#almost

[homiesexuallaj]

saw somewhere that ww2 soldiers called nurses mama, since most were just boys after all

— —

You’re a world war 2 nurse, assigned to the company that held Captain Rogers and Sergeant Rogers. Both of them of which who were clogging up the line during your rotation constantly. It was always a scrape from a tumble, split knuckles from an enemy soldier, a graze from a bullet wound that cut a close call, or even as something as simple as a paper cut from those two. It was almost never ending.

You tried and tried to send them to other nurses, but no. They wanted you. Their mama.

Mama seemed to be a name that the younger soldiers like to call nurses. It wasn’t anything inherently degrading or sexual. It was something comforting to the men. They felt it was appropriate to the situation, as you and tens of other nurses carefully cared for the soldiers in the company you were assigned to.

You’d heard it tossed around the tents when you first got here, finding it otherworldly to hear a soldier not much older than you gals call some on your team ‘mama.’ But after the name circled around you to, you accepted it almost instantly. Finding to comforting to know how much the men you cared for trusted you, even if the name was tossed around too much by the boyish soldier that you refused to call by any other name than “Sergeant Barnes”. He was often slapped upside the head by his blond best friend when Barnes used the name a little too teasingly in your direction, which had only resulted in rolled eyes from you.

Which you’d done just now as a familiar voice called out to you.

Your back was to the entrance of the tent, cleaning off medical supplies and thoroughly washing your hands of debris and blood. You dried your hands as the tent flaps moved and a breeze drifted in.

“Sergeant, I swear to the heavens above if it’s another paper cut-” You turn and are cut off by the sight you’re subjected to.

Standing just inside the entrance to your specific medical tent are both Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes, the latter of who was held up with an arm wrapped around the Captain’s shoulders. The usual well put together Sergeant was bruised and bloodied, clutching his left side with a bloody hand. But through the pain, he manages to lift his head and give you a lopsided smile.

“ ‘just a graze,” Barnes wheezes out as Rogers half drags him over to the medical cot.

Barnes sits with a huff, wincing and clutching his side more. A groan slips from his throat as he sits in a deep slouch.

Worry and concern course through your veins at the sight, but you take a breath, gathering a few rags and supplies from the cart-like table in your tent. You turn your gaze to Rogers, blinking softly at him.

“I got him, Rogers,” You sooth down his hidden nerves. “He’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” The Captain dips his head, looking down at you softly before turning a stern gaze to his partner. “Behave.”

Though the command is soft and not so serious, just barely a warning.

“I always do,” The Sergeant only smiles at his friend, eyes squinted slightly in pain.

The Captain leaves and you help the Sergeant lay down upon the raised medical cot. You peel back his shirt, exposing his lower abdomen and the wound that splits the skin just below the man’s ribcage. At the air hitting the wound, Barnes hand twitches to cover it once again before relaxing as much as he can.

“Hey, mama,” The Sergeant greets, eyeing you with a relaxed gaze.

You give a small warning and gently pour water over from a small flask over the wound, clearing debris and washing away blood.

“Sergeant,” You greet back, focusing your gaze on your work.

“You know you can-,” The man jumps and hisses with pain as you gently begin dabbing a rag soaked in alcohol around the edges of the wound, wiping away the leaking blood. “-call me Bucky.”

You give a small apology at the unintentional hurt, “Sergeant Barnes gets your attention just fine.”

“So stubborn,” Barnes chuckles. “Just like my own ma’.”

You only shake your head at his words, entertained by his thoughts.

“What’d you do this time?” You ask, trying to distract him from your ministrations.

“Grazed by a bullet,” The Sergeant answers.

You hum, “You’re lucky it’s not deep. Just a flesh wound. You’ll be back on the field in a week.”

“Only a week, mama?” He asks, letting out a deep-chested sigh.

“Too long for you, Sergeant?” You ask, walking away to drop the soiled rag into the sink and grabbed a pre-made syringe of a numbing solution.

“Not long enough,” Barnes answers, eyeing the needle for a second before up at your face. “Not with you.”

What a big flirt..

You only shake your head, giving a small warning before you inject the solution in two spots, one above and one below the wound to get the area ready for stitching. You cover and toss the syringe, coming to hold the Sergeant’s hand as the flesh begin to numb.

You hold hands with all your patients. You find it’s a comfort for the soldiers, something to ground themselves and be pulled from their wandering thoughts. It’s a small thing, so futile, no matter the lightness you feel in your stomach every time you interlock fingers with the Sergeant that can’t seem to stay away from you.

Soon enough, the muscles numb and you diligently start to stitch up the skin, willing it to close as fast as it can. You sit on stool as you work, eye level with the Sergeant’s abdomen. When you finish with the sutures, you wipe the area down with more alcohol before wrapping it up with gauze.

You keep Sergeant Barnes in your tent for the next week. You watch over him and check his wound for progress, feeling good with yourself to find it healing up nicely. And as promised, Sergeant Barnes was back out on the field, his skin just starting to mend together.

But yours and Barnes time apart wasn’t for long. It wasn’t even two days before you were called into your colonel’s tent. It surprised you to see the broad backs of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes already there.

You joined the men, greeting the Colonel first, then the two men second.

Your Colonel informed you that you would be joining the Howling Commandos as their traveling nurse as they trek their way through the forest and to a possible HYDRA camp. You will be in charge of the seven men and take care of any injured they happen upon on the field. You nod, thanking the man for the opportunity before you take your leave to go and pack up your needed supplies.

You’re in the midst of packing up your necessary things when you heard the flaps of your tent flutter as someone comes in. You buckle up your travel pack and turn, finding Rogers and Barnes.

Both men inform you that they’ve got a portable tent wrapped and waited for them with their stuff, it’ll be used as both a personal tent for you and a medical tent for the team. A spare sleeping cot and medical cot are waiting for you as well.

Once you’re done you join the men, carrying only you’re transportable medical bag and your personal sleeping cot, as Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes had insisted carrying the wrapped up tent and medical cot along with their own stuff. You felt bad and tried to protest that you could carry more, but they didn’t let you have an opinion. So you sighed and gave up, following the men into the woods.

By nightfall, you were all settled into a clearing. Your tents were set up and cots were laid out. The men ate by a small fire in a desperate attempt to keep warm in the chill of the night. But you stayed in your own tent, content on being alone and giving the men time to decompress and plan. And when you tried to sleep that night, it didn’t come easy. You were too used to the comfort of the women around you, but now your tent felt empty and it made you feel alone.

You were out in the woods for about three days before something went wrong.

You’d been woken up by stomping boots and gunfire, orders shouted in the dark. You sat up, pulling your thin cover to your chest as you listened. But you gasped as a flap to your tent was pushed aside and an unknown man in an unknown uniform came prowling in.

He spotted you instantly, pointing his gun at you as he pounced and dragged you out of bed. He spoke in a language you didn’t understand, and your protests went to deaf ears as you were dragged out into the dirt.

Outside, you looked around, spotting unknown soldiers mingling with the Commandos. The clearing lit up with gunfire and you searched desperately for a familiar face as you tried to kick and hit at your captor. Finally, across the way you spotted a familiar face, Sergeant Barnes.

“Sergeant!” You called, voice filled with panic.

He spun around with wide eyes, a handgun held tightly in his right hand. Barnes had spotted you instantly, not like it was hard when he could spot you in an overly crowded room.

The Sergeant started forward, running towards you as he pointed the gun in your direction, aiming for the exposed body of the man who held you in the crook of his elbow. He shot once, twice, four times before knocking the man who held you down.

You scrambled away, sticky dirt smudged on your exposed knees. You headed for the Sergeant but didn’t get far when someone else grabbed you, pressing something solid into the side of your head. You froze, having been yanked upwards.

Barnes froze as well, brows furrowing as he pointed the gun in your direction again. He was weighing his options, you could tell. But before he could come to a definite decision, a bullet made its home in the fleshy part of his left shoulder, shocking him away from his stance.

With his attention turned, your captor made way with you and disappeared into the woods, despite your hitting and kicking all the way to their camp.

The rest of the night and next day were a blur as your captors packed up camp and ran off, disappearing even deeper into the woods. They’d brought you to an effectively hidden concrete building, taking you inside and down the rickety elevator. Once inside you were brought to an infirmary room of sorts and ordered to stitch and bandage up their comrades with unknown words, grunts, and angry points. You listened, stitching with shaky hands.

The group, or organization, kept you for who knows how long. Using you as a nurse to stitch up their soldiers as they came down from the outside. It was like this for awhile until someone got a bright idea.

You were subject to experiments, both physical and mental. Unknown serums and solutions were injected into your body, and white lab coat wearing scientists took notes of the side effects before trying again.

The group, one that wore stitched patches of a red skull with tentacles, only experimented on men. This was their chance to figure out how their serums would work in the body of a woman.

In between experiments, you still played nurse. Even if your brain was sluggish and your eyes didn’t see right. Thank goodness your skills had become muscle memory at this point.

You didn’t know how long this group kept you, only that you were tossed into a cold cylinder once they were done with you for the moment. The cold had lulled you to sleep, leaving you in the dark until you were needed again.

You weren’t sure how long it was until you were awakened again, but you were surprised to see a man with short, brown hair wearing a purple and black tactical suit, leaving his arms exposed. And you were even more surprised to hear him speak english, a language you hadn’t heard in so long.

The man helped you down gently, letting your wobbly legs find strength again after not being used for who knows how long. He’d talked with a finger up to his ear before introduced himself.

“I’m Clint Barton,” He says as he leads you down a hallway.

You follow him, cautiously introduced your own self.

The man’s eyes light up with something before you ask, “Who- who are you?”

You’re aware he’s introduced himself, but it’s obvious he’s apart of some group.

“I’m apart of a group called the Avengers,” He answers slowly, watching you take in the information. “We save people.”

You nod, letting him lead you up the same old rickety elevator before leading you to a very bright outside world. And you’re confused as he asks,

“Do you know what year it is?”

You shake your head, “I’m not sure anymore.”

“What’s the last year you remember?” He asks, leading you to a very futuristic looking jet.

“1943,” You answer.

You watch as this Clint’s face pales slightly, before shaking his head and giving you a reassuring smile as he helps you into the fancy jet.

The jet is obviously military. The inside looks like those similar to a cargo jet, with enough empty space to carry a whole platoon and then some as well. A few seats line the jet’s walls, eight on each side facing inwards at each other.

“Taking in another stray, I see,” A man speaks from your right.

This man wears a red and black tactical suit, the chest and shoulder plates obviously made with some sort of shiny metal. Two large things are attached to his back as well, but you’re not sure what they are.

“Are you sure, Barton?” A man speaks from the left, voice coming from what you assume is the cockpit. “It’s been almost eighty years. She was presumed dead when we didn’t find anything, and trust me, I looked.”

From the cockpit comes a starkly familiar man dressed in a mostly blue, with red and white stripes on the abdomen suit with a shiny star in the middle of his chest. He wears no helmet of any kind, allowing you to see the bright blond hair and deep blue eyes.

You freeze, stomach dropping down to your toes, and you swear your heart stops.

“Cap-Captain?” You stutter, feet rooted to the metal flooring of the jet.

“Mama?” He says back, voice soft and quiet.

And as you look at him, you realize he’s barely changed. He’s still the young, bright eyes soldier you stitched up back on the battlefield. Though his suit is different, it looks more sturdy and protected.

You feel all eyes on you both.

“It’s been..,” You trailed off. You’re not sure how long it’s been.

“Almost eighty years,” Captain Rogers answers for you.

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Eighty years..? But- but how?”

“It’s a long story,” The Captain tells you, finally approaching you with slow steps.

You meet him halfway, still unsure of how real this whole situation was.

Once you two meet, you’re clinging to him like a lifeline. And you know it’s real when he hugs you back and you can smell the leather of his suit. When you pull away, you’re gazing at him with sparkling eyes before looking behind him and around, looking for someone.

“Where’s Sergeant Barnes?” You ask, holding onto Rogers forearms.

“He’s umm..,” Rogers meets your eyes, his own sparkling with a vulnerability you’ve only seen in your medical tent. “I- I don’t know.”

“Oh,” You deflate.

“I’m trying to find him, promise,” Rogers comforts you, and maybe a little bit of himself. “It’s just… taking awhile.”

You nod.

You only let go when Steve guides you to sit in one of the seats, sitting you next to a red haired woman. He buckles you in himself, even though you tell him you can figure it out. He only shakes his head and introduces you to the team made up of people by the names of Clint Barton, Sam Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff. And the the captain is making his way to the cockpit.

“You know how to fly a plane, Captain?” You call after him, only half joking.

“Since Austria,” He calls back, looking at you before disappearing into the bay.

“When did you go to Austria?” You ask, confused.

“That’s also a long story,” He tells you, finally entering the cockpit.

You shake your head.

You get to know the crew as you fly off to.. well, you’re not really sure. And you answer any questions they have for you, and you trying to wrap your head around any answers they give to your questions.

When you arrive at what they call “The Compound”, Captain Rogers is showing you around.

He’s introducing you to more people and showing you things you could’ve only dreamt up if you thought about sci-fi and aliens. And it’s so bright, and there’s so much electricity and so much running water from the ridiculous amount of bathrooms. And Rogers is making you food that explodes in your mouth, watching you with an elated expression. He’s introducing you to a man who’s father you’d heard of in passing, Tony Stark. Who which takes you under his wing for a moment and shows you the medical bay of the compound, which looks like a futuristic wet dream for you.

Tony Stark is introducing you to the nurses and doctors that work there full time. Then he’s shoving you into the arms of the head nurse as Mr. Stark, who tells you not to call him that (it makes him feel like his father), promises a job here and a place to stay.

You thank him. And he says no problem, but to go to Steve if you have any technology problems.

And at the end of the night, you’re settled into a room that’s between Natasha’s and someone else’s and across from Steve’s. You’re unsure what to do now. The white walls are too white and the bed is way too soft, but you’re not willing to sleep on the cold floor. You’ve had enough of the cold.

Captain Rogers joins you, admitting that he’s kept your stuff throughout the years. He’s handing you a journal that’s filled with your hand writing in it and brown and white photos stuffed into the crevices. He’s handing you dog tags, a medical equipment bag, a personal bag, and finally a flask. Your flask, one that was gifted to you by a boyish Sergeant, who you often found at your heels more often than not.

Your hands shake as you thumb at the dog tags, seeing one for you, Captain Rogers, and for Sergeant Barnes. And you’re hugging your Captain, thanking him and crying, feeling overwhelmed. Then you pull away, wiping your tears away with a fist.

“It’s the least I could do, mama,” Rogers is quiet as he speaks.

“Thank you, Captain,” You say quietly, matching his volume.

“Please,” The Captain takes your hands in his. “Call me Steve. It’s been eighty years. It’s the least you could do.”

“Okay,” You nod. “Steve.”

That’ll take some getting used to.

This new life in the twenty first century has taken some getting used to, with the new medical equipment and procedures, the technology, and the clothes.

No longer were the form fitting skirts and low cut tops, but now looser scrubs. There was the plus of the material being softer and being easier to move in.

But you felt right at home in the compound’s medical bay, with your dog tags swung around your neck. You were often down here more than not, meeting your coworkers and fixing up anyone that had taken a tumble or gotten shot at on a mission. Even in the dead of night you were found down here, even when all your coworkers were gone for the day, you were in the medical bay. Your new friends often found you hunched over in the lab learning about the new medicines or playing with new suturing techniques.

Much like now as you stitched up a knife wound on Barton’s bicep with one of your newly found suturing techniques. But you worked with your hands, finding that the tools weren’t as precise as your fingers.

“You like to work with your hands, don’t you?” Barton asked, watching you work.

You nod, “I always have. We didn’t have fancy tools on the field. Only a needle, a string, and our fingers.”

Barton nods back at you, “It’s a good skill to have, one of which you’re very good at.”

“Thank you,” You glance up at the man before tying off the last stitch.

You dab the area with antiseptic alcohol before wrapping it up in gauze. Then you’re cleaning up and sending Barton on his way, who informs you of your next patient.

A familiar broad frame fills your doorway, leaning against the wood.

“Rogers,” You greet, washing your hands. “Eighty years have passed and you haven’t seemed to change.”

You scold him gently, preparing yourself to examine him once your hands are dry. You watch him from your peripheral, watching as he observes you fully.

“Not me this time,” Steve chuckles gently after your scolding. “It’s… someone else.”

You turn, drying your hands with a rag. You look area, looking for this ‘someone else’, but you find no one.

“He’s waiting in a more private area of the bay,” Steve tells you, standing to his full height as your approach. “I figured it’d be best. Doctors and stuff scare him.”

“Will I have supplies in this mysterious back room that our stranger sits in?” You ask, letting Steve lead you down the hallways.

“Fully stocked,” Steve informs, slouching slightly as he walks beside you.

Content with his answer, you walk in pace beside Steve. You two chatter down the hallways, and you take note of the less and less people that wander the halls as Steve leads you deep into the medical bay. But you watch as he’s relaxed, so you are too as you follow the captain’s lead.

You enter the last hallway, you figure as you see the end. There are windows on either side of each door, the blinds opened and pulled up. But the last door on the left, the blinds are drawn and shut so nobody could see inside if they tried. You glance up at Steve, wondering what could be so secretive.

Steve opens the door for you, pushing it open enough for you to shimmy in. You don’t see anyone inside from this angle.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Steve says, looking down at you.

“Must be a big secret if even you’re not coming in,” You tease, beginning to walk in.

“Just delicate,” He corrects, rolling his eyes slightly at you.

You shake your head, looking around when you hear the door shut behind you. But your gaze is caught by a dark figure in the room.

On the medical bed directly across from the door, sits a hulking figure hunched over. His hands sit on either side of his thighs, gripping the plushness of the bed, and his head hangs. The man’s hair is long and the shininess of a metal hand catches you eyes, which trail up his left arm to watch the metal disappear underneath the sleeve that’s pushed up to his mid-forearm. But he looks up at the latching of the door and steely blue eyes meet you own.

You freeze. Your face goes pale and your blood runs cold. You recognize this face, even if it’s more worn than you remember.

“Ser-Sergeant Barnes,” You stutter, staring.

The dogs tags under your scrubs suddenly feel burning cold. You wouldn’t be surprised to find your chest frostbitten where the chain rests against you.

Shocks paints the man’s face and he sits up from his slouching position. He stares back at you with wide eyes, the blue catching the florescent lights above. His hands twitch at his side and you can hear a machine whir and the clicking of something metallic fill the silent room.

“But-” Sergeant Barnes starts, unmoving from his spot on the bed. “You- you’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead. You were taken, in front of me. I- I lost you, in the field.”

You can see panic start to stir in his eyes, even more so when you step towards him slowly. When you stand just before the Sergeant, you place a gentle hand on his knee. You’re trying to soothe him, even as shock pulses through you.

“What happened?” The Sergeant asks, voice just above a whisper.

“I uh.. I’m not sure,” You answer. “They took me.. some…. stuff happened, and Steve found me. I’ve been here for maybe about a year now.”

You look over the Sergeant as you talk, looking for any reason he might be in here, in the medical bay. There’s nothing apparent to be seen, but you still look.

You take note of his shoulder length hair, the scruffiness of his face, and a subtle scar that indicates a split lip. On the exposed skin of his neck there’s a scar that splits the side of his neck with silvery skin, a gunshot graze. And down over the exposed skin of his right hand and arm is scattered with scars, big and small, long and short, and you see the familiar scaring of split knuckles. He was always a little bit of a hothead after all..

And you find yourself fascinated with the Sergeant’s new metal appendage. You’re tempted to see how large up it goes. You watch as the metal slides against itself with subtle movements.

“You’re.. bigger than I remember,” You look up into his blue eyes, noting his apparent height and burliness. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Sergeant Barnes shakes his head, “No, not at the moment. And.. a lot happened over the last.. eighty years, is it?”

“That’s what Steve tells me,” You nod at his words, watching his face intently.

Barnes nods. He brings a hand to your face, setting his oddly hot palm against your cheek. His eyes zero in on something and his thumb dips into the scar that cuts into your cheekbone. The Sergeant’s blue eyes burn into your skin like an icicle over hot skin.

“You’re hurt,” Barnes mutters, still thumbing over the scar. He seems almost fascinated in the way his thumb dips into your skin.

“Awhile ago,” You answer. And suddenly a small bell dings in your brain. “How’s your wound?”

“My wound?” Barnes was pulled from his trance at your question and he looks at you confused. “Which one?”

“That one on your side, the one I stitched up,” You tell him, hoping he remembers.

“From eighty years ago?” The Sergeant asks, surprised that you would even remember that. “That wound?”

“Yes, that wound,” You almost roll your eyes at him. Though it should seem ridiculous that you’re asking about an eighty year old wound.

“Mama, that healed up like forever ago,” You can watch as he relaxes as he’s taken back to those old memories, even more as the longtime war petname slips from his tongue.

“Well,” You shrug. “I wasn’t there to finish caring for it and I want to see if whoever finished it finished it right.”

“Always so worrisome, mama,” Barnes sighs, looking at you softly.

You squint at him, breathing in to defend yourself. You don’t, instead you ask, “Can’t I see it?” Exasperatedly so.

“As you wish,” The Sergeant moves his left arm to allow you to lift his shirt. The metal audibly shifts as he moves.

You peel him up his shirt, holding the scrunched up fabric just below his armpit. Your find the scar easily amongst his skin, and it’s a lovely thin and straight scar. It stands out amongst the few jagged ones that make their home in the skin on his side, and you can’t help but notice the bundle of scars that stick out from just under where you hold his shirt up. You wonder how far up and they go, and you think to ask but decide against it. It may be sensitive topic.

“So why are you here, Sergeant?” You ask, grazing your fingers over the starkly straight scar that you’d operated on so long ago. “Another paper cut?”

You joke with him, remembering the times he’d come into your medical tent for any excuse he could think of under the sun. Or if you switched rotation, the Sergeant would ask when you’d be back next, and you’d tell him. Then lo and behold, there he was, waiting for you on the cot with a sly smile.

“Steve said it was a,” He trails off, thinking as he watches you trace his skin. “panic attack.”

You whip your head up at him, eyes looking from the scar to his face. Alarm swirls through your eyes.

A panic attack was so unlike the Sergeant. You’re not even sure if he’s had one before. Whatever he went through during your time of separation must have been especially rough to enlist a reaction like that from him.

“A panic attack?” You question, and he nods. “Are you alright?”

“I am now,” He answers. “I think I just needed a little time to breathe.”

You nod, pulling down his shirt and smoothing it down. You notice a hitch in his breath as you do.

Barnes brings his left arm back down, bringing his hands into his lap. He watches you, observing you. You wonder if it’s for a particular reason.

You bring your own hands back to yourself, putting them in the pockets of your scrub pants. You stand in front of the Sergeant, moving your knees which grow a bit tired from standing for so long.

“Well, I’m glad that you’re alright, Sergeant” You tell him, but there’s a hidden meaning behind your words.

You’re glad that Barnes is alright now, after his panic attack. And you’re glad he’s alright after everything he’s been through, whatever it was. Hopefully he’ll tell you eventually, but you’ll let him open up at his own pace.

“I’m glad you’re alright too,” Your Sergeant says, eyes never leaving you. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

He’s looking at you with big, vulnerable, blue eyes that pull you in like a rising tide. It’s almost like he’s trying to memorize your features.

You can’t help but stare back with a soft, comforting gaze. You take one of his hands in both of yours. You’d almost forgotten how large his hands were, and you trace a thumb over the familiar scars and faint bruises on his knuckles.

“You’ve grown,” You tell him. “I can tell. It’s a good thing.”

It’s true. No longer is that boy at your heels, but a man who grasps your hands in his confidently.

You give him a few more moments of staring before you ask, “You ready to face the world again, Sergeant?”

“More like go back to my room,” Barnes stands.

You let go of him and step back, giving him room to stand. You follow as he makes his way to the door.

“You got a room here?” You ask.

“Steve offered,” He tells you as he opens the door to the hallway. “And I had nowhere to go. But look at what that got me.”

You step into the hallway.

Steve is still there, and he stands from leaning against the wall to greet you two.

“And what exactly did it get you, Buck?” Steve asks, joining you two as you start down the hallway. He seems to have heard the last few lines of conversation.

“My best friend,” Barnes answers, looking over you to look at Steve before down at you. “And my mama.”

The Sergeant stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and slouches a bit as he walks beside you. He looks down at you with a familiar sparkle in his eyes and a sly smile on his lips.

You want to take back whatever sentiments you thought earlier. You roll your eyes in response. Because for a few moments, here walks beside you the boy from the battlefields who was at your heels anytime he saw you out and about. The boy who flirted and begged you to call him anything other than his official title, even if he liked hearing it from your lips.

A hand swipes at Sergeant Barnes from over your head, but misses as Barnes dodges.

“Sergeant,” You warn gently, crossing your arms as you walk.

“So stubborn still,” Your Sergeant comments on, still smiling. “Even after eighty years you still refuse to call me ‘Bucky’.”

“Aren’t nicknames, earned, Sergeant?” You ask, still refusing to call him anything but his title, for the moment at least.

“But you call Steve by his first name,” Barnes rebuts. “And we’re not on the field anymore, so in that logic no titles are needed.”

You roll your eyes again, turning down a hallway with the duo. And then you get smart, “All right, James. No titles needed off the battlefield.”

He scoffs at the use of his his first name, rolling his own eyes.

You two seem to bicker all the way down the hallways, and even earn a comment or two from Steve.

You’re happier than you’ve been in a long time. You’ve yearned for times like these, bickering and chatting with the two boys you spent more than an appropriate amount of time for a woman of the forties should spend with a man who was not her husband. But it wasn’t the forties anymore, and you were excited to catch up with your two boys.

[trapped-in-my-story]

[His purr gets louder, his little antennae gently brushing against Seer's hand.]

[Un-pickaxified Rainbow appears in a hallway near Winter's room. His four pickaxe-like legs scuttle awkwardly before he realizes where he is.]

Winter..? You here..?

*Winter peaks his head out of his room, pausing as he sees Rainbow. He walks over to him, tilting his head.* "Rainbow..?" *He questions softly,* "You're back... are you ok?"

[brucespringsteencomments]

[grantwilson]

we are discussing our childhood passions on the dash tonight

[5weetmeat]

whatever

[antiquedeuce]

Lord, please send me an angel 🙏🏼

[zoe-oneesama]

Are you ever gonna design Red Hornet, since she ended up as just Queen Wasp in the end?

I mean, I tried:

Like, really tried:

REALLY REALLY TRIED:

[owlfluffy]

EVIL robot EVILY seduces unsuspecting sniper (evily)

(alternate ending)

[charliekellysballsweat]

charlie's puppy dog eyes

[mellosdrawings]

The Shroud bros own my heart

[timeforsomeimprovising]

[daveymaybe]

who is that

[riatagrace]

Im dying aaaaaaaa!!! I absolutely overdid it bahahaha

horny narilambs yippie! no bonking tho! only tail touching :3

[b4ookie]

shiftblr has completely changed my views.

everytime i see "try and attempt" when it comes to shifting I'm like

try?? attempt?? just do it, just let your self do it.

like its all you, and i know from experience.

Like literally the two times i shifter(albeit for like 5 seconds both) i didnt havea method

i wasnt "trying" i was truly making myself believe. Like i let myself do it, i like my mind do it.

and i did it.

[sibmakesart]

its summerrrrrrr