Warning: deals with underage drinking and implied child abuse. Don't like, don't read.

I can't drink.

That should really come as a given, seeing as how I was only 20 and still five months from the legal drinking age. So until next May I'd have to suffer in sobriety.

But I'll be damned if Dad's alcohol didn't look tempting sometimes – I was half tempted to play the 'rebellious teenager' card and invade his stash.

Especially on a night like tonight.

Tonight being December 12th, 2020 – one year, to the day, since the Last Straw Battle of 2019 that soon spiraled into what will probably be forever called the Civil War, or at least something to that effect.

(Truthfully, it should be called the Second Civil War, but it's not like anyone alive remembers the first one. Not even Steve and Bucky.)

And speaking of Bucky, this marks the almost-anniversary of when I met him – well, really met him, anyhow. He rescued me from enemy territory – enemies who were my friends, then not my friends, and now were my friends again.

That didn't mean it had been a smooth road – I'd be the first to admit where there had been bad days where everyone was jumpy around everyone else and sly glances were traded behind various backs. There would be days where the scars on my left hand would itch like crazy, driving me into the lab until they stopped and I could look Natasha in the eye again.

And don't even get me started on the nightmares.

It wasn't fun to be woken up by Natasha screaming my name and "I'M SORRY! NO!" loud enough to wake the entire Tower, nor was it fun to be the one doing the screaming, haunted by Clint's dead eyes and his blood seeping through-

Nope. Not going there tonight. Not right now.

I shake my head and roll over onto my side staring out at the dark city and managing to catch my reflection in the glass, and my reflection made my breath catch.

I'll be the first to say I look like crap.

There were bags under my eyes and my hair was sticking up in every direction, but that's not the shocker.

Shocker was that I looked old.

And I wasn't old – I was only twenty, the youngest member of the team, five years less than the next closest (Bucky) and twenty-nine less than the oldest (Bruce). Chronologically, of course, not factoring the super-soldiers 'on ice' feature.

But that was only physically. Mentally…I had no freaking clue.

I didn't know what a twenty-year-old mentality was like, really. I had no frame of reference there. Weren't kids my age sophomores in college? Maybe excited to drink or drinking, their biggest worry being their math test next week…

I wish.

I never had to worry about math tests, or much of anything academic for that matter – not only because I had it all in the bag (because hello, genius) but because my biggest problems were things that kids my age should only dream of.

Or have nightmares of. Probably the nightmares.

At thirteen, normal kids only had to worry about whether or not their most recent acne spell would pass. At thirteen, my world got flipped completely on it's lid, and suddenly I was fighting the man that I knew hated me but never hurt me. (Not really. He never abused me. But it's never really called that, is it?)

And then, without pause, everything got shook up again when I found out my dad was dying (months after the fact!) and might not live to see me turn fourteen. Natalie Rushman came onto the picture, as did Fury and Hammer and War Machine…

Yes, thirteen was so much fun.

At fourteen, a kid's biggest fear should be their crush catching them staring in class. At fourteen, my biggest fear was watching my dad die ("That's a one-way trip, Stark.") from a place where I could do nothing – because apparently I was old enough to take down a terrorist ring in the Middle East with one person, but not old enough to fight aliens with six other powerful people.

Go figure.

Fifteen? Oh, I only fought in my first war then ended with me getting an arm stabbed off and an eternal nightlight in my chest, pressing into my lungs and making it impossible to breath sometimes. No big deal.

Thankfully there were no major, Earth-shattering crises for the next two years – those two years had probably been the best two years of my life. I learned how to drive, graduated college, made leaps and bounds in the scientific field (and some actual friends family?)…and then I became an adult and got kidnapped by a psychotic god hell-bent on ruling the world and everyone in it.

(You also got a boyfriend, my inner voice reminds me. Shut up, I tell it.)

Nineteen? Nineteen sucked. Big time.

In May/June of that year, SHIELD came tumbling down around itself, revealing corruption and malice and a heavy dose of this is the real world, little girl, get used to it or get the hell out.

(Not that I hadn't already gotten that message. Thanks, Obie.)

Oh, and I also met my mother – genius, horrible pregnant woman, breaker of Dad's heart, and crazy-evil-psycho-genius that just so happened to be the deputy of the new HYDRA.

Nice resume she's got there, don't you think?

And then, without a break, everything else started falling apart, like the world's biggest, meanest snowball – Dad quit, Bruce and I followed (Clint did nothing), Steve kicked us out, and we fled our own homes and subsequently fought a war with all new people, two of which I haven't really heard from since.

Six months ago, my father got drunk enough to throw a (heavy) glass at my head – thank god that didn't scar, not physically – and then formed a blooming friendship (I think?) with Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff, of all people.

October had been a good month; I have to admit. Dad turned forty-five (and still won't admit he might be getting old), Clint turned twenty-five, they both got hammered in (and banned from) Vegas. As Bucky later pointed out, it takes a hell of a lot to get banned from the City of Sin.

And now here I was. Sprawled on the communal floor couch because I couldn't sleep for fear of crippling nightmares, being deeply introspective with my inner-self, which was a sarcastic little terror.

Alone and contemplating illegal drinking.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Well, I thought I was alone.

I pick my head up, everything quickly tensing before I see Bucky standing in the door. "I'm not familiar with this 'sleep' of which you speak."

"Most people aren't, tonight," he concedes, moving to sit at the bar. "Care for company?"

I get up and take a seat across from him, wincing at a sudden pain in my right shoulder. "The back-talk from my conscience was getting a bit old."

The super-soldier nods absently as he gives my arm a concerned look. "Is that hurting?"

"A bit," I admit after a moment. "It's just sore. It does that sometimes, it's okay."

He frowns. "You can take it off, you know. I won't mind."

I frown hesitantly. "You sure?"

He makes an obvious gesture to his own metal arm. "Nope, not minding at all."

I give a half shrug and reach up to literally twist my arm out of it's socket, the prosthetic coming free with a hiss and a few clicks. I give a long sigh of relief as I set my arm on the table.

"Feeling better?" Bucky smirks.

I glare at him as I roll my shoulder, then realizing that my ugly, red, crisscrossed mass of scar tissue was showing. I try to tug my sleeve down, but I'm stopped by a stern look from Bucky.

"Really, I don't care," he stresses. "Leave it." He gives the prosthetic a curious glance. "That looks like it's seen better days."

I give a half-shrug as I ghost a hand over the scratches and dings on the silver metal. "I'll get Dad to look at it in the morning."

"Don't you mean later today?" Bucky corrects, reaching under the bar to pull out a chilled beer. "Want a soda?"

I shake my head and rest my chin on the counter top, my eyes fixed on the beer and my thoughts returning to the fact that I can't drink – I can't have anything to numb the vitriolic, acerbic anxiety that was currently racking my body.

Bucky, of course, follows my gaze and looks thoughtful for a moment before snapping his fingers in an almost cartoon-like lightbulb moment. He goes to grab a glass from the cupboard, setting it down with a click and proceeding to pour about half his beer into it. "Here."

"I really shouldn't," I sigh as I watch him with a vague interest, well aware that I really should be protesting this more.

"Why not?" Bucky questions, sliding the glass over in a clear offering. "Come on."

I reach out a hand and pull the glass to me, staring down at my own reflection in the light amber liquid. "I'm not old enough."

"You were old enough to go risk your life last week," Bucky reminds me. "I think you're old enough to kick back and relax once in a while. And you need it, or I miss my guess."

I give a one-armed shrug and swirl the liquid around in the glass. "You're a horrible authority figure, you know that?"

"I don't remember signing up for that," Bucky teases lightly. "Come on, kid. Half a beer can't hurt you."

I roll my eyes at him. "They taught me about peer pressure, you know." But I lift the glass to my lips anyways, hesitating only slightly before tipping back the first sip.

Beer tastes…well, it didn't taste like I thought it would. I had thought it would be sweeter, maybe like a soda, but instead it's bitter (really, really bitter) and yeasty, a bit like stale sourdough bread. It's also slightly citrusy, but I didn't know if that was a brand thing or a preference – Bucky seemed like they type to like a tangy beer.

It burns on the way down.

But was that a bad thing?

Also, thanks for the alcoholic genes, Dad.

"Well?" I look up to see Bucky looking at me intently, his eyes excited. "How was it?"

I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. "Bitter."

"You get used to it," he shrugs, taking a swig of his own beer.

"I'll wait until the end of May to get used to it," I decide, shaking my head. "As it is, Dad will kill me."

"I won't tell if you won't," he cajoles. "And I was right – you need this."

"Yeah, yeah, pat yourself on the back," I grouse, slumping over to lean against the counter. "God, this sucks."

"What does?" Bucky asks softly.

"I – just – tonight," I manage to stutter, taking another sip. "How long do you think it'll take to stop hurting?"

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"I don't think it ever does," he sighs heavily. "Do you know I still have nightmares – flashbacks of Hydra? It's been two years since I got out, myshka, and it hasn't gone away."

"That's to be expected, though," I argue.

"Why?"

"Because it was a traumatic experience that you won't be able to-" I blink, then glare at him. "Bucky, I wasn't under the influence of mind control for seventy years."

"I know," he nods. "But you've gone through your fair share of crap."

"You don't know the half of it," I grumble. "I met you when I was eighteen, Barnes, and by then I'd been doing this superhero gig for five years. Come to think of it, I've been at this longer than you have. So don't even start."

"I wasn't going to."

"I'm sorry," I mutter, running a hand through my hair, just making it stuck up more. "I've just realized the grand scope of all the stuff I've gone through."

"I have days like that," he admits. "I died, okay, just to put that in perspective. I died."

For some reason this makes me laugh a little. It might be the alcohol, my mind supplies as I take another sip. "Well, at least I didn't die. I don't think so, anyways. I mean, the injury when I got this…" I self-consciously rub the mass of scar tissue and nerve endings that was my right shoulder plus two inches. "It was bad."

"You never did go into specifics on that," he muses.

"I told you, sliced through with rebar," I remind him. "There was an explosion, I didn't move fast enough, woke up without an arm, my chest started hurting, and the next time I woke up I had this." I rap my fingers against the reactor, which was giving the dim room an eerie look. "I was fifteen. That wasn't normal."

"You aren't," Bucky shrugs.

I hum at that, taking another sip. "Sometimes I think you had it easier."

"Um…" he stares at me incredulously. "Did you miss the part where I died?"

"Yeah, but…" I sigh and bite my lip. "How old were you when you entered the army, Buck?"

He looks a bit confused but decides to humor me. "Sixteen."

"Mmhm," I hum tonelessly. "I was four when I built my first bomb. My dad called it 'The Junior'. Not that it was small, by any means." I give a humorless laugh. "It packed 6 kilotons of force, caused casualties of more than 117,000 people, and had a blast radius of over 400 feet. Practically a baby, when you think about it."

Bucky, thankfully, doesn't say anything, but I do know he's there.

"I got shot at for the first time in August when I was thirteen," I continue softly. "By – get this – the United States Air Force. I mean, it wasn't their fault, really, because we weren't supposed to be in Gulmira but we were, and-"

"Sestrenka."

I give Bucky a grateful look before continuing. "And then came the whole mess with Stane. Did you know that both my godfathers have betrayed me at some point? I swear – I swear to god that if I ever have a kid, their godfather is going to be the best guy ever and never betray them. Never," I repeat desperately. "He won't hurt them."

"Not like someone did to you?" Bucky asks softly, making me snap my head in so quickly my neck muscles protested. "Who hurt you?"

I don't answer as Bucky continues. "It wasn't Tony or Rhodes, since Tony's still friends with the man and he would rather die than stand for that. That really only leaves one option: Obadiah Stane."

I purse my lips at the name, dropping my eyes to the table as my breath hitches. "It wasn't – he didn't – it wasn't abuse. Not – he didn't hit me. Not really. Well, I – I mean, he slapped me once or twice, but that was my fault, kind of, and…it wasn't abuse," I repeat desperately. "It wasn't."

Since I'm not looking at Bucky at the moment, all I hear is a bout of vile Russian curing and footsteps before he sits down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders. "I believe you."

I take in a shaky breath and he pulls me into a full hug, running a hand through my tangled hair. "Shh, it's okay. He's dead, right?"

I nod against his chest, managing to choke out, "Dad killed him."

"Good. Did Tony know about…what he was doing?"

I shake my head. "He found out when we found out Stane was dealing under the table," I explain. "Bucky, I swear it wasn't that bad – all he did was smack me or shake me or put his hand on my shoulder a little too hard. Mainly he'd yell. And at least I had my dad – I'm pretty sure Clint had it worse."

"That doesn't make it okay," Bucky announces with a mountain of conviction. "It's never okay to hit a child."

"Not even an obnoxious brat?"

"Not even then," he answers. "And you couldn't have been that bad."

"You have no idea," I laugh softly.

"Well you aren't that bad now," he reasons. "But I met you when you were already an adult."

"Barely," I snort. "You met me six months after I turned eighteen."

"Exactly," he nods. "Now, hey, enough with this deep stuff. Wanna watch a movie? We've got six hours until everyone else is up."

"Sure," I pull out of the hug and swallow the last of my drink before getting up and heading back to the couch. "What do you want to watch? What's next on your list?"

"We were on the early sixties," he supplies.

"How about The Parent Trap?" I suggest. "It's funny."

"Sounds good," he nods. "I'll go get the popcorn."

"Don't blow up the microwave again," I warn.

Ten minutes later we're settled on the couch with a slightly lumpy blanket Bucky himself had knitted, my head on his shoulder and a bowl of popcorn between us.

"Hey kid?" Bucky murmurs.

"Yeah?" I reply absently.

"If anyone ever – and I mean ever – tries to hurt you again, tell them you personally know the Winter Soldier. They won't be a problem anymore."

"Thanks, Buck," I laugh softly. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks – for this."

"No problem." He squeezes my shoulder. "After all, what are brothers for?"

I just smile and close my eyes, basking in his radiant body heat.

Sleep comes easily then.

There, just a bit of Bucky/Taylor bonding. I love their relationship – it's so uncomplicated.

Sorry if this was a bit dark – I needed to do something for the anniversary of my Civil War.

Thanks to RussianAssassin – who is currently without Wi-Fi and won't even see this for a week – for the inspiration behind some of Bucky's lines.