"I'm not him, though," are the first words the Winter Soldier says to Steve outside of battle. What follows is a journey where both discover what that actually means.
Notes, warnings and disclaimers: Managed to hit the Transvengers Initiative goals without even knowing about the Initiative.
I suppose I should warn for: X-Men cameos, the lack of naked manflesh, the copious amount of swearing which earns the rating, and the fact that one character here turns out not to be cis-gender. Plus the usual Winter Soldier-associated violence once removed: mention of torture, depersonalization, etc. More or less sound coping strategies. This fic is not meant to provide an accurate portrayal of PTSD or related disorders, please do not use for treatment advice.
While I have a minor chronic illness myself, I don't miss a limb. I did some research, but if I messed up, feel free to call me out. Same goes for gender issues or anything else, really.
Oh yeah, and tumblr. If anyone actually has those nicks: My utmost apologies.
I'm mentioning some music in the text, if you want to know what it is, you'll have to scroll all the way down.
#genderqueer character #demisexual character #bisexuality #neutrois #genderfluid #transvengers
Retconning Bucky Barnes
You were born James Buchanan Barnes.
This is your mission:
a) Avoid Hydra at all costs.
b) Remember.
c) Feed yourself: The Asset requires at least 6000 kilo calories per day for active duty. The Asset may not be fed 24 hours before going into storage.
You will rather die than go into storage again.
It's just past Thanksgiving when the Winter Soldier lets himself be found. As per Tony's information, he's waiting in the Captain America Exhibit in the Smithsonian for the third day in a row, staring at the plaque declaring Bucky Bares a dead man. For almost ten minutes, he doesn't even acknowledge Steve or give a sign he noticed the approach.
Steve tries his best to seem neither too worried nor too relieved. Bucky looks as if he's lost more weight than he can afford and the shoulder length hair sticking out from under his ratty hat is somewhat greasy, but while his best friend does smell faintly of sweat, it's not the sour miasma of old beer and piss that tends to hover around many homeless people.
And also, to quote the internet, Bucky.
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it. Clears his throat, lifts his head as if gearing up for rejection. "I'm not him, though." It comes out gravelly, like he hasn't spoken in a long while.
Steve ducks a little. Swallows a, "You reading minds now, pal?" and opts for, "Okay."
More silence.
"What do I call you, if you're not him?", Steve finally gives in.
Bucky blinks, staring at the photograph again, as if searching for inspiration. "Bucky's fine."
Steve's shoulders fall. "Right." Talk about mixed signals. He really hopes this doesn't have to make sense. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you."
Bucky nods.
"So." Steve moves his hand, remembers he's wearing a hat and rubs the bridge of his nose instead of combing his hair out of his face. Tearing his hair sounds mighty tempting right now. "My new place has a spare bedroom. You could stay there, if you want." (It's also tempting to just lift Bucky up and carry him bridal style all the way there. Not that Bucky would stand for that. One day, Steve also might admit to choosing the new apartment for the spare room, getting askance looks from Sam for it, but no open criticism.)
"Tomorrow," Bucky says.
"Okay. I can pick you up here – same time?"
Bucky frowns, but gives no actual confirmation.
This is Bucky politely telling him to fuck off, isn't it? Steve squares his shoulders, tries not to show his disappointment. "Take care, will ya?"
"Hmm." While Buck doesn't seem to want to leave yet, Steve flees.
Although he buys another razor, stocks up on food and makes up the bed in the spare room, he's on the phone with Sam for nearly an hour that night. Because he has no idea what he did wrong. Sam tries to reassure him, that Bucky didn't actually refuse and probably needs some time to adjust to the idea, and maybe even to people. "Look, you told me what he said. For all you know, you're getting a roomie by lottery, who has stuff stashed at a shelter. You'll just have to show up like you promised you would."
Bucky with luggage? Steve would rather not imagine his best friend schlepping around numerous plastic bags. Sam seems to understand the imagery is not contributing to Steve's peace of mind, and so starts giving advice Steve is sure he won't need. Things like, "you don't know this person, man. Don't try to make him into something he isn't, offer to tell him about the good old days but don't make him listen to you wax poetic about them if he doesn't seem interested. Try to keep in mind he might not like stuff he liked before. Don't touch this guy without warning," etc.
Although it's nice to know at least one person is nearly optimistic about this, Steve's stomach is churning to a point where even he isn't hungry any more, and in the night, he can't sleep, rerunning the short conversation with Bucky over and over.
xxx
However, Bucky rings the doorbell the next day around noon, wearing the same clothes as before and carrying an enormous bag. For a second, Steve can only stare. Then he starts grinning. If there's a hint of moisture in his eyes, well. Bucky's finally home. "Hey."
"Hi," Buck mumbles, then evades Steve's stare. It's the most expression he's shown as of yet.
"Come on in. I, um. This is your room right here." First door to the left.
The bag rattles like it's housing the arsenal of an entire squad when Bucky puts it down on the dark hardwood floor. When Steve got the place, he bought a bed, a chest of drawers and a thick rug, always wondering whether Bucky would like the choices, but right now Bucky eyes them with glances that have to do with escape routes and sight lines, and goes to look out of the window at the neighboring buildings. Eventually, he nods, face impassive, obviously realizing that Steve has put some thought into the arrangement.
Steve gives Bucky a tour, shows him how the appliances in the bathroom work. Digs out sweats and a hoodie to wear and asks Bucky to take a shower while he prepares omelets with cheese and bell peppers. When Buck emerges, water from his wet shoulder length hair drips a pattern onto the white tiles in the kitchen. Several attempts at conversation fall flat because apparently Bucky doesn't want Steve to know that he has an opinion about his room, its shelf space, or the fancy rain shower head.
Bucky eats everything and, surprise, grunts out a "thank you" before bustling off into his room.
Things are looking up.
So Steve takes a seat on the couch, switches the TV on for some background noise, and waits for Bucky to finish unpacking. Even though he is tired, he doesn't want to sleep. When Tony's call came, he and Sam had just blown up a Hydra splinter base outside Tashkent, Uzbekistan, that turned out to be a dead end, Winter Soldier-wise. At least Hill and Fury will appreciate both the humor and the fact that Hydra knows infighting as well as any other organization.
Anyway, Steve's still jetlagged because he didn't sleep a wink last night.
Only, lunch is the last Steve sees of Bucky for the day. When he can't stand sitting on his couch anymore, he listens at the guest room's door. Inside someone is breathing very deeply, very evenly. No one can mimic "asleep" that well. When he knocks on the door, asking whether Bucky would like dinner, there's a grunt that is classic Barnes-speak for "fuck off, it got late last night".
Despite Bucky being so thin, Steve can't bring himself to rouse him. (At least one of them is sleeping well.)
You were born James Buchanan Barnes.
This is your mission:
a) Avoid Hydra at all costs.
b) Remember.
c) Feed yourself: The Asset requires at least 6000 kilo calories per day for active duty. The Asset may not be fed 24 hours before going into storage.
You will rather die than go into storage again.
P.S. You are staying with Steven G. Rogers. This is the blond man from the bridge, Captain America, and your best friend. Be polite to him, even if you know he'll rather be killed by you than hurt you.
You told him to call you Bucky.
Sam and Steve talk it over the next morning when they go running. "You don't know where he lived, man." Sam looks ready to smack Steve to stop the fretting. (Yes, fretting, because Bucky needs to eat, dammit.) "If he didn't feel safe anywhere else, he'll have to make up for a lot of lost sleep."
Admittedly. But when Steve returns with bagels for breakfast, there's some crumbs on the kitchen counter. A glance into the dishwasher (fourth best thing in the future after the internet, human rights and the food, really), shows one cereal bowl, one spoon, and one plate that Steve didn't put in there. Further rummaging through the kitchen yields the following evidence: a granola box only half full anymore. One bottle of orange juice, two apples, and one bread are missing, and all the fucking ham in the fridge is gone.
Right. Bucky also took a shower and left the towel almost in the hamper. (This is a pleasant development because it is not new.)
Further tries to get Bucky to come out of his room for food result in the same moody grunt.
Right. So Bucky wants to sleep and doesn't want to see Steve. Sam finally hits him over the head on the third morning, because, "you have no fucking reason to blame yourself, and no reason to suspect an injury that needs treatment. He's feeding and cleaning himself, right? So if the guy wants to sleep? Let him sleep."
There's copious proof Bucky is making himself at home when Steve is out with Sam or grocery shopping. Once the washing machine is running when he returns. Cereal and orange juice vanish as fast as Steve can replace them. Otherwise, Bucky seems to have a taste for ham-and-tomato sandwiches, any kind of fruit, nuts, tuna, and corn straight from the can. No cheese or milk go missing, though.
After the fourth day, Steve takes care to announce that he's leaving and for how long, so Bucky can come out undisturbed. If there's no shopping to do, Steve goes for walks in the afternoon and takes his sketchbook with him.
Sam says reclusive behavior is to be expected. Bucky needs to get used to the new environment. Natasha thinks he might've only come in because it was getting cold and actually was nowhere near ready for this. While she seems to believe this went too well, regardless, she never once says a peep about alerting Fury or Hill or any official authority that they do, in fact, know where the shooter from Roosevelt Bridge is.
It's breaking Steve's heart a little more, both for her and Bucky.
So Steve reads up on PTSD. Sam gave him books and pamphlets from the VA. When Steve calls Ms. Potts for legal advice, Stark mails him some well used, annotated print books, and a phone for "Red Menace". Says to give him a picture, and a couple days later he sends over a fake ID with a recent picture Steve scanned from the file on the Winter Soldier. Steve calls Tony, but the man waves off every attempt to thank him and simply asks for a look on Popsicle Two's arm, once things have settled down. Also, if Steve needs money, he'll only have to ask. Which Steve won't. It's not like he had a lot of opportunity to spend his seventy years of back pay – he and Buck can live okay on what he owns for the next couple years or so.
Tony's been a god-sent anyway, the past six months. Stark Industries' legal department kept him out of most hearings, and half the time he and Sam did their traveling disguised as Ms. Potts' employees. Steve wouldn't have known about Bucky, and now this. Steve has no idea how to repay all this kindness expect to call sometimes just to chat. (Which, he suspects, is what Tony is after, in the end.)
Anyway, Steve has time to read and, well, he literally doesn't have anything better, or more important, to do. Bucky is taking precedence, always has, always will.
He now buys food double the insane amount he usually does and leaves offerings of new clothes and chocolate outside Bucky's door.
Well into the second week, he complains to Natasha and Sam about the hair. It's everywhere. In the sinks, under the couch, clings to the tiles of the bathroom walls, even finds its way into the fucking fridge. Steve can't remember ever being this bothered by Bucky's hair before.
They both laugh.
"It's longer, more visible than yours, and you dork decided to rent a place with lots of white tile," Sam says. "Of course you notice it more."
"Buy him some elastics", Natasha adds. "That should keep it to the bedroom and the bathroom. Ones without metal clips, though."
It helps. A little.
xxx
On the morning of St Nicholas's day, Bucky hovers in the kitchen doorway while Steve is having breakfast. All of the stubble is gone, and it looks like he's regained some weight, too. Most of his hair is tied back, but there are some shorter locks hanging into his face, and he's obviously wearing Steve's sweatpants, his bare toes just peeking out from under the hem. All that makes him look awfully young. Young and vulnerable and beautiful. (Not that Bucky ever has been anything but beautiful, in Steve's very biased opinion.)
"Morning." Steve smiles. "Coffee?"
Bucky grunts an affirmative and goes to prepare his own breakfast. Coffee – well, one part sugar, two parts coffee, really – and granola dumped in OJ, with extra dried fruit and cashews added.
"People usually use milk for that," Steve says. Or yogurt, but he can't stand the sour taste.
Bucky scrunches up his nose and proceeds to ignore the advice. After a quick glance, he steals the parts of the paper Steve has already read.
"You're welcome to all the books in the living room," Steve says. Bucky must be awfully bored a lot of the time.
Bucky grunts. He does borrow The Lord of The Rings, and he's there when Steve prepares sandwiches for lunch and orders in for dinner, though he doesn't offer an opinion about the pizza toppings. Or rather, he looks at the menu and then at Steve with his brows drawn together. Like he wants Steve to choose for him. Okay. Sam said this might happen. Though why Bucky can have opinions about food already in the fridge but not about pizza will continue to mystify Steve.
Still, he is reminded of this one song. Walking on Sunshine. So. He can't stop smiling, hasn't been this light headed and lighthearted since … must have been the return to the camp from Azzano. (Seventy)three years ago.
"Wanna watch a movie?" Steve asks, once they've polished off one and a half pizzas each. "People keep telling me what pop culture I absolutely have to know."
Bucky shrugs, but follows Steve and curls up on the far end of the couch.
"We missed almost seventy Disney pictures."
"Hmm."
Not the overly enthusiastic response Steve was hoping for, but at least it is a response, right?
He selects Snow White, but it doesn't garner much of a reaction, and neither does Beauty and the Beast after that. (He's not hinting subtly. Steve has never been known for subtlety.)
xxx
During the next days, Bucky works himself up from grunts and hums to the occasional monosyllable. He goes through some of Steve's novel collection at quadruple the pace he'd have managed before 1944, including most SciFi and fantasy that Steve hasn't read yet. Those are all gifts to him, because Steve isn't one for speculative fiction, has never been, unlike Bucky, who spent any superfluous money he didn't need for his dates on Amazing Stories and the Astounding magazines. Nowadays, Steve is even more likely to read about art, history or politics than he was then.
It's a little worrying Bucky is always wearing the stuff he's borrowing from Steve, but never the new things that actually fit, and apparently can't be assed to shave half the time.
After two more nights of little to no enthusiasm on Bucky's side, Steve forgoes Disney reruns (so he did binge, after first waking up. So what?) in favor of some TV series he's been told are decent. Next in line is "Torchwood", which Sam suggested might be interesting. "Depressing, but interesting," is the exact wording.
The main character can't die and is a man out of, or maybe outside time, which explains why Tony once called Steve "Jack Harkness". As it is, Bucky seems somewhat more interested in the series' moral complexity and character development, not to mention the glove thing, than in movies for a family audience. Though Steve thinks the episode with the Cyberwoman should have come with a warning, Bucky doesn't seem to lose sleep over it. Neither does he blink at Captain Harkness flirting with anyone reasonably attractive… but then there's a couple of women going at it onscreen.
Bucky gapes at the TV for a little while, then stares at Steve with, well, it looks like accusation.
"It's – in some states, same sex couples can get married now." Steve casts about for an explanation, but while he did get the cultural sensitivity training, he's not good enough at this to actually explain. Also, he might be a little more flustered than he should be, having realized that there is a word for how he feels now. Which is bisexual. Possibly with a demi- thrown in, but he doesn't find that important enough to agonize over it.
"Right," Bucky says, which is the first actual word he's used today.
Okay. Turning away so Bucky won't see just how much Steve wants to whoop with joy about one single disbelieving utterance, he busies himself with the search function. There has to be a documentary about the Stonewall Riots somewhere on Netflix. They stay up past midnight to watch it.
The next evening, Bucky just takes the remote and makes Steve watch "Milk" and "Brokeback Mountain". After "Liberace", Steve tells Bucky he can use Netflix to his heart's content during the day, but Steve does want a word in the entertainment he's being forced to watch. He can't take two tear-jerk endings per night, plus he would actually like to know how "Torchwood" ends. (It will turn out that Sam wasn't quite correct in labeling it depressing.)
So in the afternoons, there's a background hum of TV documentaries until shortly before Christmas, when Buck seems to have exhausted his curiosity about minority sexualities, the Civil Rights Movement, the Cold War, the atomic bomb, the Space Race and assorted scientific developments. That Bucky got interested in queer rights first has to be a fluke.
When Steve notices that his notepad in the kitchen loses pages faster than it should, he buys one for Bucky plus a couple pens. "It's good that you're keeping a diary."
There's a somewhat discouraging hum as answer. The trick with Bucky has always been not to pry too much, because he wouldn't talk about what was bothering him until he was done thinking about it. Drove Steve mad sometimes, that Bucky wouldn't for his life ask your opinion, just inform you about whatever decision he'd made. (Like re-enlisting in '41 after having been drafted in 1940. Steve had thought it brave, while Mrs. Barnes barely kept herself from hitting her son.)
Steve owns this book about a woman who always forgets everything when she sleeps. She's keeping a diary to remember. Unlike her, I remember more the more I sleep.
So this is why they didn't let me sleep during missions. Afraid their asset would become unstable even faster, I wager.
I wish I could just write down, "this is what happened", but no such luck. So, one part regular diary, the other part just everything I remember as it comes to me. I can't let Steve talk too much about the past, otherwise I won't know whether it's a memory or something I constructed from his tales.
This is a memory: Alexander Pierce shot his cleaning woman when she returned for her forgotten phone and saw me in his kitchen. Her name was Yolanta, I think. I have no idea why I was in that kitchen in the first place, but he did make me disappear the body. I took her valuables and threw her into the river. She had a picture of a kid in her wallet. Maybe ten years old, brown haired boy grinning at the camera.
Pierce offered me milk, but I wouldn't have drunk it even after he demonstrated it wasn't poisoned.
I don't like milk. Makes me sick.
This was different once. Another memory, wooden table, sunlight streaming in, milk to go with my cake for breakfast, my ma singing for me with Becky crooning along on her hip – Birthday? When is my birthday? Will have to ask Steve once I feel ready to talk.
Writing is so much easier than talking.
Obviously, a Christmas miracle would be too much to ask for. Bucky is still using monosyllables on the 24th, but even with those, he's able to tell Steve that he is to go celebrate Christmas Eve with Sam, Natasha and Clint, who's resurfaced now that the worst of the SHIELD debacle has blown over.
Steve gives Bucky some writing supplies for Christmas: pads, two actual note books, more pens, a magazine file. Most likely, he shouldn't have kept the StarkPhone from Bucky this long, so he says, "this is from a friend who's hoping to bribe you into letting him look at the arm". It's one of those big ones that can nearly double as a tablet. He'd wanted to throw in a debit card, but Sam and Natasha both thought this was going to overtax Bucky's current decision making skills, if the internet access didn't do the deed for him. Usually, the most Bucky decides is whether to shave or not, and whether he'd prefer pizza or Chinese for take-out when Steve is ordering in. Three quarters of the time, they end up with Chinese, and although Bucky makes Steve pick the actual meal, he will use chop sticks like a pro to polish it off.
Therefore, Steve's only added a couple apps instead, so Bucky can stream music and read e-books from the public library.
"Thanks," Bucky mumbles. He doesn't meet Steve's eyes.
Oh. Right. This time, Bucky doesn't have anything to give back, even though it's debatable how much Bucky actually remembers about Christmas in Brooklyn.
"You're here," Steve says. "That's gift enough this year."
Still Bucky won't look up, just turns the new phone over and over in his hands.
"Just don't buy any explosives on the internet, jerk."
One corner of Bucky's mouth twitches upwards. Which might count as a miracle, after all.
xxx
Until Boxing Day, Bucky gets acquainted with his new phone, or so Steve thinks, because Bucky is holing up in his room. He even takes pictures of the food, like some people do in restaurants, and snaps one of Steve. (Steve's extremely positive he looks like the sappy love-struck idiot he is, but whatever. Bucky doesn't seem to realize any of it, just like in the old days.)
Wouldn't have thought there was going to be this much writing, so much information available one day. But it is, and I now can use search engines and make sense of the results. So here goes: I might have been sleeping so much because Zola's serum was regrowing the nerve endings the wipes fried.
On the 27th, Steve returns from a grocery run to Bucky standing in the kitchen, staring at the wall. He doesn't react as Steve enters the room and says, "Hi."
Steve puts the totes on the counter, taking care to make noise."Bucky? You okay there?"
Bucky frowns. Sighs. "Sorry."
"It's alright." Steve knows enough about PTSD to expect Bucky to dissociate sometimes – retreat into his own head because something is too much or because something reminded him of before. It's probably just a coincidence he's never been around for an episode.
"I -" Bucky shakes his head. "I shot John F. Kennedy."
Well. Steve blinks. He's – admittedly, he'd been utterly surprised that America ever elected a Catholic president. But he hasn't lived with the fallout, hasn't been exposed to the iconography going with the incident his entire life, so it's less of an insult to him than to, say, Tony or Nick Fury. "I suspected." Something that Zola said plus the time and place of a deployment in Bucky's file. There's only one reason for a talented sniper to have been to Dallas, Texas, in 1963.
"I." Bucky stares at his hands, the light reflecting off his metal fingers as he flexes them.
Steve wants to hug him. Instead, he steps into Bucky's space, offers a hand to hold onto. Bucky takes it with a death grip that would break bones in non-super soldiers. If only he'd been able to hang on like that back then. Swallowing down the regret, Steve asks, "Did you know who the mark was?"
Bucky shakes his head.
"Would you have shot him, if you had any choice in the matter?"
Another head shake.
"It's okay. It wasn't you."
"But it was me," Bucky says. He whirls around and doesn't leave his room until late the next day.
Steve insists it wasn't me who did these things. But it was. And it was me who was running his mouth in Azzano, trying to protect the remnants of my unit like a good sergeant would, drawing Zola's attention.
It was me who broke rather than killing himself, once that turned out too difficult. It was me who just sat there, letting Pierce slap me, letting them put me into the chair without argument.
Sometimes I can't believe I was this person. Sometimes I can't believe Bucky Barnes, the Asset and I are the same person. Even if the memories are all there in my head.
I can't trust Steve on this. I need an outside opinion.
Username: retconning-bb
Blog name: Tides of the River Lethe
Information about the blogger: Content notice: I swear. A lot.
retconning-bb wrote:
Hello, world
I'm a vet with an artificial limb and self-diagnosed PTSD. Currently staying with bff. Only, I know he's my bff, but I can't actually remember most of our history.
So, I might've forgotten to mention that I'm amnesiac, too?
Anyway, I'm keeping a diary on paper to write up every flash of memory that comes to me – I'm missing huge chunks of my life right now – but sometimes I need an extra reminder that this isn't some hallucination my brain's cooked up. Also, it's more fun to rant when you know people are listening.
captainhook reblogged this and added:
Hi there and welcome to tumblr! (Have a hug if you want one.)
I think what you're doing sounds pretty good as a start, but: you are aware that there's people to help you with your issues, aren't you? Ask the bff kick to the VA's ass if you can't. It sounds like you might benefit from talking to a professional. Also, here's a site about prostheses and stuff. I'm currently saving up for a Stark Industries one.
Also, you're totally entitled to all the sick jokes you can come up with. People always look askance when I make hand jokes like I'm being politically incorrect or not deserving of pity anymore or whatever. As if I wanted pity in the first place. Fuck them.
retconning-bb reblogged this from captainhook and added:
Talking. Right. I only have a limited amount of sentences right now. Bff needs to hear me talk more than a therapist does. Plus, most days I need to remember that I am actually allowed to speak.
mx-sal reblogged the original post and added:
Go you! Actually, this is a very brave thing you're doing, writing all that for the world to see.
I'm not a veteran, but I do have my blog to remind me I'm still here and kicking. You need some addresses for trauma therapists in the DC area, ping me.
morriganslair reblogged the original post and added:
No one can hallucinate tumblr. We're worse than anything even a bad LSD trip can produce. I'm also looking forward to your ranting, because I consider myself an expert ranter myself.
That site captainhook recced is The Best – reason being I'm a contributor. Though I disagree about Stark tech.
(7 more notes)
"He's talking. Get him to see a therapist, for Chrissakes," Sam offers when they're running the next morning. "You can't do this alone, and I'm not certified for his issues."
"Talking" seems to be a bit of an exaggeration still, so Steve resolves to wait until January at least.
He makes a roast for New Year's Eve and buys five kinds of ice cream. They have a prolonged, if pretty silent, meal because Steve told Bucky this recipe was what Mrs. Barnes would make if she could afford it, and Bucky has to shake his head because he has no idea what it's supposed to taste like.
"'s good, though," Bucky says as if to console Steve about his lack of memory.
As far as the ice cream goes, Bucky seems to prefer the flavors with lots of chocolate unless they're talking rum raisin. Bucky hogs that tub like a hungry dog defending a bone, and Steve pokes fun at him for it. Bucky glowers back with his mouth scrunched up like he's trying hard not to grin.
Only, Bucky grips his stomach half an hour before midnight, when they're sitting on the couch, waiting for the ball to drop.
"Shit," he says. "I'm an idiot."
"Excuse me?" Steve turns. Bucky does look awfully pale.
"Ice cream," Bucky says. "Made of sugar and loads of milk, yeah?"
"I'm afraid so," Steve says, though he has no idea where this is going.
Bucky gives an amused grunt. "Fuck. And I had a fucking pint of it. World's most feared assassin taken out by milk of all things."
Wait, wait, wait. Dots connect. "You're lactose intolerant."
"Yeah."
"Shit."
Bucky laughs. It's a very short, harsh sound. "Literally. Didn't have to rub it in, punk."
"Could have told me earlier, jerk."
They smile at each other for a bit.
retconning-bb wrote:
Sick sense of humor required
Eat a pint of ice cream.
Then remember it's made of milk and you've been lactose intolerant for a few years now.
Yay amnesia.
captainhook reblogged this and added:
Sheesh. I feel you.
morriganslair reblogged this and added:
My sympathies.
Not going to rant now about ppl who eat lactose and gluten free shit w/out needing to and never realize they're actually gonna get an intolerance if they do this.
retconning-bb reblogged this from morriganslair and added:
You are ranting, though.
morriganslair reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
You ain't seen me rant yet, honey.
mx-sal wrote:
Sometimes I want to punch people
Never been this glad to be back from visiting family. One of my uncles was there who hasn't seen me in a decade, and he called me my girly birth name all the fucking time. I mean, I've been taking drugs and called "Sal" and they-pronouns for five of those ten fucking years. Can't be all that hard?
retconning-bb reblogged this and added:
Shouldn't be that hard to remember, no, especially when one considers the time frame. Give me a call if you need me to punch someone. I'm pretty good at breaking noses and splitting lips.
Hope I'm not intruding too much, but what drugs and why?
mx-sal reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
Nah, I don't mind respectful questions. I'm taking testosterone. Just a very low dose, tho, because it adds a bit of muscle and hair, and makes my voice a bit deeper. People usually don't know what to think about me, and read me either as a butch lesbian or a twink most of the time. Sometimes it's really depressing of how little people know about genderqueer identities outside my nook of the internet.
retconning-bb reblogged this from mx-sal and added:
Food for thought. Thanks, Mx. Sal.
Steve buys lactase tablets so Bucky can have ice cream.
They have actual conversations some days. Nothing too deep, not since the JFK discussion (if you can even call it that), and Bucky always holds up his hand to stop "do you remember"-questions, which at first has Steve blinking back tears. Just why isn't his best friend interested in their history? Is Bucky just using him? Why is Bucky even here?
Sam and Natasha are very little help, though they would both bet that Bucky isn't actually freeloading.
At least, Buck's as much fun as Natasha when it comes to poking holes into spy movies. They also share a deep seated dislike of most romantic comedies.
"He's an asshole. Why would she marry him?" Bucky seems indignant, like he doesn't remember laughing at something similar once, back in Brooklyn. Like he never ignored his dates after a couple of weeks to chase after the next dame.
"Apparently, ladies prefer assholes." It's a wisdom that seems to be recurring in magazines and TV shows. Steve's never seen much evidence in real life, but he's no social butterfly, is he?
"Nah. Asshole writers would prefer ladies to prefer assholes."
Steve laughs, and Bucky grins. There's a sparkle in Bucky's blue eyes. They grin at each other for a while, and Steve can't stop looking. How he wants to kiss that smile and taste it. (He has it bad, yeah.)
Eventually, Bucky looks away and stands. "We need more popcorn. Pick something better, will ya."
For a minute, Steve doesn't, just hugs himself, wants to vanish, because there is no way Bucky hasn't noticed. There is no way that Steve hasn't made Bucky uncomfortable.
Only, Buck returns from making popcorn and sits down in his usual spot as if nothing's happened. Gives Steve a small smile, even.
xxx
Even so, things go awkward for a bit. Bucky watches Steve, Steve watches Bucky, but always in ways that mean they don't want to be caught at it.
Otherwise, life doesn't change all that much. Bucky comes out of his room to read and to tap away at his phone with earphones on, lying on his stomach on the couch with his feet up and jiggling them to the rhythm like some teenage girl in a movie. Steve itches to draw him, so he does.
"What you listening to?", Steve asks one day.
Bucky plucks out one bud and hands it to Steve, who has to crouch next to the sofa to put it in.
It sounds folky. "German music?" Of all things. (Although he will admit he has no idea about German music past 1944 and is pleasantly surprised.)
"And Scandinavian." Skip. Operatic soprano with e-guitars. "And Russian." Skip to more electric guitars. "And Linkin Park." Skip.
Steve knows about Linkin Park, thank you very much. The song continues playing, and Steve can actually understand why Bucky likes this, because it's teetering between anger and vulnerability, or maybe the novelty lies in how the singer admits to being hurt, and being angry about that, instead of stopping at macho posturing.
"Not really your kind of selection, huh?", Bucky says. He's turned his gaze toward Steve, his eyes are huge and liquid and their faces are inches from each other. Bucky smells like himself and coffee and the conditioner Steve bought for him.
Suddenly Steve has some trouble breathing. He smiles. "Blame Sam. I like Motown and R'n'B and will even listen to some hip hop."
"Hmm. Your variety's better for dancing." Bucky taps away, and now they're listening to Rihanna together. Umbrella.
Steve tries not to read too much into that choice. Tries not to imagine slow dancing with Bucky. "She's one hell of a dame," he says instead.
"That she is."
retconning-bb wrote:
Help!
Falling for bff – or, well, I might've been in love for a while and didn't fucking realize before all the shit went down. He seems to reciprocate, kinda? Only I don't have my head on straight and I'm a burden and he doesn't know half of the rest of it and aaargh.
captainhook reblogged this and added:
Breathe. (All the cute ones are gay. Sigh.)
morriganslair reblogged this from captainhook and added:
That's patently untrue, captainhook. (Points at his long pined for, hot ass straight neighbor.)
Also, retconning-bb: Breathe. Him "kinda" reciprocating is waaay better than him being afraid to catch gay cooties. Really. I have scars to prove this.
mx-sal reblogged this from morriganslair and added:
Seconded on the breathing. Out and in, yeah? Also, captainhook, morriganslair: retconning-bb never told us their pronouns.
To retconning-bb: I don't think he considers you a burden, but I know roomies appreciate if you actually help around the house, if you can ;) What's the "rest of it"?
retconning-bb reblogged this from mx-sal and added:
Still not quite clear on that myself. But yeah, male pronouns for now.
morriganslair reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
This isn't about being queer and a soldier or something?
retconning-bb reblogged this from morriganslair and added:
Been queer long before I been a soldier. Only the exact kind of queer is still a mystery.
mx-sal reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
Whenever and whatever you feel ready to share. Some helpful links might be here: Resources page of Blue Ticket Café.
Private ask from retconning-bb to mx-sal: That's you? I like the purple hair. You're actually only about five blocks downtown from where I live.
Private ask from mx-sal to retconning-bb: Have my number. Come find us whenever you're ready.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Working on it. Haven't left the house since late November.
mx-sal to retconning-bb: So much for punching people, huh?
retconning-bb to mx-sal: I make an exception for purple haired folks. Obviously.
Shortly after the ear phone incident, Bucky decides to help with the chores more. He's always done the washing and kept the kitchen halfway clear, but now he actually seems to realize that there's sinks and floors and an entire bathroom to clean. They make a plan what needs doing and who's doing it. After the first week, when it's obvious this is working, Steve bakes apple-cinnamon muffins as a treat.
Bucky takes an interest in the preparation of warm meals after that. One evening, he's sitting at the kitchen table cutting up an onion for some fancy tomato sauce Steve wants to try, and it's so much like back then (minus the expensive ingredients), he has to stop and watch. Buck notices after a minute, looks up, and smiles.
Steve smiles back, and later nearly forgets to add salt because Buck is hovering just half an arm's length beside him.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Bff is nearly bursting with joy about me helping out. Thanks.
"Soo...," Bucky says one morning, when they're both sipping their coffee at the kitchen table. "Can I come running with you tomorrow?"
Steve blinks. Blinks some more, because this isn't what he expected after Bucky having been holed up in here for two months. "Sure. You'll need shoes. And actually, you should wear pants that fit." Steve did buy him sweats in his size which he ignored.
"I have my boots." Bucky is looking away, crossing his arms, and hunching slightly. "And pants, too."
Uh-oh. "I know. Sorry. I'm not scolding you, I'm just surprised."
Bucky sighs. Watching closely, Steve can actually see a hint of doubt about whether he's overreacting. Clothes are an issue, obviously, more than Steve guessed.
Steve lays a hand on the table. "I mean it. I shouldn't tell you how to dress and I'm sorry."
It seems to have been the right kind of thing to say, because Bucky grips Steve's hand with both of his and squeezes it. He's warm on both counts and the skin of his right palm is sweaty, as if he's worked himself into a frenzy about asking to come with.
They sit like that until the coffee is cold.
Steve texts Sam to let him know.
xxx
Next morning dawns very bright and with temperatures below freezing. Bucky is in one of Steve's hoodies, a pair of the new sweats, and his boots for running. Sam says "hi," and doesn't offer his hand.
"Sorry for damaging that wing suit," Bucky says.
Sam, who is wearing a woolen hat, scratches under the hem. Obviously he didn't expect an apology. "S all right, man."
Bucky smiles just a little, and off they are. Bucky falls into a trot beside Sam. As far as Steve can hear, they're not talking. As far as Steve can see, Bucky has some trouble pretending he's not hypervigilant. The way he looks at people like they're potential threats, the way he turns his head at every unusual sound. When someone slams a car door on the next street over, Buck flinches.
On the way home, they buy bagels in the deli around the corner, or rather, Steve goes in while Bucky opts for waiting outside once he realizes how crowded the place is with people on their way to work.
When Steve returns, there's an elderly woman with a dog talking to Bucky while he's staring off somewhere and doesn't seem to notice her.
The lady lifts her hand, aiming for Bucky's left arm.
"Wait!", Steve calls, stomach plummeting. "Veteran. No touching. Sorry, ma'am."
She cocks her head. "Right. Thank you, son. But maybe he shouldn't be left alone when he's prone to space out?"
Steve rubs the back of his neck, feeling his face burn. "I wouldn't have agreed to this if he were prone to space out, ma'am."
"Well. Good luck with this one, then." Her dog yips, and the pair amble off.
It takes another five minutes of Steve talking to Bucky until he comes to.
"Shit," he says. "Sorry."
"It's okay." For a measure of okay. Steve feels the looks of passersby and just hopes no one recognizes him. The flush won't abate anytime soon. "What happened?"
Bucky frowns. "Fuck me if I know." He lets out a breath that speaks of frustration. Scuffs the heel of his boot on the sidewalk. "Thought I was ready for this."
Making sure Bucky can see the touch coming, Steve squeezes his good shoulder. "We can try again sometime."
"Tomorrow."
"Are you sure?"
Mouth pressed into a thin line, Bucky nods. Not sure, then, but he's gonna die trying.
I spaced out in the middle of a street today. I don't usually space out, even though I probably should. It's what they say about PTSD.
I feel like I'm functioning better than I should be. By all rights I should be a gibbering mess in an asylum somewhere instead of piecing together my life story via diary.
Also, I lied to Steve – I know full well what triggered that. This one guy walking past me was using the same aftershave Pierce used, and suddenly I was back in the vault, being slapped and told about how my work shaped the century. And I let myself be strapped in. I can't get over how I just let them tie me down.
How can I even consider being worthy of Steve's love when I was this weak once?
In the night, Steve wakes from a door slamming into a wall. Someone – Bucky – is retching. So Steve gets up and hurries into the bathroom. Bucky is indeed throwing up.
Steve sits on the bathtub's rim, holding Bucky's hair out of harm's way until everything seems to have come out. Then Buck sits down on the bathroom floor, back against a cabinet, and frowns at some sick in his hair Steve wasn't there to prevent.
"Not gonna go running after all," Bucky mumbles. "Sorry."
"It's okay. And." Steve breathes out. "I'm the one who should apologize, anyway."
Bucky's brows twitch, and he finally looks at Steve. "Huh."
"I let you fall. If I'd just been a bit faster -" He grips the edge of the tub. No sense in breaking apart on Bucky now of all times.
Bucky shakes his head. "Stop. Not your fault."
"Not your fault, either, then," Steve says.
Bucky grins in a way that tells Steve he knows they both don't believe the other.
The next nights are worse, because Bucky tries his damnedest to be quiet.
There is so much fucking blood on these hands. On my hands.
I bet Steve thinks this is why I have the nightmares. This is why I should have the nightmares, at any rate, just like I threw up after the first time I shot some hapless German soldier as a sniper. Kid looked what, twenty at the most?
But it's not.
In the end, I just can't get over how they called me "it" to my face.
"Have you," Steve tries over breakfast after the tenth night, "considered maybe talking to someone about this?"
Bucky tilts his head. He looks awful. Unshaven and with bruises under his eyes that Steve hasn't seen on him since the helicarrier. "Huh." A pause during which Bucky adds another spoonful of sugar to something that is coffee flavored syrup already. "Only if you do, too."
Steve blinks. "Excuse me."
"Can't be easy, supporting me here, no? Also, you didn't have to stay in that plane and freeze with it, did you."
For a moment, Steve can't move. No one's ever had the guts to actually call him on this.
"Stevie." Bucky pushes a mug to the side and grabs Steve's hand. "You really gonna pretend you don't have issues? You still believe you let me fall off that train?"
Right. Steve takes a breath, exhales. If this will make Bucky seek help. "Okay."
Later, he calls Ms. Potts about advice whether he'll need NDAs or not for the therapists.
retconning-bb wrote:
Life has this way of biting you in the ass.
Bff 's now spent ten nights in a row watching me puke. Very helpful for romancing said bff.
But, ha! Managed to talk him into counseling in exchange for me seeing a therapist. (It's not like he ain't got issues, with him being a vet, too.)
(27 notes)
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: You said sth about trauma therapists.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Four addresses?
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: Have met three personally. Only, two didn't click w/ me. Happens. Is no-ones fault. Yet to hear bad stuff about any of them.
Valentine's Day passes unnoticed while Bucky exchanges emails with a number of docs and eventually makes an appointment with one Dr. Xavier.
"Um," Steve says when Bucky shows him the email confirming a time next week. He's come bounding into the kitchen where Steve is replying to electronic fanmail on his laptop, looking like a dog hoping for a treat, standing so close Steve can smell the new apple shampoo on him. "What about. Maybe you would like some better clothes for that?"
Bucky's always liked to dress neatly and spent what seemed hours on his hair before taking a girl on a date. Having to see him in over sized sweats and hoodies that nearly reach his knees, unkempt hair wrestled into a queue or untidy man-bun... it's uncharacteristic, and it sometimes hurts a little, because it says too much about all the things Bucky has lost. Half the time he still doesn't shave, either.
Bucky, however, stares at Steve like a deer caught in headlights.
"I was thinking you could order some?"
Now, Bucky actually blinks and looks at his phone for a bit as if the now black screen holds answers to life's mysteries. "Was afraid you'd make me go to a fucking store." Still not meeting Steve's gaze.
"I wouldn't. Buck. You know I wouldn't."
Bucky sighs.
Steve offers a hand. Bucky grabs it and leans into Steve's side just a little. He's warm and there and Steve would prefer to bliss out from this, but he actually makes himself think. Bucky doesn't deal too well with the outdoors, still makes Steve decide on takeout meals for him on bad days and has no opinions about the cooking Steve does, other than liking most of the results. So, what if they approach this like a mission? Some, but not too much leeway?
"We're going to make a list with what you need, I'll give you a budget, and then you can go buy yourself some stuff."
Underwear, t-shirts, maybe a button-up shirt, pants, socks, another hoodie or three or other tops, a coat or jacket, at least one pair of shoes. He adds, "hair ties, cosmetics, hair product if you need any", then sets Bucky loose with 600 dollars.
Bucky doesn't bat an eye at the sum; obviously, his memory of the prices before the war isn't all that good.
Amazingly, it works. Three packages arrive, and Bucky models blue skinny jeans with a matching hair elastic and a still very much oversized hoodie depicting Steve's shield. The thing could double as a short dress on a woman as tall as Bucky, really. Steve's also never before appreciated just how long Bucky's legs actually are.
"Haircut, too?", Steve asks.
"No!" Bucky actually glowers at him.
Steve raises his hands in surrender. "Just asking." He should probably beam with pride that Bucky told him no on something, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. There's this nagging suspicion that Bucky had been correct that day in the Smithsonian. This is really not quite the person Steve remembers. It doesn't help that Bucky never mentions the past.
Steve looked at me like he didn't know me when I showed him what I bought. It's pretty far from the clothes available before 1944, and it's some stuff that I would have liked to be allowed to wear some days, but never said. There were boy things and girl things and very little to be neither, or in-between, unless you had enough money to pass as eccentric or were Marlene Dietrich. I don't think I ever told anyone how I loved her for wearing pantsuits with a tie – just commented on how pretty she was, like boys were supposed to do.
Did Steve ever realize I never shared his opinion about long hair on men? I won't let him cut mine. I won't.
retconning-bb wrote:
Not so quietly despairing
Jesus H. Christ. Eyeliner. How do so many women do this on a regular basis?
captainhook reblogged this and added:
Practice, m'dear, though it's a bit more difficult with one hand. Here's a tutorial. Can we have pics when you're happy with the results?
retconning-bb reblogged this from captainhook and added:
Here. Can't show my entire face because of reasons. Simple line: Pic. Cat eyes: Pic.
captainhook reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
Omigod. Lookit. Wheeeee. What a pair of absolutely beautiful eyes. I wish I had lashes like that.
mx-sal reblogged this from captainhook and added:
Pretty/handsome, retconning-bb.
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: You look like you're about to cry, love.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Actually, I did start crying about the time captainhook let loose with the compliments.
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: Sheesh. Not because of her, I hope.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Nope. Just.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Hard to find words. Maybe because I wasn't aware I could feel this beautiful and whole while being myself. (Am wearing this tunic thing I found on a site catering to LARPers that can pass as a dress tailored for non-busty body shapes if you combine it well.) Anyway. Doesn't seem like it's gonna let up for a while yet, but for other reasons.
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: Okay. It's good you're in tune with things enough to let yourself cry it out. Go you! Anyhow. Please post the link where you got the "tunic thing"? Other neutrois people might appreciate the idea.
Bucky holes up with his new stuff for the evening and won't even come out for food. There's soft rustling noises and a muttered string of curses from inside the room, but Steve makes himself be a grown-up and not listen for hints what Bucky is doing in there.
Late afternoon the next day, he emerges clean-shaven, with well-applied eyeliner, and the usual baggy clothes. His body language is off – he's puffed himself up like he's expecting a fight or criticism.
Right.
Steve makes himself not gape too much. "Lookin' good," he eventually says. "Fits you." (Drop dead gorgeous is more like it, but, while honest, might freak Buck out.)
Bucky nods and the line of his shoulders gets back to the usual nearly-relaxed state he shows most of the time.
In the evening, Steve asks Sam to find him a therapist, and he ends up with a Dr. Samson. The guy is actually not all that bad, and he picks up on Steve being here on a deal without Steve even hinting at it.
Mostly, they talk about Bucky and what this all means. How disappointing it sometimes is to bring up things that should be shared memories and only receive a blank glance in return, or being told to stop talking without ever hearing a reason why.
He drives Bucky to his own appointment, which is a day later, and waits outside with the secretary. When not on the phone the young Asian woman – Ms. Lee – is chewing gum rather aggressively. Its watermelon aroma permeates the entire waiting area. In order to keep the fidgeting to a minimum, Steve tries to (pretends to) read.
Bucky comes out after an hour looking worn but proud, and actually asks Ms. Lee to set up regular sessions all by himself.
So I talked to the doc about how I sometimes don't recognize myself and how I don't understand my past incarnations, so to speak. We had a talk about narratives – how I have all the parts out of order and thus I'm missing the "this happened because of that" and "I changed my opinion about topic A because I met person B", all the little steps that make up change in a person.
Doc said he would smack the arrogant young idiot he'd been before his accident if he didn't have the context, either.
This is comforting to know, actually.
Things calm down a little after the first appointment. Dr Xavier teaches Bucky grounding exercises that seem to help some. At least, he's not throwing up every night anymore.
Bucky comes out ten minutes early on his third appointment. "Can you go in there and talk to him?"
Uh-oh. Steve stomach sinks. Although Bucky looks relatively relaxed, this can't be good. "Sure," he says, anyway.
Dr. Xavier is a bald white man in a wheelchair. Middle aged, British accent. It might be idiotic, but Steve associates British accents with competence, and wonders if Bucky does, too.
After the introductions when Dr. Xavier tells Steve to address him as Charles (and Steve refuses), Dr. Xavier asks him to sit on the chaise longue that takes up the middle of the room.
"Bucky asked me to talk to you," the doc says.
Steve resists wringing his hands and wonders why this person is allowed to call Bucky by his nickname.
"Just a few things Bucky can't say for himself yet, actually." Dr. Xavier leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers.
Thank God. Steve finds himself buoyed by relief. Obviously this is not about Bucky deciding to quit therapy.
"He is doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances."
"I know that," Steve says. Though it doesn't always quite feel like it when you wake up to your best friend being sick after a nightmare at 3 am.
"Do you? Do you realize that his current troubles actually seem to originate in the fact that he feels safe with you? Enough to want to get better even faster for you?"
Steve stares at the floor. So that's why Bucky has been pushing himself lately. Because he wants to get better for Steve. It's both a compliment and a burden – is Steve actually worth all this effort? "I didn't consider it from that angle, no."
Dr. Xavier nods. "He's also quite aware how much he's depending on you right now."
"He is." Steve offers the doc a small smile. "Considering how much he looked after me when we were young, there's actually," he shrugs, "some kind of poetic justice in there."
"Hmm. He's never said so, but I can make an educated guess how much he actually dislikes depending on anyone."
Closing his eyes, Steve thinks back on when he was sick or the asthma was acting up. "Actually, I hated it back then, too. Might be worth to bring that up with him."
The doc tilts his head. He adds a few more things Steve already knows or guessed at, like about how Bucky makes or does not make decisions, and that Bucky actually appreciates his phone even more than he lets on. "He's self-aware and resilient enough to have found online resources and he uses them to their fullest potential. It's remarkable, really, given his history." (Most notably the fact that the internet didn't exist for most of Bucky's life. It seems kinda unfair, that Bucky does this almost like a digital native while Steve still has trouble understanding why people can't live without social media.)
Bucky beams at Steve when he exits the room.
retconning-bb wrote:
I wonder:
Is it normal that therapy makes you realize how fucked up you actually are?
(30 notes)
The one time Steve goes into Bucky's room to wake him up from a nightmare, Bucky comes up swinging.
His left fist clips Steve on the cheekbone like an echo from the helicarrier. Steve retreats and sits down on the floor while Buck crouches on the bed, panting. He looks like a cornered animal for a while, and Steve doesn't dare move, or speak.
"Fuck," Bucky says eventually. He switches on the light, clambers out of bed – not wearing a shirt, why doesn't this guy have body hair like he used to? – and returns with an ice pack. Plops down beside Steve and hands it over instead of just pressing it to his face like back when he cleaned up Steve after fights.
For a few minutes they just sit there.
"Sorry," Bucky offers.
"It's okay. I should have known better than to touch you without warning." The sting from the bruise is fading, it probably won't even be visible by tomorrow.
Bucky shakes his head. "It was – they were trying to strap me in again and I." A sigh. "Sorry."
"It's okay." Steve offers a hand.
Bucky grabs it with both of his, leans his forehead against it. Clammy. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
If Bucky didn't have a turn of heart on the front lines, Steve knows his best friend hasn't been to Confession since 1937, and didn't attend Mass in almost as long. He never told anyone why. "You didn't though," Steve says instead. "Not on that count." Dr Samson has made him think a lot about the difference between guilt and responsibility. "I won't argue about all those dames you took on dates, but I will argue about the rest. Sinning implies some decision making on the sinner's part, you know."
Bucky snorts a laugh. "Sister Catherine would have decked you for talking back."
"Yes, she would have." There's a grin threatening to give Steve wrinkles if he doesn't get a hold of it. Bucky does remember some bits, after all, and having nuns for teachers is one of them. "So. Anyway. I forgive you."
Finally, Bucky looks up and smiles at him.
"Hug?", Steve offers.
They end up lying on the floor, Bucky's ear over Steve's heart as Steve pets his hair.
xxx
"What you said about sinning yesterday," Bucky starts over lunch. "Does that mean you actually accept you weren't responsible for me falling off that train?"
Steve shakes his head, eyes his sandwich to hide how he doesn't really want to talk about this right now. He's not come to a conclusion about this that would satisfy either Bucky or Doc Samson. "How can you just … forgive me like that?"
Bucky tilts his head. "Why wouldn't I? It was – I mean, Zola had left instructions to catch me alone. We were set up. And that thing was going, what, 50 miles an hour? Faster? I shouldn't actually have been able to hold on as long as I did in the first place."
"I'm still sorry."
"Yeah, I know. We're a pair of sorry assholes alright."
Steve can't quite bring himself to smile at the pun.
It wasn't my fault.
Can I frame that without a negation? They broke me, using the equivalent of a sledge hammer on a glass item, until there was nothing in me left to fight them, too busy trying to survive to consider what else they had me doing in the meantime. I mean, they told me I was working for the good of mankind, but at the same time, I knew they didn't like being asked questions. So I didn't.
There was nothing I could have done.
Steve forgave me.
retconning-bb wrote:
Can I hate my Catholic upbringing?
So, I've been thinking a lot about sins and guilt and responsibility. Here goes: (…)
A lot of the trouble he and I have stems from the fact that we actually feel guilty about things that weren't even accidents. Someone somewhere else made the decisions for us.
So we have been wronged and wronged others in turn. We know we can't be held accountable, that no jury would find us guilty, and yet we feel that we should do penance. That it all was a flaw in our personalities instead of just a load of bad luck running into the wrong people.
It's all very messed up, not to mention unnecessary, being both the accuser and the accused. You're busy beating yourself up, while those you hurt don't figure into the equation much, and you actually have no idea if they care whether you're sorry.
How do you even begin to forgive yourself for that, let alone make amends?
mx-sal reblogged this and added:
The human brain is both wonderful and extremely annoying, especially if it wants explanations and at the same time doesn't want to accept that any one person could do something like this to you. It doesn't want to believe that anyone could be that cruel out of pure calculation.
"Someone somewhere else made the decisions." And you were just the first poor sod they ran into after doing so.
retconning-bb reblogged this from mx-sal and added:
Not the first, actually, but the only one with the shitty luck not to die on them after a couple days.
morriganslair reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
Jeez, dude. I don't want to know what happened to you anymore. Pretty sure the full version would diminish my faith in humanity even more than it already is.
retconning-bb reblogged this from morriganslair and added:
Yeah. You lot know that you're actually helping me rebuild faith that didn't even have remnants of a foundation anymore?
45 more notes
Sergeant, I forgive you. You fought with everything you had, one man against an army. There is honor in going down fighting, even if you can't see it sometimes.
xxx
retconning-bb wrote:
The queer bit is where it gets really complicated
So, after finally coming to some conclusions about having to live with stuff, I shall now graciously explain why I was angsting about being queer a while ago (…)
It drove me mad, wondering, before everything went down. I knew about drag queens, growing up in this kind of neighborhood, but how could anyone wake up some mornings and be neither a boy not a girl, or, in some instances, only feel vaguely boy-ish? Besides, I never had a problem with my junk, unlike the transwomen I met.
In this brave new world I can identify as genderfluid. There are other people like me, people who made words for this. So. I'm probably preaching to the choir when I say that it's a relief to not be the only one.
mx-sal reblogged this and added:
Congrats to your new label. May it bring you many positive experiences.
Anyhow, thanks for sharing your story. It's been educational, and will probably help many a confused soul to figure out themselves.
(42 more notes)
Three days after the bedroom incident, it's raining so hard Steve cancels a coffee date with Natasha. Bucky actually shoots him a "go away" glance from where he's lounging on the couch again and staring at his phone as if he's dreading some bad news.
Steve digs out his drawing supplies and goes on to sketch Bucky's various expressions while he first relaxes and then goes on to typing messages at a speed that betrays a lot of practice. Maybe he's on a forum or commenting on a news site? Should Steve ask? Bucky's not a kid whose social media you need to monitor, while at the same time, Steve worries.
Bucky's not well, and Steve has a fairly good idea what "shitstorm" means, thank you very much, considering how he had to delete his twitter account twice (it was the first social media he was willing to try, because he doesn't like facebook). Once over his being pro LGBT rights: It turned out that the conservative folks who viewed Captain America as a paragon of virtue disagreed about this and a number of other subjects. Second time after the fall of SHIELD, when people were insisting to talk to him instead of Natasha.
Eventually Bucky sighs and looks at Steve. Stares him down good, so intently Steve is actually afraid to blink.
"Can I get a hug?" Bucky asks after a minute.
This is new. Steve smiles, puts down pad and pencil. "Sure."
They meet in the middle. Bucky leans against him, breathing deeply. Hands on Steve's back, one soft and warm, the other unrelenting and cool.
Steve rests his hands on Bucky's shoulders and nuzzles the rat's nest of hair. "I missed you."
"Hmm." A beat. "Didn't know to miss you after the first year or so."
Wow. Wow. Jesus. Good thing Bucky can't see Steve grinning widely right now. So many new developments today, it's like Christmas and Thanksgiving and his birthday at the same time. At worst, Bucky will notice how Steve's insides are aflutter. "Not by your choice."
"Never."
Steve smiles into Bucky's hair and kisses his crown on an impulse. (He's always had worse impulse control than everyone but Bucky and his ma believed.)
"Not yet," Bucky mumbles.
"Excuse me?"
"I can't. I can't be that person, not yet."
Steve frowns, because somewhere there is half a conversation he must have missed. "You're not supposed to be any one person but yourself."
Bucky huffs. "I know. I just. I know how you look at me, and I know I'm looking right back, yeah?"
Somehow, this has become a relationship talk. God help Captain America. "Yeah." At least, Bucky says he's flirting back, and isn't disgusted or anything.
"I'm not in a place to be anyone's significant other, not yet."
"You've been my significant other since 38, pal. Till the end of the line. In sickness and in health, til death do us part?"
Silence.
So much for love confessions. There's a sinking feeling in Steve's stomach. He's gone and ruined it. Bucky will hear his pulse picking up speed even more.
"Right. I kinda did mean it that way, then."
Oh. Steve can breathe again, now, although his insides threaten to turn into mushy goo. He hides another smile in Bucky's hair. His left hand has moved to Bucky's neck, his thumb is stroking through the downy hair there.
"Only." Bucky's fingers dig into Steve's back. "I can't do the physical bits, I don't think. Not yet."
This is a caveat Steve has expected. "Okay. We actually didn't do any 'physical bits' back then, so I can live with that. However long it takes. Even if it's never."
"I don't want it to be never," Bucky grouses.
"I gathered."
Another huff that actually could be construed as a laugh. "Punk."
"Jerk."
The silence after that stretches, and grows painful when Bucky starts to fidget.
"You actually have more small print I need to read?"
The try at levity falls less flat than it trips up and crashes down a set of stairs, taking a couple Ming vases with it. Bucky curls into himself, and his grip becomes painful.
"Mnotactuallyaguysometimes," he mutters into Steve's hoodie.
"Uh, what?" Because Steve can't have understood that correctly.
Bucky hits Steve's chest with his forehead. "You heard me. Sometimes I wake up and I'm not a guy. Not a girl, either. Something in-between-ish."
Right. Okay. That explains a bit about the eyeliner, the hair, and the colorful elastics. Not really girly, but not stereotypically male, either. "Is this a recent development?"
Bucky resettles on Steve's chest, as if doing this while looking him in the face is too difficult. "Nah. It was less, then. Maybe one day in five or so? It's almost half the time, these days."
For lack of an answer, Steve nuzzles Bucky's hair again while he's internally groping for something to say. Why didn't he notice back then? Why didn't Bucky – okay. Practicalities first. "What's the etiquette for something like this? I mean, can I call you Bucky still, and – I know some people want gender-neutral pronouns."
Bucky relaxes his grip and finally raises his head enough to beam at Steve. "Actually," he begins, and what follows is a ten-minute monologue during which Steve manages to steer him onto the couch. Bucky likes being called "Bucky", but would rather not be "Buck" anymore. Reason being he is only male or somewhat "male-ish" half the time, and he's only woken up female on a handful of days, but he's always a guy when dancing. And yes, this is why he preferred to take his dates dancing, and also, it doesn't have to make sense, it just is. He's okay with being referred to as a "he" by Steve – "habit, I guess" – but the world at large will have to go with "they".
"It's more about the assumptions and expectations behind the words, you know. It's like, this is a man, he is straight, obviously he will appreciate a sex joke about a random woman or will help you make fun of a guy who gets emotional."
Steve hums. He thinks about Natasha who's been trying to set him up with women, exclusively. Apparently, for all that she knows everything, even she never guessed that he might not care about the gender of the person he's dating. (And the demi bit might not be helping, so she probably thought he was just too polite or insecure to ogle, or something.) Steve thinks about Rumlow referring to Jasper Sitwell as a stuck-up pussy once, and looking like he wanted laughs for it, way before Steve suspected anything. "I think get what you mean."
retconning-bb wrote:
Bring out the Champagne!
So, bff and I are an item now, as far as you can be an item when you're approaching first base at a snail's pace. Yeah, yeah, I know, sex and PDAs don't equal commitment. No lectures, but what we have now doesn't look much different from what we had before – from the outside. Forgive me if I'm worried how RL people will react.
I've also come out to him about the gender thing. Took that surprisingly well, first question was if I wanted to keep the name and the pronouns. Ever the tactician, that one. (This is one of the reasons I love him.)
I'd squeal about that if it were the manly thing to do. Though, given how I'm not a guy today: Fuck that. I'm practic'ly required to do unmanly things on non-guy days, right? So: Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
(Anyway, note the change in the profile. You'll just have to go with "they"-pronouns for me.)
(31 notes)
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Why do I get flak for changing my pronouns but not for being a dmab in a relationship with another guy? Had to ban three people who were only there to concern-troll. Am I sure this is not a phase? Grumble. Assholes.
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: I haven't the faintest idea why some people can accept homosexuality, but somehow refuse to consider that non-binary identities or bisexual persons or asexual persons exist. The work is ongoing.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Yeah. It's just. Do you ever feel like you're asking too much?
Text from mx-sal to retconning-bb: Oh, honey. Actually, I did, once upon a time. It's okay to get overwhelmed by the audacity to ask people to make you feel more comfortable.
Sam catches on that something has changed just by looking at Steve when they meet up for running the next morning.
"You're walking on air, man."
"Yup." Steve grins. "I am now officially off the meet market."
Sam quirks his brows. "You haven't been on the market since I've met you, your flirting with me notwithstanding."
True. Raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, Steve says, "You're the only one who's ever picked up on that."
A shrug. "You were grieving. Anyhow." Sam's eyes glint. "Now that the love of your life is back from the dead, it's good you got your act together enough to at least admit to it."
Steve starts a light jog just so he won't have to look at Sam's face for the next part of the conversation. "We weren't together back then."
"I know. There's speculation enough about it..."
"... and someone even made a film, yeah." It's weird. Steve hasn't watched any of the movies someone made about him, read none of the biographies, and has given any artistic material a wide berth, too, even the classic comics, once he realized they'd made Bucky a kid.
"The way you were talking about him," Sam says, "it didn't sound like he knew you were lovers. So I suspected something one-sided."
"Not so one-sided. Not anymore."
Sam sighs; obviously, they're not going fast enough. "Just be careful. He's not well by any stretch of the imagination."
"I know. He -" Whoa. This things with the pronouns is never gonna work like that. Steve will have to talk to Bucky again about this. "Bucky knows, too. I promise we're taking it slow."
"Good. Old man like you would know about slow."
Reaching out, Steve rubs his knuckles on a conveniently short-haired skull. Sam retaliates by tickling Steve, whereupon Steve picks up the pace and leaves Sam in the metaphorical dust.
The guy is swearing a blue streak about hormonal super-soldiers and doesn't seem at all disgusted by touching queer persons.
When they're sipping coffee later, sitting on a bench and enjoying the first warm day of spring, Sam says, "that guy over there is ogling you."
Steve risks a glance. Indeed, and he is cute, in a very twinky way. Twink guy smiles, and Steve gives him an apologetic shrug.
"If this ever goes public, it's gonna break the internet," Sam says. "And possibly Fox News."
"Serves them right," Steve says.
xxx
Despite the good start to the day, Bucky refuses to leave his room until the afternoon. He's dressed in the baggiest stuff he owns when he finally emerges for dinner.
"Obviously, everything isn't all right," Steve guesses when he's done ordering food. He'd only gotten a vague gesture to go ahead when he asked Bucky to decide on pizza versus Chinese – but that's still better than the blank looks from the beginning.
"'s just," Bucky starts. "I mean. I'm asking a lot, right, making people call me 'they'?"
Huh. Right. Bucky didn't have the last three years to adjust to the idea that anyone's entitled to being treated decently despite being queer.
"You know, back in Camp Lehigh during basic, I did have to clarify a couple of times that this Bucky I was talking about was a guy. Or, at least I thought Bucky was a guy at the time."
Bucky watches him for a while.
"Come here." Steve pats the couch so Bucky will join him.
Buck- Bucky does, and even moves in to be hugged after a bit.
"I actually did want to talk to you about the pronoun thing."
Bucky tenses. If Steve didn't have more faith, he'd expect his partner to start a killing spree any minute now.
"Because if I continue to refer to you as 'he', very few people will know better."
"So?"
"So I'll try to make you a 'they' when I talk about you to others."
"Hmm." Bucky sags against him, hides his face against Steve's neck. "Thanks."
Again, Steve is turned into soggy goo. Christ, he loves this guy – person. Just how does he deserve trust like that? Steve nuzzles Bucky's hair.
xxx
Steve never guessed how much of a relief it is to have someone know you're bi. How you can now comment that the news anchor is cute regardless of their gender and have someone agree, or disagree, or critique their clothing and hairstyle.
A couple weeks later, someone at the VA has a crisis over their sexual identity. Sam asks for advice, because Steve is the only bi person he knows. "I never knew how few people realize that's a valid label," Sam says, "like: Oh God, I can't be bisexual, because then I'm contractually obligated to sleep with anything that moves." He imitates a fainting spell.
Steve stops running to laugh. They're drawing some looks while they stand there, wheezing and giggling like teenagers.
xxx
Bucky wants to cuddle now whenever Steve is in reach. Earyl in April they suggest that Steve invite Sam over for dinner or so, to meet him properly.
Sam has somehow dug up "fairy dust" cupcakes for dessert that crack Bucky up. He also manages to endear himself further by not only not having argued about the pronouns, but also by getting them right all the time, unlike Steve, who still struggles on the days Bucky presents as male.
In late April, Bucky decides on another attempt to leave the place for running, and it goes without incident. As does the next day, and the day after that.
morriganslair wrote:
People are strange
So, y'all know how my hot straight neighbor's baby sis went AWOL after finishing high school last year?
Turns out she's back. Hot straight neighbor says she's lost some weight, has a couple tattoos now and dreadlocks, but doesn't look worse for wear. Anyhow. He should be over the moon, yeah? But he's not. Says he can't stop thinking about what happened, if she ran into bad folks, maybe did drugs, whatever, cause she won't say where she was.
I find it kinda sad but endearing how he doesn't trust her.
(17 notes)
It's another rainy afternoon, Steve is reading while Bucky has their head pillowed on his thigh and is again tapping away at their phone. "Um," Bucky says. "You know I actually bunked in here while you were off chasing me?"
Steve nearly lets go of the book. Taking care no to hurry, he places a bookmark, closes it and lays it down next to him on the side table. "You what." There's a strangled quality to the words, because, hot damn it, Steve wants to shout.
Likewise, Bucky secures the phone, but refuses to lift their head off Steve's leg, thus incapaciting him while leaving themself vulnerable. "I was so tired, after the crash. So I – first, I went to a safe house." Their mouth crinkles at the words, because safety and Hydra are mutually exclusive. "No one was waiting, so I, I took some tools and dug out the tracker from the arm. Raided Pierce's house for money and clothes, then burned most of my gear."
Except the boots. Good thing those weren't being tracked.
"And then I went to the one place I knew would be empty. I holed up in your old broom closet and – I needed to sleep, Steve."
Clever, admittedly. But. "Why didn't you -" Ask for help. Take food. Take clothes. Whatever.
Bucky shakes their head, grabs Steve's shirt. "I was a mess, Stevie. I couldn't even have explained to you that I needed to sleep. Would have been too on edge to sleep, too."
Right. Forgoing a denial of this obvious truth, Steve opts for carding his fingers through Bucky's hair.
"Anyhow, when you moved, I followed you. Hung out on the roof a lot when you were here, until I was reasonably sure I could explain myself if you asked." A pause during which Bucky swallows. "It was nice of you not to ask."
"Hmm." Steve's still playing with Bucky's hair. "Why did you need to sleep?"
There's a glint in Bucky's eyes, and for the next minutes they wax about the research they did on brain injuries and regrowing neural connections. Actually, this makes sense, and Steve has no idea why no one he told about his search, no one who knew about the fucking chair in the bank vault, made the connection. "You're really good at explaining this," he says when Bucky is done.
"Thanks." Now Bucky's beaming up at him. "I updated the Wikipedia article on it." Faraway look. "I kinda like writing. 's a little odd. I'm good at destroying stuff and shooting people, and I don't think I would mind doing that again, for the right reason. But I … I only remember working at the Navy Yard before being drafted."
"Requiring exactly zero creativity."
Small grin.
"You never even finished high school, Bucky. Dropped out to work and support your parents and the girls." Does Bucky remember how they thought Steve painting was only okay because he couldn't do manual labor? Steve's fingers follow a faint line on Bucky's forehead.
"Teacher – Karloff, was it? – said it was a waste, me not going to college?" Eyes searching Steve's face for confirmation.
"Yeah. He said so, and it was."
Bucky sighs.
"You could go now, if you wanted."
At that, Bucky sits and presses a kiss on Steve's lips before walking off to their room.
For the next half hour Steve doesn't move from his seat on the couch. Not that he minds being kissed, but he wants to know what prompted it.
retconning-bb wrote:
Pondering the future
Should I go get a degree? Do I need one? I mean, other people get degrees to prove they know Russian or German or Polish or Mandarin half as well as I do.
mx-sal reblogged this and added:
Let me flail at you for a bit. Four languages fluently plus English? Holy crap.
Anyhow. Whether you should go to college depends on what you actually want to do.
I notice the lack of qualifiers, tho. No "when I'm better", or "once I'm ready to face the world".
retconning-bb reblogged this from mx-sal and added:
Well spotted, Mx. Sal. Was talking to my best guy about this, and he didn't use the qualifier, so. I actually am ready to face the world. But how? That's the million dollar question. I have some ideas. Might apply to those Avengers, see if they need a sniper with an actual rifle...
captainhook reblogged this from retconning-bb and added:
Rofl. Thanks. I needed that today.
After dinner, Steve corners Bucky in the kitchen. "Why'd you run off?"
Smirk. "Want a repeat performance?"
It's hard to keep a straight face. "You have to ask? You did take the stupid with you, after all."
"I may have." Bucky pats their pockets, frowns. "Must have misplaced it somewhere, though. Amnesia is a bitch, I ever tell you that?"
Steve bursts out laughing before he can help himself, shakes his head, because. Bucky is joking about this, and what better way to prove that they're better? Something of that must be showing on his face, because Bucky shakes their head.
"Sap," they say, and move in for a kiss.
Starting softly, exploring, taking on urgency, ending in Steve's bed.
Bucky stays the night, too.
Actually, Steve is happy enough that he ignores Sam's smirk the next morning.
xxx
"Steve," Bucky says in the evening, when they're cuddling on the couch and have just caught the tail end of a story detailing some Hydra cases going to court, and how the masked shooter from Roosevelt Bridge is still at large.
"Hmm?" Steve looks up from where he's resting his head on Bucky's thigh. It looks serious, so he sits and takes Bucky's hands.
"It's probably time to face the music." Bucky juts their chin at the TV screen. "Time to get a debriefing."
Steve shakes his head. "They're going to eat you alive." He can't even start thinking about the consequences without getting antsy, needing to pace.
"I won't ever be able to leave this place on my own if I don't, Steve." Bucky raises one of Steve's hands and kisses the knuckles. "So we'll just have to do this properly. I'm going in for debriefing. I'm well enough now to have mountains of data on Hydra at my disposal, and they have no idea I'm even still alive."
Striking deals. It doesn't sit well with Steve, not usually, this kind of trading information for jail time. But however you want to put it… "You accept now that none of this was your fault?"
Bucky smiles at him. "You're a wonderful man and I love you, but sometimes you can be incredibly dense."
This means Bucky has gotten over that particular issue some time ago and never told Steve about it. Which is inconvenient, if typical. "You're a wonderful person and I love you, but your tendency to never talk about your feelings makes me want to deck you more often than not."
Bucky looks away and ducks their head. "Speaking of which. I seem better at writing them down. So I made myself a tumblr. There's actually people who're interested in my dumb shit."
"It's not dumb shit." Steve's mouth runs on autopilot for that, because Bucky has a blog and never said. He's trying very hard not to make a pinched face from the betrayal he feels.
"I'm sorry." Bucky kneads Steve's hands. "Sometimes it's easier to sort things out when you're writing them down," a half grin, "and it's sometimes easier to talk to people who aren't looking at you and seeing Bucky Barnes, tragic figure and comic book hero."
"Okay, yeah, I understand that." Breathe. Hasn't he talked about this with Dr. Samson? How incredibly hard it is to be the only support structure someone has, and how easily that position can be abused? "I – actually, if you give me some time to get over the shock, I probably will be glad that you have some people in your life who aren't me."
A kiss to his open palm.
It's not an invitation to make out. So Steve draws himself up. "I'm going to call Natasha for advice tomorrow."
"Natalia will know what to do," Bucky agrees. "Last time I talked to her, she was this tall." They hold out one hand to indicate a person of about 4 foot. "Must have been in the Sixties?"
Right. Steve knew the file on Natasha was partially fake, that she's not thirty and quite enhanced herself, but hearing it makes it real in a way that is mostly depressing. He runs a hand through his hair. "Good blackmail material?"
"Sort of. If you classify training nine year old kids to be assassins as blackmail material. Went by Vanya back then. It's probably good to namedrop. The squirt liked me."
Steve opens his arms, and Bucky accepts the hug.
retconning-bb wrote:
Big news
Auditioning with the Avengers in a couple days. Also, stuff is in motion, so expect radio silence for a while.
8 notes
Natasha is quiet on the phone for a long time once Steve has said his shtick. "Let me call Fury and Hill. If we spin this correctly, the authorities will drop all charges."
They have a conference in Steve's kitchen a few days later. Natasha arrives early only to stop at the door, looking sheepish. She and Bucky stare at each other for a long time. Finally, she sniffs, and the next quarter of an hour, they're hugging it out, murmuring in Russian in ways that would make Steve jealous if he didn't have some knowledge of the language.
The gist of it seems that they're both sorry, and glad the other survived long enough to escape. Only when a knock at the door announces the other visitors, they let go. Bucky places a kiss on Natasha's forehead like a parent seeing a kid off to school.
After another stare-down, Fury gets an apology, and then told off because Bucky is not, in fact, a "Mister" today. As indicated by the high ponytail, the meticulous shave, and eyeliner. Maria Hill listens to the ensuing rant as to why Fury has to deal with Bucky now in addition to Tony Stark, and opts for a well-received "Sergeant" instead when finally calling the meeting to order.
(Steve and Natasha were too busy shooting each other grins.)
This is what they agree on: Hill, with Stark Industries' legal clout behind her, will contact the prosecution and strike a deal. Details will have to be released, of course, to make sure everyone believes Bucky is indeed a POW. Half the afternoon is spent on discussing exactly what Bucky is comfortable with as to revelations. Maria Hill takes photographs of almost every page of the Ukrainian dossier to show around.
Text from retconning-bb to mx-sal: Won't make it to your cafe until some things are cleared up. Huge stuff, I'm afraid, and you'll probably hate me a little for not being quite as upfront as I should have been. Hugs, Bucky.
mx-sal to retconning-bb: Okay, Bucky. I can guess by the moniker you chose, and the fact that I know which VIP lives 5 blocks uphill of Blue Ticket that it's actually complicated. You're a wonderful person, and I hope I get to hug you one day for real.
xxx
retconning-bb wrote:
In an attempt to break the internet...
The retro-connecting is now complete, and there are very few white spots left on a very long itinerary. The past few weeks I've spent telling a number of people a lot of sensitive information, which was acted upon and ended in two dozen or so exploded Hydra bases and numerous arrests. (You've seen the news, I guess.)
Here are the things you need to know about me:
I was born James Buchanan Barnes in Brooklyn in October 1917. Male assigned at birth. However, I'm genderfluid. My friends get to call me "Bucky", everyone else will have to stick with "Sergeant Barnes". As stated in my profile, I don't talk to people who won't refer to me as 'they'.
I'm in a relationship with a bi cis-guy, namely Steven Grant Rogers.
Have a selfie: Pic. This is me on a guy-day.
(The stuff which follows is not nice, so everyone who gets queasy easily might want to look away now. There's gonna be legit press releases and everything, but to some things, you need to add your own two cents, don't you?)
Everyone knows that I was captured in Italy in 1943 by Germans, and everyone knows Captain America rescued me.
At the time, the only people who knew I was shot up with a variant of Cap's super-soldier serum were myself and a Hydra scientist called Arnim Zola.
My fall from the train in 1944 was actually engineered by said Dr. Zola. I was subsequently captured again, albeit with my left arm mangled beyond repair. It had to be amputated.
I was beaten, starved, held in isolation, and eventually underwent a sophisticated electroshock treatment that made me forget who I was. Sometime in 1948 I was outfitted with an advanced prosthetic arm and shipped to the Red Room, which was at the time a KGB offshoot infiltrated by Hydra.
I spent the majority of the 1950s believing myself to be a veteran Russian soldier by name of Ivan, was referred to as "Vanya", and never questioned why there wasn't a patronym and last name to go with it. I trained other operatives while receiving a fair amount of training myself, mostly where it came to languages and infiltration. I was sent on numerous assassination missions.
Around 1960 the programming began to disintegrate. I received more electroshock treatment, whose memory-erasing effects never lasted longer than ten days or so anymore, and thus it was decided by higher ups that I would go into cryo storage between missions. This did a number on my soft tissues, and I was fed solely with fluids anymore. (Also, the stuff was probably something on soy basis, which is why I have lactose intolerance.)
The cryostasis is why they started to call me the "Winter Soldier", when I wasn't simply referred to as "the Asset" and "it".
During that time, I was little more than a weapon, and I was pointed, among others, at JFK and Howard Stark.
After the fall of the Soviet Union, I was shipped to the US and came into the not so loving care of Alexander Pierce. He managed to become the good cop to the bad cops in lab coats, and had me thoroughly stockholmed for a while. Sometimes I look back and think even a cowed dog wouldn't have been as docile as I was for him.
Nevertheless, the time spans when they had to "wipe" me, that is, give me electroshocks, were becoming increasingly shorter, and last I know the brainwashing began to lose effect after about 48 hours.
It was in hour 49 that I encountered Captain America on Roosevelt bridge after first being sent after Nicholas Fury, Director of SHIELD. It's pure accident I lost the mask and Steve Rogers recognized me.
I had no idea who he was, only that I knew him.
I was subsequently wiped again, and sent after him to prevent him infiltrating the Helicarriers. This didn't quite work, obviously. We both got away, and I lay low for months, trying to make sense of not having a mission and handlers anymore, before I let myself be found.
My memory still had gaping holes, and I didn't talk for weeks. I'm still approaching decision-making by defining the mission and then planning the necessities for staging a successful infiltration.
But I am able to leave the house and interact with strangers now.
In the latter some of my followers had a hand. So. A shout out to Mx. Sal, morriganslair and captainhook. Thanks. I'll see you on the flip side of the mess this here will cause.
mx-sal reblogged this and added:
You're thanking us? Thank you for your trust and your service. I am deeply humbled.
captainhook reblogged this from mx-sal and added:
What they said.
morriganslair reblogged this from captainhook and added:
Ditto. Also, as a slightly creepy aside: The comic-you was the reason I signed up after high school. I'm very glad that you're not Captain America's teen-aged sidekick, but your own, grown-up, thoughtful and extremely courageous person. It's an honor to meet you.
(2 376 786 more notes)
Fin
Music mentions/suggestions:
"Walking on Sunshine" by Katrina and the Diamonds
German folky thing: "Zaubererbruder" by ASP & Eric Fish
Scandinavian heavy metal: "Nemo" by Nightwish
Russian heavy metal: "Liki Bessmertnykh Bogov" by Arkona
"No more sorrow" by Linkin Park
Some hip hop: "Important" by Mz 007
"Umbrella" by Rihanna
Eyeliner conversation: "Big Girls Cry" by Sia