Chapter Text
Steve and Bucky, out walking their old haunts. Brooklyn’s changed so much that it might as well be a different city altogether, or maybe another planet. The views of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges between the towering red brick buildings seems to be the only thing anchoring their memories of the past to the present.
Bucky spins around, aghast. It’s the first time he’s been back to this part of the city since he left for Wakanda, and now he’s seeing it with fresh eyes.
“What happened to the Jay Street railway and all the factories?" he cries. "Where’d Loew’s Pitkin go? Why’d they name everything after a cartoon elephant?”
“It’s an acronym for ‘Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass’,” Steve says, chuckling. “You know how long I’ve waited to say that to you, just so I could see you make that face?”
“Don’t you get all worldly on me, Rogers," Bucky admonishes. "Don’t forget, while you were out cold under the ice, I was off seeing the sights. Colombia, Morocco, Kosovo, Angola.” Bucky counts them off on his left hand, the midday sun glinting off the metal. “I’m a one-man travel agency. Go ahead, ask me the best time of year to visit West Bengal. Wouldn’t want monsoon season or a Maoist insurgency to spoil your vacation!”
“All right, all right,” Steve says in a pacifying tone. “I can tell you’ve made peace with Tony. His sense of humor seems to be rubbing off on you.”
They keep walking, voices raised above the din of traffic, so much louder and more constant than it was 80 years ago. And the people, an endless torrent of them, seemingly multiplying around them with every step they take.
“HYDRA wouldn’t let me operate out of New York until it became absolutely necessary,” Bucky explains, neatly sidestepping a taxi that takes its right turn a little too tightly. “Looks like I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Steve remarks, “They probably knew you’d go berserk once you saw how the old bowling alley got turned into a cold-pressed juice bar.”
“The hell is a cold-pressed what now?”
After Steve shows him exactly what it is, with the consensus being that it is inferior to bowling, they cross to the other side of the street to continue their survey. Here, as elsewhere, the shapes of buildings are roughly familiar, but the signage and purpose is not. Tall, glittering condos fill the spaces between red brick and skyline. Shops with inscrutable names like "Scotch&Soda" (with not a drink to be seen in the dress-filled window) and "Etsy" (which Steve has explained several times, to no avail) have replaced the familiar industrial warehouses and factories. They head back towards the river, passing through even more familiar territory.
Bucky stops and Steve almost runs into him. “Oh, hey! That dive near your place where we used to try to pick up girls is still here! Or at least, it’s the same building…”
“Try being the operative word,” says Steve. “I’m pretty sure we’d have more luck finding romance at this Starbucks than back then.”
“Speak for yourself,” Bucky says loftily, tossing his head like a stallion. “Long hair on guys is very in these days, or so Nat tells me.”
“You were such a dashing punk,” Steve smiles. “Ever the lady’s man.”
“Yeah, and if you hadn’t been so busy trying to get into Uncle Sam’s pants, you might’ve had time to be jealous of me.”
“You getting fresh with me, Barnes?” Steve puts his dukes up in a mock fighting gesture, blue eyes scrunched up in laughter. Then he turns it into a playful wrist-grab and reels Bucky in like a fish.
“C’mere, you.”
Bucky feels Steve’s arms wrap around his back, pressing their bodies together so tightly that his breath hitches. It’s a long, warm embrace. The sun descending past the bridge’s struts and cables turns everything into a golden black cut-out.
“I missed you, Bucky,” Steve whispers. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I put too much pressure on you, on us, on the empty promises I didn’t know how to keep. I’m sorry that I couldn’t say the words when you needed to hear them the most.”
Bucky closes his eyes, feels Steve’s steady heartbeat kick against his chest.
“I love you, Bucky Barnes. Don’t ever forget it.”
“If you squeeze me any harder, your collar is gonna get real wet,” Bucky says in a muffled voice, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even turn his head and press his lips to Steve’s, though Lord knows he aches for it. For the first time in ages, there’s time enough to spare, and a whole future to look forward to. And as he stares at the Brooklyn Bridge over Steve’s shoulder, the huge steel and granite structure wavering through a veil of unshed tears, Bucky feels the last of the winter chill seep out of his bones for good.
END