Bucky Barnes

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

The blush was from the wind. That's what she'd say if anyone asked.

He accepted the tea and coffee, handing her the tea.

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

The blush was from the wind. That's what she'd say if anyone asked.

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

The blush was from the wind. That's what she'd say if anyone asked.

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

Her bag had dropped, the papers spilling across the concrete, and she prayed the laptop hadn't taken too much damage.

Luckily she hadn't fallen herself, but she knew her cheeks were pink--both with the cold and embarrassment--as her eyes met those of the gentleman who'd gathered her papers before they could blow away.

"Thank you," she said, taking them from his metal hand and not even questioning it. Plenty of people had prosthetics, and a metal one, while certainly not typical, wasn't something to stare at, even if it worked just like a regular hand would. Most prosthetics didn't do that, but perhaps it was Stark technology.

Maybe it’s time for him to be the old Bucky then?

"Yes?" Kate answered, the response coming more as a nervous question than a firm answer. She cleared her throat. "Yes," she repeated, "thank you."

She might as well be bold, if he was going to buy her tea.

He wasn’t sure if she knew who he was, and if not? He wouldn’t mind being anonymous for a bit.

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

Then she did her best to slip by James, not wanting to wake him.

Gingerly, she stepped over the threshold, carefully placing her feet. There was still some heat remaining, despite the chill of the morning.

She did her best not to let despair wash over her. She and Thomas were alive, thanks to Bucky, and he was strong and willing to help rebuild. They just needed to find the money to do it.

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

Then she did her best to slip by James, not wanting to wake him.

He stood in line at the coffee cart on 53rd and Lexington, leather gloves tucked into his jacket pocket, hands bare despite the chill. Old habits—feel the temperature, stay alert, never too comfortable. But these days, he liked to pretend he was just another guy waiting for caffeine.

A soft thud and a muffled curse snapped him out of his thoughts. Someone had dropped their bag at his feet, papers spilling across the sidewalk like autumn leaves in a gust.

Bucky bent instinctively, metal fingers brushing against the scattered mess, collecting pages with a quiet efficiency. When he looked up, he didn’t speak right away. He just held out the papers—eyes catching on theirs for a moment too long. Not threatening. Not intense. Just… curious.

Something about the moment felt real. Grounding. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a ghost walking through a borrowed life.

Her bag had dropped, the papers spilling across the concrete, and she prayed the laptop hadn't taken too much damage.

Luckily she hadn't fallen herself, but she knew her cheeks were pink--both with the cold and embarrassment--as her eyes met those of the gentleman who'd gathered her papers before they could blow away.

"Thank you," she said, taking them from his metal hand and not even questioning it. Plenty of people had prosthetics, and a metal one, while certainly not typical, wasn't something to stare at, even if it worked just like a regular hand would. Most prosthetics didn't do that, but perhaps it was Stark technology.

Maybe it’s time for him to be the old Bucky then?

@muses-of-variance

"I got it momma," Thomas told his mother, running ahead of her to get the car door open. He was only six but insistent on helping her whenever he could. He saw the way she struggled trying to complete all the chores.

And to Kate's dismay he'd seen her break down over her inability to keep the farm going the way she'd used to.

Neighbors had helped when she'd been pregnant and her husband had died unexpectedly, but now it was just her and Thomas and the Help Wanted sign.

Kate lifted the bag of feed into the truck.

Then she did her best to slip by James, not wanting to wake him.

Court mandated therapy apparently meant group therapy. And Bucky originally figured he’d take it if only to avoid talking. But then they kept pressuring him. And others kept telling him that he wouldn’t get better or anything if he didn’t tell the truth and share his experiences.

Which brings him to today. They were in a circle and other members were looking at him strangely. Of course, a normal person would find it strange when he said he’s in therapy because he’s been an unwilling assassin for years.

“My name is James and I’ve been credited as committing over two dozen murders as an unwilling assassin who has endured many years of torture to keep me compliant.”

Then another member chuckled nervously, muttering a yeah right and the general consensus turns to him lying to avoid sharing.

Fucking typical.

He gave him a dark look, his eyes serious. The leader chuckled nervously.

“Now no threats, okay? Keep it civil.”

"Richard, he's right. This is a group for healing, and your comments are not constructive," the leader said, likely only spurred into action by James's words.

Nobody would protect her if he found her, and she didn't trust any of these people not to go running to Robert in the hopes of getting money.

Except James.

Richard rolled his eyes, clearly still not believing that Bucky had been an assassin.

Court mandated therapy apparently meant group therapy. And Bucky originally figured he’d take it if only to avoid talking. But then they kept pressuring him. And others kept telling him that he wouldn’t get better or anything if he didn’t tell the truth and share his experiences.

Which brings him to today. They were in a circle and other members were looking at him strangely. Of course, a normal person would find it strange when he said he’s in therapy because he’s been an unwilling assassin for years.

“My name is James and I’ve been credited as committing over two dozen murders as an unwilling assassin who has endured many years of torture to keep me compliant.”

Then another member chuckled nervously, muttering a yeah right and the general consensus turns to him lying to avoid sharing.

Fucking typical.

He gave him a dark look, his eyes serious. The leader chuckled nervously.

“Now no threats, okay? Keep it civil.”

"Richard, he's right. This is a group for healing, and your comments are not constructive," the leader said, likely only spurred into action by James's words.