endsinafight | Spam for littleguyfrombrooklyn

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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From:

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?"

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

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?"

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

endsinafight

"You didn't wake me," Bucky told him honestly, leaning back in his chair. He gazed at him for a long moment, considering, noting how Steve seemed to be doing his best to avoid looking at him. He drew in a slow breath, then exhaled, rising to his feet and moving to carry the empty plates to the sink, letting his right hand rest briefly on Steve's shoulder and squeezing.

It felt like the world was constantly shifting beneath him, throwing him off balance at every given opportunity, especially when it came to Steve Rogers. And as easy as he apparently made it look -- because his own version of Steve never commented or seemed to notice how off kilter he felt, and hadn't, for some time now -- it wasn't really that easy. He was just really good at hiding it. HYDRA had given him one hell of a good poker face.

Except Sam, occasionally, gave him this look, like he could see right through him, which would never not be weird.

"What about you? Do you wanna try and get some sleep? Got a guest room. Just need to toss some sheets on the bed." The last person who'd used it had been Wanda, when she'd been staying in the city for a few days, working with Peter on some kind of issue -- Bucky didn't know what and didn't ask questions. If his help had been needed, he was sure she'd ask, and she hadn't and they were both still alive so. Win for the Junior Avengers, he supposed.

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

At the brief touch on his shoulder, Steve shuddered and then tried to hold his muscles perfectly still so he wouldn’t do something rash. He wanted to leap on Bucky, hold him close. He wanted to cry. Bucky was right there, in front of him, taking the dishes to the sink. He’d seen Bucky die, not too long ago in his memory. He had nightmares about it at least once a week. And here he was, doing the dishes, offering to put sheets in the guest room.

Something about the suggestion sent a bolt of primal terror through him and it came out as aggression.

"No," he snapped. And then took a deep breath, trying not to lose it. Not letting himself look at Bucky—it was easier, that way, if he could pretend this was another near stranger of the 21st century. "I’m not tired. What are you planning on doing?"

The idea of being put into a dark room alone with his thoughts was intolerable. He couldn’t look at Bucky, didn’t really want to acknowledge it was Bucky—but he couldn’t bear the idea of him being elsewhere.

From:

endsinafight

There was something primal within him that responded to the aggression in Steve's voice. His own Steve had treated him with so much delicacy since Wakanda that it was painful in a whole different way. He wasn't the same man he'd been before HYDRA, before the war, and maybe he hadn't entirely figured out who he was now, but he knew he didn't want to be treated like he was made of spun glass. He'd just never found a way to break that news to Steve, and he wasn't sure how it would have been perceived anyway.

He scraped his teeth over his lower lip, looking at this younger Steve sitting at his kitchen table like he hadn't just traveled across eleven years of time just to find a Bucky he didn't even know.

"Hadn't really got that far in my daily planning yet, Steve," he told him, letting the barest hint of humor bleed into his voice. "We could sit outside if you want. On the porch." Watch the sunrise, even if it was a couple hours away still. Might be easier than staying in the house that suddenly felt entirely too small.

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

The faint humor in Bucky’s voice might, at one point, have deflated Steve’s anger. Steve was used to lashing out at Bucky and being gently talked down, so easily that it didn’t even feel patronizing—but right now, in these strange circumstances, it felt like salt in an exceptionally raw wound.

"Yeah," he said, his voice sharp. "Let’s do that."

If they were both sitting in the explicit goal of seeing something that was hours away, maybe Bucky would stop deflecting his questions about what had happened to bring him here.

From:

endsinafight

"Okay." He wasn't really surprised that Steve's anger didn't seem to fade with the humor. He wasn't this Steve's Bucky. Not in this timeline. Not ever, really. It had all just been a beautiful illusion that he'd clung to for so, so long. He poured himself another cup of coffee, then made his way toward the door, bypassing the alarm system that Shuri had installed for him, unlocked the numerous locks there one after the other without giving it a second thought, and tugging it open.

He stepped out onto the porch, glancing around cautiously the way he always did -- some instincts die hard, apparently -- and when he was content that no one was around, that no one was waiting to attack, he rolled his neck and exhaled, moving to sit down at one end of the porch swing. He'd spent a lot of time out here over the last few months. He sipped his coffee, waiting silently for Steve to join him.

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

Steve hesitated at the door, watching Bucky. His face looked so calm—the small movements of him sitting down, settling himself, drinking his coffee. Steve had been trying not to look at him, but now that he did, he couldn’t look away—he knew those cheekbones, that dimpled chin, the faint smudge of his eyelashes when Bucky looked down at his steaming mug. It was more familiar to him than the water and the near-deserted street—and he immediately recognized it as Brooklyn, so it was where everyone had assumed had been his home.

Perhaps the most horrifying thing about waking up in the 21st century had been realizing that Brooklyn wasn’t home and maybe it hadn’t ever been home. His home was Bucky, and Bucky had been dead. But, he’d been mistaken about that too.

Steve wanted to claw back his anger and use it as a shield, prevent him from really having to reckon with Bucky. Bucky. Right there, drinking coffee in the early morning. Alone. Whatever alternate version of him that was in this universe clearly didn’t live here. And maybe that was normal, but it hurt, too.

Part of him—a stupid, childish part, maybe—had thought that when he’d found Bucky, he’d be home again. It felt like dying to realize that wasn’t true and so immediately, transparently false.

But he couldn’t keep staring. He stiffly walked over to Bucky and sat down on the porch swing. He hated, all of a sudden, that it was a swing. Every tiny shift of Bucky’s weight was immediately obvious to him. He was hyper-aware of Bucky’s body.

"Can you explain what’s happened here?" Steve asked. His voice was hard, but even he couldn’t conceal the plaintive cracks in his tone.

From:

endsinafight

Sometimes in a weird way it felt like he'd dodged a bullet because he'd never really had to sit down and explain to Steve how he'd survived his fall off that train, or where he'd been for seventy years. It felt like some weird blessing that Steve had figured it all out for himself, or with help -- Natasha, he assumed. It wasn't like they'd ever talked about any of the semantics of that even if maybe they should have. Maybe things would have felt more finished when Steve finally left. But there was a part of Bucky that thought things with Steve would never truly feel finished. One day Steve would die, and then Bucky would die and in the blink of an eye none of it would even matter.

He'd just be a footnote in history -- and a terrible one at that.

But he couldn't begrudge this younger Steve the knowledge that he was craving. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, the nodded slowly, sipping his coffee before setting it down on the small table beside the swing.

"Zola," he said, knowing it wouldn't take Steve long to figure out why he was starting the story there. "I survived the fall from the train because of his knock-off serum. Some of HYDRA's foot soldiers found me after."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

Steve went very still. His eyes closed for the space of a breath and then opened again—he fixed his gaze on some unspecific point in the middle distance. He should have gone looking for Bucky. He shouldn’t have abandoned him. Maybe that explained this distance. A completely justified resentment.

"What happened then?" he asked, his voice rough. Maybe Peggy rescued him. Maybe that’s where the timeline diverged, between this one and his own. Maybe his Bucky did die in the fall and this Bucky didn’t—Bucky had said he’d found this Steve, that they knew each other again.

From:

endsinafight

Bucky felt the way Steve stiffened and went completely motionless beside him. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and resting a hand at the back of Steve's neck, like they were ninety years younger and he was trying to keep Steve's focus on him and not on the way that the cough was wracking him so badly that his entire body shook with it. But Steve wasn't shaking now, and they weren't kids. So he didn't keep his hand there long, just long enough that he hoped Steve felt some amount of comfort and reassurance from the familiar gesture.

What happened then? Steve's words echoed in his head, and there were so many ways he could respond, ways that would gut Steve, cut him to his core, but Bucky had never really been vicious by his own nature and even in the depths of the Winter Soldier programming, he'd remembered that protecting Steve was his mission. He licked his lips, considering his words.

"They put me in cryo freeze eventually," he said, looking out over the water. "Pulled me out when they needed certain...tasks completed."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

Steve almost wanted to beg Bucky to stop touching him—every glancing brush of his hand felt like it was breaking Steve down, tearing him to pieces. He was already struggling to keep any composure at all, and then Bucky casually reaches out in comfort. It was devastating. It was impossible. Steve squeezed his eyes shut.

He somehow wasn’t surprised by Bucky’s answer—the things it implied, the things it left out. The way it was very much not being rescued. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips.

"How long?"

From:

endsinafight

Bucky didn't want to give the details, both because thinking too much about it always made the nightmares worse, but also because Steve didn't need to hear them. He had little doubt he was putting together his own mental picture of how things had gone down, and considering the grim reality had been far worse than whatever Steve's imagination could probably come up with -- he was fine with it playing out like that.

"It all came to a head in 2014," he told him carefully. "When I ran into the other version of you." He was tempted to reach for his mug just to have something to do with his hands. The army had taught him stillness, and HYDRA had reinforced that over the decades. Without either entity controlling him, he still sometimes faltered with his own body.

He shifted slightly on the swing, trying to angle his body so he could see Steve a little better. He looked exhausted. Lost. It hurt, made his chest feel too tight, brought a lot of emotions clamoring to the surface that he really didn't want to feel.

"I'm okay, Steve."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

That was—that was an impossibly long time. The whole time Steve slept, Bucky had been—

Steve couldn’t imagine. He knew he couldn’t. He had memories of freeing prisoners from HYDRA camps, the torture implements, the people they were too late to save—those images were swimming behind his eyelids, paired with the march of technology that the 20th century had been. It was beyond anything Steve could imagine.

He shuddered, when Bucky said he was okay. Steve opened his eyes and looked at him, right in the face—studying those familiar lines. Aged, but maybe not enough with this new context. His own eyes were stinging with emotion and he struggled to hold it back.

"Of course you’re okay, Buck," he said, his voice hoarse. "You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met."

There was a watery sort of humor in his voice. They’d gone through a lot as kids and they’d always faced it head on—Steve didn’t have any tools to comfort, in this situation. But he knew that he was speaking the truth. Bucky was incredible.

From:

endsinafight

Bucky tried hard not to grimace when Steve shuddered, but it was easier said than done. He shifted closer if only because of a primal, instinctive urge to offer comfort through physical means. Their arms and legs press together, warm even in the cool morning air. "Yeah, well. Learned from this little punk I grew up with," he responded, unable to keep the warmth from his tone. "The kid used to get into all these fights in every alley in Brooklyn and even though they kicked him when he was down, he got back up every damned time."

He nudged his arm lightly, then turned his head to look out over the water again.

"The house was his," he told him after a moment. "He gave it to me."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

At the points where Bucky touched him, Steve pressed his body back. He wanted that comfort, that warmth. He couldn’t possibly turn it down.

When Bucky switched the topic to his other self, it felt like a gift—the affection in his tone was soothing, reassuring. Bucky was still his family—or at least he hoped that’s what it meant.

"Is he dead?" Steve said. His voice was much calmer—the idea of his own death was comforting, in comparison to Bucky’s previous revelations.

From:

endsinafight

Regardless of his own complicated emotions, Steve Rogers would always be his family. Skinny and sickly and young or super-soldiered and in love with Peggy, or old and widowed with half a dozen kids -- it didn't really matter, ultimately. Not after everything they'd been through.

"No," Bucky told him, shaking his head. "No, he's upstate with his kids." Which was where he belonged, safe and surrounded by the people he loved. Not here, in Brooklyn, spending his days pondering what if and over-analyzing everything else.

"Went through a lot of shit, but he got a happy ending." And suddenly his chest was feeling tight all over again, and it took him a moment as he struggled through the emotions that threatened to choke off his air supply. "So you got that to look forward to."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

Steve opened his eyes, genuinely shocked. Kids? The other him had kids? And he chose to live somewhere so far away from Bucky? He didn’t think, after Peggy, there’d be any one he’d wanted to spend his life with. And even though Peggy was a marvel of a woman, whip-smart and devastating to watch, it was hard for him to imagine letting Bucky go, now that they had a second chance.

That night in the bar, when he had been trying and failing to get drunk, he had just been stuck on the thought that he’d never told Bucky. Bucky never knew.

He searched Bucky’s face, seeing the emotion in it.

"Do you…" he started, and then stopped. He wanted to ask if Bucky didn’t like whoever this Steve was married to. He didn’t understand why Bucky was so far away. "I don’t understand."

Steve couldn’t imagine looking forward to anything but Bucky, miraculously returned to him. But maybe Bucky didn’t want Steve around—Steve didn’t even know how to formulate the question.

From:

endsinafight

The shock on Steve's face wasn't surprising. He knew Steve well enough to know that he thought he'd lost it all once he woke up, with Peggy being older and married to someone else, her health failing. He couldn't really blame him for it; Peggy Carter had been one hell of a dame. The least he could do for this Steve was give him something to look forward to in a future that was otherwise so damned disappointing and bleak, and devastating.

His jaw clicked shut as he contemplated his words. This wasn't about him. Wasn't about his feelings or trauma or loss. He'd push all of it aside time and again for Steve. Any version of him, apparently. Some part of him recognized how masochistic that was, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"A lot of things happened. It's ten shades of complicated and frankly, fucked up, but - your artifact isn't the only way to time travel. There's something called a Pymm particle. You went back in time and set things right. Got your girl. Married her. Retired from all the hero shit."

From:

littleguyfrombrooklyn

Steve searched Bucky’s face—there was something there. He couldn’t entirely place it and he didn’t know what to think of it. Part of him was awed at the idea that he and Peggy had a life together, that they’d had kids. Part of him wanted to ask what there names were, how many, what were they like. Did they call him uncle Bucky?

He wanted to ask Bucky why they weren’t living out the dream they’d occasionally played around with. The had talked about two houses, right next to each other. No fence between the two yards. Bucky had always insisted Steve imagine a future, a wife, a complete and entire life—but Steve had insisted right back that he had no intention of ever moving far away from Bucky.

But there was something raw in Bucky’s expression, carefully concealed but still apparent. He didn’t want to challenge Bucky. Maybe he could lighten the mood.

"Gee," Steve said. "I bet she responded a helluva lot better to this century than I did."

From:

endsinafight

Bucky can practically see the gears turning in Steve's head, trying to work it all out, trying to accept the inevitable future that he was eventually facing. Well. Technically the past and the future. He did his best to keep his own features schooled in something resembling pride. Happiness. Because he was glad that Steve got to live his dream life, even if Bucky wasn't really part of it anymore.

Sometimes, maybe, you have to leave the past in the dust in order to have a future, even if it's not what you expected it to look like.

A huff of a laugh escaped him involuntarily, because --

"Yeah. I'm sure she did better than either of us."