Chapter Text
Bucky
(Present Day)
Steve Rogers said I never was one of the dancing folk. He told me that before I got all my memories back. Now, with them mostly fully back, I know he was wrong. I loved dancing, I always begged Steve to come out dancing with me and the girls. Never did, of course. I must’ve been a real bad dancer if he tried to get me to believe I didn’t dance at all.
My memories never come back in order, it’s like somebody dumped a bunch of dateless photographs onto the floor and asked me to sort them chronologically.
—
(?? ??, 1939)
I’m in a bar in Brooklyn, music plays faintly near the dance floor. I am sitting at a hightop table with Steve and two other girls. The bar is stuffy, dark and loud with the chatter of people. The odd lights cast a deep orange across the room.
I lean my elbows onto the table, “C’mon, Stevie, one dance with pretty Marlena right here,” I take a sloppy swig of my beer and wink at the girl on my left. She giggles and takes a sip of her own drink. Steve scoffs, leaning forward and snatching the beer from my hand. A couple of drops land on the table and I throw my hands up in disappointment.
“No thanks, Buck,” He shakes his head and smirks, “You guys go off, I’ll stay here.” I roll my eyes, then scoot off the stool and beckon the girls to follow me. I look back briefly, fragile little Steve is grinning at my back before meeting my eyes. He shakes his head, laughing and I turn back to the girls.
—
Suddenly, I’m back in my Brooklyn apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed, my normal arm’s elbow resting on my leg with my hand curled over my mouth. I’m in my sweatpants, T–shirt and socks, having woken up only a minute ago.
My apartment is bland, dark and generally empty.
It was never supposed to be that way. I had wanted to make it look lived in at least. Maybe a couch, bookshelf.
Instead I just… gave up. Too much work, I guess. My phone buzzed beside me.
Clint: do u want to do target practice with me
Me: no go away i have a job now
Clint: i have a job too
Me: what job do you have where you are free at 6 am on a monday
Clint: a reasonable one?
I put my phone down on the sheet next to me and debated just calling Sam and saying that I’m sick. Like hell he’d fall for that, though. Alpine curled herself into my lap, tucking her nose under the hem of my shirt and gently prodding my stomach with her wet nose.
My metal fingers flex against my knee. Coffee. I lift Alpine by her torso and onto the bed while I push myself off. She whines, then stretches. The ‘kitchen’ is really just one counter, stove, oven, microwave, and a five foot tall fridge pushed into a corner of my two room (counting the bathroom) apartment.
I pull the coffee maker out of the cabinet and place it on the counter. I then go through all the steps of making good coffee.
When I finally pour the coffee into a metal cup small little lines of steam wither into the air. I wrap my metal hand around the cup and bring it to my mouth. I down a good bit before dropping it almost immediately.
“Aw, hell!” My flesh hand flies up to my mouth and I fan it manically. I dart to my nightstand and grab a half empty cup of water. I down it quickly, my tongue still screaming. If I didn’t know pain, I would’ve thought that it was falling off. Alpine pads up to me and meows.
“I know, girl, I’m a wimp,” I stoke her head and her neck slowly, staring at the puddle of brown liquid on the floor. The alarm clock on my nightstand reads 6:10. Groan, I still have to clean up the spill, get dressed and ready.
By the time I’m done with that it’s around 6:30. I pour the remnants of the coffee from the pot and into another cup. Unironically, it has Captain America’s shield printed onto the front.
I grab my (Steve’s) jacket from the backboard of my bed and throw it on. Even though I don’t really get cold, I know that the November Brooklyn air isn’t going to be friendly. With the cup of coffee in hand, I walk to the door and unlock it. I wrap my hand around the circle handle and twist it open, I turn around and wave goodbye to Alpine.
The brown leather jacket doesn’t defend my stupid decision to wear a T–shirt like I would’ve liked it to. I quickly walk to my car, swing open the door, and catapult myself inside. I drop my cup into the cupholder and stick my keys into the ignition, eager to get the heat on as fast as possible.
And yes, I have a car. I’m not broke, just lazy.
I warm up after a brief couple of minutes of blowing on my flesh hand and waiting.
The drive to my work is long. Not too bad, though, since I only have to go in three times a week. Sam has me training agents at the Compound, since Fury claims the S.H.I.E.L.D Compound isn’t big enough for a hundred young adults a year.
I spend the next two hours listening to a bad mix of songs on the radio.
–
It’s eight by the time I pull into the driveway. I pull into the parking space with my name on the sign (I’m so cool) and pull my coffee from the center console. I walk quickly up the path way and let myself into the building with my badge (Yay!)
Sam is already speaking to the ‘campers’ –That’s what I like to call them, Sam doesn’t like it– in the middle of the large gymnasium.
“Ay, look who the cat dragged in,” Sam says when he catches sight of me.
“I’m not even late,”
“Don’t care, ya got here after them–” He gestures at the clump of people, “–So basically you’re late.”
I shrug off the jacket and hang it on a small hanger in the wall next to the door, placing my cup on the foot long shelf above it.
“We’re doing kicks today, aight?” He bumps my arm with the back of his hand while he passes me, leading the door.
“Ten laps,” He instructs, opening the double doors at the back of the gymnasium. A cold burst of wind hits me even from where I am standing. A couple of the ‘campers’ groan quietly, but take off into the cold.
“C’mon, Barnes, gotta make sure they aren’t skippin’ out,” Sam gestures for me to follow him out the door. I, myself, groan and take the jacket back off the hook and put it back on, quickly grabbing the coffee as well. What even was the point of putting them down?
I sit with my arms folded inwards like a bird with my coffee between both of my hands. The bench we sit at overlooks the large field Tony had added for no reason whatsoever. Grateful for it now, I guess.
“How have you been doing?” Sam asks, sitting comfortably with his giant puffy jacket.
“Fine,” I respond, not thinking that any more than that was necessary. The lie is easier than the truth, in the end.
“You doing fine in your apartment?”
“Yeah,”
“Y’know the compound does have extra rooms– as do I, at my house.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“It’d be like one long sleepover,” He drags his words, trying to sound more appealing.
“You’re allergic to cats.” I remind him.
He grunts, “Why do you even have that thing?” He wrinkles his nose, “You’re a softie now, aren’t you.”
I roll my eyes, “Alpine is great company, thanks.”
Sam puts on a face of exaggerated shock and hurt, “And I’m not?” he gasps.
“No–”
“Don’t even try to comfort me. I know I’m not enough!” He puts his hand to his forehead and leans back on the bench. I shove him lightly and he falls of backwards.
“Asshole,” I murmur, smirking.
Sam and his old man bones take a moment to climb back up and onto the bench, “No, you.”
Sam has me working on kicks with the ‘campers’ for the next five hours.
“You own other jackets, right?” Sam asks while we walk down the hall during lunch break.
I shrug, “This one’s warm,”
“Not what I asked.”
“Don’t ask questions.”
Sam shakes his head. The steps of our shoes echo as we walk down the long, empty hallway.
–
I arrive back home at six, crouching down after I open the door to pet Alpine.
“Hey,” I grunt, ruffling the fur on top of her head with my flesh thumb. She purs softly, sliding up against my leg.
I get up and go to the kitchen to find something to eat. I open the cabinet and peer inside. A pack of spaghetti sits waiting for me. I can make butter noodles.
I sit crosslegged on my bed not too long later. The bowl of noodles sits in between my thighs and Alpine has her chin rested on my leg. My laptop sits open in front of me, an episode of a random show I started watching a while ago plays.
I’m not really paying attention, I’m thinking about something else. Something else meaning Steve, of course.
–
(July 4th, 1933)
We’re at Steve’s house, like always. Sarah Roger’s probably sleeping, it’s late. Me and Steve are sitting across from each other on his bedroom floor. It’s his birthday.
“I think I know why ya don’t dance, Stevie,” I whisper, leaning forward slightly. 15 year old Steve raises his eyebrows in mock interest.
“Yeah? What’s that, Buck?” He says in a normal voice.
“Ya can’t dance!” I say it like I’ve figured out how to end all wars. I stare at Steve expectantly.
“Nope, I cannot, Buck.” He shakes his head, “Where do ya expect me to learn?” he asks, expecting me to sigh, lean back and forget about my brilliant discovery.
I do sigh, sit back, but I don’t forget about my discovery. I think about his question. Steve looks proud.
I very well do know the answer. My throat tickles.
“I’ll…” I purse my lips, thinking still, “I’ll teach ya.”
Steve sits forward in shock, “You’ll what?” He splutters, his eyes wide and mouth hung open.
I look towards the ground, ashamed, “Nothing– N’ver mind.”
Why’d I even bother.
“No– I mean, teach me.” Steve stands up quickly, dusting dust from the floor from his pants. My face falls back so that I can look up at him from the ground. I hope he can’t see the pink of my cheeks. Too dark.
Saliva blocks me from saying anything for a second, I swallow it back.
“You don’t have to–” Steve moves to sit back down.
“No! I will!” I push myself off the ground and catch Steve by the forearms to steady myself. He stumbles slightly as well, why’d I use him as an anchor?
“Holy shit we’re such losers,” He laughs, straightening up.
I grin, looking him in the eyes, “Tell me ‘bout it.” It comes out more like a hushed whisper than jokingly.
He stares at me in silence for a second.
What the hell?
My eyes are wide, my stomach full of damn monarch butterflies, and I’m staring at my best friend. Please don’t let me have a heart attack at the ripe age of 15. What is this?
“Um,” I start, taking my hands off his arms, “Yeah–” Steve blurts out. We both start laughing.
After catching my breath I start to explain the correct dancing stance.
He nods along quietly.
–
Something that Dr. Brennan says on my laptop jolts me back to present day. The present day where Steve left me for Peggy.
I miss him. I miss him so damn much.
I let out a long, exasperated sigh and stroke Alpine’s head.
“Your daddy’s a sad, gay, loser.”
–
Friday comes quickly. Bars of yellow light cast themselves onto my floor.
“Are you shitting me?” I leap out of bed and dart to get my clothes and get dressed. I yank on a pair of grey sweatpants and a dark red T–shirt. I pull on the brown leather jacket and frantically wave goodbye to Alpine.
I’m miserable driving through New York at seven in the morning, coffeeless and everything.
Terrible music plays on the radio. Something about some swift gal, a girl with spears? Who even knows nowadays?
Suddenly, a song I know fills my ears. I hear piano at first, then the beautiful voice of Don McLean.
“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile.”
This song wasn’t around back in the 40s, but Steve kept playing it maybe five years back. I remember Sam getting tired of it after a while and he kept asking Steve to play something else.
Steve always refused.
“Did you write the book of love? And do you have faith in God above? If the Bible tells you so.”
It’s one damn good song if you ask me.
“And can you teach me how to dance reaaaaaaaal slow? Well, I know that you’re in love with him, ‘cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym. You both kicked off your shoes. Man, I dig those rhythm and blues!”
I sing along quietly.
“I was a lonely teenage bronckin’ buck. With a pink carnation and a pickup truck.”
Six minutes later the song ends and I pull into the Compound lot.
–
At seven warm shower water pelts my back. I hold my hands over my face; I’m so fucking tired. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel.
I hum American Pie under my breath, raking a brush through my hair. It’s grown out rather long and I know I’ll have to cut it eventually. I tug on a random print T–shirt and pull some shorts on.
I walk out of the bathroom and crash onto the bed. I groan, and reach out blindly to pet Alpine who swats at my head.
I try to remember something that Steve had said.
“Kiss me, you piece of shit.”
Hmm, no I’m pretty sure that’s my imagination.
“You’re important to me, you piece of shit.”
Yup, that’s it. That doesn’t sound like Steve, though. That sounded like me. But I can see Steve saying it. I remember it. Vividly, I think.
I sit up.
I stare wide eyed at the wall.
“You’re important to me, you piece of shit.” I say to myself. I say it again and again and again.
I can’t remember what Steve sounded like.
My breath catches in my throat. No, somebody snatches it from my throat. Somebody with claws. I stop breathing.
My ribs stab into my heart.
His voice… Don’t let me forget his voice. Please…
I let out a shaking cry. Not a sob, a small cry.
I pull my knees to my chest. I dig my hands through my hair, my metal arm cold against my skin.
I start sobbing, this time. Ugly, loud, sobs.
It’s not a big deal. It’s a voice. It’s not a big deal…
My chest heaves and my throat burns. It’s a pretty big fucking deal.
I swallow, trying to catch my breath. I can’t seem to do anything.
I just want him back. Please, God, I want him back.
–
I wake up the next morning with a plasticy face. It’s still dark out, so it must be early. I wonder why I woke up. I sit up in bed, letting out a tear soaked groan. What a child I am, crying like that over such a small thing.
I glance at my phone once, quickly, then my eyes dart back to it. That’s why I woke up.
Ninety unread messages from Sam, another thirty from Bruce, fifty from Clint, along with a couple dozen missed calls from the lot.
“What the fuck…” I whisper, snatching my phone from my nightstand.
Two minutes ago:
Sam: Get your ass out of bed now.
Sam: Barnes get the fuck up.
Sam: I will break down the door.
Sam: Get to the compound NOW.
Clint: you should get over hear quickly.
Bruce: Just get over here man idk
Clint: good morning.
Pepper: Please get over here, Bucky.
Wizard: I don’t really know you but they all seem to think you’re going to want to see this.
I only scan a few before grabbing the leather jacket and bolting out of my apartment down onto the pavement. I throw myself into the front driver’s seat. I’m not even dressed. I haven’t had coffee. Doesn’t matter, Barnes. Something’s going on.
I break about ten driving laws in the hour that it takes me to get to the Compound. I pull in, not even bothering to find my parking space.
Sam stand out front, alone. He looks nervous. He’s shifting from foot to foot and looking everywhere but forward.
I slam my car door and jog up to Sam, “What’s going on?”
Sam just turns and walks into the building.
I can feel my stomach in my throat as we fast–walk down the hallway. We end up outside of Tony’s old lab. Sam stops right outside and turns towards me.
“Please– just don’t freak out, okay?” He pleads, frowning at me.
“What is it? Sam, tell me.” I beg him, trying to catch a glimpse of what was inside the room, but Sam blocked the view.
“It’s…” His voice quivers. I grab him by the shoulders and shove him out of the way. I pull down on the door handle and swing it open. I step inside, my flesh hand gripping the doorway as I search the room. I don’t even have to search long.
I stop. Everything stops. Pepper stops. Sam stops. Bruce stops. Strange stops. Clint stops. Fury stops. Steve stops. I inhale sharply, staring at him.
“Bucky,” Clint says slowly, “Calm down.”
“Buck–” Steve breathes. He’s sitting on an exam table in jeans and a hoodie, looking the same age that he looked when he left me.
“Calm down?” I breath, not taking my eyes off of Steve.
Nobody says anything.
There’s no way that could be Steve. Steve left me in 2023. He left me four years ago. I saw him old. I saw him old. I saw him give the shield to Sam. I saw him walk away. I saw him choose Peggy over me. And then I never saw him again. It’s impossible. This isn’t Steve.
I'm standing in my pajamas in front of my supposed-to-be-dead love of my life AKA best friend.
“Buck.” His voice quivers. Right. That’s what he sounds like.
I don’t even say anything. I can’t find anything to say. Leave. Leave. Leave. LEAVE. LEAVE.
I stumble backwards, then fast walk back to my car.
I don’t even know what to think. I saw somebody who looked and sounded like Steve sitting in front of me not even thirty second ago. I cup my head in my hands, still in the parking lot. I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Nobody comes out to get me. Valid, I guess.
I asked for him back. I’m getting what I want. Somewhat. It’s impossible. It’s impossible.
I pull my phone from my pocket and peer at the notifications popping up; five from Sam, three from Clint, four from Bruce. I expel a choked sigh and lay my forehead on the steering wheel.