Note: Wow-whee and thank you to all who reviewed, followed, and read last time! It's good to be back and seeing familiar names again.
"I thought that was your ugly mug I was seein' all over the newsstands," the ancient man shouted. Age had done nothing to diminish the volume or sharpness of his voice—did nothing to dull his wit.
Another one, shorter than the first, but whose mind had not dulled a damn bit either. Still sharp, still seeing every little thing he could give anyone shit about later…despite the glasses. "Didn't even cross my mind that the scruffy yokel on all the newspapers was you until Dum Dum pointed it out," he said while gesturing to the first ancient man. "I said, what? He forget what scissors were, too?"
"You didn't recognise him 'cause you're too proud to get your damn eyes checked."
"Pfft."
A third chimed in rather smugly, "We aren't so green anymore, mate. Nothing to be ashamed of, needing a stronger prescription. Our parts don't work like they used to." He winked between all of them.
Bucky was having a hard time seeing the old men and hearing what they were saying through the acute blur time was making in his head. Their voices were definitely aged, but they didn't sound like that inside Bucky's head. Words were clear and smooth, not so worn. Fewer miles on the ol' vocal cords. Loose images and thoughts in Bucky's mind were falling like raindrops against the backs of his eyes: Sticking for a second, showing him a scene, a memory, before they were splashed away by a new one.
"But I said, nah, that can't be Jimmy. Jimmy's been dead since 1945!" a different old man said.
Inside, Bucky's memories were a whirlpool. He could hardly see the room for the puddles of voices and faces and trees, snow, canvas snapping, cigarette smoke, was-that-theirs-or-ours? forming behind his eyes. A voice inside his head echoed from the vastness, Those damn 88s sound like freight trains flying through the air. I hate 'em more than those stinging sons of bitches the goons used last time.
Yet another old man said, "We find out he's been alive this whole time and not once did he try to contact us. Not a single one of us."
That voice was the strangest yet, jarring something semi-solid in Bucky's head.
Small, cold, metal tags stamped with everything that they thought defined your body. Folded up letters sent off on a man's last breath.
The smugness again: "Bloody rude, you know."
Steve's hand was on Bucky's shoulder. French words were buzzing in his ears; Bucky couldn't tell if they were real or just in his head.
There was a soft, strange sound. A hiccup or a popped bubble. It took a moment for Bucky to realise it was coming from him. He was laughing. The blur wasn't just in his head; it was from wetness building up in his eyes. Something was tightening around his chest. His head a centrifuge, and memories falling out, solid precipitates.
Steve had his hands on either one of Bucky's shoulders and shook him a little. Steve separating Bucky from the rest of the room.
"Bucky," he said sternly. "Bucky. Is this OK?"
Bucky blinked a few times, and, surprisingly, the blur cleared. Mostly. (He hadn't cried that much, most of the mess was still safe inside his head.) Pressure in his chest eased, and a disbelieving breath fell out of him.
"What?" he croaked.
Steve's grip tightened by a few degrees. "Are you OK with this?"
"Am I OK with this?"
"Buck—"
He shrugged out of Steve's hold and dodged around the obstacle Steve was acting as (which took muscle memory that actually felt as if it belonged to Bucky). His stride was uninterrupted—Bucky walked right up to old man furthest from him, the one stooped with something more than age. The old man stood from his seat as Bucky approached — strange that he wasn't afraid as an assassin made a beeline for him. One flesh arm and one cybernetic scooped up the old man, and hugged him as hard as he dared. Maybe Bucky started to cry again; the puddles inside swirled, grew cold, solidified. A solid connection in his head among the whirlpool.
There were hands patting his back; they belonged to the one he was holding and the rest who gathered around him. Just like before, after that place, that factory—… Krausberg! That was right, immediately after escaping Krausberg, when Steve brought him back to the enlisted men, his men, Bucky's men. And they'd all been there, his cagemates and neighbours (that's what they'd called themselves). A lifetime ago, these men had taken Bucky from under Steve's arm and embraced him. Passed him around like a cigarette they were eager to share. Celebrated his continued existence, the way he'd beaten the olds twice (Bucky couldn't remember how he'd beaten anything, but he knew he had).
Sarge. They'd called him Sarge and said I knew ya couldn't be dead and Rotten Krauts can't even kill a man that's already half dead from pneumonia, don't know why I thought they'd do you in.
Bucky made a noise like a shaky, breathy laugh. Unbelievable.
"I know what you mean," the one Bucky was holding, Gabe Jones, said. His voice was damp and near to cracking.
There were so many things Bucky wanted to say, so many. So many images in his head were clumping together, forming crystalline, solid images. Context for so many dreams and memories Bucky had been having, at last. After a bit, he convinced himself to put Gabe down—gently—on his feet. Gabe dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.
"I saw it," Gabe said croakily. By the tone of the words, Bucky knew this was something Gabe had wanted to say for a long time. "I saw you fall, Sarge. Didn't realise what'd I seen for a long time — maybe I didn't know what I was seeing, or I didn't want to believe my eyes….But I saw you fall, Bucky, and I've never been able to forgive myself for not going after you. I saw you fall off that train, and I didn't do a damn thing—"
"S'OK," Bucky said. Amazing: There was a hint of a smile in his cheeks. A twitch. "Water under the bridge, Jonesy. Nothin' you could have done, believe me. Woulda lost this world all the good you did after the war."
(Was this after the war? Did the war ever really end?)
Shaking his head, grateful but maybe still guilty, surely Gabe would never fully forgive himself for everything he'd committed, or not committed, during those years. No amount of time could cure things like that.
Dum Dum interrupted, "Aw, don't get too worked up over it, college. Sarge came out alright, didn't he? Hasn't aged a day in seven decades and got himself one fine can opener."
The plates of Bucky's arm shifted unconsciously, almost as if the arm had a mind of its own and was flattered someone had called it a "fine can opener."
Without thought, Bucky grabbed Dum Dum and hugged him, too. Then it was Monty. Jim, Frenchie — it was his voice that had jarred Bucky so much: there wasn't the faintest trace of an accent to his English. Amid all the hullaballoo, Bucky didn't let it escape his notice that Steve was staying back and being whispered to by Black Widow. She was keeping a hand over her mouth so Bucky couldn't read her lips. Clever. Steve and Black Widow had been joined by Howard Stark's son and the one always covered in bandages. (Clint Barton, Bucky's brain supplied after a time.)
The audience was hard to care about, even with the way they were smirking and smiling.
"You're so old," was the first thing Bucky thought to say. It was in response to Frenchie hugging back so hard for a person his age; he was the most enthusiastic.
"Kid hasn't changed a bit," Dum Dum said.
Bucky laughed and wiped his eyes. "Sit down, sit down!" he said and gestured to the furniture. "Sit down, you're all so old."
"Poppycock! We're as old as you are," Dum Dum said, but he was moving toward a couch carefully.
Bucky mouthed the word "poppycock" with a smile on his face, still surprised.
Tbc