#scrawny

📀 everyone loves wallows

Bucky Barnes was nineteen years old, but he was convinced he would have a full head of white hair before he hit twenty-five.

And it was entirely Steve Rogers’ fault.

Steve, who weighed about as much as a wet paper bag.

Steve, who had the lung capacity of a Victorian orphan.

Steve, who was actively trying to die every single day of his life.

Bucky had one job. One.

Keep Steve alive.

And it was a full-time goddamn job.

—

INCIDENT #1: THE ALLEYWAY MASSACRE (OF Bucky’s Sanity)

Bucky was minding his business, walking down the street, when he heard it.

That dreaded voice.

“I can do this all day!”

Bucky froze. Closed his eyes. Took a deep, deep breath.

Then turned the corner to see exactly what he feared:

Steve. In an alley. Fighting a guy twice his size.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Steve.”

Steve turned, panting. “Hey, Buck.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “Again?”

The guy Steve was fighting—who looked mildly annoyed rather than actually threatened—grunted. “Is this your friend?”

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

“Yes,” Steve said at the same time.

Bucky groaned. “Alright, buddy, I got this one. Scram.”

The guy shrugged and left, clearly realizing he had better things to do than fight the human equivalent of a dandelion in a windstorm.

Steve huffed. “I had that under control.”

“Yeah?” Bucky shot back. “You were on the ground, pal.”

Steve scowled. “I almost won.”

Bucky pointed at Steve’s face. “You have no cartilage left in that nose, Steve.”

Steve wiped some blood off his lip. “It builds character.”

“You don’t need more character, you need a doctor.”

Steve just grinned. “But I got spirit.”

Bucky threw his hands up. “I need a drink.”

—

INCIDENT #2: THE MILITARY APPLICATION THAT GAVE BUCKY AN ANEURYSM

Bucky was relaxing. For once.

And then Steve walked in, looking suspiciously smug.

Bucky squinted. “Why do you look like that?”

Steve held up a piece of paper. “I enlisted.”

Bucky dropped his fork. “You what.”

Steve grinned. “I enlisted.”

Bucky stared at him. “You did not.”

“I did.”

Bucky snatched the paper from him. Scanned it. Rubbed his temples.

“Steve,” he started, struggling to stay calm, “you have asthma.”

“Yeah.”

“And rickets.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a laundry list of other things that make you physically incapable of joining the army.”

Steve shrugged. “They haven’t said no yet.”

Bucky groaned. “Steve. Buddy. Pal. They are going to say no.”

“You never know.”

“I do know.”

Steve just smiled. “I got spirit, Buck.”

Bucky screamed internally.

—

INCIDENT #3: THE FINAL STRAW

Bucky had accepted many things in life.

That Steve was determined to fight guys who looked like professional boxers.

That Steve would absolutely keep trying to enlist even though he was, medically speaking, held together by sheer stubbornness and spite.

That Bucky was never going to get a single moment of peace.

But what he didn’t expect—what he refused to accept—was walking into Steve’s apartment at six in the goddamn morning and seeing his best friend standing on top of a rickety-ass chair, trying to hang a punching bag from the ceiling.

Bucky froze.

Steve turned. “Oh, hey Buck—”

And the chair wobbled.

Bucky lunged. “NO—”

But it was too late.

The chair gave out.

Steve plummeted like a sack of potatoes.

Bucky barely caught him before he hit the floor.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then Bucky slowly set Steve down, stood up, and took a deep, calming breath.

Steve, flat on his back, blinked up at him. “That could’ve gone better.”

Bucky clenched his fists. “I swear to God, Steve—”

“You know, if I was in the army, I’d probably have training for stuff like—”

Bucky screamed into his hands.

Steve patted his knee. “There, there, grandpa.”

And Bucky, fully grayed by age nineteen, muttered:

“I need so many drinks.”

—

INCIDENT #4: THE DOUBLE DATE FROM HELL

Bucky had made a critical mistake.

That mistake was thinking that maybe—just maybe—Steve could handle a normal night out without starting some kind of incident.

He was so wrong.

Because now, here they were, sitting at a booth in a diner, on what was supposed to be a double date.

Bucky had set it all up: two nice girls, a cozy booth, food on the way—a perfect setup.

And then Steve, bless his little disaster heart, decided to start an argument.

With a waiter.

About government corruption.

“I’m just saying,” Steve was in the middle of passionately debating, “if people don’t push back, nothing changes.”

The poor waiter, who just wanted to refill their drinks, blinked. “Uh—”

Steve turned to Bucky’s date. “You get it, right?”

Bucky physically cringed.

His date, looking deeply uncomfortable, cleared her throat. “I, uh, don’t really keep up with—”

Steve pointed at her. “And that’s the problem!”

Bucky threw his head back in agony.

The other girl—Steve’s date, who looked like she was seconds away from crawling out the window—let out an awkward laugh. “Um. So. Who’s up for dessert?”

Bucky, desperate to salvage this date, quickly raised his hand. “Me! I love dessert! Let’s talk about dessert!”

Steve, meanwhile, leaned forward. “You ever think about how—”

“NO.” Bucky slammed a hand over Steve’s mouth. “WE DON’T THINK ABOUT ANYTHING.”

The waiter, fully done, just set down their food and walked away.

Steve peeled Bucky’s hand off his face. “You’re being dramatic.”

Bucky turned to his date, hoping to fix whatever just happened, only to find that both girls were already standing up.

“We’re gonna go,” one of them said.

Bucky’s heart shattered. “No, wait, I—”

“Nice meeting you,” the other added.

Then, like ghosts, they vanished out the door.

Bucky slowly turned back to Steve.

Who was casually eating a fry.

“You ruined everything,” Bucky muttered.

Steve shrugged. “Eh. They weren’t the one, anyway.”

Bucky stared at him. “You have to stop talking.”

Steve popped another fry into his mouth. “I got spirit, Buck.”

Bucky groaned into his hands.

—

INCIDENT #5: THE FINAL TRANSFORMATION

Bucky was tired.

That was nothing new.

Steve had been running him into the ground for years.

So when Steve finally vanished—off to some government experiment or something—Bucky had never felt such peace.

For one day.

And then Steve came back.

And Bucky… lost his entire goddamn mind.

Because the Steve that left? Five-foot-nothing, could be knocked over by a strong breeze, constantly wheezing like an asthmatic chihuahua.

The Steve that returned?

A walking Greek statue.

Bucky had been chilling, just hanging out at the base, when suddenly—

“Hey, Buck.”

And there he was.

Steve.

But not Steve.

Because this man was tall.

This man had biceps.

This man had shoulders that could break a doorframe.

Bucky blinked. “The hell is this?”

Steve shifted, a little awkward. “Uh… they, uh, did the procedure. Worked pretty well.”

Bucky squinted. “You’re taller than me.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Bucky walked up to him. Poked him. “Where’s the wheezing?”

Steve sighed. “Gone.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the asthma?”

“Also gone.”

Bucky grabbed his arm and shook it aggressively. “What the hell are you made of now?”

Steve sighed again. “Mostly muscle.”

Bucky stepped back, took a deep breath, and ran a hand down his face.

Then he looked back up at Steve and muttered:

“I swear to God, if you’re taller than me in every single one of our photos now, I will commit a crime.”

Steve grinned. “You sound jealous.”

Bucky pointed at him. “Listen here, you absolute brick house—”

And then a bunch of military officers walked in, and Bucky had to pretend he wasn’t in the middle of having a crisis.

But deep down, deep, deep down, he knew:

Steve was never going to let this go.

Karabash Désange | new OC

Karabash, also called the Rat Whisperer, is a scrawny necromancer with a hatred for upper class society. Other people often find him rude or intimidating due to his direct bluntness and his permanently annoyed look. He thinks sleep or healthy food is overrated and is only invested in his studies and his craft.