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Who: Bucky Barnes (

sidecars) and YOU
Where:All around Storybrooke at night, James Winters' house
When: 24th-27th
Rating: PG-13??
Summary: 24-26th: With no permanent residence, Bucky looks for hand outs, a couch to crash on, or an honest to God bed if any good-lookin' lady is willing.

27th: Bucky's memories of a life shared with his cousin and Steve are starting to become too much to handle by himself.
The Story:

OPEN

He's stuck with a loosey for the rest of the night, and that's... really not going to cut it. Bucky lights it up all the same, feeling equal parts guilty and exhilarated with the first inhale. He rarely gets away with them these days since it's just a tedious matter. Well, for one, he has no money to sustain a habit like smoking. Secondly, he has to wash his clothes and wear new ones any time he sees Dave so he doesn't acerbate his condition. And bless the man for never saying anything, but Bucky's sure he knows. James might as well be married to him since he can't keep anything to himself. Which then brings him to the problem of his cousin. He's losing his boyfriend to a terminal illness, the last thing he needs is to find out Bucky caught lung cancer for being dumb.

But apparently his friends' concerns aren't large enough to stop him, though, as he pulls the smoke in for another curl in his lungs. Once in a while's fine. Besides, what the hell is he living for in this shitty town anyway?

It's reaching close to eleven at night and the traffic is starting to thin. There's still plenty of pedestrians, thankfully, which is what he needs: Someone drunk enough to let Bucky crash for the night, or someone drunk enough to let him bum a few smokes off them to get him through the night. His keen eyes weed through the people he sees across his town trek. Bucky looks for someone familiar, or someone good looking enough that if they turn psycho, it'll be worth it. Those are his only criteria and asks the right person for a smoke, offering his best, harmless smile.

CLOSED

Frosty--He's still calling him Frosty for the life of him--isn't home when Bucky barges in with his spare key. And it's a good thing his cousin--Or himself?--gave him one; otherwise he would be putting his newly acquired burglary skills to use. Not that he hasn't already. The roller coaster of emotions had begun hours ago turning bright and omnipotent to dark and miserable. His high points turned him into an unstoppable thief, grabbing cigarettes and wallets just to see if he could get away with it. There had been a thrilling adrenaline rush to it all, but the bottom kept falling out when his amazing skills proved unstable in a world not at War. At seventeen he was a goddamn war vet with a partner--who's also his self's boyfriend?--who had been slowly dying of tuberculosis just a day ago.

If that isn't low, there's no such thing. The last person he usually wants to talk to about his problems is Dave or Buck--Frosty. His troubles are his own, the two of them have enough without dealing with the rest of Bucky's constant fallout. But this is no longer about him and his cousin. It's about him. He doesn't know a lot of the details, only overhearing some of what the two of them talked about in the hospital, but it was enough to start him tumbling without a net.

He keeps the lights off in Frosty's house, feeling the need to be dramatic in his prime teenage years. Waiting, unfortunately, is never his style and it doesn't take long to drag him off the couch and turn a restless mind to more interesting avenues, like his disturbing hobbies as a government killer. He breaks a propped up plate on the floor after it shatters from a well-placed knife throw. It's only the third attempt too to get the hang of it. One hit the wall and left just a small crack of chipped paint. The other hit the table and is picked up when starts collecting the pieces of china with shaky hands. If a war is what keeps Bucky out of trouble, he is shit out of luck.

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Hours had passed a little too quickly as Robert stayed behind at school, planning out the lessons for next week, grading papers and finishing up the questions for one of the classes' test. The town clock may be stuck at 8:15 but the rest of them clearly aren't, and the sun rises and sets, giving way to the moon, regardless of that fact.

He doesn't even notice he's hungry until his stomach makes an actual audible growling sound, and he checks his watch to see that it's already past ten. With a muttered self-reprimand he gathers all his papers into a pile, then shoves them into his shoulder bag and makes his way out of the building.

A quick detour to the only dining place still open at this hour, he gets himself some take-away and then heads home, intent on a quiet weekend indoors by himself. But as he steps down the street, his thoughts of warm blankets and student papers are put on hold when he recognizes the boy standing just near the building fronts, watching everyone that walks past, and with his eyes set on him, he walks up to him instead.

"Ah shit--!" He sees Greene coming far too late to hide the cigarette. Blowing out what he can like a freight train, Bucky just kind of holds it down by his leg. It can't exactly mask the smolder still rising from the butt, but like hell he is going to drop the last of his cigarettes without a fight. He's not smoking at school, so really, the guy has no command here, but... He's also not old enough to be smoking legally either. Could this day get any worse?

He puts on his angel face like he does when wants something or is trying to get out of the hole he just dug himself into. Unfortunately there aren't many people left in this town fooled by it. "Hey, Mr. Greene. Nice night, huh?"

The innocent angel face doesn't really go anywhere with Robert, and in response it only gets a flat stare and an arched eyebrow. "I'm not sure if you think I'm just that gullible that I wouldn't see that."

But he doesn't tell him to put it out. He knows that he'll just light up another one next chance he gets, and tonight he doesn't feel like handing out life lessons, to students or otherwise. This is an argument he'll gladly pass up on.

"So are you out this late just to bum cigarettes?" he glances over his shoulder at another passer-by, then back to Bucky, a knowing look on his face when he asks. "Where are you staying?"

"S'long as you don't tell my cousin." He'd take a detention over James catching wind of him smoking. Even though he makes sure he's meticulous when he comes to see Dave, the protective bastard would prolly bar Bucky from seeing him. Not that that would really stop him. There's a window in the man's room anyways.

When it looks like Greene isn't going to press the issue, he pulls it back to his lips. He would rather not waste his one and only tonight. "Smokes, food, whatever. I'm easy." It works most nights. If he catches a girl, sometimes he can play the hapless role and "forget" his wallet, forcing her to pay for the meal. It's pretty shitty, but it's better than owing his cousin.

At his teacher's question, Bucky tries not to act surprised or put out. He doesn't exactly tell his teachers he's kind of homeless--Because he's not! James would let him crash if he wanted, but he doesn't. Still, when you are couch surfing every night, people talk and it gets around. Apparently teachers aren't as clueless as he assumes.

"Haven't planned that far in advanced." He wants to ask what business it is of Greene's, but the guy isn't an asshole. His is one of the few classes he behaves in, pays attention enough to pass the tests. He's wait patiently for an answer if it comes. Bucky's got all night so far.

"I won't," he says simply, even if in his expression it's clear he hardly approves of this. But he knows that doing so would only push Bucky even farther away from him, and it'd ultimately make it impossible for Bruce to get through to him in any way. Which is a difficult thing already as it is, and previous attempts with other students haven't been all that successful, but he still tries, he still hopes that eventually he'll manage to guide at least some of the kids somewhere.

And Bucky's bright, even if he's especially lazy and makes a particular effort not to show too much interest, but it means something that in Robert's class, he pays a modicum of attention.

"I can see that," seen as it's starting to get pretty late and he's still out in the streets. Word always travels fast in small towns like this one, especially when no one ever leaves and no one ever comes, either for a visit or to move here for good. So it shouldn't come as too much of a surprise that Robert has heard about it one way or the other.

He just lifts his dinner bag then, maybe a little too close an offer but Bucky might just accept and at least he won't be standing out in the night cold. "I've got food, and a couch." Or just food, if he's not comfortable with the rest.

"Yeah?" Bucky's cigarette is poised just in front of his mouth as he considers it, amusement obvious on his scrawny face. "What would people say, Mr. Greene?" The change in inflection is joking, but at the same time he hopes the guy understands. This is his teacher asking him to couch crash and eat his food for a night. He thought even pity had its line. Would he care if someone saw? All it takes is one dumb chicken to get them all squawking.

"I don't know," he tilts his head, eyebrows arching almost dramatically as he continues, his tone feigning curiosity. "What would they say?"

Because he knows very well what Bucky means, he just doesn't seem all that worried about it. He's tried to help students ever since he can remember, and he knows that everyone knows that. He doubts anyone would bat an eyelash to him offering a place to stay to one of his kids, if they happened to have nowhere else. As is the case.

"Ha!" Bucky blows out a lungful of smoke on that laugh. The butt drops to the floor and he puts it out with his shoe. "Fair enough." If Greene doesn't care, he sure as shit won't. He's hitting two out of two with one play. He doesn't need that bonus round for cigarettes. That's been more of a pipe dream all night anyway.

"So, what're we eatin'?" That, though, is important.

Robert's lips twitch into something close to a smile, letting Bucky finish that cigarette then put it out. A good thing he does too without Robert asking him to - it doesn't bother him so much that he'd tell the kid to put it out after catching him smoking it, but he still doesn't want smoking in his apartment at least.

"Roast chicken with fries," he fixes the bag from one hand to the other, as he resumes his walk down the street, waiting for Bucky to catch up. "Nothing special, but tastes good."

The first thing James hears when he steps inside is the rattling of something broken. He immediately tenses up, his hand on his gun before he reminds himself that this is a quiet little town and what he's hearing is likely just his cousin -- himself? -- Bucky. Bucky, who has a key. Who's allowed to be in his house. James remembers giving him the key and telling him to come and go as he'd like, partly because it was better than Bucky bunking with some stranger, and partly because the house was less empty when he was here. He remembers daydreaming about home when he was younger, about the family he'd raise and the children he'd spoil. That was before Steve had gotten sick. Before the war. The only clear memory is how it always seemed to tumble further and further out of reach.

When he steps into the dining room, it's exactly what he thought. Almost, anyway. Cop or soldier, he takes in all the details, like the chipped paint and the knife laying on the floor. His fingers finally pull fully away from his gun and comes over to crouch where the plate has fallen. It's his mother's good china -- what's left of it.

"Aw hell, Bucky." James cards his fingers through his hair. "Leave it alone, you're gonna cut yourself. What do you think you're doing?"

He doesn't mean for the question to be as sharp as it is, but even James' temper has its limits, and he was on the edge of it before he came home to find Bucky throwing knives around his house.

"Cut myself?" Bucky laughs, nothing like his usual obnoxious braying. It's low and dark for a high school student in a small town. "I've got more scars than a depressed cutter. One more ain't gonna change much." The problem with that sentiment is he's smooth as a baby's butt. Every scab and infection and suture is all from memory, like the time his thigh was shredded by a knife he had to pull out of himself. Every thing has left a mark on him even if they can't be found on his body anymore.

He continues to pick up the shards of china from the ground, eyes on the knife still in his hand after it fell to the floor. "I was throwing knives. Apparently, I'm really good at it." Which isn't a surprise to him. He's basically a weapon of war made by his own government and trained by the British. The same people that taught Middle Eastern revolutionists torture techniques. This is the knowledge he has and it's thrilling and terrifying and... completely useless. He's useless here.

When he feels his knees cramp from their pinched position on the hard linoleum floor, Bucky looks up at himself. They aren't a perfect match. Bucky's hair is curlier and he doubts he can ever fill out such a big frame, but even if their eyes are different colors, they're the same. He's the same as Bucky and no one will ever understand him more than himself.

That's why he suddenly asks. "You ever kill anyone?" It's not strictly spoken in the best context, but he hopes the man gets what he means. In the dreams he's had.

Bucky doesn't even pretend to do what he asks. He does the opposite, like he always does.

"Bucky..." James looks at him, and he doesn't know how to finish. He wants to say give me the knife but he knows it's not a threat. It's a security blanket. Somehow, he just knows.

The Bucky he knows has never cut so much as a piece of raw chicken for dinner in his life. But this isn't the Bucky in the set of memories from Storybrook. That kid had started getting into trouble nearly the day his parents passed. James remembers standing with him at their funeral, remembers dragging him out of fights and scolding him while fussing at cuts and bruises, the way he used to do with Steve. (Except Bucky rarely tolerated it - he was mad at the world and James wasn't his brother, not really.) He knows almost every mark on Bucky's skin like his own. And in an entirely different set of memories? They're the same person.

He and Steve hadn't just talked about their own lives - they'd talked about friends they remembered, faces they didn't. They'd talked about Bucky, too. Between them, they seemed to remember a lot about him. Lashing out was a hell of a lot better than the outlet he had in that other set of memories. Cousin or not, he was just a kid. He didn't need to know what it was like to kill a man before he was old enough to be one.

Frankly, James had hoped Bucky himself wouldn't remember any of it. Of course, James should have known by now that people rarely got what they hoped for.

Any other time, he might have given Bucky crap for what he'd said. So good at it he was breaking things? So good he hit the walls too? But the irritation has died, quick and sharp, and there's just the weight of something he can't name, sinking into his bones. It's like seeing an old photograph of himself, but it's not just the color of his eyes that's different.

James purses his lips at the question. The answer has always been no, has always been that he's never wanted or needed to. He's still not sure he's ever wanted to, but it's something he does, in another life. It's something he's good at.

He gives the barest hint of a nod. If he's dishonest with Bucky, he knows he'll lose him. "How much do you remember?"

He gives a petulant little shrug at first. "I dunno. It just... comes in and out. I have dreams..." Some he never wants to talk about. Some he barely even told Steve about. Emaciated hands, almost skeletal, grabbing him into a pit of bloated corpses to die slowly and horribly. Sometimes in those dreams he feels like he deserves it at times for the people he can't save.

Bucky wakes up on those nights screaming, waking up everyone else in the process. Then all he can do is wander the streets because he's too scared to go back to bed.

"About the war, the missions, the people I shoot. Or strangle." Honestly, it seems like his other self isn't picky with how he takes down a person. Quiet is the best course, but sometimes that just doesn't work out or he's spotted before he's ready, then it's just a fight for survival. Who can kill the other person first. The adrenaline he always feels is intense, but there's never much fear in them as if the fight itself is what sustains him. That's what proves he's alive, not about to die. It isn't until he wakes up that he's afraid.

"Sometimes I'm just walking... and I'll just know. I know I can steal that girl's purse and get away with it. Or cigarettes in a store--O-Or how fast it'll take me to pick a lock in the middle of the night. But what's--What's the point? I can't be a hero in this town... I'm just a criminal here."

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(OPEN)

24th night? hope this works!

sure do!

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