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shroud-of-roses · 7 years ago

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Divining the Future With the Dead

I love divination. I also love speaking to the dead, building relationships with them, and letting their voice and story be heard. Because of this, I have been figuring out ways to incorporate the whole "advice from those that lived through it" concept into my divination practice. I contact the dead to divine the future, and in this way, I can help them feel listened to, respected, and equipped to help us, and our futures.

There isn't a right or wrong way to do any divination practice, so I honestly recommend doing what you feel works best for both the spirit and yourself. These are my tips, ideas, and thoughts on the topic, so feel free to replicate it or completely nix the idea for yourself. Thanks for reading!

Choosing a Method

Divination methods vary. From scrying with black mirrors to examining the results of graphology, the lines of what you can use are basically endless. Deciding what you want to do is a very personal decision, and it may take a few tries to discover something you click with. Here are some ideas, but, please, if you don't feel drawn to any of these, or just want to look for more, I definitely recommend doing so.

Scrying - scrying is gazing into a surface, a pattern, or even a reflection, to divine. Images (sometimes still, sometimes moving) may appear, whether inside your mind or on the surface itself. Some common methods involve gazing at fire, water, a black mirror, smoke, or a dark liquid. To me, this is a very versatile divination tactic to try, though many people struggle with learning how to do it due to its meditative nature.

Cartomancy/Tarot - Using cards to divine is one of the more direct and straightforward approaches to divination. Using a system that defines what each card may represent (whether you make it yourself or use one that already exists), you can ask questions and communicate. Interpreting the cards is another personal thing, and if you feel a card means something for one reading and not another, follow your gut. Oracle cards are another form of cartomancy, and are looser in defined meanings in most cases.

Pendulum - By using a pendulum (a chain, thread, or string with a weighted end) you can receive yes/no/maybe/don't want to answer as responses, depending on the board you choose to use. Some people even include letters and numbers, as seen in Ouija boards. There are many tutorials and instructions online, so I won't go into to much detail, but you hold it over a board with each direction noted. Ask your question. Then, wait for it to swing, and you have received your answer.

Scrawl divination - Scrawl divination (also known as graphology), is a somewhat lesser known form of divination, and, at times, has been criticized as semidangerous due to the fact that the spirit guides your hand. However, I disagree, because similar to communicating with spirits using Tarot, you are guided by them, and I haven't heard of any issues with that. I haven't had issues with graphology, either, and really like the accurate nature of it. Basically, you close your eyes or look away, and draw or write on a pad of paper. Try not to create any shapes or designs yourself, let the spirit you are talking to do the writing. I typically get my hand moving, and follow whatever direction it feels like I need to go. I recommend pairing this with other forms of divination, such as tarot or pendulum dowsing, to start a conversation and request their assistance.

Obviously, there are many more options, these are just my favourite fairly common ones. I used to run a blog called @the-daily-diviner and it's still up as an archive. I posted tons of informational and how-to posts regarding divination on that blog, so that would be a good place to start if you want to keep looking.

Building a Space

To build a space, you don't need much. In fact, all you really need is somewhere you can focus, feel safe, and have access to any tools or resources you may need. For me, this is my altar. For others, it is a space within themselves, a temple they have built inside of their minds.

Some additions to a space (which are entirely optional and not necessary) are listed below. Please note that personalizing these things to your practice (ex: crystals for spirit communication) can help you on your way. You can also add any personal items you feel need to be there.

Incense

Candles

Crystals

Graveyard Dirt (please make sure to harvest this respectfully. Always ask the spirit for permission, and never do anything illegal to acquire it)

Heirlooms (for ancestral communication)

Lights (lamps etc)

Curtains (adds privacy, and darkness if you want it)

Protective charms/wards

Divination tools

Spirit Vessels of those you are contacting if they have them

Creating Relationships

This is, in my opinion, the most important step. Connecting to a spirit is one thing. Building a relationship that is full of give and take is another. I have found that the more one talks and communicates with a spirit, the more natural it becomes, and the easier it is to spot any potential danger warning signs and lies. Which us also very important. Always try your best to screen the spirits you invite to speak with you (especially in any personal spaces such as your home). In this case, it becomes slightly less dangerous, as we are discussing human spirits, who are generally (but NOT always) less aggressive. However, caution is never a bad thing.

Start small, ask them their name, where they're from. At first, and maybe forever, don't discuss their death or any trauma they suffered in life unless they bring it up. It can cause anger, guilt, resentment, etc to come to the surface, and it isn't polite to ask about things like that when you have just met and acquainted yourself with them. Use good manners is the end of it.

Use a journal or online document to record what the spirit has communicated to you, whether it be advice or personal information about them. It is always nice to be able to look back and see what they said about something, especially if it was a prediction. It can also help you in researching who they were in life if that's something the two of you want to do.

Divining With Them

Let it be known upfront that you are looking for a spirit who can and will help you decipher potential ways that the future may go. It will help both of you find a perfect fit, and you won't be waiting and waiting for the spirit to come around and tell you what may happen. Be open, be honest. Likewise, ask them to do the same.

Setting a time to do these divination sessions is all up to the two of you. It can be on certain dates, moon phases, or even whenever the two of you feel you need to learn of the future. Planning it out ahead of time, and offering them a hand in the decision, will keep your relationship healthy and hopefully not strained. Try not to put too much pressure on the spirit to be constantly foretelling the future about little things of no crucial importance. If you wouldn't ask a friend for a bunch of readings in person, don't ask a spirit either.

Record the questions you asked and the responses you received. In this way, you can decide for yourself how accurate the spirit you are communicating with is. You can even make separate pages or documents for individual scenarios, such as presidential or political actions or things like your career.

Don't forget to pay them just like you can with other diviners. Decide together what you will give them for their help, perhaps an offering of flowers or food. Ask them what they like, and see what you can do.

I hope this has helped clear up any questions you may have had on this topic!

#spirit work #future #divination #spirits #resource

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a-splash-of-stucky · 7 years ago

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A Messed Up Place | Ten

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: A funeral, a video and a bombshell.

Warnings: Funerals and mentions of death. Mentions of vomiting.

Notes: ahhh…hmm. Some of you have been guessing that this would happen. I said that chapter 10 would be less angsty…and it’s not. Sorry about that. I’ve got tissues stockpiled — you should too.

This is a dark and cynical chapter, mostly because Bucky is Fed-Up™ with life. Hopefully, that comes through in the language. As always, written for @hellomissmabel

AMUP Masterlist

The entire world goes into two days of mourning when the news becomes general knowledge. Kids don’t go to school, people don’t go to work and shops put up their “Sorry, we’re closed” signs. The streets of New York become eerily dead, as if the city were a ghost town. It unsettles Bucky.

For the most part, he’s been staying within the confines of the compound, where things are relatively safe. The rest of the gang are staying there too, perhaps in a show of solidarity, for him. The PR team has been running on practically no sleep these past couple of days, working hard to fend off rabid reporters and greedy journalists, all clamouring for a statement — any statement — from anyone on the team.

No one wants to talk to any of them. In fact, no one wants to talk at all — everyone goes about their day in a muted, rather dejected silence. They keep the TV permanently on in the background, just to fill the emptiness in the air. Unfortunately, it seems that every single channel seems to be focused on the same thing: Captain America’s death. If Bucky weren’t feeling so despondent, he might be marginally impressed by the sheer volume of conspiracy theories that the world had managed to cook up in the space of 24 hours.

A sense of disbelief hangs heavy over the entire world. News reporters from all over simply cannot comprehend the fact that Captain America had died.

The thing is, though, is that they’re forgetting the most important of this whole ordeal.

It’s not just the symbol that has passed, but the man behind it too. A man who believed in the greater good, who fought valiantly in the name of his country, who stood his ground in the face of beings more evil than anyone could ever comprehend.

But as grand as all that may be, to Bucky, Steve’s just a punk ass Brooklyn boy. He’s the spitfire on two legs who has known Bucky for as long as his memory stretches back and god —it feels strange not having him around. It makes Bucky feel empty, incomplete.

Steve’s funeral takes place on Friday morning, three days after Kinshasa. Fittingly, the day is dark and miserable, gloomy grey clouds sitting low in the sky, drizzling a light shower of rain on the city below. Bucky’s eyes track the rain drops as the fall onto the windscreen.

Sam’s driving the two of them to the church where the funeral ceremony will be taking place. Bucky’s grateful for his company, if only because he doesn’t try to fill in the silence. Bucky appreciates that; it allows him some time alone with his thoughts.

“Death is a bitch,” Bucky mutters darkly. He keeps his voice low, but in the otherwise quiet of the car, there’s no doubt in his mind that Sam has heard him. Whatever the case, Same doesn’t acknowledge the fact that Bucky’s spoken, just keeps his gaze trained on the road ahead and keeps on driving. They’re about ten minutes away.

“Death’s a goddamn, good-for-nothing, fucking bastard,” Bucky snarls, voice dripping with angry bitterness. His thick Brooklyn accent is slipping through in a way it hasn’t done for a long time. “It takes away everything tha’s good, just ‘cause it can. Don’t think nothin’ ‘bout what the rest of us want.”

Again, Sam makes no comment, but when Bucky looks at him through the corner of his eyes, he notices the way Sam’s fingers have tightened their grip on the steering wheel, the way his lips have pursed slightly. He’s not totally unaffected, then.

There are many things which Bucky hates about Steve being dead.

If Bucky were to list them all, he’d probably be about ready to get into his own grave by the time he’d finished. As it stands, at this moment in time, the thing which he hates most is the fact that he has to attend a goddamn ceremony, whose sole purpose is to highlight — shine a big ass spotlight on — the passing of his best friend.

No. That’s wrong. The more he thinks about it, the more Bucky realises that this funeral is not, in fact, a ceremony to recognise the passing of Steven Grant Rogers, but to commemorate the loss of Captain America: A national icon.

Bucky doesn’t want to go to this funeral. Not because he doesn’t want to say his last goodbyes to his old pal, but because he’s anticipating a stuffy ceremony attended by obnoxious and/or pretentious high-ranking officials who’ve barely said two words to Steve since his time out of the ice. More importantly, Bucky doesn’t need to be reminded about Steve’s death — his own mind does that plenty of times in the dreary hours between sunset and sunrise.

His nose scrunches up in distaste when Sam pulls up in front of the church where the ceremony is being held. It’s an antiquated building, adorned with marble statues and stained glass windows — a far cry to the place that his ma used to drag him and Steve to on Sunday mornings, once upon a time.

It’s a disgustingly pompous ceremony — and he hasn’t even stepped foot into the place. Through the window, Bucky sees hordes of men decked out in their military best, milling around the front entrance. A valet rushes up, takes note of Sam’s license plate, then directs them to a reserved parking space. To the left of his field of vision, behind a metal barrier, Bucky notices crowds of reporters brandishing microphones. He feels sickened by their behaviour; they shouldn’t be so ruthless on a day like this.

Bucky sighs heavily as Sam parks the car. This is nothing like what he would’ve wanted for Steve. Granted, what he wanted was for the punk to not be dead, but—failing that, he would’ve liked something smaller, more meaningful. More private. But, Captain America’s death is, of course, a national affair and by default, national officials get to determine how this funeral pans out. Bucky has had no say whatsoever; he’s been forced to go along with the plan, because when a national symbol dies — properly dies, this time, he thinks forlornly — it automatically becomes a national affair.

Once Sam has killed the engine, Bucky unclips his seatbelt and gets out of the car, stretching his arms above his head to work out the kinks in his back. Two spaces down, he spots you, Natasha and Wanda stepping out of a discreet black vehicle. You’re dressed in a simple black shift dress, a neat headpiece pinned into your hair. Your lips are set into a grim line. Wanda has a hand on the small of your back and is hurriedly ushering you inside, casting a reproachful glare at anyone standing in their way. Natasha catches Bucky’s wandering gaze, flashes him a tight smile, then briskly trots after the two of them.

What Bucky hates most about stupid ceremony is its ridiculousness. The unnecessary pomp and grandeur, the sheer number of people who are here simply so that they can say that they’ve paid their respects to Captain America. It’s disturbing, really, the number of faces he doesn’t recognise in the slightest. To reign in some of the chaos, Tony — or, as Bucky suspects, Pepper — only invited the people who Steve has actually worked with. But even so.

These people only ever saw him as Captain America, never as the compassionate and loveable man he was underneath.

It’s horrible, simply put, to be immersed in a sea of people who clearly never cared for Steve as Steve Rogers — they were only concerned with Steve as Captain America, a device to be wielded by the higher powers. But what makes everything a million times worse is that this funeral, but its very nature and purpose, scream out “Steve is dead” wherever Bucky looks. Those three words might as well be emblazoned on everybody’s foreheads, at this rate.

It’s a miracle that the mourners — or, perhaps more accurately, the supposed mourners — keep their distance. Maybe that has more to do with the fact that Sam glares murderously as anyone who so much as glances in Bucky’s direction, as opposed to them acting out of sheer respectfulness, but still. It counts for something. Once inside, Sam catches sight of Natasha’s fiery red hair, and guides Bucky over to where the girls are sat. You flash Bucky a tight-lipped smile as he sinks into the space beside you, your hand curling around his left bicep as you tuck yourself against his side.

On any other day, in any other version of reality, perhaps Bucky would be rejoicing at receiving such a gesture from you. Today, though? Today he feels too emotionally dead on the inside to care very much.

Moments later, the choir starts singing, prompting everyone to stand up, whilst keeping their heads respectfully bowed. A hush descends over the room as the pallbearers march in, a casket covered by the American flag held over their shoulders. An elegant bouquet of white flowers sits atop it. The casket’s empty, Bucky knows this — there wasn’t much left of Steve to put inside it, when all was said and done — but the sight is a punch to the gut for him, all the same.

The pallbearers set it down at the front of the church, to the right of the podium and to the left of Steve’s picture. The picture is in a simple black frame and is of Steve from back in the war, wearing the uniform that Bucky used to tease the shit out of him for. It’s Steve looking heroic and determined, but younger, somehow, as if he’s carrying less of a burden on his shoulders. It’s Steve from a time when the world wasn’t so cruel.

Bucky turns away when he feels the heat of tears pricking at his eyes. He takes his seat along with everyone else, as the priest steps up to the podium to begin the ceremony.

As he’d expected, the service itself drags on for far too long.

To be fair, it could have dragged on for longer, but thankfully, they’d been able to limit the number of speeches being delivered today. Sure, that’s only to the extent that they’ve given speech-making privileges to those who have spoken to Steve on more than three occasions, but nonetheless, it’s at least a relatively small pool of people. Bucky forces himself to sit through monotonous speech after monotonous speech, despite the fact that what he really wants to do is get the hell out of here.

Politicians and presidents, diplomats and people lucky enough to be saved by the brave actions of the strong Captain America all have their 60 seconds behind the mic. Bucky forces himself to listen to them talk about Steve as if they’d actually known him. They talk about the, quote “profound words of wisdom” he imparted on them in their brief moments of contact. They talk about how they believed in Captain America and everything he stood for. They speak of Captain America’s bravery, the sense of hope he conveyed and his belief in people.

It’s rather worrying that by the fifth speech of the hour, Bucky’s got a mental game of bingo going on, checking off key phrases — or some variant of them — as yet another person who barely knew Steve claims that they were, in fact, one of Captain America’s closest friends.

Bucky had refused to say anything during the ceremony, and so had you. But someone on the team needed to say something and in the end, that responsibility falls to Natasha. When the priest calls upon her, she takes a second to fix the fascinator hat perched jauntily on her head, readjusts the netted veil covering the top half of her face, then crosses over to the podium. She says a few brief words that manage to be profound and heartfelt, in a way no one quite expected her to be capable of. Once done, Natasha returns to her seat on Bucky’s right, looking a little paler, but otherwise no less composed. He expects nothing different from her.

The ceremony finishes up with a two-minute video montage of Captain America through the years. It is a combination of recordings from the War and modern-day news footage, chopped up and stringed together in a stunning display of Cap’s heroic bravery. There are clips from the battle in New York, the fight in Sokovia, even a shot from Leipzig. The whole thing comes off as rather hyperbolic; a grandiose and unrealistic portrayal of Captain America. Then, Bucky remembers that this is the image of Captain America that people hold in their minds, and once again, he is reminded of how fake everything is.

This is a funeral ceremony being put on for the sake of the American people. The fact that it is in commemoration of Steve’s legacy is merely a passing afterthought. It feels like a hoax, a twisted show of support. As the video comes to an end, you tighten your arm around Bucky’s bicep, squeezing it reassuringly. He turns to the side, and catches your eye as you grimace at each other — a million words are silently communicated in that single gaze.

Then, Sam is tugging on Bucky’s elbow and jerking his head towards the casket. Bucky nods in understanding: it’s time to bring Steve to his final resting place.

Bucky grips the top left corner of the casket, Sam the top right. On the count of three, they and four other men hoist it onto their shoulders and walk out into the pouring rain. It’s a sombre atmosphere, to match the sadness Bucky’s feeling on the inside. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees you trailing behind their procession, Nat and Wanda flanking your sides.

The casket is lowered into the grave as mourners flock towards them, black umbrellas held above their heads to shield them from the drizzle. You appear by Bucky’s side, leaning against him slightly, as if you’re too tired to support your own weight. Bucky knows the feeling.

Someone hands him a flower. Bucky glances at his hand and finds that it’s a rose, dark crimson in colour. He tries not to think about the fact that it’s unnervingly similar to the red of freshly spilt blood.

When the time comes, Bucky steps forward, his movements stiff and mechanical. The flower feels cold in his hand. The murmur of voices around him sound muffled to his ears. The rain is slowly drenching him to the bone, but he hardly takes notice of it; he is too numb to care. He stands at the edge of the hole in the ground, staring blankly at the polished mahogany of the casket. When he holds his hand out in front of him — the flesh one — it feels disconnected from his body, as if he’s a puppet being moved into position by invisible strings. Bucky uncurls his fingers and watches as the flower falls onto the dark wood.

He’s grateful for the rain, because it masks the tear tracks on his face.

Later, as the crowd thins, the people that pass by him give Bucky a pat on the shoulder and flash a sympathetic smile that feels far too forced, for his liking. Bucky nods in thanks, presses his lips together and accepts their sympathy without really examining it. You trudge along by his side, keeping your gaze downcast so as to avoid the pitiful stares being shot in your direction. Someone hands you the flag that had been draped over Steve’s casket, now folded up into a neat little square. You accept it with two hands, hugging it tightly to your chest.

After what seems like an eternity, Sam finally emerges out of thin air. He takes one glance at you and Bucky, realises that neither of you are doing too hot — in fact, in Bucky’s case, Sam probably realises that Bucky is on the verge of a mental breakdown — and promptly carts you both to his car.

——————————

When Bucky gets to the compound, he heads straight into his room, desperately craving privacy, having been surrounded by strangers for the better part of the last few hours. He slams the door shut, flips the lock, then proceeds to shuck off off his overly-restrictive suit, tossing items of clothing onto the floor as they’re taken off, not really caring where they land. Once he’s stripped down to his boxers, Bucky crawls into bed, burrowing under the rumpled covers. He rolls onto his back and throws his arm over his eyes to block out the meagre sunlight streaming in through the window.

Bucky is exhausted. In fact, “exhausted” doesn’t even fully cover the extent of the fatigue he’s feeling.

It’s a kind of exhaustion that is beyond anything he’s experienced before. The tiredness has seeped deep into his bones, making them metaphorically ache and creak with every movement. It’s not just a physical fatigue, either — his mind is so indescribably tired from all the thinking and overthinking it’s been doing lately. Bucky is emotionally spent. He’s done with it all. He’s done with his life, done with having to put on a brave face, having to pretend that he’s okay, having to act strong—

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Yeah, FRIDAY?” he grunts.

“There’s something you should see.”

He moves his arm away from his eyes so that he can peer suspiciously at the ceiling.

“What is it, FRI?” asks Bucky, as he pushes himself up into a seated position. He scoots back so that he’s slouched against the headboard, his legs still tangled in the sheets. Bucky’s confusion deepens when the tablet on his bedside table beeps, the screen lighting up, signalling an incoming message. He picks up his tablet, taps a couple of buttons on the screen and frowns when he sees that the AI has sent him a video file.

“What is this?”

“A video from Captain Rogers,” FRIDAY replies. Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.

“A video?” he echoes, voice slightly croaky.

“Yes. He instructed me to send this to you in the moments before his death.”

Well if that doesn’t pique Bucky’s curiosity, then nothing ever will. Even so, a part of him winces at the thought of this being Steve’s final request. This video must be pretty damn important for Steve — in his weakened state — to ask FRIDAY to send it to Bucky. But at the same time, Bucky’s not ready to see a video. As intrigued as Bucky might be, he’s fairly certain that the sound of Steve’s voice will set off a fresh wave of guilt.

“When…when was this video made?” Bucky asks.

“Captain Rogers recorded this clip eight days ago.”

“Huh,” Bucky mumbles. Unable to control his morbid curiosity, Bucky uses his — trembling, he notes — flesh hand to tap the screen, in order to play the clip.

Steve’s face appears, bright and cheerful as ever. The sight of his bright blue eyes and familiar smile sends a pang of sorrow through Bucky’s chest. From the looks of it, Steve is sitting at his desk, with the recording device propped up on something. He’s wearing a navy blue henley, and his golden hair is messy, tufts sticking up all over the place, as if he’s run his fingers through it several times. It’s dark, with the only source of illumination being his desk lamp, which casts strange shadows over his face.

“Hey Bucky,” Steve greets and god, it’s just two simple words that Bucky’s heard him say at least a million times before, but they make his heart twist all the same. Or maybe, it’s not so much the words that are affecting him, but Steve’s voice. He’s missed hearing it.

Steve laughs sheepishly, before sitting forward in his chair and leaning his elbows on the table. For a moment, he seems unsure of what to do with his hands, but finally settles on clasping them together in front of him.

“Look, pal, I’m not even sure if I’m gonna send this to you, but…I need to get this off my chest somehow, and this feels like the only way, so—so hear me out, okay?”

Bucky waits with bated breath as Steve pauses to compose himself.

“Bucky….I know that you and Y/N have some sort of…history, together.”

Bucky’s breathing catches in his throat. His hand twitches by his side, his fingers itching to shut the video off because fuck, this doesn’t sound like something he wants to hear. But, Steve specifically asked for FRIDAY to send this to him, which therefore implies that this is something he needs to see this.

And so he watches on.

“I don’t know exactly what kinda history we’re talkin’ about here, what it involved,” Steve admits, “Whether it’s just you having a crush on her, or what, but the point is, I know that there’s something…more between you two. M’not an idiot.”

Steve pauses and leans back in his chair, running his fingers through his already-ruffled hair as he contemplates his next words. “You’re probably thinking somethin’ along the lines of ‘why the fuck didn’t this punk say something if he knew?’ or something,” Steve adds, mimicking Bucky’s voice with uncanny precision. Bucky rolls his eyes, but finds himself chuckling, nonetheless.

“And the truth is,” Steve continues, his expression sobering, “I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. Maybe I was afraid that I was wrong, maybe I was hoping that I was wrong — for selfish reasons, or whatever, but I…I dunno. I have no excuse,”. He laughs dejectedly, “Maybe I just hoped that, with time, you’d…things’d fizzle out between you, and I’d get to keep her forever. I know, selfish, right?”

Bucky’s heart is thumping wildly in his throat. He’s not sure whether he wants to scream, or be sick, or punch the screen, or do some combination of those three actions, but he forces himself to sit still and watch on.

“Listen, Bucky,” Steve sighs, raking a hand down his face. “S’ the third time I’ve tried to record this, and I still don’t know what I’m gettin’ at. I don’t…I don’t know exactly know what I’m tryna say here. I got a few things I wanna say, I guess. I’m sorry, first off. I knew that you…loved her — love her? Shit, I dunno anymore—,” Steve breaks off, growling softly in frustration as he tugs at the ends of his hair. He takes another deep breath before trying again.

“Look, Bucky, I mean it when I say I’m sorry, ‘kay? M’really sorry. I did some shit things to you. I asked you…well, I asked her to marry me, which…I can only imagine how tough that must’a been for you. And I know that’s—or at least, I think that the situation is kinda complicated, because…well, because I love her, and you — I think — love her, and if you do, well, that was a dick move, from me, I admit it!” Steve says, the volume of his voice rising with the last statement.

“I know you, Buck, but you—I don’t know if you’d’ve ever said anything to me if you weren’t happy about all this. I—I have a feeling that you wouldn’t, but then, I never wanted to assume shit and make things awkward, but no matter what I thought, or did, or didn’t do…I ended up making assumptions anyway—does that even make sense?” Steve asks, bright blue eyes looking directly into the camera.

“Kind of,” Bucky replies, before his cheeks flush hotly when he realises that Steve is not actually there, talking to him.

“Anyway, I—okay, I guess this is pretty selfish of me, but I was kinda hoping that you…wouldn’t. I mean, wouldn’t call me out and stop me from getting with her,” Steve says, voice going quieter as he fidgets with a pen on his desk. “I—maybe that makes me a terrible person, but I love Y/N, and I really do want to marry her,”.

“Fuck, what am I tryna say?” Steve huffs, sitting back and crossing his arms behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “I guess…I guess I’m tryna say I’m sorry if I ever hurt you. Maybe a part of me knew that I was hurting you with what I was doing, but—but Bucky, you gotta believe me when I say I didn’t want to. Honest,”.

Steve’s looking at the camera again and there is no way that Bucky could have mistaken the look in his eyes for anything but sincerity.

“I love Y/N, I really do, but Bucky—I love you as well. I never, ever want to hurt you, but I—I can’t know if I’m hurting you if you don’t tell me that you’re hurt, right?”

And there lies the problem, Bucky thinks. That’s why I’m in this situation right now. Because no one knows how badly I’m hurt. Not even myself.

Steve sighs again, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he chews on his bottom lip. “Maybe you’re not hurt, although I find that hard to believe. If you’re not hurt — well, then this whole thing has just been a waste of time, but…but if you are, then I wanna be there to help you, Bucky,” Steve murmurs, “Even if you do love Y/N, I—we can work something out, Buck. We’ve gotten ourselves out of stickier situations that this,”.

“I’m sorry. If I ever hurt you — I’m serious when I say I never wanted for that to happen; it was never my intention. You know how bad I can be at reading people sometimes — that’s all you, that’s what you’re good at. I ain’t too hot at reading between the lines. S’a reason why I was never cut out for spy stuff, right?” Steve jokes, lips curling up into that heartbreakingly familiar smile.

Bucky finds himself smirking in response.

“But..um,” Steve mumbles, licking his lips before continuing, “Listen, if I…if things don’t work out between me and Y/N — and, well, I hope they do work out, Jesus Christ, I’m marrying her in three weeks time, for fuck’s sake, but…hypothetically speaking, if shit hits the fan, as they say, well—then, I’m not going to hold anything against you. If you want to get with her, and she wants to get with you, then believe that I am being completely honest when I say — I don’t mind. You hear me? James Buchanan Barnes, you listenin’ to me? This getting’ though that thick skull’a yours?”

“Not as thick as yours, Rogers,” Bucky says instinctually.

“You—,” Steve cuts himself off, swallowing nervously, “You have my blessing, Bucky. If Y/N decides that she wants you — or if she doesn’t want me anymore, then…then you can have her. I don’t mean to make her sound like a thing, and I’m not…not in any way discrediting her feelings for me — ya’ gotta understand that I do love her, and I hope to the God above that she loves me back, but…d’you see what I’m tryna say? All I want is for Y/N to be happy, wherever that happiness may come from. If she finds that happiness with me— great! If she finds happiness with you—,” Steve looks directly into the camera again, his gaze softening, “Well that’s great too. Honest, I’m not gonna hold it against you, or against her.”

Steve takes another shuddery breath. “Fuck, that was a load of horse shit,” Steve mutters, mostly to himself. “Don’t even know if any of it made sense, but um—Bucky?”

“Yeah?” Bucky breathes.

“You—you deserve happiness,” Steve says, “You deserve to be loved. You deserve a soft end. You deserve—you deserve good things.”

Bucky gulps audibly, as he blinks away the tears threatening to spill over.

“I—yeah. No idea if you’re gonna see this, but if you did, if you do, I—take care, pal. You…do what you think is right,”. Steve flashes him one last smile before leaning forward and tapping a button that Bucky can’t see.

The screen goes blank.

Bucky lets the tablet fall out of his grasp and onto the bed. He scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes to get rid of the sting behind his eyelids. Bucky feels like an overwound spring. There’re too many emotions bubbling up inside his heart for him to even process.

“FRIDAY?” he croaks.

“Yes, sir?”

“You have that video saved somewhere, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good,” Bucky says, nodding tiredly as he pulls his duvet over himself “I’d like to take another look at it sometime.” He’s about to curl up and wait for sleep to overtake him when a timid tap sounds on his door.

“Bucky?” you call, “Is…is now not a good time? I can come back later.”

Bucky sighs and rolls out of bed. It’s not like he was going to get much sleep anyway, what with the nightmares that plague his dreams. He stops by his dresser to pull on a pair of joggers, then flips the lock and opens the door.

You’ve changed out of your funeral-wear into a pair of baggy pyjama pants and what looks suspiciously like Steve’s black hoodie. You give him a tight smile. “Hey Bucky,” you murmur, “I don’t want to bother you if you were…sleeping or whatever, but—,”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Bucky says, stepping aside and holding the door open for you, “Come in.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky closes the door once you’ve stepped inside. You head over to Bucky’s desk and perch yourself on his swivel chair, your legs crossed at the knee and your hands fiddling with the strings of your hoodie. Bucky saunters over and sinks onto the bed, sitting opposite you with his elbows resting on his thighs.

“What is it, Y/N?” he asks quietly.

You sigh. “Can I tell you something?”

Buck tenses. He thinks back to all the times you’ve said those words — or some variant of those words — to him in the past. In each instance, things have never worked out in his favour. Maybe he’s being cynical, but he senses something of a trend going on. Whatever the case, Bucky braces himself for the worst.

“Yeah, of course,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “Anything. Always.”

“I’m…pregnant.”

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me, Bucky sighs internally.

“You’re pregnant,” he echoes.

“I’m pregnant,” you confirm, nodding your head slowly as your gaze drags up to meet his.

The first thing that pops into Bucky’s head are the echoes of Steve’s last words. “My line doesn’t end here,” Steve’d said, “Y/N’s gonna keep it going for me.” Had he—had Steve known, then?

“Wow, Y/N…” Bucky breathes, fighting to keep his pulse and breathing under control. “That’s—that’s huge, I—Steve?”

Your mouth twists into a frown, tears springing to your eyes as you shake your head fiercely. “He didn’t know!” you say frustratedly, “I—I was gonna tell it to him after the wedding, as a surprise.”

“He could’t even have suspected it?” Bucky presses.

You shake your head again. “No—no, only Dr. Cho knows, ‘cause she’s the one who checked me out.”

Bucky breathes out a shaky sigh as he rakes his fingers through his disheveled hair. “When did you find out?”

“After you guys left for Kinshasa. When—after the jet left, I ran to the bathroom and hurled, and it was the third time I’d thrown up that morning. Helen happened to pass by the bathroom at that time and asked me to come into the med bay for a check-up. So—yeah, then she told me I was pregnant. And I—I wanted to tell Steve, but I—I couldn’t, obviously,” you mumble, tears leaking profusely from the corners of your eyes. “And now I-I-I can’t,” you whisper, your voice cracking at the last word.

“Hey, hey, doll—it’s okay,” Bucky murmurs soothingly, springing forward to encircle his arms around you as your weak body slumps forward, all your strength having suddenly abandoned you.

Bucky sits down on the floor and arranges you across his lap. You loop your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in the crook of his neck. For a while, the only sounds in the room are that of your muted sniffles and barely-suppressed sobs. Bucky rubs his hand up and down your back in soothing circles, before turning to press his lips to your forehead in a chaste, comforting kiss. Sure, a part of him feels guilty for doing that to you, given your intertwined past, especially after the events of today, but Steve—Steve had told him to do what he thought was right.

This feels right.

Bucky exhales slowly, his breath ruffling your hair a little, before he speak again. “Okay…okay, fuck, wow,” he mutters, “M’not sure if ‘congratulations’ is appropriate, right now.”

You laugh mirthlessly, your body shaking in his arms. “Thanks, anyway.”

“D’you know how far along you are?” Bucky asks.

You shrug. “Helen says five weeks, but I think I must be a little further along. Or maybe a little less, I don’t know,”.

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well, because five weeks ago, we were on a mission, right?”

Five weeks ago we were on a mission.

In which Bucky had unprotected sex with you.

Oh. Shit.

“Oh,” Bucky says, voice coming out a little squeaky. He recovers quickly, “Yeah—um, wow, okay, this is true,” he mutters.

You hum noncommittally.

Internally Bucky is freaking out. He needs to know more about the situation, so he pushes for answers, although his questions risk revealing the secret he’s been fighting to keep. He clears his throat. “But I—well, I thought that Steve’d be more traditional, y’know? Thought he’d wait ’til after the wedding to…y’know, go without the protection.”

You sigh heavily, curling your body into Bucky’s. “That’s what doesn’t make sense to me,” you grumble, your voice partially muffled by Bucky’s shirt. “We always used protection. I mean—yeah, there’s like a 2% chance that the condom broke, or whatever, but what are the odds, huh?”

The evidence against Bucky’s case just keeps on piling up.

“Weren’t you on the pill?” he asks weakly.

“I was, but…ugh, it’s a long story,” you groan. “Basically, I used to take one particular version of the pill, but it was giving me breakouts like nothing else, so Helen decided to swap to a different kind — a new one that’d just been okay’d for public consumption. Anyway, because it was new, it took a while to get here, so my old pack finished before the new one’d arrived.”

Bucky nods slowly, grim understanding crossing his features as the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. “And so…you couldn’t get your new pack ’til after the mission?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, “In all, I think I was off the pill for two weeks — the week before the mission, and then during the mission itself,”.

Bucky’s sweating bullets, by this point. He prays that you can’t hear the accelerated thumping of his heart — he swears it’s beating hard enough to hammer its way out of his ribcage. “So that’s why you think you’ve gotta be a little longer than five weeks,” Bucky murmurs.

“Mmhmm.”

He’s fucking screwed. Of all the things to have happened to him, of all the contingent events that could have taken place — it had to be this.

It had to be this.

Bucky is sickened by what he has done to you, to your body. Steve might think that Bucky deserves good things, but Bucky has a feeling that Steve’s opinion would change when he discovers what Bucky’s done to his best girl. Bucky doesn’t deserve your touch and affection; he’s a monster, a wretched half-human with demons living inside him. He’s contaminated you — physically contaminated you — with his tainted essence. He’s done you wrong, he’s done Steve wrong and now?

Now he has no fucking clue what to do next.

A teensy, tiny part of his brain is still clinging to the hope that this baby is Steve’s, but the evidence is too perfect. Things are lining up too well. This child is most likely his — and you don’t know.

Bucky swallows nervously. If there’s ever a time to confess, now would be it. Before he can even open his mouth to say anything, though, you’re murmuring softly again.

“I dunno what I wanna do,” you mumble, “Do I—do I keep this baby? Or—not?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out slowly, counting to three in his head to calm himself down. He doesn’t know how to answer that question in the slightest. He wants to start a family with you, of course he does — but not like this, not under these circumstances. And — if this baby turns out to be Steve’s, well—well then, at least some part of the punk will be sticking around.

Oh god, but what if the kid has Bucky’s eyes? Or some other feature that undoubtedly links it to him? The proof is in the pudding — there’ll be no way to deny what happened that night if that’s the way things pan out.

“I don’t know, Y/N,” Bucky admits quietly, “It’s just—it’s been a long day. Why don’t we just…you don’t have to decide anything now. Let’s just leave that for another day, okay?”

You nod mutely, your cheek rubbing against Bucky’s chest.

“I’ll—I’m gonna go find Nat and ask her to keep me company for a bit,” you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet with much reluctance. You straighten your clothes and give Bucky a tired smile. “Thanks, Bucky. For—for being here for me.”

Bucky doesn’t trust his voice at this moment, so he settles on a terse nod.

You close the door behind you as Bucky crawls back under the covers and instructs FRIDAY to switch off the lights. The emotions that have been champing at the gates in his mind come roaring free the moment he is plunged into darkness.

For the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes cries himself to sleep.

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