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Bucky walks out of a tollbooth on the deserted Robert Kane Memorial Bridge into Gotham.
This is an unexpected development, as until this moment, Bucky was under the impression that he was slipping unnoticed out the back door of the Oblivion Bar and Inn.
"Fuck," Bucky says to nobody in particular.
He sticks his head back into the tollbooth and finds... a tollbooth.
"Fuck me," he says to the Gotham night.
"Buy me a drink first," the Gotham night says back.
"Jesus christ!" Bucky whirls around to find that the abandoned bridge isn't so abandoned anymore. Bridge lights glint off of a vaguely Art Deco metal mask shadowed by the broad brim of a hat that was old fashioned even in Bucky's day. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Do I have to have a name?" The chatty piece of Gotham night melts out of a shadow revealing a wiry body wrapped in a notably not-black cape and a decidedly modern bulletproof vest.
"It'd help," Bucky's ingrained paranoia says.
While the whole outfit taken together isn't the most ominous thing Bucky's ever encountered, he may be a little on edge.
"It would be convenient," agrees Gotham's acting welcoming committee, watching the swooping lights of another bridge through the mist, to give Bucky the time he needs in order to accept that he's not hallucinating.
Or, at least, he assumes that's what's going on. Always hard to tell behind a mask.
As lurking outfits go, Bucky rates this one a seven out of ten on the intimidation scale. Western outlaw chic isn't exactly striking terror these days, but the look deserves some recognition for the creative color scheme in a world of black. "You some kind of vigilante?"
"Among other things." Gotham Night reaches up with a gloved hand to settle their mask, dark gloves stark against the silvery metal.
"I thought vigilante was a full time job around here."
"Oh, it is." Gotham Night steps into the lee of the tollbooth. "I need at least four of me to keep up with the vigilante side alone."
"Ain't this the bats' city?" The words slip out before Bucky can remind himself that it's none of his business and he doesn't care.
"It was my city first." A stray gust of wind makes Gotham Night's cape flare dramatically revealing grey trousers and a matched pair of pistols. Bucky mentally ups their intimidation rating to an eight for general audiences. If he wasn't him, he'd probably be intimidated.
At least Gotham doesn't sound like they're recruiting him--he's gotta get his own head together first before he goes looking out for complete strangers. Then again, he's only known Lesser Gotham Drama about ten minutes, and Bucky doesn't always get what he wants.
Yeah, that was an understatement.
"Huh," Bucky eventually says to the world at large for no reason other than that he's not wearing a muzzle and he can do things like that these days.
"Problem?" Gotham Night sounds amused, and there's something like silent laughter in the tilt of the hat.
Yes. So many. First of all, he's on a fucking bridge to Gotham in the middle of the night.
But then, considering that his personal Problem Scale runs from 'a wrong coffee order' to 'seven decades as a murder muppet,' he's probably always going to have some kind of problem.
"Nope," Bucky says, and changes the subject: "So, you're really working the neutrals there. Is this more of the a not-a-bat-it-was-my-city-first thing?"
Gotham Night snorts out loud at that. "It wasn't that intentional. You either die on the cutting edge of fashion or live long enough to see yourself become a basic bitch."
It's Bucky's turn to choke on unexpected laughter at the dry delivery. Maybe it's that liminal time of night talking, but the less emo side of Gotham vigilantism is growing on him. "You're not who I woulda expected," he admits.
"You expected someone more Bat flavored?"
"I wasn't planning to go around licking 'em. But yeah, I guess."
The Night clears their throat. "That's disgusting."
"No kidding," Bucky says. "The buildup under a bulletproof vest alone..." He may not remember much, but in hindsight, he's surprised some of his targets on extended missions didn't smell him coming.
Bucky would fidget with the strap of his backpack to fill the silence if it wasn't sitting under the table of some interdimensional bar.
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans rather than let them hang out in the open where they can shake at the idea of somebody opening his pack and reading the journals. "If you're not a Bat," he says, "what the hell are you?"
The hat inclines towards Bucky. "I'm a specialist."
When it doesn't seem too likely that Bucky's new pal the specialist has anything else to say on the matter, Bucky says, "Well don't I feel special."
"You should," the Specialist of Gotham says. "I don't come all this way to greet just anyone."
So they're just here for the Winter Soldier, then. Playing second fiddle to himself doesn't get less disappointing. "I don't do that anymore."
"It's a crime that you were ever forced to," Gotham Specialist says with the finality of the grave.
Bucky's not sure what to say to that. "I mean, literally, yeah," he settles on. He doesn't say that a Winter Soldier/Hydra Reunion Tour isn't entirely off the table yet. Instead, he goes with: "You know I still got triggers in my brain?"
"I know Hydra have you chained to them," Gotham says.
Close enough. Wouldn't want the Winter Soldier rampaging in Gotham. They got enough rampaging going on in there already. "You know what they say: all chains lead back to Hydra."
One of the bridge's lights is flickering.
"Not all chains," the Gotham night says eventually.
Bucky wishes he had a name for the guy--or whatever. The conversation's getting too intimate for off the cuff nicknames. "You got experience with chains?"
The night's sigh has the kind of exhaustion that comes straight from the soul. "I did say that I'm a specialist."
"In chains?"
"In autonomy."
"I could use some more of that," Bucky admits.
Night Specialist tilts their chin in the direction of Gotham. "If you come with me, I can guarantee you asylum."
Now, he's being recruited. "What's the catch?"
"No catch for now," Autonomous Gotham says with a worrying lack of specificity.
Fuck it. Maybe there are worse things than being recruited. It's not like Bucky's got anywhere else to be since an entire bar pulled over and dropped him off by the side of the road in New Jersey.
Things were simpler when his biggest immediate dilemma was deciding what kind of beer to order next and not getting the foam up his nose.
"Or we could stand here on the bridge being cryptic at each other all night if you prefer," Gotham says.
"Nah, that's enough cryptic for one night." It's kind of starting to give him a headache. "Got a question first."
"Go on."
"Am I allowed to turn around and walk away?"
"Back into the tollbooth?"
Bucky rolls his eyes. "I was thinkin' more like that way across the river." Away from Gotham, like the sane people do. Then he can take off back to Europe. Or maybe South America for a change.
"Yes," Gotham Night says, as serious as Bucky's heard them yet. "But you'll never stop running."
He can hear their cape flapping in the wind.
"Maybe I like running." He doesn't, actually.
"But what if you could stop?"
That's the kind of thing Bucky tries not to imagine too hard. Stopping. Having his own space for the first time in his life, if you don't count a cryo chamber. Some place warm and dry, or wet if he feels like taking a hot shower.
God, the bar is low.
Bucky takes a deep breath of river mist, and immediately regrets it. But the infamous Gotham river stink does clear his head enough to knock him all the way into honesty. "There ain't much in this world that I want more," Bucky admits.
The Gotham night stands shoulder to shoulder with him, looking at the gilded silhouette of old Gotham through the mist. All soft edges and welcoming light.
Bucky knows the momentary beauty is an illusion, but it's pretty for now. "Is it like this every night?" Bucky jerks his chin at the city lights making it glow.
"With the mist, always." Gotham Night says, wistful, fond, and not at all biased. "The gas lamps were beautiful on nights like this."
That's what his ma used to say too. Electricity in Brooklyn was convenient as hell when they could afford it. But the gaslit Narrows had a kind of ethereal beauty on misty nights. "...I could get used to it," Bucky says after a moment, uneasy with his nostalgia for a time and place he's not old enough to remember as well as he apparently does.
"So stop running." Gotham Night says, quiet with the shift in mood. "Just one night." They pause, and he can feel them watching him. "I'd like to take you to meet someone in the evening."
"Is that someone a Bat?" Bucky asks, resigned.
"No. No Bats. I promise."
Miraculously, Bucky believes them.
"One night," he says. "No catches. I'm not gonna promise more." Because Bucky is tired to the goddamn marrow.
"I'm not asking for a promise."
Bucky can't shake a sudden disquiet. Because their emphasis was on 'I'm'.
"Yeah, okay." He can always take off in the morning. It's not like he needs to sleep. It just sounds really nice right now. "You got a deal."
"Go home, then," the Gotham Night says. "Rest. I'll call on you after sunset."
Bucky scoffs. Going home sounds amazing. "I just walked out of a tollbooth, pal. You think I got a home to go to?"
The anthropomorphic personification of the Gotham night dips into a pouch on their belt and pulls out a jingling keyring. Yes," they say, tossing it to Bucky. "I do."
By the time Bucky looks up from the keys in his palm, they've walked away, nearly to the edge of the bridge, blurring around the edges.
"Hey! Who the hell gives a complete stranger the keys to their life?" Bucky calls, holding up the keyring in one hand. It's got a 1987 Mardi Gras key fob on it. Also keys: two house, one motorcycle, one post office. One deposit box.
"It's not my life," the night calls back. "It's yours if you want it." They jump easily over the railing, disappearing into the darkness below.
"I did not agree to this!" Bucky shouts after them. "You can't just--go around giving people a life!" This time, the Gotham goddamn Night does not deign to answer.
Bucky makes a frustrated noise into the night and kicks one of the bollards standing around the tollbooth, flattening it to the concrete.
He doesn't feel better for it.
"Feel better?"
Bucky does not jump this time. It's only a small startle. Fuck.
"No."
it's getting a little concerning how many people have sneaked up on Bucky tonight. Granted, it's two, but considering that the usual number is zero, Bucky thinks he has a valid cause for concern here.
"The fuck are you?" Bucky asks, taking in either a carbon copy of his new pal, Gotham Night, or the original back to fuck with his head.
"Runaway," they say.
"That a name?"
"Yes."
Definitely not his disquieting buddy then. Looks like the Gotham Night contains multitudes.
Or at least three.
Two more copies drop onto the bridge without a sound, and all three wait politely for Bucky to turn a suspicious circle.
"You got any more of you?"
"Yeah," Runaway two says in a strong Narrows accent, deeper voice.
"But not here," Runaway three says with a sharp look at Two.
Yeah, that doesn't make Bucky feel better about shit getting weirder with Gotham Night Runaway. "How many? Am I gonna be bumping into you guys at the mini mart?"
They exchange glances, and Three decides to speak for them all once again. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to not say 'We are legion' here?"
Oh, yeah. One of these Runaways ain't like the others. There's a certain lack of mystique. "Who's 'we'?" Bucky asks instead of saying any of his thoughts out loud.
"Gotham's forgotten people." One says, picking up from Three before Three can jump in again. He can't blame them. Three's really got to work on the Runaway vibe.
Unfortunately, it seems like Three's already reset the tone for Bucky. "Might be harder to forget if you let up on the neutral aesthetic."
"Some of us prefer to be forgotten," Three says, unrepentant.
Bucky likes Three. "Relatable."
He gets the idea that Three's got a cheeky grin on under mask. "I figured," Runaway Three says.
"Are we going to stand out here all night?" Runaway Two asks. Somebody's peeved.
"I guess that's up to him," Runaway Three says.
"I already got the keys," Bucky says. "I dunno that I need an honor guard on the way in though."
They exchange a look between them.
"Or is this to make sure I don't skip town?" Bucky asks.
"That one," Three says, ignoring the other two. "Sorry."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," Bucky says. "Get movin'. I'm not gettin' any younger here."
All three make a sound of disbelief. "You're not getting much older either," Three points out, falling into step next to him while One and Two take up positions subtly ahead and behind.
"Worried the Batman's gonna turn up to kick my ass for breaking his rules?"
"What rule?" Three asks, while One says: "Yes."
Bucky huffs. "The a rule against supers?"
"Metas," Two says, apparently over their pique enough to contribute again. "You're no meta."
"And Gotham always accepts her own," One adds, the most authentic of the three, assuming Bucky's welcoming committee of one was the original. "Whether it's in her best interests or not," they say under their breath. "So I guess that includes you."
"But I'm sure you're just super to know," Three chimes in before the mood gets weirder.
He appreciates that.
Bucky gets the idea that One and Two deeply regret being assigned with Three for this job, and he bites the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh. "Thanks. I used to be," he says to Three.
And follows them into the mist.
Not like he had anywhere in particular to go anyway.
"So, what's up with the Oblivion Bar?" Bucky asks offhand, completely casual. Neutral. Strictly small talk between new buddies.
Because he can't shake the feeling that the Oblivion and Gotham are in cahoots.
Weirder things have happened. To Bucky alone.
Bucky does not run away in the morning. Or the afternoon. And by evening, he's comfortably stretched out on the carpet in his empty Crime Alley apartment, smoking a cigarette.
Turns out, there's some people in Gotham grateful enough to be rescued from a mugger that they hand over their cash voluntarily to the guy who stepped in.
It's not a lot of cash. And it's not like Bucky took all of it. Didn't even accept much of it. Not in this part of Gotham, 'cause he's not an asshole. But a couple packs of cheap cigarettes and a lighter aren't too much of an ask.
Shoulda thought about an ashtray though.
Bucky stubs out the cigarette on his metal arm and leaves the butt on the counter when the expected knock on his door finally comes.
"Hey, sailor," Three says, unmistakable and welcome.
The other Runaway snorts and nods towards the stairwell. "Ready to meet my friend?" Original asks.
No.
"Sure. Least I can do for the accommodations," Bucky says, fishing the keys out of his pocket and holding them out.
Original holds up their hands. "Keep them."
Bucky hesitates with the keys poking into his palm. Then folds his fingers over them and, against every screaming instinct but one, puts them in his pocket.
"So where're we going?" Bucky asks when they step out of the stairwell, in an effort to ignore the weirdness of having bodyguards instead of being the bodyguard. He's still not entirely convinced he needs them, but he won't mind a tour guide or three.
"Car," Three says, and Bucky stops short on the sidewalk, staring at a late-model SUV some color too dark to see but too light to be black. One or Two, he assumes, is in the driver's seat.
Then again, they could be seventeen and twenty six, for all he knows.
"Car," Bucky repeats, wondering vaguely if these ghosts of Old Gotham have any business driving cars. Yet here they all are. "Huh," he says, and gets in between Three and Original, who pauses almost like they're sniffing the air before climbing in.
He's not even surprised when another SUV pulls out behind them.
"Is all this really necessary?"
"Yes," Original says, with enough conviction that Bucky lets go of the line of questioning without a fight.
"Not gonna blindfold me for it?"
Original and Three, and Two in the rear view mirror all stare at Bucky. "Why would we do that?" Three asks.
"Dunno. Reminds me of a kidnapping, I guess."
"It's a pretty damn voluntary kidnapping," Three says, and Original snorts.
Original also takes out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Bucky. "Thank you for your cooperation," they say.
Bucky huffs but accepts the cigarette. "Not making it sound any less like a kidnapping, pal."
Two lets out an aggrieved sigh from the front seat. "Those things'll kill you."
"They haven't yet," Bucky and Original say between flares of the lighter.
Bucky snickers, smoke streaming out his nose in little dragon puffs. Calling Original and Three "pals" is becoming less like a verbal tic and more like it could be something genuine.
He offers Original a little grin, accepts a nod from the hat, and settles back to watch Gotham go by.
Calling them Original, One, Two, and Three is a lot more practical, but he's been wondering: "So. Runaway?"
"Mmm," Original agrees, lifting their mask enough to light the cigarette. Underneath, Bucky gets a flash of killer jawline in shades of cool sepia that wouldn't be out of place in an old timey photograph.
"That's a pretty relatable name."
They laugh, showing off a flash of easy smile in the shadow between the mask and their skin. "I thought you might feel that way."
"What was the big secret deal about it last night?" Bucky blows smoke out the window Original cracked open.
"Wouldn't you have been suspicious? It could've been a ploy for your sympathy."
Bucky would have been suspicious. He considers being suspicious now, but he just can't work up the energy for it. "Yeah. Probably. Can I ask why you picked Runaway?"
Original hesitates, wrapping their lips around the end of the cigarette for a deep drag, and lingers with the smoke in their lungs before blowing it out. "I had a little trouble around 1847," they say eventually.
"Ah," Bucky says with the sneaking suspicion that he should be more surprised than this.
"Ah," they agree with a smaller and more private smile.
"Strong choice," Bucky says, reaching past Original to ash out the window.
Original toasts him with their cigarette. "Have you thought of a new name for yourself once you're free of the Winter Soldier?"
Bucky considers any number of pessimistic possibilities where the Winter Soldier is forever. Instead, he embraces a rare bout of cautious optimism and says, "I was thinking about giving 'Bucky' a try."
"You've got friends in high places," Bucky says to Original, staring up into the soaring natural stone arches beneath the foundation of Gotham Cathedral.
"Technically," Original says, "she's everywhere."
"So why are we here?"
"Drama," Three says in the tone of someone who's said their say and been overruled.
"Tradition," Two says.
"Significance," Original says with finality. They hold out their arms, one to the stalactites high above and one to Bucky. "Bucky Barnes? Lady Gotham."
Yeah. Significance is the right word. Goosebumps prickle at Bucky's skin and there's a clamminess to his spine he's pretty sure he hasn't felt since World War Two Germany. He can't shake the idea that whatever he says next is important.
Bucky inhales the smell of damp rock and improbable ozone, and says the only thing in his head: "It's good to be home."
The cave's petrichor takes on the damp minerality of a hotspring.
There's a presence to it. And Bucky could swear the presence is pleased.
"What's she say?" He asks Original.
"How should I know?" Original asks from behind their mask.
A hint of unamused sulfur curls around them, and Original snorts a laugh.
"She says 'welcome home.'" Original tells him, hiding exactly none of their amusement. "And she's taking personal offense at those chains in your mind."
"Join the club, Lady," Bucky says under his breath.
A playful puff of underground breeze dissipates the sulfur and ruffles the ends of Bucky's hair.
"Would you like her to do something about them?" Original translates.
Bucky would saw off his other arm, and whistle while he's doing it, if it'd take the trigger words away. "Yeah." he says, "I really would."
In the end, all Lady Gotham asks of him is three promises and his immortal soul, and god knows he's had that taken away from him before.
Hell, Bucky trusts her with his soul more than he trusts it to stay put on its own.
She's probably better qualified to keep it safe than he ever was.
That's it. That's the deal. Three promises and a soul.
Bucky receives:
- All ten trigger words removed and a big fuck you to Hydra.
- A place to disappear. From Hydra. From SHIELD. From the government. From Steve until Bucky's ready to see him again, however long that takes.
- Free passage through the shadows--the same privilege she extends to her Runaways for the purpose of scaring the shit out of innocent visitors.
In exchange for his promise to:
- Look out for Gotham's missed, lost, and forgotten--because who else's got the time when there's another noisy fuckwit in a mask around every corner? (Him. Apparently. Him and Runaway, all five and a half dozen of them.)
- Protect Her from existential threats--when the time comes, not if--which is a little concerning, but at least it ain't the Army.
- Stay put within city limits. Honestly, all he cares about that rule right now is it means no more running, no more hiding, no more mortar fire or sniper rifles or standing a week in the snow waiting for his target. And the food is better.
Square deal.
The utilitarian studio apartment in Crime Alley has a bathroom, a locking front door, a little kitchen and some peace and goddamn quiet in his head. It's basically a paradise for putting down those roots he's been craving, and Runaway hasn't made any noises like they're planning to take back the keys any time soon.
Between that and his deal with the Lady, what the hell else does Bucky need?
Well, aside from a beer, and that, he's got covered.
Tell St Peter at the Golden Gate-
Bucky pulls his phone out of his pocket and accepts the call without looking. "Hey, Three. What's goin' on?"
"Why do I have to be 'Three'? I could be One or Two," Three gripes, because Three's got some kind of friendly compulsion to bitch about their nickname at the beginning of every phone call.
"I don't make the rules," Bucky says like he always does. It's starting to feel like their secret handshake.
"They're stupid rules," Three says cheerfully. "Stupid rules are made to be broken."
"Damn, do you remind me of somebody I used to know," Bucky says, laughing.
"Is it Captain America? I bet it's Captain America."
The obsession with Captain America is entirely revenge for calling them Three, he's pretty sure.
Three is sort of an asshole. It's great.
"It is not Captain America," Bucky lies, opening the door to his refrigerator.
"Nah, it's definitely Captain America," Three says, voice going tinny as Bucky's phone hand drops and he stares into the fridge.
Or, at least, what's supposed to be his fridge. And not the goddamn Oblivion Bar and Inn. "What the fuck."
Bucky closes the refrigerator door.
"You're going to have to narrow that down before I can identify this particular fuck," Three informs him.
Bucky tongues at a molar, staring at the wayward appliance and drumming his metal fingers on the counter. He puts the phone on speaker. "There is a bar. Inside my refrigerator. And I sure as shit didn't put it there."
"Oh!" Three laughs. "That's the Oblivion."
"Ah. You know it. Great." Bucky blows out a long breath and leans his elbows on the counter. "So, hey, I got a question."
"Why the fuck is it in your refrigerator?"
Bucky nods along. "Why the fuck is it in my refrigerator."
"Otherdimensional hijinks. But it's always got a back door somewhere in Gotham."
Figures.
"My refrigerator used to have beer in it," Bucky complains.
"Technically, it still does."
Bucky opens his mouth. Bucky closes his mouth. He can't actually argue with that. He rubs his temples. "But why is the bar in in my refrigerator?"
"It's got a door, right?"
The tollbooth had a door too, and Bucky suspects this entire strange turn in a very strange life is about to make the most mundane sort of sense. For a given value of Bucky Barnes mundane.
"So the door rotates around in Gotham, but that's fine, cause if you're allowed in, you kinda know where it is. Broadly." Three says, as if this is at all a reasonable way to run a business. "Most of the time, it's the kind of door you'd expect to walk through, but there've been some crazy picks."
"Does my refrigerator count as crazy?" Bucky is faintly concerned that it might not.
"Oh, yeah. Not the craziest. But pretty crazy," Three confirms, to Bucky's mild relief.
Bucky looks inside the refrigerator again, confirming that the bar is still there. "How long does it take to go away?"
"Depends. A few hours, a few days. You're really calm about this."
"What else am I supposed to do?" Bucky asks. He just fucking wanted a fucking beer.
"Uh. Ask if they take to-go orders?"
Bucky snorts and closes the fridge, then gathers up his keys and jacket, heading for the front door. "Nah. I'll leave it. You said regulars can always find the right door?"
"That's how the magic works. There was this kid, Timmy something or other, woke up to the bar in his bedroom closet. He saw some really weird shit for a couple of days, poor little guy." Three says.
Bucky looks around the apartment. Aside from a toothbrush, a couple of towels, his dirty laundry, and the contents of his refrigerator, the place is pretty bare. And he's still not out of the habit of wearing his guns whenever he's awake. Sometimes when he's asleep too. "Super," he says, walking straight out the front door. "Wanna meet up for a beer? My treat."
"Magic words," Three agrees. "Be there in fifteen."
Bucky makes a vaguely affirmative sound, closing the front door behind him. He hesitates over his keys before shrugging and leaving the door unlocked for any Oblivion customer desperate enough to enter through a stranger's refrigerator.
If any of them decide to steal a half full bottle of ranch and a used toothbrush, on the way through?
Frankly, they probably need 'em more than he does.