Chapter Text
Bucky’s always enjoyed reading. When they were younger, it had definitely been Steve who was more obviously nerdy when it came to that particular hobby, cramming several heavy volumes into his kit bag when he finally enlisted. But Bucky, while maybe a little slower at getting through a book, has never lost it. That love of becoming lost in a world of his own choice, living lives through others, hundreds of alternative realities all piled onto a single shelf.
Recently he’s been working his way through The Great Gatsby. There are so many other books that he could be discovering, he knows that— but this is so familiar. He doesn’t really remember reading it for the first time, back in his early twenties, but there’s a… feeling that the novel gives him. Maybe it’s an almost-memory (or maybe he just identifies way too much with Gatsby’s obsession with the past), he just really likes it. Even if it is depressing as hell.
So, (taking a leaf out of Steve’s book, he realises) Bucky’s been carrying Gatsby around with him in his bag. He doesn’t read it as he walks, he’s not that much of a nerd (he’s really not), but when he’s waiting for the subway, or he finds himself in a quiet coffee shop, there it is. Or, like now, when he’s waiting for Steve to come out of his medical appointment. One of many.
“Steve.” Bucky closes the book on his thumb and waves. “Steve, over here.” It’s been so long since he’s had to do this, and it brings a confusing mix of feelings. Nostalgia— but also a little sadness for his friend’s sake. Not that he’d ever let Steve know. Pity is the last thing he needs, or wants. But he can’t help but think of all those muscles, improved health and perfect eyesight, almost gifted like a miracle— and they’re right back where they started.
Steve’s squinting heavily, as if scrunching his eyes up will somehow force them into working better, but he does catch Bucky’s movements. He walks over, expression stiff.
“Right, sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
They stand there for a few moments, Steve staring at the ground, in embarrassment probably. Bucky letting him ride it out. Then Steve lets out a frustrated puff of air, and laughs humourlessly.
“God, I’d forgotten what it’s like. Well, not really, but it’s come on so fast. Must be some kind of record breaker. The fastest deterioration of eyesight in history.” He scuffs at a little patch of dirt with his shoe. “Like walkin’ in a grubby fishbowl.”
Bucky smiles a little as another memory comes floating in. His voice is quiet, gentle, when he looks down at Steve and says, “good thing I took care of that.”
“What?”
He can tell Steve recognises the words. Bucky reaches into his bag, and swaps his book for a small black case.
“Banner said these were ready. So I brought them over.” He hands it to Steve, who pops it open, and smirks at the contents.
“Stylish.”
Bucky knows Steve doesn’t like having to wear the glasses, maybe even hates it. And probably out of principle more than anything else. But when he slides the round tortoiseshell frames up his nose, it’s kind of crazy how much they actually compliment Steve’s features.
“You look good.”
Steve snorts in response. “Well, I can see, and that’s the main thing.” His expression grows a little softer though, as he glances up at Bucky for a moment. “Thank you, Buck.”
“How do you feel?”
“Honestly?” And finally, there’s that beautiful, tooth-filled, slightly-to-the-side smile that just warms Bucky to the core. “I feel like a pincushion.”
Bucky laughs, but only at Steve’s joke. “That’s rough. It’s good though, right? All these vaccines, and... stuff. They’re going to work?”
“That’s the plan,” says Steve, raising his eyebrows. He shakes his head a little, going on. “I guess I got so used to having it easy. I’ll be okay, it’s just… kind of a crash back to reality.”
“Just like the good old days.”
“Yeah. What about you?”
Steve’s question takes Bucky aback. He knows it shouldn’t, it’s Steve for Christ’s sake. But the truth is it’s been such a long time since somebody asked anything as simple as ‘how’s your day been?’ and he can’t help but let out a surprised, “me?”
What doesn’t surprise him is Steve’s response to this reaction, which is to frown with legitimate concern and doesn’t that just make him feel like a disaster. “Yeah,” says Steve. “Are you okay?”
Bucky pauses. There’s a lot of feelings n’ shit inside him (loath as he is to admit it), but actually putting it into words is more of a challenge. And what could Steve really say to any of it? It wouldn’t be fair to put that on him. My brainwashing’s fixed but somehow I feel more out of control than ever. I’ve been crying myself to sleep every other night, and half the time I forget why. What could anyone be expected to say to something like that? Go see a therapist, most likely.
“Well, I’ve been thinking clearly for the first time in about seventy years, haven’t been sent to murder anyone in the past… what? Half hour?” Bucky nudges Steve with his shoulder. “I’m taller’n you again.” And he paints a smile on his face, jaunty and straight out of the 40s. “Yeah. Things are good.”