#johann eventually gets tired of being walked all over and gains the ability to be somewhat rude to people. good for him

[softsoup642]

In their later years:

Sol- More mentally stable, and no longer selfless to his own detriment.

Johann- Sassier, and more open.

Fabio- Less defensive, a little less neurotic, less emotionally repressed, and a lot less homophobic.

[glass-rose-paperweight]

Y’all ready for some Bucky feels?

This is what I did last night instead of going to sleep at a reasonable time.

We know that Bucky was modified to be a super soldier like Captain America. We know the super serum does more than just give you extra strength and make you extra fast and make you shit Stars and Stripes. It actively heals you. It keeps you alive and healthy, long past when you should be. We know Bucky was out, kicking around, assassinating long before Steve ever began to thaw. They’re cut from the same cloth. But Steve and Bucky aren’t the same. They weren’t changed the same way. Red Skull and Dr. Zola may be smart, but … well, they couldn’t ever get it quite right. Johann Schmidt’s face is proof of that. But Dr. Zola kept trying, even after his obvious failure, to get it /just/ right. And he thought he had succeeded. So did everyone else. There wasn’t anything, really, to show he’d missed the mark again, not anything anyone could notice. And he hadn’t missed it by much. Just a marginal amount. But, with something like the serum, even a seemingly negligible amount can have consequences. Of course, this is never noticed. For all the training done with others who had been changed, for all the missions, no one noticed anything. He was /the/ Winter Soldier. No one and nothing could stand in his way. He was unbeatable, untouchable. With that metal arm and a copious number of guns, he could even take on Captain America himself.

But then he’s in a situation where he can compare himself to Steve in a context other than fighting. When they’re on the run from the government at the end of Civil War, that is often quite literal; they have to run a lot. And Bucky starts to wonder. If he and Steve sprint full out, Steve seems to be able to run just a little bit faster. Not by much, hardly noticeable. Sometimes Bucky wonders if he’s imagining it. But then there are times when Steve seems to be able to carry just a little more, go just a little longer without getting tired. Of course, Bucky doesn’t get many chances to test this. He and Steve would both easily leave Sam in the dust if they always went full out. Both of them have to rein back their full abilities for their friend. Besides, Bucky’s been out and about way longer than Steve. If his body’s taken a little damage in the decades he’s been going, that’s hardly surprising.

But then the events … they just keep happening. Bucky and Steve and Sam are training one day, just running, nothing unusual. But Steve … he’s starting to pull away from Bucky. Bucky’s going full out, pushing himself as hard as he can, and Steve actually seems to be starting to pull ahead. But then Bucky catches back up. Maybe he just imagined it. But, wait, was Sam not as far behind as usual? He was still being left behind no problem, but not as bad as usual it seemed. Steve wasn’t able to just utterly leave Sam in the dust? With Sam at almost 50? No, no, surely Bucky is just imagining it.

But then there’s a training day with weights where Steve lifts just a little more, goes a little longer. But everyone has their off days, right?

But then Bucky doesn’t seem to be able to hold his own as well in a fight against Steve. But his heart just wasn’t in the fight, that’s all.

But then grey hairs start appearing. But, considering what Bucky’s been through, some stress hairs are more than warranted. People would be more confused if they weren’t appearing. Besides, it wasn’t really enough for anyone to notice.

But then he starts getting random aches and pains. They aren’t often. They last for only a second. And they don’t hurt that bad, not really. Bucky will sometimes just stretch wrong, and this weird place in his back will suddenly twinge. He’ll be sparring against Steve, and his shoulder will just feel /off/ for a moment, but no matter how much he moves his arm around later in his room, he can’t get the feeling to come back. He can’t ever figure out what causes stuff like that. Wear and tear on his body after so many years of being an assassin would make sense, but such things showing up /decades/ later didn’t really.

He notices the way his hair isn’t quite as shiny as it used to be, the was his skin is starting to lose that youthful glow, the way he’s starting to gain a few pounds every half a decade or decade or so, even though he’s definitely not putting on any extra muscle mass, the way he’s started to squint, just a little, to read a sign a little ways away, the way he’s started turning up the volume on the TV and the radio just a little.

Until one day, he can’t deny it. One day, he can’t hide it anymore, he can’t ignore it, he can’t pretend it isn’t true. And he starts to cry. Bawl, more like it. Sat on the edge of his bed, sobbing into his hands. And Steve, of course, passes by (not like he was constantly checking on Bucky, or anything, regardless of the day and the events that had taken place) and sees this. And Steve hurries to be beside his friend and asks what’s wrong. In between sobs, Bucky does his best to try and explain, explain what he had tried to deny for so long: he was dying. It was a slow death, greatly extended by the serum, but he would die, just like any normal person. But he wasn’t sad or scared or upset. That wasn’t why he was crying. Actually, he was happy. Relieved.

He was crying because he was happy. He felt guilty, so guilty about so many things, and this was just another one to be added to the list. He felt guilty about wanting to die one day, about leaving Steve. He felt guilty over the fact that one day, he wouldn’t have to live with his past, he wouldn’t have to keep trying to make up for it. One day, possibly in the far distant future, none of that would matter anymore.

And he feels so bad, so absolutely terrible, over the relief he feels.

And so Steve holds him, his friend, his brother (his better half, in Steve’s mind) and tells him not to feel guilty. Not for one second. Because Steve knows. Steve knows the guilt and shame and trauma that Bucky has been walking around with for all these years, all these decades. And Steve knows that, despite the therapy and the years to heal, despite learning how to smile and laugh and enjoy life and value himself as a person, Bucky would never be able to recover, not really. Scars fade, not heal, and Bucky’s scars are numerous and run deep. So Steve tells Bucky not to feel guilty. Because Steve has known for a long time that Bucky was aging. He noticed the signs, too. And he accepted long ago what they meant.

And he’s happy for Bucky. He really, truly is. But he also envies Bucky. He almost wishes he could switch places with Bucky. Almost, but not quite. He cares for his friend too much to wish that. He genuinely wants Bucky to find peace, and he knows death is the only way that will happen. But Steve is also getting tired. Tired of having so much responsibility, so many expectations put on him. It seems like the world has changed as little as he has. He’s tired of living, to a certain extent. But, above all, he’s tired of watching the people around him grow and age and die. And the one person he thought that maybe, maybe he wouldn’t have to live through that, that would literally always be there for him, he now discovered would eventually come to that end.

If Steve really looked at Bucky, really studied him, he would notice that his friend really did appear to be about a decade older. Still young and fit and capable, but definitely older, older than the young boy who had originally joined the army. But Steve? Minus the occasional facial hair, he still looks the same as he did when he first stepped out of the chamber after being injected with the serum. He still runs just as fast, lifts just as much. His body still looks like that of the young army recruit. The only thing that gives it away are his eyes, eyes that are far older than he appears to be, far older, even, than the over a century (really, nearing 2 now) that he’s technically been alive. These were eyes that, once, found a special connection with Bucky, because Bucky had the same eyes. Steve found someone who had been through similar things, who had similar thoughts behind those eyes, who looked ahead to a similar future. But now, as he sat on the bed, cradling his sobbing friend, those were the only eyes like his in the entire universe.

And he was glad for that, he really was.

But he was sad, too.