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[endsinafight]

He should have known something weird was going to happen considering the fact that it was a full moon. But he was trying his best to put as much weird behind him as he could, and that included any kind of supernatural or alien shenannigans. Not that he wouldn't pitch in and do his part if it came down to it, but these days, Bucky much preferred sticking closer to the old brownstone he'd taken up residence in the last few weeks, since the Snap had been reversed. That wasn't to say he stayed locked up in his new place, because he hadn't. He'd been out to see Steve and his grandkids earlier that day, in fact.

Yesterday, he'd reluctantly agreed to have lunch with Sam, whom was turning out to be a pretty good friend. It wasn't something he would have imagined a year ago. Or -- technically, five years ago.

No, Bucky was doing his best to scrape together some semblance of a life in the wake of Thanos' reign and the Snap, and Tony's death and Steve's trip to the past.

And, and, and.

It was just a lot easier said than done. Some people still looked at him funny when he went to the stores, no doubt recognizing him and wondering if they were about to be brutally murdered. He wanted to tell them so badly that they weren't in any danger from him. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

He was lucky if he got four or five hours of sleep at night, and most of that was still filled with nightmares. Tonight was no exception and at 2 in the morning, he found himself staring out the kitchen window, drinking a glass of water when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up, and he knew, instinctively, that shit was about to get weird.

Heart beating fast in his chest, he turned, pausing at the sight of Steve Rogers standing behind him, looking around like he was confused, and damned if Bucky wasn't confused, too, because this wasn't an old man.

This Steve looked like he was 26 or 27, tops.

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[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Strange warned him up, down, and sideways about the artifact. Steve listened closely to the whole thing, every bit of his shpiel--and then promptly ignored it. Danger wasn't meaningful, at this point. He didn't remotely care. There was no plausible way in which using the artifact could hurt Bucky and any danger it posed to Steve was irrelevant. Bucky might be alive and the thought was like someone had pressed a thousand skinny knives underneath every inch of Steve's skin--he couldn't escape it and he didn't want to.

At first, Steve could lie to himself and think that it was just Loki trying to screw with him, but--so many things niggled at the edges of his brain. Thor, when asked, hadn't ever heard of Bucky Barnes. Why would Loki know? And the man didn't fight like Loki or like Thor.

Lying awake in bed every night, Steve played the fight over and over in his head, this twist in his stomach telling him that there was something there, something he was missing. The doubt grew into an aching conviction that Bucky might be out there, frozen in ice like he had been.

So, he went back to Austria and started looking. Tony offered equipment and Steve took him up on it. He hopelessly combed the landscape, desperate for any sign. He did it for months, barely leaving time to care for himself in the desperate search--it was only when Tony decided to cut him off (for his own good) that he went looking for other options.

And the only thing he could think of was magic. He had done his research methodically and found an ancient shrine, famed for being able to reunite the lost. The limited texts he found claimed that it would work. Strange, who really was entirely strange, urged him not to do anything in his laconic way, that the entire thing was too indeterminate.

It didn't matter. Steve hiked up a mountain in Nepal and found himself at a rough-hewn cave, his shield slung on his back over his simple gear. It was worth the shot. Part of Steve wouldn't even mind if it killed him--he supposed that he should be more worried about the thought, but it sounded peaceful. Maybe Bucky really was dead and he could go see him--either way, Steve had already lived far longer than his time. It was impossible to make a home in this bizarre new world and he wasn't even sure he wanted to. He rested his hand on the carved stone pedestal, thrumming with a strange internal energy. He touched it and wished with every bit of his aching soul to find Bucky.

And then, in a blink, he was in a dark room, much too warm and cozy for his heavy mountaineering gear. A man's back was in front of him. Steve's heart started pounding and his throat went dry--he looked around the room, his eyes burning with too much withheld and unable to directly examine the man, who couldn't be, who might be--the man turned around, and even though his body was all wrong, his hair was wrong, he seemed so old--

"Bucky?" he said, hoarse. His mind was white and blank with shock.

[endsinafight]

Bucky wasn't quite sure what to think for a moment, too thrown off guard by the familiar face, the strong jaw and the shockingly blond hair highlighted by the moonlight filtering in from the window. He was still clutching onto his glass of water as he stared right back at him, this man who had Steve's face but definitely wasn't Steve. Couldn't be Steve. Could he? Steve was upstate with his family, likely fast asleep at the late hour, and yet -- his brain couldn't fully contradict what his eyes were seeing.

His gaze perused the heavy coat he was wearing, the shield on his back. The gear he was carrying. The wet boots on his feet on the floor he'd mopped the previous day.

Bucky blinked a couple of times, wondering if he was hallucinating or dreaming. First, there was the fact that he was there. Second, there was the fact that he'd just suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. He hadn't come in through a window or the door. Those were as secure as they could be, and heavily alarmed, to boot.

Which narrowed it down to a few possibilities beyond hallucinations and dreams, he supposed. It could be someone wearing a digital mask to disguise his true form -- but that still leaves him questioning how they'd gotten in. It could be that somehow Steve had learned how to both de-age himself and teleport -- unlikely. Or.

He could be a different Steve, time traveling somehow. Shit. That was probably it.

"Steve," he responded, aware of the uncertainty in his own voice at the moment.

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

That was Bucky’s voice. Uncertain—but it was Bucky and Bucky was saying Steve’s name. It hit Steve like a punch to the gut, knocking the air right out of him. He almost choked on the force of it and tears welled up behind his eyes. He reached up with the bare hand that he’d used to touch the artifact and pressed his palm over his eyes, trying to hide the intensity of his reaction.

"You’re alive," he said. "Right? Or are we both dead now?"

His voice was almost soundless. He honestly didn’t care which was the right answer. His chest hitched as he tried to gather himself and he was almost nauseated just from sheer emotion. He was managing not to outright cry, though. He was barely sure of why he was trying so hard to push it down, other than it was something to focus on and use to try to keep himself at least a little grounded in his body.

[endsinafight]

Even in the semi-dark, Bucky could read Steve's body language. Could pick up on the tone of voice that he used when he spoke. His voice was hoarse, strained, like he hadn't spoken in awhile, and like he was in shock. He knew that feeling all too well. He set his water glass down on the counter and reached out, turning on the dim light over the sink just enough that they could see one another a little better.

"I'm alive," he answered, watching the way he covered his eyes with one hand. From the somewhat scraggly beard on his face, and the gear he was wearing, he couldn't help but assume he hadn't been around other humans in awhile. At least a couple weeks, if he was guessing.

He drew in a slow breath, hesitantly moving forward and reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the kitchen table. "Sit." He didn't wait for a response before he reached out and carefully tugged the heavy pack off his shoulder, setting it on the floor and reaching for the shield next, movements slow and cautious.

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

It felt deeply right to be gently steered to the kitchen table, for Bucky to take the burden off of his back. It had been a long, long time since their apartment in Brooklyn, but sometimes Steve felt like everything since then had been a dream—he used to hear that people had strange dreams, when they were dying. When he had been on his own, looking for Bucky, he wondered if this was all just purgatory after some terrible bout of pneumonia and he hoped that God would make up his mind and send him to his final destination, whether heaven or hell.

Bucky was alive—he hadn’t been crazy, to think that was the case. He was different in a thousand ways, but it had been a long time and he was alive.

He sat like he was told to and let Bucky take the shield. His coat was too heavy to feel the warmth of Bucky’s palm, but he could feel the pressure.

When he sat, he opened his eyes, red rimmed and strained, and studied Bucky’s face, twisting around to get the best view of it.

"Where are we?" he asked, and then—a rush of anger that was almost self-defense, something hot and wild because otherwise he’d have to grapple with the rest of his head. "Why the fuck didn’t you come tell me you were alive?"

[endsinafight]

It was a familiar feeling for Bucky to be gently guiding Steve to sit down and rest, even if it had been nearly a century since he'd actually done just that. He chalked it up to muscle memory as he lay the shield down atop the table, staring down at it for a moment and feeling an odd sense of deja vu that he couldn't place off hand.

He wasn't surprised by the question, exactly. Obviously Steve had his suspicions about what was going on, but somehow he also wasn't prepared for the anger that followed it almost immediately. He pressed his lips together, studying Steve just as intently as Steve seemed to be studying him.

Bucky was silent for a moment, then he moved to flip on the actual light, flooding the room with it because none of this was a conversation to have in the goddamned dark. He moved into the kitchen, setting up the coffee pot and setting it to brew in silence.

"We're in Brooklyn," he finally said, carefully. He glanced at Steve over his shoulder, watched the way he was being stared at still. "But before I say anything else, I need you to tell me one thing. What year is it?"

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve’s eyes went wide at that question and his face drained of color. He thought back, frantic— did he get buried in snow? Had he been frozen again? Was this going to be another moment where he’d fallen asleep and woken up decades later? He tried to catalogue the things around him, the way his body felt.

When he spoke, his voice was exceptionally even, the anger having chased away by fear, both repressed by a brutal insistence on stoicism. "2012," he said. "Late in the year. Not sure the month."

[endsinafight]

Well. That confirmed that, at least.

Bucky exhaled, wary about just how even Steve's voice had suddenly turned. He got two mugs down from the cabinet, setting them on the counter and moving over to sit down at the table across from Steve. "Okay. You've managed to time travel. Somehow. That's now a thing we see occasionally." He pressed his lips together, resting his right hand on the table and keeping his left one out of sight for the time being.

"It's June here. 2023."

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

"Oh," Steve said. 11 years. For most people, that’d be a long time, but for him? It wasn’t so bad. The rest of the Avengers should still be alive. Maybe Tony would take his phone calls again.

Time travel? It was fucked up, but in the realm of things Steve has seen in the last couple years, it almost made sense. He took a shaky breath and then looked back up at Bucky, studying him. It was a relief just to settle his gaze on Bucky’s face.

"How are you in June 2023?" he asked. "Am I here? Did you find me in this timeline?"

[endsinafight]

If Steve only had an inkling of just how complicated all of those questions really were, he'd probably take them back and just ask for blankets for the couch to sleep on instead.

Bucky could tell, though, that his expression had softened enough that he wasn't as defensive and upset as he'd been moments ago, so there was that, he supposed. "It's a very long story, but...yes, you're here. Not --" He motioned around the room. "Here, here, but in this timeline. And, yeah. You could say that."

He'd been out of his mind at the time, but technically, he had been the one to find Steve initially. A perfectly made weapon locked and loaded and pointed right at HYDRA's biggest enemy. "You wanna take your coat off, or -- do you have any idea how you wound up here so that we can get you back?"

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve took off his coat at the suggestion. His hands were trembling slightly from the shock of this all as he unzipped himself, but it was nice to get the rush of slightly cooler air. Underneath, he had a few base layers and he smelled exactly like you’d expect a man to smell, when they haven’t had a proper bath in a few weeks.

"I—" he paused, just so struck by Bucky’s face. Licking his lips and shrugging his coat entirely off, leaving him in the black long-sleeve synthetic. He licked his lips to force himself to continue. "I was looking for you. I touched this strange artifact and asked it to bring me where you were. It was up a mountain, near Everest. I didn’t—I thought it would bring me to my Bucky."

[endsinafight]

Bucky watched him intently, unconsciously checking for any signs of injury or even malnutrition. If he'd been out hiking in the mountains looking for Bucky, who knew what kind of shape he was in beneath all the layers of clothes he was still wearing?

He reached out absently, taking the coat and draping it over the shield on the table. "Well, it brought you to a Bucky." There was a hint of wryness to his voice and he tried not to grimace at the mention of magic. It wasn't his favorite thing in the world. Too damned unpredictable. "Just not the right one." And, he didn't add, that he was grateful for that. Because if it had taken this Steve to Bucky, it was impossible to say where he would have ended up.

Likely in a HYDRA compound, surrounded by enemies. "Okay. Why don't we get you a shower? And I'll fix something to eat while you do that. Coffee should be done then, too."

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

The idea of eating actual food sounded a little like maybe he really had ended up in heaven. Most of his pack weight was food—he could sleep in the snow, with his enhancements, but without food he would start suffering pretty quickly. He had lost weight. It was strange, he was still overtly muscular—but gaunt, somehow. His skin drawn too tightly over bones and muscle, giving him a hungry, faintly desperate look.

"Okay," he said. He didn’t really want to leave Bucky—he wanted to give the guy a fucking hug, Jesus. But Bucky was being so calm and matter of fact about this all that it made him feel obscurely embarrassed, like the intensity of his emotion was somehow a mistake. It made it easier to keep it together.

He smiled, a little lop-sided and strained. "I definitely could use a shower."

[endsinafight]

Bucky nodded slowly, not sure how to take the look on his face at the moment. But he rose to his feet and scooted the chair in under the table, then extended his right hand out to Steve to help him up if he wanted it. He met his eyes, giving him a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Follow me. I'll show you the bathroom." He led the way down the hall, pushing open the door and flipping the light on and pulling out a clean towel and washcloth, along with a clean toothbrush and a new razor from the closet and setting them on the bathroom sink, lined up side by side for Steve's use.

"You're welcome to any the soaps and shampoos you can find. There's some in the shower already but there's more stuff under the sink."

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve didn’t need the help up, but he took it. The clasp of Bucky’s hand, warm and smooth, was worth it. It was hard to let go, when Bucky moved to go into the bathroom.

Steve trailed after, a little dazed. This was a bizarre experience, but Bucky just seemed so businesslike and calm.

"Does this… happen a lot around here?"

[endsinafight]

Bucky turned to look at him at that, pausing momentarily at the dazed expression on Steve's face. Truthfully he'd gotten so used to weird shit happening that he tended to just accept whatever was happening, ignore every emotion that came along with whatever it was, and simply keep going.

Sam kept telling him he needed a therapist. He was probably right.

"No," he said after a moment. "But a lot of weird things have happened so I guess...not a lot fazes me anymore." He offered him a small smile, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently, reassuringly. "We'll figure out how to get you back home." He hoped. "For now, just clean up and try to relax a little. I'll just be in the other room."

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve felt the gentle contact of Bucky’s hand down his back—he shuddered, completely reflexive, and then clamped down as hard as he could on any more unruly bodily movement.

He didn’t trust his voice not to beg Bucky to stay if he said anything, so he nodded simply and let Bucky leave.

When he was gone, he undressed and got into the shower. The warmth was intoxicating.

[endsinafight]

Bucky wasn't exactly hungry, but he could tell Steve was so as soon as he heard the shower running, he made his way into the kitchen and started a pan of scrambled eggs, popping bacon into another pan, and chopping up peppers and ham to toss in with the eggs. One thing he discovered about himself recently was how much he enjoyed cooking. He found it relaxing, and some days he liked to just turn on the cooking network and watch for hours at a time before going to the grocery store and trying to replicate some of the recipes he'd learned. He didn't even have to write down what he needed. There were definite advantages to having a photographic memory.

He pours two cups of coffee, loading his own down with sugar and creamer because black coffee is fucking disgusting even when it's Starbucks brand.

Then he starts filling their plates, carrying everything to the table and slipping on a glove to cover his left hand because somehow he doesn't think that Steve seeing his vibranium arm right after he's time traveled will do him any good. He's just glad he hates being cold enough that he was wearing long sleeves when he showed up.

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

(Sorry for the delay, I had some internet problems!))

There was a moment in the shower, the water beating down on Steve’s head, where Steve felt so dizzy he had to lean against the tile wall. It was probably just low blood sugar and shock and whatever physical effects might have occurred from traveling between universes, but it seemed appropriate to his emotional state. His forehead pressed against the tile, still cool since the water hadn’t been running long, and he tried to remember that this was real.

He could almost feel the dirt stream down off of his skin in a wave of sludge—he was truly disgusting, and it had been so long since he’d really been in civilization. Even before the trek in Nepal, he hadn’t really taken the time to be in his body, really feel the way his muscles felt. Not good, as it happened. He really wasn’t doing great on the diminished calories.

His mind jumped to Bucky in the kitchen and, disconcertingly casually, wondered what he was making in terms of food. It was of course an immediate reminder that he found Bucky, who was alive—or at least he was in 2023.

The thought was inescapable: maybe he wasn’t alive in 2012. Maybe that’s what the artifact chose to send Steve across the multiverse instead of keeping him on earth. Maybe his Bucky was dead. He slammed his fist against the wall and cracked the tile, the burst of pain and crunching noise shocking him back to himself. Fuck, he thought, distracted momentarily by his discourtesy—and then, back to the original realization, a horror that he tried to press to the bottom of his consciousness.

He got out of the shower way faster than he wanted to, because if there was any chance that his Bucky was alive, he had to at least send word for people to help him back home. Steve wasn’t going to leave any Bucky on his own.

The rich smell of bacon carried him to the kitchen again and as much as he wanted to stop grilling Bucky on what he was doing in 2012, he immediately inhaled a few slices of it, picking them up with his hands.

"Christ," he said. "It’s been awhile since I had bacon."

No worries -- figured that might be the case

[endsinafight]

Bucky watched with something akin to bemusement as Steve set upon the bacon he made like he hadn't eaten in days. For all he knew, he hadn't. He sat at the kitchen table, eating a few slow bites of the scrambled eggs on his plate, but paying far more attention to the coffee than the food. He needed a lot of calories, too, but he was pretty sure right now Steve needed them more.

Leaning back in his chair, he considered him for a long moment. "What have you been eating?" Because he definitely looked thinner than he should be, all things considered. And sure he might have been traipsing through mountains looking for an artifact to lead him to his own Bucky, but that didn't mean he should stop taking care of himself.

Then again, Steve was Steve was Steve. Self-care had never been a priority.

He almost sighed. "When was the last time you ate anything, for that matter?"

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve wolfed his food down, barely tasting it. Something about the first bite of bacon lit his brain up enough that it was almost impossible to stop, his body wanting to take advantage of the food while he had it. It was almost scary, how desperate he was, how little he felt like he could stop. It took real will power to swallow the bite of eggs he had in his mouth and nod toward his pack.

"I've been out looking for this goddamned cave for what, three weeks?" he said. "Give or take. Maybe a little longer."

He scratched the side of his face, his scraggly beard reminding him that he didn't shave while he was in the shower, too distracted by the sent of food.

He shrugged before starting to eat again.

"I'd been eating protein bars, before I ran out. I had some trail food, but that went fast." He looked away, obscurely embarrassed. "The last couple days I've been rationing sips of straight oil. It's.... pretty gross. But very calorie-dense. And it was too high to really hunt or gather or anything, if I even knew how."

[endsinafight]

He watched with a combination of worry and amusement at just how quickly Steve chowed down, then pushed his own plate across the table to him wordlessly, leaning back in the chair. He glanced toward Steve's pack when he nodded toward it, grimacing at the things he lists off that he's been existing on for three weeks.

"No wonder you're hungry," he commented, no judgement in his tone. "Got plenty more where that came from." He wasn't lacking for anything these days, really, and definitely not for food. He was pretty sure he could stay in his house for a full month before he'd have to worry about going out to get more essentials. Maybe it was leftover insecurity from the Depression.

"Want something to drink aside from coffee? Got milk, juice, water, and tea."

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Bucky’s plate was almost empty in front of Steve before it really registered what happened. He stared at the empty plate in front of him, stricken—in Brooklyn, it had been him that was constantly sneaking food to Bucky, trying to keep his much bigger and bulky body strong. The reversal shook him and he couldn’t place why.

"I’m sorry about eating your breakfast," he said. "If you have more fixings, I can cook you some more?"

[endsinafight]

Bucky gave him a wan smile, shaking his head a little. "Wasn't hungry to begin with if I'm being honest." And he wasn't, really. It was way too early in the morning for breakfast for someone who usually slept in til 10 or 11 every day. Nine at the very least. But nightmares had woken him far before even the earliest of early morning risers was usually up and then -- Steve.

"But I got plenty more if you're still hungry," he told him, keeping his eyes on him.

[littleguyfrombrooklyn]

Steve kept staring at the plate. He could eat more, but--well, he had eaten so fast and so much, after days with nothing but drinking oil to survive. He could feel even his super-serumed constitution start to object to the change. And, even more to the point, something just didn't sit right with him about eating more of Bucky's food.

Something about Bucky being here, sad and calm in front of him like everything was normal--it felt like he was back a century, like everything was like it used to be. And back then, Steve never had as much to eat as he wanted. It felt obscene, eating this much. Stuffing his face with food when he'd already sacrificed so much to find his Bucky. He couldn't even enjoy the presence of this Bucky, because it was too much of a reminder that there was another one out there.

Steve swallowed, hard, and glanced out the window. It was still dark.

"Do you want to get back to sleep?" he said. "I'm sorry for waking you."

The mannered courtesy was unfamiliar. It wasn't how he usually dealt with Bucky. They were family and they'd always been easy with one another--but this Bucky was so different, in ways he didn't understand. He didn't know what to do.