Chapter Text
2 Days Ago...
Bucky walked down the sidewalk, hands buried in his pockets as he felt the rain drizzle down, feeling good on his skin as he passed places he'd known once, the original brick buildings shrouded in unfamiliarity that over 80 years had brought upon them. But, for better or worse, what remained was familiar enough for him to remember. For the deja vu to seep into his bones and bring him back to earlier days. Easier days, he supposes. "I mean," he thinks as he passes a building that used to be where he'd picked up medicine once upon a time for a skinny asthmatic, "It's the same kind of stuff, just a little different."
Because now, instead of dealing with one crazy dumbass, he dealt with 5 of them, and if he messed up, the government would get rid of them in a way only an organized group mainly made up of morally corrupt asshats could do. So, a pretty different level than simply getting a five-minute lecture from Sarah Rogers. And even then, it had always really been more of a, "I know it's hard policing him, thank you," speech rather than a, "How could you let this happen," speech.
"That time it felt like she was almost sorry for me," he thought as he passed a laundromat that he could remember used to be a diner.
Bucky had saved up for months so he could finally get Steve that slice of chocolate cake he'd been drooling at through the window of the place for as long as Bucky had committed to saving for it. It had never taken much for Bucky to commit to something for Steve. Not in those days, when the sun had been warm on their backs as they had walked block after block side by side, Bucky listening to Steve rant about whatever new injustice he'd seen and was pissed about. There had been many, people being people. Bucky chuckles, remembering how he had paid more attention to the boy's bright blue eyes, alive with indignation, than he had to his frequent speeches, passionate as they had been.
He looked toward the door, remembering being 12, pulling the door open, money clenched in his hand, as if he feared it would be taken from him by the patrons, who all looked as if they could afford to buy 100s of those cake slices.
He gazed through the window of the laundromat at the sink, remembering how proud and excited he had been, walking to the counter that had been there, and placing the hard-earned allowance he'd been saving since the first time Steve had smiled at that slice through the window.
And finally, he looks toward the alley, next to the laundromat, remembering how he had been so proud to have that little slice. And how awful he'd felt when the cake was knocked from his hands as 3 older boys grabbed him from behind and dragged him into the alleyway, hurling slurs at him as he struggled, not as strong as he would become later, not for himself, but for...
For the boy who had appeared at the mouth of the alley, yelling with asthmatic lungs, cheeks ruddy with fury and blonde hair ruffled as if he'd been running. And somehow, his icy blue eyes had held fire in them.
Bucky walks closer to the mouth of the alley, remembering how they'd stumbled out, roughed up in the way only children, cruel, antagonizing children, could achieve. They had only stopped when the owner had come out, yelling at the boys to "get the hell out of here!"
He steps into the alley, the curious mix of beautiful, nostalgic remembrance and sour, cutting recollection hidden by steady breathing and cool, measured footsteps. He turns his eyes to gaze at the spot on the ground where the cake had gone, remembering the tears that had threatened to escape back then. Though he supposes, letting out a small, humorless chuckle, that ONE had fallen when Steve had stumbled and stepped on the cake.
But neither noticed the squashed chocolate dessert for long, if at all, because the asthma attack that was coming over Steve was now taking the bulk of their attention.
And so five minutes later, though for Bucky it had seemed like an eternity as Steve was doubled over, gasping for air. They had emerged from the alley, and then been lectured briefly by Sarah Rogers. Apparently, Steve had neglected his medicine in his hurry to see Bucky.
He smiled softly as he remembered how he'd blushed at that, still a soft, innocent 12-year-old boy in love with his best friend. And Sarah had smiled as if she knew. As if she understood. But that was long ago. Steve was gone, and as for Sarah, well, he'd yet to see a smile as warm or eyes as kind as his practically second mother, who had passed so long ago.
And as he turned rapidly in the alley to find a woman there, face hidden by a mask, her raised hands blasted him in the chest with some kind of green magic, the energy crashing into him, spreading through his being in sizzling hot pain, he had two thoughts in his mind, one being the obvious: "What the hell?"
And as he tumbled to the ground and felt his mind slowly fading from him, he had one other somber, tired thought. "I miss when things were as simple as the dumbass I was in love with and goddamn chocolate cake."