In January of 2015 I did a Bucky Barnes Fic Fest, where I took 40 prompts and wrote mini Bucky fics based on them. Here are the results, in more or less the order they were written.
These fics are also available in an anthology at AO3.
There are three that were set in other universes I've written, so they've been posted elsewhere:
post-and-out: Bucky sitting on Steve's lap with Steve holding his hands while Peggy hurts him.
Title: Thirty Strokes
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They came home a little broken, but Peggy has never shied from the hard ways of fixing them up. (This is attached to the "Devils and Heathens" threesome 'verse, so was archived there as chapter two of three.)
Warnings: Mention of child murder. Kink (whipping with a riding crop).
Find "Thirty Strokes" here.
***
ophelia-rising: I was hoping for something with Bucky and Izzy in the "Hawkeye and Anklebiter" 'verse. I think a piece of day-to-day life would be fun!
Title: Tea And Superheroes
Rating: G
Summary: Nothing can shake Izzy's faith in the superhero Bucky Barnes. (This is attached to the Izzy Barton universe, so was archived as part of the Izzy Shorts.)
Find "Tea And Superheroes" here.
***
lilbrarian: Bucky with Izzy Barton and a dog or cat.
Title: Forever Home
Rating: G
Summary: Clint and Coulson probably won't be thrilled about this. (This is attached to the Izzy Barton universe, so was archived as part of the Izzy Shorts.)
Find "Forever Home" here.
Find the rest below!
captainofthewinter: I just want Bucky to go find Rumlow in an elevator, push the stop button and turn to him and say "it's nothing personal" in russian.
Title: Personal
Rating: R (violence, no significant sexual content)
Summary: Rumlow's recovering -- or he was, until he got onto the elevator.
Warnings: Racism and misogyny.
Notes: Thanks to tilthendoftheline and shrewreadings for help with the Russian! This one was not technically part of the Buckyfest, but it fit in so well that I rolled it in.
It's been months -- months in the burn unit, then in PT, but at least Hydra looks after its own (the benefits package tempts a lotta guys). Brock's a hero, and he's got no complaints. All the little kiddie Hydras look up to him. He's practically got a poster on their walls, like Grant Ward: the first open combatants in the war on Captain America, and Rumlow went straight up against him and against the Falcon. That he lost doesn't matter. He fought and fell bravely.
He could do with a little more action around the place now that he's up and walking, though. He'll never be what you'd call pretty again but even an ugly pug like him can get laid in New York; at this hospital in rural Buttfuck, Wyoming, where Hydra's got a grip on the staff and where they've stashed him until he can step up again, there's not a titty bar for miles.
So he gets what jollies he can, doing his laps around the hospital, visiting the younger kids, telling them stories about how he put one over on Steve fuckin' Rogers for months on end, how he still thinks with the right level of pain, they could make Captain America one of their own. He's safe in this hospital, king of this little castle, and the skin grafts are taking nicely. He'll have some kickass scars for sure.
He gets into the elevator one day to go down to the shitty garden on ground level, where the old-as-fuck actualfacts Granddaddy Hydra agents get out when the sun is nice, and an orderly gets on with him. He's wearing scrubs and has his hair back in some pussy ponytail, just the ends hanging down across his face, and Brock's working so hard on a smart remark about the fuckin' ponytail that he doesn't notice the long sleeves under the scrub shirt or the metal hand until it reaches out and pushes the stop button.
He steps back, puts his back to the wall (no glass here, no way out like Cap) and lifts his arms. It hurts to make fists, but pain is discipline.
"Nichevo lichnovo," the Winter Soldier says. Brock lets his guard down slightly. Maybe the Soldier's come back to the fold. Maybe this is a test.
"I don't speak Russian," he says.
There's a flash of a smile behind the loose tendrils of hair.
"It's an American expression, really," the Soldier says, turning to face him. No trace of an accent. Brock thinks he might be really fucked. "It means, It's nothing personal. My friend said you were fond of that phrase. Say it with me, now: Nichevo lichnovo."
Brock's guard rises again. The Soldier never enjoyed anything; he wasn't built to enjoy things. He's obviously enjoying himself now.
"Cap's here, huh?" he asks.
"No, he doesn't know I came. I found you all on my own," the Soldier says proudly. "Say it please: Nichevo lichnovo."
Brock feels his breath coming fast. If he can kill the Soldier, he'll be golden for fucking ever.
"No?" the Soldier asks, when he remains silent. "Okay."
His arm shoots out, Brock lifts to block it, there's a snap and a scream and he's hanging against the wall, held up by the Soldier's hand around his throat. Oh. It was him who screamed.
"Well," the Soldier says, twisting his broken arm with a crackle, "maybe it's a little personal. Can you say a little personal? Nemnogo lichnovo."
Brock thinks he could, if he could just get a breath, and he would; nobody's here to see his disgrace. But he can't breathe. He claws at the metal arm, fingernails breaking, skin grafts splitting open, and the Soldier just smiles.
That's when the pain really starts.
***
Bucky arrives home late on Sunday night; the house is quiet, Steve and Sam both already asleep. He sets the car keys on the counter so Sam will see, in the morning, that he got home safe. Sam doesn't need to know where he went, he doesn't have to tell; he's allowed to take the car if he asks first, and there are no trackers, no orders, he doesn't have to say where he went or what he did. But he has to ask if he can take the car, and Sam likes to know when he's home.
He pads quietly down the hallway, stopping outside Steve's room. The door's open, and he stops in the doorway. Inside, Steve is sleeping like he has since they were both kids, an image so indelible that it was one of the first things Bucky remembered: Steve curled in a ball under the blanket, just a mess of gold hair and his eyes showing -- even his ears and nose carefully tucked under to stave off the chill. It didn't change after his transformation.
He reminds himself that this is fine; he has permission, he's allowed. Encouraged, even. He slips out of his clothes, pulls on the flannel sleep pants Steve bought him, and lifts the blanket, quickly sliding under to keep the warm in. He butts up against Steve's back and sighs happily.
The day he remembered this was the best day: the clutch of Steve's body, the weight of Steve in his arms or the warmth of Steve wrapped around him. He remembered it in the middle of lunch and he said, cool as you like, "You were my fella," and Steve's eyes lit like a sunrise.
In the present, Steve makes a quiet grumbling noise, legs uncurling enough for Bucky to slip his knees in behind them, and tilts his hips so Bucky's arm fits in the dip of his waist.
"Thought you weren't back till tomorrow," he says, pulling Bucky's arm tighter around him.
"Drove fast," Bucky answers into his neck.
Steve laughs sleepily. "Welcome home. How was your therapy weekend retreat thing?"
"Went fine," Bucky said, and then, because Sam likes this kind of detail and Steve has started expecting it, "Worked on some rage issues."
"Productive?"
"Yeah. Miss me?"
"Yeah," Steve says. "You and your stupid cold knees."
Bucky smiles against his skin. "I'll warm up. Go back to sleep."
Sam and Steve aren't angels, Bucky knows this, but they also aren't even as close to broken as he is, and they wouldn't understand. When he goes to do his work, they think he's off at some anger-management workshop, or camping in the woods for a day or two. He doesn't think they'd try to stop him if they knew what he was doing, but they wouldn't be pleased.
What they know, for certain, is that he disappears for a day or two and comes back lighter -- he smiles more, and he genuinely feels happier -- so they leave him to it. That's the best part of being Bucky again: he's left to do his work in peace, and when the work is done, he gets to come home and curl up around Steve, secure in the knowledge that his fella and the world are both a little safer.
Anonymous: Bucky and the bad hair day.
Title: Style Me
Rating: PG
Summary: Bucky's having a bad life day.
Warnings: Little bit of PTSD.
***
"Does he...know?" Sam asked Steve, standing down the hall, carefully Not Watching Bucky working in the mirror.
Bucky generally didn't react when he heard stuff he wasn't supposed to -- there had been a lot of that in Hydra and old habits were hard to break -- but of course he knew, how could he not know.
"I don't like this," Bucky snapped, pulling singed hair out by the fistful.
"Hey man, I don't know white boy hair," Sam said, holding up his hands. "I mean, there's a smell, but -- "
Bucky snarled in the mirror and Steve stepped up, coming down the hall to rest a hand on his shoulder.
"You have to admit, Buck, it was getting kind of...unkempt anyway," he said.
"I don't like people being near my head with sharp objects," Bucky replied. "I can cut my own hair just fine."
Steve ruffled his hair, which fell out in clumps about four inches from his scalp. The takeover of the Hydra base had not gone a hundred percent to plan, and there had been some...fire. At least he wasn't burned, he thought, and Sam had helpfully sprayed him with a fire extinguisher (which was also, apparently, tough to wash out).
"Why don't you just let me trim the ends," Steve said. "I'll use safety scissors. Sam's niece left some here."
Bucky growled, but Steve's fingers, working their way into his scalp, did feel good. And Steve was trustworthy; Steve had every reason not to kill him.
"Hey, when you're done, I got a flat iron, we can style you," Sam called.
"Don't kill Sam, Sam's nice to us," Steve murmured, but Bucky was already suppressing a laugh.
"Okay, Rogers," he sighed, bending his head over the sink. "Style me."
resplendo: Clint Barton and Bucky Barnes, appropriately dressed and in a terrible truck wearing terrible sunglasses, shout/singing LADIES LOVE COUNTRY BOYS.
Title: Country Boys
Rating: PG
Summary: Undercover groceries were never taken so seriously.
***
"This mission," Clint said, "is important."
"This mission is a grocery run," Bucky pointed out.
"An undercover grocery run. In a small town. Where strangers are regarded with suspicion," Clint said.
"So the clothes," Bucky replied, waggling a finger between them. He was wearing a chambray shirt over a pair of work pants that were slightly too long for him, pulled from Clint's closet at the farmhouse. Clint was wearing a bright yellow rodeo shirt and jeans.
"And the truck, and the dog," Clint said.
"Yeah, where'd the dog come from?"
"You can always find a dog if you need one, out here," Clint shrugged, nudging the stray dog where it was sleeping in the footwell of the passenger's seat. He hadn't actually owned the farmhouse for very long, and nobody in what passed for "town" knew him, which was perfect. He'd just be a guy with a buddy and a dog getting some provisions, passing through. "The important thing is, we are undercover, and we need to act like it, starting very soon."
"How do we act like we're undercover as...hicks?" Bucky suggested.
"Country boys. Like this," Clint said, and turned the volume way up on the radio as they pulled into town.
They never understand why their princess falls
For some camouflage britches and a southern boy drawl
Bucky made a face. "What is this?"
"This is Trace Adkins!" Clint yelled back, joining in on the chorus. "She's ridin' in the middle of a pickup truck, blarin' Hank Junior yellin turn it up!"
"What are you doing?" Bucky yelled.
"Undercover!" Clint yelled back. "Laaaaadies love country boys!"
You can train 'em
You can try to teach 'em right from wrong
But it's still gonna turn 'em on
Clint kept singing, and he gestured to Bucky to start, rolling his hand in a come on, do it motion. This was by far one of the dumbest things Bucky felt he had ever done, but he did have a healthy respect for undercover work.
"Ridin' in the middle of a pickup truck, blarin' Lynyrd Skynyrd, yellin', turn it up!" he tried. He had to admit it was catchy.
"You can raise her up a lady but there's one thing you just can't avoid," Clint yelled, and Bucky joined in, feeling a little more enthusiastic about this mission now.
"Ladies love country boys!"
onegoodey: Bucky and Thor braiding each other's hair.
Title: Lessons
Rating: G
Summary: It's good to learn new things.
***
"Are you passing the strands over or under?" Thor asked, as Bucky frowned in concentration.
"Over," he said. "You said over, I'm -- "
"No, that's correct," Thor assured him. "Left and then right."
"I'm almost positive I knew someone who did this before," Bucky muttered.
"Not Steven, surely."
"Hah, no. High And Tight Rogers? I think he makes Bruce cut his weekly with a trimmer."
"Such a shame he won't grow his hair out," Thor said. "Not that it could compare to yours or mine, but still, it would be luxurious."
Bucky let the little braid on the side of Thor's head dangle down for a minute, reaching up to pat the french braids in his hair with his right hand. Thor had done a pretty good job and it was keeping his hair out of his eyes, but he couldn't help but feel this was not the most...well, the most masculine thing he'd ever done.
"Are you sure this isn't girly?" he asked, picking up the braid again.
"So what if it is? Are you afraid someone will accuse you of being a girl?" Thor asked. "If you take offense, you can punch them, but I have never seen the point. Some of my favorite warriors are girls. No shame in this."
Bucky supposed he had a point, and anyway it wasn't like he knew what was and wasn't masculine anymore. Thor was, in Tony's words, the most gnarly brutal metal dude he'd ever met, so if Thor liked braided hair it was probably okay.
"Hey, Thor, JARVIS said Bucky was with you, what're you -- "
Bucky looked up, like a deer in the headlights, as Steve and Natasha walked into the room. Steve cocked his head. Natasha cocked hers the other way. There was a moment of tense silence.
"Do mine next," Natasha said, flopping down in front of Thor, and Bucky's eyes went back to Steve, but he was already circling around to sit next to him on the bench behind Thor.
"Show me how you do that thing," Steve said. "Mam would never show me how she did Becca's when you two came over."
Thor caught Bucky's eyes in the mirror and winked as Steve leaned in close to study it, and Natasha fluffed her hair out so Thor could start french-braiding.
rijomu: Since he remembered falling, Bucky no longer likes heights.
Title: Tower
Rating: G
Summary: Bucky lives in a terrible apartment, and Tony can't work out why.
Warnings: some discussion of PTSD.
***
"Jesus, this place is so trashy, why do you live here?" Tony asked, for the fifth or sixth time in two weeks.
"There's nothing wrong with my home," Bucky retorted.
Tony flicked the venetian blinds open and shut, open and shut. "It's cheap and ugly," he said.
"I like Brooklyn," Bucky said. Tony kept flicking them, open and shut, open and shut, so Bucky picked up a knife and threw it, pinning the cord to the wall.
"Is this some kind of self-punishment thing? Are you worried about living in a building with the man whose parents your supervillain alter ego brutally murdered?" Tony asked, stepping away from the window.
Bucky clenched the counter in both hands and thought about the symmetry of murdering the entire Stark family, but then decided against it. Tony was, at heart, a decent person, even if he was a decent person wrapped in a loudmouthed prick, as Steve had explained it.
But Tony always, without seeming to, carefully made sure to differentiate between the Winter Soldier and James Barnes. And in the way of former loudmouthed assholes everywhere, Bucky did sort of like him.
Sometimes.
"Is this a radiator?" Tony asked. "There's cobwebs in it. Is that normal? Spiders growing out of your radiator?"
"Yes, that is normal, they like heat," Bucky said. "Keeps the moths down."
"You are a savage."
"Good, then scram," Bucky said, but he threw a beer to him. Well, at him, but he caught it, so it almost counted.
"Come live in the tower. Steve mopes. He pines. It's a pain in my ass."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you put me on the sixty-fifth floor!" Bucky shouted, snapping. He threw a glass and this time Tony ducked out of the way of it instead of catching it; it shattered on the cheap stucco.
Aside from his dodge, however, Tony seemed unfazed. "The fuck does that have to do with anything?" he yelled back. "Also I'm apologizing to your neighbors who can almost definitely hear us through the paper thin walls!"
Bucky took a deep breath. "This is a garden apartment, Stark."
"Prone to flooding, yes, I know."
"I can't -- " he clenched his hands. "I can't live on the sixty-fifth floor."
Tony blinked at him, uncomprehending.
"I can't go above the seventh floor," Bucky said. "I've tried. I can't get in a helicopter, I definitely can't get on a train, but I can't -- "
"You remember falling."
Tony's words dropped into the silence, suddenly understanding.
"Everyone knows you fell off a trestle above a gorge," Tony said. "You remember it?"
"Yeah, I do now. Do you know how it feels to just fall and fall and -- "
"Oddly enough, I do. I also know what it's like to be intentionally drowned. You know how long it's been since I could go swimming without the suit?" Tony asked. "Fishtanks freak me out."
"Well, then, you know," Bucky said quietly. "Don't tell Steve, I ain't told him yet."
"Not a problem," Tony answered, just as quietly. "You know, there's a server complex in the basement of the tower. Underground. No windows."
Bucky stared at the counter, just breathing.
"It's an expansion office. Take two minutes to clear out the servers in there and hang some posters. There's a full bathroom. Fix it right up," Tony said.
"Underground?"
"Fully and completely. Steve wants to see you, he can take an elevator instead of two trains." Tony's hand fell on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Believe it or not, everyone you know is broken. We get it."
Bucky exhaled. "No spider radiators?"
"No spider radiators."
"I'll think about it."
Tony set a card down next to him on the counter. "Give my therapist a call if you want. Put it on my bill."
"Thanks, Stark."
"Anytime. I don't see you packing next time I come over, we're gonna have more words."
He left the beer on the counter and walked out, whistling; Bucky sighed, then went to get a broom from the closet in his bedroom, and made a mental note to steal some packing boxes from the local grocery store.
miss-ingno: Stark finds the Soldier first, post-Cap 2.
Title: Casablanca Ain't Got Nothing On Us
Rating: G
Summary: Two ballsy loudmouths prepare to raise a little hell.
***
James -- he'd decided on James after visiting the Smithsonian exhibit, not yet recovered enough for Bucky, definitely too recovered for Winter Soldier -- heard the voice before he saw anyone, which was unusual, for him.
"So, this is awkward."
He turned, dropping the binoculars, gun in one hand, knife in the other.
He was not expecting to have to look up to find the source of the voice.
Hovering above him, in sleek suit of grey metal armor, a man was floating in midair, covered by the trees.
"I mean, wow, here I am, coming to investigate some old project my dead Nazi ex-business partner diverted funds to," the man said, "and here you are, all tricked out to do some serious damage to whatever's in that building -- "
"Who are you?" James growled. The faceplate of the armor flipped up, and James's lungs seized for a minute. He knew the face, for more than one reason...
"I'm Howard Stark's son," the man said. "You remember him?"
"How do you know who I am?"
"Steve told us about you. I did some research on my own. Look, if you're not gonna shoot me in the face, can you...?" the man gestured at the gun, and James slowly tucked it back in its holster. The armor touched down, the lights in the gloves and boots darkening.
"So you're James Barnes," the man said. "I'm Tony Stark."
"You here to bring me in?"
"Nah. Not really my style. Cool to meet you, though. Everyone gets all dreamy about Steve Rogers but secretly I always liked you more. Got a thing for ballsy loudmouths," Stark said. James regarded him warily.
"You ain't gonna tell Rogers and Wilson on me?"
"Nor Romanoff. That said, whatever they're doing in that building over there isn't good for business or the country," Stark said, indicating the large hangar James had been surveilling. "So what do you say we go blow some shit up?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Stark affirmed.
"You're all right, Stark," James said. "I got a plan, if you want in."
"I always want in on a plan," Stark said, crouching to study the diagram James began drawing in the dirt. "Bucky, I have the feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
veteratorianvillainy: Post-Cap 2 Bucky, with Tony and the arm. Don't care if it's Tony geeking about the arm or he and Tony commiserating about the tech given them by their captors.
Title: No Camo
Rating: G
Summary: The wounds inflicted by one's enemies are a terrible privilege.
Warnings: Some discussion of ableism and PTSD.
***
When Bucky slouched his way down to the workshop in Stark Tower, carefully casual, and threw himself sullenly into a chair, Tony ignored him for a few minutes. He was, of course, working on something important (as all of his projects were) and somewhat delicate. But above and beyond that, he found he got much better results when he gave people a few minutes to stew about not being asked what was wrong before he asked what was wrong.
"So what it is this time," he asked, not looking up from his work. "Steve, food, or the future?"
Bucky was currently in a pitched battle with food, because the Soldier hadn't been given much in the way of solids and Bucky felt he should be able to eat an entire hamburger at this point, even though his body disagreed. He was also in a pitched battle with certain elements of the modern era; some of them he had adapted to as the Soldier, but other things, like reality television and vegetarian sausage, were totally new and apparently unacceptable.
But the sigh he heaved said it was probably Steve Rogers, Pushy Motherfucker, who meant incredibly well and coped incredibly poorly.
"He keeps remindin' me you can camo my arm," he said. "You know what I found him doing?"
"Looking at sex toy stores online to investigate the most realistic flesh covering for your prosthesis?" Tony asked.
"How did you know?"
"I suggested it. He's been bothering me about it too, and I figured if he was going to keep doing it, I might as well force him to look at fleshlights and packers. His poor forties brain is probably twisting itself in knots."
"Well, it's funny when you say it like that."
"Everything's funnier when I say it." Tony leaned back and drummed his hands on his arc reactor. "You know why I never put a cap on this thing?"
"You're Tony Stark?"
"Well, yes. But also, I wanted people to see. I want people to see my reactor every day and be reminded that I survived and my enemies did not. I assumed that was why you kept the arm bare."
"He doesn't understand," Bucky murmured.
"Of course not. He literally can't be scarred. He doesn't get why you wouldn't want to look normal if you had the chance, even if you had to wear dick-skin on your arm."
Bucky's lips curved up a little. "All he ever wanted was to look normal. He means well."
"He'll get over it eventually."
Bucky looked down at his arm -- improved and buffed to a shine courtesy of Tony himself -- and flexed his hand. "I wish I could see it the way you do."
"Don't you?"
"I just...it's part of me now. It would feel wrong to look normal. But it's...not mine, it's theirs. Still."
Tony made a come-here motion with one hand, and Bucky slid off the couch, offering his arm for Tony to grasp. He slid the sleeve of his t-shirt all the way up, turning the arm over and around, studying it.
"Much like most of the US space program, which was more or less founded by Nazis, this is beauty derived from the ugliest man has ever been," he said. "I admire the purity of the engineering that went into it. I can still hate the people who did this to you."
"What do we do?" Bucky asked, sounding lost.
Tony picked up an airbrush canister sitting nearby. "Let's get some face masks."
When they came up that evening for dinner, Steve was in the dining room, setting the table. He looked up and saw Bucky's arm, covered in swirling swoops of vivid blue, lined here and there with white, dotted with metallic gold stars, and just about dropped the pile of plates he was holding.
"We decided against the cyberskin," Tony announced. "Gave him a paint job instead. We're putting the racing stripes on tomorrow."
"Well, it's...different," Steve offered.
"Thanks," Bucky said. "I like it too."
Anonymous: Natasha and Bucky Enjoying a Russian High Tea.
Title: Tea with Sugar
Rating: G
Summary: They come in every week, Natalia and Iakov, and Natalia always pays.
***
They come in every week, once a week, and Olesya is certain the poor young boy in the cheap suit must be a kept man.
It's not her place to judge, of course, especially since Natalia and Iakov are immigrants -- their Russian is took good for them to be anything but natives, although she's heard Natalia speak English without an accent too. And they are regular, good-paying customers, after all.
Her tea room is small, and caters to a very specific immigrant population in New York; she knows that it's only a step up from having tea in someone's living room, and a slightly shabby living room at that, but perhaps Natalia and Iakov like that. Certainly they're not like the tourists, who seem very uncomfortable with Olesya's tea room until they taste her blini. (Nobody can ever be uncomfortable with Olesya, once they have eaten her blini.)
It's just that Iakov is always nervous, flighty, in his cheap suit with his shaggy hair combed back, and Natalia always pays. He wears a glove on his left hand, a strange affectation, but maybe he has some kind of disfigurement. And if it were just that Iakov was poor and nervous, she wouldn't assume, but Natalia -- oh, Natalia reminds her of stories of the Imperial age, proud and tall and elegant. Her red hair is always beautifully done, she wears expensive dresses, and she smiles and laughs with Iakov as though she owns the world. Iakov doesn't laugh as much, but Olesya can see him basking in her presence. He always leaves happier than he arrived.
She watches over them, her only two customers just now, as they eat -- caviar for Natalia, salmon for Iakov. There are chocolates and tasting jam for dessert. Iakov especially loves to take tea and eat little spoonfuls of jam.
"Is the tea good?" she asks, as Natalia takes another sip.
"Excellent as always, Babouchka," Natalia replies.
"I don't remember tea as good," Iakov adds, shyly.
"You must miss Russia," Olesya remarks, because Iakov can't have been in the country long.
"No," he says, looking away. "Russia was not good, not for me. But I still miss the tea. It was...familiar."
Poor boy. She wonders what he came from, and how he came here, that he loves his motherland but doesn't miss it.
"May I have a little lemon cake?" Natalia asks. "Jam and chocolates for Iakov?"
"Of course," Olesya says, taking away the empty blini plates as she bustles into the kitchen. She can see, from here, Natalia pet Iakov's hair reassuringly, can hear her murmur reassurances. It is okay to love the familiar. I like it too, see? Shall we take some jam home to Steve and Sam?
Olesya smiles, and packages up a little jar of jam for the mysterious Steve and Sam, adding an extra chocolate to Iakov's plate. It's good such a troubled boy has Natalia to reassure him and support him. Expatriates have to stick together, after all.
nys1065: a simple prompt: Pining, protective Bucky, oblivious post!serum Steve.
Title: What's A Fella Gotta Do
Rating: PG
Summary: Bucky's working out what it was like to be Steve, in more ways than one.
***
It wasn't that Bucky hadn't been attracted to his friend in uncomfortable ways before Project Rebirth souped him up like one of Stark's fancy cars.
There was a reason he'd always wanted to double date, and he hadn't been any too picky about Steve's dates, because really what he'd usually wanted was just to be out somewhere fun with Steve. Looking back that might not have been his brightest plan, but it wasn't like a fella could just ask another fella to go to the City of Tomorrow with him. That'd be strange, right?
It was just a lot harder to keep it under wraps, after Rebirth. Part of it was that Steve was so much more visible now, to everyone, and everyone seemed to want a piece of him. But most of it was just --
He sighed and stretched, trying not to wake Steve, who had started out back-to-back with him on the little cot, in the little tent, under the really somewhat too-small blanket in the middle of the Italian countryside. They were scouting ahead for the commandos, a good day in front of the front line, and they'd found a good place to bivo for the evening, so they'd pitched a tent in the middle of some thick scrub and set up camp, hitting the sack early so they'd have a fresh start in the morning.
The one sack. In their one tent.
Steve had rolled over almost immediately after falling asleep, curling around Bucky warmly, and it was killing him. The strange intimacies of war meant they were closer than they'd been even when Steve was living with the Barnes family after his ma passed.
Steve didn't notice. Bucky could tell he still wasn't used to being seen and known, to being admired, and on top of that, well, Bucky was Bucky, wasn't he? Steve's pal. His XO. His tent partner. His best friend from back in Brooklyn, that was how Steve introduced him now, even to girls at the USO. I'm Steve, and this is Bucky, he's my best friend -- we're from Brooklyn.
Like the girls even cared anymore who Bucky was. He knew how it felt to be Steve, now, but at least he'd never really been nuts about girls, so in some ways it was a relief.
He just wished Steve would notice him the way girls noticed Steve, now.
No, he didn't even wish. What he wished was for a different world, where Steve noticing him would matter, where Steve might even reciprocate -- because otherwise being noticed was just a humiliation.
"Bucky," Steve breathed softly, arm tightening around his waist.
"Yeah?" Bucky whispered, wondering if Steve was talking in his sleep.
"We are literally the only two people for miles around," Steve mumbled.
"Probably," Bucky allowed.
"So how long do I gotta spoon you before you figure out I figured you out?" Steve asked.
"Scuse me?" Bucky demanded, but Steve pinned him down and pushed himself up in a single move, leaning over him in the dark.
"I know I'm slow, but last time we went to the USO, you turned down three girls to keep talking with me about cold-weather gear," Steve said. "Doesn't take a genius, Buck. How long?"
Bucky swallowed. "Oh, about ten years or so."
"Sorry I'm slow," Steve said softly, and bent to kiss him. Bucky's world blossomed into bright colors behind his eyelids. "Promise I'll make up for it, if you'll let me."
"Serious?"
"Serious," Steve replied. "How about it, soldier? Bet I could keep you warm for a while."
"Yeah," Bucky breathed, burrowing into Steve's neck as Steve's hands found the buttons on his shirt. "Bet you could, Captain."
blaydonraces: Bucky & improbable sleeping locations. Old-timey fire escape campouts optional but appreciated!
Title: Escape
Rating: G
Summary: Steve is thinking of getting a place with a fire escape.
***
When he was a boy, Steve and his Ma had lived in an apartment which had one luxury: a fire escape. True, the ladder was rusted in the up position and if the building ever did catch fire it would probably go up too fast for the fire escape to matter, but his Ma had insisted. She'd seen Triangle Shirtwaist go up in 1911, and she wouldn't rent anywhere without an escape route in case of fire.
For Steve and Bucky, safety was not a concern; they loved the fire escape for other reasons, like the pigeons that would roost in the steps in the spring, tame enough that they would let two little boys peer into the nest and study the eggs they laid. In the summer, when the heat was stifling, they'd go swimming in a nearby canal and come home, drag a bit of cardboard out onto the fire escape to pad out the sharp metal bars, and sleep under the nominal amount of stars in their undershirts and britches. Sometimes they'd get in spitwad wars with the girls and boys camping on the opposite building's fire escapes. The heat eased Steve's perpetual cough, and he and Bucky would lie in the dark and whisper back and forth about plans for the next day, about plans for when they were grown, about anything that came into their heads.
During the war, sometimes they'd lie out under the stars and talk about strategy, about politics, about what they'd do when the war was over. They slept where they could, but it never seemed to matter as long as Steve was there. Bucky loved to see him, giant, strong, healthy, sawing logs under a bush or in the loft of a barn or beneath a transport truck.
After the war -- after all of his wars, when he came home with Sam and Steve -- it felt like he could sleep anywhere except a bed. He slept on the kitchen floor, in the hallway in front of Steve's bedroom door, in the bathtub, under the coffee table, sometimes in a corner of the couch. On the porch out back, or in the long grass on warm afternoons. He slept a lot, deep and hard, but his bed felt unsafe, too comfortable, too unstable. Sam said that was normal, that it happened to him and Steve, too.
Bucky wondered if anything would be normal ever again.
Steve found him one evening on the roof -- he just clambered his way up, the same as Bucky had -- lying on an unzipped sleeping bag he'd liberated from Sam's garage.
"Mind if I pull up a slate?" Steve asked.
"Free country," Bucky said with a slight smile.
"So I'm told," Steve agreed, taking the small throw pillow Bucky offered him. The stars were coming out, and he tucked his hands under his head, gazing up at them. You could see quite a few, out here in the suburbs.
"I been thinking," Steve said after a while. "I was thinking about getting a place, just you and me. Letting Sam have his space back."
"Could be nice," Bucky ventured.
"I was thinking maybe New York. Or somewhere closer in to DC. A walkup. Second or third floor, something old. Nice wallpaper, wood floors. Kinda place we'd have thought was a mansion back in the old days."
"You know I got no money, Steve."
"I got more than I know what to do with," Steve shrugged. "Get somewhere with a fire escape, we can sleep out like we used to when it gets hot in the summer."
"Or just get somewhere with air conditioning."
"It's not the same."
"No, guess not. I'd like somewhere like that, I think. Somewhere with lotsa light, you could start drawing again."
Steve smiled up at the stars. "If you could do anything in the world, what would you do, Buck?"
Bucky realized, slow and sleepy, that Steve was just chatting because he wanted to. That they were talking like they had as kids.
They were normal. Or what passed for, anyway, in their lives.
"I guess I'd go to college," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Get an engineering degree. Build things. Bridges and roads and things. Maybe robots like Stark."
"You always liked the future."
"Can't be worse than our past."
"Oh, some parts of the past weren't so bad," Steve said dreamily. "But the future's gonna be good too. Always was better when we were talking it over together. Everything seems possible. Nice to have someone who'd never laugh at your dreams, you know."
Bucky closed his eyes, letting Steve's voice roll over him, deeper than when they were kids but with the same soft drawl, the reassuring cadence that did seem to make even the wildest visions of the future seem like they were close enough to grasp. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he knew his dreams that night were rich and perfect -- better than he'd had in a long time.
And when he woke the next morning to Sam's voice yelling "You crazy motherfuckers slept on my goddamn roof!" he couldn't help but laugh along with Steve.
innytoes: That Bucky Doll is slightly horrifying and I want you to have it. Also, if I'm on time for prompts, can I get some post Winter Soldier Bucky being a fashion disaster?
Title: Dress To Impress
Rating: G
Summary: Natasha can't leave the boys alone for a minute.
***
When Natasha showed up at Sam's one afternoon, six months after leaving to...well, to find herself, Steve supposed...she looked at the three of them and shook her head, sighing.
"I suppose I should be glad you're all alive," she said, crossing her arms. "Disgraceful, but alive."
"What's wrong with us?" Steve asked.
"Dude, don't ever ask her that," Sam told him.
"Why?" Steve asked, brows knitting.
"She knows things," Sam said ominously.
"You," she said to Steve, "literally own nothing but khakis, do you?"
"I own a suit," Steve replied, baffled.
"You -- "
"I know exactly how I look," Sam told her. "I like my workout clothes loud. Cars see me coming."
"They might hit you anyway when they start laughing," she said, pointing at the yellow and pink polka-dotted shirt he was wearing. "And I don't even know where to start with you," she added to Bucky, who was sitting quietly, blank-faced, and who was, Steve had to admit, something of a disaster.
Clothes didn't really seem that important, of course; Buck was going through a lot, and if he felt safe wearing tattered t-shirts stolen from Sam's closet with hideous sweatpants that Steve didn't even know the provenance of, Steve wasn't going to bug him about it. But he also knew that lime green wasn't really Bucky's color. Especially not with a bright orange belt, or a deep blue dress shirt over it. And a pair of suspiciously "might have been white before they were washed with a red shirt" pink jeans.
"How many layers are you wearing?" Natasha asked him.
"Didn't I shoot you once?" Bucky asked in reply.
"Twice, counting the thing on the bridge," she replied.
"Sorry."
"Don't be, you're about to pay me back," she said. "Stand up."
Bucky glanced at Steve, then stood.
"Go put your shoes on," she said. "I can't do anything about Steve and Sam except take you away from their influence, but you, I can fix."
"What's she talking about?" Bucky asked Steve.
"Don't look at me, pal, I'd just do what she says," Steve replied.
"In the room, fellas," Natasha reminded them. "I have access to Maria Hill's Stark Industries expense account and a working knowledge of every good clothing store in Manhattan. You are going to let me dress you."
"In what?"
"You'll see."
Bucky crossed his arms. "What if I say no?"
"Don't -- " Sam started, but Natasha just glared. Bucky blinked and dropped his arms.
"Wear clean underwear!" she called, as he retreated to the guest bedroom to put on his shoes.
"I like khakis," Steve announced to nobody in particular.
"I promise to buy him a pair," Natasha replied. "You two entertain yourselves and don't wait up. This could take some time."
charmedor: Anything with steve/tony/bucky.
Title: Types
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tony Stark always has to be the best at everything, including being fucked up about relationships.
***
Tony "rambled" in his sleep, something Steve frequently got dopey about but Bucky found slightly annoying -- Tony was as manic unconscious as he was during the day, fingers twitching as he dreamed, body restless. It was why Steve frequently got the middle, because Steve found it adorable and also slept like the dead, unmoving, deep and thorough, like he did everything. Bucky sometimes thought that while Tony said a threesome should be an equal partnership, Steve was the foundation, and Tony and himself were built on that. He didn't mind. It was still equal, he supposed, they were all just...different moving parts.
Steve was dead to the world, which was understandable -- Bucky and Tony had given him a pretty thorough working-over as a welcome home. He'd spent two weeks doing what he called the Old Bond Monkey Dance, traveling the country meeting with various politicians and community representatives to try and build goodwill for the Avengers. He'd wanted to do it, but the timing could have been better, and the weariness clinging to him when he returned had ensured that he was the focus of their attention for the evening.
Tony was shifting and twitching in his sleep, now, making the odd snuffling noises that meant he was probably close to waking, and Bucky lay on the other side of Steve, head on Steve's chest, watching. He saw the moment when Tony's eyes opened, and he smiled as Tony curled further into Steve, mirroring his own position, head on Steve's pectoral.
"Can't sleep?" Tony asked quietly.
"Not really desperate to," Bucky replied. "Just enjoying the moment."
"Mark your calendars," Tony said. Bucky rolled his eyes. "You have to admit, you're not good at serenity."
"Are you honestly saying this to me?"
"Takes one to know one," Tony said, unperturbed. He rested a hand on Steve's bare stomach, the glow of the reactor throwing a long shadow across it. "Steve has a type."
"Sometimes I worry a little about that," Bucky admitted.
"Why? You're it."
"Yeah, but I don't have a type, not really. You do."
Tony frowned.
"Leggy blonds," Bucky said.
"Are you...I'm sorry, are you worried I'm not into you?" Tony asked, sounding honestly confused. "Because, I mean, first, if it's you or me, he picks you -- "
"What, why would -- no, I don't -- "
"Second, I don't sleep with people I'm not into, and third, I am the king of driving people away, so trust me, you will get tired of me way before I get tired of either of you."
It was like a tidal wave of insecurity, a tropical storm of all of Tony's issues pouring out at once, and Bucky just sort of clung to Steve and listened in bewildered horror.
"I am kind of useless at providing intangible things like reassurance and stability," Tony continued, "and I am abrasive and insecure -- "
"No kidding!" Bucky blurted. "Jesus, Tony, where is this coming from?"
"A vaguely traumatic childhood and a history of being the smartest but also the most obnoxious man in the room," Tony said.
Bucky was about to try and say something reassuring, and probably fail because emotions weren't really his thing, when Steve suddenly rolled over and slung one giant arm over Tony's chest, nosing into his neck.
"You two could wake the dead with your weird issues," Steve mumbled, one of his legs swinging back to hook under Bucky's and tug him along. Bucky took the hint and crawled over him, settling in on Tony's other side, pinning what little Steve wasn't.
"I genuinely did not think you would need more therapy than the traumatized brainwashed assassin," Steve continued, "but as usual you just have to be the best at everything."
"I'm sort of enjoying not being the most messed up person in this relationship," Bucky added. He glanced at Steve, who was grinning at him. "We make a good team, Steve."
"Clearly he needs it," Steve replied. Tony was staring up at them both with wide, dark eyes. "Go back to sleep, Tony. I'm too stubborn to be driven off and Buck's too tactless to be offended by you."
Bucky curled around Tony as best he could, pleased that Steve's solution to the rambling-in-bed problem was to just hold the man down. Tony seemed pleased too; after a few anxious minutes, he relaxed muscle by muscle, and soon he was sleeping, more still than before.
"You do know how to pick 'em," Bucky said, when Tony was asleep.
"Shut up and sleep," Steve replied. "In the morning we're gonna have a talk about insecure brunets and my attraction to them."
***
mere-dyth: I don’t know where Steve would find the energy for both of them at once. Not even the serum was designed for that kind of endurance. (emotionally, anyway - the other kind, well, I’m sure he’d figure something out)
copperbadge: I feel like everyone thinks Steve is this high-energy, high-empathy, super-saintly guy for putting up with both of his boyfriends and their very visible crazy. Only Steve knows that really he hardly has to do anything because Bucky is super pragmatic, so he handles Tony’s neuroses like a short, sarcastic Pepper clone, and Tony has tons of experience with trauma, so he’s actually way better than Steve at helping Bucky find Normal when Normal gets a little lost. Steve just kind of makes sure they both get lots of hugs, eat regularly, and don’t leave the house without pants.
justalurkr: Because pantless house leaving is a problem with Bucky, too?
copperbadge: It is once Tony pointed out to him that in the future, wearing pants in one’s own home is 100% optional.
Anonymous: Bucky meets pizza dog?
I went with comics canon for this, which means Bucky and Clint have known each other for a while.
Title: Inside Of A Dog
Rating: G
Summary: Bucky is dogsitting. In space!
***
"I need a favor," Clint Barton said when Bucky answered the phone, and Bucky said, "No."
"Come on, man, it's not even a save the world type favor," Clint wheedled.
"Good, because you're definitely not getting one of those," Bucky said, amused. He cradled his phone against his shoulder as he cleaned the barrel of his third-favorite gun. "How many people did you call before you called me?"
"Like, everyone," Clint admitted.
"You know I'm in space, right?"
"That's perfect, actually."
Bucky frowned. "What exactly favor is this that requires me, the bottom of your friend-favor barrel, to be in space?"
"I need a dogsitter."
"Again: I am in space."
"But that's okay! See, here's the problem," Clint said. "Wait, if you're in space, how am I phoning you?"
"Magic space technology. You're probably paying like, two bucks a minute."
"No, I'm on an Avengers plan," Clint said.
"Clint. Focus."
"My dog ate a magical Kree doodad and I need to get him off planet so the Kree can't find him and blow him up before he poops it out."
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to regret this."
Clint arrived three hours later, which, given the circumstances, was pretty good. He was in a flying car that doubled as a spaceship. Not so long ago, Bucky would have been confused or impressed by this. At this point very little surprised him.
He was expecting a dog, naturally, but he was not expecting this particular dog. It bounded joyfully out of the car, a large rubber chew toy clutched in its teeth, and ran right up to him, rearing up on its back legs to paw excitedly at the air.
"Lucky, no jumping," Clint warned. "Hey Buck, you look good."
"Kiss-ass," Bucky replied, automatically reaching for the toy. Lucky growled playfully and tugged, trying to shake his grip free.
"This is Lucky, aka Pizza Dog," Clint said. "I brought kibble and poop bags."
Lucky let go of the toy and panted eagerly. Bucky threw it, and the dog executed a massive vertical leap, catching it about six feet in the air.
Bucky blinked.
"He's a good dog," Clint said.
"He's certainly a determined one," Bucky answered. He crouched down. Clint's instructions washed over him, something about bagging up all the poop so it could be searched for the magical Kree doodad, and not feeding him chocolate, and not feeding him more than two slices of pizza, and something called a furminator.
Lucky, meanwhile, had sidled up to him and was now licking his prosthetic hand eagerly, nuzzling his face and butting his head against Bucky's chest. Superheroes didn't tend to keep pets, probably because they didn't tend to keep regular enough hours, but Bucky suddenly found himself desperately wanting a dog. Lucky's eyes were full of a deep, unconditional love, a sort of I don't know you very well but clearly you are a good person gaze.
He could see why Clint was attached.
"Hoozagoodboy?" he murmured, scratching behind Lucky's ears. Lucky let out a whine of pleasure.
"Hey, Bucky and Lucky!" Clint said suddenly, laughing. "You rhyme."
"Never tell another soul that," Bucky suggested.
"Fine, be that way. Listen, I have to go, I'll be back in four days. Just -- save the poop for me and don't kill my dog."
"It's okay," Bucky said, as Lucky watched Clint climb back into the car and made soft little worried noises. "You and me are gonna be best friends, Lucky."
Lucky turned to look at him adoringly, again, and then peed on his shoes.
Anonymous: Something Bucky likes about his metal arm.
Title: Thinking Positive
Rating: G
Summary: Sam wants Bucky to find just one thing he likes about his arm.
***
"Well, I mean, it's an arm," Bucky said, and Sam looked sort of constipated. "It's...better than not an arm."
Ever since Steve had brought him in, cold and hungry and weary and fucked up, Steve's entire social circle had been trying to help him. Some of it was really great; Clint's favored form of therapy was cooking, and Bucky had found that he really loved to eat, plus Clint had kinda been there so he knew about it, more than some of the others. Tony, too, was mostly harmless. He did upgrades to the arm and made tasteless jokes that mostly flew over Bucky's head anyway. Natasha sometimes dragged him down to the gym and beat on him, or let him beat on her, until he could sleep.
Steve just hovered, constantly, but Steve was also an immovable rock, an anchor, and Bucky sometimes aligned his world by Steve just because it was easier.
But Sam and Bruce were tag-teaming him, trying to get him to talk about his experiences and adopt coping mechanisms and positive attitudes and some other words Bucky was still not entirely sure on the meaning of. And it wasn't that he didn't like them, he liked them a lot, but he was deeply suspicious of their methods and he didn't like talking about feelings.
"But you also struggle with it," Sam prompted. "You've told me it's hard for you."
Bucky wanted to disagree just to be a shit about it, but it was true. The arm was difficult. Less painful than it had been, but a constant reminder of what he had been and done. And Sam was only trying to get him to reconcile his anger at his tormentors with the presence of a tool he badly needed.
"Yeah," he admitted, looking down.
"So we're trying to find something positive here," Sam said. "Something you can focus on. It's okay if you can't, man, it's just, you know -- "
"Mindfulness," Bucky said mirthlessly. Sam smiled.
"It's a catchphrase for a reason," he reminded him.
Bucky sat and thought, and Sam let him; he was good at that, maybe too good. He flexed his metal fingers against his flesh ones.
"Can I get back to you on it?" he asked, after a while.
"Sure. You feeling kind of done for the day?" Sam asked, and Bucky nodded, filling with relief. "Okay. You're doing well. I know it doesn't feel like it, but I can see it, even if you can't yet."
Bucky nodded and fled as soon as he could.
The problem was that aside from the obvious plus of having an arm, versus not having an arm, he wasn't sure what he was meant to like. With Tony and Steve's help, he'd buffed the red star off the shoulder, but now it was just neutral. It was just an arm.
He studied it in the mirror, the dulled scratched-up part with the missing star especially, and frowned. After a moment, he turned and headed for the workshop, where Tony wasn't currently, but where all his metal paints were.
The next morning, he walked into breakfast with his shirt sleeve rolled up. "I found the thing I like," he announced to Sam.
"Yeah?" Sam's face lit up. "What is it?"
Bucky proudly turned and showed off the new image on his shoulder. He'd managed to stencil a white circle onto it, then a pretty good blue B, and around the edges he'd had one of Tony's robots carefully print "BROOKLYN" across the top and "DODGERS" across the bottom.
Sam looked confused.
"It's the Brooklyn Dodgers," Bucky explained. "I like them. So I put it on my arm. And now I like that about my arm."
"You know the Dodgers aren't in Brooklyn anymore, right?" Sam asked.
"What's that got to do with the price of eggs? I like my logo."
Sam grinned, then began to laugh, shaking his head. "Barnes, I gotta admit, you are the best at making shit work for you."
Stacey: Bucky loses the ability to speak.
Title: The Sound Of Silence
Rating: PG
Summary: Loki curses Bucky. Bucky's actually kind of enjoying it.
***
It was Loki -- of course it was Loki -- and he was in one of his crueler moods. Not that Bucky had a lot of experience personally, but he'd heard stories.
"So many secrets you keep," Loki remarked, as Bucky swung his whole body around and slammed his arm into him as hard as he could. Steve was an acrobat, and Natasha was a stiletto, but Bucky had always sort of enjoyed being a blunt instrument. Loki skidded backwards, and Bucky pounced.
"Shut up," he growled, pinning him to the pavement. Beyond him, the others were keeping a perimeter; he hadn't really been ordered to go after Loki, he'd just seen his chance and taken it.
"No, Secret-Keeper," Loki said, and the world flared green around him. "You shut up."
The problem was, really, that the Winter Soldier had never been a talker. James Barnes, back in the war, had liked to talk, but the Soldier hadn't, and he didn't talk much anymore, out of habit. He wasn't big on showing weakness, either. So, while he was technically enchanted, nobody noticed for like.
Four days.
He just kept to himself, hoping it would wear off, and planning that if it didn't (tomorrow, always if it didn't tomorrow) he'd go see Thor about it. It was actually sort of nice, in some ways; the urge to speak was absent, since he couldn't anyway.
It wasn't until Steve called a meeting to brainstorm new ways to try and imprison Loki, who'd made his getaway while Bucky was writhing on the pavement, clawing at his throat (nobody'd seen, thank god) that his newest secret was uncovered.
"James had him nearly down, last time," Thor pointed out. "If we could but enchant his arm -- "
"We're not enchanting Bucky's arm," Steve said.
"I don't know, I think it's an idea," Natasha said, and with mounting horror, Bucky watched her turn to him. "What do you think, Bucky? Worth a shot?"
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried to sort of...speak with his eyes, but the silence just stretched, longer and longer.
"Hey, are you okay?" Steve asked finally. Bucky looked at him, mutely pleading. "Buck?"
"He can't talk," Tony said, without looking up from where he was running calculations on the table's built-in holo screen.
"Excuse me?" Steve asked.
"Kid can't talk. Loki got to him," Tony repeated. He glanced over at Bucky briefly.
"When were you planning on sharing this with the class?" Clint asked.
"Exactly when he did," Tony replied. "Not my place to tell. He could've made a sign or something."
"Bucky?" Steve repeated. Bucky waved a hand at Tony and slumped back. "For the love of Pete, Buck, it's been four days!"
"Let me see," Thor said, and turned Bucky towards him. He pried open his mouth and peered in -- unpleasant, also rude -- and then nodded.
"Enchanted."
Steve rubbed his face. "Can you break it?"
"Shouldn't be difficult. I'll speak to Heimdall, he'll know who to ask," Thor said. He took his damn finger out of Bucky's mouth. "He seems to enjoy it, though."
Bucky rolled his eyes.
"When you can talk again, you and I are gonna have some words," Steve said.
"Why not now? He can't yell back," Natasha pointed out. Bucky threw her the bird.
"Well, that'd hardly be fair," Steve said, with infuriating logic. "Okay, Thor, go get him fixed up, the rest of us will work on this. You are in trouble, buster," he added, and Bucky rolled his eyes again as he followed Thor out.
paxfelis: Nobody messes with Bucky's stuffed turtle.
Title: New Pets
Rating: G
Summary: It's not a likely gift, but it's a well-loved one.
***
Looking back, it was a weird, unlikely intuitive leap. Steve liked to think that he was reasonably sensible when it came to interpersonal relations, but he wasn't psychic. Still, he'd known Bucky almost their entire lives, sort of, which had to count for something.
He'd never been to an Ikea before Sam announced they were going, because a good-natured scuffling match in the living room between two super-soldiers had accidentally thrashed one of Sam's bookshelves, and Steve therefore owed him a new one. Steve was unprepared for the Ikea Experience.
He followed Sam around the store, wide-eyed, asking more questions than he knew was sane for an adult person to ask. Sam was looking for bookshelves but they walked the entire store, testing out sofas because they looked comfortable (some looked much more comfortable than they were) and investigating strange light fixtures. Sam bought lunch at the Ikea cafeteria, and Steve at a little of everything and a lot of meatballs.
They'd actually managed to pick out new bookshelves (and a new chair, which Steve said they needed since three men squeezed onto one couch was kind of...intimate) and they were on their way to pick up the boxes when they passed into the home-goods-and-strange-kitchen-implements section, and were faced with a wall of stuffed turtles.
"Those were big for Christmas last year," Sam said. "Year before, it was sharks."
Steve touched one of the turtles gently. "It's really soft."
Sam gave him an eyebrow. "You want a turtle?"
"No, I -- " Steve took one down and squeezed it. "Squishy."
"Because if you want a turtle, I'm not here to judge."
"Not for me," Steve said, inspecting the head and limbs. He shoved the head into the shell, then squeezed. The head popped out again. "For Bucky."
Sam gave him a look that said Crazy super soldiers from the forties be crazy but he just put the turtle in the handbasket with the new spatula and desk lamp he was buying.
By the time they got home, Steve was regretting the purchase, because it seemed weird, but when he put the bag on the table, Bucky set down the box of shelving he'd been carrying in and said, "What's that?"
"Oh, it's uh, I got it for you, it's...a turtle," Steve said. Bucky reached in and took it out of the bag, running his metal hand over the fluffy shell.
"It's soft," he said.
"Well, that's what I said," Steve agreed. Bucky carefully carried the turtle to the living room and set it next to him on the floor, crossing his legs to start opening the bookshelf box. He spread out the instructions on the turtle's shell and set to work methodically assembling shelves.
By the time the shelf was fully assembled, Mischa the Turtle had migrated to the sofa, and Bucky went back and sat with it as soon as the shelf was placed. Sam braced it to the wall while Steve opened some beers and Bucky watched, his hand still rubbing little circles in the fur on the turtle's head.
"You gonna help me with this chair or what?" Sam asked, as Bucky pulled his legs out of the way and Steve started cutting the plastic off the chair parts.
"No," Bucky said, turning the TV on. "We're watching TV."
"I got it, Sam," Steve said, grinning over the edge of the chair's packaging at Bucky. "New pets need a lot of attention."
"Get stuffed," Bucky suggested, popping the turtle's head into its shell. "Misha wants to watch you make fun of the History Channel."
decepticonsensual: How about Bucky discovering a new cuisine he wouldn't have had access to in the 40s?
Title: Made Up Words
Rating: G
Summary: Bucky thinks this dish looks like someone already ate it.
***
Bucky had, it was true, been awake and semi-lucid for most of the major events of the twentieth century. It wasn't like Steve, where he'd slept the years away and woken to a changed world. He'd learned some things -- certainly he'd learned about firearms throughout the years, and he was actually reasonably current on politics -- but it wasn't as though his handlers had taken him out to lunch much. If he'd been on a mission longer than a few days, he'd been provided with money for food, but he had gravitated to the familiar: coffee, diners, little holes in the wall where the recipes hadn't changed in decades.
Mostly, though, he ate what his handlers gave him, or he went hungry.
Food in this new world, where he was usually awake and remembering more of his old life by the day, food was challenging. At first he'd eaten whatever he was given, mechanically, until Steve and Sam convinced him it was okay not to like something, to find the taste of white bread too sweet, the chilis