Chapter Text
i.
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“I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in.
Titanic was called ‘The Ship of Dreams.’
And it was… It really was…”
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April 10th, 1912.
In a way, this day should be the happiest of Bucky Barnes’s life. Strip away the glitz and the glamor and the excitement around the ship itself, and at the very least, boarding the RMS Titanic could still be seen as the chance Bucky has been waiting for to finally return home. Almost an entire two months forced into accompanying Brock to England had been two months entirely too long, even with his mother and younger sister present.
And yet… He isn’t really going ‘home’, is he? Philadelphia is not his home. Brock’s estate and mansion are not his home. But that’s where he’s going to end up. He has no say in the matter. He never did.
This is his life now, of course; fake smiles, fancy clothing, and never-ending conversations about absolutely nothing that serve no other purpose than to bore him to tears. At only seventeen, Bucky can remember a time where he’d honestly entertained hopes of traveling the world, maybe going to school; finding his own way.
Once upon a time, Bucky thought he’d have a chance at more.
At least when his father had still been around, none of that responsibility fell onto Bucky’s shoulders. The money was always just simply there. Lavished on him, yes, but Bucky always liked to believe he could take it or leave it. He’d been fortunate enough to grow up privileged, and yet in the upscale society that always seemed to be surrounding him, Bucky remained the black sheep.
That deep, dark love of wealth – the one that Bucky sometimes suspects runs even deeper than the love a parent might have for their very own child – was never passed on to him. In his opinion, money turns human beings against each other – makes monsters out of even the kindest of people.
Still, he’s always felt like he had little room to complain. His upbringing had been a comfortable one while it lasted. Looking back on it, Bucky would trade anything money could possibly buy for even just one chance to go back to that life, instead of having the one he has now; is going to have. Hell, he’d gladly throw his possessions to the wind and take off with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back if it meant escaping the life that’s soon to be his future. His father’s death may have unintentionally stuck him into the situation he’s been forced to endure for the last ten months or so – but at least life as he’d known it before hadn’t made him a prisoner.
That’s what he is now. They call him a man, yet still treat him like a boy. Somehow, along the way, he’s fallen into this strange in-between – a dark, endless void – where everyone around him has turned him into something that’s neither. A shell of mock vanity and pristine, all-American upper class values.
And a complete and total lie. Sometimes, the only reason Bucky even bothers glancing to his reflection in the mirror anymore is to make sure he’s still there at all. It doesn’t feel like it these days – not since Brock came into his life. People talk at him, but not to him. No one looks at him and really sees him, not even his own family anymore.
Bucky loves his mother dearly and knows that there’d once been a time where her intentions might’ve been good. But now, she too is blinded by the desperation not to fall down the steps of that ladder propping up the social elite so, so very high. She had to have been desperate to have promised her only son to the first rich man to as much as look at Bucky twice.
It’s funny how the world works. There are things deemed acceptable and about ten times as many seen as abhorrent when it comes to the rich. If Brock Rumlow were to have batted his eyelashes Bucky’s way and turned on the charm the way he had without the dollar signs attached to his name, absolutely no one would’ve allowed it.
You’re not considered ‘right and healthy’ if you’re a man and feel for other men what you should only feel for women, or vice versa. However, the second there’s the promise of wealth and rank attached to such a match-up, those rules get thrown out the window. There doesn’t even need to be love involved – and most of the time, there is none.
Bucky has yet to feel a morsel of romantic affection towards Brock, despite having been set up with him (against his will, he would add; his opinion on the matter was never even a consideration) and being involved for almost a year. Oh, it has absolutely nothing to do with Bucky having some sort of inability to feel attraction to members of the same sex. It’s because Brock makes his skin crawl.
Quite bluntly, Bucky’s upper class rank – and all the things he’d risked putting in jeopardy that unfortunately came with ‘breaking the status quo’ – hadn’t stopped him from kissing Pietro Maximoff when he was thirteen. It hadn’t stopped him from letting Scott Lang hold his head still while he thrusted into the back of his throat when he was fifteen, either. Bucky remembers his kneecaps scraping against concrete until they were raw and hurting, and he loved every second of it.
It’s just that no one else ever found out about those things. With the amount of queer haters that make up the majority of the upper class, things like that are only alright so long as they remain a secret. As far as his mother is concerned, Bucky’s only ever had an eye for the pretty ladies that are introduced to him at fancy parties and dinner soirées. That alone makes it difficult enough for him to process, still to this day, that Winifred had not only been willing to swear her son off to some stranger Bucky barely knew, but do so with someone she didn’t even think Bucky could feel that sort of love towards in the first place.
But yet again… financial security. Protection. Getting to maintain the good reputation behind the ‘Barnes’ name and not being reduced to a life of picking dumpsters for dinner, or losing everything they own, or actually working for a change. Sometimes, Bucky catches the way Winifred looks at him when she thinks he doesn’t notice. In those moments, Bucky suspects that she does in fact feel guilt. He knows she loves him; he’s never doubted that. A part of him guesses she probably wishes there was another way that was just as convenient and simple, even if she’s yet to actually admit such a thing out loud.
But then all he has to do is remember that he’s currently in the backseat of a car, heading towards the most spectacular, grandest ship this world has ever seen… and Bucky’s probably the only person dreading every single inch that brings him closer and closer to that voyage ‘home’. He has no place herein Europe, and now he has even less of a place back in the damn country where he came from.
Then, just like that, Bucky’s reminded. Then, it’s a little harder to be so understanding.
The Southampton dock is crowded with thousands of people, some going through inspection before being allowed to board; others, just waiting there for their turn. Bucky stares out the window to his left and tries to distract himself by estimating exactly how many people are out there – which of the bunch are fellow passengers, and which are there to wave them goodbye and see them off.
He’s crammed in the small space with Rebecca in-between him and their mother. Bucky’s been trapped in that car for over a half hour, uncomfortable and tense – and, as usual, letting none of it registered on the outside beyond a certain acrimony that his mother and Brock jokingly refer to as Bucky’s ‘default’ emotion these days.
As per usual, that seems to ring no bells to any of them. To Bucky that comes as absolutely no surprise anymore.
Finally though, the vehicle comes to a stop, with the one carrying Brock and his off-putting man-servant of his, Schmidt, rolling to a slow stop behind them. Bucky hates when the valet opens up the door for him like he’s incapable of tending to such a simple matter himself, but he tries to tell himself that it’s only being done because his little sister could go out either side. It’s not being done for him (he silently repeats).
Placing a hand atop his bowler hat to keep it from knocking off the door frame – it wouldn’t be the first time, and from what he’s constantly told, clumsiness is not ‘becoming’ for the upper class – Bucky crouches and steps out of the car with as much grace as one who stands five-foot eleven can manage in holes that damn small. The first place his gaze goes to is the ship before them. It is huge, he’ll definitely give them that. He has to crane his neck to see to the very top from where he’s standing. However, he also thinks that all this commotion surrounding the Titanic seems a little unfounded.
To the rest of the world, it’s some sort of ‘dream’. It’s a ‘miracle’. It’s the ‘promise of a better future’.
To Bucky, it just looks like a ship.
From his peripherals, he sees Brock approaching him. Eyes still on the ship and refusing to meet his fiancé’s gaze, he muses nonchalantly, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about; it doesn’t look any bigger than the Mauretania. What’s the big deal?”
Brock huffs out a chuckle, slipping his gloved hand beneath Bucky’s chin to turn his face towards him and thus, forcing Bucky to look at him. Bucky has to fight from cringing; has to fight to maintain his composure even more when Brock then taps his finger off of the tip of Bucky’s nose like he’s some sort of daft child.
“You can be blasé about some things, James, but not about Titanic!” he chides with a smile that gets Bucky’s stomach churning. “This is the finest ship the world’s ever seen, silly boy! It’s over a hundred feet longer than the Mauretania – and far more luxurious. Your son is far too difficult to impress, Winifred,” he adds to Bucky’s mother, who’s come around the car with Rebecca to collect her son and begin heading for the boarding docks.
No longer in Brock’s grasp, Bucky turns his face away and rolls his eyes, thankful that no one seems to be looking at him anymore. For the moment, he’s once again invisible. Sometimes that has its perks.
He’s already starting to walk, but he can hear the conversation continuing from behind him. “So this is the ship they say is unsinkable,” his mother says, quite obviously faking modesty. Honestly, half the time she sounds no less ‘blasé’ than he does – Bucky doesn’t know why he’s the only one who ever seems to get reproached for it.
“It is unsinkable!” he hears Brock enthusiastically reply. “God Himself could not sink this ship!”
Bucky almost mutters from under his breath, “If He really is merciful, pray he does it while I’m on board.”
He’s relieved when one of the valet pulls Brock aside to inquire about their baggage. Bucky pretends not to hear Brock calling for him to wait. Instead, he keeps his chin tipped up and his sights forward; keeps his feet moving and his comments to himself. Unlike him, Rebecca – only eleven herself – is in complete awe of the Titanic. She squeals and points, exclaiming about how tall it is and voicing her excitement to see their cabin Suite.
“Now darling, do keep your voice down,” Winifred affectionately corrects her, placing a hand on her back and keeping her close as they make their way through the crowd of people. “Proper women do not shout.”
“Sorry, mother,” Rebecca mumbles, casting down her eyes.
Bucky glances over at her with a frown. When Brock catches back up with them, he and Winifred get right back into frivolous conversation and walk up ahead. Bucky nudges his sister with his elbow. When she peers up at him, Bucky points his index fingers to the corners of his mouth and curls them up into a ridiculous parody of a smile.
“Now darling, do smile at all times,” he jokingly scolds her, “just like this. Like your face is about to split into two.”
Rebecca giggles, and Bucky’s smile warms into something genuine in return. They reach the dock and within a few short minutes, begin to ascend up towards the ship. Along the way, he and Rebecca are told that they will all be occupying the Parlor Suite Rooms B52, 54, and 56. It’s to be expected that Bucky will be staying in the same Suite as his mother and sister.
He tries really hard to hide his smirk when he hears the undertone of frustration in Brock’s voice as he reminds them all of their lodging situations. Originally, he’d tried – pretty hard, actually – to convince Bucky to stay in his room. But, not being married yet, things were (for once) in Bucky’s favor. Brock couldn’t exactly argue him on it, much as Bucky could tell he wanted to.
It’s bad enough that Bucky’s going to have no privacy anymore once they get to Philadelphia. For now, he’s still got some autonomy left. Bucky is bound determine to milk it for all its worth.
“Welcome to the Titanic,” he can hear them greeting every passenger. All smiles. Everyone’s wearing smiles except for Bucky, it feels like.
Because each step up that dock, each step closer to that ship – it’s like Bucky’s walking closer and closer to his own execution. His feet feel heavy, like there are thousands of invisible anchors shackled around his ankles and threatening to sink him down, down… When he glances over his shoulder and sees the distance he’s placing between himself and land, his chest begins to feel tight, like he’s underwater. Like he’ll never taste air again.
When he thinks of what’s to come once they eventually dock in New York, Bucky supposes that’s not all that far off, really.
It’s such a strange thing – that this ship could mean one thing to everyone else, and yet be the complete opposite for him. It’s the ship of ‘dreams’… to everyone else. It’s the chance at a new life… to everyone else.
To Bucky, it’s just a ship, bringing him closer and closer to his death sentence... Taking him back to America only so he can become Brock Rumlow's property the moment they dock...
“Welcome to the Titanic,” they parrot to him when it’s finally their turn. All smiles. Everyone wears smiles, and Bucky forces one to his face to play the part. Strained and hollow, never meeting his eyes.
Outwardly, James Barnes is everything a well brought-up boy should be. Inside, he’s screaming. Screaming and drowning.
And not a single person seems to notice.
In a rickety little tavern on the floor above a tobacco shop, Steve Rogers wears his best poker face and stares down at the cards in his hand. So far, he’s running up a two pair with Jacks and a couple of nines. Peering over his hand, he glances to Heinz sitting opposite him, before darting his baby blues Arnim’s way, off to his right. This is their third game, and in the last twenty minutes, it was Steve’s idea to increase the pot so everyone was all-in.
Sam keeps shooting Steve nervous glances from the blond’s left. He’d tried to advise Steve against dropping the last few cents to both their names into the small pile culminating in the center of the table. But a bright, charming smile from Steve – paired with the promise that he knows what he’s doing and everything will be alright – had him setting his jaw and huffing out, “Fine. Do it.”
For a guy who’d met Steve basically under the exact same pretenses, Sam’s a lot less of a gambling man than Steve. They’d crossed each other’s paths in Bercy first, discovering that they both hailed from New York (one from Brooklyn, the other from Harlem) and getting lost in a hearty discussion over a few beers. About three weeks later and they’d run into each other again by complete accident in London. Sam had joked that Steve was following him, and somehow that led to them establishing a mutual agreement that they’d continue the remainder of their travels across Europe together.
The last few months have been fun – an adventure, and Steve Rogers pretty much lives for those. They slept wherever they could find shelter, and earned pennies in their own ways. Every cent they’d rake in was always piled together for their travels. An equal fifty-fifty – even if that fifty-fifty never exactly amounted to much. Steve’s input always came from selling sketches on the street; Sam, by shining shoes and then using some of his earnings to buy the fabrics needed to hand-make and sell clothing on the side.
Steve thinks Sam’s talent for tailoring is extraordinary. And the man is probably the kindest soul Steve’s ever met. He never complains about the looks people turn on him when he gives them a smile and offers to spiff up their shoes. There’s never a shortage of humble words in Sam’s vocabulary when he gives a smile and a friendly greeting each and every time to the middle and upper class snoots – even though they always appear disgusted at the mere suggestion of a ‘colored man’ laying even a finger on their belongings.
They get along so well because it takes a lot to get under their skin. Sam shares Steve’s passion for life, and unlike a lot of the other people Steve’s come by over the years, Sam has a genuinely good heart.
Apparently, though, one of the ways to get his friend sweating is to bet the entirety of the cash they’ve made over the last week in a poker game against complete strangers.
But it’s not all for nothing. Even Steve wouldn’t have raised the stakes that high if not for the fact that their little drinking buddies had been boasting about having tickets to board the RMS Titanic. From where he’s sitting, Steve can see it right out the window – so big and miraculous, there’s no way anyone could miss it. He’s heard people refer to it as ‘the ship of dreams’. Steve can understand why.
It’s setting sail that day, and he needs to be on it when it does. He and Sam, both finally getting the chance to head back home and be a piece of history (even if it’s the tiniest piece). Those tickets are their destiny, he’s sure of it – Third Class, White Star Line, sitting so prettily on the very top of the pot.
“Eyes on your own hand, Wilson,” he playfully mutters, casually meeting Sam’s exasperated gaze for about the tenth time in the last minute.
“Steve, you’re crazy, man – you’re betting everything we have!” Sam argues with frustration. “I’m gonna be left holding the bag!”
Never lifting his eyes from his hand, a lighthearted smile turns up one corner of Steve’s mouth and he reminds him, “We’ve already been over this, Wilson; everything’s Jake. You just gotta have some faith.”
He discards his two of clubs and picks up one more card. Everything’s resting on it; his last chance of this game. Blue eyes dart down to it, taking in what’s staring back at him. If Steve’s suddenly grinning on the inside, it never shows on the out. He casually adds the new card to his hand.
Beside him, Sam grumbles, “Oh, I have faith – but you ain’t the good Lord, Rogers. Don’t let that head of yours swell up.”
Steve snorts to himself, sneaking another peek up to have a short stare-down with Heinz. He can tell Heinz is trying to figure out his strategy and get a read on him. Unfortunately for him, Steve’s had way too much experience with poker over the years to be that transparent. Even if he may not always be the best player, his poker face is outmatched. It’s always been quite the impressive hidden talent of his, given how little Steve enjoys lying in every other facet of his life.
Calmly, he replies, “Would never dream of it. Listen – when you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose. That’s all I’m saying. Haven’t you learned anythin’ in the time you’ve known me? This is just another adventure.”
“Yeah, an adventure that’s gonna result in me havin’ to shine twice as many shoes come mornin’ just so we can have something ta’ eat by lunch,” Sam grumbles, sitting back in his chair. He sighs, reluctantly gesturing to Steve with his hand. “Alright, go on then,” he relents. Sam can give Steve the gears better than anyone these days, but he also never backs down from being the very first person to stand in Steve’s corner when he needs a wingman.
“You heard ‘im boys! Time’s up – moment of truth,” Steve announces. Leaning forward, he eyes the two other men with a boyish grin, adding, “Somebody’s life is about to change… Sam?”
They all look to him, but Sam just keeps his flat expression set on Steve and says nothing.
“Nadda?” Steve guesses.
“Yeah, nadda,” Sam snaps, dropping his cards face-down on the table.
Steve isn’t deterred by his friend’s anxiety. Looking ahead of him, he nods. “Heinz?” The European glances from left to right and then sighs, dropping down his cards. He admits to having nothing either. That leaves Arnim.
When they all look to him, Arnim pauses and uncertainly glances back down to his hand, before dropping his cards face-up and answering: “Two pair.”
“Ahahahah!” Heinz cheers, throwing a hand on Arnim’s back and congratulating him in some pretty enthusiastic German.
Next to him, Sam groans out, “Great, this is just great. Way to go, Steve,” as he drops his elbows onto the table and then his head into his hands.
Steve nods, taking in the sight of the two tens staring back up at him. With a feigned grimness, he murmurs, “Wow, two pair… That’s a good hand, that’s a mighty good hand.” Sighing, he shakes his head and looks to Sam. “Sam, I’m sorry--”
“Yeah, well you damn well should be sorry,” Sam agrees, nodding with wide eyes to everything in the pot – all their belongings now gone, simple as that.
“I’m sorry,” Steve quickly presses, as if remaining uninterrupted, “you’re not gonna get to see Europe again for a very long time… ‘cause we’re goin’ to America! Full house, fellas!”
Slapping his cards down on the table – three Jacks and two nines – Sam’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head as he realizes what’s just happened. Steve’s grinning from ear to ear, and suddenly Sam’s leaping out of his seat, shouting in disbelief, “Full house! We won – Rogers, we won, we won! I could kiss you!”
He starts laughing and whooping his excitement. Steve rises out of his seat, too, likewise cheering but apologizing good-naturedly all the same, “Sorry, boys, fair is fair!”
Heinz looks infuriated. To everyone’s surprise, he responds by reaching across the table and abruptly grabbing Steve by the collar. He cocks his fist up, snarling something angrily in his mother tongue. Steve braces himself for a right hook in the face (and the possibility of another tavern brawl he’ll inevitably need to get pulled out of) – when Heinz instead sends his fist right at Arnim’s face, hitting him so hard that the guy falls backwards out of his chair. The entire tavern erupts into laughter, drunken and sober alike.
Steve can’t understand what Heinz is now shouting to his friend, who’s stunned and still sprawled on his back, but he imagines it has to do with the fact that Arnim was the one who agreed to bet their tickets when Steve dared them to. Well, not their tickets anymore – Steve’s and Sam’s now. He can hardly believe it.
Moving fast, Sam opens up his duffel bag and holds it at the table’s edge for Steve to sweep the entirety of the pot inside. Sam grabs one of the tickets and kisses it loudly. Steve, grabbing the other and pulling Sam into a hug, excitedly exclaims, “We’re goin’ home, buddy! We’re goin’ back to America!”
“Hate to break it to you, fellas--” they suddenly hear the barkeep interrupt. Looking over to him, the man nods to the clock on the wall and clarifies, “--But the Titanic goes to America… in five minutes.”
Sharing a shocked glance, there’s only the quickest beat before both men are scrambling to book it out of there, Sam doing up his bag and swinging it over his shoulder before grabbing Steve’s and shoving it into his hands. They turn on their heels and practically sprint from the tavern, almost tripping over each other down the stairs as they make their way out.
There’s no time to go through inspection. Their five minute window is almost eaten right up just trying to squeeze their way through the thick crowd of people. The closer they get to the ship, the harder Steve’s grin threatens to crack his face in half. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Never slowing down, they run through the bustle of people, Sam calling back to him excitedly, “We gonna be travelin’ in high style now, Rogers! About time!”
“We’re a coupla’ regular Big Sixes!” Steve hollers back in agreement.
“Practically goddamn royalty!”
Steve can see the last passenger stepping into the ship from the top of the boarding dock, and a momentary panic gets his heart pounding out of his chest. Worried that they might not make it in time, he puts his all into his legs to try and pick up speed. Running past Sam, Steve calls, “On your left! C’mon, Wilson, I thought you said you were fast! Hurry up!”
“I’m goin’ as fast as I can, Steve – don’t make me push you off this port!”
Steve laughs, feeling giddy as he rounds the corner to the boarding dock and starts booking his way up. Sticking out his hand, he shouts to the crewmen, “Wait, wait! We’re passengers, hold up!”
When they get to the top, holding up their tickets for the crewmen to see, they regard Steve and Sam suspiciously before one of them reluctantly asks, “Have you been through the sanitation inspection?”
“Yeah, of course,” Sam lies, not missing a beat.
“We’re fine anyways – we’re Americans. Both of us,” Steve offers just as quickly, seeing the way their eyes warily fall on his friend.
They regard them from head to toe for a few more seconds before giving in; nodding and stepping aside to let them jump aboard. Once on the ship, Steve grabs Sam’s arm, running them up onto the deck so they can get up close to the edge and join the waving crowd.
“Why are we waving? We don’t even know anyone here!” Sam points out, sounding amused. Even so, he keeps on waving.
“Who cares? It don’t matter – goodbye!” Steve shouts to the sea of people below, all cheering and waving back like – for just a second – two poor kids from New York are worth getting as sentimental over as anyone else on that deck. “Goodbye, I’ll miss you!” Steve keeps calling, his voice mingling with the hundreds of others making his ears ring. “I’ll never forget any of you! I’ll write you every day, I promise!”
“You’re ridiculous,” Sam laughs.
“Give it a try, it feels great,” Steve shoots back.
Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head – but as the ship comes to life and slowly begins to pull out of the harbor, Steve can hear him yelling from beside him, “Goodbye everyone! I love you all, I’ll miss you! I’ll see you again someday!”
Steve’s cheeks still hurt, because he hasn’t stopped smiling for a second. He likes to think of every day as being the best in his life so far – but this one might very well take the cake, no doubt about it.
His entire future is about to change. He stays there, waving, until every last person is nothing more than a tiny spot in the distance.
Bucky doesn’t need to help the staff bring in his things, but of course he does anyways. The Suite belonging to him and his family is massive, just like they promised it’d be. And yet, it’s bland, in his opinion; far too posh, way too prim and lifeless.
His sister and mother head straight for their rooms to start directing their personalized staff of where to place all of their things. Bucky, on the other hand, remains in the sitting room and insists that he’ll be just fine unpacking his belongings on his own. Getting waited on hand and foot makes him uncomfortable, it always has. Any opportunity to avoid such unnecessary treatment, even if subtly, and Bucky takes it.
For now, he keeps himself busy by helping his maid, Virginia, start opening up the boxes containing the artwork Bucky had come by during his time in England. Probably the only worthwhile outcome of the entire trip, in his mind. No one else seems to share in his appreciation for art. They all find it inconsequential; nothing more than a waste of perfectly good money on something with no meaning. Bucky’s always found that pretty damn ironic.
George Barnes had understood, though. It was one of the many things he and Bucky had bonded over when alone. That, and Bucky’s poetry. It’s easy to forget that, what might as well be lifetimes ago, Bucky didn’t always feel so alone. He’d belonged – wasn’t regarded as strange – at least in the eyes of one other person.
Hanging up his coat, Bucky removes his bowler and then rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt to get to work. Picking up one of his paintings, he begins glancing to the wall to try and find a suitable place to hang it up. Brock’s walking about the room with several of the other staff members, being shown the layout and dropping in comments like he owned the place. Typical. Brock Rumlow certainly likes to believe he owns everything in sight, if the way he handles objects and people alike are anything to go by.
Bucky tries to tune out the sound of his voice. The odd times his ears are forced to catch it, he’s rolling his eyes and shaking his head to himself, his thoughts chanting on repeat, Shut up, shut up. Shut. Up.
“Oh, that one is very interesting,” Virginia says, glancing down to the painting from over his shoulder and providing Bucky with a much-needed distraction. Bucky looks to her and then back down to the painting in his hands, nodding as he hums his agreement.
He doesn’t know what this one is actually called, but his personal title for it is ‘the one with all the faces’, and it’s his absolute favorite. It’s mesmerizing in its chaos and discordance. There’s something, to him, that’s quite beautiful about it, even if he can’t quite put his finger on what that is. The artist somehow managed to capture harmony in its dissonance, and… it reminds Bucky of one of the first poems he’d ever shared with his father. He’d been just a boy then, back when sharing his writing with others was something he still had an interest in doing.
Not these days. Not anymore.
“I thought so, too,” he replies fondly. One corner of his mouth turns up into a tiny smile. “It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, but… it spoke to me. Help me find a place to put it? I don’t know about you, Miss Potts, but I think this room could benefit from a little personality.”
Virginia shares a knowing smile with him and nods. Taking it, she starts looking around to the walls and agrees, “Absolutely, sir. I think over by the fireplace would be a wonderful spot to add some color to the room. It will catch the eye no matter which way you’re facing.”
Bucky nods, his smile expanding. Incidentally, that was what he’dbe thinking, too. “Perfect. You have an eye for design, Miss Potts. And please, I beg of you, call me Bucky.”
“Oh, not with that silly nickname again, James,” Brock cuts in from behind him, walking back into the room and, as usual, inserting his opinion where it’s neither wanted nor needed. His tone tries to disguise itself as jovial and amused. Really, all it is is condescending. “You’re not a child. I do hope that is not how you’ll be introducing yourself to my colleagues once we are married.”
Bucky’s smile drops. Since his back is still to Brock, he scowls and hardens his stare, choosing instead to go sift through the rest of his paintings to pick the next one to hang up. “Yes, I’m sure that’d be quite embarrassing for you, darling,” he mutters tonelessly.
“Imagine the look on the Priest’s face if he were to announce such a name at our wedding,” Brock laughs, still completely oblivious to Bucky’s instant change in demeanor. Perhaps he’s fully aware of it and simply doesn’t care. Neither possibility would surprise Bucky in the least.
“Bucky,” he repeats with a disbelieving chuckle. “Hardly a name for royalty, that’s for sure.” The condescending way the syllables wrap around his tongue and then assault the air in the room makes Bucky cringe. His father had given him that nickname. It’s like a swift kick to the knees that leaves Bucky feeling even smaller.
Bucky grits his teeth and is about to snap back an icy retort when Brock notices the paintings and scoffs. “God, not those finger paintings again,” he laments, like Bucky isin fact seven years old rather than seventeen; exhausting him like only a child could. “I don’t know how many times I need to remind you how much of a waste of money they were. My money, I would like to add.”
“How could I possibly forget when you so graciously remind me every day?” Bucky mutters, his tone falling flat. Picking up another, Bucky holds it up so Virginia can see and continues, “You see, Miss Potts, the difference between Brock’s taste in art and mine is that I actually have some. But then again, not every mind can be a cultured one, I suppose.” Casting his fiancé a hollow smile, Bucky sweetly adds, “I have no problem being the one between the two of us with the brains.”
He’s hoping to spark some sort of reaction out of Brock, but to Bucky’s frustration, the insult seems to go unnoticed. All Brock does is hold his gaze for one prolonged moment, his smile looking suspiciously similar to a sneer. “Oh, baby doll, they are ridiculous,” he then insists, unflinching and chuckling again in that amused way that Bucky hates so much.
“No, they’re fascinating,” he argues. Glancing back to his maid, he tries to explain, “When I first saw these, I felt like I was transported into some sort of dream. Maybe by first glance, they appear nonsensical, I understand that, but--”
“There’s truth but no logic,” Virginia murmurs, her eyes still sweeping across the seemingly random images painted onto the canvas.
Bucky smiles again, relieved that someone else seems to get it. It’s been so long since he’s been able to hold this sort of conversation with another person. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel.”
“They are indeed something,” she replies, nodding. Smiling, she takes that one from him to try too so she can find a place that’ll do it justice on the wall. “What is the name of the artist?”
Bucky shrugs, flipping through the last few canvasses. “I’m not sure. Something ‘Picasso’…”
A peel of Brock’s laughter cuts into the room. It’s the ugliest noise Bucky’s ever known. “‘Something Piccaso’? Honestly, James…”
“Isn’t there anyone else you can go bestow your generous opinions onto?” Bucky asks, impatience fighting with sensibility in the face of keeping his voice even.
That’s when Brock says from behind him, “If that’s the sort of eloquence you demonstrate in that ratty old book of yours--”
Eyes widening, Bucky turns his head so fast he almost gets whiplash. He either tends to carry his small notebook – pages filled with finished and unfinished pieces; scribbles or random thoughts and feelings all floating around in his head - on his person, or in his satchel when traveling. It had been sitting in the latter, deposited absentmindedly onto the divan when Bucky had first entered the Suite.
However, it’s now in Brock’s hands, the cover being opened without permission. Everything in Bucky twists; his pulse spiking in both panic and violation. Dropping the canvas in his hands to the floor, he’s across the small room in seconds, yanking his book from his fiance– hopefully before Brock had been able to lay eyes on even a single word Bucky had written in there.
“Did I say you could go through my things? Was I there when for that conversation in which I gave you permission, because I sure as Hell don’t remember that,” Bucky growls, uncaring that he’s making his defiance public in front of Virginia and the other staff members in the room.
If there’s one thing Bucky knows Brock loathes, it’s Bucky back-talking him in front of others. He’s not overly fond of Bucky using crude language either. As quickly as the words fly out of Bucky’s mouth, so too does Brock’s hand reflexively fly up and snatch Bucky’s wrist. The grip isn’t gentle. It’s a warning Brock won’t let show on his face. To everyone else, he still looks like he’s smiling, just a little bit.
But Bucky sees the flash in his eyes – the unspoken, you are lucky we not alone right now. He does everything in his power not to flinch or shrink away in the face of Brock’s perfectly contained rage. No one would believe Bucky about it anyways. He seems to be the only one to ever witness it. So instead, Bucky doesn’t blink, and he doesn’t look away. He just scowls. Around them, the staff falls silent, the air quickly growing tense and uncomfortable.
“Baby doll,” Brock says slowly, carefully. Still smiling. Still hiding every last threat his words are masking. “You know how much I don’t like that sort of language.”
“Let go of my wrist,” Bucky says, low and controlled. Anything to keep from shaking or looking weak in front of the others.
Brock’s mouth – curved up into that unnatural smile – twitches. It’s like neither of them have blinked in years. He uncurls his fingers from Bucky’s wrist and instead steps in closer, slipping his finger back beneath Bucky’s chin; pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Bucky stiffens, instantly at a disadvantage. He can’t act out against that gesture right here, right now. Technically, he shouldn’t even be acting out at all.
He’s ‘not allowed’.
“You are my fiancé, James,” Brock explains calmly. “Don’t you think it’s rude to hide things from me? We should share everything with each other.”
Bucky swallows. His resolve isn’t holding up so well anymore, not with Brock so close and the painstaking reminder that Bucky can’t do a single damn thing about it. He lost that privilege when his mom sold him off like swine. “All you ever do is mock it,” he answers bitterly.
“I do not mock it, baby doll, I’m merely trying to protect you,” Brock counters, back to speaking affectionately, like he finds Bucky amusing. “There is no future for an artist, or a writer. It’s not a real job, James, it’s the dreamer’s fantasy. And fantasy gets you nowhere in life, isn’t that right?”
‘Art is not a handicraft, it is the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced,’ George had said to him, Bucky sitting on his knee when he was just a boy. In his hands, he’d held a book, and the two could spend hours staring down upon the pages. ‘You know who said that, Bucky? Leo Tolstoy, one of the greatest dreamers in all the world. Art is ‘the transmission of feeling the artist has experienced’ – remember that, my boy. Feel, and live, and experience. Share it with the world. Not everyone is blessed with the gift to do that. The world is only truly made by dreamers…’
Bucky’s throat gets tight, and he knows he’s lost this one. He will not give Brock the satisfaction of him agreeing, but if he tries to open his mouth and speak, there’s no trusting what will come out – if anything at all. So, Bucky breaks the eye contact and casts his gaze downward, swallowing the lump that’s formed and turning away.
Approaching the painting he’d hastily dropped, Bucky’s bottom lip quivers, and he does everything in whatever power the world’s letting him have left to make it stop before anyone notices. When he meets Virginia’s eyes, he can see the trouble in her expression; the way her brows are slightly creased.
He’s seen that look countless times. It’s the one when those around him who know better have to pretend that they don’t. Bucky knows it isn’t her fault that she can’t come to his defense, much as she probably wants to.
So he merely throws on a half-hearted smile, nodding towards the direction of his bedroom. Already walking towards it, he clears his throat and then says, “I think this one would look nice in here, don’t you think?”
“He won’t amount to a thing,” Brock continues after him. “That ‘Picasso’ fella? He won’t, trust me. There’s no money in such drivel.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. People can assume whatever they want about him – the last thing Bucky Barnes is is dumb. The world sees him as nothing more than a young, attractive face. But Bucky’s always been tremendously intelligent, which means he knows a silent accusation when he hears one. And what he hears is Brock saying he, but meaning you. You won’t amount to a thing, baby doll.
The worst part is that now, Brock’s probably right.
“Well, at least they were cheap,” he can still hear Brock say amusedly to Schmidt. He almost wishes he hadn’t heard that throwaway comment. It makes Bucky want to vomit, because that’s the single best way to summarize the world he lives in. It’s a very, very cold and ruthless world indeed. There are no room for dreamers.
No room at all for a boy like Bucky; born to stand out, but forced into a box and struggling to breathe while he tries to fit in.
And yet, if he didn’t have his father’s last name, that’s exactly what he’d be, too. Cheap. There’d be no redemption. He’d be overlooked and worthless, like the painting in his hands, no matter how complex and beautiful he’d hope to be beneath the surface.
Bucky’s eyes are wet. He pushes past it and doesn’t let the tears fall. If they fall, Brock wins. If Virginia notices while they continue to unpack his things, she doesn’t comment on it. Bucky’s sure she still wants to. He tries to pretend that that’s something.
It’s all either of them can do. She wouldn’t be permitted to stand up for him anyways.
Bucky’s not allowed to have anyone on his side anymore.
Down in the F Deck, Steve and Sam walk through the halls in search of their room. Eventually, they find it – 360 – and head on in. They have two other roommates crammed in there with them, and admittedly, they seem a little thrown off at the sight of Steve and Sam piling into the room with their duffel bags, and not their German friends, as they’d clearly been expecting. Steve can’t know for sure what one of them asks the other, but he picks up on the name Heinz, so he can only assume they’re questioning what happened to them.
All the same, Steve gives them a grin and cheerily says, “Hey, boys! Nice to meetcha!” Sam’s already climbed up onto the top mattress of their bunk bed, claiming it as his own for the next seven days. Steve tosses his own bag onto the bottom bunk and then shoves him harmlessly, saying, “What’s a matter? Tired already? Too much excitement for you for one day?"
“I’ve been lying down for all of thirty seconds,” Sam replies with a chuckle, shoving him back before rolling over and draping an arm over his eyes. “Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Five minutes – seriously?” Steve presses like an impatient toddler. “We haven’t even had the chance to see anythin’ yet! Don’t you wanna take a walk on the deck and see the ocean?”
“Man, I saw the ocean, right as we were sailing off. I’m gonna go ahead and assume it’ll still be there in five minutes, looking exactly the same.”
Steve huffs and lies down on his own mattress. Staring up at the bunk above him, he grins just at the same moment that he hears Sam warn, “Don’t do it, Rogers…”
Too late. Steve’s bending his knees to his chest and pressing his feet up against it, making the metal frame of the bunk bed squeak as he pushes his feet to it rhythmically and jostles Sam.
“C’mon, Wilson, this is too exciting,” Steve says.
“Are you a child? Seriously, Rogers, are you a child?” Sam groans, but he hardly sounds all that annoyed.
“I’ll keep doin’ this until you’re ready to stop being such a stick in the mud,” Steve promises.
“Soon as I get down there, I’m punching you straight in the gut.”
Steve counters, “What if I buy us a round tonight?”
Above him, Sam falls silent. Next thing Steve knows, he hears his friend heave a mock sigh and say, “You sure do know the way to a fella’s heart,” as he begins to move to get out of bed. Grinning triumphantly, Steve rolls out himself and straightens just as Sam drops down to his feet. Sam mimics going to throw a punch at Steve’s stomach, just like he promised, and Steve chuckles and pushes him towards the door.
They make their way up from the F Deck, saying hi to random strangers as they pass – even the ones who respond by staring at them like they have four heads. When they emerge onto the third-class part of the deck, Steve’s met with a cool breeze brushing against his skin, mixed with the smell of salt water and crisp, clean air.
For a moment, his eyes close and he inhales deeply, feeling serene. This, to him, might as well be Paradise. It never ceases to amaze him, the magnificence of the world – all there to be appreciated so long as you allow yourself the chance to just stop and feel it.
Steve notices that the bow of the ship – the very front point with undoubtedly the best view – is vacant. “C’mon, let’s go have a look,” he says to Sam, and then breaks out into a run.
“It’s always running with you!” Sam calls behind him, picking up his speed to catch up. They both get to the bow and Sam playfully goads, “Why is it always running with you?”
But Steve’s now too busy staring out ahead at the landscape in front of them. “God, look at this,” he says excitedly. “Have you ever seen anythin’ like it?”
“It’s incredible,” Sam agrees in earnest, staring out ahead too, and looking just as awed.
They’re steaming west out the coast of Ireland now, and it’s nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see; sparkling beneath the sun, making all the world before them look like a blanket of crystals, twinkling and dancing about. The sun is still out, without a cloud in the sky. Steve wishes he hadn’t run out of his wax crayons a few days prior, because his charcoal pencils would never be able to properly convey the breathtaking canvas of colors he’s beholding right now.
He holds onto the taut line of rope running up diagonally next to his head. With the other hand, he grabs the rail and leans forward to get a good view of the water below. It’s easy to forget that they’re all moving as quickly as they are, but seeing the way the ship cuts through the water, hearing the sound of the ocean splitting around it, as if making room – it suddenly feels like they’re soaring.
Something catches his eye beneath the water’s surface.
“Hey!” Steve shouts, pointing down to the silhouette of a dolphin gliding along right next to the ship. “There, do you see it? Look!”
Sam looks over the rail to where Steve’s pointing, and then lets out an amazed, delighted laugh. First, they only notice the one, but then within seconds, it’s as if three more pop up into sight from nowhere. Incredibly, they’re all able to keep up with the speed of the Titanic, zipping through the water like a group of bullets. They watch with open-mouthed grins as the dolphins begin to leap out of the water, putting on a show just for them.
When they eventually start to veer on a different course, Steve presses his hand down on the top of his head to keep his newsy cap from being blown away by the wind; leaning a little over the railing so he can watch them swim on for as long as he can.
“Don’t fall now,” Sam jokes.
Steve straightens, setting his gaze out ahead again. His grin simmers down into an introspective, private little smile. He’d been right: this is without a doubt the best day of his life. Winning that hand made him the luckiest sonofabitch in the world – and he knows it, somewhere deep down in his gut… Everything’s about to change for him. His future is waiting for him with open arms, and this – whatever it may be – is going to be his greatest adventure yet.
“Oh, I know that look,” Sam chuckles warily, nudging him with his elbow. “What exactly’s goin’ through that head of yours now, Rogers?”
“I was just thinkin’…” Steve huffs out a soft laugh, still smiling to himself, “…that I feel like the king of the world.” Turning his head, he looks to his friend, smile blossoming into another grin.
Sam matches it but also rolls his eyes. “Now I know your head is swelling,” he deadpans harmlessly, turning to walk away. “C’mon Rogers, you owe me that drink!”
“She’s the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all of history. And our master ship builder, Mr. Stark here, designed her from the keel plates up,” Alexander Pierce explains over lunch the following afternoon.
Bucky’s listening intently, this sort of conversation actually being of interest to him for a change. Even if Mr. Pierce’s blatant arrogance rubs Bucky the wrong way, the design of the ship is probably the only aspect of the Titanic that truly fascinates him. Brock often (once again) injects his unwanted opinion on the fact that it’s all knowledge ‘that will never prove itself useful for Bucky to know’.
‘What do you think you’re going to be – an engineer? Build your own ships?’ he’d asked, as if that was the most adorably naïve thought his fiancé had ever had. ‘There’s absolutely no need to trouble that pretty head of yours with the likes of mathematics; it’s not as if you will ever need it.’
Unfortunately for him, Bucky couldn’t care less what he thinks
His mother sits to his right, and Brock, to his left. From the corner of his eye, Bucky doesn’t miss – much as he’d like to – how Winifred continuously leans over and corrects Rebecca from under her breath on her posture, causing the young girl to whisper promptly, “Apologies, mother,” while she fixes it and straightens as fast as she can. Bucky tries to keep distracted – and his mouth closed – by looking ahead to Howard Stark, sitting opposite him, and awaiting his input.
“Well, I may have had a hand in putting her together, but the idea was all Mr. Pierce’s,” Stark replies modestly, wiping at his mouth with his napkin. “You see, he envisioned a steamer so grand in scale and so luxurious that its supremacy would never be challenged. When he came to me and told me that he wanted a ship ‘unlike anything the world had ever seen before’, I knew I had to be the man for the job.
“And, well, here she is, an idea finally come to life,” he concludes with pride, patting his hand off the tabletop. “I’ll tell you, it is amazing to finally be sitting in it like this. I remember a time when this was all just another dream floating around and piecing itself together in my head.”
Before Bucky can think better of it, he pipes up and says, “It’s always fascinated me how many similarities scientists and engineers like yourself, Mr. Stark, have in common with artists.” Just like that, it’s as if all of the air surrounding the table gets sucked out of the room. Next to him, Winifred gasps – that’s a little overdramatic – and reproachfully hisses under her breath, “James.”
To his left, he swears he can hear Brock mutter under his breath, “Dear Lord, not again...”
Bucky’s cheeks redden with embarrassment, his mouth twisting up into a frown. Stark doesn’t appear to be offended by Bucky’s observation, though. Instead, he only narrows his eyes and cocks his head, as though he were interested – maybe a little amusedly – to hear Bucky’s justification.
So he swallows and quickly explains, “What I mean is – you likened it to a dream in your head. A – a dream that you then created and brought to life. It was a thing that the world had not yet seen until you made it a reality. Decades ago, many would have probably argued that you were a dreamer,” he adds very deliberately, knowing full well that Brock is aware to whom that little comment is truly addressing.
Taking a breath and straightening in his seat, Bucky scrounges more of his confidence back and attempts to continue: “I don’t see that as being very different from artists. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I don’t mean that to be snide. I say it as a compliment – one made with my utmost respect.”
For a few more seconds, no one says anything. Stark seems to be mulling his words over, studying him with a hint of a smile. From the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Rebecca nervously glancing from her brother to Winifred, clearly worried of what sort of trouble Bucky is about to get into.
“You’re an artist, I assume,” Stark finally says.
“Not exactly – I mean, I enjoy paintings but… I write. I like to write.”
The corner of Howard’s mouth tugs up even more. “So you’re a writer,” he prompts. At the head of the table, Pierce releases a hearty chuckle, clearly finding Bucky’s spectacle an entertaining one.
Bucky’s stomach is twisting. He’s used to this game, where people will trick him into answering these sorts of questions so they can throw them back in his face and laugh at his expense. That’s probably why neither his mother nor Brock have intervened yet. Brock is always looking for a chance to be proven right; Winifred, simply for the chance to try and convince her son that his passions are nothing more than a child’s folly.
Getting constantly mocked for his shortcomings as a member of the upper class is as annoying as it is hurtful. Everyone seems to have a comment to make the moment they get even the smallest glimpse into the real him, and not just the illusion he puts on at face value. Bucky has no idea why he’d thought for a second that Howard Stark would be any different. He’s regretting ever opening his mouth and allowing himself to be so foolish as to think he could have an opinion anymore either.
“No, sir, I suppose I’m not,” he dully answers, jaw tightening.
Stark doesn’t seem put off by Bucky’s gradually tensing demeanor. Sitting forward, he asks, “But you said that you write?”
Bucky isn’t about to go toe-to-toe in a battle he knows he’ll lose. Not here. So he looks down at his empty plate and mutters, “Yes, but--”
“Then you are a writer. Which means, you are also an artist,” Stark gently finishes. “Art with words is no different than art with paint.” Thrown off, Bucky looks back up to him quickly in confusion. The smile he’s met with is tentative but by no means cruel. Stark is smiling at him genuinely. With a little nod, the engineer adds, “And thank you for the compliment, James. You might be onto something. Now, what sort of--?”
He aborts the rest of his question as everyone suddenly turns their attention towards the return of Margaret Carter and her daughter, who’d left shortly after first sitting down when little Sharon had complained of having to use the washroom. Bucky’s uncontrollable sigh of relief is inaudible. He’s only known the woman for little over twenty-four hours, but Bucky’s already concluded that she might very well be the only normal human being on this ship. There’s something about her that puts Bucky more at ease and makes him feel some semblance of safety.
Everyone calls her ‘Peggy’. Bucky likes her – which is why it disgusts him so much that most of the others within the rich social circle don’t seem to share in his feelings. She strikes Bucky as a fighter; just as unsinkable in her strength as the ship surrounding them. It’s in part to do with the fact that this woman possesses a presence impossible to miss.
But it’s also because she seems to have the bound determination to survive any obstacle that dares to face her, be it unfair treatment simply faced because she’s a woman, or standing up for those she witnesses being unfairly treated themselves. Stereotypes and ‘limitations’ don’t dictate her. Peggy walks with her head held high and a strut in her step, clearly living by no one’s rules but her own. And she makes sure everyone around her knows it.
Winifred, sucked up in and blinded by the superficiality of the upper class mentality, looks down her nose at Peggy. She calls her ‘new money’, all because her husband Daniel had struck gold someplace out West and their fortune is still relatively fresh for them both. It means that Peggy Carter hasn’t been tainted by it yet; money’s greedy claws haven’t morphed her into yet another perfunctory monster.
Bucky hopes they never will. It feels like she’s the only person Bucky’s met in years that still has any spec of morality and compassion left in their body. In some ways, she reminds Bucky of his father. And when he looks over at her eight-year-old daughter sitting beside her, it gives him hope. Peggy never corrects Sharon’s posture.
“Mrs. Carter, wonderful of you to rejoin us,” Mr. Pierce politely greets her.
“Ms., thank you,” Peggy answers, punctually but equally as polite. Winifred scoffs under her breath. The evening before, she’d mentioned in Bucky’s presence that she finds many of Peggy’s ‘modern’ habits to be ‘insulting’.Only Bucky seems to hear the noise. He makes that known by casting his mother a quick, repugnant side glance before redirecting his attention back to Peggy.
After settling Sharon in her chair, she takes her own and smiles. “So, what have I missed?” Peggy asks the table at large.
Stark answers first, again to Bucky’s surprise. Gesturing to Bucky, he says, “Actually Peg, I was just about to ask young James here what sort of writing he likes to do.”
His mother shakes her head and lets out the quietest of huffs. Bucky can still hear it, same as he can feel Brock stiffening beside him impatiently. Pierce begins to try diverting the conversation when Peggy clasps her hands together and enthusiastically interrupts, “Oh, how delightful. I am rather fond of the written word myself.”
Setting her sights directly onto Bucky, she offers him a friendly, beautiful smile – one that reads, do not pay them any mind, young man. Then she tells him, as though Brock, Winifred, and Pierce were no longer even there, “I would love to hear your answer.”
The tips of Bucky’s ears grow hot with a fresh blush, but he can’t help that a boyish smile suddenly breaks across his face. It might be the first real, full smile he’s cracked since before his father’s death. No one’s expressed an interest in him like this in almost a year. The feeling of not being completely see-through for once makes him far giddier than perhaps it should.
“Well,” he answers with a chuckle, shifting in his seat and looking to her and Stark, “um, poetry mostly. Not all within verse, which I know is considered unconventional, but… Actually, I’ve been working on a piece recently that I--”
“Alright, now that’s more than enough,” Brock cuts him off, releasing a curt laugh that cuts through Bucky deeper than any blade ever could. Just like that, Bucky’s smile vanishes, more of that horrible humiliation prickling his skin and making his chest burn. Mouth still open, the rest of Bucky’s sentence dies on his tongue, as he slowly lowers his eyes from Stark to the table setting between them.
Peggy’s got an eyebrow arched, her own smile dropping just as quickly as her gaze snaps over to Brock. Stark looks to him as well. By contrast, he seems to be surprised more than anything. Bucky remembers a time when he was still capable of being surprised by Brock’s behavior. Things had still been new then. Needless to say, that hadn’t lasted long.
The fact that his mother then thanks Brock and Brock keeps talking only makes Bucky feel tinier and tinier with every second that passes.
“Honestly, is this really proper conversation for lunch?” his fiancé continues; still smiling and pairing his words with even more insufferable laughter. Still pretending that Bucky amuses him, only that now he’s faced with the tiring responsibility of putting his foot down and brushing such talk away.
The look Peggy is giving Brock is calculated and controlled, but her brown eyes are filled with something fierce. “My apologies,” she tells him pointedly, “but I believe your fiancé was in the middle of saying something.”
Brock responds with a scoff. “Oh, Ms. Carter, please. With all due respect? Artists and poetry and – we should not be filling this sweet boy’s head with smoke by encouraging such preposterous nonsense.”
“I agree,” Mr. Pierce chimes in jovially, like they were suddenly discussing something as irrelevant as the weather. Everyone looks to him except Bucky. Bucky’s eyes are still stuck on the table, unblinking. With a chuckle, Pierce clarifies, “I’ve personally never understood the common artist. How do they contribute to society?”
“They don’t,” Winifred tutts.
“My thoughts exactly,” Pierce says. “The fascination with spending money on, well… messes to hang on your walls…” He chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. “Well, call my old-fashioned but I suppose it just goes right over my head. I’m more interested in thinking of ways we can innovate the future and change the world.”
“Yes, Alexander, please do continue telling us all about this fine ship,” Brock says. He sounds relieved that he’s finally found a way to put an end to the previous conversation.
Bucky can feel Peggy’s eyes on him now. Probably hoping he’ll stand up for himself. Undoubtedly sharp enough to know that he’d only be making things worse for himself if he did. And, by association, that he’d succumb to the same consequences if she were to be the one to do the saving. Bucky closes his mouth and resigns himself to silence. A few seconds later, and he feels her no longer looking at him, choosing to do the same.
Pierce certainly enjoys talking about his greatest accomplishment that is this goddamn ship, and with the permission to once again do so, he starts to ramble. Again. This time, Bucky’s no longer interested. His only goal anymore is to stop himself from losing his mind and creating a scene right there in the dining saloon.
With shaking hands, he reaches into the pocket of his slacks to pull out his cigarette case. Slipping one between his lips, he strikes a match and lights up the tip. At first, he doesn’t think anything of it. He’s shut up, he’s behaving – that’s all anyone around him cares about, isn’t it? But then he hears Winifred impatiently clearing her throat next to him, hiding it from the others by doing it as softly as possible.
Bucky glances over at her just as he’s taking another drag, arching a brow in a silent, What?
“James,” she says with a completely faked nonchalance, “you know how much I don’t like that.”
Bucky’s brow remains arched, his face blank. After everything that’s just happened, his mother is really going to kick Bucky while he’s down? This is one of those harsh moments where he feels like he doesn’t even know this woman anymore. There seems to be no trace of the warm, loving mother she’d been to Bucky in his youth. If it’s still there, it’s buried too deep down to see with the naked eye. Otherwise, she might as well be a stranger.
He can’t take much more of this. Expression slowly morphing into a seething scowl, Bucky maintains eye contact and responds by defiantly blowing out the smoke in his lungs – letting that be the answer to her unwanted input. She’s the first to blink, her tight smile wavering as she leans away from him. Bucky keeps staring for a few more seconds.
Yes, he can feel the tension he’s just gone and created – yet again – in the air surrounding the table. But no, this time he does not care.
Averting his gaze and still scowling, he goes to lift his cigarette back towards his lips, when Brock abruptly leans forward and snatches it out from between his fingers. With slight reprehension in his tone, he says, “Oh, he’s well aware,” and stubs out Bucky’s cigarette in the small glass ashtray that he had just used himself. From smoking his very own cigarette.
Pierce’s sentence dies away awkwardly and once more, the entire table falls quiet. Bucky stares down at the crushed cigarette, clenching his teeth and breathing a little rougher through his nose. Bite it down… Bite it down… What Bucky wants to do is smash his fist down on the table. Or maybe where he wants that fist to go is straight into Brock’s jaw. That would undoubtedly feel even more satisfying.
But Bucky doesn’t move. Now his skin is molten hot from head to toe, from the mortification of being humiliated by Brock – yet again – in front of all these people… From being forced to subjugate to this man just because Brock is to become his husband. From his mother being just as guilty for the way Bucky feels right now as the man he hates is. From the fact that without warning, all Bucky wants to do is curl up into a ball and cry like he might’ve if he were still the child they believe him to be.
He’s too proud to do that. He’s too intimidated to do anything else.
Stark frowns at them but then looks away, like he might disagree with what he just saw but knows that social convention wags its finger at him actually commenting on it. To his right, Peggy’s jaw looks justas clenched as Bucky’s feels, hardening her gaze on Brock as if she feels like it never should’ve left him earlier.
For a split second, it seems as though she’s about to open her mouth and say something, when their server suddenly appears to take everyone’s order. Just like that, everyone else is throwing on cheerful smiles and pretending for the sake of appearances that none of what just happened actually happened.
Only Bucky and Peggy continue to frown. Even Stark seems to be backing down from this, throwing on a smile that doesn’t sit quite right. It’s not like Bucky can blame him. He designed the Titanic, for fuck’s sake. Indulging Bucky about art is one thing. Encouraging any sort of stray from the norm, not to mention a display of such blatant controversy, is quite another.
When push comes to shove, he’s not about to sully his reputation over a kid like Bucky. Bucky never would’ve expected anything different.
Bucky tries to use this as a distraction. Everything else aside, he really is famished and could use a good meal. Plus, keeping his mouth full will rid him of the need to engage in any more conversation – namely, with Brock or his mother. When he’d first sat down, it’d taken Bucky all of ten seconds to decide that he wanted the chicken and potatoes when he was perusing through the menu, and his stomach grumbles just at the thought.
At the suggestion of Mr. Pierce, the server starts with Winifred and works around the table counter-clockwise, leaving Brock and Bucky for last. When he finally approaches to take their order, Bucky turns his face to look to him properly and tell him what he’d like.
Before he can even be given a chance, Brock glances up at the waiter and smiles like a true gentleman.
“Yes, thank you – we’ll both have the duck; seared, medium-rare, with extra sauce,” he instructs.
Bucky’s mouth falls, openly gaping at the back of Brock’s head. When the waiter leaves and Brock is turning forward again, Bucky snaps it shut and looks down at his empty plate. Since they sat down for this fucking lunch, it’s been nothing but one blow to Bucky’s self-esteem after another, but never before has Bucky felt this disrespected, let alone in front of company. This feels like a new low.
Brock makes an offhand comment – Oh, you like duck, don’t you baby doll? – and Bucky doesn’t know whether he should actually tell him very bluntly that no, he doesn’t fucking like duck, or revert back to his original fantasy and punch him in the nose.
He does neither. Blinking fast so the sudden tears in his eyes disappear before anyone else can see, he hums noncommittally. Even saying nothing, somehow his voice still cracks. In his head, he daydreams about how nice it’d look to see Brock’s face frozen in a tableau of shock while Bucky finally snapped and gave him an earful – a real piece of his mind regarding just what exactly his ‘baby doll’ thinks of him in all of his glory. In this perfect world, Bucky wouldn’t give a damn about what his mother thought of his outburst.
Hell, he’d probably have an equally as long speech to give to her next.
Bucky’s thoughts are basically the only world in which he can ever fight back. Any time he ever feels tempted to act on any of these things, or even go as far as breaking off the engagement, all he need do is think about where his actions would leave his sister. Even his mother. He may hate what Winifred’s become, but he still loves her – and he’d never want Rebecca to have to live with the burden of his choice. With George gone, he’s the only one who can keep her safe and promised to a good life.
Bucky’s got no choice. There’s just too much guilt attached to any other alternative.
So, for a third time, Bucky takes it. He cracks on the inside, another piece of his soul shattered away and tossed into the ocean without a second thought. But he takes it, and to the rest of the world, that’s all that matters.
And that’s when Peggy suddenly asks, “And will you be cutting his meat for him too, Brock?”
Everyone looks to her, even Bucky. Brock’s smile falters and then disappears. Hers, however, stays just as even. Her question drips with disdain, while the rest of her knows exactly how to play the game to come across as if she hasn’t just stepped way, way over a line. Quickly, Bucky peers over at Brock. It’s so unexpected, so inappropriate, and feels so fucking validating that Bucky has to fight the sudden urge to snort out a laugh.
His fiancé definitely looks insulted, but then he too narrows his eyes and returns a hollow shell of a smile. They stare across at each other for several more silent seconds, before Peggy looks to Mr. Pierce and changes the subject completely, just like Brock had done to Bucky.
“I could not help but wonder who exactly is responsible for this marvelous ship’s name – the Titanic. I can’t help but think it was you, Alexander?” she asks with a smile.
Bucky can’t tell if she’s still being sardonic or not, but he’s definitely picking up on that vibe. Even with the little he admittedly knows about her, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised. Her sass seems to be a thing outmatched by little.
Because the attention is once again on Pierce and inflating his ego, Bucky isn’t surprised when he confirms that it was in fact him who thought up the name. His answer is nothing but a self-serving testimony to why he is pretty much, by his own reasoning, a genius. He doesn’t need to say it for Bucky to hear it – that’s all he’s been hearing out of this man’s mouth since he sat down.
He keeps referencing the enormity of the ship; how big it is, how wondrous, how the size was always meant, in his mind, to convey things like luxury and strength and power. Bucky shakes his head to himself.
“You see, I wanted people everywhere to see this ship as a better future for all of us, and--”
“Excuse me, Mr. Pierce?” he cuts in, taking a page from Peggy’s book and feigning politeness like he’s also such an expert at doing. It’s only because Bucky’s reached his wit’s end that he can no longer stop himself. Brows furrowing, he tips his head to the side and asks, “I apologize, I don’t mean to interrupt, it’s just… Have you ever heard of Doctor Freud by any chance?”
Pierce blinks, not following. “Is he a passenger?”
Peggy lips purse into a smirk and she dips her chin down, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. Even Mr. Stark is watching Bucky with a flicker of amusement washing over his expression again, making the corner of his own lips turn up, even as he tries to hide it.
Clearly they’re the only ones to understand the insinuation behind Bucky’s question.
He chuckles. “No, sir,” he explains sweetly, “he specializes in the study of the human psyche. It was just… you were commenting so passionately about the structural size of this ship, and I couldn’t help but wonder if you had ever read any of his studies. I think you would find the one he has regarding the male preoccupation with size incredibly fascinating.”
Disguise dropping away to a look of unfiltered contempt, Bucky then looks straight to Brock and flatly states, “And you know what? Come to think of it – you probably would as well.”
Pierce may not understand Bucky’s implication (if he does, then he’s meticulous about not letting it show), and neither may his sister – but everyone else gradually seems to. And unlike Peggy and Stark, neither Brock nor his mother finds it overly funny.
Good. Bucky wasn’t trying to be clever.
Something dangerous flashes in Brock’s eyes. At the same time, Winifred leans in and takes hold of Bucky’s arm. “James,” she admonishes, “what is the matter with you? Apologize this instant.”
Bucky makes no effort to hide the glare he now turns on her. Yanking his arm from her grasp, he bunches up his napkin and drops it onto his empty plate. “You know what? I think I’d rather not – you know, if what I want actually bears any weight with you anymore,” he answers, rising up from his chair. “My apologies everyone, but I seem to have lost my appetite.” He directs those last few words back over at Brock, before turning and mumbling, “Excuse me.”
He leaves before anyone can even think to stop him. He leaves before that nerve inside to stand up for himself is once again ripped from him by Brock Rumlow’s claws. Or by his mother’s. He can’t remember a time he’d ever actually acted upon it like this. All they ever were before were fantasies. He hadn’t mean to snap like that, he’d just…
It was too much. Bucky had had enough. He should probably go back in there and apologize as soon as possible. That’d be the smart choice. That’d minimize his consequences.
With that in mind, Bucky keeps walking.
Since this triumph will undoubtedly be short-lived at best, Bucky figures he might as well take it and revel in it for as long as he possibly can – consequences be damned.
“Tilt your chin towards me just a little, just… Yes, just like that. Perfect, that’s great.”
Steve goes to press the tip of his pencil to his sketchbook when he notices his model glancing back over to Sam, who keeps initiating more conversation. Smiling tiredly, Steve lowers his pencil and looks back to her, having to squint in the sunlight. “Natasha,” he says with a little sigh.
Still smirking from the punchline of Sam’s joke, she casts Steve a side glance. “What?”
“I need you to keep your gaze in one direction,” he explains as patiently as he can. He has to try to keep in mind that she was nice enough to allow him to do this in the first place, after all. If he pushes his luck by being too demanding, he’ll be the only one at a loss. “If you don’t want it to be on me then that’s fine, but pick a spot and then keep it, okay? That’s why I said I’d leave your face for last, remember?”
“Being your model is exhausting,” she mutters, her Russian accent thick. All the same, she tips her chin back to where he’d directed her to position it and holds still, setting her emerald eyes onto him and finally staying there.
Steve gives a low chuckle under his breath, getting back to work. “You might’ve already mentioned that.”
They’ve been out on the deck for well over an hour. At first, they’d been enjoying the sunlight and the clean ocean air, even with the three of them lighting up cigarettes every once in a while. The sky’s been clear since dawn; one of those days where there’s not a single cloud in the sky for all the eye can see. Just you and the world, with nothing separating you from its beauty.
The moment he’d gotten a peek outside, Steve knew it was the type of day were he absolutely had to bring his utensils with him – just to be safe. One thing he’s learned (the hard way) is that he never wants to be unprepared if inspiration strikes him without warning. As it so happened, there’d been a man and his daughter lingering by the railing when he and his friends had first taken a seat on one of the benches and settled there.
Steve was sitting initially. As part of his process, he did a simple sweep across his surroundings. An objective one, in which all he did was look, his brain the closest to a blank slate it could possibly be; checking to see if anything in particular popped out at him and screamed, make me art. The father and his daughter – no more than three or four, at best – were directly to his left, and the moment he saw them, his interest piqued. As conspicuously as possible, Steve started stealing side glances and replicating the scene in his book.
He tends to gravitate towards the subjects that tell a story. It doesn’t always have to be overtly obvious or even all that literal. Everyone has a story – this, Steve has learned. The ones that fascinate him the most are the stories that might be quicker to go unnoticed; the ones void of words but capable of being seen if you looked hard enough. Steve hears the most when there’s nothing said at all.
In the case of the little girl and her father, that had been a little more literal. She’d stood up on the bars while her father pointed out to the sea and regaled her with urban myths that’d been passed down to him when he was her age. But a million questions still flooded Steve’s mind, as he attempted to create the backstory for these two and imagine all the possibilities:
Where were they coming from? Where were they going to end up? What does this journey mean for them? How magnificent must it be for those young, innocent eyes to see the things many of the adults on board unknowingly take for granted, like the vastness of the ocean, the color of the sky, or the way the slivers of sunlight dance off the water all around them?
Unfortunately, Steve only got a solid five minutes or so of drawing in before they left unexpectedly.
Steve’s fingers had been itching to set his pencil back to paper after that, because if there was one thing he hated, it was leaving a piece unfinished. That was when he found himself glancing over to Natasha and taking in the structure of her face, noticing for the first real time that she has rather exotic features; bold yet delicately feminine all the same. He’d made no attempt to hide the fact that he was beginning to stare, so she wound up eventually sighing and, to his delight, told Steve, “If you intend to stare so long, you might as well start drawing. You are wasting sunlight.”
He and Sam have only known her for less than a day, but Steve already knows enough to know better than to ever call her features ‘delicately feminine’ to her face. After all, the only reason they’d met was because amidst the dancing, the drinking, and the partying down in the third-class lounge the night before, Steve had seen a man trying a bit too forcefully to get fresh with this woman.
And then he made the mistake of assuming she actually required his help.
Steve’s instinct had taken over. If he’d been close enough to actually hear the conversation or see properly what was going on, he would’ve known full well that this lady was the farthest thing from a damsel in distress. In reality, she had everything under control. Still, not having known that, Steve and Sam marched straight over, and Steve laid his hands into the guy, narrowing his eyes and warning him to ‘leave the lady alone’. The guy reeked of booze and slurred back a rather colorful insult, calling Steve a Fumblin’ Dublin and Sam a slight so foul that Steve saw red the second he heard it.
To the jackasses’s credit, Steve was surprised that the guy had guessed he was Irish in the first place, given that Steve’s accent was lost to the melting pot of America and slowly replaced with something a little more appropriate to Brooklyn all when he was still just a kid. That didn’t make his insults any more amusing - and truth be told, Steve probably would've laughed him off and walked away had he been the only one so heinously insulted. It was hearing what he called Sam that had Steve suddenly trying to bound forward, with every intention of sending his fists flying and breaking that prick's jaw. Amazingly, it was only thanks to Sam of all people moving just as quickly to hold Steve back that he didn’t go throwing that impassioned right hook.
Instead, the guy just stumbled away in a drunken stupor, grumbling under his reeking breath. Steve had a moment to calm down and reluctantly thank Sam for keeping him from doing anything stupid (even though he also insisted that he would’ve ‘had him on the ropes’, just so no one there doubted that). Sam patted his back, brushing off the whole thing with a laugh. Sam never failed to amaze Steve at the way he could take the prejudice thrown his way on an almost daily basis (admittedly not as bad among the lower class, but existent all the same) and still manage to have more patience in his pinky than Steve had in his whole body. It enraged Steve as much as it broke his heart, that that sort of thing was so 'normal' for his friend that he could seem to brush it off so frequently and choose to turn the other cheek.
With that incident behind them, Steve then remembered the redheaded woman he’d been trying to help protect. The moment he turned to see if she was alright, he found himself getting spun back around – his arm twisting painfully against the middle of his spine – and a small hand palming the back of his head. Before Steve could even fathom what just happened, she slammed his head down onto the nearest tabletop.
Sam, who’d been watching with a stunned, open-mouthed grin, only thought it was hilarious until she promptly turned her ice-cold glare his way. And then he shut right up.
She’d shouted at them for a bit, mostly in English but sometimes in her Russian tongue. By the third time she spat out, “How dare you come in here and humiliate me – disgracing my honor! Because I am a woman!? If you would like to try your luck with me, boys, I would be happy to show you how weak and helpless I really am!” she had both men stammering out apologies.
Steve – with the side of his face still smooshed between the table and her (remarkably strong) grip – offered for them to buy her a round in order to clear the air. Sam made absolutely no objections.
Funny enough, within the hour, over a couple cheap pints and shared cigarettes, the three of them fell into easygoing conversation that lasted well into the late hours of the night. Sam couldn’t stop talking about her when they’d finally returned to their rooms. Steve joked that he must’ve been looking to get his ass kicked if he was carrying a torch for someone as feisty as Natasha. Their roommates snapped for them both to shut up and let them get back to sleep.
“How long do your portraits usually take?” she asks, reaching into Steve’s brain and pulling him focus back to the present. Quickly murmuring an apology, his eyes lift to her face again to study the contour of her jawline; the shape and angle of her nose. The control she has over her posture is quite phenomenal. Steve assumes that has everything to do with her having been raised as a dancer, despite coming from just as impoverished of an upbringing as he and Sam did.
“Just another few minutes, I promise,” Steve replies distractedly, lifting his gaze from the paper to her face, back down to the paper, over and over. Normally, he prefers to sit whenever he does a piece, but he’d been standing and sucking from a cigarette by the time Natasha gave him the go-ahead to use her as his model. At that point, Steve didn’t want to waste any time and potentially miss his limited window of opportunity.
So, he’s been balancing the book on his inner left forearm and doing the entire drawing on his feet. All things considered, so far it’s still turning out rather nice. Maybe not his greatest by his standards, but not bad either. He might need to try correcting her eyes afterwards, though. He’s having a bit of trouble conveying that little gleam he sees not-so-subtly hiding in there.
“That’s what he always says,” Sam warns her. He leans back against the railing, burning through a cigarette of his own while he watches with an entertained grin. Steve doesn’t miss how often Sam keeps looking to their new friend; undoubtedly only getting away with so many peeks because Natasha is so busy staring towards Steve to notice.
She hardly blinks, even with the sun in her eyes. Steve really is thrilled that she gave him permission to sketch her. He wishes all of the people who’ve posed for him in the past could be as natural at this as Natasha Romanoff. Her expression remains beautifully stoic and mysterious, but she sounds equally as amused when she asks, “And do you speak from experience? Does he draw you often as well?”
“Actually, Steve’s never asked to draw me at all,” Sam answers with mock offense. “I never thought much about it before, but now I’m startin’ to wonder – why you never wanna draw me, Rogers? Too good looking for you to handle?”
“More like, you’d never stay still for me that long,” Steve mutters, one corner of his mouth upturned, “and I’d bet my hat you’d never pipe down a lick.” Using his middle finger, he smudges the line he’d done for Natasha’s jaw, creating the hint of a shadow along the top of her neck.
“This comin’ from the grown man who has the attention span of a child,” Sam teases.
Steve’s smile grows. Lifting an eyebrow and shooting him a quick glance, he corrects, “Except for when I’m drawin’.”
“Yeah, except for when you’re drawin’ – then that’s about the only time.”
“Boys, just a friendly reminder that I am still here,” Natasha cuts in, still never breaking out of her tableau. Somehow she’s still able to convey a smile in her voice, even if it doesn’t show on her lips. “I will not remain like this for you all day. You owe me a cigarette once this is finished, Steve. Hurry up.”
“Sorry,” Steve chuckles, dropping his eyes back down to the almost finished drawing. “You’re still doin’ great. Just need to add a few more details to your hair, then I think you’re all set–”
The sentence is abruptly cut off when Steve unexpectedly gets knocked forward, someone having bumped into his back. He stumbles a couple steps but manages to maintain his balance. It’s only by sheer luck that the tip of his charcoal pencil doesn’t scratch a big, ugly line across all the work he’s just done.
That causes Natasha to straighten, face breaking into a frown as she narrows her eyes and follows the culprit continuing to stride past them. Sam sits forward, too, opening his mouth like he’s about to say something. But Steve beats him to it. Turning his head, he sees the back of the man as he walks away, sparing not even so much as a glance behind him, like he hadn’t just rudely bumped into him.
“That’s fine, no harm done,” Steve calls to him, feigning pleasantry.
The man pauses, but then twists to look to him from over his shoulder. Steve’s surprised at the youthfulness of the face he’s met with. He’d expected someone much older. That’s usually the way it goes. This fella, by contrast, looks to be even younger than him. Judging by the way he’s dressed, this isn’t exactly his deck either. First class passengers usually only come out there during the day to bring their dogs to take a shit. So Steve has no idea what this gentleman is doing slumming it up with the likes of the lower class in broad daylight like this.
The second thing he immediately notices is the way his expression looks to be a mixture of confused and indignant, their gazes locked.
The third thing Steve can’t help but notice is how completely and unmistakably beautiful he is. Make me art, everything about him screams – and that’s about the last impression Steve is expecting to get from this stranger. He’s clearly disrespectful, walking around with his nose pointed as high in the air as any other snoot he surrounds himself with.
That assumption is only further justified when he obliviously asks, like he’s shocked someone of Steve’s nonexistent social stature would dare speak to him that way(let alone at all),“Excuse me?”
Steve hears Sam scoff next to him. Natasha mutters, “How typical,” and Sam murmurs back in agreement. But Steve just gives the young blueblood a small shrug and casually answers with a hint of a smile, “Well… I mean, you did just walk right into me. Sorta feels like the polite thing to do is apologize when you bump into a fella like that.”
The guy’s brows furrow, like he hadn’t even realized he’d done what Steve’s accusing him of. But his jaw remains tense; his body language, unapproachable and on the defense. “You were in my way,” he mumbles back.
If Steve didn’t know any better, it might’ve just sounded like this guy is trying to be defiant just for the sake of being defiant.
Sam barks out an unimpressed laugh, followed by a drawn out, “Woooow. Someone’s clearly a stuffed shirt.”
Steve, however, chuckles a surprised laugh. “I guess you put me in my place then,” he answers after an awkward moment of silence. Nodding, he maintains his smile and then adds, “I suppose I’m the one who owes you an apology, ain’t I?”
The brunet narrows his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. For a moment, he looks thrown off and unsure of what to do. But he keeps his composure and never breaks eye contact as he guesses, “You’re being sarcastic.”
Steve grins. “You’re absolutely right, I am.”
Nostrils flaring, the young man curls his fingers into fists by his sides and opens his mouth to make a retort. He doesn’t get that far. Glaring at Steve, he promptly closes it and then spins on his heel, stomping off.
The three of them watch him go, Natasha and Sam already making their comments while Steve keeps his eyes on him, his smile tapering off into a perplexed frown. He watches the brunet make his way closer to the bow of the ship and then stop there, reaching out and holding onto the railing like he would’ve kept walking right off the ship had it not been there to stop him.
Staring off into the distance, he stands perfectly still; a lonely, isolated figure from a tragic romance tale, somehow plucked from the pages and instead standing right there, on the bow of the Titanic. Steve can only see the back of him again, but even with the distance now between them, he gets the sense that this man didn’t come all the way out there just to enjoy the view. He’s clearly looking out at the ocean, but… Steve finds himself wondering what it is he’s really seeing right now.
This man’s story is screaming the loudest, and Steve wonders how he seems to be the only one hearing it right now.
Forgetting about the rest of his drawing, Steve slowly goes and takes a seat next to Sam. He finds himself incapable of looking to his friends for long, before his head’s turning and he’s gazing back over to the young man by the bow. There had seemed to be be so much waging war within those grey eyes of his. Filled with so much fire, and not the usual kind Steve tends to see in people of his status.
Something about him strikes Steve as so… broken. Pained. Too much pain for one so young. He knows he shouldn’t be, but he’s instantly fascinated to know what’s made this stranger so melancholy and resistant.
“It figures,” Natasha says to them, interrupting his thoughts, “clearly he is one of them – what would be the term…? Говноед… Would sooner eat shit if it meant saving their precious money.”
“They would come out onto our part of the ship and knock us around like they own the whole joint,” Sam flatly adds.
“Well, they pretty much do,” Steve absentmindedly reminds them, chiming back in. Smile turning wry, he shrugs again and then pulls out a couple of his pre-rolled cigarettes from his pocket. Handing one to Natasha just like he promised, Steve holds his own between his fingers and jokes, “Just think of it this way: it helps us to remember where we rank in the grand scheme of things.”
“Yeah, ‘cause we’d have forgotten otherwise,” Sam sardonically replies. “You’re right, I should be thankful. No man, you’re absolutely right – how very kind of them to provide us with such a thoughtful service. I’ve been goin’ about this the wrong way this whole time.”
Steve exhales a chuckle, lightly shoving his friend before dropping his eyes down. Tapping his foot lightly off the ground, Steve bites his bottom lip. He can’t help himself – seconds later and he looks back over towards the beautifully sad stranger. He’s still standing still as a statue by the front of the ship; doesn’t look like he’s moved a muscle.
Sam and Natasha continue speaking, but Steve’s not really listening anymore. The skin between his brows wrinkles a little as he slowly frowns again. The fact that it’s like he can feel this man’s inner turmoil, even with such a brief exchange, makes it impossible for Steve to look away. Instead, it draws Steve in like a magnet. When this sort of thing happens, he’s never been overly good at resisting the pull.
In the middle of Sam changing the subject and telling one of his usual (and lengthy) anecdotes, Steve distractedly puts his sketchbook and pencil down next to his friend, tucking his cigarette on top of his ear. Letting instinct steer him, he interrupts Sam and Natasha’s conversation and asks, “Can you keep an eye on this for just a second?”
“Steve,” Sam says warningly, “where’re you goin’?”
“Just – I’ll be right back, alright? Just keep an eye on it for me; don’t let the wind blow my pencil overboard.”
He rises to his feet, only faintly hearing Natasha say something to Sam from under her breath. Sam laughs in disbelief and replies to him, “Or you can stay here like a sane person and hold onto it yourself.”
Steve lifts his hand behind him and half-heartedly waves Sam’s comment aside. Glancing back, not even long enough to meet Sam’s eyes, Steve quickly repeats, “Just – one second. I’ll be right back.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Sam calls after him. Steve’s already walking away and crossing the deck towards the bow, shortening the distance between him and the younger man with every step.
He slows down a little when he’s only a few feet behind him. Casually, Steve clears his throat, and that head of brown hair – perfectly slicked, even from beneath his stylish bowler, Steve can already tell – quickly whips around to look at him. Startled, he narrows his eyes at Steve again and then drops them back down, looking forward with an unsettled frown, like his temporary moment of peace hadn’t just been barged in on and interrupted.
“Oh, it’s you,” he says quietly. There’s still that lingering bite digging just beneath the surface, but most of the fight sounds like it’s fled him. “What do you want?”
“Can’t a guy come and enjoy the view?” Steve casually asks, stepping up to the railing next to him and draping his arms over it. He stares ahead briefly, before tipping his head and peering over to the other man. A playful little smirk tugs up the right corner of his mouth. “Or do you own this part of the ship, too?”
Grey eyes turn on him and glare again. There’s still some rage in there, but not as much. Steve’s starting to suspect that his initial guess might have been accurate: something is eating away at this man – and it’s not Steve. On the contrary, there’s a very good chance that Steve might’ve just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Still, the younger man huffs, “If you came all the way over here to make me the subject of your mockery, then I suggest you leave, sir. I’m in no mood to indulge you and pretend I find you funny.”
Steve smiles at that. He probably shouldn’t, because that might only come across patronizing. Really – and he’s just being honest here, hand-to-God – it makes him smile for the exact opposite reason; not at this man’s expense, but rather because there’s something downright adorable about this kid when he’s angry. Steve has a sneaking suspicion that the man in front of him would sooner throw Steve off the ship than thank him for making such an observation… and that only makes him smile more.
It’s impossible to explain. Something about him intrigues Steve, clearly enough to make him stay and put up with his pretentious attitude. That’s one of the benefits of being born an artist, he supposes: whereas others might be trying to find the missing rhyme or reason behind such things happening, Steve likes to go with it and see where it takes him. So even though the tether seeming to tie Steve towards this stranger is unexpected and makes little sense, Steve assumes it’s happening for a reason.
And whatever that reason may be, he wants to find out.
So he sets his baby blues back towards the ocean and shakes his head, deciding then and there that he has no plans to go anywhere any time soon – not unless the guy wants him to.
“Not at all,” Steve assures him, unphased, “though a lot of people say I’m not all that funny, so it ain’t exactly like you’d be the first. Actually, I just thought I’d come over here and bury the hatchet by seein’ if I could offer you a cigarette. You smoke?”
The guy hesitates, looking to him again from the corner of his eye so discreetly it’s as if he thinks Steve won’t notice. He seems more perplexed than indignant now. But then he nods.
“I have my own,” he answers.
“Well, take one of mine anyway,” Steve says, grabbing the unlit one resting atop his ear and offering it out. “Consider it a peace offerin’.”
The other man stares down at it for a few seconds, like he isn’t sure whether or not to trust the gesture. But then he lifts a hand and slowly takes it from Steve to get a better look. Steve’s already reaching into the pocket of his slacks and pulling out another one for himself, along with his packet of matches.
“You roll your own tobacco?” asks the brunet, sounding curious.
“Mhm. Can’t afford them fancy cigarettes that m’sure you can, but… they still taste just as good, I promise.”
Nodding slowly, the young man places it between his lips and then reaches into his pocket for his own light. Steve watches his brows crease when his hand returns into view without the matches. He starts patting himself down over his pockets in search of them, but after several seconds still produces no results.
“I think I might have…” the brunet sighs, shaking his head as he closes his eyes. “I must have left them inside. I came out in a bit of a hurry.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Steve teases. All that earns him is another wary side glance from the other man, so Steve chuckles softly and holds out his own packet between two fingers. “Just use one of mine.”
“Thanks…” He takes Steve’s matches and rips one free, striking the head and then lighting the end of his cigarette. He inhales, long and deep. Steve watches those grey eyes flutter closed again as the brunet tips his head back and blows out a thin stream of cloudy white smoke. “Damn, that’s nice… I needed that,” he admits.
For the first time so far in their encounter, something akin to calmness eases this man’s features; smoothes them out and actually makes him appear approachable. It also reinforces Steve’s earlier surprise at how young he is. Steve may not be that much older (by his best guest), and yet there seems to be so much unwanted distrust and years of fatigue in his eyes that no one with so few laughter lines should ever have. Not until the world has taken ‘em for all they were worth and had the proper time to beat them down first, at least.
And that softness slips into his voice, too – his tone no longer as rough around the edges as the rest of his initial demeanor had been. Steve doesn’t think it’s purely for aesthetic reasons that he gets one look at that sliver of truth lying beneath the mask this kid is so clearly wearing for the world and he thinks, Absolutely beautiful. Dazzling. Stunning, even.
Yes. He will run with this and however long it lasts – be it a day, an hour, a minute, or the split second it takes to blink and miss a shooting star.
“Good, right?” he asks. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of him once.
His intriguing stranger looks like - just for a moment – he wants to say something equally as light and teasing. But Steve can literally see it pass right over his expression, like a flicker of a flame in the wind. “It’s not unpleasant,” he answers after a small pause, like he’s actually given himself the time to properly mull it over.
But Steve hears it: that equally as playful undertone that’s dying to rear its head. Steve’s never known anyone from the upper class before, but if he was told that smiling was something they literally frowned upon… Well, let’s just say he wouldn’t exactly be surprised. He’d be stifling in his own skin if he always had to keep up appearances so much, especially if it made him nothing but miserable. He’d be stifling if he constantly had to do that and not a single person around him cared.
So Steve raises an eyebrow, staring intently at the side of the brunet’s face and pursing his lips slightly into a stubborn smirk. He won’t even blink until this kid cracks a smile for him, if that’s what it takes. No one should have to look this miserable, whether up close or from a distance.
For a second, that face is passive. But then he seems to feel Steve’s eyes on him, and he finally folds, getting the first glimpse of a tiny smile that Steve’s seen yet. Unsurprisingly, this man is even more gorgeous when he smiles.
Except that Steve’s hardly given much of a chance to enjoy it. Right before he’s about to extend his hand and introduce himself properly, someone calls sharply from behind them, “James!”
The young man’s – James’s – eyes close again, and there it is: his jaw gets as tense as it was when Steve first saw him. Taking a deep breath through his nose, both he and Steve look back to the man now fast approaching them. He’s considerably older than them both – probably only a few years shy of their ages combined.
One look at him and Steve knows exactly what sort of type he is; the kind that spits on those he sees as beneath him, which might as well be everybody. Steve just isn’t sure what his relation is to James yet, or why he makes James so transparently uncomfortable.
James doesn’t even offer an explanation. Already done with the situation altogether, he doesn’t as much as glance at Steve any further. Quickly lifting his hand, he takes a deep, strangely defiant drag from the cigarette Steve gave him. He hesitates a beat before turning to walk away.
“Excuse me,” the older man sternly admonishes, snatching his hand out and grabbing James by the bicep. Steve frowns and straightens, instantly on edge. He keeps his body language unassuming, but the seam of his mouth tightens just a little bit, as something in his normally gentle baby blues hardens with an uncontrollable protectiveness.
Reactions like that tend to happen whenever Steve sees a bully. It’s his blessing about as frequently as it’s his curse. (Sam, for the record, thinks it nothing but a curse. Steve’s already apologized plenty for the little hole-in-the-wall bar scraps across Europe that he’s unintentionally gotten his friend into since they’ve known each other. Admittedly, it’s a decent number of brawls given that they really haven’t known each other that long. Still, in Steve’s opinion, Sam really needs to let it go.)
James seems to be able to hold his own, though. After he releases an exasperated sound of annoyance, Steve then hears him snap back to the third party in a low voice, “Jesus Christ, I was just getting some air. Is that allowed, or should I perhaps find a paper bag to breathe out of from now on, darling?”
He now seems to be having a stare-down with this new stranger, one that Steve can only imagine he’s not supposed to witness. They seem to forget that he’s standing right there, as James scowls at the man clutching his arm for an uncomfortably long period of complete silence – and then blows out the smoke he still had sitting in his lungs right in the other man’s face. While the older man grimaces and coughs, letting go so he can lean away and wave his hand in front of his face, James looks ahead and seizes the opportunity to storm off in the direction he came from.
That vehemence is back in his step. James leaves like this part of the ship just did him a personal injustice. They both watch him go, and it’s only once he’s out of sight that the older blueblood shifts his sights onto Steve, narrowing his eyes skeptically as he finally acknowledges his presence. Steve doesn’t flinch; just keeps his poker face and reminds himself that when it comes to this game, it’s all about not being the one to blink first.
“You would do well to put this little encounter out of your mind,” he curtly informs Steve.
It sounds harmless on the surface, but Steve’s not a moron. He knows it’s anything but; that this man already sees a guy like Steve as being nothing better than a bug needing to be squashed beneath his perfectly-shined shoe. Steve says nothing, just keeps staring; holding his own until the older man backs off, looking disgusted by Steve, and turns to follow in the direction James took off in.
Steve remains where he is for a while after – by himself, staring out at the view but this time being the one to not really see it – until his friends get tired of him standing “ominously” by his lonesome and come to gather him back up. With the promise of some grub and drinks, they head back down to the third class cabins.
And for the rest of the night, Steve pretends that he’s forgotten all about that little encounter up on the deck. He partakes in the conversations around him; he laughs, and he smiles, and he does his best to act as though his mind is everywhere but by the bow. Inside, he can’t stop thinking back to that unmistakable sadness concealed and trapped within grey eyes, that complexity; the feeling that inside, there’s someone thrashing against the walls and desperately fighting to get out…
Worst of all, James’s smile – small and brief as it’d been – burned a hole in the side of Steve’s head and nestled nice and snug in his brain. He tries to stop thinking about him, but every lapse in conversation, every room for pause, every other second is all his mind needs to veer back to the crystal clear image of that rich kid the rest of the world assumes has everything – who, for some reason, struck Steve as having nothing where it truly counts.
It sounds crazy – and Hell, maybe it is – but Steve needs to see him again. Somehow. Even if it’s just to get some peace of mind and make sure that he’ll be alright.
Unfortunately, the problem is, on a ship that size, with so many inhabitants and with both men living in two completely different worlds as it is, the odds of ever getting to speak to him again are next to impossible. Sam and Natasha teasingly remind him of that more than once as the day passes by. Steve throws on an easygoing smile and continues to pretend that he doesn’t care. All the while, he tries to convince himself of the same.
But just because he tries doesn’t mean he succeeds. Because James’s smile was still no less magnificent. And those eyes – sad and vulnerable and wounded – continue to haunt him.
Guess their moment really did only last the span of a shooting star. Normally, Steve thinks nothing of it and has little difficulty placing those moments – those fleeting, inconsequential moments – behind him. Taking it as another life experience, moving forward, and living for what’s next.
For the first time, Steve’s a little greedy. He isn’t sure if he can move past this one just yet.
Bucky spends the remainder of the afternoon closed up in his room. Winifred comes in twice. The first instance occurs shortly after Bucky gets settled in there, just so she can scold him on his behavior during lunch. Bucky’s response to everything she says is to fix his gaze even more intently on the pages of Friedrich Nietzsche’s, Early Greek Philosophy and Other Essays; licking the tip of his finger to casually flip to the next page and making his expression appear so enthralled and immersed within the words – like the rest of the world no longer exists.
Or maybe just more importantly, like she doesn’t at the moment.
The only time he eventually looks up is to watch her huff about how childish he is being as she storms out of the room. The sound of his door slamming shut masks the scoff he exhales at the same time.
And he’s the one supposedly being childish. That’s rich.
But then, about twenty minutes later, Brock comes in without even knocking – and that’s enough of a sign to get Bucky all tensed up. Brock only abandons proper ceremony when he’s angry, and though that’s a side of him that he never lets anyone else see… Bucky’s seen it. Brock has made sure more than once in the past that Bucky’s conveniently the only person he lets see it.
The truth is... Bucky’s fucking terrified of him, hard as he tries not to let it show.
It’s difficult to explain. Brock’s never put a hand on Bucky out of emotion, but that threat always seems to be lingering in the background whenever he gets like this. Like Bucky can feel the sting of Brock’s hand against his cheek – knows exactly how it’d feel – without ever having actually experienced it yet.
Yet. That word makes him feel sick, because he can’t shake the feeling that it’s a thing that will one day become a reality. All it needs is time. To fester, to grow, to finally feel safe. Bucky’s not sure what sort of man his fiancé will become once he’s safely hidden behind the closed doors of his own mansion – behind the security of their marriage – and Bucky becomes his property, with nowhere he can run anymore.
Bucky’s never been given the chance to find out. In so many ways, they’re nothing more than strangers to each other. But based on the hints he’s already been given, it seems like a certainty; something he can’t run away from, no matter how fast his legs could carry him if he actually dared to try.
“I really do hate when you act out, baby doll,” Brock says; calculated, with a misleading approachability layering the top. Bucky stiffens against his head board, his motion to turn the page of his book faltering for just a moment before he forces himself to continue.
Keeping his eyes downcast, Bucky tries to hold onto that fire of rebellion that Brock always manages to stoke in the pit of his belly, and counters condescendingly, “Well, I really do hate when you treat me like a child, darling.”
“Perhaps if you stopped behaving as one, I wouldn’t have to.” Brock rounds the bed and lowers, taking a firm seat next Bucky.
He’s way too close. Bucky hates when he’s this close and they’re alone. He’s near enough that his arm is absentmindedly pressed to Bucky’s left leg, both of them being tucked up and bent at the knees. Bucky fights to keep his demeanor composed and strong, and he absolutely refuses to so much as offer his fiancé a courtesy glance. All he does is lick his finger curtly and turn the page loud enough for it to make a swooshing noise.
“James.”
Bucky pretends not to hear him.
There’s a pause, and then Brock takes the book right from Bucky’s hands, shuts it, and disposes it at the foot of the bed, out of Bucky’s reach. Scooching in closer, he lifts a hand and pinches Bucky’s chin between his thumb and index finger. It’s not rough, but it’s nowhere near tender. Everything within Bucky screams at him to recoil from the contact, but when Brock repeats his name a little more firmly, Bucky’s cowardice takes over and he gives in, meeting his fiancé’s eyes.
Neither man says anything at first. Bucky’s pulse is hammering away, making his chest tighten and his heart lodge itself in his throat. He finds himself suddenly wishing his mother would walk back into the room – his sister, Virginia, anybody. Anybody that could provide an interruption and put a stop to this moment. Because Brock looks stern right now, yes, but that’s not the thing that gets Bucky’s insides curdling with panic the most.
It’s when Brock looks like he’s about to try getting tender with him. Bucky knows what that means, and with every day closer to their ceremony, he’s running out of time to make excuses.
The danger is the fact that Brock Rumlow is a master manipulator. Bucky’s never felt a shred of romantic attraction towards him, but he didn’t always hate him. In the beginning, when they’d first met, Bucky gave him the benefit of the doubt and tried to tell himself that perhaps that uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut was not in fact instinct, but merely Bucky projecting his frustration at the world – the circumstances of their arrangement – onto him. Maybe it was misplaced apprehension, his attempts at rationality would battle with the rest of him.
Brock’s false exterior helped feed Bucky’s self-doubt for those first few months. The fact is, when his expression softens and he plays his cards right, Brock’s brown eyes can actually appear kind. He can seem trustworthy and charismatic, which is why so many people would never suspect that there’s something so much darker lurking between the lines. He has a nice smile, and when he uses it, the people around him are none the wiser.
Bucky had been one of those people in the beginning. He didn’t trust him exactly, but he also didn’t think he had a reason not to. He wondered if he was perhaps being too hard on his new fiancé and simply needed to give him a chance. But he was also stubborn, and no matter how hard Brock attempted to break down his walls, no matter how many times Bucky wondered if he should at least try to let him, alas those walls stayed up.
Eventually, Brock began to grow impatient. If Bucky wouldn’t submit and devote himself to his husband-to-be, then Brock would assume his role as head of the relationship anyways and make sure Bucky knew where he belonged. Where Bucky belonged, he quickly discovered, was beneath him. Very, very much beneath him.
Because Brock’s behavior slowly started changing – subtly at first. Even now, it’s still considered ‘subtle’ in front of any sort of audience. But behind closed doors, Brock started casting little throwaway, demeaning comments Bucky’s way. As time passed, they occurred more and more often. Compliments grew backhanded, in ways that usually only Bucky could pick up on; in ways that if anyone else noticed, they couldn’t say anything about them anyways.
Brock assumes that Bucky already belongs to him; an object more than a living, breathing person. Clearly, he’s felt that way since he was first approached with the arrangement and then asked for Bucky’s hand. He was never given the chance to think about it, much less say no. Bucky had only been made aware of it the day before. Winifred, eager and thrilled at the prospect of their possible financial woes being over before they could begin, had already sworn that Bucky would say yes.
So Bucky said yes. He can’t remember another word tasting so vile in his mouth, not before and not since.
Brock strokes the pad of his thumb across Bucky’s chin, the tip grazing against the jut of his bottom lip. Bucky wants to look away; wants to be anywhere but where he is right now, with this man touching him like this. At all. It’s different when they’re alone, though. Even if his treatment isn’t all that much better in public, it’s still a form of protection. With no one else around, Bucky’s a lot quicker to fall into an intimidated sort of compliance.
“You know, I do not pretend to understand why you are act out,” Brock patiently explains, alternating from staring into Bucky’s eyes to blatantly dropping his gaze down to his mouth. “I don’t pretend I know why you’re so disconsolate; why you feel the need to challenge my authority at every turn. But if you think me blind to these things, you’re wrong.
“None of what I do, I do for any other reason other than because I care about you. You can choose not to believe me, that’s fine. That does not make my words a lie; I do care about you, you know. Maybe I do not understand you – but you, James, you constantly thwart my every attempt to try. Have you never considered how much easier we would fare together if you simply gave me a chance?”
This is a trick question. There is no right answer. Either Bucky says no and risks facing Brock’s wrath that’s just looking for an excuse to rear its head, or he lies and says yes. Then who knows what Brock will trick Bucky into agreeing with. The third alternative – an ironic combination of the first two – is even less desirable; explaining that yes actually, Bucky has taken that into consideration before. Many times. But no, it’s made no difference – not in Brock’s favor anyway. If anything, it’s only made Bucky more adamant about the fact that Brock represents everything he would stay as far away from as possible if he could have things his way.
Silence, he decides, is his best friend, and so he doesn’t answer.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Brock accepts such a choice.
“Don’t you think I deserve it, baby doll?” he presses in a murmur. Sliding his thumb a little higher, this time it sweeps across the entirety of Bucky’s mouth. There’s the fleeting urge to part his lips, close them over Brock’s thumb, and bite with all of his strength before the older man even knew what happened.
Instead, Bucky just freezes. No, please no. This is what he’d been fearing; exactly what had happened the last time they’d been alone, just a few days prior. Brock’s been sneakily trying to make his advances more frequent the closer they get to the wedding, possibly with the hope of finally breaking Bucky down if he just tries hard enough… Break Bucky down because it’d already worked once, and once – despite how long ago it was – was all the incentive Brock needs to assume he can make it happen again.
That’s the only thing Bucky regrets. That one time… He should’ve never let it happen. He’d been a fool; hurting, and childishly he sought comfort in the very last place he even wanted it from, even then. It’d been selfish – the hope of a quick fix to a problem Bucky didn’t have the necessary tools to solve; still isn’t sure he does – and the worst mistake Bucky ever made.
One he’ll have no choice anymore but to repeat once they’re actually married.
This time when Bucky doesn’t answer, Brock’s patience becomes tested. That hand lightly gripping his chin slides to the back of his jaw and takes a firm hold of the side of Bucky’s head. It’s not painful, Brock’s not gripping him all that hard. But it might as well be. It serves as another warning – that Bucky’s on thin ice and Brock will not ask him so nicely again.
“Don’t I?” he prompts Bucky, saying the words slowly while he patronizingly nods – like Bucky needs the answer spelled out for him because he’s too stupid to know it otherwise. Like Bucky can’t think or make decisions for himself, so he needs to rely on Brock to do it for him.
Bucky’s shaking. Grey eyes wide, he parts his lips to try and answer. At first, all he does is trip over silent, aborted syllables. Amazingly, that seems to serve as an adequate substitute for an actual response. Brock’s gaze breaks away to take him in, top to bottom, and then he smiles and asks as though he were concerned, “Aww, baby doll, why are you shaking? Are you cold? Here, let's get you warmed up.”
He shuffles over even closer, readjusting his grip on the side of Bucky’s face so he can casually slide his fingers into Bucky’s hair and drag his thumb back and forth across Bucky’s cheekbone now. Bucky’s face twists up, closing his eyes as he makes one feeble attempt to shrink away from the touch.
Brock’s other hand flies up unexpectedly and frames the other side of his face, the gesture catching Bucky off guard and making his eyes fly wide again. He immediately snaps his gaze back to Brock in fear. Brock’s pupils are dilated; the corner of his mouth still quirked in the smallest trace of a smirk. Then that fear escalates straight into terror.
“Brock,” Bucky croaks out, trying to shake his head and lean away as Brock starts to lean in. With the way his fiancé’s hands are keeping him still, he can’t do either. His voice trembles as bad as the rest of him as he starts to plead, “No wait, wait, please--”
“Stop resisting me, sweet boy,” Brock replies, voice pitched so low it replaces Bucky’s blood with ice. Instead of going for Bucky’s mouth, though, he tips Bucky’s face to the side at the last second and presses his lips to his jaw. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his teeth as the rest of his face screws up with discomfort. His hands are bawled into the sheets by his sides.
“Not here,” he tries instead.
Brock brushes kisses – surprisingly tender, Bucky remembers how much that’d surprised him that one time – up towards his ear before husking into it, “You really disappointed me earlier, baby doll. What if I think you need to make it up to me?”
Before Bucky can answer, or even wrap his head around the absurdity of what Brock’s suggesting, he feels those lips quickly move down to the curve of his neck, letting go of one side of Bucky’s face so he can have better access to it. His other hand still holds the other side of Bucky’s head in a possessive grip. When he pulls the collar of Bucky’s shirt aside so he can drag the tip of his tongue over the unblemished skin before biting down, Bucky’s eyes fly wide as he chokes on a startled cry.
It’s disgusting, and Bucky hates himself, because this is exactly how it happened the last time. Bucky hasn’t let it happen since; has continuously found proverbial doors to escape out of just in the nick of time. The worst part – the part that makes Bucky want to cry and be sick at the same time – is that the very tail-end of the sound that escapes him is breathy. Aroused, even though he doesn’t want to be.
The worst part is that when Brock bites him, it hurts, and Bucky hates it, he hates him, he hates himself – and he hates that his cock suddenly pulses from between his legs. But he knows, he knows he doesn’t want this. He ignored that the last time and found out too late just what the consequences of his actions would be in the aftermath. He’s still paying for it, after all, all because he had been foolish once and let Brock believe for a second that he did have any sort of effect on Bucky.
Once they’re married, Bucky will never get to say no again. Not if he values his safety. Not if he wants to keep Brock happy and from leaving Bucky, stranding him and his family and forcing them back into the predicament that started this whole thing. Once they’re married, Bucky will spend the rest of his life a prisoner, and though it’ll probably kill him, he’ll do it for his family because there’s no other way. He’ll do it because that’s all he seems to be worthy of anymore.
But for now, he still has something left. He’s not even sure what that is anymore, but it’s enough to make him suddenly argue, “Brock, stop… You know we can’t, it – it wouldn’t be right. Not before we--”
Brock chuckles against his skin, now kissing a path back up towards his jaw. “That didn’t stop you before,” he reminds him.
Cringing to himself, Bucky swallows and forces himself to remember every terrible thing about Brock Rumlow; focus on every single thing he hates, and every single time in the last ten months that he’s made Bucky feel like the equivalent of something squashed beneath the underside of his shoe.
So Bucky's the one to remind him this time, “That was different. I was mourning then, and… I – we shouldn’t have.”
He shouldn’t have. It was nothing like what he’d ever wanted his first time to be like. Aside from the fact that it was with someone Bucky didn’t want to be with in the first place, it just felt wrong.
Brock’s kisses had been surprisingly gentle, but the way he’d fucked Bucky had been rough. He prepped him enough – fingers knowing and experienced, and Bucky dared not to ask about what exactly that meant – and Bucky hadn’t known what to think. He’d shaken and it felt intrusive, but was also what he thought he needed. All he wanted was to forget about the hole in his heart that’d been ripped into it from the moment his father died.
Brock filled it with his fingers first, then his cock, and he never once bothered to ease Bucky into it. But he’d still known exactly how to put his hands in and around Bucky’s body to make things feel as pleasurable as it did tainted… So even though it had been rough, Bucky wanted rougher. Even when it was fast, it wasn’t fast enough. Bucky hated every second of it, and he couldn’t meet his reflection’s eyes for weeks afterwards, but he’d still come, and when Brock ordered him to scream his name when he did, Bucky obliged.
That was within the first month of knowing him. After that, Bucky closed off completely and began shutting Brock out more than he previously had. For a while, Brock made no other attempts to touch him or lure him into sex.
The last few weeks, though, has been a completely different story.
Now overcoming that momentary arousal his body had threatened to betray him with, Bucky’s brain feels much clearer. Thinking fast, he tries to beat Brock at his own game by appealing to his ego. “It won’t be as special like this,” he offers, purposely softening his tone to make it sound as innocent as possible.
Brock pauses, and Bucky holds his breath. Pulling away, he then regards Bucky in silence, expression completely unreadable. Suddenly, the corners of his mouth tug up into a deadly, careful smile. It doesn’t even try to reach his eyes - and Bucky’s heart stops.
Brock sees right through him.
“You know what? You’re right. You are absolutely right,” he tells him nonchalantly, no longer blinking while he holds Bucky’s stare. “I suppose there is no rush. Little more than a week from now and you’ll be mine anyways.”
It’s a threat and a promise. They both know it.
Without warning, Brock’s hand moves quickly, letting go of the side of Bucky’s face in favor of grabbing his jaw. It is unforgiving this time, but happens too fast. He’s swooping in and crushing his mouth to Bucky’s before Bucky can even consider fighting back, if he even had the nerve to try at all. It’s only at the very last second that Bucky’s able to tighten his mouth shut. It hardly matters; the kiss is short and forceful, meant to drive home a point and not for any other purpose: I own you now.
As soon as he pulls back, Bucky opens his eyes, now tear-filled. Brock smiles again and nuzzles the tips of their noses together. “You just remember that,” he finishes, before releasing Bucky and rising from the side of the bed as though nothing just happened. Smoothing down the lapels of his coat, he heads towards the door with a confident strut in his steps. Bucky’s still staring at the spot where he’d just been sitting.
“Try to be presentable for dinner,” Brock says, opening up the door. However, before he walks out, he pauses, chuckles to himself, and then glances back over Bucky’s way. “And let’s not have a repeat of earlier, shall we?”
He doesn’t even bother to hear Bucky’s answer, even though there is none; just looks forward again and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
For a while, Bucky doesn’t move, like the second he so much as flinches a muscle, Brock will come walking back in. Rigid and staring off, wide-eyed, his nostrils flare as he pushes out ragged breaths, using everything he has to try and keep himself in one piece. His body proving that it can still betray him a second time, he doesn’t have to blink for a big, fat tear to start rolling down his cheek anyways.
That snaps him out of his stupor. It doesn’t matter that he’s alone, he hates all the same that Brock had the power to make him cry. He won’t let it happen - he refuses. Scrubbing his hands over his face haphazardly, he moves on instinct and leans forward, grabbing his book. He opens it up, hands trembling so bad that he can barely flip through the pages at first. When he’s able to track down where he’d left off, it's not like it matters anymore. His mind isn’t in the pages, and he can’t hope to get lost there now.
He won’t let Brock make him cry, he refuses, and yet – the text is suddenly blurry and when Bucky does blink, tears start streaming down his face anyways. Scowling, takes the book by one hand and whips it across the room, screaming, “Fuck!”
It crashes into his cabinet before falling to the ground. Bucky’s face is red, and he keeps shaking his head and covering his face with his hands, seething from the inside out. Not knowing what to do with himself.
Knowing there’s nothing he can do.
“Fuck!” he shouts again, starting to sob... Angry that he wasn't strong enough not to... Leaping out of bed, he feels like he can’t breathe as he paces the room with nowhere to go. All the while his brain runs away from him and he thinks…
This is his life now. There’s no way out of it. Those shackles around his ankles tighten and the anchors sink him down deeper. He thinks... How could his mother do this to him? How can she sit there and watch him rot like this? Why did his father have to get sick? What did he do to deserve this?
He thinks… Things will only get worse once they dock. From there on out, it’s over. It’s still over, even now. It’s just been enough so far for Bucky to trick himself into believing that maybe he could still find a way out of it.
It hits him then: he’d been deluding himself – all this time, convincing himself that he’d resigned himself over to his fate. That it was out of his control and he could live with this. All the while, the truth is, he can’t. He’s not strong enough. There’s no way he can survive this for the rest of his life. This entire time, he’s only been making it through because there’d still been a sliver of him that was bound determine to resist; to believe that somehow, some way, he’d find the means to be free again.
But that’s not how the world works, and that’s not what’s going to happen.
In ten days, Bucky is going to become James Buchanan Rumlow. He’ll probably never be called Bucky again. Despite Bucky’s fight to keep it alive, it too will die, just like the man who'd bestowed it upon him. Any ignorant, childish fantasies Bucky’s entertained to stay sane are nothing more than that. They are ignorant. Wishing hard enough doesn’t make it a reality.
There’s not enough air in the room. Bucky presses his back to the wall, trying to breathe. Trying not to let go.
Sliding down to the floor, he slings his arms over his knees and buries his face into them, failing to do both.
---
By the time Winifred returns to his room for the second time, Bucky’s back in bed, lying on his side and staring off at nothing. He had cried, and it felt awful – so much so that his face is still blotchy and his eyes, puffy. When she enters, she assumes Bucky to be sleeping and sighs.
“Honestly James, you’ve spent all day wallowing in bed?” she asks, crossing the room to him. When she sees his face, Bucky doesn’t miss the way she briefly pauses in surprise. Bucky doesn’t look to her. He’s got nothing left to give anymore. Everything fled him while he sat on the floor and cried, alone and scared and bitter.
Now, he’s just on autopilot; a blank look on his face and his grey eyes, hollow. He might as well be dead. This voyage is sending him home to his execution.
He knows Winifred wants to ask him if he’d been crying. He can tell by the way she hesitates and the air around them becomes eerily quiet. Perhaps this is one of those times where guilt finds her, and she just doesn’t know how to face the fact that she’s just as much responsible for Bucky’s tears. To be painfully honest, the majority of that responsible falls directly onto her shoulders.
Bucky doesn’t have it in him to say it quite so bluntly, but there’s no way around it: this is all her fault. It’s impossible not to hate her a little bit, too.
His suspicions are confirmed – she is in fact still capable of feeling remorse for her actions – when she throws on a smile and tries to pep him up by patting his leg and saying, “It’s time to get ready for dinner, sweetheart. Mr. Pierce has offered to dine with us again tonight, isn’t that delightful?”
It’s only when she feels truly sorry for Bucky that she calls him by any sort of pet name.
When he doesn’t answer, she doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself. Awkwardly, she releases a breath and then smiles even bigger, tighter, and goes to one of the cabinets holding his best suits. After mulling them all over, she picks one out, bringing it over to the bed and draping it across the mattress just below his feet.
“There, that one will look marvelous on you,” she says. “This one really brings out your beautiful eyes. I can fetch Virginia to bring you a cold cloth. If you press it to your cheeks, it might reduce the… the redness…”
Bucky can hear how hard she’s trying. It’s just not enough anymore… Not right now. Because none of it is an apology, and he just can’t accept anything shy of that. He tightens his hands beneath his chin and tucks his knees higher up to bed, curling into a ball. He never stops staring straight ahead.
For a moment, Winifred seems like she’s about to come touch him… Maybe say something actually of value. But after hesitating, she appears to change her mind, instead clearing her throat and straightening just the tiniest bit. “Rebecca and I will be waiting in the other room,” she tells him. “Please try to be ready within the next ten minutes. This will – it will be fun, James. Try to let yourself have some fun.”
It almost sounds like a plea. Then she’s out of the room, leaving Bucky by his lonesome again. He doesn’t get out of bed for a few more minutes, and the last thing he cares about is how his face looks. Half the time, no one pays attention to him anyways. He supposes if he’s lucky, that’ll be the case this time, too.
With the exception of Brock, of course. Because of Bucky’s little stunt earlier, Brock will probably be keeping an even closer eye on him tonight. There’ll be no point in even hearing the meal selections. Brock will undoubtedly be making a point by ordering for him again. The test, Bucky knows, will be seeing how he responds to it this time.
He doesn’t even fucking care anymore. It’ll all probably taste like ash in his mouth anyways. He hasn’t yet gotten back the appetite he’d lost at lunch.
When he finally crawls back out and sheds his clothing, he stands in nothing but his underwear, staring down at the suit his mother had laid out for him. He almost debates on putting on something completely different, just as a sign of protest. But it still wouldn’t change the end result; no matter what he wears, he’ll still have to sit through that fucking dinner. He’ll still have to sit next to Brock, and watch his mother correct Rebecca’s posture, and listen to the same inane chatter as always.
He’ll still be trapped on this fucking ship, and absolutely nothing will change.
So he puts on the one Winifred picked. Every article of clothing feels like a noose tightening around his neck. Where the curve meets his shoulder, Bucky can still feel the ghost of Brock’s teeth, sinking into him to remind Bucky who he now belongs to… Reminding him of what’s inevitably to come soon enough…
He can’t do this.
He thought he could. Turns out there were still some more things he could be wrong about.
That’s all he can think when he finally is seated back in the dining hall. It’s funny, so funny Bucky couldn’t even laugh about it anymore if he tried – the world that surrounds him... It’s so extravagant and beautiful and posh and colorful and it's supposed to be everything a person could want, yet Bucky doesn’t give a shit about any of those things. It all might as well be black and white. And the food, it does taste like ash; gives Bucky a hard time swallowing. Every bite has him hoping it’ll choke him to death.
And they talk, talk, talk, and it’s all about absolutely nothing. As usual, no one seems to notice that Bucky has nothing to say. Neither Peggy nor Mr. Stark are at their table tonight, and his mother seems to deliberately be avoiding any conversation with Bucky altogether. She probably assumes she’s helping. Bucky’s too tired to have an opinion on that anymore.
Brock has his hand on Bucky’s thigh, beneath the table cloth. Sometimes, he’ll force Bucky’s fingers to thread with his and spend a few minutes gripping it like a vice. He keeps laughing and chatting away with the others at the table, but Bucky knows… All of this is just another reminder, another reminder, another fucking reminder--
And whenever he squeezes, that rope twisted around Bucky’s neck tightens.
He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he—
“I have to use the washroom,” he whispers under his breath.
“Hmm?” Brock turns his pleasant smile his way. Leaning in, he asks, “What was that, baby doll?"
Bucky clears his throat. Slowly lifting his eyes, he looks over to Brock and mumbles, “I don’t feel very good. I need to--” He catches himself. Fighting a grimace, he corrects himself and asks, “May I please go use the washroom?” Brock’s expression doesn’t change, but a beat passes in which he doesn’t answer.
So Bucky is the one to squeeze his hand this time. Forcing a rueful smile, he quietly promises (lies), “I’ll be right back.”
That seems to satisfy his fiancé. Brock nods, leaning in to place a kiss to the side of his head. Inside, Bucky screams again. Outside, his mouth twitches and he lets it happen. Turning his attention back to the rest of the table, he folds his napkin and places it down next to his plate. Rising from his chair, he politely excuses himself and then turns and heads out of the saloon.
As soon as he emerges into the foyer, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, gasping out a breath that’d been stifling him since the moment he got in there.. Unable to breathe in another one... His heart is pounding too fast, and everything’s starting to spin. It doesn’t matter that he’s no longer in there with them; the walls are still closing in from every side. He’s being strangled.
He can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t--
He feels so fucking numb. That terrifies him, because it leaves him thinking… Thinking it’d just be so easy to…
Bucky feels like he’s going crazy, and yet – and yet he still feels like he can’t feel a thing, and that only makes him think he might be going even crazier. Still unable to breathe, Bucky moves without thinking and breaks straight into a run, trying to get as far away from Brock and his mother and his life as he possibly can.
He isn’t sure why his instinct brings him out to the third class deck, like it had earlier that same day. Frankly, Bucky doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything anymore, and that’s part of the problem because all he knows is he just can’t, he can’t, it’s not fair, he can’t, he can’t--
The sky is black, filled with stars when Bucky pushes open the door to the deck and bursts outside. He’s met with a small, cool breeze but his lungs are burning and he still can’t breathe. He keeps running, and he’s crying again, and he’s angry that he’s crying, and he can’t do this, he can’t--
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the stern, practically crashing into the railing. He wraps his hands around the top bars and leans forward, pressing his weight against them… Suddenly hoping they’ll somehow give out and he’ll go plummeting off over the edge. The sound of the water splitting around the ship is almost deafening in contrast to the rest of the night’s sky being so calm. The only thing louder seems to be the noise in Bucky’s head.
Tears still rolling down his cheeks, he pants – still struggling for air that won’t come – and can’t tear his eyes from the ocean below him. He stands there and he thinks – he thinks, it’d just be so easy to…
God, but he can’t, he can’t, he fucking can’t--
He just wants to feel something – anything – so he can be fucking alive again, instead of what he’s feeling now… Has been feeling for months…
It’d just be so easy to…
Then it’d all be over. What else does he even have anymore...?
He whimpers under his breath, pathetic and weak, and he never takes his eyes off the water. It’d just be so easy to – oh but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-- And he thinks of Brock and oh fuck, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t—
It’d just be so easy to…
Taking a shaky breath, Bucky lifts his foot onto the first bar and pushes himself off the deck, beginning to climb.
