Chapter Text
“It’s just like high school,” explains Becca, “except extra pathetic, because we’re supposed to outgrow cliques. That—” she says, pointing to the emptiest table in farthest corner of the cafeteria, “—is the sad-sack divorcee table. C’mon.”
With no experience navigating the social hierarchy of elementary school PTA meetings, Bucky has no choice but take Becca at her word, though lately she’s prone to a bit more self-pity than usual. Personally, he’s relieved to be far from the dense crowd at the front of the room.
“That guy’s a sad-sack divorcee?”
The only other occupant of the table they’re heading toward is the most beautifully built man Bucky has seen outside of Hollywood. Like a Calvin Klein model auditioning for the role of 'Hot Dad.'
“Steve? Sure. He’s basically our ringleader. I’ll introduce you.”
Being introduced to Becca’s mom-friends has been a source of anxiety in agreeing to tag-along to school functions like this. Bucky isn't used to being around people who have their shit together enough to reproduce responsibly. And he certainly isn't one of them. By all accounts, he's a top-notch Fun Uncle but fears those qualities might be perceived as “overgrown-man-child” in an auditorium full of helicopter parents. He didn’t know any PTA attendees would look like Steve.
“Hey,” says Steve genially, looking curiously at Bucky sliding in behind Becca at the child-sized lunch table.
“My brother,” is all Becca offers, but Steve reaches out his hand to shake, and the odd angle meaning Bucky has to meet it with his prosthetic.
“Bucky Barnes. Nice to meet you.”
“Steve Rogers.”
Bucky sees the alarmed downward glance when Steve realizes the hand he’s shaking isn’t real, “Did you serve?”
Bucky’s not expecting question, but he probably should be. Stark prosthetics aren’t exactly available to civilians, though few recognize it as such.
“Uh, yeah. Army.”
Steve’s staring at his arm a little too long when he says, “Hm. Same.”
So Steve is a sad-sack divorced veteran. At the very least, Bucky’s arm is distracting him from one of those intense brothers-in-arms stares that never fail to make him squirm. Still, he feels kinda dumb for immediately getting distracted by hotness. Becca gives him a knowing side-eye.
“He’s staying with me and the kids,” explains Becca turning back to Steve, “While everything’s—you know,” meaning the divorce. But Bucky supposes Steve does know.
“That’s great,” says Steve, smiling approvingly.
A few others arrive at the table, all looking various shades of exhausted. Introductions are made, but there’s a lot less chit-chat than there appears to be elsewhere in the room. They wait in relieved silence for the meeting to begin.
This is only Bucky’s third week back in Brooklyn, and he’s still pretty out of the loop on his nieces’ schooling. Most of the meeting goes right over his head, so he doesn't feel guilty for stealing glances at Steve instead. Dude must have been Special Ops, built like that. Bucky doesn’t want to ask though. Too many years in group therapy—talking about his or anyone else’s time in the service just feels like work. He’s done the work. He’s down to one 50-minute Skype appointment a week with his therapist in L.A., and he’s got enough emotional bandwidth leftover to do shit like support his sister through a contested divorce. He won’t dredge up trauma just to forge a bond with a guy who wears khakis to PTA meetings. But he can look.
Bucky gets an elbow in the ribs from Becca right around the time “Holiday Pageant” gets mentioned at the podium. See the music teacher, Ms. Carrigan—waving dutifully from the front—for volunteer opportunities. Bucky can’t imagine what he has to offer this hotly anticipated P.S. 45 production, but apparently it’s a big deal to the girls, and Becca had asked for the favor. The whole point of dragging himself across the country to sleep on his sister’s couch was to make her life easier anyway he could. Sometimes he wished that meant kicking his lying, cheating, former brother-in-law’s ass in a dark alley somewhere, but hanging stage-lights in a grade-school auditorium was more than doable if it helped Becca out.
Bucky makes his way to Ms. Carrigan once the announcements conclude, and is surprised to find Steve jotting his name at the top of the volunteer contact sheet. Steve raises both eyebrows when Bucky follows suit.
“Holiday pageant, huh? You’re really jumping off the deep end.”
“Am I? Becca thought I could be useful.” What Bucky doesn’t say is, Because I have experience. Coordinating stunts for big budget action movies really has fuck-all to do with children’s theater, despite what Becca thinks. Bucky figured he could help with the heavy lifting or something, but maybe Steve’s got that covered.
“Absolutely. We need the help. Just be warned we take our school productions pretty seriously around here.”
Katie—Becca's oldest—hasn’t shut-up about how the third grade is going to dress up like gingerbread cookies this year. Bucky's aware the stakes are high. He gives Steve his most serious nod.
“So, you’re planning on sticking around for a while?” asks Steve.
“Oh, I guess,” shrugs Bucky, wincing internally at how little he’d planned this Uncle Bucky-to-the-rescue routine, “Don’t have a return flight booked.”
The custody hearing is the week after Thanksgiving, and Becca has all four girls full time until then. Who knows what the fall-out will be. He'll reassess...after.
“Wow. That’s incredible you’d do that for your sister,” says Steve earnestly. Predictably, praise from a hot guy makes Bucky blush, although the truth is it doesn’t feel like much of a sacrifice. Bucky had woken up at Walter Reed after a medevac from Iraq missing an arm and several months of memories. Becca was at his bedside with a baby on each hip, prepared to move into the nearest motel until discharge.
“Barneses show up for each other,” is all Bucky can say. It’s taken him the better part of a decade to be in a position to return the favor. Steve beams.
“I know it's been hard for her, since mediation fizzled out. Good to know she's got you in her corner. Where are you in from?”
“I’ve been in L.A. a few years now. But I grew up just a few blocks away from here.” God forbid anyone think he’s from L.A.
“Welcome home! I'm a native myself,” says Steve, bringing his hand to Bucky's (flesh) shoulder. And shit, if that one touch doesn’t steer this small talk dangerously close to flirting territory. Bucky’s good at flirting under normal circumstances. But he’s on the wrong coast, and he’s in a school cafeteria possibly having just signed up to sew child-size gingerbread costumes, talking to a beautiful dad who approximately three seconds ago Bucky would have put money on being straight. And Becca, who’s got some kind of internal sensor for when Bucky gets too close to a good time, is glaring daggers over Steve’s shoulder.
“It’s good to be home,” says Bucky, aiming for an out that’s definitively not a brushoff, “Hopefully we’ll see each other around. Pageant prepping and all.”
“Definitely. We should get an e-mail in a few days with the details. See you around, Bucky.”
***
“Jesus Christ,” hisses Becca once they’re outside, walking home.
“What?”
“You can’t keep it in your pants for a single fucking PTA meeting?”
“What the hell, Becca? I was doing what you asked! You told me to volunteer for the holiday thing!”
“Yeah, but not to flirt with the dads!”
“I wasn’t! I came, I volunteered. Steve was flirting with me.”
Steve is new, the argument is old. Bucky demonstrates basic social niceties (a skill Becca never quite mastered) and gets accused of flirting, as if he can help being desired on occasion. For a brief, self-destructive period on his very non-linear journey with PTSD, Bucky may have taken advantage and charmed his way into a few too many stranger’s beds. Unsatisfied and a little embarrassed, he's moved on to healthier coping strategies. But not without permanently grossing out his sister.
“Steve doesn’t flirt with anyone,” says Becca accusingly.
“He was being nice, that’s all.”
"Yeah, Steve is nice. He’s one of the few people at that school that doesn’t treat me like a total pariah for allowing my family fall apart!”
“Becca—,” starts Bucky, panicked at the unexpected tears in his sister’s eyes.
“No, shut up. You don’t know what it’s like. I don’t have any regrets, but it’s so hard. My entire life changed, and all of the people I thought were my friends have completely disappeared. I’m thankful you’re here Bucky, but I’m also thankful for Steve. He doesn’t make me feel bad about myself and is proof a person can survive this shit. Please don’t make things weird.”
“It wasn’t anything, I swear.” It wasn’t. Flirting was just the kind of wishful interpretation that was inevitable talking to a man who looked the way Steve did. A little ribbing was Bucky’s brotherly birthright, but hurting Becca right now was unthinkable. “I’m glad you have a friend. He seems like a good guy.”
“Yeah,” says Becca, settling.
They pick up Chinese on the way home, and the girls circle like vultures as soon as they’re in the door. Rikki—Bucky and Becca’s youngest sister by nearly a decade, had generously offered to babysit in exchange for some chicken siu mai. Although Bucky’s pretty sure Rikki’s got at least six roommates at her place in Boerum Hill, so maybe this is just the kind of chaos she’s accustomed to.
Bucky lives alone in L.A. Put a down payment on a condo in Silver Lake after his first superhero movie paycheck cleared. He taught himself to cook a few grown-up meals, and talk about his arm without bumming people out. He goes on dates with men whose last names he makes an effort to learn, and has carved out a reputable, exhilarating career that manages to pay the bills. He’d lived through significant trauma, and built a good life for himself on the other side. He’s proud of that life.
But here in Becca’s cramped kitchen, arguing with a 4-year-old over who gets the last egg roll, surrounded by women he would willingly give up his remaining arm for, he’s more at peace with himself than he's been in a long time.