Who: Bucky Barnes & Stephen Strange What: This sure as hell isn't Wakanda. When: May 1st Rating/Warnings: Green
The world lurched around him, a sickening sensation that started somewhere near his navel and then caused everything to blur and twist until he was stumbling, catching himself against a nearby tree, head hanging forward and hair obscuring his face. He breathed in harshly through his nose to fight the nausea that rippled through him, bubbling at the back of his throat, taking a moment to assess the situation.
He'd been in Wakanda, he knew that. Shuri had helped remove the programming from his brain, he'd been there for two years, helping around with farming and heavy lifting because even though he only had one arm he was still strong. But- But T'Challa had come to see him with a suitcase and a dark and gold arm. He'd ignored the crushing disappointment that swallowed him whole and asked where the fight was. Because there was always another fight, another battle. It was never over.
And despite words to the contrary, he was the Winter Soldier. He was an asset - the asset, his mind told him in a voice that haunted his dreams - and they would be stupid to let him sit out if there was a fight that needed to be done.
But still, good goddamn, he just couldn't catch a break.
The biting wind that rippled through his clothes had a particular smell to it. In fact, the whole area did. He knew it, it slotted into his mind like a frayed puzzle piece.
New York.
He was home.
Pushing his metal hand through his hair he was suddenly really glad that he'd changed out of the Wakandan gear and into his 'coloniser clothes', as Shuri had said to him once when he'd asked where his jeans and hoodie were. At least he didn't stick out too much, though he did wish he had a baseball cap: something from the Steve Rogers book of Going Undercover. A baseball cap made you invisible, or something.
The thought of Steve made his lips curl up a little before he frowned. Steve. The Avengers. Shit, he had a lot to catch up on for whatever had happened and he'd magically ended up in New York of all places he had to disappear, and fast.
Tugging his hoodie up over his head, he melted into the crowd, wondering just where it was he could go first, a library, probably- internet to catch up on what was happening, new was a good source of information and he could move from there.
Though he couldn't shake the feeling that the shitstorm he'd found himself in had only just begun. Any chances of retiring were disappearing further and further from his grasp.
Bucky stuffed his hands into his pockets and moved with ease amongst the crowd despite being hyper-aware that at any moment there was a chance someone might recognise the fact that was plastered across the news a few years back. He stopped only to openly gawk at a newspaper - some sensationalist one, he supposed - cover that labelled all so called “heroes” as America’s enemies, even though the Accords had been rendered unconstitutional.
Someone bumped into him and swore because he’d just stopped in the middle of the traffic flow, so he stepped forward to pick up the paper. The agent glanced at him, thought about telling him to buy it if he was going to gawk but a look from Bucky had him changing his mind and he went back on with his business.
Standing very close nearby, was a tall man in a bright red cape. He was staring directly at Bucky with an almost analytical gleam in his eyes. He was distinguished looking, with a well trimmed goatee and white hair showing at his temples. He didn't move but did raise a hand to see if he could catch Bucky's attention, as well to wave hello.
Again and again and again, Stephen Strange found himself doing this, welcoming the new arrivals or returnees. He was left wondering if it would ever end. If the repercussions of rewinding time so far back would continue, if he was doomed for the rest of his natural born life to welcome those he had ripped away from their lives or homes. Into a time that was still in danger of collapsing.
Fate was a harsh mistress, if that was so.
It made the headlines on the papers seem so petty and small in the grand scope of things, that Stephen barely gave them a cursory glance, and then continued staring at Bucky, as he beckoned him closer with his raised hand.
Bucky didn’t respond at first, seeing the raised hand and curious look from a man dressed as if he’d escaped some middle-eastern inspired Renaissance fair. He kept his hand clutched on the paper, watched the caped man out of the corner of his eye and wondered just why no one else was gawking at him. He knew it had been a while since he’d been in New York, but people hadn’t become that insular, surely?
Apparently so. And in fact, with Bucky still ignoring the man who was just waiting there perfectly patiently for Bucky to get his head out of his ass, he felt like he’d be causing more of a scene if he just walked off. He blew out a breath, wondered if this was really happening - and if it was just some weird dream the last that could happen would be something awesome, like a dragon - and put the paper down.
He pushed against the crowd, moving against the tide of people to come to a halt in front of the caped man. He had a vague look of Ming the Merciless about him, with the goatee and cape. Bucky remembered sitting on bed at Steve’s place reading Flash Gordon with him when he’d been struck down by a particularly vicious flu. He tugged himself out of the trip down memory lane - it had been happening a lot lately and it was annoying - to focus on the man.
Who definitely wasn’t some newly-redrawn comic book villain. Even if he had the red cape and goatee for it.
“Renaissance fair in town?” He asked, gesturing to the garb. “Do I know you?” The question was to the point; he wasn’t intending on being rude. He didn’t recognise the guy’s face- and Bucky had a good eye for faces. Or at least, he used to anyway.
"You don't know me yet, Mister Barnes. And a ren faire would probably signal simpler times," Stephen said in a dry tone of voice as he lowered that hand back down. The sort of voice that spoke volumes about knowing a little too much. "We're not in simpler times, I'm afraid."
There was a package wrapped in cloth tucked against his body, held in place by one arm. Stephen didn't hand it over just yet. That could wait. He was trying to get a read on Bucky, his eyes looking over him, and then skimming around the outline of him, looking very much as though he was seeing what was unseen to everyone else.
It appeared Bucky passed inspection, because Strange offered a sudden smile and a curt nod of his head.
"I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. Master of the Mystic Arts. Former Neurosurgeon. Ally of the Avengers." He wasn't aligned with them, and was not an Avenger. Ally seemed the most fitting way to address that, although he was forced to amend. "Uhh? Well, they aren't really the Avengers anymore. And I accidently broke time, which is why you're here. With everyone else who has been awakened to the timeline changes."
Stephen looked off to one side and murmured a reluctant 'Sorry' under his breath.
Master of the Mystic Arts? Looked like Bucky wasn't too far off when he thought Ming the Merciless, then. Hopefully a little more benevolent, mind. Bucky's eyes did a once over sweep of the other man, spotting a parcel under his arm and the cape that was sort of moving as if there were a strong wind even though there wasn't. This day was getting more and more peculiar and he didn't like it.
He knew the Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes. He also knew they'd broken up, as it were. Split. That was his fault, used as a tool against them to break them apart. He cleared his throat and folded his arms over his chest, wondering what it was that Strange had been looking at when he'd looked around Bucky, not at him.
"You greet everyone displaced so cheerfully?" he asked, rocking back on his heels. "And dressed like you just stepped out of a comic book?"
Seventy years ago, the prospect of magic would have made Bucky laugh snort until he was doubled over. Magic was nothing more than sleight of hand and misdirection. Nowadays, after some of the things he'd seen he was a little more willing to believe in magic. But still, calling oneself the 'master of the mystic arts' was a little too far.
"Along with anyone else who's been what now?" Did that mean Steve? Or any of the others he'd met when they were trying to stop the man who had activated his programming? "How'd you accidentally break time, Doc?" He didn't exactly imagine it was like a window you accidentally throw a ball through.
Stephen didn't flinch or falter or fall back a step. He merely stood there like a pillar of internal willpower, blinking slowly, and his eyes occasionally flitting over to a space that was about two inches around Bucky's body, before looking directly into the other man's eyes again.
"I'm not a cheery guy," Stephen said in a drone, although there was also the hint of a sigh afterward. It was silent but by the rise and fall of his shoulders, it was heavy. "And this is standard attire for mystic arts. Which is not out of a comic book. I know it's a disappointment, but...."
He held out the package to Bucky.
"...this is for you. To contact the others, and so you have a safe place to stay," he explained. "In regards to how it happened? I broke time using a spell, so I could save the world from being eaten by a creature from another dimension. And it splintered off a perfect copy of a prime universe, which we're in. It's been running parallel, with periods of instability. Something went really wrong, and it's become increasingly unstable. Fate's chosen me, you, and everyone else it's shoulder tapped, to help keep things as stable as possible."
Perhaps it was commonplace for Strange to look above people's heads while he was talking to them, but Bucky cleared his throat seconds before Strange's eyes dropped back down. "Buddy, my eyes are down here." He did look above his head, though, "What're you looking at?"
He scratched his beard with his left hand, then he looked at it- he'd felt that. Not on his chin, either, on his fingers. He felt the sensation of his beard against his fingers. That was new. He didn't have too much time to focus on that, though, before he was being handed the package.
"You might wanna talk to someone about the uniform," he said with a slight upward quirk to his lips. "Kinda hard to take you seriously when you look like you belong on a stage pulling a rabbit out of a hat."
He took the package and had a quick look inside but figured it was better to investigate the contents a little later down the line. When he wasn't in the open. He glanced around himself, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raising. It was likely nothing, but Bucky had trouble feeling settled anywhere nowadays. Wakanda was different; no one there cared about his past. No one had seen his face plastered across the news as a most-wanted.
"Not entirely sure how I'm meant to help with that," he said after a moment, eyeing Strange like he was still doubting the truth of what he was saying. Largely because he was. "But, uh, sure."
"I've been told," Strange said, about looking like he was supposed to be on stage or part of some sort of vaudevillian magic act. At least he was looking Barnes in the face again, and not slightly off to one side. As to why, all he could offer was, "Aura."
Bucky Barnes, surprisingly, possessed one of the most stable auras he had ever seen. Second only to the likes of Steve Rogers, Wong, and Nick Fury. All of them different colors, of course. Barnes' was stable in a way that was almost distractingly amazing to Strange, considering fate left a harsh mark on him for a very long time. It was unexpected. Then again, it was also a dark muddied blue, which meant that despite any outward demeanor, there was a great deal of sensitivity toward others. Not merely a soldier, but someone who was also...supportive.
It was why the quip about the uniform made Strange almost smile. But it was time for business, and he still had work to do with Wong on that mind leech infestation.
"I wish I had more time to explain, so for now you're getting the Cliffs notes version. Follow me," Stephen said, turning to walk toward a nearby nook between two buildings while putting on his sling ring. As he moved one hand in a circular motion, a portal started to open, looking like spinning fireworks during Chinese New Year. It opened to reveal a hotel hallway on the other side. "Step right in, Mister Barnes."
And to show it was safe, Stephen walked through it, the cape moving more like liquid than cloth as he did so.
Aura? Bucky was about to ask more when Strange was reaching out a hand and suddenly a catherine wheel appeared, getting bigger and bigger until it seemed to have opened up in a hole. On the other side of the hole was, what looked like a hallway. Definitely not the other side of the alleyway that Bucky had been expecting.
He glanced behind himself, then up, doing a quick surveillance of the area he was in before he took a breath, squared his jaw and stepped forward. After all, Strange the Magician had done it and was on the other side. He’d just been pulled from Wakanda to here in one piece and after his time with Hydra he had seen more than a few things that couldn’t be explained quite as easily as he would have liked.
“Sure thing, doc,” he muttered, boots coming into contact with soft carpet in the hallway. “Cliffs notes it is.”