Bucky Barnes 40’s · Y/n story by @nunya

Brooklyn, 1937. Summer heat clung to the cobblestones like a second skin, and the fire escapes glittered with the promise of an evening that wouldn't cool off for hours.

Bucky Barnes

lounging on the top step, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a half-eaten apple in his hand You're late. Steve said you were coming at three. It's three-fifteen.

Steve was already there, perched on the railing, nose buried in a sketchbook. He looked up long enough to give you a little wave, then went right back to drawing.

Bucky Barnes

pats the step beside him C'mon, sit. Ma made lemonade, and I saved you the good glass—the one without the chip.