#man those games are fucking WEIRD. I think sometimes I am bereaving myself of telling stories like that but ah well.

[breitzbachbea]

I do love replaying Deponia, I think I am just gonna keep doing that to wind down for the forseeable future. It's nostalgia. It's engaging with something creative, a story, without writing. It's tiring you out very well so you'll actually sleep. It keeps me off social media. It gives me something to look forward to. I think this habit will be kept up for at least the rest of the semester when I still have work to do.

[abarbaricyalp]

@sambuckylibrary

SamBucky Halloween Prompt 5: Mausoleum

Sam meets Bucky in a mausoleum in Brooklyn  (This fic is set in Brooklyn because I could not make up a reason for Bucky to be in Louisiana despite the fact that I really very badly wanted it set in Louisiana. Bucky is also slightly younger because of fic reasons.)

Rated G: Discussions of death and loss (It’s set in a mausoleum, use discretion) (AO3 link in the notes)

Title from “Little Ghost” by The White Stripes, highly encourage you to listen to the song

One I’m Most Scared Of

Sam hated funerals. He hated that his father wanted him around for them. No other seventeen year old was surrounded by so much death and mourning.

“Sam, you have a gift,” his father said. “You put others at ease just by your presence.”

Sam thought everyone else should invest in a therapist and not a high schooler.

Petulantly, he kicked his heels back against a stone bench as he stared at the walls of crypts and cremains spots. Behind him, the funeral party milled and offered condolences to the bereaved, which actually seemed like everyone in the party. Sometimes, a funeral party seemed less bereaved than relieved at these things. Sam remembered the first time he heard a man’s daughter immediately plan lunch with a group of friends without a waver to her voice or a tear on her cheek. He vowed he’d never be the kind of person that had a funeral like that.

If he even had a funeral. Putting himself in the ground in whatever clothes he died in and then becoming a tree without telling anyone was becoming a nicer and nicer option.

So, he listened to the sniffling without turning around and thought about what kind of tree he’d become. He’d already done his duties of rubbing a wife’s arm, hugging kids, tickling grandkids, listening to the same three stories a dozen times. His father couldn’t expect anything else from him. So he wasn’t thrilled when someone his age sat down beside him.

The guy was handsome in a traditional, classical sort of way. Not as boring as the rich white guys who went to Sam’s school. His hair was side parted and only long enough to make an impressive arch on his head instead of laying in his face. He had a square jaw that was a little comical and his nose was a little fucked up in a kind of endearing way. The way Sam’s best friend looked after getting beaned in the face by a wayward baseball. Like most people who came through the mausoleum, he was sad.

There was no other word for it. Sam had tried to be poetic about his time in the crypts, but there was only so much the clinical-ness of bereaved and the dramatic-ness of tortured or sobbing or anguished could do. And they were rarely entirely true. Sad was just the word for people staring at remains of someone they once loved. Sometimes the simple explanation was the most appropriate. The rest of death and grief was already so complicated. It was easier to just feel sad.

The guy was too old to be a grandkid but too young to be a kid, unless the deceased and his wife had gotten freaky in their elder age. Sam hadn’t noticed him in his previous passes of the party or from the service, where he always sat in the back and made it a game to memorize as many shades of black or ridiculous hair styles as possible.

In fact, the boy wasn’t even wearing black. He was wearing a dark brown jacket, adorned with gold accents and pins. In fact… Sam was pretty certain it was an old military dress uniform.

“Uh...are you just visiting?” Sam ventured when the guy didn’t even bother to glance over.

The guy’s mouth quirked to one side faintly. “Yeah, you could say that. That one,” he said, gesturing to an entombment with a gravemarker that read James Buchanan Barnes March 10, 1922 - February 5, 1942. Son, Brother, Friend, Hero.

“Oh,” Sam breathed and understood the weird military uniform. “Are you related to him? You do kinda look like him.”

The guy turned finally to look at Sam and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m Bucky.”

“Oh, jeez, you were named after him too.”

The guy--Bucky 2, apparently--cocked his head in a half nod. “I’m actually waiting on someone. Do you think they’ll be here much longer?” he asked, jerking his chin over to the party.

“Well, these things don’t really have a limit to how long people can be here,” Sam pointed out. “But most people get the point when they start sealing the tomb and all. Uh, this thing you’re waiting for, is it about him? Like, some kind of memorial service?”

It was neither February nor March, so Sam couldn’t imagine why there would be a memorial service for Barnes now. It had been a while since Sam’s father had done a service in Brooklyn and he’d kind of forgotten the cult status Barnes and,  to a much greater extent, Rogers had in this town.

“Nah, I’m just waiting on a friend,” Bucky said.

“Well…” Sam settled back against the stone bench. “I’ll stand in for a while.”

“You wanna be my friend? Should I be worried. I think horror movies start off like this.”

“Name one horror movie that starts off in a mausoleum.” 

“Murder by the Clock. Mummy’s Tomb. All the vampire movies.”

“Dracula doesn’t live in a mausoleum,” Sam argued lightly. “And I’ve never even heard of those other movies.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t watch classics.”

“Uh-huh. Or you were just scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder against Sam’s. “Did you know…” He gestured back to the waning funeral party.

Sam shook his head. “No. My dad’s the pastor. He did the service. He likes me to be here for moral support.”

“Hell, I don’t think my parents trusted my morals as far as they could throw me,” Bucky snorted.

Sam noted the past tense but knew better than to push for information, especially in a mausoleum during a funeral of all places. “Are you a student around here?” he asked instead.

“Can’t you tell?” Bucky answered as he popped the lapels of his jacket. “I’m a soldier.”

“Right. A soldier who’s home, spending his time in mausoleums in front of his great-great uncle or something.”

“I could be a great-great grandkid. I heard he got around.”

“I heard that was all manufactured propaganda to sell a story.”

“I read it in a book.”

“And I read about time travel and aliens in a book.”

Bucky shrugged. “There are weirder things out there.”

“Right, in a world of super soldiers and Nazis with no faces,” Sam agreed drily.

“You’ll see,” Bucky assured. “Aliens and time travel are both gonna be all anyone talks about soon.”

“Y’know, I didn’t think a guy dressing up as his great-great grandpa-uncle to meet someone at his burial site would be so into sci-fi too.”

“Multitudes and all that. You know, there were half a dozen sci-fi books in his bag when his belongings were recovered.”

“I’ve heard that,” Sam said. Only because it’d been a point in the Oscar-Bait movie a few years ago. “He’d read to Rogers when he was sick.”

Bucky looked a little wistful and then nodded.”I’ve heard that too.”

“Do you ever feel pressure to be like him? Or be somethin’ you’re not, just ‘cause someone looked at your little baby face and named you after a legend?”

That wry, sad grin came back and Bucky shook his head. “Nah. Not really. Do you, though? I mean, obviously not him. But someone.”

Sam traced out the letters of the name of someone who died in 1985. A L E X A N D E R. He nodded. “Feels like everyone needs me to be someone and I let myself play that part until people stopped noticing it was a part.”

“What’s the part?” Bucky asked as he leaned back on his hands.

“I dunno. Someone who-- Well, I mean… Maybe it’s not a full part. Maybe I’m just upset that people only want me to have one kind of personality trait. I mean, everyone knows I’m kind and I’m good with words and I care about people. And I really do want to be that guy. But when I want to be that guy, y’know? Not all the time. Sometimes I want to cry and scream and rage too. Sometimes I want to be quiet for a little while and not help someone else. Just for a few hours.”

Bucky nodded and stared at the rows of internments  before them. “Y’know. I’m sure people would understand that if you told them. If you said, ‘I can’t do this right now. Please let me be quiet.’”

“I know that,” Sam said softly. He tangled his fingers together in his lap. “Maybe I’m mostly angry at myself for not being able to say something like that. I’m the guy who helps. If I don’t do that, if I beg a day off, then who am I? What am I bringing to the table?”

Bucky scooted closer and put a hand on Sam’s knees. It sent a jolt through Sam’s body and he worked very hard on not jerking his gaze up to Bucky’s face. “Sam, you just said you have other personality traits, other feelings, other hobbies that aren’t hanging out in a mausoleum. That’s what you bring to the table on the days you can’t be there for everyone else.”

Sam nodded and reached up to rub two fingers under his eye. He wasn’t at full tears yet, but he also didn’t want to get any closer. “Wait, did I tell you my name?” he asked suddenly.

Bucky lifted an eyebrow again. “You must’ve. Or someone else said it earlier. The point is, you’re still you. And you bring smarts and humor and a good head around, even when you aren’t offering free therapy or a crying shoulder. And, Sam, listen, even when you don’t want to be any of that, you’re still kind. I’ve only been sitting here for a few minutes and you’ve been kind the whole time, even when you weren’t trying. It’s not a part you’re playing. Just be who you are and ask for your time when you need it. If people reflect even a quarter of the love you put out there back at you, no one will ever begrudge you some quiet.”

Sam swallowed thickly and leaned against Bucky’s shoulder heavily. Bucky moved his hand from Sam’s knee to wrap his arm around his ribs instead. “You really think I’m funny and smart?” Sam asked eventually.

“You started spouting off propaganda theories and joking about where vampires technically live. Yeah, you’re something else, man,” Bucky laughed. “And I think you’re beautiful, which people always appreciate in people they hang around with.”

Sam rolled his eyes and ignored the last comment, thankful that his skin was dark enough to hide his blush and Bucky couldn’t see the swooping of his stomach. “Well, if you think that’s impressive, I’ve got a whole list of things I think are propaganda.”

“I’d love to hear all about it some other time.”

“Is your friend here?” Sam asked, sitting back a little and glancing around.

Bucky’s eyes cast around the mausoleum briefly too. “No. I just don’t feel like listening to any propaganda tonight,” he joked.

Sam jostled his elbow into Bucky’s rib and leaned back against his side. “I can’t remember the last time I actually talked to someone in one of these things. Everything’s always so surface level here. ‘Sorry for your loss’ ‘He was a good man’ ‘Of course we’ll come by the benefit.’ None of it means anything.”

“Well, I wasn’t part of the funeral, so maybe that was a plus. I’m just some guy. Hanging out in a mausoleum.”

“Ah, you’re the vampire,” Sam said with a grin. “Maybe I should get a stake in that casket.”

“There’s no body in it,” Bucky reminded him. “They never found Rogers’ or Barnes’ body.”

“Right, right. The train and plane.”

“It’s just for show,” Bucky said. He reached out to trace his fingers along Barnes’ last name and then held his palm against the stone for a second longer.

Sam put his hand on Bucky’s knee and said quickly, like ripping a bandaid off, “Do you want to get lunch or something? With me? Now, or later. I’m not picky. And then maybe again?”

Bucky turned blue eyes back to Sam and he really did look just like all those old pictures. That same sad smile came to his mouth. “Yeah, I really, really do. Maybe later,” he said and leaned over to kiss Sam’s cheek softly.

Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his heart kicked up so rapidly in his chest it punched the air out of his ribs.

When he managed to open his eyes again, Bucky was gone.