Bucky's steps echoed on the old wooden bridge as he tightened the straps on his backpack and tucked his face further into his scarf; it wasn’t all that cold outside, but he hated it anyway, hated the sight of his breath in the night air and the ache in his fingers and toes, the sting in his sinuses when his scarf slipped down. This time of night this part of New York was deserted; an old train trestle, barely used, crossed the river and was usually a good place to get some peace and quiet for a night’s sleep. Under his feet the water lapped quietly at the pylons and in the distance he heard a ferry horn calling out through the darkness.
He was watching his footing on the slick slats of the trestle bridge when the sharp smell of whiskey made his nostrils flare. Looking up, he made out the shape of a man sitting on the edge of the bridge, barely visible by the ambient glow of the city’s light pollution. Bucky’s steps slowed; he’d never seen anyone else here before and felt almost resentful that someone else had found his spot. And this guy had no business being here, wearing a suit with his expensive shoes lined up neatly next to him. As Bucky watched, the man took another drink from a bottle and shivered once, sharply.
Bucky approached slowly, making sure the guy could hear him coming, and said, “Hey,” feeling a little self-conscious at how raspy his voice was. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What are you doing?”
The man glanced over his shoulder at him and shrugged as he turned to look back over the river. Reflexively Bucky looked out at the view as well; it wasn’t the best, because the glittering lights of the city were blocked out by the warehouses and shipyards that lined this part of the river bank. There were no stars, of course, but there were ships moving out in the darkness, their lights reflecting on the waves. “Just thinking," the man said eventually.
“Mind if I join you?” Bucky said, surprising himself. When the man gestured with the bottle at the spot next to him, he sat down, bringing his knees up so his legs didn’t hang over the edge. From this height it felt like the river was pulling on him, waiting for him to make a wrong move. The thought of going into the cold water made him queasy, bringing up unpleasant memories that Bucky quickly shoved away. “Thanks,” he said as he reached for the bottle, taking a swallow, wincing a little at the burn as he handed the bottle back. “So. What are you thinking about?”
The man finished off the bottle and screwed the lid on with impressively precise movements, considering how much he reeked of alcohol. He leaned over and dropped the bottle into the water, watching as it splashed and floated away. “That,” he said flatly.
“Ah.” Bucky shifted a little, until he was confident that he could grab the man and keep them both on the bridge if he had to. “Why?”
“Well, I guess the easy answer is that I’m dying anyway,” the man said, leaning back and wrapped his jacket closer around himself; Bucky unwrapped his scarf from around his face and draped it over the man’s shoulders. The man smiled a little and thanked him. “So it seems better than doing it slowly, right? But the real answer is that I’m just…tired.”
Bucky wanted to say, Buddy, you don’t know from tired, I got ninety years of being tired, but as he studied the man next to him, the lines on the man’s face, the stubble on his jaw and the defeated slump of his shoulders, he felt a sudden stab of empathy. “Dying, huh? What is it? Cancer?”
“No. It’s a long story. I thought I was smart enough to fix it, but…” He exhaled slowly. “Apparently not.”
“And now you’re tired of trying?”
“Pretty much.” The man leaned forward suddenly and Bucky started to grab him, but the man was just resting his head in his hands, not tipping himself into the river. They sat in silence for a while and then the man scrubbed his hands over his face with a sigh and sat back up. “So what are you doing here?” For the first time the man seemed to take a good look at Bucky, his ragged backpack and the fact that he was wearing four layers of clothes that had definitely seen better days. Bucky lifted his chin and met the man’s eyes, refusing to be embarrassed; he had showered and shaved just that morning and his clothes were clean, so at least he knew he didn’t reek. He had a job, even if it did pay less than minimum wage and it was all under the table. He was doing well, goddammit, even if he still had shit show days where he lost time or forgot who he was and what he was doing. He waited for the look in the man’s eyes to change, for his lip to curl, but the man’s gaze just lingered on Bucky’s face before he looked away at the water again.
“I just got off work,” Bucky said. “And on the other side of this bridge there's a spot where you can sleep without anyone hassling you. My name is Bucky, by the way,” he added, holding out his hand.
The man shook it and said, “I’m Tony.” Just then a pocket in his jacket buzzed and when he pulled out his phone, Bucky saw the name Rhodey flash on the screen before Tony silenced it and put it back.
“Who was that?”
“Just a friend,” Tony answered shortly. His phone buzzed again but this time Tony ignored it.
“Looking for you?” Tony just shrugged. “So are you tired of him, too?” Tony looked at him sharply but Bucky just raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you’ll be leaving him behind, right? If you decide to, you know,” he gestured towards the river. Tony’s phone buzzed again, as if it was agreeing with Bucky. “Seems like a shame. I bet a friend like that would be devastated, and I bet he’s not the only one, is he?” Tony’s lips tightened as he shook his head. His next inhale was shaky and before he looked away Bucky saw wetness on his cheeks. "Do they know? About the…not-cancer?”
“No.”
“That’s dumb,” Bucky said bluntly, feeling just daring enough to soften his words by touching Tony's shoulder gently. “You’ve got these people who love you and you’re not letting them help you? If I had someone who cared about me enough to call - what’s this, the fourth time in as many minutes? - I would…” Bucky had to trail off because his chest grew tight. “Death would have to drag me away kicking and screaming,” he said finally. Which it kind of had. Bucky shoved that memory away as well.
It was quiet for a while, except for the sound of the water and the ships in the distance, until Tony said, “It seems like you care a lot. About what I do.” Bucky heard the question in his words. It took him a while to figure out the answer, to understand why he stopped to talk instead of just walking past.
“Because…” he started, and then hesitated, staring down at his gloved hands, feeling the weight of Tony’s eyes on him. “I’ve thought about it, too. Just…stopping. Giving up. But…I fought really hard, to get away from a bad place, from some bad people. Now I'm trying to get to a good place and be a good person, you know? To make up for..." Bucky pressed his hands to his eyes to stop the images that flashed behind his eyelids. "Anyway. So when I get…tired…I have to believe that all that fighting was for something. But when I see that someone else is fighting, too, and then they give up, it makes it a little harder for me to keep going. Does that make sense? It’s easier to be brave when the guy in the foxhole next to you is being brave, to fight when he’s still fighting.” He looked up to see that something in what he said had made Tony’s eyes sharpen.
“Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am?”
Bucky squinted at him. Was this a trick question? “Um…you’re Tony?”
Tony stared at him hard for another minute before he went “huh” and looked back out over the river. But his back was a little straighter and he seemed to be staring at the horizon instead of the water, so maybe what Bucky said had actually helped even if Bucky had felt like an idiot saying it. The silence stretched; the waves blepped against the pylons of the bridge, coming faster as a boat passed out on the river. A plane roared overhead, and now that he was just sitting here Bucky realized that under the chill of the air he could smell the river, fecund and sour with pollution. Tony smelled like whiskey and cologne and, strangely, grease. He was just starting to wonder if he should leave when Tony finally spoke again.
“You’re right. I thought I was making it easier on everyone by not telling them, but now I realize I was just…”
“Feeling sorry for yourself? Having a pity party?” Bucky finished helpfully, smirking when Tony narrowed his eyes at him.
“Oh, are we in the tough love part of the evening now?” His flat tone couldn’t cover up the fact that Tony was trying to smother a smile as well. “Fine. Sure. Feeling sorry for myself.” As if he'd made a decision, he started to put his shoes back on. Bucky stood and helped him to his feet, smiling when Tony made a funny face.
"Wet socks?"
"Wet socks," Tony confirmed, shuddering a little.
"So,'' Bucky said, shoving his hands into his pants pockets and rocking on his heels a little. He couldn't stop smiling at Tony. "Ready to start trying again?"
"Yeah, I am. Maybe some fresh eyes will help." Tony shivered a little as the wind blew and brought up a little mist from the water. He started to wrap Bucky's scarf tighter around himself, then with a rueful look started to take it off.
"Please, keep it," Bucky said. "Until your friend comes for you. You are going to call him, right?"
Tony nodded absently, hand going to his jacket pocket where his phone had stopped ringing but kept buzzing intermittently with messages. At the movement, the moonlight glinted off a watch on his wrist and something about that caught Tony's attention. Bucky gave him a puzzled look as Tony stared at the watch for a while and then started to unstrap it from his wrist. "Here, please, take this," he said, holding it out.
"Um, ok." Bucky took it warily. He was no connoisseur but he could tell it was a pricey fucking watch, with a nice leather band and the words BULGARI marching around the face, which had way too many dials on it to be able to quickly tell the actual time. "Why? I don't want payment for Christ's sake-"
"No, no, it's not like that." Tony crossed his arms over his chest and hunched a little against the chill breeze, or maybe against whatever memory made his jaw tighten like that. "The man who gave me that watch tried to kill me, like, a lot. I was wearing it to...I don't know, as a reminder of something, who even knows what anymore. But now it's just one more thing making me tired. So please, I want you to have it so that next time you feel like giving up you can remember the time you helped someone else keep fighting, and maybe it will make it easier."
Bucky swallowed thickly as he strapped the watch to his left wrist. Then he dug under his shirts and unhooked one of his dog tags off the chain from its twin. "I'll trade. This way you'll have something next time you get tired, yeah?" After a long moment of hesitation Tony reached out and took it, turning it over in his fingers before he put it in his pocket. Tony opened his mouth to say something just as his phone started buzzing again. Bucky raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Tony rolled his eyes at him as he answered.
"Hey, Rhodey." Bucky smiled and hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders as he started walking, leaving Tony to what sounded like the beginning of an epic bitching out. Tony could barely get a word in edgewise. "I know- I'm sorry - wait. Rhodey! Stop! Take a breath! I said I'm sorry, ok? I need your help." Bucky heard Tony's impatient exhale at something the person on the phone said. "No, not just getting home, ok? It's a long story. But yes, I would like a ride home." Pause. "You know, I don't actually know where I am."
As Rhodey raged in his ear, sounding more worried than angry, Tony watched Bucky walk away until he disappeared into the darkness like some mysterious stranger in a movie. Tony wanted to run after him, offer him a job or a home or a fucking coffee, at least, but something kept his feet rooted to the bridge, unwilling to break the surreal turn the night had taken as soon as the guy had sat down. Dressed like a hobo but clear eyed and handsome as hell, it was hard to believe that Bucky had happened to come by just as Tony had decided that when the bottle of whiskey was done, so was he. "I think I'm near Battery Park," Tony said, forcing himself to turn and walk in the opposite direction. "Can you pick me up there?"
Tony was all the way back to the park by the time Rhodey had finally wound down enough that Tony could hang up. While he waited, he fished the dog tag out of his pocket and squinted at it with the light of his phone. His knees went weak and he sat down heavily on the nearest bench when he saw the name on the tag. "What the actual fuck?" he said in disbelief, reading the tag over and over as if it would change the more he read it. Barnes, James Buchanan. "I mean...what?"
He turned and stared back at the nondescript bridge crossing the water where apparently a fucking ghost from the fucking 1940s had just saved his life.