Brooklyn, New York
December, 1975
Why, exactly, Bucky often wondered, did he have to stop aging at eighteen? In a great number of ways, it was a disadvantage. Though he was now an old man – year-wise, anyway – he only appeared to be in his teens, which meant that no one would believe him when he tried telling them the truth.
Until he showed them his other little "trick" – and then they became even more hostile.
And none of this was helpful to someone who was in his situation. Absolutely no one was willing to help him out.
And then there were those two guys. For the past couple of hours, the same two guys had been following him, and he really didn't appreciate it. He'd been dodging them, but they kept popping back up.
Eventually, he warily gave up on avoiding them and ducked into a dark alley where he could make good use of his mutation if it became necessary. He leaned against a brick wall under the cover of the shadows and waited. It didn't take long for them to show up.
"Hey, James," Wheelchair Man greeted him softly while Glasses Man wheeled him into the alley.
Bucky stiffened, growling, "How do you know my name?"
The man tapped his temple, saying coyly, "It's a… gift." He smiled carefully, asking, "You understand that concept, don't you?"
"Who the heck are you?" Bucky snarled, shoving his hands into his pockets and hoping the men couldn't see the shift in the cloth as his hands turned into something that wasn't flesh.
Wheelchair smirked knowingly, further unnerving Bucky, as he replied, "My name is Professor Charles Xavier; this is my buddy Dr. Hank McCoy. We want to help you."
"Now why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?"
"Because whether or not you want to admit it, you need us."
"Mm," Bucky pretended to consider this before he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
"Really?" Xavier asked, sounding amused. "Because from what I know about you – oh, boy, where do I start? – you enlisted at the beginning of the Civil War when you appeared to be about… what?"
"From what I can figure," Mr. McCoy replied evenly, "Somehow… still eighteen."
"That's what I thought," Xavier nodded, continuing, "You used false identities to fight for nearly the next ninety years without your mutation being noticed – always at eighteen years old, which is interesting in and of itself, considering that it's an obvious lie. It's actually admirable in a way – stupid, but admirable. I suspect we'll have plenty of time to talk about why you wanted to fight later; right now my point is that you've spent over a century of your life as a soldier, and in all honesty, you have the most impressive case of PTSD I've seen in a very long time. We only want to help you, James," he declared, propping his elbow against the armrest of his wheelchair, forehead resting against his fingertips.
Bucky insisted, "And I only want you to leave me alone."
"No," Xavier sighed, looking at him with detestable pity in his eyes as he said, "You don't. You may look like a child, but you're old enough to understand that you need help. Allow my colleagues and I to do that for you."
"'Colleagues'?" Bucky repeated drily with upraised eyebrows.
"I'm the head of a special school for children like you," Xavier revealed evenly. "And, again, we'd love to have you with us. Granted, we're very small for now – veterans returning from war and all that – but I'd love to see you in our next classes." Bucky just glared at him without a word – until Xavier cocked his head to the side and asked, once again sounding far too innocent, "I am curious, though, as to how and why you returned before so many others. What happened to you, James?" The veteran glared at the man in the wheelchair, his eyes daring him to answer his own question – so Xavier did. "From what I've gathered, you were born in Romania, but it was New York that agreed to take you on during the Civil War and South Vietnam most recently. But twenty years in South Vietnamese regiments was too long, wasn't it? People started talking, they started catching onto the fact that all those identities were the same person; they started catching onto what you were, and they would've soon wanted to turn you into a lab rat. You didn't want that – who would? – so you were already getting antsy when you met Steven. The two of you ran, and that's all you've been doing ever since; don't kid yourself, having an apartment doesn't change what you're actually doing – hiding. You can't want to live this way for the rest of your life, James; come with us back to North Salem and you won't have to. We can protect you from the people who are hunting you, I swear. Just give us a chance, James, and we'll give you the same courtesy."
Bucky stared at him, long and hard, wishing that he had the same ability that this man seemed to – reading people's minds – before he groused, "Just to be clear, I am older than you."
"Yes," Xavier answered with a touch of amusement coloring his voice. "But your mind ages at the same rate as your body, which makes you mentally eighteen, regardless of years lived – and in shows my young friend."
"I am not your friend!" Bucky said fiercely, trying to angle past the man's wheelchair.
"That's not how I meant it," Xavier objected, becoming serious again as he laid a hand on Bucky's arm to stop him. "It shows," he tapped his temple again when Bucky was quick to jerk away from his touch. "In your mind, in the way you think, in the way you've acted… in the things you're feeling. I know you don't want to be alone, and you don't have to be, James, not anymore. We can give you a home; we want to give you a home, but no one will make you go, and no one will make you stay, or leave, for that matter. It's entirely your choice; we just want you to know that the school is an option for you." He smiled brightly, inquiring, "What do you say, James, would you like to try out a home with us?"
Bucky narrowed his eyes hatefully at the man, backing up and snapping "no!" before he shoved his way past the two men with the use of his now-metallic hands and made a run for it, shouting over his shoulder, "I'm not alone; I've got Stevie, and he's my home!"
