onlyapassenger | [for Steve] who will wield the shield?

The sheer amount of ordnance Bucky has managed to acquire in the months since his arrival is, perhaps, startling. Though he'd shown up with nothing but a combat knife to his name, sometimes it paid to be the victim of the island's crueler tricks. Though he hadn't much appreciated the reminder of the time, getting saddled with all of his Winter Soldier gear has ultimately been a blessing as much as anything else; even if he has little cause to use it in his day to day life, there's a comfort Bucky finds in carrying a firearm that he'd be hard pressed to explain to someone of a different background.

It's old habit that finds him sitting on his front porch, a number of unloaded guns, ranging in size and make, spread out on a worn blanket beside him. His hands move in practiced motions as he cleans them one by one; it's mindless work, if necessary, though his thoughts drift elsewhere, sifting through memories both whole and fractured. He tries to remember the crimes he committed, the ones that apparently see him incarcerated in a Gulag in a future far worse than he ever anticipated, but he's met with nothing save a frustrating blankness -- a mental dead end.

Probably for the best. God only knows what sort of nightmare I'll find if I keep digging. I sleep poorly enough as is... Must drive Tasha crazy.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, it's only through a chanced glance upwards that Bucky realizes he's no longer alone. Steve is coming up the path, carrying in his hands a shield Bucky would recognize just about anywhere, one he stole if only to keep it away from anyone else, and wielded for much the same reason. He stands, abruptly, a cloth in one hand and an assault rifle in the other, but makes it down only so far as the first step before he freezes.

"Is that what I think it is?"

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He pulls it out of the air like it's the most natural thing in the world. It's strange to watch.

"Tony Stark's basement."

He can't have heard right; Bucky clings to the thought like a lifeline, trying not to drown in the sudden rush of anger that engulfs him. Even so, his grip on the shield tightens, the knuckles of his right hand turning white.

"Come again?"

Edited 2011-06-30 21:41 (UTC)

It's instantly clear that this is going to go down about as well as the Hindenburg.

"Kate Bishop gave it to him to safe guard. She told him it was mine." I walk to the foot of the steps, planting a foot on the lowest one.

While the Young Avengers could've stood for a hell of a lot more training, Bucky generally thought well of the group of teen heroes, Hawkeye and Patriot in particular. That said, the explanation does little to quell his anger, much as he tries to keep it in check, more for Steve's sake than his own. Because the thing is, Bucky's looked at the records; Kate Bishop was already long gone before even he arrived, meaning Stark's been sitting on this thing for months without saying so much as a word.

"And he's only giving this to you now?"

"The first time we spoke, he told me to stop by, that he thought he had something of mine. I didn't know what he meant, and I took my sweet time getting over there to find out." I don't shrug, can't quite manage a gesture that dismissive. I'm bothered, but I can imagine Bucky might be considerably more so. He's spoken to Tony. I'd wager he told Tony long ago that he was my... That he was Captain America.

"He might've specified," says Bucky, disbelievingly, though he can't help but think it figures that Stark wouldn't. The guy's unreadable, a cipher, hiding behind glib remarks and callous behavior; his genius can only win him so many points. While Bucky had been content not to form any concrete opinions on the doppelganger, to keep a personal distance, he suspects, strongly, that that's about to change.

Dropping down a step, Bucky holds out the shield for Steve to take, no reluctance to the gesture; he never wanted the shield for himself, after all, and his anger now isn't born of the fact that it's been kept from him all this time, despite it technically being his. Even back home, his motive was simply a matter of not wanting anyone else to have it. No one else, that is, except for Steve Rogers.

"What a frigging ass."

"I won't fight you on that one," I say, because I am not exactly thrilled with Anthony Stark right now, regardless of his universe of origin.

My gaze drops to the shield but I look back up at Bucky, and I know the shift in my expression has probably given me away before I speak a word. I don't reach out a hand to take it back.

"Bucky-"

The truth is, it's not exactly unexpected; Bucky's been through this song and dance before, albeit in wildly different circumstances, and it was the same, then. He sighs, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it, and the anger fades from his features, replaced with an exasperation that's not quite fond.

"But you're going to fight me on this, aren't you?" he surmises, mouth drawn in a frown. "Steve--"

"I can't, Bucky. It's not mine, anymore." Not just the shield, either.

"You told me at some point in my future, I ask you to take this on. Whenever that is, I, me as I am now, I haven't even had that much distance from it. I can't carry the shield, Bucky. Not now."

There's an argument on the tip of Bucky's tongue, that this place doesn't need anyone to carry the shield -- that the dangers Captain America is typically called upon to fight simply don't exist here with any regularity -- but he doesn't say it, because he doesn't believe a damn word of it himself. Moreover, it doesn't actually fix their problem; even if it never gets used, someone needs to take it.

Things have changed for Bucky since Steve last asked this of him; his identity's been leaked to the press, he's been stripped of the flag, he apparently gets sentenced to a stay in a gulag... And yet, despite all that, there's a part of him that wants to prove himself to Steve, wants to impress his old partner, to show that while he's not a good man, he still tries. What he wants is not the shield or the mantle, but rather, the opportunity they represent for him to earn this life that's been given. He holds Steve's gaze, not shying away from the situation as might be his inclination otherwise, and lets out a sigh.

I can imagine how grim I look, but it can't be helped. I'm exhausted from thinking about this, from carrying the shield from Stark's place to Bucky's, knowing the entire time that it couldn't be mine again, that I'm not ready. Not capable.

"I don't know that you'll ever need it here. I don't know that there will ever be a call we have to answer on this island that will require the use of that shield, but if there is, if that time comes... You're Captain America. You should be prepared."

"What does that make you?" he asks, still holding out the shield, not having yet claimed it for his own, regardless of what Steve's telling him now.

"You're always going to be the guy, Steve. I can hang onto this if you want me to, but as far as I'm concerned... This is always going to be yours."

Bucky just asked me the same thing I've been asking myself every day since I surrendered myself to the authorities. The answer is, I don't know. There came a point in my life where I had to choose between being Steve Rogers or being a good Captain America. The decision was easier than it maybe should have been.

"Then do. Hang onto it," I tell him, holding his gaze and not reaching for or glancing at the shield in his hand.

"Do it for me, Buck."

And just like that, with five little words, any semblance of choice is out of Bucky's hands. There's no question, now, that he'll take the shield, safeguard it for as long as necessary, and though a part of Bucky wishes that Steve could see in himself what everyone else does, he knows, too, that part of what makes Steve Rogers so great is that he doesn't. That the man is able to remain humble and steady throughout his tragedies and triumphs is what puts him above all the rest.

Pulling back the shield, Bucky holds it to his chest, not having much cause to slide it on his arm.

"Whenever you're ready..." he says, not bothering to finish the thought.

"Thank you," I tell him sincerely.

[for Steve] who will wield the shield?

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