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[ It's Tuesday in Avengers Tower.
A lot of the particulars of this arrangement had gone over his head, given that he'd been all but catatonic from shock and exhaustion through half of it (turns out using the Cube for a major temporal displacement actually took a lot of energy from the bearer, in this case him) but it seemed to include a lot of shouting and posturing while he'd suffered a fatal disconnect over which Steve he was supposed to back up, the tiny angry one or the big angry one. But the gist of it, explained by Howard Stark's son, is this: the Tesseract fucks with time, and sometimes deigns to answers wishes. Even those not spoken out loud. One flash of blue light later it had dumped all four of them here in the future in some kind of 'temporal bubble,' whatever the fuck that was, and it's keeping them here indefinitely.
Stark promises he's working on fixing it, but the future has things like inhalers and endless amounts of hot water, so there's that. Bucky's not in any big freaking hurry to head back to the war front in any case, even if being stuck here means staring at the frankly terrifying person who is supposedly future-him, or one possible version of future-him.
They're all under what's effectively house arrest in Stark's future robot building, given leave to go wherever they want in the Tower. They've all got their own bedrooms, their own kitchens, even their own floors if they want them, but Bucky had shown up at younger Steve's door at first opportunity and hadn't left him since.
(Part of him thought that maybe, maybe he should be throwing in with the other one, the older one with shadows under his eyes and a look on his face like someone had just kicked him in the stomach, the one Bucky remembered from Europe, but stress had brought on one of Stevie's attacks and Bucky couldn't leave him alone for that.)
He'd been kicked out eventually, though, told to go do his worrying and hovering somewhere else and take his stupid glowing alien box with him, which meant that Steve wanted some space to be upset in peace and that was fine, that was all fine, Brooklyn Steve didn't really know him since he'd been taken off to the camp and. Yeah. He's different. He's killed a lot of people since then, has watched his best friend waffle between science experiment, propaganda darling and one man army with maybe 10% of the training he needs to do the jobs they've got him doing. He's got a glowing alien box that always comes back to him, no matter how he tries to get rid of it. It bothers Steve that he's different. Not a one of them really know each other right now.
He drifts into the kitchen out of lack of anything better to do, still dressed in yesterday's clothes because he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep while Steve rasped in the bed next to him, mechanically opening cabinets and going through drawers, staring in something like hopeless frustration at the array of supposed edibles. The packages are all brightly colored and there are three kinds of everything, all declared to be low-fat or pure organic or a good source of vitamin whatever, like it wasn't possible for a guy to just get milk anymore without having to make some kind of choice about it. The labels are in every kind of language possible, of which he can only read three with his fragmentary French, Italian, and German. There's butter, more than he knows what to do with, and real meat, impossibly fresh, and the house robot has told him that if there's anything he wants that isn't there, he just has to ask for it and it'll be delivered.
All he wants is a goddamn loaf of bread and some cheese to make a sandwich, jesus. ]
OPEN
Before, he'd been the only phantom in the dozens of empty rooms, choosing one to occupy for a few hours, a few nights, and then changing his mind just for the sheer luxury of choice. Before, he'd crept into the Captain's (Steve, his name is Steve) unlocked room and stood at the foot of his bed, counting his breaths, and sometimes slid under the covers with him to sleep back to back. That felt familiar to him, sometimes.
He leaves before Steve wakes up each time. He eats when Steve has gone, trailing after him like a shadow, chasing the signs of his presence through each room. This is where Steve goes to train. This is the bag he likes to use. This is the plate he'd left out on the counter with half a sandwich, like food for a stray feral. He supposes that's what he is, now. He steals the clothes out of Steve's hamper (only the ones that smell like him, not the clean ones hanging in his closet or folded in his drawers) and he steals things that he knows Steve uses, like his cell phone or pages out of his sketchpad. He leaves things for Steve, too, like a cat bringing its human a mouse. He leaves coordinates on Steve's pillow for him, or names. The corpses of Hydra bases and their masters.
There are more people in the rooms now, more places he has to avoid and obstacles to the places he wants to go. This or that hallway has suddenly become anathema for the possibility of meeting someone along it. Voices that make his head hurt and his heart contract, alternately, and he wants, he wants--
He doesn't know what he wants. He lets himself into a room that someone else has been occupying, prowling restlessly around all the corners, and finally approaches the bed like it might bite him. The sheets are still wrinkled. The pillows are dented, and he presses his face into them, chasing a familiar scent. He used to know this. He used to know all of this.
He hasn't slept in forty-eight hours. He can go another forty-eight before side-effects begin to set in that would impair mission functionality. But he's-- he has been told, it has been impressed on him that there are no more missions, except to take care of himself. That's what he's supposed to be doing. Recovering.
He stretches out on the bed consideringly and then curls up around a pillow instead, making himself as small as possible. It is not completely safe to sleep here where anyone might come and discover him, but that's a choice he's making, testing for consequences. He wants to sleep here. There is no one to tell him that he can't. ]
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The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. He'd had a nasty shock when it turns out that his longtime best friend had become like this, left him alternately curious, angry, and determined once he'd learned the truth of it, the twists and turns that his future takes, the tragedies that leave him sleepless and shaken to the core.
His Bucky goes to war, and his Bucky falls while Steve becomes someone stronger, someone who, with all his new gifts had failed to save Bucky would eventually be. He's seen the future versions of him, the ones who carry such pain in their eyes that it hurts to see. But Bucky needs him more than anything else right now; this Bucky, the one with the new metal arm, the deadened eyes and the struggling psyche. Steve doesn't yet carry the guilt and scars of his future failures; but he takes what he can from it, determined to change the course of their paths, to spare Bucky the pain and horror of being a prisoner of war.
He stops at the doorway to study him briefly, before he draws closer and reaches for the pile of blankets left for him. He's still adjusting to this future, and while many things still baffle him, he's a quick study, picking up on whatever he can in order not to be any sort of burden to the versions of himself and Bucky still running around.
Steve is careful and very gentle when he lightly lays the blanket over Bucky's sleeping form, surmises that he hadn't slept very much -- shadows rarely ever rest, after all, much less one who seems intent on stalking the other Steve, making brief, rare appearances on most days. Steve's glad, perhaps, that this day had seen fit to deposit the Winter Soldier right into his room. The man is still as beautiful in repose; the long lashes, the strong jaw, and he can't help but draw nearer when he pulls the blankets up over Bucky's shoulders. ]
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Still, it's not like Steve is even remotely apprehensive. He nudges closer, tugging gently on the covers. So he can strike all he wants; you can only die once, right? ]
Move over. Floor's too cold to sleep on, tonight.
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One of the very few saving graces about being so small is that Steve can fit into the tiny amount of space the winter soldier gives him, and for once he doesn't feel bitter about it.
He crawls in, the lack of space ensuring that Steve snuggles right up against Bucky, his Bucky (he'll get him back again, you'll see; even like this, Bucky is still his). The other man is so much bigger than he remembers, and he doesn't fear the deadly gleam of that arm when he fits right against him, a skinny arm delicately draping around his waist. ]
Better. You're bigger than I remember.
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He doesn't move when Steve drapes an arm over him, although the muscles tense up reflexively at the touch. In fact, he's gone from dead animal limp to stiff as a board without actually moving, the strung tension of someone realizing an incredibly dangerous creature has just crawled in with them. ]
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You're my friend.
[ He says very quietly, even if he only manages to say it into Bucky's broad expanse of chest. His hand moves gently over his heart, and he bites his lip. ]
Buck. I'm not going to hurt you. I'll protect you.
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Bucky's hand on his chest still startles him, but it's only a moment after that that he relaxes, watching him easily, not moving his hand. Wryly, he comments. ] You used to do that. You'd put your ear on my chest to make sure that I wasn't giving up the ghost. [ He shrugs a little. ] Sometimes my heart rate gets messed up.
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It's all right. I'll live.