[art by silentwalrus1,
Author's Summary:
Bucky's in his undershirt and suspenders with a frayed paperback in his hand, just stood up from the armchair by the bedroom door, the other one in the tub with his hair tied up in a bun like a gal and little pearl earrings besides.
Besides, well.
The metal arm and all.
Excerpt:
“You said you were going to explain,” Bucky says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Right. Christ,” Barnes sighs, tipping his head back against the chair. Looks at the ceiling and sighs again. He needs a shave. “The short version. In the future, you're going to have a metal arm, a bad attitude, and Steve jumping on your dick every three hours just like normal. You've got a—friend, I guess, if you can call her that—who does magic or head games or who the fuck knows what, so who knows if this is even real or a hallucination or fuck knows what. She said to think about home, and—here we are.” Barnes picks his head up again to look at them, looking at Bucky but his attention clearly on Steve. It's like being cornered by a predator, Barnes tracking him even without looking at him. “It'll work itself out one way or another, anyway.”
“How far in the future?” Bucky says slowly, glancing between Barnes' metal arm and the Buck Rogers paperback in his hand.
Barnes' jaw works at that, searching Bucky up and down. There's a look between them Steve can't read, for all that he can read Bucky like a book most days, Barnes looking as dour as his father. “Far enough,” he says eventually. He turns that look on Steve, dourness traded for intensity and it shakes Steve to his stocking feet. “C'mere, gorgeous,” Barnes says, sounding nothing like his father, and reels Steve in with two fingers hooked in his trouser waist. Bucky never was very subtle about changing the subject, not that Steve minds much when he does it this way.
