At one point in his life, Bucky Barnes was sociable. He absorbed the gazes of admiration, the chattering voices of Steve and strangers, the banter of the military, and the millions of small facets in mundane life. It cloaked him as perfectly as the flesh around a plum pit. Now, those days were long over, and Bucky could not remember the feeling of enjoying attention or social interaction. He wasn't sure he ever would. To avoid all the aspects of life he once loved, he fled to more desolate grounds.
Pain needled Bucky's arm when he woke up in the morning. He slowly sat up. Dreary fog cloaked the Norwegian coast, choking out dawn while cradling the first snow lumps of winter. It was almost soothing. A phantom arm sent aches up Bucky's shoulder stub, crying out as it twisted beneath cramps Bucky could not see or stop. But this was Bucky. Pain and blurry memories were second nature. He rubbed the silver back of his prosthetic hand, as though it could feel his comforting, and got up.
Breakfast was a simple affair. It always was. Bucky ate his fish and bread in silence. He pushed away dissociation by grinding his thumb against the tabletop. It already had a small dent. When his appetite stopped reaching him, Bucky pulled up his hair and sat there for a while, listening to the coast lap at his doorstep. Its rhythmic call to entropy never ceased to put him at peace. Eventually, Bucky dumped the uneaten half of his meal into a tupperware. He pulled on his cap and coat before going outside.
Bucky had few neighbors. He liked that. The town of Slangepasset was several smears of paint on a rocky stretch of shore. Its singular grocery store stayed in business off the good graces of fishermen alone, as did the gas station; Slangepasset's roads were worn winds of pavement that saw no traffic. Bucky recognized all vehicles that went in and out. He liked that too. That morning, Bucky stood on his dilapidated dock, feeling the sea air sting his unshaven face. The house was barely two rooms with a dock more full of rusted nails than stable wood and a motorboat older than corruption, but it was more than enough.
Rent was cheap, too. If there was a running list of "All the Things Bucky Barnes Likes, In Some Semblance of Order" then that one was near the high middle. The house owner was a русский with a face like a mountainside. Everyone else was Norwegian, and thus, uninterested in Bucky. When the old Russian had seen Bucky, however, he had broken out into Russian and clamped onto Bucky's arm, weeping about a son he had lost in the taiga, and how they looked identical. After Bucky restrained the reflex to hurl him across the room and apologized for grabbing him by the throat, they got along well.
The old man handed Bucky the house key with shivering hands, no first lease paid, and no questions. He fondly called him his молчаливый соболь-his silent sable-and limited all affection to shoulder pats. Perhaps it was because he had spoken Russian back, Bucky thought, but he felt that in the old man's eyes he could do no wrong. If he, the prodigal son look-alike, chose to light a gas-fueled bonfire atop the boat and sink in front of the dock, the old man would probably applaud him with teary eyes and compliment him in Russian as he handed over the weekly bag of groceries.
The only frequent traffic of any sort Bucky saw, besides fishermen walking across town, was the old man driving in from the next town over to say hello. Which was why tension clamped his spine when he saw a stranger trotting around the streets.
The stranger was unabashed about his strangeness. He peered into the gas station windows like a curious dog before doing the same to the grocery store. Bucky debated on pulling back into his house before the stranger saw him. They made eye contact. The stranger beamed. His toothy smile lit up his face like a supernova. Bucky withdrew half a step, already counting the ways in which this encounter could go wrong.
Despite his broad shoulders, bright faceful of beard, and general muscular appearance, the stranger walked across the icy road with the same cheeriness of a snow tit hopping towards a feeder. He was not wearing a coat. His entire arms flashed in the morning's cold light. An obnoxious red beanie covered the back of his head. On top of the beanie sat a cap from the gas station that read "I ❤︎ NORWAY." Bucky had a horrible feeling that he recognized him, somehow. It did not help his nerves. Bucky Barnes was fuller of fight-or-flight instincts than the sables his landlord's son used to trap in Siberia.
"Friend!" the stranger exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. White puffs of air emerged from his mouth. "Good morning! Let me say that I am pleased to see you! I was beginning to think there was no one living in this tiny, goat-forsaken place. Tell me, how are you?"
The stranger's voice boomed out in explosions of enthusiasm. "Well enough," Bucky said.
The stranger nodded as though Bucky had delivered a solemn proclamation. "Good," he said. "There are far worse things than being well enough. Like being well." Before Bucky could respond, he swung a pointing finger up. "Is that your vessel?"
Bucky's gaze darted back to the small, battered boat floating tied to his dock. He did not let his sight stay there for long. "It's my landlord's."
The stranger clapped his hands. It rang out across the town loud enough to make the two stray dogs' ears perk up. Why, Bucky thought, did he have to be so loud? "Excellent! Are you willing to loan it to me?"
"No," Bucky said.
"Come on now," the stranger said. "Only for a short trip."
As Bucky moved to leave, the stranger's hand swung out to pat his metal shoulder. Bucky batted it away with a sharp smack. The stranger recoiled swiftly, but just to slide in front of Bucky's way back to his home. Seeing Bucky's tense posture, the stranger offered him a charming smile and open hands while staying in his way.
"Easy there," the stranger said, holding his smile. He kept his voice soothing. Bucky felt as though the man applied this same technique to talking down tigers in the wild. "You may not want to rush on saying no to my decision, friend."
"I'm not your friend," Bucky said.
"Perhaps not, but I have money," the stranger said. He dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of dollar bills. He waved them triumphantly. "Which can be exchanged for goods and services. Such as, say, better eye makeup for you. Or usage of your boat."
"It isn't makeup," Bucky said. "I'm just tired."
"Ah," the stranger said. "Well, then it can be exchanged for a better mattress for you to nap on."
There was something wrong with this man and Bucky had known it from the instant he saw him. Either he was an alien, an assassin, part of S.H.I.E.L.D, part of Hydra, or part of something else nebulous. Bucky knew one fact: the longer he spoke to him, the more vaguely familiar he got. Usually, that was not a good thing. Boat or no boat, this man was not leaving his sight until he was dead or his purpose was discovered. The stranger took Bucky's silence as an indication to continue.
"If it soothes you, I am fine with you accompanying me," he said. "I only want to go on a fishing trip."
The ice crackled in the sea behind them.
"A fishing trip," Bucky said.
"Yes," the stranger said. "I bought some poles and bait from the kind ancient dog inside the store. You are welcome to join me. I'm only going to the deeper waters and straight back. I promise that it will be a short jaunt."
Many things could happen on a boat alone in the sea. Bucky weighed the possibilities of being killed and decided that he had enough experience on the killing end to chance it out. Besides that, he was low on rent. 'You do not need to make money, молчаливый соболь,' the old man always said in Russian, the veins on his thin hands trembling. 'Pay me if you can, do not worry if you can't, OK? This is hospitality.'
While Bucky was an opportunist, he had standards. He found no satisfaction in fleecing an old man due to wearing his dead son's visage. The old man had lost plenty and did nothing wrong. Bucky needed to pay him. Maybe he couldn't handle a boat too well, since he had grown up in Brooklyn, but life had forced many skills upon Bucky Barnes. Vehicle proficiency was one of the several he didn't mind.
"Fine," Bucky said. "I'll take you out there."
The stranger beamed, losing his wary posture. "Excellent! You have my eternal gratitude. I will give you all the money possible."
The feeling of recognition grew even stronger. But, no-it couldn't be. Thor was off-planet. Steve wouldn't have sent someone after him without coming himself. The situation did not add up. Bucky prepared for preemptive regret.
A giant fishing pole, a closed bucket of bait, a coil of rope, and an inordinate heap of snacks and water bottles cluttered the boat as it whined to life and carried Bucky and the not-so-strange stranger out to sea. They were barely a foot above the sea's frigid surface. Ice chunks broke against its sides, clunking as they went forward. Bucky sat in the back, manning the engine. His passenger sat up front where Bucky could see him, still wearing nothing but a t-shirt as he marveled at the ice and distant snow-faced mountains. The smell of seawater coated them. Slangepasset vanished behind the boat's wake.
"How majestic," the stranger said. "I have seen better at my home. But still."
Bucky tightened his mouth, feeling one of the several knives he had hidden on him shift. His gloves and coat hid any indication of his prosthetic. They bounced over waves. Somehow, the boat stayed steady. It seemed blessed to stay on course. That did not help Bucky's suspicions. He waited until he knew no one on shore could see or hear them.
"So," Bucky said, "are you going to introduce yourself?"
The stranger turned around, face palming. Several golden locks escaped from his beanie. "Odin's beard, where are my manners! Thor. It's Thor."
The extended hand and lack of subtlety prevented Bucky from pulling his knife. Flashes of grainy footage taken from the scene of the Chitauri invasion and ran across the news flashed through his head: though Bucky had never seen him in person, and he did have not have the cape, armor, or hammer, or the hair down, this was indeed the blonde and smileyThor Odinson, god of thunder himself.
The first thought through Bucky's head was I have to leave again. Bucky fought down the tide of fear rushing inside him. Hundreds of different ways to harm his way out of the situation ran through head, unbidden. Bucky clamped both hands on the boat sides. Metal curdled. The hiss of Hydra rattled through his ears. Thor shifted in discomfort.
"Where's Steve?" Bucky said. "Does he know?"
Thor waved him off. "No. Steve Rogers does not know I am here. Or on Earth."
A thousand blades jingled against Bucky's nerves. He did not think Thor was lying, but momentarily, Bucky considered diving into the freezing Norwegian sea. He was frozen countless times prior. Why not again, especially since he was no closer to controlling himself? Chunks of ice continued clunking by.
"Why did you come here?" he said. "Why did you find me?"
"I do not even know your name," Thor said. "What is it that the Captain called you? 'Bucks Becarbs'? He spoke of you, a few times."
"Bucky Barnes."
"Bucky Barnes, just like I said," Thor said. "There! We've officially met, Metal-armed Man."
"Don't call me that," Bucky said.
"Very well, Metal-armed Friend," Thor said, winking. He started when a knife thudded into the boat behind him, less than an inch from his arm. Bucky shivered with survivor's anger, another knife already in his hand.
"Answer me," he said. "Why are you here?"
"I told you." Thor leaned forward, speaking slowly to chase Bucky's idiocy away. "I do not know you. I came... for... a…. fishing trip. A very, very important fishing trip, at least to me. I am pleased you have a very high opinion of yourself-as would I, being a clever warrior and Steve Rogers' best friend with those flowing locks-but this is not about you."
Bucky stared in disbelief. "You really don't know anything, do you?"
"I am not from Midgard, so no," Thor said. "Would you mind releasing the boat? It has done you no wrong."
"Swear to me you'll tell no one I'm here, or else," Bucky said.
"I, Thor Odinson, swear on the Bifrost and the blood of my mother that I will not tell a single soul you are here."
Slowly, the gushing panic and intrusive thoughts disappeared. Now small muscle spasms and wariness took their place, even as the Hydra programming lurked, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for the right opportunity. Bucky pried his metal fingers from the three-inch-deep indentations in the boat. Thor whistled, finally relaxing. His legs sprawled into Bucky's space when he was stretched out. He through Bucky's knife back to him, Bucky catching it with ease.
"You are a drama queen," Thor said.
"I thought Asgardians were supposed to speak in old english," Bucky said.
Thor shrugged. "You've caught me. That phrase originates from Midgard, not Asgard. Specifically, Darcy Lewis about my brother. I hope you are proud of your keen victory."
Bucky snorted. Cold seaspray misted their legs. The boat floundered before pressing onwards. No matter the turbulence, it kept going, never tilting. It only fueled Bucky's suspicions that a type of magic lay over it. They were lucky to have even left the secluded harbor. He considered prodding Thor for more information about what he knew through Steve before deciding against it. If he could avoid that, he would. Resignation made the non-Hydra parts of him heavy.
The sounds of crashing waves, calling terns, and breaking ice surrounded them. It shut both Bucky and Thor into a world of beautiful breaking noises. Fog engulfed them. Bucky resisted staring at the lifeless bluegreen of the water next to them. After five minutes of human silence, Thor's fidgeting peaked.
"Do you have anything to say, Bucky Barnes?" he said. "Any stories to regale us with while we wait?"
"No." Bucky crossed his arms.
"You are a man of little words," Thor said. "I respect that."
Another slosh of waves; another calling of terns. Bucky wondered what Steve had felt like crashing into the arctic ocean. It had to be different than cryogenics.
"You are also a man of my brother's fashion sense," Thor said. "You have a whole… goth aesthetic going on. All black clothes. The hair. The disheveled appearance. Sporadic betrayal. I do not understand it, but I support it."
That almost gained a harsh retort. Bucky settled for "Nice hat."
Thor patted the "I ❤︎ NORWAY cap" and beanie on his head, not knowing which one Bucky was referring to, as well as torn between pleased and assessing an insult. Bucky saw when he settled on being proud. "I know," he said. "I chose it myself. It's a gift. My family enjoys trinkets from other places."
Bucky didn't reply. If he wasn't being given up, he wasn't being given up, but it not did mean he wanted to be here. Thor's next smile was more bemused.
"If you do not talk," he said, "we are going to be silent for a long time."
"How much longer do we have?" Bucky maintained a hold on the rudder to pretend he had control. He knew at this point that the boat had chosen its own course. Thor turned a hand back and forth with consideration.
"Several hours," he said.
"That's fine with me," Bucky said.
Another tern called over the sounds of icy waves.
Several hours stretched into noon. The grey mist dissolved under sunlight, giving way to glass waves. Seagulls joined the terns in their wheeling in the sky. The smell of salt and glacier ice never left the air. Bucky's good hand grew cold through its gloves, so much so that he could feel his fingertips numbing to an icy hot white. A cloudy sky watched their endeavor from above.
Thor had yet to put on a jacket. He munched through the seventh chip bag he had bought, with many more left, and observed the wide expanse of sea. He talked through most of the trip. Bucky heard stories of the Bifrost, of Asgard, of Frost Giants, of Thor's family, and every subject in between. While Bucky never offered many comments, Thor did not seem to mind. His brass voice soothed the breaking ice. Bucky built a good image of who Steve had been fighting alongside the past years. (Of course, Bucky thought, the two got along).
Every now and then, Thor's forehead creased and the boat shifted. Whatever unmarked road they were on, Thor knew it. When whales coasted alongside their boat in the distance, Thor waved. He accepted Bucky's deflections about The Avengers or his life with ease.
"You should have some of the snacks, Bucky Barnes," he said, crumpling up another bag. "I particularly enjoy these Lefsas. I'll have to ask Jane why we do not have them in New Mexico."
Bucky thought about it. His stomach didn't. He raised a hand, ignoring the quiet growl. Thor grinned a small grin before throwing him a packaged pastry. Bucky tore it open. He did not know why Thor always looked so pleased with himself or him whenever they had the smallest of interactions. It felt like a string of victories that Bucky was involved with but only Thor experienced. A dark cloud slid past them, slowly absorbing the sun.
Thor waited until Bucky finished eating the sugary Lefsa before saying "You've put some food in your belly, now, and I have been talking the past four hours. No more excuses. I want to hear some stories from you, my raccoon-faced friend. I know you have many to share, especially from when you fought alongside the Captain."
"How many 'no's does it take to drive it in?"
"One," Thor wheedled. "You must have one. It can be about anything you like."
Bucky's voice often grew dusty with disuse, but it was warmed up now. He did not want to hear Thor talking another hour. So Bucky slowly started in on a story about his and Steve's last mission. It wasn't a special one, since most museums covered their main battles anyway, but it was something to say. If he included tidbits about becoming the Winter Soldier, that didn't matter either. Everyone but Thor was in the loop.
Thor leaned back and listened. He laughed, gasped, and exclaimed oaths at all the right moments. When past Bucky fell off the train, Thor looked ready to throw the bait bucket overboard on principle. The Russian old man had gifted Bucky his unnamed son's dogtags, and as they jingled beneath Bucky's shirt and Thor stared at Bucky with incredulity, Bucky felt like a distant survivor of the mission instead. As if young Bucky had been someone else, and he had fallen off the train, not whoever was telling this story with their dogtags against their chest.
"But you survived," Thor said. "You continued onward."
"Not quite," Bucky said, shaking off his dissociation.
They finished the Winter Soldier story. Bucky left out most details. It irked Thor, he could tell, but Bucky didn't care. This wasn't unfettered sharing time. The longer Bucky spoke, the darker the sea grew. By the time he finished, Thor applauded him. Black waves rolled past their rickety boat.
"You and the Captain make formidable friends!" he said, tying the rope to the end of his fishing pole line. "It's unsurprising that you make formidable enemies too."
"Right," Bucky said, phantom arm aching.
Thor frowned. "I'm sorry. I did not mean it like that. I was not thinking."
"You're not wrong," Bucky said, "even if I don't want to be Steve's enemy."
"Then why not return to Steve Rogers? He is your friend. He is your loved one. He could help you."
"I can't." Bucky grabbed his prosthetic arm instead of the boat this time. Hearing Thor regurgitating Steve's questions and those in his head was frustrating. "I don't know how much of Bucky Barnes exists. He's Steve's friend, but the Winter Soldier isn't."
"Does the Winter Soldier have any friends?"
"No. The Winter Soldier is a danger."
Thor quietly tested the pole's reel. "I believe that loved ones and danger overlap more than you think they do, Bucky Barnes. But now isn't the time for that talk. I need your assistance."
Thor stood, the boat groaning beneath him. Bucky had forgotten how huge he was at full height. Seawater so green it turned black bobbed them up and down its massive swells. Not a single bird was in sight, apart from those flying far, far above. When Thor yanked on the pole the bait bucket lid popped off. Thor reeled up an enormous ham, its netting yet attached. It was almost too big for the bucket. The rope he had fiddled with earlier was tied around the end. A bright block of metal gleamed seven feet above the ham: Mjolnir. The hammer dangled from the rope, a giant sinker.
"Keep the boat near here," Thor said, balancing himself. The sea spat ice at the boat's sides, rattling it. Bucky tended to the whining engine. "If we get swept away, we have to find this spot again."
Breathless wind screamed at them. The seat groaned as Thor lifted the pole over his head. All nine feet of it-the pole, Mjolnir, the ham, the array of hooks-slowly rose into the air, bending backwards over the god of thunder's head. The boat wavered under Thor and Bucky, protesting and bouncing. As Bucky turned the boat once again to avoid being swamped, Thor raised his voice.
"You know," he yelled, "I'm awful with boats! I'm glad you came! Hymir did all the rowing and steering last time! You are a good man, Bucky Barnes!"
"Just cast the pole!" Bucky yelled.
With a grunt of effort, Thor heaved the pole back and threw it forward in a crescent arc with the power to crush mountains. Mjolnir and the ham shot upwards, becoming specks in the sky. The fishing line screamed. Mjolnir fell like a shooting star, the ham pursuing it. Its arc carried it thirty feet away. When it hit the surface, Bucky felt it in his teeth. A white column of water exploded upwards. The birds above screamed, fleeing. Sea water rained upon them. Thor laughed.
"Now," he said, sitting down, "we wait."
It took another hour before anything happened. Thor ate several more bags of snacks, checking his pole at random intervals. He grumbled whenever the pole trembled, shaking it.
"Accursed sharks," he said. "Scavengers of the ocean. They don't know when to leave bait alone."
Bucky wondered if any of them received a smacking from Mjolnir. "So the god of thunder isn't here to fish for sharks," he said.
"No," Thor said. "This is for family, actually."
"What?" Bucky said.
The pole twitched before doubling in half. It gave a deep groan, every fiber of metal in it straining. Thor leapt to his feet, bracing himself. Bucky felt the boat threaten to bend. He cursed.
"Brace yourself, Barnes!"
"I could have used forewarning!"
Thor gritted his teeth, yanking the reel through one circuit at a time. The pole stayed bent. The line's screaming ground to a low whine. Their boat shivered, sinking lower in the water; it took all of Bucky's strength to keep it from spinning.
Time blended into a slush of shimmery moments. Light thrown on the dark waves flew around them like so many knives. The whining of line became an eerie song behind them. Thor stayed concreted, reeling one section of line up a time. His hair escaped his beanie in wild wisps. Every muscle in his body was taunt. For once, he didn't have enough breath to talk. Bucky could see the dents in the boat where his feet were digging in.
It happened gradually. Every wave ironed out into a slick, glassy surface. Bucky could see the meniscus of the sea beneath them. The sounds around them flickered in and out. The rope tied to the end of the line came into view. Thor redoubled his reeling efforts. Foot after foot of line came flying up; as Bucky grabbed his closest knife, the boat cracked beneath Thor's heels, rivulets of water spraying his shins.
Something rose in the green water. At first, Bucky thought it was a ship. Then he saw the peak of the nose. Jade scales ascended from the murk. Then, the nostrils bigger than their boat. The rest of the nose, covered in scars and harpoons and bathed in water thousands of years old. Right after came the end of an incomprehensibly long tail, dangling out of the serpent's mouth.
The rope trailed up from the leviathan's mouth like a sewing thread. Mjolnir looked like a dime laid before a mountain. Ridged scales along the snake's snout cut the water during the ascent. Eighty feet down, slit eyes glowed, more brilliant than the first kernel of gold. Those were far, far bigger than the boat, as was the thousands and thousands of feet of body, stretching out beneath it towards the bottom of the ocean and beyond.
The boat rose on the serpent's nose, several feet of water still separating them. Its golden eyes fixed on Thor. A smile crossed Thor's face, one made of as much ancient stress and sadness as it was victory, and then and there he looked as tired as Bucky. Mjolnir and clumps of rope dangled from his right hand, dripping. His cap fell into the water.
"Hello, Jörmy," Thor said. "I see you're doing well. I have a hat for you."
The serpent's mouth parted, showing teeth honed in hatred. A silent hiss reverberated through Bucky's bones. The boat began going under.
Bucky lunged across the boat, snatched the rope, and both cut and tore it in half as the serpent dove. The pole snapped in half, Thor fell backwards with an undignified yell, and Bucky's head slammed into the motor as a giant wave threw them upwards.
By the time they sat up and assessed the burns on Thor's hands and the bleeding cut on Bucky's forehead, the world serpent was gone. So was Thor's cap. The green sea greeted them, empty and forlorn.
It did not take much to get an explanation out of Thor. Bucky was persuasive as always, especially after a near death experience, and Thor felt bad enough for the cracked boat to spill his story while they went back. To avoid worsening the situation, he flew alongside Bucky manning the boat, sometimes giving the rope-now repurposed into a towing rope-a tug.
"He wouldn't have hurt you," Thor said. "I promise. He only ever goes after me."
Bucky's disbelieving glare made Thor backtrack.
"So maybe he would have destroyed the boat, yes," Thor said. "Or this whole coastline, if we waited longer. But he's been pacified with his tail. He's... sulky, after being put away. He doesn't know his strength."
"Why are you referring to a world-ending monster like a preteen throwing a temper tantrum?" Bucky said.
"Because he is one," Thor said. "Jörmungandr is my nephew."
Bucky sighed. His feet were frozen in his boots. "Explain."
"Well, during one of his many raunchy escapades, my brother-"
"I know that much," Bucky said. "Explain why you're here to see it."
"Him," Thor said, his smile gone now. "Like I said before, Jörmungandr is my nephew. It may surprise you, but while I love Loki, he is not a good father. He cares and thinks very little of his children unless he needs one for a plan and remembers they exist."
Thor looked toward the distant shore. The mountains were black crags in the distant.
"I've accepted this about Loki," he said. "It's part of who he is. He is fast to show allegiance and fast to leave. He is impossible to tie down. Mischief is always moving. I've always admired that about him. No matter where he is, he never forgets who he is. He stays true to himself. Loki is… Loki."
"And was willing to destroy the Earth," Bucky said. "I doubt his son feels differently. He won't when Ragnarok shows."
"Well, no," Thor said. "You are not wrong about that. Jörmungandr is indeed a possible cause for Ragnarok. There are several. He is also meant to kill me." Thor chuckled. "He inherited his father's temper."
Thor was alive sheerly thought godhood, Bucky thought. No one embraced entities who wanted to kill them so often and remained alive without luck and near invincibility. From what he knew of Thor, the most concerning aspect of this was that Thor did not care who else his family caught in the crossfire.
"All the more reason to leave him at the bottom of the ocean," Bucky said.
"This is where we must disagree, Bucky Barnes," Thor said. "Despite what you think, Jörmungandr is not like Loki. I saw that look on your face that said you thought so. My nephew is not like us, or anyone from Midgard, or Asgard, but he has his own thoughts and feelings. I did get to interact with him at one time long ago, before he grew too big and we sank him into Migard's sea. I know him. Knew him."
How often did Steve go through the rigamarole of defending him and claiming they were still friends? Bucky did not want to consider it. The shoreside mountains grew larger, showing their snow cracks.
"Even if he was harmless then, he's not now," Bucky said. "It doesn't matter if he's your nephew or if he hates you or doesn't. He's out to kill you."
"You're right," Thor said. "He is out to kill me. I cannot blame him for that. I was one of his uncles who failed him and chained him, the same way we failed and chained Fenrir. But he is still my nephew. I still love him. Perhaps it is stupid, but there is always a slim chance that if I keep visiting him, he'll change his mind. No matter what a danger he is to me he is part of my family."
"If he attacks Midgard?" Bucky said.
"If he attacks Midgard, so be it," Thor said. "I'll destroy him. But this doesn't have to end with Ragnarok. I know it doesn't. I won't let it. Whatever Father thinks, the nephew whom I fed doves while he curled around my wrist is still in there. Him growing the size of the world and listening to Loki's and Asgard's poison doesn't change that."
Thor's hair finished escaping his beanie during his impassioned rant. In the midday sun and clearing clouds, it glowed, still paling against the color of Jörmungandr's submerged eyes. Bucky burned with memories. He could not place the faces of all the ghosts around him, but he remembered his mother, and he recognized Steve's hazy face in several. The ones of movie theaters and back alley fights stood in stark contrast with ones of the war. Uniforms and Hydra sliced everything apart.
Everything was different now, Bucky thought, except that part of Steve who stubbornly clung to their friendship. Was Steve, with his own fishing pole and boat, too stupid to see the current state of the friend he was looking for? Or did he have a point? Bucky's dock neared, as did the snowy shore. No answers followed suit.
"You look like you have something to say," Thor said.
"Your family is terrible at conflict resolution," Bucky said.
Thor laughed. "I suppose we are. But what can you expect from a family of gods?"
Not much, Bucky thought. No more than anyone could expect from a broken group of super people.
Thor, true to his word, did not stay. He paid Bucky in a large wad of ones, twenties, and fifties before commending his bravery in that booming voice that drew everyone's attention. Thankfully, the "everyone" was a stray husky and two tired fishermen, who eyed him with suspicion. Bucky appreciated the clear restraint it took for Thor not to pat his back.
By the time Thor took off, the god of thunder had wrestled the stray dog into being his best friend, and it was evening. Sunset red doused the mountains. Bucky watched the last of the color bleed into the sea before night fell. He heard Thor's stray-fondly dubbed "Valkyrie" by Thor after she had initially sank her teeth into Thor's hand-snoozing on the porch, her tail smacking the wall.
"Leave," Bucky said, leaning out the door. "He's not coming back."
Valkyrie growled, showing her broken front canine. She and Bucky stared at each other. Valkyrie licked her lips, putting her head down.
"Fine." Bucky closed the door. He heard the husky's pleased whine.
That night, Bucky dreamt of being stuck hundreds of leagues under the sea, drowning, consuming his own metal arm as he turned into a hydra. As a hook caught his arm, he spluttered on pleas for mercy. As it drug him towards the surface, towards the watching faces of Hyrdra employees with their clipboards and syringes, he screamed. The image beyond the surface wobbled, changing into someone else.
Hello, Bucky, Steve said, reaching out from the boat, his face distorted by water. I see you're doing well. I have a gift for you.
A syringe stabbed him in the arm. Restraints and Russian syllables slithered around him as his world melted. The Winter Soldier fell back into his cryo chamber.
The nightstand shattered. Bucky stumbled up to his feet, sweating. His hand trembled, slivers of wood sticking out of it. Bucky wiped them away, driving some deeper. Thin trails of blood smeared over his palm. Valkyrie's barking rang in his ears. Bucky staggered to his shelf, pulling his clothes on. Every footstep brought on pain. Jörmungandr's hiss curled through his hearing at an unbearable volume.
Thor's wad of money did not stay behind. Bucky, shaking, grabbed half of it off the table. Several ones slipped between his hands, landing on the floor. His plans for leaving the old man a note in Russian drained out of his mind as control drained out of his body. Valkyrie fled when Bucky slammed the door open. Her white tail reminded him of bullets spraying snow. The reverberations of distant gunshots rang through Bucky's body, even if he could not hear the noise.
He stole the first car he found. Broken glass littered the seat even as Bucky sat down and took off. Bucky forced his breathing to level out as his headlights bounced over the crumbly mountain road. Slangepasset and its handful of lights vanished behind him. The steering wheel cracked. I'm breaking it, Bucky thought. I'm breaking it. Hand, let go. отпустить!
It took an agonizing minute before the hand listened. His metal fingers released the misshapen steering wheel. Bucky reached into his shirt, grabbing the dogtags. He squeezed them delicately to avoid crumpling them. Still, the metal bent. Bucky exhaled, watching the snowy road and its surrounding boulders pass by. Exhaustion settled in.
It had been hard to understand Jörmungandr's hiss over the sea and Thor's babbling. Now, with freezing wind blowing through the broken car window and yellow-lit circles of snow hovering in the mountain pass front of him, Bucky understood him. Help me, Jörmungandr had said. I'm trapped. No amount of affection from his uncle would change that, or the venomous urge to destroy all he loved.
Bucky couldn't live with that a few miles away.