"Rebecca, I told you not to follow the boys and what do you do? What have I told you about your listening skills? Or lack thereof?"

She had just wanted to show how she was just as good as the boys. Bucky knew so, she'd told him. But his kid sister was just a kid, and even though she'd been a foot shorter than him, he'd always felt like the younger sibling. Rebecca had always one-up'd him, expect in this case.

Their mom had been less than pleased, scolding her daughter rather than comforting her as they stood on the stoop of their Brooklyn home, clutching her sprained wrist. She'd been crying, her bottom lip wobbly, and Bucky had stood watching, waiting.

After the scolding, Rebecca had ran into his arm, sniffling loudly.

"I told you so." He chastised, but lightly. He didn't want her to feel worse; he didn't want to sound like their mom. "Come on, I'll bandage you up."

When they got older, Rebecca had a few run-ins with less-than-manly men. When she showed up later than her curfew one night and a purple hickey on her neck, their mother yanked on her hair, exposing her neck before dragging her to the bathroom.

"I cannot believe you prance around these god-damn streets like a common whore." She was still drunk from dinner, and Bucky kept his bedroom door open, sitting up so he could watch them.

"I didn't mean to." Rebecca cried as their mother began viciously scrubbing at her neck, as if that would make it disappear.

"Just like your father, making every excuse in the book."

When he'd been woken up at nearly four in the morning, Bucky knew it was all crumbling down.

"I'm going to keep it, J." Rebecca had whispered, her fingers shaking. He held her hands, but he was just as afraid. "you should meet him, his name is Hoyt and oh, he's so sweet. He wants the baby too."

"What about mom?" Bucky asked, squeezing her hands. "I'm gonna be leaving soon, near weeks now. I won't...be around to make sure..."

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Rebecca had soft eyes, and she gave him a winning smile. "We're gettin' married. Next week. I'm leavin' tonight, were goin' to the courthouse." She squeezed his hand, her nails digging in. "come with us."

Bucky had felt sick, his head swimming.

He wished he'd gone with her.

Dearest J,

I'm a married woman! Hoyt got me the prettiest ring, its oval shaped, not that ugly square like grandma. It's the loveliest thing I own. I'll show you when you visit. How's the weather over there? Steve told me you've written to him too, I'm glad y'all kept in touch. He misses you, but I think he misses the war more, and feels bad that he ain't fighting. But really, what can little sticks do? I'm just teasing. Hope you're well, your nephew is about ready to be born. He can't wait to meet you.

Love,
RBC

He'd written her back, the hot weather scalding him as he knelt over the envelope. It had taken nearly three weeks for his letter to arrive, and another three for him to get hers.

J,

Mom insists on coming to the birth, which will be any day now. I wish you could instead, but I guess we all gotta forgive at some point. Aunt Ida is gonna come too, to ease the tension.

I miss you. Come back soon.

Yours,
RBC

Bucky had been happy that his sister and mother were reconciling, his body full of relief. As he'd read the letter, he could nearly smell his sister perfume. The fact that she was about to become a mother was mind blowing, it seemed like the functioning family she'd always wanted was coming together.

J,

He died. I named him Bailey, but it don't matter. Stay safe.

-RBC

The letters stopped coming so often after that. He still received some from Steve, until he too eventually joined the army, underwent experiments and became the first super soldier. After Steve's surgery, Bucky had written to her, gushing about the experiment's success, asking about Hoyt, and sent her a photograph of the Howling Commandos.

She didn't respond until after he'd fallen in the ice, and he never heard from her again. Eventually, Bucky found Steve, the Avengers', and his mind; he tried tracking her down, and eventually was led to her grave site.

She'd been buried next to Bailey, and Hoyt wasn't too far either.

Bucky had brought her flowers, daisys, and when he read on her headstone that she'd been 39 when she died, he sobbed into the grass.

Every detail of his sister was engraved in his head, even when his mind had been lost he could always remember her face, the sound of her laugh. She visited him often when he slept, in his dreams, and she wasn't always nice. Sometimes she just stared at him; other times she hurt him, blamed him.

"If you'd been there, I would've been healthy. I was worried sick about you, and it killed my baby. The worry killed him, you killed him. And I was never the same."

Bucky awoke with a start, his limbs stiff, forehead sweaty. Wanda snored softly next to him, hair loose and wrapped down her back as she faced away from him. He slowed his breathing trying to calm himself, hands shaking.

Quietly as he could manage, Bucky stumbles from bed, striding to the window. Ever since Wanda, he'd placed a cushioned bench below the window; inside it held some of her clothes, makeup and anything else she could need when she spent the night. He sat on it gingerly, elbows balanced on his knees.

Maybe he could write to her. No, Rebecca would never read it, but it was the sentiment behind it, or some fluffy shit like that, no? His brain was swimming, lungs aching as if he'd been running miles.

It had been years since he'd known she was dead, he'd figured it the first time he was freed from his prison of a mind. Years and he was still dreaming about her.

He misses her bitterly, physically aching for the family he'd been graced with when he was a boy.

He's the only Barnes left. It makes him sick.

"Buck?"

Wanda is sitting up in his bed, her sleepy eyes trying to focus in the semi darkness. He hadn't heard her shift, hadn't registered that her breathing was not as deep as it usually was when she slept. He wonders how well she can see, if she can see that his cheeks are tearstained.

"Is something the matter?" She crawls out of bed, taking a tentative step towards him. He cowers, shoulders bent over and he curls his chest to his knees, feet still planted on the floor.

"Go to bed." He huffs, his voice thick. When she doesn't move, he shuts his eyes. "Just go to bed, baby."

He didn't call her many names. The occasional 'baby' or 'my girl'. Sweetheart was one of his favorites. And eventually when he wasn't such a damn coward, he'd call her 'my love'.

Because that is in fact what she is.

He can hear her shift, practically hear her brain thinking of anything to do. She wants to help him, and he adores her for it, but this is something not even a witch with magic can heal.

Her hands cover his, fingers lacing, and she tugs at him. He tries to blink the tears away as he looks up at her. She smiles tentatively, and then dips down in front of him, knees by his feet.

"What's wrong?" She asks. Her voice is sweet, softly caressing him, and it aches him. "You're crying."

He internally groans. The lump in his throat was so large it felt like he was slowly suffocating. He can't look at her, knows that if he looks into those shining emeralds he'll crack, and he isn't sure how to put himself back together, so he turns, shifting his gaze to the edge of the bed.

Slowly, Wanda reaches out, places her thumbs over his eyes that flutter shut. The hands move, cupping his face, and she leans her forehead against his. "May I give you a hug?"

The question is hesitant, like she's nervous of his response, and he wants to fling himself into her arms like a child, but he stays still, instructing his body to not give in. This isn't her burden.

She swipes her hand over his lips lightly and he kisses her thumb. "I'll take that as a yes."

When her arms come around him, he leans into her, and his carefully constructed wall begins to crack. Arms loop around her waist, dragging her to him, his cheek pressing against her shoulder as a sob leaves his mouth. He's gripping her so tightly he wonders if it hurts; she holds him just as fiercely.

Stroking his hair, she kisses his head, saying nothing. Her touch is light, grounding. He cries harder.

Bucky isn't sure how long they stood like that, his head on her shoulder as she sat between his knees, comforting him. At some point she'd dragged him back to bed, tucking the covers around him, and he curled into her, arm locked around her waist. Eventually her breathing deepened, and he listened to her breath beside him, chest rising slowly. Her heartbeat was steady as he shakily placed his palm over her clothed chest, right near her sternum, and he could feel it beating. As he felt the warm tremor beneath his hand, he sucked in a breath.

He was in love with her. And while he wasn't sure he could ever verbalize it first, he had an odd feeling that she knew.