A/N) Hello! I'm back!
... Without the chapter you wanted.
... Again.
...
Anyway!
This is a oneshot, but I might continue it a little later, when I've finished 'The tricktser's fate'. Other than that, There are mentions of attempted suicide in this story, and Peter and Bucky are in their late-ish teens (Peter being 16, and Bucky being 17- along with Cap). And that's it!
Enjoy!
Peter stared down into the murky depths of the endless water below him. The emptiness of it was ensnaring; leaving you as a blank-eyed and pale-faced.
This was it; here he was- finally on the edge of Brooklyn bridge, with nothing but the clothes on his back, occasional drip of water and woosh of cars as they whizzed by to keep him company. He was but a lonely teen, with few belongings in these dark ages of deppresion, as that was all most children had these days.
His reasoning for this was not unjustified- he had his reasons. The one that came above all was that maybe his dear old aunt would finally get some food in her. He was a burden on her, he knew, and what better way to get rid of a burden than to kill it? It was magnificent. A good idea, of course.
Or that was what he tried to tell himself. But as he stared down at the deep abyss of black below him (not even a star's reflection painted across its surface), he knew that it was the right choice, no matter his own opinion. If he ran away, he would only burden someone else, so this was surely the best way. It wasn't as if anyone would miss him, much. All he had was his aunt, and the others all said he should kill himself, anyway, so he would only be pleasing them.
He swung his legs slightly, trying to get rid of the serious atmosphere. Seriousness always bothered him now, so he lived in a facade of jokes and quips, just to get away with living.
Absently, he wondered what aunt May was thining right now. Was she worried about her next meal? Was she concerned over the loss of jobs? Did she ponder on his health? Injuries? Was she even thinking right now, or was she dreaming, asleep? That was not so far-fetched, because as he finally broke his gaze away from the glassy water, and gazed upward, he saw the moon sitting far up, in the sky. It gazed right back, with an unreadable expression on its face. Peter wondered what it was thinking.
Did the moon have to dread the starvation that they all seemed to suffer? Did it, too, have to garner scraps and coins from the most unhygenic of places? Did the moon have to suffer, too?
Well, he thought, it must have at least done so in the past. It had more scars than he did, all in the shape of round craters that dug into its rocky skin. Or was it cheese? Peter had heard rumours that the moon was made of cheese, and maybe they were true?
Peter once again cast his eyes downwards, and observed the slight ripples of the deep pool of water beneath his kicking his feet. As he watched, he thought that he could make out small shapes simmer up and down in the water below. But they were gone so fast, it could have easily been Peter's imagination.
He wondered how quick it would be. Would he be gone in the blink of an eye, as soon as he hit the water? Or would he be struggling for minutes, before he finally met his fate? He was a frail creature, so probably only the former. He liked to think he was strong, even if he knew that he wasn't; things like asthma, and bad eyesight, to name a couple.
Idly, he recognised the sound of footsteps closing in on him. No matter, Peter thought. They will probably walk on by, after all, who wants to look after a sick (mentally and physically) child? It would be too much trouble on them. On everyone, Peter thought to himself bitterly.
He was reasonably surprised when the footsteps stopped right beside him. He didn't look up, but he was sure that this person was here to tease him, too, like many others. Get in line, was his quip for today.
"What are you doing?" Came a surprisingly deep voice. This person was probably big, and burly, and wanting to beat him up. Peter wondered if this person was here to kill him himself, so that he couldn't go on his own terms. It wouldn't be surprising, to him. The universe took pleasure in his suffering.
Peter didn't answer, and just continued to stare into the water. At his silence, the stranger spoke once more. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." Yeah, well... you aren't me, Peter thought. This was his choice; one of the only ones he ever got to make. No one was taking it away from him.
"Do what?" Peter tried to play it dumb. Maybe this person would go away if he figured that Peter was just watching the water. Which was true, so far.
The person next to him made a strange noise in the back of their throat. Was that growling? "You know what you're doing, and so do I." He said, and shifted so that he was leaning his upper body over the safety bars, and into Peter's peripheral vision. As he had suspected, the man was (or at least looked) pretty buff, (as buff as one can be in these dark times) with short brown hair, and was wearing shoddy hand-me-downs, (probably from his father), from what he could tell.
"Yeah? So what?" Peter shot right back, feeling defensive. "It's not as though I'll be missed. And why do you care, anyway?" Peter tore his eyes (somewhat forcefully) away from the dark waters, and got a proper look at the stranger. He seemed to look exactly as he had thought, except his hair was a little longer.
The man, too, turned to look at Peter. Or, maybe not a man; from his voice, Peter had thought that he was, but now looking at his face, this person was obviosly around his own age. His eyes were dark blue, (not as dark as his chosen 'resting place', though) and his chin was cluttered with stubble. His eyes were hard, but underneath Peter could make out a slight shine of worry. Peter frowned at that, but didn't voice his discomfort. He knew where he stood with hatred, but caring was something he had never felt very comforatable around, (the exception being family).
The man- boy -stared deep into his own murky, hazel pools, which he knew held nothing but bland confusion, because that was what he had schooled them to show. Probably the smae way this stranger had schooled his eyes to be hard like that. "Do you really believe that?" He asked, not blinking, or breaking eye contact once.
Peter's own eyes allowed genuine confusion to spill into his eyes, but h still didn't blink (he didn't feel like backing down in front of this person). "What?" He asked.
The teen looked like he wanted to sigh, but he couldn't if he didn't want to break away from their staring contest. "Do you really believe that no one will miss you? That no one cares?"
Peter finally looked away, and looked back down at the inky black liquid underneath the bridge. It reassured him, in a morbid way. It assured him that he was in control of the situation; he could jump and end it if he wanted to.
But he didn't want to end the conversation, really. He was enjoying it, despite the serious undertone. But, as an undertone, it was easy to ignore, and neither of them had said the 'S' word yet, so for any passers by, it would seem like a normal conversation between kids.
"I... I'm..." Sure. That was what he needed to say, but that would be a lie. Did he really want to lie in the last conversation he would ever have?
...No. No, he wasn't.
"... I don't know." He settled on, in the end.
The stronger boy gave him a strange look. Not quite of pity, or hatred (as he expected), but a soft look all the same. He couldn't detect any emotion, but his eyes sagged at the edges, and his eyebrows dropped low to show his kindly face. It looked a lot different to when it was blank, or somber. "Well..." He said, almost to himself, but Peter knew that the other wanted him to hear it, too.
Peter stared at him imploringly, and decided that he wanted to know what this person was thinking. After that, he would surely drop.
"Well... I care." He said, slowly, shocking Peter into stillness and frozen muscles. He couldn't jump, even if he wanted. Which was just as well, because the other, more stronger male continued, in a stronger voice. "If no one else, then I will care. And if you jump, I will grieve, as well."
HIs eyes were alight with an earnest flame, that didn't quite sit right on this person's face. He was too strong to ever wear anything other than bravery, perseverance, and strength upon that fine mug of his. But the earnest flame was a unique one; something that could niether be faked, nor used without truth behind, to back it up.
"My name is James," he said, out of the blue, and it made Peter physically jump; muscles leaping at the sudden sound after minutes of silence. Not even the occasional hum of a car sounded from the bridge, and the sounds of the city were too far away to be heard. "But you can call me Bucky." He didn't seem to mind Peter's flinch.
Peter nodded dumbly, and softly mumbled his own name in return. "Peter..." It was barely above a whisper, or was it even so loud? Bucky heard it though, and nodded slowly in understanding.
"Are you going to come down from there, so that we can have a proper conversation?" Bucky requested, before the conversation could go dead, but formed as a question. He no longer looked at Peter, apparently sure that he would not go anywhere, now that he had given his name. Which was justified; because Peter wouldn't. With a lighter concience, Peter slid onto the bridge.
Bucky immediately encased him into a friendly embrace, and didn't let go until the sun rose into the sky, as a silent beacon.
He had survived another day.