onlyforthedream | 12/5/2012

It's been a busy few days at the council office. We'd only just settled back in before the island had turned itself upside down and into a very familiar landscape- just not familiar enough.

Manhattan is almost what it should be, but the little differences are so incredibly jarring. The mansion is there, stately and unbroken, but it's a museum. There are no As engraved in the wrought iron gates. Stark Tower and the Baxter Building aren't where they should be, which is unsettling- the skyline is just that much off.

The bridges don't go anywhere. I've tried. Brooklyn sits quiet across the river, and I can't get to it, which bothers me more than I should let it. Even with all this, though, and the strange specters that populate the city alongside our actual citizens, it's nice. The food is amazing, and a lot of my favorite places are there. Central Park looks glorious in the snow and even though none of it's real, and it makes me a little homesick, I still want to enjoy it.

Not alone, though.

I've got a list as long as my arm of coffee houses, diners, restaurants, museums and views I want to take Peggy to, things I want to show her. We've already been to a few. More, though, my thoughts and concerns turn to Bucky. I worry about him, and about us, our friendship. It's not what it used to be, and that hurts. It's hard enough watching Tony crawl back into a bottle. I'm grateful to know the people here that I do, but I miss my friends, the best of whom is right in front of me.

Well, I'm done with letting it be.

It only takes a minute to pack a couple small, hard snowballs and absently rest them on the hood of the Chevy outside the building Bucky's hut turned into. I tip my head back, counting over, and launch one squarely at the glass.

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"The hell?"

It takes a couple of tries to wind the window open, the glass frozen shut with the cold, but the question of who's throwing snowballs at his new digs gets an answer the second Bucky peers outside. The why, however, remains more elusive still, and it's with plain confusion that he calls down, "Steve?"

"Hey. You up?" I call, keeping my tone and expression neutral even though the question is a completely ridiculous one.

"Jerk," Bucky says, slumping down in the window to rest his elbows on the pane. Everyone else might see Steve as this unflappable, stoic force for good, but Bucky's known the guy under the flag since he was a teenager, and knows there's a rascally sense of humor underneath all of the sincere patriotism. It's as endearing as it is annoying.

"If you wanted to drop in, there's this invention called a doorbell... What's all this about?"

"Sounds newfangled," I reply, and put my hands into the handwarmer pockets of my bomber, tilting my head toward the corner.

"Let's get breakfast."

Bucky coughs out a disbelieving laugh, a cloud of breath briefly obscuring his view of Steve. But knowing better than to distract Captain America from a mission -- even if that mission is something as simple as breakfast -- Bucky just shrugs and straightens up.

"Sure," he says dryly, a forgone conclusion. "But there better be pancakes. Gimme a sec."

He's downstairs a couple of minutes later, wrapped up in a motorcycle jacket and a warm blue sweater that's peeking out the bottom, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves after he locks up behind him.

"'Newfangled,'" he quotes, shoving Steve a little as he rolls his eyes. "Anyone ever tell you you got a lousy sense of humor?"

"No, but I think that's because it's mostly assumed I don't have one," I answer, rolling easily with the push.

"How's the apartment?" It's been a something of an adjustment. My own place isn't bad, a true two bedroom with south facing views of the row of brownstones opposite me. There's space, and nothing important is missing- photos hang approximately where they would- but the heater goes on the fritz.

"Better than a fox hole," he replies, shrugging. He's never been too picky about where he sleeps, and he's never spent much time at home, anyway. "My stuff's still there, there's a bed." He frowns a little. "But I did find some ghost using Virginia in Central Park to pull one of the carriages around. I, uh, put a stop to that. Got her set up in an empty warehouse so she'll stay warm. I can't really bring her into my building, so it was the easiest fix I could think of."

I frown at the fact that Virginia was being put to use by someone who isn't, strictly speaking, real.

"I'm glad you found her."

"Same," says Bucky, scrubbing a hand over his face to wake himself up some. He hasn't slept well in months, but it's too late to be this groggy. The coffee'll do him good.

"So where's this diner you're so eager to drag me to?"

"Few blocks toward the park," I tell him, nodding down the block toward 3rd.

"Used to go there, when I first joined the Avengers. It was a quiet spot to... acclimate, from."

"You know I've lived in this city for a couple of years," says Bucky, shaking his head at the notion that he might need to acclimate some more. The town's different, sure, but for all the things that are missing, the layout's more or less the same, the technology not as impressive.

"Maybe I'm not a local like you, but..." He shrugs.

I find myself looking over with some surprise, honestly a little taken aback by the defensiveness in his tone. He's not broadcasting it, but I know him, and it reads plenty clear.

"I... know," I say, finding my mental footing a little, "I didn't mean to say you weren't. Just... It's just an old haunt, that's all." I manage a brief sort of a half smile and look back ahead.

"Right," Bucky replies, with a brief smile, little more than a quirk of his lips to cover up the grimace he's reserving for himself. Steve's just trying to be nice, and here he is, jumping down the guy's throat for taking him out for breakfast. He's done worse in his life to feel guilty about, but his relationship with Steve's felt tenuous enough lately that he can't help but acknowledge the shame that creeps along the back of his neck.

"Think the menu'll be the same?"

"Well, it hadn't changed in 70 years the last time I swung by," I say.

"Except now they offer goat cheese with various dishes. That's new."

"We're not in our New York," Bucky points out, rolling his eyes. "Have you been there since the whole place changed?"

"Admittedly not," I say, frowning a little, "but it's strange, what's the same and what's not. There are bodegas, street corners that are the same, and then... the skyline's completely different."

"Avengers Tower missing threw me, the first day," Bucky admits. "Never spent much time there, admittedly, but it's still a helluva thing to disappear like that. Think your restaurant'll be intact?"

"I hope so, I'm dying for a real egg cream and their home fries. Don't know why, but they were always the best in five boroughs."

I nod toward the corner and start across the street. We're only about half a block away, and the streets are about as bustling as one would expect for this early on a weekday.

"Then I'll let you order," Bucky says, following on his heels. This much, at least, feels familiar, even if the setting's all wrong.

"You're paying, too."

Not that there's money here, but hell, if he's going to get dragged out of his house that early, he gets to crack the joke.

12/5/2012

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