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A/N: Part two was requested and well deserved! Hope you like it, @BuckysGirl42 !

Bucky Barnes has gone off the map. No longer the Winter Soldier or the man you helped him become again; the empty shell of a human disappeared into a world that's grown dark without you. From place to place he floats like a deflated balloon on the ocean's grimy, salty surface. Every few days he'll sputter and drown—collapsing on the floor and clutching onto the invisible thought of you in his arms. He's torn between wanting to push all thoughts of you out of his head, to keep himself away from all the pain, and spending every moment of his life dedicated to remembered: remembering your laugh, the way you smiled, the scent of your perfume, your warm fingertips, the salt of your lips, the way you'd talk during movies, the songs you'd sing in the shower, the color of your eyes. You were the only thing keeping Bucky Barnes human. Now you're dead. He feels like he should've joined you in the grave. Sometimes he thinks about doing just that—leaving it all behind to follow you. But whenever he gets close to ending it he remembers how it felt to see you cry and how much you'd hate him if you knew he'd done such a thing. So he always throws the gun to the ground and pushes his fist through a wall instead. He never gets deposits back on the apartments he stays in for a few weeks at a time.

He didn't even go to your funeral. He blames himself for your death—he's your murderer. Part of him still believes that the reason he didn't go to the graveyard that day was because of that, but deep down he knows that he couldn't bear the thought of watching them lower you into the dirt. There's no way he would've made it through the ceremony: hearing your mother cry or your siblings make their speeches, siblings that he'd heard you talk about endlessly. His hands would've frozen when they instructed him to toss a bit of dirt atop your casket. He would've rather died a thousand deaths, lived a million more lives as the Winter Soldier, than to hear that subtle tap-tap-tap of the gravediggers smacking their shovels on the fresh dirt mound—finalizing your muddy, crusty resting place.

This month he's gone to Spain. He doesn't necessarily like it here, but then again, Bucky doesn't like anywhere or anything anymore. He was never fond of much to begin with—outside of you, of course. You were the only thing on earth that made him happy. He thought he'd met an angel when he first saw you. And when you said his name he thought he'd been dreaming—hearing a damn siren song that was lulling him to sleep. And when he realized that the two of you would be together forever... well, Bucky knew something had to be wrong. He'd done too many awful things in his life to deserve such a reward.

Turns out he was right. Your presence turned into a punishment. You were an angel sent down to give Bucky a taste of nirvana before you were plucked away by death himself.

Maybe if he'd never loved you, you'd still be alive. Or maybe if he could've loved you better—been a stronger protector—you'd still be with him.

Bucky will never know. Still the thoughts torment him. The only thing that brings him any sliver of comfort anymore is the sight of a butterfly in the flowers: a monarch fluttering her wings in the sun. It's the reason he's chasing the summer months. He refuses to live a day in the winter. He wants to see the butterflies. Until he sees you in the next life, it's the best he's got at a glimpse of what he had.

...

"Any word on Barnes?"

Steve sighs—head swaying left and right. Tiredly he yanks the reading glasses from his nose and tosses them onto his desk. Dirty boots propped onto a stack of books his legs ache from the hundreds of miles he's trekked searching for his best friend. Steve spent weeks looking for Bucky after he disappeared. It took a dozen dead ends to realize that maybe he wasn't meant to be found: not this time around. This is the second time Bucky's done this to Steve. Steve's convinced that the only thing that could bring Bucky back now would be you—not Steve, not their friendship, not their history. Nothing mattered to Bucky as much as his love for you. And when you died... Bucky Barnes died, too.

Natasha slinks down into the chair opposite of Steve's behind the desk. She stares down at her hands in her lap. Slowly she sighs, "I think it's time we move on."

"Y/N wouldn't want us to move on. She'd want us to help her find him," Steve admits. There's a gnarl in his brow as he huffs. His thick arms move to cross over his chest.

"Y/N's never been one to ask for help." Nat smirks softly.

Steve's nostrils billow as he takes a deep breath. "No. But Bucky said that would always be her downfall."

A third voice joins the two—lingering in the doorway. "Are you idiots speaking ill of the dead again?"

Nat scoffs. "That joke got old a long time ago, Y/N."

With a grin you slither into the room on booted feet. Your hips sway with the long locks of white hair you've since grown since waking from that fateful slumber of death. Most of the color in your body has been drained, actually. Your eyes are icy silver and your skin is the shade of shimmery snow. But despite your differences from before, you're still the same: mostly. There's a big piece of you missing. You've spent the last four months searching for that piece, but he seems to be impossible to find.

"We were just talking about..." Steve starts to explain but you cut him off.

"I heard what you were talking about." You lean over his desk to grab one of the pieces of candy he keeps for you in his top drawer. You stick a piece in your mouth—ignoring how your two friends eye you skeptically. You lost all sense of taste when Banner brought you back to life. Everyone wonders why you still chew on the chocolates. It's more of a habit, actually, and it reminds you of your life before: the life before death.

"You think we should call off the search for Buck." You drag up the extra chair from Steve's office corner. Slipping into it your eyes jump from Nat and Steve then back.

"What I think is that we haven't had any progress in months. Our team needs Steve back—all of him. The longer he spends looking for Barnes the more the team suffers."

"Fine," you give in easily. "If you wanna give up that's fine. I'll keep looking on my own." Lazily you chuck your candy package into the trash. You miss and it ends up on the floor.

Steve stoops over to pick up your garbage. "It's not personal, Y/N. You know how much I want to find him. I just don't think that he wants to be found—not by me, anyway."

"Maybe if he knew I was alive..."

Steve shakes his head to silence you. You huff as he reiterates for the hundredth time, "We can't do that, Y/N. We've been over this. The world thinks you're dead. If anyone knows that Banner found a way to bring someone back to life... especially with all of your enhancements... we'd have chaos on our hands."

Dramatically you groan—head falling back to stare at the ceiling.

"Good to know that you're still the same ole, whiny Y/N," Nat jokes.

"Shut up," you let out a breathy sort-of laugh. Pushing up from the chair you start to excuse yourself from the room. "I'll find him. I will." You pause in the doorway to look back at Steve. "And I'm not coming home until I do."

Steve's soft smile almost fills you with pity for leaving him behind. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

You turn to leave. Steve calls your name though so you glance back behind.

Steve's digging around the biggest drawer of his desk. "When you see him, give him this—would ya?" Steve takes you off guard by tossing something at you. You catch it easily with your newfound powers: suspending the object midair. It's a shoddily taped up yellow padded envelope with no address slip on it. It's sort of heavy when you finally take it in your hands. "And tell the punk that I'm getting a tracker chip put in him when he comes home next time."

"You got it, Cap." With a wink to Steve and one last smirk to Nat you turn and leave the office: having no plans on seeing either of them anytime soon.

If it takes two weeks, four months, or ten years: you'll look for Bucky Barnes. And someday, come hell or high water, you'll find him.

...

Bucky's duffel bag smacks the floor with a thump. His eyes quickly scan over the hotel room he'll be housed in for the next few nights. It's too hot on this island and the air is humid. He's not fond of the heat, but after six months he's becoming slightly more accustomed to it. He remembers how much you'd love the summer: wearing those stupid flip-flops and clunky sunglasses that would always get tangled in your hair.

A huff of air leaves his mouth. He kicks his bag towards one of the walls while he walks to the window. Pulling back the curtains the beach can be seen far below. All he has to do is walk down the rickety steps to find himself at the sandy shore. It's a peaceful looking place, especially at dusk, but he doesn't feel very peaceful at all. He's anxious. But he made a promise to you that he'd come here. Originally it'd been a plan that you were to be a part of: it is your birthday, after all, but Bucky would be eaten away with guilt if he didn't follow through with this birthday celebration now. He'll still be celebrating your life: the day that you were brought into the world. Except only now it's without you.

Bucky lowers his tired, aching body onto the edge of the bed built for two. He kicks off his shoes then lays back to stare at the starry-painted ceiling. With the window cracked he can hear the ocean singing to him. It's not hard to imagine how much you would've loved this view. You would've dragged him down to the water the moment you arrived—wild hair and laughter billowing in the breeze. The seagulls would've struggled to make it out of your path fast enough as you dragged him by the hand into the tide—your tiny footsteps looking ridiculous next to his big ones. And Bucky would've hardly paid the stupid ocean any mind as you stood there gazing beside him. The ocean always looks the same: it'll always be there. But you? You were different. Every day, every light, every moon brought a different glow to your face. And somewhere deep inside Bucky knew that you wouldn't last forever. He knew that, unlike the ocean, you weren't a permanent fixture in his life. So Bucky spent every second of your time together drinking in the presence of you.

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut before he can cry. After a long, deep breath he pushes off of the bed and tugs the curtains closed—blocking out the beautiful sights and sounds that mean nothing at all. This is all pointless without you.

...

It's your birthday. You're not sure if it counts anymore now that you've officially been dead. Banner assures you that you'll still age: but then again, he's also never brought someone back from the dead before. He didn't predict any of your telekinetic powers. He was also shocked to find that you'd rarely need to sleep. You've almost turned into a vampire with your glowing pale skin and nocturnal nature. Thank god you haven't had any thirst for blood (so far, anyway).

Wearing the long white skirt and pale grey shawl over your face and neck you climb out of your taxi. Keeping your strange coloration away from the public's eyes can sometimes be hard—especially when you're constantly on the move. It's been two months since you left the compound for your solo search of Bucky. And in those two months you've had no real leads.

Until now.

The plane trip to Hawaii was funded by Stark. You said to think of it as a birthday gift. He gave in without much convincing. He's been doing a lot of favors for you lately. You think he feels guilty that you died. It was a pretty terrible experience, come to think of it, especially since you woke up in that cold metal chamber to find that the love of your life had vanished.

You'd asked Bucky to go with you to Hawaii for your birthday this year. He'd agreed, saying he'd take you anywhere in the world, and then you picked the place: the perfect resort with the perfect ocean view. If Bucky has any sort of nostalgia left in his heart this is where he'll be today. He's a man of his word. And he had promised you—sworn with his own damn pinky finger—that there would be nothing in the world to keep him from going to Hawaii with you on this day. Who would've thought that you'd die before booking the flights?

You tug your satchel tighter to your side as the breeze whips through the sweet smelling air. The prints that your sandals leave in the dirt are small and floral. Your eyes scour up to the front of the resort where the pretty women are handing out leis.

At the front desk you ask for anyone staying under Bucky's name. Then you try James—James Buchanan Barnes. When that doesn't work you ask for your own name: thinking maybe the reservations were placed under yours.

"I'm sorry, miss. There's no one here with that name."

You let out a long breath. "It's fine." You turn around to walk away. "It was a long shot anyway." You look all around the lobby—thinking that you might stay out here for a while just in case he happens to wander through. Thinking a moment about how ridiculous that sounds you decide to take a walk down the beach instead. Not wanting to seem rude you accept a floral necklace from one of the ladies up front. It's blue and yellow and smells like summer. You wonder if Bucky would've let you put one on him had you come here together. Then you smile, realizing that there's hardly anything in this world that Bucky wouldn't do for you. Hell—he would've worn a grass skirt if you'd asked him to. Bucky Barnes was dedicated to making you happy. If there was anything he could do to see you smile, he was doing it without a second thought.

The memory of life with Bucky simultaneously makes you heartbroken and content. The conflicting emotions bring you to stop in the middle of the beach and stare at the waves—looking, but not really noticing them. The gentle lapping of the salt water against the shore is lulling. It's hard not to smile as you stare out at the sunrise. It's the morning of your birthday officially. In another life you would've rolled over now to see Bucky sleeping beside you—playing with his hair until he blinked and laughed at how your hair had gotten so messy in your sleep. Then you would've slapped his shoulder, telling him to shut up, before he could roll closer to capture your lips in a kiss. Then before you could say anything else he'd whisper, "Happy birthday, doll," into your ear.

The tide is rising. Soon this whole beach will be swallowed by water. But for now there's lots of sand and shells to see. So you decide to venture out a bit farther. Fifteen steps before your feet get wet you notice some writing in the sand. You have to tilt your head to see it right. But when you read it, the words take your breath away. Scrawled messily in the sand is the message:

Happy Birthday, Butterfly.

Your heart leaps up into your throat. With your stomach in knots and head spinning you find the big footprints that lead away from the words and up the shore. They go far, far, far down the beach in the opposite direction.

Bucky's here.

You take off running in the direction your lover last went. He couldn't've been here too long ago—if he had been, the writing would've been washed away. It's fate that you saw it just now. That means he's close: you're close to getting him back. All this time and it's led to this: a message in the sand and the wind slapping you in the ears as you cry and race towards him.

"Bucky!" you scream his name. You know it's hopeless. There's no way you could hear you. The ocean is too loud and he's too far. Other beachgoers who have come out to watch the sunrise watch you suspiciously as you race past them. "BUCKY!"

None of the heads that turn belong to him. Your veil flaps in the wind as you keep running—out of breath but not of hope. In fact, you're filled with more hope now than you've ever been before. You're so close to getting him back.

The path of footprints you've been chasing all this time grow muddled in a big huddle of prints and scratches. Kids and dogs have been here kicking up the sand. Breathlessly you pant and spin around in search of some sign of him. A glint of a metal arm? His long dark hair? Why isn't he here?

"Please, please, please." You whisper to the ocean. The seagulls scream out a reply. Your fingers shake anxiously. "Come on, Buck. Don't do this to me."

Bucky stares at the ocean and how it grows closer with each passing second. Perched on this stupid rock he glances back at his journal to follow the movement of his pen across the page. A few times he's lost track of the words before they make it to the paper but he always just starts the sentence over with your name. Barefooted and hair wild he hasn't bothered to cover up his arm today. The only company he's found has been the lonely dog who's wandered too far from his owner. But then the pooch left him alone again: alone to think deep thoughts and stare at the orange and gold sunrise.

Desperate, you start running again. You jog down the beach farther. The laughter and screams of kids and birds blend together as you keep on.

You only stop when the glint of metal mixing with the sun sparkles in one eye.

Heavy pants make your chest heave up and down. All you can really hear now is the thumping of your alive, eager heart as you stare dead ahead at the Winter Soldier sitting on a grey stone a few yards down the shore. The water is rising slowly around him but he doesn't notice—not at all. His nose is turned down to stare at the pages of his unwritten book and his body is hunched towards the ground. The tension in his shoulders and tightly creased brow worries you but only for a second.

Suddenly you're scared. Why should you be? You're not sure, but part of you wonders if he'll want to see you now. He went off the map because he'd been so grief-stricken. You caused him a lot of pain. What if that pain translates to hate? What if Bucky Barnes wants nothing to do with you now that you're back? Now that you're different?

You gather yourself with a deep breath. This is Bucky; you remind yourself. This is your soulmate. This is the man of your dreams: you're the woman of his.

"You know how much I love you, doll?" he'd ask you frequently. "Endlessly," he'd laugh softly as you'd roll your eyes. He'd usually kiss the top of your head before hugging your body into his arms. "I love you more than life. More than anything. Don't forget it."

Slowly, sandals heavy with sand, you step closer.

"Bucky?"

Bucky's body suddenly goes rigid. He's hearing things. He could've sworn...

"Bucky, it's me."

Bucky's head whips around—eyes blown wide. He's not sure what he expects to see. Part of him expects nothing. The other expects it to be a dream: a vision, maybe. But no matter what it is, if there's the chance to see your face again, Bucky's going to take it. And when he turns he drops his journal into the waves and it floats away—taking all the sad memories with it.

You stare ahead at Bucky as he stands knee-deep in the water. His hair, long and chestnut brown, whips around. He's clean shaven but hollow eyed. He looks smaller than you remember but still bigger than you.

He doesn't say anything. Bucky just keeps staring at you: unaware that the water around him is growing higher.

"Now I know what you're probably thinking," you speak slowly as to not overwhelm him. "But it's me." Stiffly you swallow. Your hands bundle together at your flat midriff. "I'm alive—surprise." You try to laugh lightly but find it's hard when he's staring at you so emptily still. There's no shift in his expression outside of a few stranded blinks. Clearing your throat, you ready yourself to say more. "Banner brought me back, and I know that I look a bit different but I'm really the same..."

The ocean makes loud clapping sounds as Bucky scrambles to throw himself onto the beach. He trips once but rights himself in enough time to make it over to you. His hands don't hesitate in taking you up by the sides of your face. In one fluid, wordless motion he's brought his lips to yours and he's got tears running down both of his cheeks. He stumbles into you but you manage to stay upright in the wet sand.

Bucky only pulls away because he needs to look into your face—to see your eyes. But everything is so blurry from the tears. He tries to blink them away. You laugh, choking on your own tears, and wipe his cheeks.

"It's—it's you." Bucky grapples at your jaw with his eager fingertips. He traces the sides of your face—hardly even noticing the difference in the color of your white hair.

"It's me," you laugh.

"You—you're back." Bucky's lips pull back in a grin—the first one he's worn since you left him up there on that rooftop.

"I told you I'd come back," you whisper. His forehead is pressed tightly to yours as he wraps his arms around your waist. He drags you into him until your bodies are flush. "It's not as a butterfly, granted, but I was still sorta right."

His laughter mingles with yours as more happy tears fall. "Oh my god I missed you." Bucky starts chanting nonsense as he runs his hands up and down the sides of your slender frame. "I missed you, baby, I missed you—I can't, I don't know, I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry for what I did to you. But you're back. Oh my god, you're back! I can't... I can't believe this... I never thought I'd see you again. See your face—oh my god, you're so beautiful." His grin crackles the tight tan skin around his eyes and makes his tears fall faster. The way he stares at you is like a child seeing Santa Clause on Christmas morning long after he stopped believing he was real. "So beautiful: I love you. I missed you. I missed you every day."

"Bucky, babe, it's okay. It's all okay now." You prove your point by pressing your lips against his in a quick, salty kiss. A strangled sob escapes from deep in his chest and you start smoothing the hair around his face. "Shh, it's okay. Everything's okay now."

Bucky's sniffle mixes with a relief-stricken laugh. "It is! It really fucking is." He holds you by the back of your head and hugs you into his arms. He holds you so tight that you're afraid he'll never be able to let go. "Everything's absolutely perfect. Nothing's ever been better." To recapture old times he shakily draws your hands up to his lips—going to kiss every one of your fingertips and knuckles. You bite your tongue, watching his face, and wonder how long it'll take him to notice the diamond ring on your finger.

Suddenly he sees it. "What—where did you get this?" His voice is but a disbelieving gasp. Quickly his red rimmed eyes skimmer from your face to your engagement ring.

"Steve gave it to me to pass along. He should've known I would be too nosey not to look. Or maybe he knew I'd find it." You grin and Bucky's chuckle sends a shiver down your spine. "How long did you have it?"

"Years." Bucky runs his metal finger over the band you now wear—the pretty silver one with the glittering rock. "It was always too soon. And then it was too late. I never got the chance to ask you." There's a thoughtful frown on his face.

You draw his chin up with your thumb. "You didn't have to." Sweetly you smile until he does the same. "I've always been yours, and I always will be." You look down at the ring that you've been wearing the past two months in your solo search for Bucky.

Bucky quickly wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. Clearing his throat, he takes a step away. "May I?"

Hardly confused you nod and laugh—slipping off the ring and handing it back to the man who got it for you in the first place. There's no box or envelope this time, only Bucky's palm as he drops down onto a knee in the wet, sopping sand. And despite how hard he tries, he can't look up into your beautiful face without crying. God—you're even more angelic than he remembers.

"Y/N, darling, I love you more than anything in this world. I love you more than life and I've loved you through death. I know now more than ever that without you the world has no meaning. I know I wouldn't ever make it past this day on my own. You're everything to me, and I want to dedicate my life and soul to you." He takes a staggering breath and can't help but chuckle as you hang on his every word as if you don't know what's coming. "My butterfly, my life and love, will you—"

"Yes, yes!" Your impatience gets the better of you as you drop to your knees in front of him. You laugh and throw your arms around his neck and he kisses you twice before pulling back.

"You couldn't even let me finish?"

"Honey, if I'd waited any longer I'd be dead again."

Bucky lets out a long, impatient breath through his nose as he rolls his eyes and hugs you tighter. You cackle, "Too soon?"

"Shut up," Bucky laughs—leaning over to kiss you again. And there you too stay: rooted in each other's arms in the early morning sunrise of a beautiful Hawaiian day.

Forget about the next life. This one is pretty damn good.