Imagine Steve and Bucky meeting for the first time as kids

imaginesteverogerss:

“I think you got somethin’ wrong with your nose.”  The kid in front of Bucky was pretty small,
and his nose was pretty messed up, and also pretty bloody.  Gross.
Cool.

“Yeah? Well you should see th’other guy.”  Came the response.  And more blood, when the blond boy rubbed his
nose with the back of a grubby hand.

“What’s’a second-grader doin’ pickin’ fights, anyhow?”

The little boy stood up as tall as he could, left shoulder a
little higher than the right.  “I’m a fifth-grader.  An’ I’ll fight you, too.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose.
“Why?”

That seemed to stop the other boy.  He was more used to a fist than a question,
probably.  

“What’s’it to you how small I am?”

“’S’not.  Jus’ thought
you were little.  I’m Bucky.”

The boy sized Bucky up, glancing warily at Bucky’s
outstretched hand.  

“Steve.”  Steve shook
Bucky’s hand with the one that wasn’t trying to plug up his nose.

Bucky sighed, digging in his pockets for his
handkerchief.  “Here.”  He motioned to the corner Bucky hadn’t used
yet.  “Use that end.”

Steve looked at it as though it might bite him, but accepted
it when he could find no teeth.
“Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.  Does it
hurt?”

Steve shrugged.  “Not
really.”

“How many fights you get into, anyway?”

Another shrug.  “I
dunno.  A lot.”  Steve found the holes in his shoes
fascinating.  

Bucky studied Steve: small and thin –thinner than most boys
their age- and crooked and bloody, and remembered what his mother had said
about kindness and how sometimes, sadness and loneliness looked like other
things. (“It’s not your fault.  War taught your father to be angry when he’s
sad.  Savlanut. Patience, James, remember that.”)

“I should start carryin’ more hankies, then.”

Steve looked up from his shoes, startled.  “What?”

“I mean, if y’wanna friend.”
Bucky shrugged.  “I’d like one.”

More careful study from Steve, this time longer than before.  He studied Bucky’s face and his clothes, he
pulled the handkerchief away from his face and studied that, too.   

“Yeah.”  Steve almost
whispered it, finally looking up from the handkerchief.  “You don’t care that’m
small?”

“You didn’ care that I gave ya a hanky I already used.”

Steve looked hopelessly confused.  “So?”

Bucky grinned.  “Exac’ly.”

The smile Steve gave him was the sort that Bucky would
eventually classify in his mind as Steve’s “sunrise smile”.  

Imagine as Steve is adapting to the 21st century, he dives into discovering different types of music. The other Avengers walk into the common area of the Tower to find Steve working on a painting of the NY skyline or some other soothing artwork…while listening and singing along to Marilyn Mason (or another similar artist). Extra hugs if Bucky in included!

imaginesteverogerss:

“JARVIS, what is
that?”  There was a deep, encompassing
vibration rocking through the elevator.
It wasn’t a threat, clearly, but what it was, Tony wasn’t sure.   

“Captain Rogers and
Sargent Barnes are listening to music whilst Captain Rogers paints, sir.”

Tony shrugged.  “Let’s see what he’s working on.”

“Of course, sir.”  

By the time he reached
Rogers’ floor, the sound was vibrating through Tony’s teeth; all speedy guitar riffs and
words almost too fast to catch.  When the
doors slid open, the uninhibited sound was so loud Tony though it might push him back several steps.

Steve was standing in the
middle of the living room, his back to the wall of windows.  His ratty jeans and t-shirt were both covered in paint.
In front of him was a gorgeous depiction of the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn,
sun glinting on water and glass and—

Drooling fingers, Panic buttons, Playing
with missiles like they’re toys, There’s
easy money, easy jobs, Especially when you
build the bombs—

“What are you listening to?!” Tony yelled over the music.

Steve didn’t turn around, but Bucky
chose that moment to appear, beer in hand.

“Tony.”  He pitched his voice under the music, rather
than turn it off.

“What is that?”

Bucky threw a perplexed glance to
Steve and then back to Tony.  “The
Brooklyn Bridge.” 

“I mean the music.  Is it music?”

“Easy there, Mister
Almost-Every-One-Of-My-Favorite-Band’s-Songs-Is-Really-About-Sex.  And it’s the Dead Kennedys.”

“The Dead Kenne—Where did he even find them?”

Bucky shrugged.  “The internet.”

“Great.”

“Hey.”  Came Bucky’s affronted response, a finger
pointed at the Punk Rock Is Not A Crime shirt
he was wearing.  “He thinks it’s
relaxing.”

“Yeah, great.” Tony turned back into
the elevators.  “Remind me not to disturb
his painting sessions.  What does he
listen to when he’s not relaxed?”

Bucky’s only response was an
unsettling smile and a wave as the elevator doors slid shut.  

kijikun:

swanjolras:

gosh but like we spent hundreds of years looking up at the stars and wondering “is there anybody out there” and hoping and guessing and imagining

because we as a species were so lonely and we wanted friends so bad, we wanted to meet other species and we wanted to talk to them and we wanted to learn from them and to stop being the only people in the universe

and we started realizing that things were maybe not going so good for us— we got scared that we were going to blow each other up, we got scared that we were going to break our planet permanently, we got scared that in a hundred years we were all going to be dead and gone and even if there were other people out there, we’d never get to meet them

and then

we built robots?

and we gave them names and we gave them brains made out of silicon and we pretended they were people and we told them hey you wanna go exploring, and of course they did, because we had made them in our own image

and maybe in a hundred years we won’t be around any more, maybe yeah the planet will be a mess and we’ll all be dead, and if other people come from the stars we won’t be around to meet them and say hi! how are you! we’re people, too! you’re not alone any more!, maybe we’ll be gone

but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.

legit tears