we are monsters

@ghxstwinter

It had reached the point in Steve’s life where he’d spent almost as much time in his new body as he had in the one he was born in. Erskine’s creation had always felt like he was wearing a suit of armor in his own right, walking around in the world as an inauthentic, gifted version of himself, at least until recently. Now, Steve was starting to revel in the abilities he’d been given, and when he was teleported into his old body … well, he was referring to it as old. It didn’t feel like his chest, anymore, that rattled with each breath, or his knees that clicked when he stood up from the seat.

It stood to reason, though, that the first person who would see him like this would be Bucky. They lived together, and Bucky always had a sixth sense to know when Steve needed him, even before Steve knew himself. He woke up in a cold sweat and had only a matter of moments to look down at skin-and-bone arms, eyes flickering to the pumpkin pie on the counter, before the front door of their apartment was opening, and he spotted his friend rounding the corner.

“Don’t eat the pie!” were the first words out of his mouth, hand going up to prevent Bucky from doing his usual and sticking his finger right into the centre of the dessert. “Enchanted pumpkins!”

***

Bucky wished that he could start being surprised at the weird things that occurred in his life. It seemed like a frequent carousel of just weird. He had heard various things happening around the city, pumpkins seemingly robbing people. Animals talking? (He’s concerned about what that exactly means for Alpine. He was sure the cat had plenty to say.) So arriving home without incident was a seemingly a miracle in itself. There was something in the back of his mind urging him to get home, to check on Steve, a nagging sort of need to do just that. He could remember flashes of this same feeling, all but racing back from the docks to make sure that Steve was still breathing on the couch cushions. That taunt feeling in his chest immediately loosening when he realized the rise and fall of the man’s chest was still present. 

(There were too many times where he feared he’d come too late. That one goodbye would be the last. Instead, he was the one who left his friend first, for a fate that was far worse than death.)

The door opened, nothing too weird so far. Though, it seemed he spoke too soon. Making his way to the pie that laid unassuming on the table top only to be stopped. Bucky stared at his friend, unblinking before he rubbed at his eyes and shook his head. “What the fuck?” He blurted out, eyes narrowed and he moved forward slowly. His metal hand reached out, thumping Steve promptly on the forehead. “You’re real. And you’re...small again. What the hell? How the hell did this even happen?” He asked. 

Bucky had been in a lot of fights in his lifetime. Plenty that he didn’t want to be included in. Some weird, like having to endure fighting any of his sisters for a sliver of time in the bathroom, or following after Steve into fight after fight until they became full on battles. Though, this one, he had to say was the one that’d take the top spot as the weirdest fight he had experienced. About dozen or so pumpkins had broken into a bodega and were trashing the place. He had thought he was just seeing things, head tilted slightly as he stared in utter confusion.

Though, a voice sounded out near him, garnering a huff of a laughter out of the man. “Do you think that’s the right way to go about this?” A pause then, “to be fair, I haven’t ever had to duel a pumpkin of all things before. Is that the best way to do this, do you think? To get them to stop at least. They’re just pumpkins, they can’t be too bad to take down. I hope.”

(✉ → barnes🐈): James! I was actually just thinking about you last night. (✉ → barnes🐈): I used that recipe you gave me for muffins. My daughter says they’re at least an 8 out of 10, but that’s based on my baking more than the ingredients. (✉ → barnes🐈): UNSENT I’d say I’ve seen worse but that’s not exactly true (✉ → barnes🐈): I’m just glad that I could help, even the smallest amount. […] (✉ → barnes🐈): Something can always be done. (✉ → barnes🐈): What that something is depends on a few things. (✉ → barnes🐈): Do you mind telling me what the nightmares are? The most frequent ones.

@ghxstwinter

It hadn’t been planned. They’d said milkshakes at three, and then it changed into dinner after, and a jog the morning before. They’d said one meal and it turned into three (four, counting breakfast), and one date spanned the course of a couple days – or maybe it was a collection of five. Steve didn’t know enough about it to say, but he knew enough to say it had gone well. He walked home with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face, cheeks aching from the unfamiliarity of it, but then the fear rose up the second he was on the other side of their front door. (It was irrational. It was ridiculous, which was why he’d never mentioned it to anyone. But yet, everytime he came home, he stood there for a minute and wondered what he’d do if Bucky wasn’t there – if he’d faded into the wind, again, like he had hundreds of times over the years.)

The keys clicked in the lock, and although he tried to be quiet, it must’ve been enough to stir Bucky, who was sleeping in his favorite spot on the floor, couch cushions attempted but then pushed to the side. “Hope you didn’t wait up,” Steve said, voice quiet as he dropped the grocery bags off on the kitchen island. He made his way over to Bucky, considering the sofa before he settled on dropping to the floor beside him, back resting against the wall. “I get it, now,” Steve said. What Bucky was chasing before the war, that feeling in his chest, he got it. The smile reappeared – memories of the day before, and relief at his best friend still being there – and Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “You were right. She’s …” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Missed you, though. Sorry I was away so long.”

***

It wasn’t hard to put two and two together. It brought a smile to Bucky’s face. It had been something he wanted for Steve back in their early twenties. Constantly going out to dances, a new girl on his arm and dragging Steve along. There was a certain thrill to a new connection with someone, to feel the warmth when their fingers intertwined with your own, heart racing beneath your ribcage. (Memories blurred and instead he was recalling fiery red hair, hands cradled between his own, not shying from the cold touch of his metal fingers. His heart hadn’t ever raced that much before—) The silence in the home was a change, but not as much of one as he thought it would be. It was like before. On his own, but this time it didn’t feel so lonely, so achingly quiet. He had so many people around him, so many he could go to. He didn’t have to be alone anymore. He could go to sleep without the weight settling on his chest as he thought of where to run off to next.

There was also a familiarity in the way Bucky took to laying on the hardwood floor of the living room, in being ingrained in him to be closest to an exit, so used to the firmness that the floor brought. He even tried to pull the cushions off the couch, not as soft and springy as the memory foam mattress of the bed that was never used, but even they would get pushed aside in favor of a quilt tugged over him. Sleep tended to come easier when they were in conditions he had been so used to before allowing himself to be just him. It was another reason why the click of the lock was enough to rouse Bucky out of his slumber, quickly sitting up and rolling his shoulders back. He merely raised a hand to wave off the concern, rubbing absently at the scar tissue near his metal arm that always seemed to ache when a storm was brewing. 

“Oh, do you now?” Bucky drawled, a smirk settling upon his features. His shoulders dropped, elbowing Steve’s side lightly. “Great? Incredible? Scary? Sometimes terrible but in like a good way?” He supplied with an amused look, “I’m happy for you, man. Really. If anyone deserves all the happiness in the world, it’s you.” The man who so readily gave it up to others, tucked his own wants and needs to the side for what was right. Even long before the serum pumped through his veins, Steve Rogers had always been a better person than Bucky thought he could ever be himself. “Oh, did you? I mean it was so quiet and peaceful here I didn’t even notice—” Bucky broke off with a laugh. 

/

He was lost in something. Natasha had been vacant like that before, distant and looking at something that was nothing and thinking about something so far in her past it should have been done and buried, and yet it was alive in her mind as if it had just happened. His mind might have been purged from the codewords that had manipulated him in the past - but there were things that nothing could heal. Not time, not actions, nothing. They were left with the blood on their hands, no matter what their friends told them. (It wasn’t you, they’d say. But it was. And those ghosts would keep following them as the years came.)

“No,” she replied without missing a beat, noting how quickly he managed to pull himself out of whatever thoughts were trying to consume him. (Grateful for it too, she knew how bad it could get.) “I’m supervising,” Natasha elaborated. “It’s a very important job where I sit and watch and judge your work. It pays very well.” Another pause before she shrugged. “If you ask nicely, I might show you how it’s done.” Or at the very least, not leave him to handle it all himself. She wasn’t entirely surprised by the state of the dishes - or the laundry. She doubted the two of them had ever had total autonomy before. “Last time I put my foot up he said we were just borrowing the car.” Natasha smiled faintly at the memory. It was back when Steve had only just found out that James was still alive. “He doesn’t have the same excuse here. And I don’t see him.” Leveling with James, she arched a brow. “Unless you’re going to tattle.”

***

There were times that Bucky found himself so lost in the past that it felt like he couldn’t drag himself out of it no matter how hard he tried. Ghosts of his past that would always follow him no matter how many amends he made, how many books he filled with scribbled names and crossed out. If anyone got that, it’d be Natalia. She understood better than anyone that as hard as they tried, ghosts were going to likely stick with them for years and years to come. He had known there was a connection with her for a very long time now. There had been moments where her name resided on the tip of his tongue, a question he ached to ask Steve, but didn’t instead. (Was she okay? Was she doing well? Where was she?) He looked at her now and felt the way his heart did a somersault, merely taking her in and a ghost of a smile on his lips. He had thought many times of the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Feelings seemed to follow the sentiment.

“Oh, does it now?” Bucky mused with a grin started to tug at his lips. “Does it pay in gratitude or something more concrete, like dinner? I’m curious, since I’m seemingly the employer here.” He deadpanned. “I apologize deeply: Natalia, could you show me just how dishes are to be done?” The teasing lilt to his voice increased as did his smile, a certain sense of ease returning to him when it came to his dynamic with her. Things were different back then, entirely different. Though, there was always a warmth despite the cool touch when his metal fingers would carefully curl over her own. She always made him feel warm. “Ah, I see.” Bucky faked being deep in thought and let out a contemplative hum. “I suppose I won’t tattle, on one condition. I get to pick what takeout we decide on for later. I’m feeling...pizza. Thoughts?” 

The Avengers had been so solidly Steve’s thing in Bucky’s mind. He saw articles, pictures, always Steve with the group and it was something he never thought he’d be a part of. Stood before the president and the senate, it was unforeseen but also almost expected when he was to be registered underneath the Avengers. Bucky hadn’t felt like a hero in a very, very long time. If he had to guess, it was so they could play babysitter. It was like most people were almost waiting for him to snap one day. The words were no longer intertwined into the threads of his mind, but ghosts would always linger when there was a past like Bucky’s following him everywhere he went.

Another stipulation of his pardon was his court mandated therapy appointments. He supposed they did him good, but there were some days he’d rather deal with anything but his therapist. Even if that meant running into Bruce Banner unexpectedly on his way there. “Dr. Banner,” Bucky greeted easily, a raised brow, but a guarded tone to his voice lingering. He remembered the conversation directed at Steve, the words thrown Sharon’s way all too well. “Out for a walk instead staying in a lab for once?”

(✉️ ➡️ cold brew): don’t count on it. last time i was there, the cable was out. for, like, the last hundred-odd years. […] (✉️ ➡️ cold brew): i do know. you won’t like the answer (✉️ ➡️ cold brew): yeah, my girlfriend set them all up on my tv. made it so i don’t have to pay for any of it (✉️ ➡️ cold brew): [UNSENT] christ. how old are you again? (✉️ ➡️ cold brew): is that one of those cooking shows, man? (✉️ ➡️ cold brew): i thought only grandmothers watched those.

closed starter for @ghxstwinter​

Yelena hadn’t asked about history. He wasn’t on the news the same way Natalia was. She couldn’t poke fun at his poses, or ask to relive his greatest saves. He’d been on the news for different things, worse things. His headlines looked like something they’d write about her, had someone had the sense to film her worst moments and broadcast them for the world to see. But those hadn’t been her moments, not all of them. They’d been an in between, with someone else pulling her marionette strings, and her trying to figure out which parts of herself she could control.

She wouldn’t want him asking about her history, not yet, and something in his eyes told her she shouldn’t ask about his.

He was important to Natalia, however, and she’d found a way to wiggle into his company. He shared an apartment with Captain America, he seemed to believe Thor was bald, and he was easy enough to get along with. “Does it do tricks?” She flipped a deck of cards on his table end over end over end. Eleven years later, and she was finally getting the opportunity to play the shit-stick little sister. “The arm. Or is it all just…arm things.”

***

She was like Natalia, a product of the Red Room and forced to have someone plucking at the strings as they dug in further and further. Bucky could understand that, the claws of HYDRA still causing him to wake up amid the night with a ragged gasp with how deeply they still felt locked into him. It was like an alligator being set on a kill, its jaws wouldn’t let up for anything. There were nights that Bucky slept on the floor rather than the plush mattress he owned. It was more familiar that way. Of both times before and during his time with HYDRA. He wasn’t sure what that said about him. If he bothered to bring it up with his therapist, then maybe she could point out that they had conditioned him to feel he didn’t deserve a proper bed, but he wouldn’t. Not yet anyway. 

Though, her company was welcome. There was an admission on the tip of his tongue, wanting to tell her, anyone, of how the memory of him seemed to be just a smidge too far out of reach for Natalia. Far enough she didn’t seem to be able to grasp it fully, but enough with the way ‘James’ left her tongue rather than Bucky like it did for anyone else. (No one called him that. Only her, and his sisters. His mother. Sometimes an excited squeal of ‘Jamie, hurry it up!’ was like an echoing gunshot in the back of his mind, twisting up in his chest as he felt the longing for his family that was long gone.) 

The question garnered pause from Bucky, and he raised an eyebrow, staring at the woman. “It comes off.” He deadpanned, “though, I suppose most prosthetics do that.” The old one didn’t, his shoulder still ached some nights when it rained with how crudely they had attached the metal arm, the scar tissue and the nerve ending damage was something he’d have to live with. “That was a surprise in itself, wasn’t told about it. A fun little surprise.” He quipped with a brief hum, “what are we playing?”

[ text ] I have an important question to ask you

@ghxstwinter

(✉️ ➡️ bucket ): if it’s about thor (✉️ ➡️ bucket ): he’s bald. (✉️ ➡️ bucket ): if it’s about anything else? (✉️ ➡️ bucket ): don’t look at me.

i had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore

They hadn’t known each other since birth, but for as long as Steve could remember, it felt like Bucky was part of his ribcage, the only thing stopping his ever enraged heart from jumping out of his chest. Sarah worried constantly before her death that Steve would get himself killed for feeling. The only person who gave his mother even the slightest scrap of peace was Bucky Barnes, and Steve would never be able to repay him for that. This was the man who had waded into war with him, into back alleys and dancehalls, who followed him through centuries despite all the horrors thrown his way. It was also the man he’d lived two years without. Two years of parties where he looked for him through the crowd because any time he’d been at one before, it had been Bucky inviting him (the only person who ever saw him, before Erskine did).

“Asgardian mead,” Steve said, words only slightly slurred as he leaned back in the chair. “Might’ve got a hole in one there, pal. Think Shar might’ve been the little bird in his ear.” Even through the vague haze that settled against the backdrop of the party, Steve knew Bucky’s expressions like the back of his hand. Steve leaned in, realising he might be drunker than he had been since 1944 when he ended up poking Bucky in the cheek, right where his smile ended. “You’re doing the thing again,” he said. “That’s my thing. The not-talking thing.”

It was a well trod argument, one they could rewrite and have a thousand times in their sleep at this point (if sleep wasn’t such a precious commodity for both of them). Steve would say Bucky didn’t need to get better from something that was never his choice, Buck would bring up something from the war, they’d sit silent on either end of the sofa and then crack a joke ten minutes later. “You feel like I used to, at things like these?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in his friend’s direction. “Like you’re …” Steve sighed, gesturing to himself vaguely, “taking up space?”

***

There was a snort that escaped Bucky, shooting his clearly drunk best friend an amused grin. “She probably thought you needed to get that stick out of your ass. She wasn’t wrong.” He quipped easily. He let out a surprised noise and smacked Steve’s hand away, laughing despite himself. “That’s your token thing, my bad. I should remember now to take your thing.” Though, this wasn’t exactly the time and place to talk he thought. Apparently Steve thought otherwise. Drunk Steven Grant Rogers wasn’t one you could argue with much, especially considering how hard it was to argue with him sober. 

Staring at Steve, Bucky was silent for a long moment and let out a long breath in response, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah, I guess so.” Another pause. “Kinda like the world keeps turning and moving without you, that it doesn’t stop for anyone even if you think the world used to rotate around you and what you did.” He remembered being invited to parties constantly, girls pulling at his hands and tugging him along for one dance after the other. His eyes would flick back to check on Steve, seeing him still seated in a booth and far more interested in the glass in his hands rather than the roar of music and the dancing. Though, Bucky understood it better now. The way the room and the people kept moving around you and the way you’d just have to shift out of the way so that you weren’t in the way of the fun. 

Gloved fingers tapped on the table, hiding the metal fingers away from view, and the subject was changed. “Doc said if I was ready I should try to look up some things from my past. Not the HYDRA past, but before then when I was...” Well, normal wasn’t the best way to put it, but it was the word that danced on the tip of his tongue. “Anyways, Becs she’s...well, she’s still alive.” The words settled in his chest, finally having breathed them out since he had intently stared at the file and the whereabouts of his baby sister. “I shouldn’t go see her though. Just...confuse her and hurt her, probably. But she’s alive. She’s had a good life so far, guess that’s all I can ask for as a big brother.” The ‘because of the hurt I caused’ remained unspoken. 

‘ what do you think i’m doing? ‘

@ghxstwinter

Natasha had her foot on the table, half hoping that Steve would come around the corner and shove her leg off and remind her this wasn’t her place. Bucky had his back to her and Natasha had already helped herself to a peanut butter sandwich. Taking a long look at Bucky when shot back at her — she had made a joke that he looked like he was lost. Looking at the dishes like he was remembering some horrific life experience that involved him cleaning up after himself. (She had commented, actually, that the place smelled and she wondered, loudly, if either of the boys had ever learned how to clean up after themselves.)

“Touchy,” she commented. “I don’t know what you’re doing, actually. Shocking, I know. I think you’re pretending to do the dishes. Which is sad, really. You’ve been standing there for how long and nothing has gotten clean?” There was comfort here, even outside of Steve that Natasha couldn’t describe. As if she had this conversation a thousand different ways with James — as if the scar was just a drop in the bucket of their friendship. Something that gently nagged at the corner of her mind that got harder to ignore the more time she spent around him. Natasha waited a beat, taking another bite of her sandwich. “Try soap,” she finally called out.

***

It was hard sometimes being around Natalia. There were ghosts of memories, whispers of touches of hands that made Bucky’s chest twist up just enough to choke him with nostalgia. Nostalgia for a time that was the only bright spot in the worst period in his life. Then it would all come crashing down as he remembered the wrongness in the heaviness of the gun in his hands, the way the shot rang through his ears and he could feel the overwhelming screaming of wrong, wrong, wrong after she stayed down. He was scrubbed clean after that, as expected. The memory getting warped and shoved down alongside flashes of a man much smaller who suddenly was over six foot, memories of afternoons on the dock. All gone in the favor of being the best weapon possible.

Blinking out of his thoughts, Bucky looked away from the dirty dishes to roll his eyes at the woman. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want to do them instead?” He quipped in return, gesturing at the sink. “With all your helpful commentary I’d think you’ve got this under control.” The familiarity settled something within Bucky’s chest, a small smile playing at his lips that he didn’t want to hide even if he could. “You know Steve’s gonna have a heart attack if he sees your feet on the table, by the way. He’s gettin’ up there in age, you shouldn’t do that to an old man.” He tsk’ed while turning on the water, reveling in how...oddly domestic this all felt. 

( 📩 → Bucky ): Bucky! Hey, man. Been working on this new case at work.  ( 📩 → Bucky ): I love what I do. Like, really love it. So sometimes I forget to come up for air.  ( 📩 → Bucky ): But here I am! Alive and thinking about DNA.  ( 📩 → Bucky ): Have you.. been sleeping?