fossilised | It's AU time

It's AU time

Building 64 down in the East end of Brooklyn was not a fashionable place to live. The apartments were small, barely more than studio size, and the rent was pretty cheap. Not many people lived there permanently, most people only came and stayed a year or two to get enough money together to move onto somewhere better. But there were two residents who had been there a while.

Steven Grant Rogers, early twenties, who earned his rent doing tattoo designs part time to fund his college course, and occasionally dipped his toe into online art commissions. He'd moved in there when his mother had died four years previously, leaving him enough money to get by, but not enough that he could stop working. And right across the hall was Natalia Romanova, an aspiring ballerina from Russia. She was tough as hell, she had worked herself right through high school, paid her own way to America when she didn't even speak the language, and kept going through tenacity alone.

Somehow a friendship had struck up between them when Steve had been the first person not to look at her like she was an idiot or disgusting for not speaking the language. He'd helped her learn, and they'd been firm friends for the last three years. Everyone else was transient, coming and going, not really making an impact. Natalia had friends and a boyfriend outside of the apartment, but she sometimes worried that Steve never seemed to do anything but work and study.

Which was probably why he would be in his apartment when a loud crash sounded on the stairs outside. Said crash had come from a box of (now very broken) plates and bowls being dropped by the man just moving in to the apartment directly above Steve's, judging by the amount of cardboard boxes that were littering the hallway. He was tall, muscled, dressed in faded jeans and a hoodie with long slightly scruffy hair, leather gloves, and deep blue eyes.

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This is very surreal to him. Back in his day, tattoos had either been for criminals or those in the naval forces, nobody else just inked their skin, it just wasn't done. To see a version of himself working in a tattoo parlour with a woman who seemed more ink than clean skin was so bizarre.

"What? No-- That's not why I'm here."

He frowned, suddenly feeling like he'd made the wrong move again. Would he really cost Steve his job if he didn't get a tattoo? Because he didn't want to do that, but it seemed unfair that Steve could be penalised for someone else's decisions.

"It's Bucky. I kinda-- I told him more about who he was in my world and he freaked out, he left the apartment."

Unsure if he should just run out and knowing that he could not, Steve felt his legs buckle and he collapsed in his seat seconds before grabbing for his phone. He tried texting Bucky, he tried not to worry because a grown man was allowed to dl what he wanted, but Bucky sometimes couldn't tell what was real and what was the war in his head. And oh God, he was so afraid.

"Tell me exactly how his reaction went. I know you're married to someone a lot like him, but your Bucky is not my Bucky-- During the alien event a few weeks ago, he came into the city to find me. And aonethibf triggered his PTSD... He Ki-- he hurt a whole lot of people. He can't be out there alone if he's stressed."

He wasn't going to bland Steve. He just blamed himself.

"You just-- you put me in a real bad spot, pal. This is my job. I have to deliver. But I have to find Bucky. I just don't know where to look."

Steve felt even worse now. He knew what it was like to worry over Bucky, to think of him out there maybe not even sure who he was, and he hadn't meant to cause that again. He wasn't shocked to hear that Bucky had killed people; saddened, but not shocked, it seemed his Bucky and this one had more in common than he liked to think.

But he never shied away when he did something wrong, so he lifted his head and fixed Steve with piercing blue eyes as he told him exactly what had happened.

"How showed me the movie about Captain America; the thing is, that's actually me. That movie was my life on screen, and Buddy-- well, that's Bucky. He freaked out about being the Winter Soldier in my world and left. He wasn't experiencing a flashback when he left, but I should have known better than to lay that on him. I'm sorry."

Since Bucky loved those Captain America movies, Steve had been forced to sit through them a few times. He didn't really like the skinny and sickly to hero bit. It hit a little close to home. But Bucky seemed to identify with the friend character (maybe because he looked a little like him) and Steve didn't mind most of the other movies that Captain America showed up in.

Steve knew that he was capable of lying. And he knew that lying always happened for a good reason. And he had some tells too. He frowned at Steve but he knew the man wasn't lying to him now.

"Should have figured that out," he said blandly. "So the rest of those movies... Like the one with Thor flying around with a hammer trying to stop his brother from bringing aliens to destroy New York... Is that what we were experiencing for a day?"

Only the aliens didn't attack. They just hovered, like projection, like the real invasion was happening elsewhere but they could see it in their sky without having to suffer for it.

Except that yeah, they did suffer for it anyway.

How many of those movies were there? It disturbed him that his whole life, that the lives of some of the people he knew who were very private, were just entertainment here for anyone to see or judge as they saw fit. It made him feel nauseous, like someone was peeping on him and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it."

The Chitauri invasion wasn't meant to happen here, and even an echo of it through a half formed rip had been enough for the city to start to destroy itself under the strain. It was a harrowing responsibility, but he knew it was on his shoulders.

"I know it's a lot to take in, trust me, I still think that I must be dreaming sometimes. But that's the truth of the matter."

Steve had questions. Like, was it possible for him to be useful to society, to save people, if only he found a scientist willing to give him some sort of medicine to Jack up his body? Or why had Steve gone to his apartment and why had he and Bucky sat through a movie together? Or best of all, what was he supposed to do now?

He turned his eyes away from more brilliant versions of his own and looked back down at the sketch paper and the pile of transfer paper he would ultimately ink the designs onto so that the inkers would just have to trace.

"If you're like those movies, I don't know if a needle will get through your skin. And I don't know if the ink would stay. But you're going to get this done. And then you're going to pose for pictures. And then you're going to take me to lunch so we can hunt down my boyfriend. Got it? So what do you want? I'm thinking a monkey in a super hero costume."

Was he this annoyingly stubborn to his friends? Yes, was the answer, but it was very weird to be faced with it from another direction. He was probably right, the serum would expel the ink and his skin would be left unblemished before a couple of days were out, so it probably wouldn't matter.

"Something small, just in case it doesn't fade. And hidden."

Was he really going to get inked? Tony would be mad as heck that he had missed this, and he'd never believe it if Steve told him later.

"Just put anything down, we need to get out of here as fast as we can."

"This is my show right now," Steve said. "I know you're used to leading but-- you're in my world, in my studio, messing with my life and my boyfriend, so we are going to do this properly." Steve was realistic. Bucky was an hour from the shop by the scant few trains finally running out of Manhattan to the outter boroughs again. Whatever had happened or was happening, it was too late. He needed to keep this job because Bucky couldn't work and he had to support them both. It was hard to make this call, to not rush right out and find Bucky, but he needed to prioritize.

Steve would understand. He led full battles. Sometimes you had to retreat and regroup.

The smaller of the two texted Natalia to go to the coffee shop and they Thai place and the McDonald's in search of Bucky before he returned to the paper at hand.

He decided to draw his space deputy monkey character, only this time holding a Captain America shield. It was exactly like one housed in the Smithsonian's Captain America exhibit, drawn by Steve Rogers in one of his USO era sketch books in the older Steve's world... And reminiscent of the trained dog doodle from the movie he had just watched.

Steve did make it small, however, and beckoned his client over to take off his shirt so he could get the design traced onto his skin. "I guess as a movie star you need to be able to hide tattoos when you're naked on screen so... I'm going to put this on your hip below your pelvis bone. And I want you to know that this is weird for me too."

Weird was an understatement, he was being drawn on by another version of himself, a little self deprecating cartoon that he hadn't thought about for years, in order to get it tattooed onto him. When he agreed to come here to take the cure for Loki's counterpart, he did not think that it would get so complicated so fast. But apparently nothing was ever easy when the Avengers were involved.

God only knew what Thor and Fenrir were up to our in the fjords of Norway.

"I don't like to deceive people, and I don't think it's fair for me to be stealing this guy's identity. What if it makes it back to him one day? And your boss is going to be telling people that she tattooed a movie actor, I don't want to make her a liar."

He'd ruined enough lives today.

But he respected the chain of command, and he respected that Steve was right. This was his world, so he'd let it be his show to a certain extent.

"Too late for that now," Steve said, finishing up the trace. He set the image with a little water and then peeled the paper off. "If the real actor makes a fuss, we have photos of you being here. It will probably turn into some look alike conspiracy like Elvis or the Lindbergh Baby and people will come here just hoping to hear more about it. Win-win for us. I'll get more business and I can take care of Buck better. Now let's hope those needles work."

Steve wasn't going to be in the chair for too long. The design was small and the girls in the shop cooed at it. And said it was so perfect. And asked for selfies.

The only person not really smiling and having a good time was the younger Steve, who stood back while Instagram and snapchat lit up, trying to text Bucky again.

The needle would thankfully go through Steve's skin. The shop got its publicity. Phase one of this little nightmare was complete. Now they just had to find Bucky.

Once Mickey let 'Chris' pay and go of course.

Steve really didn't like all these pictures and his smile was strained in a lot of them, he hated being seen as someone else and it was all he could do to smile and nod and say 'thank you ma'am' over and over again until they finished cooing and let them leave the shop. Thankfully he could already feel the stinging sensation on his pelvis healing over, so hopefully the tattoo would be gone before long.

At least this time Steve got a reply from his texts to Bucky.

FROM: Bucky
TO: Steve

ddi you kno wI am the wintr solder?

Steve had just managed to catch up to the other man when the text reached him and he paused out of the right away of foot traffic to ponder over his response. Bucky was not the winter soldier. He was not brain washed. He wasn't going to turn on him and try to take him down. It just wasn't happening.

Though he wanted to call, Steve opted to text back. He could wait until they were together to hear Bucky's voice.

Thumbs flew over the text pad in ways that the older Steve's still couldn't manage.

You aren't the winter soldier. Other Buckys in other realities might be. But you're no more than winter soldier than I'm Captain America.

Steve couldn't imagine being able to text like that. He still didn't really like texting at all, but his alternate version's fingers were flying. He was really a man of this time, wasn't he? It made them different, even if they were the same man at their core. In a way he was a bit jealous, this Steve had probably never had an identity crisis over being gay because it wasn't illegal or a sign of mental illness now.

"Is that Buck? Is he okay?"

Steve felt like a real heel. A really big heel. He should have kept his mouth shut, not caused even more problems. It took a few more minutes for a response to come in.

Kinda drnk. Wll yo ubring your eagles and tke me home? I don;t like captl america any more. You're the one I love. pls don't get big.

No way possible I'll be getting any bigger in my life time. So how about you tell me where you are and I'll be right there with the Eagles?

Steve glanced at the worried face of the other man as he waited for Bucky to get back to him. "He's all right. Drunk again." Which seemed to be a pattern with Bucky when he couldn't manage something. And that was a damned shame. Steve would have to see if there was a way to help that. Alcoholism scared him. "I think I should handle the rest of this on my own. I know you're just trying to help. I do. But he's delicate. I know you have to understand if those movies are what happened to you guys. Buck isn't that..."

Damaged? Bad off?

Steve sighed.

"I'm real sorry. We'll see you in two days.

Steve probably couldn't feel like a bigger jerk if he tried. He felt about as small as an ant, and there was nothing he could do but nod. Of course it made sense for the Steve that was actually his boyfriend to sort this out and his presence would likely make things worse, but... He ended up nodding dejectedly.

"You said again? My-- I know they're not the same, but my Bucky can get self destructive if he can't handle things too. He needs an outlet, he needs something else to focus on. Sorry, I'll-- I'll go."

And with that, he walked away as Steve's phone began to ring with Bucky's number.

"Steve?" He sounded slightly slurred. "Steve, where are you? I did something really-- I'm dumb."

"I'm in Manhattan. Two blocks from work. Are you going to tell me where you are so I can pick your dumb butt up? I'm going to send a car. I'll never get to Brooklyn in time to keep you from doing anything else dumb."

Steve didn't sound exasperated or upset. He only ever sounded understanding when it came to Bucky. About most things. Even if he was a little put out that the two of them had spent nearly an entire movie together. On the couch.

Ugh. No he trusted Bucky. And Bucky only wanted him. The stupid thing was just the drinking. That was all. Steve pressed his finger and thumb against his nose and exhaled.

If he knew that Steve was worried that he might have got it on with the other Steve, and even had some sort of movie date with him, then he would have been falling over himself to explain and put his boyfriend at ease. But he didn't know, and he was a little too drunk to be anything other than oblivious right now.

"I got drunk," he said, sounding like a kicked puppy, as if this was news in some way. "And then I went an'-- I don't think Sam will let me back in the VA again. M'sat outside on the front step."

The stupid thing might have been going down to the VA to yell at that nice therapist, the one who was caught up in all of this with them. Poor Sam.

"Don't send a car. I'll. I can wait here."

Oh God. What had Bucky said? "Buck. He'll let you back in the VA. That's his job, all right? I'm sure he's dealt with more than just one drunk get before in his life. You can call and apologize tomorrow. Just stay where you are and I'll be home in half an hour."

Well. Longer than that. He managed to miss the train as he descended down to the platform which meant that another wouldn't be along for half an hour. It was strange having to deal with such slow transit when he was used to expresses arriving every five minutes to Brooklyn.

He was wheezing a little in the cold, breath visibly puffing out in front of him, when he half jogged up to Bucky. "You're gonna be frozen," he panted. "Let's get you inside."

Bucky wasn't the only one sat out on the step when Steve arrived, Sam was sat next to him with a thick coat on. He wasn't fast enough to greet Steve before Bucky was on his feet, though, immediately wrapping him in his arms and even unbuttoning his coat to pull Steve inside there too.

"You're the one who's gonna be frozen, idiot," he said, sounding much less drunk than before. Probably thanks to the hour in the cold, and the coffee that Sam had clearly brought over. "You're getting straight into a hot bath and then you can kick my stupid ass as much as you want."

Sam waved from his position on the step, giving a lazy sort of smile.

"Nice to see you again, Steve. Bucky, remember what we talked about? It was good that you came to find me when you were in a bad place instead of looking for trouble elsewhere, and the only reason I asked you to leave is because we have a no intoxication rule in the VA. You're more than welcome to come back, and I'd really like to hear about a decision on a service dog soon."

Breath suddenly caught against Buckys wide chest, Steve half chuckled as he slipped his arms around his waist and just sank into his warmth for a few moments. He hadn't realized how cold he was until that moment. When it was becoming inappropriate, Steve headed up the steps to the door with his key out to let them all in. "Come on in. Sam. Might be a bit of a mess, but we can chat inside before Bucky over reacts and puts me in the oven instead." He coughed, a little wetly, but everyone had a cough this time of year. "I'm fine."

He did make coffee first thing, though, and tried to quick-clean the mess in the kitchen without too much luck.

He did apologize again before he brought out a tray and sat down on the couch next to Bucky. He'd worried about the other Steve later.

"We definitely thing a dog is a good idea. I don't think I have an allergy to dogs like I do to cats," he said, lumping sugar into his drink.

Bucky heard that wet cough and really didn't like the sound of it. Sure, everyone got a cough sometimes, but Steve had a terrible immune system and even a minor cough could probably turn back into pneumonia again. He'd have to step up his game and make sure that he was taking care of Steve, not getting drunk and shouting at VA therapists like a total jackass.

He went and cranked the heating up, just a for a while, and brought out his warmest hoodie to drape over Steve like a big snuggly blanket while he and Sam talked.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that, because I think Bucky would really benefit from a service animal trained to help their owner with flashbacks and PTSD symptoms. And, because it would be a service dog, he'd be able to take it into all stores and onto public transport with no issue as long as it was wearing its vest. I actually spoke to the service dog people already, hoping you'd be able to take one, so it's just a case of waiting until a suitable match is found and you're called."

He grinned and took his mug of coffee.

"Thanks, it's nice of you to invite me in. But I won't overstay my welcome."

Steve didn't want to be fussed over. He appreciated the care but he had managed alone for the last five years of his life and he didn't like to be treated like he was breakable. It didn't help that the other Steve Rogers was his opposite, healthy and strong-- It had never bothered him until today, being who he was. Steve's arrival, and his evident origin story of going from zero to hero, left this Steve a little empty.

He got up when Sam indicated that he was going to leave, the hoodie behind him in the back of the chair, and chatted with him a little more about literature he could get his hands on about care for a service animal. "Thanks again, Sam. I-- I guess we will see you Friday night?"

Steve wanted their guest gone. It was rude, he knew, but he also knew that the other Steve wanted to get back too, to a place where his life wasn't entertainment or the favorite film of his husband's doppleganger.

Sam was pretty much unflappable, and an excellent therapist for it. He promised to send over some literature on care for service animals, and also about being the loved one of someone with PTSD or self destructive tendencies. He took Steve's email to send it all over, and then agreed to see them on Friday.

Finally, Bucky and Steve were left alone in their apartment.

He slunk up behind his boyfriend and wound his arm around his waist, nose touching to the soft pale skin at Steve's throat.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, genuinely apologetic. He knew he screwed up and, no matter how understanding Steve was, that didn't give him the right to behave like a jerk and then brush over it like nothing happened. "I should've handled that better, I didn't mean to pull you from work or make you worried."

It hadn’t been an easy ride thus far. Everything about the last month had been erratic and terrifying to a scale that Steve himself had not really sat down to think about it. The things Bucky did in Manhattan mirrored that movie he liked. Nat’s boyfriend was a god. Tony’s boyfriend was a supervillain-- No wonder Steve never liked him.

He was the problem, though. He was stunted at this level when everyone else surpassed him.

Steve leaned back against Bucky and tried to center himself. “I can’t wait until this is over and everything can be normal.” He didn't want any more superheroes in his home.

"Yeah, me too."

Bucky sounded fervent as he pressed a kiss right above Steve's ear. He felt tired, and he could tell that Steve felt tired too. He didn't want this, he didn't want any of this. He wanted to rewind to just before everything went nuts in Manhattan, or even just as he met Steve in the first place, and do it all again. Better.

"We've got enough in our lives without this shit, and I don't want it. I was happy enjoying those as movies, not alternate lives. I hate that we're never gonna be able to unlearn that."

The world had changed forever that day. He just wanted it back to how it should be, was that so wrong? He wanted it desperately.

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