HEWWO?

           “Well, if you’re gonna keep being weird about the whole kiss thing you might as well leave now, because I don’t have time for that kind of stuff in the middle of my revenge plan. Do you even know what I’m getting revenge about, or are you just here because you think I’m gonna try and kiss you again?”

            “I’m gonna be real with you, GOB, there was so much wrong with that sentence that I feel like if I tried to correct all of your mistakes we’d be here all week.” How was it possible that GOB and Maeby could both mix up ‘across’ and ‘a cross’? Not to mention at least when Lindsay played up that identical twins stuff it was kind of endearing. Coming out of GOB’s mouth it was just… odd. “But I’ll level with you. Maybe it was put there by… magic.”

            “You’re the only one around here who would even consider wearing pastry on your face. Well, you and your husband, who would probably consider it a fashion statement, right along with those horrendous glasses he insists on wearing. Don’t act high and mighty either, or it might make your nose fall off. That sometimes tends to happen with bad nose jobs, and God knows we didn’t exactly take much precaution when we did yours. It was more of an urgent thing, you understand.”

     “Listen, I never said you had to do this. You don’t have to do this. I could accomplish this whole task by myself, and then where would that leave you? Boohooing off to the side while I bask in my glorious revenge plot. How sad would that be? How sad would you be if that happened? Think of it this way: I’m giving you the opportunity to share the glory with me when this plan is executed and I get my revenge. Don’t you want that, favorite cousin?”

        “Oh, I see how it is. Summer starts and you’re already wearing sleeveless shirts– dear, don’t you realize that cap sleeves emphasize the upper arm flab? And don’t start going on about heatstroke, you should have thought of that before you downed that double-size burrito the other evening. (Don’t think I didn’t see that, even though I know you tried to hide it.)”

But that had only solidified his resolve. He couldn’t burden his friends any more with this quest - he couldn’t bear to see his friends’ kindness corrupted by the greed and hunger for power this ring seemed to create simply by proximity. It was he that was tasked with the destruction of the Ring - and he would bear whatever injuries alone. He knew the Ring would drive him mad - perhaps it already was - but how could he live with himself knowing that it had robbed his friends, his family, of their pride, their health, their lives?

Not to mention the journey into Mordor - it was not called the Land of Shadows without reason. Frodo knew that he would likely not return from that cursed land, and while his life would surely be grieved, grief was only temporary. His friends would grieve him but they would survive - and that is what mattered. Aragorn and Arwen could go on to be royalty, Legolas and Gimli could go back to their beloved lands, Merry and Pippin could return to their families (Mrs. Took was probably going crazy back in the Shire), and Sam - well, he’d be fine. He could have gone back to the Shire too, back to his Gardens. 

No, he could not lead them into Mordor. He could not lead them to their deaths.

But Sam was apparently content to run to his death right then and there. No waiting to die at the hands of Orcs or whatever evil awaited in Mordor, no sirree, he was going to go right there in the river. He had called Frodo’s name from the shore and run out into the water, despite Frodo’s panicked exclamations of “Sam!” and  “Stop!!!” and “You can’t swim, Sam!” and had promptly sunk as soon as the riverbed went out from under him. They were lucky Frodo wasn’t out farther, because with only a few paddles backward, he was able to plunge his arms into the water and pull him up (nearly capsizing the boat in the process). 

“Sam, why would you do that!” he said, shoving him (as strong a shove as a canoe would allow - which, by the way, was not a very strong shove). “You could have died! You sink like a rock!”

“Well I mean...I guess...I don’t know. He likes to say we have like, shared life experience or whatever. I think that’s kind of a cop-out though, because who else rode out the Cold War frozen solid? Not many people, I don’t think. Unless there’s something like Farmer’s Only but for people like us. Young Passing Geezer’s Only.

“I’m not kicking you out, Bucky.” Steve rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door frame. Bucky had probably stopped by the Whole Foods and freaked the employees out with Milkorno. Old habits, as Steve well knew, died hard, and stocking up on calories because you didn’t know when you’d be having your next well-rounded meal was one that he still found hard to break sometimes.

Still, he wasn’t here to talk about organic milk and corn combos. It was strange to think he was going to be having this conversation with anyone, much less his best friend. Despite having been re-adjusted to society, Bucky still sort of dressed like he was on the run from the law. As far as Steve knew, he had no plans on cutting his hair anytime soon. 

Steve also knew Bucky didn’t sleep very well. And it had nothing to do with the fact that he was sleeping on a pull-out couch (which Steve apologized profusely for every night, and every night offered to trade beds with him, knowing Bucky would be more comfortable in the master bedroom. But Bucky would never bite. And Steve would have to get used to that).

“It’s something Natasha said the other day. It got me thinking, I guess, about us.”

“You thinking? Shit, whatever it is, must be good.” He turned around, imitating Steve’s ridiculous posture. It never ceased to amaze him how different he looked. It amazed him every day back in Germany (which, for reference, mentally, is approximately a week before he got his sheep in Wakanda), and it amazed him every day now. 

But even still, he did everything the same. This was the exact pose he’d strike way back when, when he was little as could be, when he was about to say something like, “You know, Buck...” and then take 3 hours to get to the actual point. He’d say, “You know, Buck...” and then he’d chew him out for shutting the windows at night even though it was summer and if he kept at it, they’d be living in a boiler room, and Bucky would just shrug, because he knew what Steve would say if he brought up drafts and pneumonia and hospitals. 

(He also did this every night about the pull out couch. He’d come out of his room at approximately 12:35am every night, cross his arms, and lean on the doorframe, and ask, “You want to switch tonight? You might sleep better in a real bed.” And then every night at approximately 12:36am, Bucky would just shrug, because they both knew that he wouldn’t sleep well anywhere except a cryo-freezer.)

“Is that like those two women who came up to you in the street when we were dragging your brother around to find your father? I must say, you do have quite the reputation with women who love women. Is it difficult to be a dykon?”

“Consorts? As in… more than one consort? I didn’t know you had it in you, you old rascal! I never really pegged you for a master of decadence. More of a dedicated amateur, at least from your behavior the last time you dropped by. Lotta babes on Asgard, huh? I bet the bears just throw themselves at you, Lokes.”

Natasha had jokingly asked “When’s the wedding?” during a back-and-forth earlier that week, and Steve hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. It hadn’t occurred to him until then that two men in their thirties living together was anything to comment on. He couldn’t say if it was particularly unusual seeing as he and Bucky had probably grown up in the closest thing to a gay-friendly neighborhood that the early 1940s had to offer, but the idea was a bit off-putting.

When’s the wedding?, accompanied by one of her signature smirks. Sometimes Natasha just seemed to know things, the way she’d known that there was something between Captain Marvel and the Invisible Woman that time they’d met the Fantastic Four, and within three months news of the Richards couple’s divorce and the two heroes’ alleged affair had hit the tabloids. 

Maybe it pertained to listen to Natasha on these sorts of matters.

“Bucky? You mind if we talk for a minute?”

Bucky had moved in with Steve after living as a shepherd in the Wakandan countryside for about a year and a half. There, he had cared for a flock of sheep and focused on “finding himself.” That’s what everyone called it, which sort of made him sick, to be honest. He’d never lost himself, he’d been himself this whole time. Had he always been Bucky? Not really, but he had never stopped inhabiting this body, nor had he been in a different place all those times he (allegedly) had been sent off to (allegedly) off somebody. And besides, it wasn’t like that wasn’t the exact thing he did back in the forties. The simple fact was that those were the ones he chose to do. 

Well, the point here is, sheep apparently helped him “find himself” enough that he came back to the US and was now living in Brooklyn once again. With Steve, once again.

And it was nice. Just like old times, but with less yellow fever. He wasn’t sure really how it happened. Maybe it was one of those “stayed there a week, but never left” things. But probably not because there was never really any doubt that this was his home too. Just like old times - Sarah had died and then Steve was just there. Maybe it was just the way the world worked. Bees buzz, fish swim, and Steve and Bucky remain inseparable.

He looked up from the groceries he was putting away (he was a regular at the farmer’s market. They knew him as Randy, the greasy faggot from down the street who mixed milk with his corn. What they didn’t know is that it was called Milkorno, and that it was a superfood and that they would know that if they were alive in the Great Depression.)