."

Initially, it's a statement you want to brush off. Of course, you're taken care of, and Daniel has been consistently good for you. Then again, when was the last time you actually told him something real? When has Daniel ever known you were hurting?

"Speak of the devil," Bucky mumbles, looking over your shoulder suddenly. "Your boyfriend's coming up the sidewalk."

"He's not my boyfriend," you mumble back, but it's all you're able to say before Daniel's there right next to you. You paste on a smile as Daniel slings an arm around your shoulders.

"Hi again," he says, hyper-cheerfully. "It was Bucky, right?"

"S'right," Bucky says, any mirth rapidly vanishing.

Daniel nods and turns to you. "I was just coming to pick you up," he says.

"You didn't have to," you tell him.

He only shrugs and turns back to Bucky. "So, uh..." he starts. "What are you doing here?"

Bucky's eyes shift back and forth between you and Daniel before he answers, "Just picking up my stuff."

"Oh," Daniel says, smile marginally dropping for once. "I didn't realize you had anything here to pick up."

"Just a couple things," you add.

"I'm leaving now, anyway," Bucky promises, walking around to the driver's seat. "You two have fun." Before you can even think of a response, he's already halfway down the street.

After a beat, Daniel turns to you. "I thought you said it wasn't like that," he says. When you give him a questioning look, he elaborates. "Like... Having stuff at your apartment."

Shaking your head, you look back at the street. "I said it was complicated," you remind him. That's the unmitigated truth. You and Bucky never really had a chance to be like that, but you were never only friends. You never could've been.

Daniel takes your hand and starts to walk you up the sidewalk, away from the direction Bucky went. "Well," he says. "All I'm saying is that you looked really comfortable around him."

You let that sentence hang in the air and refuse to dig into that any more than you can stomach. With the expertise of a master, you change the subject.

Later that night, you get a text from Bucky. Thanks for all the stuff. Brought back a lot of memories, he writes. Then, just a few moments later, he continues. I'm not asking to pick up where we left off, but I hope we can still be friends.

You leave the messages open on your phone for an hour before working up the nerve to text back, I think that's manageable :) Fully knowing that it's a bald-faced lie.

Within the next couple of months, you often find yourself wondering how good Bucky is at following instructions. He messages you sometimes with the odd question or funny anecdote about his day. Sometimes, it starts a conversation that lasts the whole day. One time he gives you his new address just so you have it in case of an emergency.

You think your old coworkers are gonna come busting my door down? you ask him, mostly as a joke. You can't imagine what interest any bad guys would have in you.

Don't think so, he answers, unironically. But my door's always open to you. I want you to know that.

Yes, it makes you wonder. It also makes you think of how much might've been different if there was only a change here and there in the long, tangled past. Two years of a different trajectory could've been something remarkable. A far cry from the monotony you've found yourself caught in.

Still, for all of your wondering, you can't know what exactly he was hoping for when he came back here, apparently to stay. Now, that's the question that eats you alive. When he's asking you for new music recommendations, you think about it. When you're out with Daniel on the weekends, you think about it. And, of course, in the rare moments when you see Bucky in person, it's all you think about.

A summer passes in wondering, and by the time you decide to stop living in a perpetual question, the world is cold again. Daniel's beginning to ask about the lighthouse trip you promised him this year, and the idea of planning it looms over you like a sword on a string.

You have to know, you decide. Even if you don't know what you'll do with the information once it's in your hands, you have to know.

Bucky's new apartment isn't terribly far from his old one, maybe a fifteen-minute walk. You make that walk before you can give yourself any time to think about it. You don't even hesitate to knock on his door.

"Get out," his muffled voice calls on the other side.

Taken aback at his brusque tone, you blink once before knocking again. "Bucky?" you try, keeping your ear close to the door. "Bucky, it's me." This time, there's no answer, and it's starting to be a point of concern. You try the handle of the door and find it's unlocked. "I'm coming in, okay?"

The first thing you notice about his apartment is that it doesn't really feel like one. The rooms, starting with the kitchen, are all but empty with only the bare minimum of furniture to qualify as a living space.

You move slowly through the apartment like a ghost, looking for Bucky. You find him slumped on a sofa in the living room. He's staring at an indeterminate spot on the floor, and shivering like it's cold even when it's only the beginning of autumn. All around him are broken things like there had been a fight.

All of your questions that you were ready to break down the door to have answered rush out of your mind in an instant. "Bucky," you say, trying to keep your voice calm and crouching down in front of him. He's looking beyond you, you can tell. Even with his nightmares, he's never been so completely absent before. "Hey, hon? Are you okay?"

Rather than answer, he shifts just a bit and the barest hint of recognition sparks in him before dimming. "You're not real," he decides.

"What?" you ask, gripping his wrist where it's resting on his knee. "I'm real. Bucky, I'm real, I promise."

"No," he insists.

You grab his hand between both of yours and shake your head. "You're not well, are you?" you ask. "I'm real. I'm real. Would you look at me, please?"

But that vein of questioning won't get you anywhere. He stops replying at about the same time you realize that, but he's still shivering. You feel his forehead for a temperature, and realize he's running hot. Whether it's a fever because he's sick or suffering a flashback, you can't tell, and you're not entirely sure what to do.

"Have you eaten?" you ask him, and still he doesn't answer. So, you take that as a no. Nodding, you slip off your jacket and toss it onto his sofa. "Okay, stay here. I'm gonna make something for us."

Walking back to the kitchen, you recognize the shattered remains of the mug you gave him on the floor and walk on.

In the kitchen, his cabinets and fridge are sparse, but you manage to pull together enough for a decent soup. As you let it simmer, he walks in behind you and lingers in the doorway, half in, half out. He seems more lucid, at least, when you glance at him.

As he watches you work, there's a long silence that should be uncomfortable but manages not to be. After some time, when dinner's nearly finished, he finally speaks. "I missed you," he says. "I think I did even when I had no idea who you were."

For only a moment, you pause and let that settle over you like a rough wool blanket. It makes you uneasy, but it keeps you warm. Rather than offer a response however, you pour Bucky a bowl of soup and place it at the table. "You could've told me you needed help," you say instead. "Sit down."

He obeys you, but he mutters, "You shouldn't have to take care of me."

"That's my choice," you tell him. "You've taken care of me, after all. Haven't you?"

Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head to the side in question.

"When you left," you remind him. "You said it was to protect me, didn't you?"

He nods. "Well, it didn't take much," he admits. "I made them promise not to hurt you. You didn't know the truth, anyway, so it's not like you could've blown their cover."

The revelation hits you like a sucker punch to the stomach. "So..." you start, "you let them take you... to protect me."

Bucky narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side. "I thought I told you that," he says.

You shake your head. "Not like that you didn't," you answer.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Now isn't the time to ask him. You know that, but it doesn't keep your curiosity from burning like it's the only thing lighting up the world. What he did, he did for you. That's what he said, and you're only just beginning to understand it fully.

After another long moment, he speaks up again. "I wish... Wish there was a time I could go back to before I hurt you. Before I hurt anybody," he confesses. "But there's no way to go backwards. Even if there was... the best thing I could've done for you is leave you alone, but I'm... I couldn't..."

After a long moment of silence when you realize that he's reached the end of his words, you sigh. "Yeah, well," you say. "We can wish for things all we want to. I wish I could tell you that I never got mad. I wish I could tell you that I'm not mad right now, but I can't. I used to think about what you did—how you left—and hate you for it."

"And now?"

You hesitate for only a moment before sighing and shaking your head. "Eat your soup," you tell him, spooning yourself a bowl and crossing the room to take the chair opposite him.

So it goes. You eat together, speak very little, and leave without any of your questions answered. Daniel said once that you seemed comfortable with Bucky, and in a way that's true. It's true in the sense that you don't know of any other way to be around him. You don't know how to not love him.

Still, you're not a child. You know better than most that love isn't enough to change things. There is still the long, tangled past that will not change no matter how you rage against it.

For weeks, you don't speak to each other at all, and you try to refocus on your life as it is instead of how it could've been. Daniel still talks to you about the lighthouse. You're dreading another trip.

When you've had about all you can take of the dreaded routine, you renew your determination to get questions answered. For the second time, you march to Bucky's apartment like a soldier on a mission and knock on his door.

If he's shocked to see you there when he opens the door, he doesn't say so. Partially because you don't give him a chance. "Do you want to go on a walk?" you ask him all in a rush. "Just around one of the old ways we used to take."

Bucky hesitates only a moment before nodding. "Sure," he says. "I'll get my coat."

Once you're out the door and acclimated to the cold weather, you incline your head in Bucky's direction as you walk. "I wanted to apologize," you say. Beyond being the right thing to do, it's the only way you can dream of starting this conversation. It keeps it as simple as possible.

"What for?"

"When you told me what you did to protect me," you say, trying not to catch the way that Bucky winces when you mention it. "I was really shocked, and I was still angry. It wasn't the time to air all those silly grievances. I should've thanked you, and I'm thanking you now."

Bucky twists his mouth and nods. "Don't mention it," he says.

You nod gratefully and let the subject drop. "How are you, though?" you ask. "Are you feeling better?"

"Better," he confirms. "The other night... It was a pretty major setback in my progress so far. My doctors are worried. It makes me wonder if I... Well, there's a place for me to go in Wakanda if..."

Your stomach drops, and you feel the sudden need to lie down. It makes sense, you suppose. An apartment as empty as his doesn't give the impression of someone who intends to stick around. Still, you nod and twist the ends of your scarf in your hands. "Do you think it'll come to that?"

With a sigh, Bucky shakes his head and shrugs. "I really don't know," he mumbles.

Again, you have to move on. You accept the new information with a nod, and the conversation takes an intentional swing to different things. With the knowledge that he's the equivalent of a great-grandpa in a young man's body, it's easy to talk about the whole world of things that he missed five times over. The past that the two of you share doesn't come up again, but there is a twinge of pain in the back of your mind knowing that you're not quite out of the woods yet.

He walks you back to your apartment and lingers in the hall while you unlock the door. Once the door is open, you step inside before turning back to face him. It's taken you the entire walk to work up the nerve for this question, and you can't waste it now that you've got it.

"Why did you come back?" you ask him.

"I'm making amends," he answers immediately, even as he stares down at his shoes.

"That's all?" you press. "That's the only reason?"

"Are you," he starts. With a deep breath, he tries again. "Are you asking me if I'm still sweet on you?"

Arms still folded over your chest, you can only shrug.

"Seriously?"

You shoot him a withering glare. "Well, it's been two years," you remind him, even if it's inching closer to three. "I figure things probably have a good chance of changing for both of us."

"Probably..." he repeats bitterly. Then after a breath, he says, "I told you once I'm always gonna be yours." The way he says it... He admits quietly like the fact stings him, like it's undeniably true.

It infuriates you in a way that it shouldn't, like a cloud of volcanic ash building in your chest. "I didn't ask for that," you tell him through gritted teeth, stepping closer to him. So close you have to tilt your head to look at him.

Bucky's gaze flicks between your mouth and your eyes. "Didn't have to," he counters, his voice beginning to match the heat of yours.

His words swirl in your head, making you dizzy. "Why do you have to say stuff like that?" you demand. "We're doing fine, aren't we? Why do you have to say stuff that makes it so... complicated?"

"I'm sorry. You asked for the truth, and I'm giving it to you," he says, holding your gaze with careful precision. "It's pretty uncomplicated if you ask me."

You pull your lower lip between your teeth before answering him in a shaky whisper. "Maybe," you allow. "But you just love to make things difficult, don't you?"

"It's not difficult," he insists. "We're friends, just like you wanted."

"You know as well as I do that we can't be just friends," you say.

"Then why did you agree to it?"

"Because it was two years, Buck!" you shout, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. "You were gone for as long as I knew you, and I thought I could do it. I was trying to move on, and you... You..." There's not another word you can say, not a single one that could fix it. But you curl up a fist and beat it loosely against his chest, unable to hurt him even if you wanted to. And there's some comfort in that. There's solace in knowing that your hands are not strong enough to shatter glass.

It's only when Bucky pulls you in by your shoulder that you realize how close you've gotten to him. He holds you in his arms, completely void of any ulterior motive except to be a comfort to you. And he is. Despite yourself, despite everything, he is.

You sob against him, and when he speaks you feel his mouth moving against the crown of your head. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?"

Shaking your head, you grab his jacket in fistfulls, keep him close, and love him.

He makes you walk inside and sit down on your couch, but he lets you hold on to him and exhaust yourself with tears. You don't even realize how tired you are until you wake up on that same couch hours later with a throw blanket over you and the winter sun streaming in through the window.

A noise behind you from the kitchen reminds you of Bucky's presence. He's at the counter, brewing tea for the both of you. Of course, he knows where everything is, and after last night... Seeing him there, knowing what you need, it feels like your heart sings to him. Ah, there you are! it says. That's where you're supposed to be. That's where I've been looking for you the entire time.

"Thank you," you tell him.

He looks up at you with wide eyes and nods. "Not a problem," he says. He finishes the tea and brings it over to you. There's only one snowman mug between you. You got rid of the other one.

After a respectable silence, you whisper, "I'm sorry."

And he says, "I'm sorry, too."

Every question is answered for you now, and like you predicted, you don't know what to do with the answers you have. At the end of the day, you don't know the whole of what's going to happen between you and Bucky, but you do know that you'll never be satisfied with anything less. Even as you watch him leave for what might be the last time, you know it.

It's what prompts you to meet Daniel outside the coffee shop, wringing your hands nervously and taking sickly deep breaths.

When he sees you, he kisses your cheek and doesn't let you get a word in edgewise. "Ready to start planning our Connecticut trip?" he asks. "I think it's time. I'm starting to feel it in the air."

"Well..." you start.

"I got my holiday schedule," Daniel continues. "I figure now's as good a time as any."

Well, that's one thing he's got right. You only let a beat pass before speaking up. "Daniel," you eventually sigh. "You know that I... I can't do this. You know that, don't you?"

"What, the trip?" he asks.

"Yes, and..." you continue. "All of it."

It takes him a minute to understand your meaning. Once he does, he takes it with pursed lips and a glance at his feet. "It's him, isn't it?" he asks after a long silence.

There's no point in lying; he knows you well enough at this point which makes this conversation sting as much as it does. "Yes," you answer. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, you're sorry?" Daniel sighs. It's a long, uncomfortable moment before he speaks again. "You know... I don't want you to settle for me. I don't want to settle for someone who's settling for me."

It's an entirely fair evaluation, and you accept it with a nod. "So, you understand?" you ask him.

"No," he admits, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No, I think we had a good thing starting, but... I can't change your mind. And like I said, if it's like that, then I don't want to."

You try for a smile. "You're a nice guy, Daniel."

"Just not nice like he's nice?" he asks with a hint of not totally unjustified bitterness.

"Well..." you sigh. "He's not very nice, actually."

And that, at least, makes Daniel laugh despite himself. You smile in turn, and when you part ways you feel that there's still a dear friendship if no longer a close one.

It isn't long after that you meet Bucky for another walk around the old way. Even after everything, there's no stopping the desire to be close to one another. He agreed to go with you almost before you could even ask.

You stop on a little stone pier that overlooks dark water and pushes biting cold wind into your face. The streetlamp over your heads is almost like a halo.

When the conversation reaches a natural lull, you lean back against the railing of the pier, back to the water. "What are you thinking about?" you ask him.

Hands folded in front of him, he leans forward against the railing. "That I'm going to miss this," he confesses.

You push past the lump in your throat to ask, "You decided?"

He shakes his head. "Not completely. But I mean... Sticking around? There's not much for me here," he says. "And it's not exactly fair to you."

"How so?"

He tears his eyes off the water to glance at you and takes a deep breath. "You're going to be so happy, you know that?" he says. "And I'm happy for you. I really am."

You're silent, urging him to continue.

"But I am jealous of Daniel," he admits. "Can't help but be jealous of him: the guy's got everything I want outta life. And you're gonna be happy with him, and I'm gonna stay jealous. And you're gonna take him to the lighthouse and make him a part of it, and I'm gonna be jealous. You don't deserve to have me around, weighing you down."

"You think so?"

When Bucky nods, you can tell he actually believes that.

There's only so long that you can let that sit. The seconds of silence feel like a lifetime, and when you speak it's like you haven't used your voice in at least as long. "I'm selling the lighthouse," you finally tell him. Funny. You hadn't been sure until this moment.

"You are?" he says.

"I think..." you begin before correcting yourself. "No, I know. I am."

Furrowing his brows, he shakes his head. "I don't get it," he says. "Why? I mean, I know what that place means to you..."

Deep breath in. "Well," you say on the exhale, "I was only keeping it for my parents, to begin with. Then, it became this standing monument to all of my memories: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I kept trying to keep all of them in one spot, and believe it or not, it started to get heavy. So, I can either try to hold onto it until I absolutely can't anymore, or I can let it go."

A smile slowly begins to lift the corners of Bucky's mouth as he considers you. You can only imagine what you must look like in the wake of a decision. You know how you feel, anyway. You're free as a bird.

"So..." he says. "You got the whole world to choose from once I'm gone."

You smile down at your feet with a shrug, and the silence that follows is bittersweet. In a way, you're both cut loose, with nowhere to go except for anywhere you choose. There is no way backward anymore. No time to count down, and memories are only in the mind where maybe they should've been kept all along.

"Where will you go?" he asks.

"I don't know," you confess. "Might stay here, for all I know. I just know that I don't want to go back. What about you?"

Bucky hums and pushes his gaze back out onto the water. "Dunno," he says. "I still don't know if the whole thing... if I'll ever get better. Maybe they can help me in Wakanda, but... I just don't know."

It's just about what you expected, but the way he says it brings back an old feeling under your skin. You remember now. You remember back in the beginning when your heartache was bigger than you were, you thought that there was no word in any language that could bring him back to you. Now, you know better. There's one. Just one, and you whisper it so quietly that he would only be able to hear it if he was really listening.

"Stay."

He looks up at you then, eyes wide with fear and hope. He's searching your eyes for something, and even if you can't name it, you know now that it's what he's been looking for the whole time. "What?"

"I think you should stay."

"You don't mean that," he decides after a while.

"I don't think that's for you to say," you tell him.

"What about Daniel?" he asks.

"Not a factor," you tell him. "You don't think I'm serious?"

He pauses again. "Doesn't mean I don't want to believe it."

You feel distantly aware that you're shaking like a leaf in autumn, but you push past it. "Let me help you understand," you continue. "Brooklyn's just a place, just like Wakanda or Connecticut. You're right. We've got the whole world to choose from. There's a globe with tens of thousands of miles that you could circle fifty times, and I wouldn't care. But it's you and me, got it? That's where we belong. That's where you have to stay, no matter where you go."

He says your name softly: a final protest. "You said it yourself that we can't just pick up where we left off," he reminds you. "There's no going back."

"Haven't you been listening?" you ask. "I don't want to go back."

Then, beyond either of your expectations, a peaceful look washes over his face, and you can tell he finally believes you.

"Okay," he says. Promises. "Okay."

In a moment, you're pulling him close to you with so much force that for a moment, you're afraid your noses are going to break. Yet, any pain washes away with the feeling of his lips once again on yours, like rocks eroding under the tide. There is no more need for a lighthouse.

He kisses you back, softly and soundly, like he's entirely confident for once. Maybe he finally is confident in something. His hands feel confident cupping your face, and you smile against his mouth at the knowledge. Even when you break apart, you keep your foreheads together, refusing to be separated anymore.

The next weeks pass in such a way that you hardly notice them, and you relearn each other first in broad paint strokes then in tiny details. You remember that he can't sleep with socks on and that peppermint gives him the hiccups. You remember what it means to want someone around and to be wanted in return. You remember how it is to care and feel cared for.

There are other things you learn, too—brand new things. Tennyson kind of sucks, for example; slowly, you're figuring that out. Maybe he wouldn't suck so bad if you were in the mood to read about King Arthur or if you were still in a constant state of grief over a lost friend. But you're not about his lay-down-and-die attitude about everything.

There is a lot of substance to the ideas of loving and losing, but there is more in the keeping. As it is, you much prefer the writing of Edna St. Vincent Millay who wrote:

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

And rise and sink and rise and sink again;

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;

Yet many a man is making friends with death

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,

Or nagged by want past resolution's power,

I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It well may be. I do not think I would.