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“Oh, shit, shit, shit—BUCKY!”
Three days earlier
Clint woke up with a lazy yawn and luxurious stretch. The sun was just barely peeking above the horizon, and the warm rays of the pink dawn were casting a glow over the apartment through his open windows. Bucky was still asleep, or half-asleep anyway. His eyes were closed, but he was awake enough to pull Clint back into his embrace, mumbling something Clint could feel but couldn’t hear.
Mornings like this, lazy mornings together, were becoming increasingly common, much to their mutual delight. Clint squirmed in Bucky’s arms—not to escape, just to make himself more comfortable as he settled into a better position.
He had just drifted off to sleep again when Bucky began to pull away. Clint pouted and tried to grab him back again, but Bucky was still leaving and so Clint begrudgingly opened his eyes to look at his partner. The serious expression on Bucky’s face woke Clint up faster than almost anything else could have (save for maybe the smell of hot, fresh coffee).
Bucky’s expression was getting increasingly anxious; he appeared to be listening to something. Clint hastened to get his hearing aids in so that he could find out what was wrong.
“...ost contact about two hours ago. That in and of itself is not too unusual. But Agent Romanov has now triggered her emergency beacon, and protocol dictates that—”
Clint was barely listening to JARVIS as he practically leaped out of bed to begin suiting up. Nat was one of the most independent people he knew and would never trigger her emergency beacon except in the most extreme of circumstances.
Now(?)
“I’m fine, Clint,” Bucky called out, or at least he tried to. It came out as more of a moan, and not the fun kind. Not that he expected Clint would be able to hear him, anyway. He was currently doing his best to cling to the side of the mountain where he had slipped and fallen. Normally he had perfect balance—as a super soldier, he had complete mastery over his physical form.
Not so much today.
A lot of things had gone wrong today. They’d been tracking Natasha’s movements for three days now, but it wasn’t until just an hour ago that they found her, half dead, in a Hydra lab buried inside a mountain. Bucky saw red and lost track of how many Hydra agents they’d killed getting her out of there. She was eventually airlifted out; but Bucky and Clint, who had remained relatively uninjured, had stayed behind to gather as much data as possible before destroying the base.
Their current goal was to make it down to the base of the mountain, where they had hidden the vehicles they initially used to approach, and then make their way to the rendezvous point. Unfortunately, Bucky had slipped down half the mountain in one shot, and Clint was now doing his best to catch up with Bucky without falling himself.
Somehow they did make it down the mountain and to the rendezvous point, but Bucky felt himself going in and out of consciousness the whole time—had the fall impacted him even worse than he realized?
He barely registered Clint’s numerous concerned looks as he was manhandled into the waiting car, and it felt like he had barely closed his eyes for a moment before he was awake again, staring at his own bedroom ceiling.
He tried to speak, to ask what had happened; but as soon as he opened his mouth, all he could feel was how incredibly dry it was. His head still ached, and it was only when he realized that the hands steadying him and helping him sit up were Clint’s that he began to relax, even more so when Clint held up a glass of water with a straw to Bucky’s lips.
After several long gulps, Bucky found his voice again. “What happened? Is Natasha okay?” he croaked.
“Nat’s fine; she’s recovering well, and Tony continues to cluck around her like a mother hen. I’ve lost track of how many times she’s threatened to stab him, so it’s love in paradise over there.” Clint rolled his eyes, but Bucky could tell that there was still a tension to his shoulders.
“What’s wrong, then?” Bucky asked. “You look like something is very wrong, so if it’s not Nat, what is it? If it’s me—there’s no need to worry, I’m fine.”
“Bucky…” Clint looked tired. “What do you remember, exactly?”
“We rescued Natasha, got the data, blew up the lab, and escaped down the mountain. I fell— Clint, what’s going on? Your face is doing that thing where you’re holding back something horrifically tragic. What happened?”
“Bucky, this is I think the… fifth time we’ve had this conversation? Sixth?”
“I— what?” Bucky was bewildered. “Didn’t we just get back?”
“No, Buck. It’s been… weeks since the mission. You keep waking up, are fine for a few hours or even days, but then you fall asleep so hard we can’t wake you up for a week, and when you do wake up… you don’t remember anything since just before we completed the mission. Both Loki and Strange are at a loss. There doesn’t seem to be any magic at play here. And Helen can’t figure it out, either, at least from a physical standpoint.”
Bucky was shocked but not surprised to have yet another set of memory issues to deal with; but as the weeks went on and he continued to remember, he started to feel better about it all. Clint also grew more confident and comfortable—until one day, six months later, when Bucky fell asleep and his memory reset once again.
One year after the accident
“Good morning,” Bucky murmured, pressing a kiss to Clint’s forehead. He knew Clint couldn’t hear him, but he also knew that Clint understood the sentiment as the other man nuzzled himself closer into Bucky’s embrace. Today was a good day, he could feel it. For one thing, he remembered the last four months, even though he had lost the six before it.
He didn’t remember the first few times that he had woken up with the gap in his memories. He never did, which is why Clint was constantly having to explain things to him after he woke up. He could tell, however, that the process was something that weighed on Clint; and so, two wake-ups ago, he had made the decision to start keeping a journal of significant things that happened in his life. He wouldn’t remember them, but that shouldn’t mean that they stayed completely forgotten. Clint had sworn up and down that he had never and would never read the journals without Bucky’s permission, and Bucky trusted that.
He trusted Clint with everything these days, especially since he had been asked—forced—to leave the team. Not that Bucky didn’t understand their reasoning. How could he be trusted to go on missions and protect the other members of his team, if he was constantly losing access to his recent memories, with no discernable pattern as to how it would happen. Still…
Today, he decided, was the day. The day he would ask Clint to marry him. He knew it probably wasn’t fair to either of them, really. Not fair to Clint, who would have to live with a husband who constantly forgot they were married. And not to himself, either—the future Bucky who would one day not remember the fact that he was married. But even before the accident, it had been an idea percolating in his mind… that tying his life to Clint’s was something he wanted. Something he needed.
And sure, he would end up forgetting the exact way he proposed, and would forget the vows they exchanged. It was hard to live with, knowing it would happen, the heartbreak that was waiting for both of them. But after all that he had gone through, Bucky felt as though he deserved to be a little selfish. He deserved whatever small shred of happiness he could carve out for himself in a cruel world, and so did Clint.
What they had together would not last forever—nothing ever lasts forever. But making the most of what they had while they had it, finding and giving joy while they could? That was worth doing.
Three years after the accident
Bucky felt like he had barely closed his eyes for a moment before he was awake again, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His mouth was incredibly dry, as though he had not drank in days. Taking in his surroundings, he did not recognize the room at all, though the sheets smelled like both him and Clint, which was familiar enough that it calmed him. Clint walked into the room as he sat up, a mug of coffee in each hand. “Oh, good, you’re awake. I hope you don’t mind me letting you sleep in, but we’re going to be getting a lot less sleep with a baby around, and—”
“Baby?” Bucky croaked out. “What— where am— is Natasha okay?”
“…oh.” Clint’s face fell, and Bucky felt a piece of himself break at the look of devastation.
“Is she…?”
“Oh! No, Natasha’s fine. Just… I had hoped we would have a bit more time before you forgot again.” Clint sighed. “Here, I know you always wake up thirsty. Sorry it’s hot, I can get you some cold water?”
Bucky’s heart lurched even as he took the offered coffee. Clint had been so happy when he walked into the room, and now Bucky had done something that instead left him looking miserable.
Five years after the accident
Bucky hated how rarely he was left alone now.
It had been two years, and he remembered everything just fine. Things had been rocky, at first. With a baby around, and Bucky unable to remember the conversations, the thoughts, the fears, the joy of anticipation preparing for her arrival. The check-ups that they went to with their surrogate, getting to see the ultrasound and realizing: wow, I’m going to have a kid. The pride and terror and fear.
He’d read about it, though. Read through everything that the Bucky who had experienced those situations had felt—and there were phantom memories there, almost within his reach. Sometimes, as he read the words, he could almost see the memories in his head. And even though he could not remember, he had also been forming his own memories: ones of tea parties and flower crowns and telling bedtime stories. Things he always made sure to write down in as much detail as possible—paying it forward, just as his past self had done for him—so that when he lost these memories, the next Bucky could learn what his daughter’s favorite foods were and how she liked to be tucked into bed.
It’s not to say that he was never alone anymore. He got time to himself, to relax. He liked to read books. There was one that he had been reliably informed was his favorite by Clint, and there were all sorts of notes in the margins, written in his own handwriting, that were fun to read. It was almost like having a conversation with himself as he weighed his current opinions about the text against the ones expressed by an earlier “Bucky.”
What really bothered him, though, was how little one-on-one time he got to have with their daughter. He understood Clint’s reasoning, and he couldn’t fault him for it. If Clint had had a recurring issue of unexpectedly losing consciousness and forgetting everything about his recent past, he wouldn’t want to trust him to look after a toddler on his own either. Knowing that truth didn’t make it sting any less.
A week later, he passed out while making dinner, and only Natasha being there for a visit stopped the farmhouse from going up in flames and taking both Bucky and their daughter with it. Once he was caught up to speed and had a few days to adjust, Bucky found the notes in his journal about feeling stifled and crossed them out to write: I know it sucks. But this is your reality now. Get used to it.
Seven years after the accident
Bucky felt like he had barely closed his eyes for a moment before he was awake again, staring up at a ceiling that was somehow both unfamiliar and one he knew he had seen before. His throat was dry, and there were weights pressed both against his side and on his chest. He squinted in the dim light that was filtering through unfamiliar curtains. They were purple, he thought, a nice shade. Something he could have pictured him and Clint picking out together.
His brain felt like molasses, but he slowly registered that the person currently snoring by his side was Clint—which was familiar, but the smaller person also using him as a pillow was very small. As in, they were a child. What was a kid doing in his bed? Was this even his bed?
Panic and confusion started to pound through him, and he felt his heart rate speeding up. Carefully, he extracted himself from the bed—though not carefully enough, as both Clint and the child woke up anyway. Bucky stood awkwardly beside the bed as Clint yawned and reached over to click on the bedside lamp. The girl yawned identically; and when she saw Bucky, she visibly brightened.
“Papa!” The girl flung herself at him, and Bucky caught her before she could tumble out of bed, the action feeling automatic, natural, as if he had done so a million times before. Clint was still yawning, fumbling sleepily with his hearing aids before slipping one on. Meanwhile, the girl had started chattering, words that Bucky could barely parse as he took in the situation. “...make the rosemary pancakes, please? And then can we go looking for worms? They always pop up after storms and I promise I’ll be gentle with them this time. And we can splash in the puddles and…”
Clint had been looking at the girl with a fond smile; but when his eyes met Bucky’s, he seemed to register Bucky’s confusion, and the smile fell off his face. “Hawklet, I think Papa’s still waking up.” Clint climbed out of bed and gently took the girl out of Bucky’s arms. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth while Papa and I get ready to make breakfast?” The girl grinned as Clint set her down before running happily out of the room. Clint shrugged at Bucky. “She was scared of the storm. She’s four, so still easily frightened by stuff.”
“And she came to us because…?” Bucky furrowed his brow. “Where are we, why did we come here after—is Natasha okay? Why can’t I… why can’t I remember?” The panic was beginning to well up again, though it began to ease somewhat as Clint pulled Bucky into his embrace, wrapping his arms around the shorter man and beginning to rub soothing, familiar circles on his back.
“I’m sorry, love. I know this is confusing and scary and hard. But that mission was seven years ago. Natasha is safe, happy. On her honeymoon. She and Tony finally got married last month. I was the man of honor, of course.”
“Seven years? I’ve… what have I— what have we—who’s that girl?” Bucky asked again. He almost felt like he knew the answer, but he needed Clint to say it, to confirm it.
“She’s our daughter.” Clint pulled back so that he could meet Bucky’s eyes, gaze steady. Clint had always been strong, steady, safe. Though no matter how steady the words were, Bucky could still hear the heartbreak in them.
“Oh,” Bucky said softly, feeling part of his own heart break. “I… I don’t remember her. Why? What happened?”
Clint closed his eyes, and Bucky could tell from the deep breaths he was taking that the other man was holding back tears.
“You…” Bucky took a shaky breath of his own. “Clint, it’s… well, obviously, it’s not okay. I don’t fully understand what’s happening, but I trust you. I love you—and while I may not remember her, I know I love our daughter, too.” He pulled Clint down for a kiss, fingers tangling in his hair. Clint wrapped his arms tighter around Bucky—almost as though he was afraid that, if they parted, they would never come together again.
Eventually, they did pull apart, and Bucky registered as he cupped Clint’s cheek that there was a gold band on his own ring finger. “Are we married, now?” Bucky asked.
Clint raised an eyebrow and smiled, pulling his own hand away from Bucky’s back to wiggle it, also clad in a golden ring. Bucky smiled back at him and pulled his husband (his husband!) in for another kiss.
Ten years after the accident
Bucky felt like he had barely closed his eyes for a moment before he was awake again, staring at a ceiling that was strangely familiar. Dizzy despite not having moved, he attempted to put his thoughts back together. He would always wake up disoriented like this after an intense and risky mission, but for some reason it felt worse this time. He tried to speak—but as soon as he opened his mouth, all he could feel was how incredibly dry it was. His head still ached, and it was only when he realized that the hands steadying him and helping him sit up were Clint’s that he began to relax, even more so when Clint held up a glass of water with a straw to Bucky’s lips.
After several long gulps, Bucky found his voice again. “What happened? Is Natasha okay?” he croaked. Clint did not say anything at first, only giving Bucky a sad smile. Clint also looked… different. There were more lines around his eyes, and his hair was so pale, it looked more gray than blond. “Are… you okay? Why—”
“Why do I look so old?” Clint sighed. “I always forget how hard this is… Natasha is fine, by the way. She recovered quickly. It’s nice that she’s always the first person you ask about, even before you notice all the lines on my face. Though I don’t know if that might change, after a while. I—” Clint was interrupted by a crackling noise by the bedside, and Bucky noticed that there was a baby monitor there. Why was there a baby monitor next to his bed? Was this even his bed? Why wasn’t he in the med bay?
“Shit,” Clint swore. “Um, I’ll be right back. Try not to move too much?”
Clint left the room, and Bucky took a more careful look at his surroundings. The quilt he found himself under was soft, and part of him considered it familiar, though he had no idea why—he had never seen it before in his life. The bedroom was cozy, with one wall covered in books and the other with open windows that overlooked a field covered in snow.
It was winter already? They had gone on the mission in the height of summer.
He went to pull back the quilt and get out of bed when he noticed that there was a gold ring on his right ring finger. Pulling it off gently, he noticed there was a tan line like he had been wearing the ring for ages—but he had never seen this ring before. Examining it more closely, he noticed a tiny engraving…
Our love is deeper than memory.
It was sweet. Familiar. Filled him with a sense of joy, though he had no idea why that would be the case. He carefully, reverently, put the ring back on. It simply felt right to be wearing it.
There was a photo on the nightstand, and Bucky picked it up. It was a photo of him and Clint, both in tuxedos and at a wedding altar. Bucky’s mind whirled as he realized that there had to have been a lot he had missed. Standing, he looked out the window and realized that there were two kids having a snowball fight, shrieking with laughter. The laughs themselves felt familiar, in that way of “I’ve heard this sound before, and I love it.” Something terrible must have happened for him to forget what was clearly a beautiful life that he— another him—had built with Clint.
Clint came back into the room, a toddler on his hip and a mug of coffee in his other hand.
“Papa!” the toddler called, making grabby hands for Bucky, who automatically took her from Clint, muscle memory taking over.
“Be gentle, baby. Remember we talked about gentle?” Clint reminded the small girl, even as she went to Bucky’s hair, which was longer than he had remembered.
“Clint, I—” Bucky swallowed. “How much have I missed?” he asked, staring into the face of a little girl with Clint’s eyes and smile.
Clint gave him a soft smile. “You’ve been here the whole time, love. I’ve got all sorts of receipts to prove it.”
“Has this happened before?” Bucky asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
“Yes.” Clint nodded solemnly.
“Will it… will it happen again?”
The toddler was babbling now, barely paying attention to her parents’ conversation. All she cared about was playing with her Papa’s hair, which was always wonderfully soft and fun—as long as she remembered to be gentle.
“Probably,” Clint shrugged.
“Do you… I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” Clint took Bucky’s hand, sensing that his husband was on the verge of a spiral. “It’s… well, it’s not okay, exactly. But we make it work. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Bucky smiled.
“I wuv you, Papa!” The toddler wrapped her arms around Bucky’s neck, and he laughed, kissing the top of her head. And it was true, he realized. He might not know the girl’s name, but he knew he loved her. She was family, part of a family he had built, even if he didn’t remember having done so. He could learn, even if he couldn’t remember… just as he had read on his own wedding band.
Twenty years after the accident
Bucky felt like he had barely closed his eyes for a moment before he was awake again, staring at a familiar ceiling that he had never seen before. The dawn was filtering through sunbleached purple curtains. He didn’t think he had ever been in this room before, but at the same time it felt… loved. Like he was loved here, like he loved it here—like this was home, even if it was all new to him.
Despite the disconcertingly familiar room, the body curled against him was definitely familiar, even more so than his own—Clint, the love of his life, who looked different… older than he would have expected compared to yesterday, but just as handsome as ever.
As his mind roved over the previous day, his heart rate sped up. Natasha had been in danger, they were rescuing her, she had been hurt, he had been hurt—and yet, instead of being in the medical bay of the Tower, he found himself in an unfamiliar bed with the person he knew best in the world, for all that his face held new lines. Laugh lines. He was happy. They were happy.
Squinting around the room, he noticed a bedside table that had a glass of water. Suddenly, he registered just how dry his mouth and throat were, and he reached over to pick up the glass. His hand brushed against a weathered journal with a sticky note on it. He flicked on the lamp, cautiously looking down at Clint to make sure the light hadn’t woken him. In the light he looked even older, and the questions mounted in Bucky’s mind as he read the sticky note, in Clint’s handwriting, which simply said “read me!”
Opening the journal (which he had never seen before in his life), Bucky found a note scribbled on the first page.
Hi Bucky, this is Bucky. If you’re reading this and don’t know what it is, that means I passed out and Clint went to sleep wrapped around you like a koala (as he always does), and he isn’t awake to explain everything. First: Natasha is fine. She married Tony, and they adopted a bunch of brats. Those two keep accidentally acquiring children like they’re collecting Pokémon. You won’t get that reference, but it’s fine. You’ll learn.
Speaking of learning, marriage, and children: Clint is your husband now, and the two of you have three kids of your own. Not sure how old they are, but Clint can tell you when you wake up. You love all of them very much. You have a family now, and you might not remember them, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know them. Whatever you do next, just… be happy. It’s going to be hard for you—it was hard for me. But they’re worth it. Love like this… it goes deeper than memory.
This is your life now. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.
–Bucky Barton-Barnes