Work Text:
There was a distinct sort of “poshness” to everything about this place. The quaintness of the streets, the history of the buildings, the fashion choices of the locals. London was not Brooklyn, that much was certain.
Of course, he hadn’t expected it to be. That was the point. To get away, to go elsewhere, to be just two more bodies in a sea of people, moving about the earth in a quiet and unobtrusive existence. That was his goal. No guns, no knives, no uniforms, and no shield. Just them. Just human flesh and human flesh.
And one metal arm. There was little he could do about that.
Hand in hand, he and Steve walked the streets of London, taking in the sights, the smells, the feeling of being away from everything that normally followed them. Steve looked relaxed as they walked; calm and quiet. Peaceful. It made Bucky’s heart feel too full for his chest. Despite everything, despite them finding each other once again, being together, sharing memories, and feelings, and touches, and smiles--there were still too many days where the stress and the pain of seventy wasted years, lost years, made their way onto Steve’s face.
This was better. This was right.
It was because Bucky had lost himself in staring at Steve as they walked, and because Steve then caught him doing so, that they ran into a pair of men on the sidewalk. Apologies flew as they helped the two men up, because, well, super soldier bodies were like brick walls at times, and colliding with said bodies often left the average person sprawling.
Bucky helped the dark-haired man up. He was tall, though not as tall as Steve, lanky and pale, and scowling in a disinterested manner. Steve helped the smaller one.
“Sorry, sorry,” Steve was saying, over and over again. Always more polite than necessary. Or, at least, politer than Bucky. He made sure the shorter, fairer man was steady on his feet, then stepped back. “We’re so sorry. We should have been paying attention.”
Speak for yourself, pal. Bucky wasn’t sorry. Well, he supposed he should be. But it wasn’t that big a deal, in the grand scheme of things. He had other things to be sorry for first. A bump on the sidewalk was nothing.
Steve elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow! What?”
Oh, fine. He knew that look. What that widening of the eyes, and the slight jerk of the head meant.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” It took all his effort not to roll his eyes, so he wasn’t sure his tone sounded all that sincere. Oh well. Steve seemed satisfied.
“It’s perfectly all right,” the smaller man said. Damn he was short. Not much taller than Nat. Maybe even shorter than Stark. “No harm done. Isn’t that right, Sherlock?”
The tall man was patting down the pockets of his long black coat. “I’ve lost the vial,” he muttered, his searching becoming more frantic.
“Sherlock.”
“What? It’s not all right, John. I had the vial in my pocket and now it’s gone.”
Bucky felt something against his boot when he shifted, and reached down, plucking a small glass vial from the ground and holding it out. “Is this it?” It was filled with shavings of some kind. Metal, maybe. Copper, or at least copper colored.
“Yes,” the man--Sherlock (What a weird freakin’ name)--said, snatching it from Bucky’s hands. “Give me that.”
Bucky held his hands up and took a step back. “Whatever, man. Just trying to help.”
Sherlock put the vial back into his pocket, muttering something about the fate of the world--or a case, or something.
Suddenly everyone else was looking right at Bucky.
Oops. Must have said that out loud.
Sherlock, however, shrugged it off. “Not the worst I’ve been called, certainly. I’m sure you must hear all sorts of things, what with having a metal arm and all.”
“What?” Instinctively Bucky grabbed his bicep, as if to muffle the sounds that sometimes came from the limb as it moved. But he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, with a leather jacket, and a thick pair of gloves. When he did that--no one could tell his arm wasn’t flesh and blood.
“Your arm,” Sherlock said, very offhandedly, “it’s made entirely of metal. Is it not?”
Steve had taken Bucky’s other hand, the one closest to him, the flesh one, and while Bucky clenched his metal fingers into a hard fist, he reminded himself not to do the same with Steve’s hand in his other. He wasn’t about to admit it. He and Steve had come here for quiet, for anonymity, and there were still a few out there who hunted him--who hunted them both. “What makes you say that?” he probed.
The tall, lanky Sherlock waved a hand in his general direction. “The way you carry yourself. The way you stand. Your left arm is clearly heavier than your right, and you compensate. It’s not a significant difference, but it’s there. It also seems to cause you pain, judging by the strain in your shoulders and neck, but I think you don’t notice it any more. This isn’t a new development in your life. It also makes a distinct whirring sound, which is quiet at the moment, but I could hear quite clearly when you had so spectacularly laid me out on the ground a few moments ago. I suppose an ordinary person might not notice, might be fooled by the sleeves and the gloves, but I’m not ordinary. And also, you placed that hand on my arm when you helped me up--which was unasked for, by the way. The arm feels wrong. Definitely not human. I imagine it puts people off. The strangeness of it. Most people don’t like things that seem unnatural, or against the norm. Do you find that--“
“Sherlock!”
“What?” He turned to the smaller man--John--who had been attempting to cut him off for some time. John gave him a look, one of “those” looks. The kind that spoke volumes without saying a word. The kind that could only be exchanged between two people who knew each other inside and out.
Regardless, Bucky still thought this guy was an asshole.
“What?” Sherlock said again, his train of thought seemingly derailed. “Oh. Was I being rude again? I was being rude again, wasn’t I? How am I supposed to know? He has a metal arm, that’s a fact. I’m simply stating facts.”
“Don’t you think the loss of an arm might be a bit personal?” John said, half under his breath.
Sherlock seemed to consider this, while Bucky considered different ways to do away with this entire situation. “You’re right. The loss of a limb would be quite personal,” Sherlock said, more to John than anyone else. Then he turned back to Bucky. “Lost in combat, I assume. The both of you are clearly soldiers. Though you have none of the usual markers of the modern wars . . .” He went quiet then, puzzling over the matter.
“Who the hell is this guy?” Bucky whispered to Steve.
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s get out of here.” He said that quietly, but then he cleared his throat and addressed the two other man. “We’re gonna get going. But, uh, nice to meet you, I guess.” Pulling Steve along, Bucky couldn’t help himself-- “Your boyfriend’s a piece of work,” he said to John in a low voice as they passed.
John sputtered. “He’s not my boyfriend!”
Bucky stopped, shrugged. “Husband then. Sorry, I didn’t see any rings.” To make his point, he lifted his hand and waggled his fingers about, letting his own ring glimmer in the sunlight.
“He’s not my husband either.” John had gone red. Very red. Kinda like Stevie did at times. Bucky liked that. Had a soft spot for it.
And he couldn’t resist.
“Oh, well,” Bucky said, “my mistake, I guess.”
“I mean, we live together, but not like that,” John continued, babbling a bit. “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not together. We just live together. Just roommates. Just living.”
“Okay. Sure, pal. I get it. Steve and I ‘just lived together’ for a while too.” He winked, and pulled Steve closer, under his arm, kissing him as they walked away.
They didn’t look back, but Steve pulled back after a moment. “I think my boyfriend’s a piece of work.”
“I’m your husband.”
“True. Still. Don’t you think that was a little much? You didn’t have to tease them like that. We don’t even know them.”
“The guy went on and on about my arm, Stevie. Besides, I know that look. They’re kidding themselves, just like we were.”
“It was the thirties. And what look? On which one?”
“Does it matter?”
Steve glanced back over their shoulders, then smiled. “No. No, I guess it doesn’t.”
“We should go back to the hotel and fuck like rabbits, ya know, in their honor.”
Steve burst out laughing. “You’re terrible.”
“You like it. And you want it.”
They ended up back at the hotel--neither one kidding themselves about how they felt. And maybe, just maybe, well . . . they liked to think that maybe they weren’t alone in that.