Bucky had survived wars, decades of brainwashing, and a century of shifting identities—but nothing had ever prepared him for this century. Not really.

The future was fast and loud, filled with things he didn’t understand—emojis, oat milk, social media influencers—but perhaps the most jarring difference of all was how open people could be. How free they were. Two men holding hands on the subway. A trans flag hanging proudly outside a bookstore. Pride parades, wedding photos, love songs written for people like him. Things that would’ve gotten someone killed in 1940s Brooklyn now lit up billboards in Times Square.

When Steve left, it had left a void. One Bucky hadn’t even realized he’d filled—with you.

You weren’t like Steve. You weren’t a soldier. You were a weapons engineer, sharp-tongued and brilliant, and despite your quiet nature, you somehow always cut through Bucky’s armor. Maybe that’s why he let himself get so close. Maybe that’s why sitting beside you on the rooftop, sharing a drink, felt like the most dangerous thing he’d done in years.

The wind curled soft and cool across the rooftop, rustling the edges of the old blanket beneath you both. The city stretched out below, blurred lights flickering like constellations in motion. Bucky sat beside you, back against a vent, long legs stretched out in front of him. His vibranium hand cradled a half-finished bottle of whiskey. You had a drink in yours, too—though yours was still mostly full.

Neither of you had said much in a while. The silence between you had never been uncomfortable.

But tonight, something in Bucky’s posture was different. Stiffer. Hesitant. You felt it before he even spoke.

“Can I ask you something weird?” he said finally, eyes still locked on the skyline.

You glanced over. “Sure.”

He didn’t look at you. “What do you think about… men Ioving men?”