'til the end of the line

The days are getting longer, evening dragging out lazily, and Bucky likes it. He's in a better mood when it's warmer out, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why that might be. (Although there are certain circumstances where a little frost doesn't bother him at all, to be clear.)

The sun is still up when he does his animal check for the evening, bathing everything in golden twilight. Alpine and Bopp follow along as he feeds the goats even as they do their best to trip him in their ravenous excitement.

"Never once have I let you starve," he says sternly to the goats, scooping feed into their bowls and rolling his eyes when their teeth clink against his metal hand. "You're dramatic."

It's easy to talk to the animals. He does it without really thinking about it, and he thinks that might be when he's at his calmest. He's taking care of something, and serving a purpose. He can go to bed at night knowing they're better off because of him.

He walks his property line, checks the perimeter makes sure all the fences are secure, then heads around the front of the house. Bopp and Alpine stay with him, with Bopp at his side while Alpine meanders ahead. He's halfway across the yard, heading for the backyard, when Bopp suddenly stops and stands at attention, ears perking up as she stares toward the front of the house. Bucky's nose wrinkles at the thought of unexpected visitors, but then Bopp yips and her tail starts wagging wildly, and Bucky relaxes. She only gets that excited for certain guests, and they're always welcome.

"Who is it, girl?" Bucky asks with a laugh, looking up as Alpine trots off to meet whomever it is. He can tell that it's Loki by the sound of his footsteps on the gravel, and if he had a towel it would be wagging, too. "Did they bring us a treat, you think?"

When Bucky wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with a headache, he isn't exactly surprised. He's been drinking more than usual lately, being a little too careless, because it's bad enough coming to terms with the fact that he's attracted to men. Realizing he wants his best friend in some carnal, impossible way is a little harder to handle.

He still likes women. He still loves women, and lately he's been feeling the need to prove that to himself, going out multiple times a week to drink and pick up girls. He always has a good time, always loves it, so he doesn't understand why he still looks at Steve sometimes and wants. It's a problem that he doesn't know how to solve, and can't seem to ignore.

The last thing he remembers is shooting back cheap whiskey at a jazz hall and flirting with a girl with gorgeous cocoa skin. She drank gin like water and Bucky had tried to keep up with her, which probably led to him being in a stranger's bed with a hangover and a big blank spot where his memories of the night before should be.

A sea bird squawks in the distance and Bucky turns his head, surprised to see the ocean just yards from a door leading out onto the sand. Had they left Brooklyn?

The bed next to him is empty but there's evidence that someone slept next to him. The blankets are thrown back and the other pillow is twisted. Bucky yawns and reaches up to stretch, rubbing at his eyes and then looking down. He's in a white tank and matching boxers, which sort of surprises him. If he can't even remember the night before, how was he with it enough to put on his undergarments?

He can hear movement outside of the bedroom and he wonders if he should get up and go out there, or just wait here, when there's a sudden meow from his left. He turns his head to see a very fluffy white cat staring at him almost suspiciously, sitting primly with its tail covering its feet.

"Hello," he says to the cat. "Don't suppose you could tell me who lives here, huh? Always embarrassing when I can't remember names."

The first time that Bucky sees Steve, he drops his coffee.

That's a very unlikely thing for Bucky Barnes to do. He has the reflexes of a cat, after all. Even before the serum, before all the brainwashing and forced training, that was true. Even back when he was just the world's best sniper, second in command of the Howling Commandos, and Captain America's best friend.

It's that Steve that's standing on the street corner now-- the Steve he came to know during the war, after the serum had changed almost everything on the outside but left his heart unaltered. It's Steve staring at him with terror in his eyes, reaching out for him desperately.

This Steve is the last thing Bucky saw as he fell from that train and was presumed dead.


The coffee hits the ground and splashes against the cuffs of his jeans, and it's only the sudden and loud complaints from other people in line that makes Bucky tear his gaze away. He apologizes, gives the barista enough cash to cover the next few orders, and then looks back again, but Steve is gone. That's the first time.

It keeps happening and Bucky would think that he was finally going insane, but then Loki and Sylvie mention seeing things, too. Not Steve, though. They see Thor, each their own version, and Bucky takes in the information but doesn't share his own. He doesn't know why. It's not like he wants to hide anything from them. He just can't seem to find the words.

And then the phone calls start. The first time, Bucky hangs up before it gets too far. The next time, there's an eerie, oddly compelling voice telling him that he could fix things, that he could fix everything, if he only gets on a train at the end of the month.

"You could see Steve again," the voice promises. "You could see your sisters again. You could go back and never fall from that train. You could do everything over."

Bucky doesn't want to go back. He wants to be here, with Loki and Sylvie and his animals. This is where he wants to be, but the person keeps calling, and Steve keeps showing up looking so upset, so devastated, reaching out for him with his mouth open in a silent scream, and Bucky doesn't know anymore.

He's not sleeping, and he's having nightmares. These things aren't unusual for him, not really, but it's getting worse. He feels like a zombie, with dark circles under his eyes and skin gone pale, drinking too much coffee like that will help rather than make everything worse.

That day, he sees Steve three times and gets two more phone calls. He'll catch you this time, the voice says. He'll save you. Just get on the train.

Exhausted, he goes over to Loki and Sylvie's townhouse that night with Bopp in tow. He's quiet through dinner, and then goes upstairs to crawl into Loki's bed because it's the biggest and he wants them there. It's only when he's bracketed by them both that he falls asleep, but it's light and restless.

A few hours in, he has a nightmare. He's looking down at himself on an operating table, watching as they cut away skin and shove metal parts into his flesh, all the while speaking in Russian while Bucky screams and writhes. You won't have to go through any of it, that same voice says. Not if you get on the train.

"No," Bucky yells in his sleep, turning his sweat-drenched face into the pillow. "No, no, no."

Dates seemed to come back to Bucky slower than everything else. By now, most of the important ones are in a datebook mixed in with his journals. The birthdays of his sisters pass by, and then his mother's. He can't exactly remember his father's, but that doesn't bother him much.

He doesn't remember the date he got his papers, or when he was shipped overseas. He doesn't remember the date that he fell from the train. He doesn't even really remember the exact date that he arrived in Darrow, or when he first met Loki or Sylvie, but he remembers July 27th.

It's the date Loki found him on the beach and kissed him in the sand-- the date that they stopped dancing around each other and gave into their desires. It's the date everything changed and now here Bucky is exactly one year later, sitting on the sand in front of his little house by the sea. He stares up at the moon and wonders if he should have tried to do something to commemorate the anniversary. Something held him back, and he's sure that Loki would say that it was his shyness.

Loki said that once, that he was shy, and it's stuck with Bucky all this time because it's never how he would have described himself. He was always the outgoing one, but he changed in a lot of ways and when it came to Loki, and realizing what he liked, yeah-- maybe he's a little shy. He likes being romanced, likes it when Loki is sweet to him, but he rarely has the voice to ask for it.

Another part of him worried that maybe Loki wouldn't remember, and that would hurt. He doesn't think that Loki would find him silly for making note of the date, but Loki has lived so long. What's one year to a god?

He knows it's stupid and it's probably his own anxiety talking, but Loki hadn't mentioned it so Bucky didn't either, and now the day is here and he hates that he's alone. Before he can talk himself out of it, he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends Loki a picture of the water lapping at the sand, along with a message.

Everything changed a year ago today. I'm really glad that it did.

At some point, Bucky realizes that the reason that he's nowhere near as good at planning dates as he used to be is that there are too many options now. The world has changed, but he wants to have a night like the kind he used to, and he wants it with someone he loves now.

He can't have another night of fun and flirting at Coney Island, but maybe he can make something close to it, and it'll be like sharing a part of himself with Loki. That's what he hopes, anyway. Maybe a centuries old god won't care much for cotton candy and boardwalk games, but Loki said that he wanted to do something that Bucky wanted to do, and this is it.

Bucky even wears clothes that are a nod to his former self-- a short-sleeved button down tucked into belted slacks with a blue sport coat over the top, with his hair combed back and his beard trimmed. When he pulls up to the townhouse, the sun is just starting to set, painting the sky with orange and purple, and Bucky looks up to admire it for a moment before ringing the doorbell.

He feels a warm little flutter in his belly, and whether it's excitement over his plans or just over seeing Loki again, he can't be sure.

It's after 11pm and Bucky can't sleep, but not for the usual reasons. No, this reason is newer, and sometimes even a little more frustrating. This time he can't sleep because he's horny. In the past, this happened with a lot less frequency and when the issue did arise, so to speak, he could take care of it in a few minutes with some spit and his right hand.

But now he has other options. Now, sex isn't just some fond memory from time gone by. It's something that he has with somewhat astonishing regularity, and now it seems that his body has gotten accustomed to it. He tried jerking off and it only seemed to soothe the itch for a moment, like pressing a fingernail into a mosquito bite.

He rolls over in bed and reaches out to turn on his lamp, eyes catching on his phone. After a pause, he reaches out to touch the screen and check the time. Late, but not too late. He always finds himself wary of reaching out to Loki or Sylvie later at night because they live together, and while he knows that they aren't attached at the hip, it's likely that they spend a lot of their nights together, and he worries about being an interruption. He's a part of them but not a part of their household, and he never wants to intrude.

Eventually, he grabs the phone and rolls onto his back, feeling ridiculously like a teenager in how he's overthinking things. He'll just send a text and if Loki doesn't answer, it's just because he's busy.

Bopp misses you, he sends, blowing out a breath as he drops the phone to the bed and looks down at the slight bulge in his sleep pants. "Look what you made me do."

[cw: descriptions of a panic attack, mentions of PTSD]


Things have been going very well for Bucky as of late, so it's no real surprise when he's suddenly knocked on his ass again. That's how it goes, after all. That's his story. That's how it always goes.

This time, all he's doing is walking down the street. He's smiling, almost even laughing, sipping at an iced coffee. He's talking with a friend, gesturing with his prosthetic hand, ungloved and visible to anyone who looks at him, and anyone who did wouldn't even be able to tell how broken he is.

Because he is broken. He always will be in some way or another. His brain was taken apart and put back together over and over again, scrambled and reformed, and he'll never be healed from that, not completely. Not to mention all the trauma and abuse, decades of it, and he can have a few good months but he'll never be totally free.

This is proven to him as he's walking past some sort of street fair out in front of his building. It's noisy, with people milling about and several different radios tuned to different stations drowning each other out. They suddenly all go quiet, music and talking replaced with an eerie, quiet static.

Longing.

The word makes Bucky go still, face draining of color. It's a low, commanding male voice speaking in Russian, and Bucky feels a little like he might throw up.

Rusted.

It's coming from every radio, even one from a car passing by, windows rolled down to take advantage of the nice day. It's coming from everywhere and Bucky's coffee falls from his hand, plastic cracking as it breaks against the pavement. "No."

Furnace.

"No, no, no, please," Bucky pleads in Russian, reaching up to put his hands over his ears. It's so unexpected to hear his trigger words that he forgets for a moment that he's supposed to have been cured of them, rewired during his time in Wakanda. But then he remembers, and it doesn't help. Whoever is behind this place has proven how powerful they are, and who's to say that they didn't undo that, too?

Daybreak.

It's getting louder now, more forceful, and Bucky lets out a panicked shout as he stumbles backwards, breathing heavily and shaking his head. He's flooded so suddenly with adrenaline, like ice water being dumped over his head, and he can hear his heart beating. Air gets stuck in his chest and he can't breathe, and while he recognizes the signs of a panic attack, he can't seem to make it stop. He's too terrified of what might be about to happen to do anything but panic.

Seventeen.

"No, no, not again," he chokes out, turning to run into the lobby of his building to try and get away from it, only to find that they're playing in there too, pumping tinnily out of a speaker in the corner. He chokes out a sob and sinks to the floor, pushing himself back into a corner and covering his ears. Someone follows after him and Bucky holds out his hand. "Stop! Stay back."

Benign.

There are four more. Only four more words until Bucky finds out of the switch in his brain will be flipped, if he'll climb to his feet and stand at attention. Four more words until this city finds out if the Winter Soldier is ready to comply.





[Help him. Have your pup be the person he was walking with and/or the one who finds him in the lobby. Despite his fears, the trigger words will not do anything because he's still cured, but he's still going through one hell of a PTSD episode.]

[From here.]


“Yes, an actual bed,” Bucky says with a genuine laugh of his own, spurred on by lovely sound of Sylvie’s own laughter. He finds himself wanting to make her laugh again and again.

They get dressed and the blanket disappears back from wherever it came, and the walk back to Bucky’s building is pleasant and calm, even if he does feel anticipation rising in his belly. Sometimes she makes him feel as if he’s on fire, her and Loki both. He hasn’t felt like this since he was just a dumb kid whose only concern was trying to figure out which girl at the dance hall might let him under her skirt.

Once they make it into the building and inside the elevator, Bucky hits the button for his floor and then stands next to her with his hands behind his back, trying not to touch her, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to so much that he’s afraid that he won’t be able to stop once he does.

In his time in Darrow, Bucky has settled into something of a routine. It's a little similar to the one he had in New York, but this one is a little different. There is no blip, or reverse blip, to navigate. No news of the Avengers and all their allies and foes to track, no therapy appointments, no amends to make.

Now, he has a dog. A lot of his day seems to revolve around Bopp, but he doesn't think that it's a bad thing. She helps him stick to a routine, which he finds comfort in. A routine implies stability, and after so long of nothing but chaos, that's what he needs.

As he's finishing taking her on her nightly walk, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans despite the chill lingering in the air, he spots Dani heading for the door of their building. He hurries a bit to get out and front of her and open with the door, and Bopp perks up at the sight of her, tongue lolling out as she pants.

"Hey," Bucky says as he holds the door open, smiling at her. "Long night?"

It’s been a long time since Bucky has been to any sort of family cookout. Nearly 80 years, in fact, since before Prospect Park went from a place where people gathered to a place that housed supplies for a war that took so much. It took Bucky, and it took Steve, and so many others who weren’t able to come back.

The cake that sits on the passenger seat, with Bucky reaching out one hand to hold it steady, would have been a delicacy back then. Now he isn’t sure that it will be enough, but going into grocery stores these days kind of makes him go into sensory overload, so he grabbed the first thing that looked acceptable and bolted. He can’t show up empty-handed. Sam would never let him hear the end of it.

He’s in high spirits as he navigates his rented truck through the outskirts of Atlanta, windows down as the hot, muggy air blows through his hair. He isn’t sure that he’s felt this good since those days back in Prospect Park, with Steve rolling his eyes at him as Bucky called out to the girls that passed by. Respectfully, of course.

Usually, Bucky doesn’t look forward to crowds of people, especially one where everyone will know who he is and might ask questions, but he’s excited for this. He’s tapping his fingers to the beat of the music, and tipping his head back to feel the sun on his skin.

That’s probably when he should have known that things were about to go haywire.

He parks his truck and looks out to see a party in full swing, slipping on his sunglasses and scooping up his cake. One deep breath, and then he opens the door and steps out, ready to be greeted by Sam or his nephews or their beautiful mother, or whoever might approach him.

Except no one does, because all he does is blink and suddenly, he isn’t in Atlanta anymore. Instead of a party on the water, he’s at the edge of a park, with the sun setting instead of being high in the sky.

“What the hell?” He blinks again, and then swallows hard as he feels a brief flare of panic. Bucky knows what it feels like to lose time, and to wake up somewhere else, but this isn’t that. No one can do that to him anymore, and no time has passed. He still has the cake in his hand, and his back and thighs are still warm from the leather seats in the truck that is no longer there.

Bucky sighs and then closes his eyes, reaching up with his metallic hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Fantastic.