Chapter Text
“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
JRR Tolkien – The Fellowship of the Ring
New York City, 15th November 2018
Bucky’s alarm clock goes off with a noise like a klaxon, only a klaxon that’s about five times louder and more obnoxious than any regular klaxon has a right to be. As though the devil has called him personally on a direct line from Hell to tell him it’s only Thursday, and he’s still got two whole days of work, and one potentially career defining—or breaking—marketing pitch to go before he can clock off for the weekend.
The devil being, in this case, Alexander Pierce, probably.
Bucky groans, momentarily tossing up whether to pull the covers back over his head and pretend he’s sick again. It might work. Except that he’s got dinner with Brock tonight, and Brock will out him for sure, the brown-nosing bastard. Never mind where his priorities should lie.
It’s just one of the many things they disagree on. But as Bucky’s mom so eloquently puts it, Brock’s the one with the job that’s going places, and Bucky is unreasonable for expecting his on-again off-again boyfriend to cover for him just because he can’t face dealing with his tyrant of a boss anymore in the week before Thanksgiving break.
He runs a hand over his face, groaning again before finally summoning the energy to turn the alarm off and drag himself out of bed. It should be illegal to have to get up before sunrise. Or to work after sunset. Sure, maybe that reduces the usable working day during the middle of a New York winter to like, nine hours, at best, but Bucky thinks that’s pretty reasonable, all things considered.
A quick search of his wardrobe produces a clean shirt—and lets him slam the door loudly a couple of times to spite the noisy couple next door who kept him awake again last night. Then it’s onto the bathroom. Shave, cleanse, moisturise, and work wax through his soft curls to give them volume and some semblance of control.
Never mind everything else that’s going on in Bucky’s life, it makes him happy to know he at least looks like he’s got it together. About as together as a neatly positioned set of deck chairs on the Titanic maybe, but that’s beside the point.
After all, when you’re just a few months shy of thirty, having last week found your first grey hair, compromises have to be made.
Within a few minutes he’s standing by the front door of his apartment, debating the ever-present dilemma posed by New York’s changeable seasonal weather. Boots or shoes? He’s almost certain he remembers seeing something about snow in the forecast for today, but everyone knows that never actually happens in November.
Bucky checks his phone and rolls his eyes. One inch. Shoes it is.
Buttoning a fashionable peacoat over his suit and looping a cashmere scarf around his neck, he grabs his gym bag and heads out the door. Outside it’s frigid but clear. Cold enough to coat the city’s parks and gardens in a thin layer of glittering frost.
Yeah right, he thinks again—glancing up at the few stars he can see through the city’s bright glow—snow.
A short subway ride takes him to the gym a block away from work. It’s not that Bucky particularly likes working out, although it does help him wake up in the mornings. More that it’s force of habit, born from a paranoid belief that Brock will somehow know if he doesn’t. Like he's got a direct link to the building’s security cameras and an inclination to monitor Bucky’s every move. Which to be honest, Bucky wouldn’t put past him.
But at least it’s mind-numbing to run on the treadmill for the next hour, finishing just as the sun rises. A quick shower, then he’s ready to go. The streets are already busy by then, the usual bustle of a city of eight million people going about another business day. Bucky joins them. It’s a familiar game with well-known rules. Head down, earphones in, avoid eye contact at all costs. Ignore the panhandlers and the guy playing bugle in his car instead of just using the horn like every other semi-sane driver, and walk out in front of them all anyway, because that’s your God-given right as a pedestrian in New York.
He ducks into a Starbucks, uplifting his pre-ordered pumpkin spice latte and continuing along the sidewalk downtown, sticking to the subway grates where possible to make the most of the precious warmth rising from them.
As he walks he checks his messages. There’s one from Becca wishing him luck with his presentation today, and warning him their mom is out for his blood for not committing to her Thanksgiving plans yet. There’s one from his mom herself alluding to as much, and also reminding him to pick up the new suit she decided he had to have tailored for the occasion. As if Bucky needed more to do this week.
He responds to both, thanking Becca and assuring his mom he won’t forget. Then he pulls up the group chat he shares with Nat and Clint. There’s a near avalanche of new messages, which obviously means some serious shit has gone down overnight.
Clint: Bucky help! We’re having an argument and we need you to settle it.
Nat: Don’t listen to him, there’s no argument. I’ve already won.
Clint: There is, and it’s that Nat wants to go to Vietnam next, but I think Australia would be better.
Nat: Australia has poisonous spiders.
Clint: You like spiders.
Nat: You don’t.
Clint: But… consider this: Koalas. Cute huggable kangaroos. Wombats? Think of the photo opportunities!
Bucky snorts. It’s been years since college, but some things never change. Except perhaps, the way his best friends can take a passion for travel and turn it into an ever-expanding social media presence that now pays for their jet-setting lifestyle. If Clint and Nat aren’t already on a trip, they’re almost certainly planning their next one. It’s the kind of freedom Bucky can only dream of. The sort that makes his boring, predictable office job seem all that much more disappointing in comparison. Not exactly what he had in mind after five years of expensive education at Columbia. But at least it pays the bills he supposes.
Bucky: I don’t think you’re supposed to hug kangaroos Clint. They can get quite aggressive. Haven’t you seen that viral video?
Nat: TOLD YOU! Oh and good luck for today Bucky.
Clint: Video? What video? And good luck! Haven’t you ditched those assholes yet? When you’re ready to, let us know. We’ll hire you. And we know a bunch of other people who would too.
Bucky smiles. Times might change, but Clint and Nat always have his back.
Bucky: The one where the kangaroo has the man’s dog in a headlock? And thanks, but I’ve got this. I think. Talk later.
Walking off the street and into an ostentatious marble-clad atrium, Bucky takes the elevator up to the head offices of Hydra Marketing. At his desk he reviews his notes and the presentation he’ll be giving later on. It’s simple really—just a marketing pitch aimed at a younger demographic that, if successful, should turn around a struggling sustainable design company. Exactly the kind of project Bucky enjoys, and the same area of interest that led him into creating Clint and Nat’s highly successful social media brand. The same reason they keep trying to entice him out of the rat race and into freelancing, not that his family would ever let him live that kind of wild, non-traditional choice down.
But, if today works, it might just be his ticket into a better firm, with actual job prospects.
As the weather outside clouds over, Bucky agonises over every detail of the boardroom. He sets out a jug of water, a plate of doughnuts, pens, notepads, and checks over the sound and projection equipment. Then, checks it again just to calm his nerves. Finally, at midday, just as heavy low-hanging clouds roll over the city, soft around the edges in a way that suggests the meteorologists might have got the forecast very, very wrong, Bucky’s ready.
You’ve got this, he tells himself.
Half an hour later, when his clients still haven’t arrived, he begins to worry. It’s at that exact moment that Pierce’s smarmy-faced right-hand man Rollins saunters into the room, grinning like he’s just heard the punch line to a particularly nasty joke. It does absolutely nothing to lessen the usual effect Rollins has on Bucky, which is mostly that Bucky wants to punch him in his extremely aggravating face.
But he supposes walking in on your on-again off-again boyfriend making out with a guy in the filing room at the office Christmas party will have that effect on a person. According to Brock it only happened once, during one of his and Bucky’s breaks, although that does sound exactly like the type of shit Brock might say to avoid yet another argument between them.
In any case, Bucky thinks he exercises an admirable amount of self-control in not throwing any of the conveniently to hand stationery directly in Rollins’ stupid face.
“Pierce wants to see you in his office Barnes,” Rollins announces.
He follows it up with a snicker and Bucky’s stomach sinks. If Rollins is this happy, whatever Pierce wants can’t be good.
“Any idea what it’s about?” he asks, hoping it’s just the usual crap. Work not being up to Pierce’s impossible standards, or some imaginary deadline or another that Bucky’s missed. Probably because Pierce thinks he’s psychic and didn’t bother to tell him about it. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say the man had it in for him.
Rollins shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “Better ask him.”
Literally the last thing Bucky wants is to do as he’s instructed. But it never pays to keep Pierce waiting. Or to question his instructions.
Rising with a sigh, Bucky pauses next to Rollins. “All right. But call me if my clients arrive, okay?”
A flicker of amusement crosses Rollin’s face. “Sure,” he says, in a way that makes Bucky sure the only thing he absolutely isn’t going to do is exactly what Bucky just asked him to do. He really hopes whatever Pierce wants is quick.
Down the corridor he drags his feet like someone’s slipped lead into his shoes. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s wondered if Pierce’s office might be the site of an actual black hole, or maybe Shelob’s lair, because it’s somewhere his co-workers seem to get sucked into and never return. At least, not the same way they were before anyway.
He knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Pierce calls.
When Bucky enters, Pierce is sitting primly behind an overly ornate mahogany desk, silhouetted by a murky view of uptown Manhattan. He cuts exactly the kind of uncompromising traditional authority figure that Bucky’s parents have always admired, and wished their son would too.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Barnes,” Pierce says, staring down his nose at Bucky in a way that couldn’t be good even if he was trying to make it look that way, which he clearly isn’t. “Didn’t you get the email I sent you?”
Bucky frowns. “What email? And can we talk about it later? I have clients…”
Clicking his tongue in frustration, Pierce shakes his head. “They’ve been reassigned.”
Outside the window, big fat flakes of snow are now drifting by, which is just fucking fantastic. About as fantastic as Pierce changing the plans on Bucky last-minute, after he’s already done all the work. Clearly, the world has it in for him today.
He feels his fists tighten. “But… I was here until nine last night completing the pitch! I have the whole presentation ready to go. You can’t just give it away like that…”
“I think you’ll find I can,” Pierce says icily, eyes narrowing. “Rumlow will be taking over your clients from now on. I presume you trust his skills? If you’d bothered to read your emails this morning, you’d know we’ve been forced to undertake some unfortunate… restructuring. As a result, a position for someone of your expertise no longer exists.”
Bucky stares at him, open-mouthed. “What?” he manages eventually, feeling like his delicate hold on any semblance of control is slipping through his fingers.
Pierce sighs as though he’s dealing with an imbecile. A vein on one of his temples clearly stands out. “You’re being made redundant Barnes. Go and clear your desk.”
Not even so much as an apology.
No, ‘Sorry we’re making you redundant the week before Thanksgiving, Bucky. The time of year when no one’s looking to hire, and you’re guaranteed not to get another job this side of February.’
Which is just fucking great.
Bucky’s parents are going to be so proud. It’s going to be Rebecca this and Rebecca that, again this Christmas. Our daughter the lawyer. Did we tell you how she graduated with honours? The golden child of the family.
As much as Bucky loves his sister, he doesn’t know if he can handle another year of that.
Pierce waits expectantly and Bucky finds his gaze drawn to the photo on his desk. His family presumably—wife, kids and dog, all posed to look just as stiff and unyielding as he is. Bucky wonders if Pierce is this much of an asshole at home. And whether all assholes are naturally inclined to hire other assholes, in which case, none of this is really Bucky’s fault.
“Do I get any say in the matter?” he asks, already guessing what the answer’s going to be.
Pierce shakes his head like he’s annoyed at how long this is taking. “The decision has already been made. Clear your desk and hand in your key-card at reception.”
Bucky purses his lips, processing this change in his circumstances. Emotion rises in his chest, bitter and raw. Despite his best efforts to tamp it down, a wry laugh makes it out anyway.
He supposes he could use this Friday off. And every Friday after that…
“Something you find amusing about this Barnes?” Pierce asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
Bucky waves a flippant hand at him, already moving to leave. He wonders if this is how it feels to be hysterical. “No, just…” He pauses, momentarily battling with his better judgement, before it loses out to his infamous temper, which has never exactly been insignificant. “Happy fucking holidays, sir.”
He spits the words at Pierce like he wishes they would skewer him, casting a well-deserved one-finger salute over his shoulder as he strides spitefully from the office.
It doesn’t take long before security catches up with him.
What happens next goes pretty much as you’d expect.
Which is to say, it’s how James Buchanan Barnes—only son of George Barnes, renowned lawyer to some of the biggest names on Wall Street, and Winnifred Barnes, society housewife and long-time charity lunch host—finds himself escorted from the building, sans the contents of his desk, in the week before Thanksgiving.
Bucky tells himself he didn’t want the job anyway.
Not even the fancy embossed business cards with his name on them. Or the expensive coffee machine in the break room that grinds the beans to just the right fineness. Or the way his employment made his parents view him as less of a let-down.
Fuck.
It’s snowing properly outside now, collecting in great slushy drifts at the edges of the sidewalk, sticking to the windward side of street signs, lamp posts, and awnings. Trucks from the city’s sanitation department grind past, making a valiant attempt to plough the roads and spread salt. They’re fighting a losing battle against traffic and weather though. Already the roads are gridlocked, the streets echoing with the horns of irate drivers who know they’re not getting home before dark. Or later, if they’re unfortunate enough to live in the wider tri-state area.
You get what you deserve for living in Jersey though, Bucky thinks.
He sighs, trying to follow the footprints of the people ahead of him, where the snow is already compressed and semi-melted. Already he can feel the cold and wet soaking through his shoes.
Proper snow. In New York. In November. That’s not meant to happen until late December, at least. Probably more like January, really.
He pulls the collar of his coat up around his neck, glaring at the tourists blocking the sidewalk as they stop to take selfies. Of course they would think New York looks picturesque when it snows. But only because they have nowhere to be, and don’t understand the hell that is going to be Bucky’s commute in this weather. All because his mother is dissatisfied with presenting anything less than the perfect image to their friends and family for the holidays.
Well… has Bucky ever got a curveball for her this year.
His phone vibrates and he opens the message.
Brock: Are we still on for tonight?
For a fleeting second, Bucky experiences a rush of irritation before realising there’s obviously no way Brock can know yet.
Bucky: I’m not sure. I don’t have a job anymore, so…
Brock: Ah.
Brock: Pierce told you then.
Whatever irritation Bucky felt before, triples.
Bucky: You knew?
Brock: It may have been discussed at the monthly management meeting last week. But you know I can’t just go sharing that information with you sweetie. It’s confidential. We’ve talked about this before.
It takes every ounce of self-control Bucky has not to type back, ‘don’t fucking sweetie me’. But the alternative doesn’t come out much better.
Bucky: So what you’re saying is… you knew, but you didn’t bother to give me a heads up, because you’re too fucking worried about your own career? Gee, thanks. Glad to know you care.
Brock: Don’t make this all about you again.
Bucky: Uh, in case you didn’t notice, it is all about me. As far as I know, you still have a job.
Bucky can almost picture the way Brock’s jaw will be tightening right now. The grind of his teeth, and the slow breath he’ll be taking to get himself under control before he responds. It gives him a vicious sense of satisfaction. Not that he enjoys deliberately aggravating his boyfriend or anything. But—maybe he does a little bit. Because no matter what Bucky might admit, he’s never really gotten over that Christmas party. And he’s pretty sure Brock knows it too.
Brock: Look, can you stop being a drama queen for long enough to talk about this? At dinner? I’ve got good news.
Bucky clenches his teeth, resisting the urge to throw his phone into the nearest snow drift, jump in after it, crush it to tiny pieces and emigrate to Timbuktu. If Brock ever gets his head far enough out of his ass to think of anyone but himself, it will be one of life’s miracles. The Catholic Church will probably come calling, asking who they should canonize for the privilege. So it’s not surprising Bucky has to put his phone in his pocket for a full minute and take several deep, calming breaths before he can face answering.
Bucky: Sure.
Brock doesn’t reply of course, because now he’s got what he wants. God forbid he might actually worry about his boyfriend of three years, who’s just lost his job.
It was never like this when they first started dating. Back then, Brock actually had a sense of humour, or at least cared enough to pretend he did. He was everything Bucky had been looking for in a guy—smart, attractive, and willing to shoulder the kind of responsibility Bucky preferred not to worry about. To make decisions for both of them.
Now, Bucky wonders what he ever saw in him. He’s a narcissistic controlling asshole with very few redeeming features. Their entire relationship could be a case study on settling. All because Brock’s from a ‘good’ family, Bucky’s parents are close to his, and sometimes it’s just easier not to rock the boat.
Bucky ducks down the stairs onto an already crowded subway platform, brushing snow from his hair and scanning the signs to find his worst fears have been realised.
Express services cancelled.
He groans. This day just keeps getting better and better.
By seven it’s already been dark for two hours by the time Bucky finally manages to make it to the restaurant. It’s modern and upmarket, decked out in black and white, all-leather furniture, and classy art-deco fittings. The whole effect creates a less-than-subtle display of wealth that should be enough to satisfy even Brock’s ego.
The other patrons are a well-heeled crowd, mostly business types from the Financial District who look like they’re dining out after work. The waitstaff are attentive and helpful and don’t so much as blink when Bucky asks if they can hang his new suit for him because he hasn’t had the chance to drop it home yet. Not with the travel mayhem the snow is causing across the city.
“It’s no problem,” the young waitress says with a smile. “I’ll show you to your table.”
She pulls the chair out for Bucky, pours him and Brock some water, then rattles off the specials.
As soon as she’s gone, the noxious fake smile on Brock’s face fades. “You’re late,” he says, looking Bucky up and down. “And couldn’t you at least have tried to fix your hair?”
Bucky resists the overwhelming urge to kick him in the shins. Easy for him to look perfect. He hasn’t been hauling his ass uptown and back in the snow.
Running his fingers through the limp mess the weather’s made of his hair, Bucky feels more than a little bit self-conscious. He sips his water through tight lips, counting to ten before he responds. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but it’s snowing outside. I can’t feel my toes anymore, and I haven’t had the chance to go home yet since being fired.”
Brock rolls his eyes like that’s no excuse. “Don’t be dramatic. You weren’t fired.”
“Does it make a difference?” Bucky scowls. “Either way I don’t have a job anymore.”
Fingers tightening around his glass, Brock makes a face like he’s trying very hard to be patient. “Of course it’s different sweetie, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand the nuances of management.”
Bucky slams his own glass down, patience already wearing thin. “Why not?”
“Hm?” Brock raises an eyebrow like he’s surprised Bucky even said anything.
“I said, why wouldn’t you expect me to understand the nuances of management?”
At that moment the waitress returns to take their order. Bucky watches as Brock’s smarmy smile reasserts itself. “I’ll have the steak and kale chips, and my boyfriend here will have the paleo salad, thank you. Oh and hold the bread, we don’t need the carbs.”
Bucky fumes. “Brock,” he says through clenched teeth, “We’ve talked about this. I can order for myself… and I wanted the steak and fries.”
Brock shakes his head in disapproval. “I’m just looking out for you sweetie. I know you’ve had a bad day, but you’re nearly thirty. If you start comfort eating now, it’ll go straight to your waistline, just like your mother. And you know how much I love your figure.”
He says it like a compliment, but all Bucky can hear is self-interest. How Brock wants a trophy husband and isn’t interested in one who doesn’t cut an appropriately dashing figure on his arm. It makes Bucky wonder if his mom and dad’s relationship was always like this too, or if there was ever a point where they actually cared about each other.
They eat in terse silence for the rest of the meal, until finally, Brock sets his knife and fork down on his plate with a sigh. “Don’t you want to hear my good news?”
Bucky forces down the last mouthful of his salad. To call it unappetising would be unfair. It’s not bad, but it’s got nothing on the steak he really wanted. “Okay, what is it?”
Brock smiles brightly and this, at least, is genuine. But—they’re talking about him again, so it would be.
He takes Bucky’s hand across the table. “I’ve got a promotion. Rollins is taking the head of department role and I’m going to be Pierce’s new right-hand man.”
On any other day, it might be good news. But after the day Bucky’s had, he feels about as enthusiastic as someone left in a dark room by themselves with a solitary party popper to celebrate New Year’s. “Great,” he says, trying to inject the response with fake enthusiasm because he at least isn’t as much of an asshole as Brock.
Obviously it doesn’t work, because Brock makes a frustrated noise and withdraws his hand. “You could at least try to be excited.”
“I am. It just hasn’t been a good day, all right?”
“Look… I know you’re upset about your job, but have you considered this might be for the best? Your mother is wonderful at all the charity work she does, and there’s no reason why you couldn’t be the same.”
“Brock—I didn’t study for five years to be a househusband. I’m good at what I do,” Bucky grits out.
His objection might as well go in one ear and out the other.
“I agree,” Brock says officiously. “And you could turn those skills to your advantage in a much lower stress environment.”
The waitress returns with a dessert menu and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. If all he gets out of the rest of tonight is a bowl of overpriced ice cream drenched in chocolate sauce, at least that will be a small victory. He reaches for it.
“No thank you,” Brock says smartly, waving the woman away.
Bucky glares.
“What?” Brock gestures dismissively. “You don’t need it. Anyway, as I was saying, you might enjoy being at home better. More time for your hobbies too. You like cooking.”
“I like cooking… in my spare time.”
“Which you’d have so much more of! That’s what I told Pierce too, when he said someone had to go.”
Bucky’s stomach flips sickly and he’s almost certain it has nothing to do with the beet and kale salad he just ate. Because if Brock said what Bucky thinks he did…
“You what?” he says, very calmly, fixing Brock with a death-stare.
Brock shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We got advance warning that someone had to go. There were a few names being thrown around, but I thought, you know what? Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it were you. Pierce agreed.”
Every cell in Bucky’s body feels like it’s fixing for a fight and honestly, at this point, he’s done trying to resist. It’s all he can do just to keep his voice steady, even as his hands are shaking.
“Are you actually telling me the reason I got fired, and you got a promotion, is because you want me to move in with you and play househusband like you haven’t just ruined my career?” he says, unable to keep incredulity out of his voice.
It’s obvious Brock doesn’t get it. The mildly irritated expression on his face says as much. That he can’t figure out why Bucky is making such a big deal out of nothing. He clicks his tongue. “For the last time, you weren’t fired… and I was going to ask you at your parents’ house on Thanksgiving. But since you’re determined to bring it up now, yes. I think it’s time we move in together.”
Complete, deathly silence follows. Bucky feels his fists tighten. He’s pretty sure there are certifiably, legally blind people who see more than Brock. He couldn’t see a hand in front of his face in broad daylight if it wasn’t his own, or he didn’t want to see it.
Maybe Bucky’s just as guilty though, because it’s not like Brock’s changed. He’s always been like this and somehow, Bucky just managed not to see it.
Now, he can’t unsee it.
So fuck what’s convenient. Fuck what his family and the rest of their stupid social climbing friends are going to say. Bucky’s truly done this time.
He throws back his chair and stands up, levelling a finger directly at Brock’s smarmy fucking face. “You know what? I’m not moving in with you, now or ever. I don’t even know why you’d think I would after you got me fired—”
“Not fired, redun—”
“I don’t fucking care about the semantics!” Bucky yells, loud enough that several other people stop eating to watch. Look at me now, Mom and Dad. “Either way it was your fault. You’re an asshole who doesn’t think about anyone but himself. You’re self-centred, narcissistic, and a control freak, and I’m done putting up with it.”
“Oh?” Brock challenges calmly. Like he’s speaking to a goddamn child.
“We’re over,” Bucky spits. “For real this time.”
Brock smiles. He looks at Bucky like he hasn’t taken a single word Bucky’s said seriously, but still wants to murder him for embarrassing him like this in a restaurant of their peers. To be fair, it’s not like they haven’t broken up before only for Bucky to go back on his words.
But not this time.
“You don’t mean that sweetie. Now sit back down and stop causing a scene,” Brock says, voice dangerously low.
“No,” Bucky says, taking a step backward. He’s determined this is going to be his moment—just like his favourite scene from the Lord of the Rings, when Éowyn takes her helmet off and stabs the Witch-king of Angmar, showing up everyone who’s ever doubted her. “I do mean it.”
“Sit the fuck back down,” Brock hisses.
Any pretence of politeness is gone, and Bucky knows the only reason Brock hasn’t raised his voice yet is because he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than Bucky already is.
“Go fuck yourself,” Bucky announces, loud and clear. A wild thrill shoots up his spine as several more heads turn. “I’m not going to sit down and I’m not moving in with you. You’re an asshole, and I’m going home to figure out what the fuck to do with my life now that you’ve ruined it, thank you very much.”
He moves to leave, then as an afterthought, turns and adds spitefully, “And on the way, I’m going by a bodega to get one of those half gallon tubs of cookie dough ice cream you hate so much. Then I’m going to eat the whole thing, in my pyjamas, on the couch, watching Netflix. And I’m not going to go to the gym tomorrow.”
Brock scowls but Bucky doesn’t care. He’s in too deep to back out now. A cheerful looking elderly man with thick-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair and a painter’s moustache smiles, giving Bucky a thumbs up. “Good for you, son!”
Bucky smiles back, feeling proud of himself for finally doing what he should’ve done last Christmas, if not earlier.
To add insult to injury, he gives Brock a very public middle finger salute before high-tailing it out of the restaurant without paying. Let him deal with the bill on his own.
It’s past nine by the time Bucky gets home with his tub of ice cream.
There are a bunch of messages on his phone from his mom, Becca, Nat and Clint, all of which he ignores in favour of collapsing onto the couch with his ice cream, a blanket, and some trashy romance movie that’s playing on TV. The adrenaline he had earlier seems to have seeped away like a slowly-deflating balloon, leaving behind only a numb sense of emptiness.
Under normal circumstances, he would usually roll his eyes at the ridiculously contrived meet cute movie he’s watching. It’s not the least bit believable. No real person ever got their happily ever after just from tripping over someone in the street and trading a bit of witty banter. It’s totally out of touch with reality. But, at times like these, Bucky wishes the fantasy was real. Just a little bit.
He spoons ice cream into his mouth, realising all too late he’s ugly-crying at the happy ending, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his pyjamas.
Sometime after that he must fall asleep, because it’s early morning when he wakes, with an ache in his neck of the kind that makes him very aware he’s in his late twenties, and just slept somewhere he probably shouldn’t have. The rest of his tub of ice cream is still sitting on the coffee table, looking unpleasantly congealed in the thin wintry light. Yesterday’s memories come rushing back, roughly the same level of appealing.
But before Bucky really has time to start feeling sorry for himself again, his phone rings. It’s a battle to dig it out from the cracks between the couch cushions, though he does eventually manage.
“Hello?” he says groggily.
“Oh darling, you sound terrible…”
As always, his mom talks at a million miles an hour. Apparently, Brock’s family have already told her the news, so now she wants Bucky to come over and help with Thanksgiving preparations. He knows it’s just her way of trying to help—of giving him something to do that isn’t sinking into a one man self-pity party on the couch.
But it’s also the last thing in the world he feels like doing. Second only to seeing Brock again maybe…
“I wouldn’t worry about it darling,” she says with confidence. “It’s not like you two haven’t broken up and gotten back together again. I’ve already invited the Rumlows over for Thanksgiving and we’ll sort it all out then, I promise. Brock’s not an unreasonable man and I know he cares about you…”
Yeah sure, Bucky thinks. Cares about him the same way a dragon cares about its treasure maybe.
He doesn’t tell her that though.
In any case, by the time he hangs up a quarter hour later, Bucky’s beginning to come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to be possible to crawl under a rock and hide from this. No matter how much he wants to.
He checks the rest of his messages.
Becca: I’m glad for you, you know. Not about the job. But it’s about time someone told Brock to go fuck himself in the middle of a fancy Tribeca restaurant. He’s never going to live that down. You’re my new hero.
It makes Bucky feel marginally less crap. As much as he might get tired of his parent’s veneration of Becca and her wildly successful career, it’s not really her fault. Excellence is just how she operates. She doesn’t do it deliberately to spite him. And when it counts, she’s always on his side.
Clint: Do you think he’s been abducted by aliens?
Nat: Really Clint? Bucky, hey, are you there? How did yesterday go?
Bucky hesitates, pursing his lips. He could lie. But Nat, at least, would probably see right through it.
Bucky: I don’t have a boyfriend or a job anymore. You decide.
There’s a minute or so delay. Then a set of ellipses appear in their group chat, followed by a message.
Nat: Oh shit. I’m so sorry. What happened?
Bucky: Apparently someone had to be made redundant and Brock decided I was it. So I dumped him.
Clint: What a fucking asshole!
Bucky: Yeah.
There’s really nothing else he can say. It’s a shitty situation, and trying to make it sound any less like one is just polishing a turd, which Bucky definitely does not have the energy or inclination for right now.
Clint: So what are you doing? Do you want us to come around?
Nat: I’ll bet he’s on the couch in his pyjamas, eating ice cream and watching trashy romantic movies like he always does after a break up. That’s what you’re doing, right Bucky?”
Bucky: I am not.
Clint: Haha you actually are, aren’t you?
Nat: All right. We’re coming over. Don’t go anywhere.
As if Bucky would. He has no intention of going back on his promise to Brock that he won’t go near a gym today. And going anywhere else would mean leaving his comfortable sanctum of misery, which is definitely not something he’s emotionally ready for yet. His heart feels stripped and bare, like the icy wind outside would cut right through it.
An hour or so later Nat and Clint show up with bags of supplies, just as Bucky’s crying over another ill-fated gay romance movie, in which the love interest returns to his wife at the end of summer. What Bucky wouldn’t give for his own summer fling with a hunky blond like that…
Nat unpacks the shopping onto Bucky’s cramped kitchen counter. “I have potato chips, ice cream, alcohol…”
It’s enough food to feed an army. An emotionally compromised diabetic army maybe, but Bucky appreciates the gesture nonetheless.
“All right,” Clint announces with characteristic cheer, sprawling himself over the couch next to Bucky with an open packet of potato chips on his stomach. He commandeers the TV remote and switches the movie off. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole watching this stuff. I know exactly what you need…”
Bucky raises a sceptical eyebrow.
Clint grins. “It’s time for a Lord of the Rings marathon. Extended cut.”
Nat pulls the blinds down and the three of them settle onto the couch, preparing for the long-run with junk food and alcoholic drinks. As the first notes of the soundtrack ring out, and Frodo leaps up from beneath his tree, book long-forgotten, Bucky too, begins to forget his troubles.
It doesn’t matter that he’s seen all three movies at least a dozen times before, or that he knows exactly how they end. All that matters is they’re a safe place to return to. An old friend, just as much as the fraying waffle blanket he's hunkered down under right now, spooning ice cream into his mouth with more enthusiasm than a bargain shopper at TJ Maxx on the morning of Black Friday.
This is what life’s really about, he thinks. Spending time with people he can be himself around. Who don’t care that he has a probably unhealthy penchant for junk food and trashy movies, and no job to go to next week. It’s the ultimate expression of friendship. Like their own little fellowship.
The hours slide away. They drink and heckle the characters. Talk about how obviously gay Sam and Frodo are, and how on earth it was possible for people not to see it when the movies first came out. They debate where they’d re-shoot the scenes in the United States, picking locations they’ve all been to like Washington state, Wyoming, or Colorado.
But it’s about the time Clint suggests they should take a drink every time the words ‘hobbit,’ ‘ring,’ or ‘Mordor,’ are spoken, that things begin to turn wild.
“So,” Nat begins, turning to Bucky and Clint halfway through the second movie, eyes gleaming in an altogether concerning manner. “If you could pick one character to get it on with, who would it be?”
“I value my life too much to answer that,” Clint declares, refilling his glass and looking expectantly at Bucky.
“Don’t look at me, I’m heartbroken,” Bucky objects. He’s aiming for humour, but there’s a sliver of truth to it that hits a little too close to home not to hurt. Not so much because he’s actually cut up over dumping Brock, but more because it feels like at his age, it might mean his romantic life is truly over for good.
Next to him, Nat snorts, choking on her drink. “Well if neither of you will pick, I’ll do it for you. Clint, you’d obviously pick Arwen. I mean, every straight guy I know would pick Arwen. Hell, I’d pick Arwen.”
Clint shrugs, like that’s a fair assessment.
“And Bucky…” Nat grins. “You look like a Faramir kind of guy.”
Bucky frowns. “What exactly about my track record with relationships makes you think that?”
Giggling quietly, Nat takes another sip of her drink. “Hey, I’m not talking about your history of poor taste in men. The quietly principled type hiding a heart of gold? Just what you need. Trust me.”
“Maybe…” Bucky concedes wistfully. He could go for those dreamy blue eyes and scruff of a beard. There is something about facial hair on a guy that makes him feel all gooey inside.
“I was right,” Nat says, nudging Clint gleefully. “Look, he’s gone all daydreamy.”
“I have not!”
“Have too.”
Bucky pouts at her and snuggles deeper into his blanket.
It’s dark outside, nearly midnight by the time Frodo and Sam are venturing into the scorching caverns of Mt. Doom for the final destruction of the ring.
That’s when Clint makes a crazy suggestion. “You know,” he says, grabbing another handful of popcorn and addressing Bucky. “You should totally come with us on our next trip.”
From the way he’s slurring it should be patently obvious it’s a terrible idea. Probably the worst idea since Bucky’s parents decided a family camping trip to the Canadian Rockies would make an excellent vacation, when neither of them had ever pitched a tent in their life. Realistically, the last thing Bucky needs is to be running away from his problems. But, under the hazy comforting influence of alcohol, and buoyed by friendship, Bucky finds himself going with the flow.
“That’d be cool,” he says, enthusiastic in a way it’s easy to be when none of what they’re talking about is remotely close to becoming reality.
There ensues a heated discussion about the particulars of the destination. Nat and Clint are still arguing over the relative merits of Vietnam and Australia, bouncing ideas off each other like they’ve done a million times before. Which country will offer the best photos, promotional opportunities, and all that other stuff which matters to social media influencers. It makes the whole thing sound more like a business decision than a holiday. They might as well be discussing the budget for an unexpected root canal.
Bucky drifts off like he’s floating in an elvish boat, borne away to the Grey Havens along with Frodo and Gandalf.
“New Zealand,” he blurts out suddenly.
“What?” Clint and Nat say at the same time, turning to look at him like he’s grown a second head.
“We should go to New Zealand,” he repeats, pointing at the screen.
He’s always thought New Zealand looked like a fantastical, otherworldly place. More like a movie set than somewhere that actually existed in the world. So far away it always seemed about as realistic to visit as the South Pole.
Clint perks up immediately. “That’s an idea. It’s Christmas in summer there too! And we could stay for New Year.”
Nat tilts her head thoughtfully. “I can work with that,” she concludes.
In short order, the three of them are searching tourist attractions and general information.
“Look!” Clint enthuses, shoving his phone in Nat’s face, “Their national bird is this big ball of fluff. And apparently they even name themselves after it. Kiwis.”
“I don’t know why that’s a selling point…” Nat rolls her eyes.
“Oh hey! Hobbiton is an actual place,” Bucky adds, nearly dropping his phone on the floor in his excitement.
The suggestions come thick and fast after that, only exceeded by the volume of alcohol the three of them consume while they’re planning their make-believe trip. By the end of it all, Clint’s drawing geographically-challenged maps while Nat plots a motorhome road trip like it’s a military campaign. Most of Bucky’s contribution involves sneaking movie filming locations onto the itinerary when he thinks no one’s looking.
The excitement and company is exactly what he needed to push Brock to one side for a while though. Even if, deep down, Bucky knows this is nothing more than a momentary distraction. Literally the last thing he should be doing, having just lost his job, is going on an expensive holiday overseas. He’s going to wake up tomorrow and have to face reality again.
But fuck it. For tonight at least, tomorrow can wait.
“American Airlines flies there,” Nat says, staring intently at her phone screen.
“Not American…” Clint groans.
“And there’s a special deal for Thanksgiving. I guess no one wants to fly then.”
The rest of the night fades into a blur of easy camaraderie and upbeat cheer. The last thing Bucky remembers is laughing about how much further their money would go in New Zealand with the favourable exchange rates, and debating whether or not everyone there owns their own personal sheep. Do they ride around on them?
He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and the music loop of the movie’s home screen playing on repeat. It does nothing to help his head. Beside him, Clint is snoring and dribbling all over the cushions, while Nat sits at the kitchen bench looking only slightly worse for wear. How does she always do that?
Bucky picks up his phone to check the time. There’s a new email notification he didn’t notice last night. Frowning, he opens it.
Airline tickets. To New Zealand. On 22 November.
Oh fuck.
They didn’t just talk about it. They actually did it.
Bucky’s family are going to kill him.
“Morning,” Nat says, offering him a mug of coffee. “Ready for the vacation of a lifetime?”
Bucky groans, holding his head in his hands. “Ready to be disowned more like.”