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"In my next life, I want to come back as a butterfly."

From beside you on the roof your boyfriend Bucky turns his head to gawk with confusion. "What?"

You shimmy on your belly to get more comfortable in your hiding space. Perched on your elbows you peer through the scope of your sniper rifle briefly before looking back at Bucky and explaining. "I said I want to come back as a butterfly. At first I thought I'd be a fish, but then I remembered that I don't really like swimming all that much. And then I thought—hey, why not be a deer? They're pretty cool. But then I thought about last Christmas when we went driving and you hit that one that was trying to cross the freeway. And then I said, okay—I'll be a tiger. Those are majestic as fuck. But, I've had enough carnage and blood in this lifetime. I don't need to see any more. So I want to be a vegetarian, undisturbed, land creature. So why not a butterfly? No one messes with butterflies."

"Birds eat butterflies," Bucky tries to stomp your theory with a grin creeping up his face. He pretends to be looking out his scope but instead he's looking over at you and how pretty you are in the low sunrise.

You frown. "Well, I'll be a careful butterfly. If I've made it this long in this life without being killed by a robot, alien, or Nazi—then I can last the few weeks as a butterfly without being eaten by a bird."

Bucky's laugh is more of a breathy snort. He shakes his head—dark hair swaying with the breeze—as he smirks.

"What? Tell me you've never thought about it before," you challenge.

"Never thought about it before," Bucky says. He looks down at the street below where Steve and Nat still haven't emerged from the building.

"That's fine. You don't have to. I've already decided what you're going to be." You reach into your pocket to grab a piece of candy. Bucky grins a bit wider at the sight of you chewing on chocolate while waiting to blast someone's brains out. You always carry candy with you everywhere—especially on missions.

"And what am I gonna be? Your butterfly boyfriend?"

"Hell no. You're going to be a cat."

"A wild cat?"

You shake your head. "No, idiot: a housecat."

Bucky frowns. "Why the hell do I have to be a cat?"

"Because it makes sense. You're a grumpy, misunderstood, yet lovable housecat. You need affection—but not too much—and physical contact is only okay with your favorite people. And you're adorable. So that's a reason, too."

Bucky stares at you, looking like a man in awe at a piece of art, before sighing and looking away. "You're distracting me, Y/N. We're supposed to be lookouts."

"And what do you think we're doing up here? Looking-out. We're lookouts. We're just having a conversation, too."

"You've never been a very good multitasker." Bucky takes another long sweep of the street with his scope and finds no trace of human life anywhere. A crumbled newspaper rolls down the sidewalk like a tumbleweed.

You offer Bucky a piece of candy even though you know he won't take it. He doesn't, of course, so you eat it for him. "Whatever. I'm good at other stuff."

"Like talking," Bucky hums.

"Exactly."

"You won't be able to talk as a butterfly, ya know."

You shrug. "That's why I gotta do as much while I can now."

Bucky chortles. "You kill me, doll. Ya know that?"

"I do." You grin to yourself, happy to have made him laugh, and then go back to watching the street. "They've been gone for quite a while now. Didn't Steve say it would only take them a couple of minutes?"

"He did." Bucky's realized that this take-out is taking far too long. He knows he has to make a decision now; stay out here or go down to see what's taking so long. "I think I'm going to go check it out."

"He also said not to leave our post," you remind Bucky as he starts to stand away from the edge of the building. "He said unless he radios..."

"He won't radio for me if he's captured or outnumbered," Bucky interrupts you swiftly. He double-checks all of his weapons—the knives, guns, and baton—before looking down at where you still sit. "I'll page you when I know what's going on."

"I don't think you should go," you tell him—hoping he'll decide you're right. "Nat and Steve are fine on their own."

"And you're fine on your own, too. You're plenty capable with a sniper rifle—hell, you're probably a better shot than I am."

You roll your eyes as Bucky finishes checking his ammunition. "Liar."

The slight smirk on his face tells you that he knows it's a lie, but he'll never confess to be being better at something than you. "I'll only be gone a minute. I'm just going to make sure nothing went south in there. But I need you to stay up here in case any of the targets fall out onto the street. We can't let any of them get away."

"I know the drill, Sargent." You give him a crooked smile before he nods and goes to turn away. "Bucky, wait."

Bucky stops before reaching the fire escape ladder that leads off the side of the roof. "What?"

A part of you wants to say something sentimental or romantic, but you know it'd only make you nervous about him leaving. If you told him you love him then you'd worry about it being the last time you'd ever get to say it. So instead, you tell him, "Don't fuck anything up."

Bucky scoffs. "I'll try not to, butterfly." Then he disappears down the side of the building in which you came—his footsteps against the metal rungs nearly silent.

Chewing lazily on one last piece of chocolate you watch Bucky creepily stealth-walk his way towards the building. He doesn't give you any sort of signal because if someone else happens to be watching then they'd know your hiding place. But he does look up at you—risking a quick peek to see how well you're hidden. If he tries really hard he can make out the outline of your face in the shadows, but beyond that he's blind.

Bucky disappears into the building through the side door. That's when you give up on eating candy and decide you should probably focus on the more important task now. So you give the scope all of your attention and stare carefully out at the street. It's only a few minutes later when you see a little silver cat meandering down the alley that you smile—thinking of Bucky and how cute he'd be as a pretty pink-pawed feline.

Gunfire sounds into the once eerily silent air. You stiffen and steady your aim on the door—ready to fire at whoever comes out first that you don't recognize. It's a quiet sneak-in mission that prompted no radio usage, so you're not surprised to have heard nothing before the assault of bullets began. Now it's a constant hum of shooting that sets your nerves ablaze but also gives you hope that as long as there is gun exchange, your people are still alive.

Someone pounces out of the back door. They start breaking for the street—clearly not one of your three friends. You shoot him through the back of the head just in time for his buddy in all black to come after him. You shoot him, too: only this time between the eyes. Two more round the building corner, shouting directions to each other that you can hardly hear, and are making to bombard the building from all sides. You take down three more of them easily before they spot you—all aiming their guns up in your direction. You duck behind the roof ledge and make the occasional shot. When the grunt of a dead man sounds you can't help but feel proud.

Quickly you pull away from the ledge to find someplace safer to take position. Crouched behind a stack of cement blocks you're now a little closer to the roof's edge. Your view here is better and the angle harder for their handguns to reach. Now you take the chance to shoot down the rest. With less than ten little strokes of your finger all seven of them are dead. Their bodies, combined with the others, bleed shades of red onto the pavement.

For just a brief pause you rest your head on your forearm. Catching your breath will only take a moment, and you're under the belief that you have one to spare.

You're wrong.

The sounds of gunfire are much closer now. Two hard shots and the cement brick aside your head is being chipped away. Dust and fragments fly into your eyes as you gasp and roll out of the way. You're no longer alone on this roof. Someone's up here, and they're trying to kill you.

Forgetting all about your sniper rifle you reach for your belt. You're just barely quick enough to the draw to shoot up at your target as he aims again. Narrowly you miss being struck between the breasts. The man ducks behind one of the ventilation generators to hide. You do the same for your cement bricks—neither foe knowing which one of you is going to make the first move.

Still partially blind from the bits of rock, you helplessly wipe at your clouded eyes. From your abandoned post by your rifle set-up you can vaguely make out the sound of Steve's voice talking on the radio. Nat replies then so does Bucky.

Knowing that the rest of your team is close to being finished down there (and winning) inspires you enough to dart partway out from behind your column. Recklessly you start emptying your magazine as you round the corner of your enemy's hideaway. He returns the fire fully—but only after you hear him yelp out in pain. Looks like you've shot him in the shoulder by the way he's curled over. But he can still run, and he's trying to get farther away and out of your reach.

You won't have that: not today. So you shoot at him still and follow him to the edge of the roof. He'll take a shot at you behind him, totally blind, every few steps but other than that he's really just using his maneuvering skills and training to get somewhere where he can have an advantage over you. You know his game. He's got to wear you down because he doesn't have backup, if you're lucky. If you're not? Then his backup is nearly here, and you're going to be outnumbered. You're not good enough to take more than two or three on your own.

The distinct sound of blazing guns emerges from behind. Now you know that today is NOT your lucky day. The bastard with you on the roof has backup, and they've just arrived.

"Fuckin' hell," you grunt. You make to run for cover before one of them gets a good shot at your leg. The bullet flies straight through your fleshy thigh as if made of silk and not skin. The cry that leaves your mouth is restrained and hardly enough to bring about the belief that you're down for good. So they keep shooting at you—five against one.

Fallen to the ground you do what you can to turn and keep them away. You shoot whilst dragging yourself to the edge of the roof—thinking maybe you can jump down to safety. You manage to shoot one of their men dead before another bullet strikes you—this one in your dominant shoulder. The gun flies from your hold and then you're being shot again—twice more, actually. The first bullet grazes your ribcage and the other delves straight into you. The little piece of deadly metal buries into your stomach somewhere where you can feel ten tons of pain radiating out. Air flows through you in strange places, making you feel like a strung-out, worn out sail in the breeze, and you struggle to keep all of the blood in place. Your body is already shaking.

The gunfire ceases. You are hardly aware. All you can hear now is your heartbeat growing louder and more frantic in your ears. Pain, hot and raging like hellfire, ransacks every ounce of you. Desperately you hold onto yourself as more blood pours out. Oh—the blood. You've never seen so much of it before. You've never smelled the scent of fresh carnage so strong. It envelopes you like a thick, disgusting darkness that you worry will close in on you from all sides completely if you don't stop it soon.

Down below, the streets are littered with bodies. Bucky emerges from the building with sweat dripping down his brow and someone else's blood on his grimy metal arm. He doesn't bother to wipe himself clean before walking up to where Nat stands over the body of her last foe—the one that took the longest to overtake.

"How many got away?" Steve can be heard asking as he comes closer.

"Too many," is Nat's vague reply.

"Y/N will know," Bucky says. He picks up his radio and starts talking into one end. "How'd it go up there, babe?" He looks around at the mess they've made as he waits to hear your response. When nothing comes, he tries again. "Y/N? Can you hear me? How'd you do?" Still—there's nothing. The only thing he's being met with is silence. It's now that his heart picks up speed and his voice shifts to panic. "Y/N? Can you hear me, Y/N? Where are you?"

Nothing.

His eyes, big and growing worried, dart up to Steve.

Nat snatches the radio from Bucky's hand. Bucky lets her take it—already turning and running off towards the building across the street. Steve's hot on his tail.

"Agent Y/N do you copy?" Nat tries her turn at speaking into the radio as Bucky runs off. She watches him turn the corner and head up the fire escape before throwing the radio to the ground and dashing after the two super soldiers—the last to join them up on the top of the building across the street.

Nat's training has always prepared her to expect the worst. But nothing can be worse than what she finds up there on that roof: Bucky Barnes broken down on his knees with your bloodied, choking body pulled into his arms. His hands—both the metal and man—rush to try and slow the flow of blood from your multiple wounds. The sticky crimson stuff is seeping everywhere. It surrounds you in a pool. Bucky's now covered in it and his own tears as he tries desperately to keep you alive and in his arms.

"Baby—honey—hold on for me. It's gonna be okay, we're gonna fix this," Bucky's voice holds a forced confidence that makes Nat's heart break even more. She glances to Steve who's already on the phone calling for help. But they all know that it's not going to be enough. There's no helping you now.

Bucky's warm hand against your cheek brings some heat to your freezing body. Your eyelids are heavy as you stare up at him. His head is now in front of the fully risen sun—giving him a halo of light that circles around his dark hair. The tears that stream down his face are dropping down onto your face and mixing with the blood that seeps out of your mouth. His body shakes with choked sobs as he rocks you back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

"I—I hope I'm a b-butterfly." Your voice is soft and hardly understandable, but Bucky understands. You force yourself to smile softly as he starts shaking his head.

"No, no, no. You're—you're not going to be a stupid fucking butterfly because you're not going anywhere." Bucky's hands press hard into your wounds. He cries harder at the feeling of your blood—your life—slipping out between his fingers. Your face is so pale, like snow, and eyes hardly open. "You're not dying today, Y/N. You can't leave me."

You try to gather enough strength to touch his face. When he feels your hand move, Bucky grabs your wrist and brings your fingers to his mouth—kissing them between silent sobs like he does every night before you go to bed. It's in this moment that you can see every little kiss and giggle you've ever shared between the two of you. No: you don't see them, exactly. But you feel them—in your heart. You can feel all of those fluttery, madly-in-love emotions that propelled the two of you together so long ago. And when you feel those things again, you can't help but smile. Bucky doesn't smile back; he only bites his bottom lip and cries as he watches your eyelids flutter.

"No, baby, no. Don't close your eyes. Look at me—hey, look at me." Gently he shakes you to try and keep you awake. Wildly his red stained eyes dart all over you. He knows it's going to be over soon. He can feel it in his heart and in his soul that you're growing farther and farther away. "I love you, Y/N. I've never loved anything in this world as much as I love you; okay? I want you to know that. And—and I don't want you to die, because you're-you're everything to me. I love you so much... so much, baby."

Maybe you were trying to reply—maybe you had something to say. Maybe you wanted to tell him the same, or smile one last time. But nothing ever happened after that, not from you, because then your eyes rolled back and your neck went limp. And Nat had to look away from the scene as Bucky screamed your name: closing her eyes so that she wouldn't see him desperately holding onto your face and pleading you to come back. And Steve ran closer to try and help—only to be pushed away by his best friend. But that best friend is broken into a thousand tiny, helpless pieces as he holds your lifeless body in his arms.

Bucky Barnes presses his lips against your head. He buries his face into your neck amongst your wild hair that still smells like your shampoo. "It's all my fault." No one hears his muttered words. They only fall onto your deaf ears. Your pale eyes stare up to the sky but Bucky's are fastened closed. "I'm so sorry, butterfly. I am so... so... sorry."

Bucky Barnes had nothing when he met you. When you came into his world, he suddenly had it all. You were the only thing that brought him joy. You're the only person who could ever truly love him, and the only one he'll ever love in return. Now it's all gone: everything of importance or beauty has been purged. Never again will he feel the warmth of a smile radiating across his face or get those bouncy, fluttery feelings in his chest when he looks into your eyes. Bucky Barnes will never be whole. He'll never be happy.

Maybe things will be different in the next life.

A/N: This is one of the saddest things I've ever published. I may extend this and make a part two, but only if anyone wants to see it. I can leave it at this or carry it on... if anyone has any opinions on that, let me know!