semi_stable | Entries tagged with loki

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?"

It's late when they finally leave the club, and soon Bucky finds himself in the middle of the backseat of a stranger's car, squeezed in between Loki and Sylvie. It's a tight fit, but being pressed between the two people he loves the most is arguably Bucky's most favorite place to be.

All three of them are a little intoxicated, which is something of a rarity. Bucky had spent the night sneaking sips from a flask that Loki kept conjuring up. He must have been hiding it away with magic, because it certainly hadn't ruined the line of the obscenely tight black pants he has on.

Streetlights flicker through the windows as they pass by, the driver thankfully remaining quiet up front. Bucky has his good arm tucked around Sylvie's shoulders and his metal hand on Loki's thigh, fingers tracing along the inseam. There's a warm anticipation in the air, spicy like sweat and alcohol, and Bucky smiles to himself as his hand slides down the front of Sylvie's shirt, fingers tucked into the cup of her bra.

"So, am I just dropping you guys off and heading home?" Bucky asks in a low, playful voice, knowing full well that he's doing nothing of the sort. "Or did you have other plans for me?"

The last thing that Bucky remembers with any clarity is the harsh burn of cheap whiskey in his throat as Steve walked away from him after another failed double date. Trying to set Steve up with girls made him feel a bit like Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a mountain, like he's a little insane, trying the same thing over and over again and hoping for different results.

He'd tried again, and really thought he had something this time. Brenda was a small bookish girl, with glasses and a bouncy red ponytail, and her friend Claire was known for being, well-- money spent buying her drinks wasn't going to go to waste, from what he's heard. Bucky had charmed them both into coming to the dance hall and then drug Steve along with a strong arm around his shoulders, like he had so many times before, but it didn't matter.

Steve's lack of confidence when it came to women was all too apparent, especially to the girls that Bucky tried to set him up with, and he always threw in the towel before anything could ever happen. For some reason, Bucky kept trying. He was Sisyphus and Steve's virginity was that fucking boulder.

Bucky would take it himself, except that wasn't an option. It wouldn't ever be an option, despite what his traitorous imagination got up to.

So, Steve left and Bucky drank. He danced with Brenda and with Claire, then drank some more. And then more, because he's twenty years old and what was left of his meager paycheck wass burning a hole in his pocket, and he doesn't have any damn sense yet.

That led to the present moment-- Bucky waking up in a very comfortable bed with a dull ache in his head and a mouth full of cotton. He groans and rolls away from the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, curling up under the covers to ward off the chill. He stays like that for a few moments until his eyes pop open and he pushes himself up onto his elbow, scanning the unfamiliar bedroom. It looks like something out of picture show, all plush velvet and gold accents, and Bucky frowns. As far as he knew, Brenda and Claire were working class like him. He'd picked them up at a brownstone just down the street, as modest and plain as his own home.

The bedding is plush and soft, and Bucky lifts the duvet to confirm that he at least has underwear on. It wouldn't be the first time that he's woken up somewhere strange after a rough night, but never somewhere like this. A glance next to him tells him that he didn't sleep in the bed alone, given the rumpled bedding and the dented pillow. He reaches out to put his hand on the sheets, finding them still warm, and then lifts his head when he hears approaching footsteps.

Morning afters are always kind of awkward and Bucky sighs, reaching up to scrub his hands over his face.

"Here we go."

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 been a very long time since Bucky actually celebrated Christmas. It was a big deal growing up, even if his parents didn't always have money for gifts. His mom always at least made them something, like a hand-knitted sweater for him or dresses for his sisters, and his dad always made sure to bring home a hearty meal, even in the toughest of times. It wasn't about the gifts, anyway. Bucky just loved the spirit of it all growing up, the giving and togetherness. He loved the way the lights looked twinkling against the snow, and having snowball fights with friends in the park.

And then came war, where Christmas meant extra whiskey and rations and little else. Then came everything after, where there was no Christmas at all.

Last year, his first Christmas in Darrow, his first in relative peace in almost eighty years, he didn't feel much in the spirit. He bought Bopp some new toys and got Chinese takeout for himself, but the holiday passed with little fanfare.

This year, though. This year is different. He feels himself getting into the spirit, and maybe it's because he has friends and a home. More than that, thanks to Loki and Sylvie, he has family again.

It starts on impulse, with him buying a tree when he passes a cheerful little lot in the city, and then realizing that he needs lights and ornaments for the tree. That leads him to him buying icicle lights to put up across the front of his house, Christmas collars for Bopp and Alpine, and some high quality hot cocoa mix.

He cuts himself off after that, and puts on some classic Christmas songs while decorating his little tree. It makes him happy, along with wistful and nostalgic and so homesick it makes him ache, but he enjoys himself. All he's missing now is his new found family, so he sends a text to the group chat he created with Sylvie and Loki.

Want to spend Christmas Eve at my place?

It takes some doing, but he manages to get Bopp and Alpine together and still in the same photo, sitting in front of the crackling fireplace and decked out in their sparkly collars, and sends that as well. They'll probably find it adorable and ridiculous in somewhat equal measure, and the thought makes Bucky smile.

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."

When Loki suggests that they grab dinner, Bucky doesn't think much of it, really. It wouldn't be the first meal they've gotten together, not even the first at this particular restaurant. Honestly, once he thought about getting another one of those steaks, he stopped asking questions.

After spending the afternoon lounging around with Bopp and reading a book, he takes her for an evening walk and then showers. Since he has time, he trims the scruff on his face and cleans up the edges, and then pulls out the one black suit that he has in his closet. He bought it early on, first to blend in while he was spying on people, and then to do the same at the few parties he's been to.

It's too hot for a button down so he just puts on a dark blue v-neck tee underneath and finishes it off with his one black belt, and his one pair of dress shoes. As he pulls his watch off of the dresser, his eyes linger on the black leather gloves sitting in the top drawer. Normally, he'd wear then to cover his hand if he was dressing up and he pauses for a moment, looking down at his prosthetic and flexing his black and gold fingers. He swallows hard and then shuts the drawer, turning to look at himself in the mirror and smoothing his hair back with his hand.

"Ah, ah. Don't touch me. You'll get fur everywhere," he says as he hops out of Bopp's reach, turning to rub her behind the ears. "I'll be back."

It isn't too far to the steakhouse and the heat of the day is starting to burn away, so Bucky walks. He even whistles to himself a little on the way until someone looks at him and he realizes what he's doing. It makes him chuckle and he shakes his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket to compose a text.

I'm outside.

For the most part, making his living via the ChoreWeasel app works for Bucky. As a kid, he did odd jobs all over town, especially after the war started and before he got drafted. It was a good way to make money, and he felt as if he were being especially helpful.

This remains true, and now it's made easier for him. Each day that he feels like working, he can open the app and scroll through the jobs, picking the ones that he feels confident that he can take care of quickly. He likes the ones that require hard labor or heavy lifting, because they pay well and don't exert him like they would other people.

On this particular day, he breaks down and an old shed and tosses the remains into the rented dumpster, and then rakes an absolutely humongous yard out in the countryside. The latter one is fun because he takes Bopp with him and gets to watch her jump excitedly into leaf piles. Her joy and silliness can be a little infectious sometimes, and he's grateful all over again for her presence.

After that, he grabs some food and heads home to stuff his face, intending to stay in for the rest of the day, but that doesn't happen. His status on the app is still set to available, and keeps asking him to go install an air conditioner in an apartment window. It's a quick, easy job so he declines it, only to keep having it pop up, so he ends up accepting it.

This turns out to be a mistake, because after he arrives, it becomes pretty clear that the middle-aged woman had kept canceling the job until Bucky was the one who accepted it. She's sauntering around the apartment in a flimsy robe and too much make-up, obviously angling for some sort of hook up, and Bucky feels so entirely awkward. Maybe there are people out there using ChoreWeasel app to hook up, but he isn't sure why. There are other apps for that, where she'd be more successful.

After he installs the air conditioner, he once again declines her offer of coffee or something sweet, and makes his leave. She follows him all the way down to the lobby and out onto the street, grabbing at Bucky's arm.

"Are you sure that you wouldn't like to stay?" She asks with a simpering pout that Bucky doesn't find attractive at all, but he doesn't really want to be rude. Okay, he mostly doesn't want to fuck up his very good rating on the app.

"No, ma'am, sorry," he says to her, watching her nose wrinkle in irritation at the word. "I have other jobs that I need to get to."

"I could pay you more than they could," she says, and Bucky lets out a startled cough, cheeks flushing a little as he gently pulls his arm away from her hand. "And we'd have more fun."

"Yeah, those aren't the kind of jobs that I do, ma'am," he says as he takes another step back, wanting badly to just turn and flee. "Have a nice night."