It’s been several months of living on the run together. Surviving in a cabin in the woods waiting for the heat to die down, then eventually cobbling electronics together into a makeshift interstellar radio, Gamora tinkering with the innards of the machinery, modifying it for a long-range call, eventually flagging a ride to safely hitchhike her way off-planet.
E.T. phone home, he thought, remembering a movie night with Sam’s nephews —
And when that craft descended and the choice came to stay or to go and she extended that invite, he’d said, Yeah, sure, what the hell.
Which is how they find themselves here: dropped off at a dive bar at the other end of the galaxy, on the edge of Ravager space. Having to scrape by and make ends meet by by whatever means necessary; which for Bucky, sometimes means doing dishes, sometimes being a bouncer for the bar, sometimes picking up more unsavoury jobs like roughing people up. (Being a loanshark’s enforcer is tamer than being an assassin, at least.)
Best of all, Gamora doesn’t have to stay cooped up in hiding anymore; people don’t double-take at the sight of a green woman out here. Mostly, Bucky’s the one the bar patrons goggle at, doing about-turns, sometimes pointing and snapping a photo of him. Humans aren’t too common around these parts.
But it’s a living, and neither of them have to look over their shoulders anymore; SWORD’s jurisdiction ended far away, in Earth orbit. Bucky’s been relishing this chance at a real second start, without having to walk around in the rubble of his memories and his past self, living in a New York which looked both familiar and uncanny and strange at the same time. Life in space is, frankly, fucking cool, and he knows Gamora’s saving up for her own ship.
And there’s a common stardate in this particular quadrant, based on the nearest set of binary stars in some complicated calendrical math which he can’t follow, but tonight is apparently what counts as new year’s eve here. So they’ve both got the night off, and he’s enjoying it accordingly; refills in hand, Bucky slides into his seat next to Gamora at the bar. Pushes her drink over to her. He’s started to learn which ones she likes. The alien liquor usually fizzes and smokes in unnerving ways, but at least it punches through his amplified metabolism.
“Here’s to one more year alive,” he says, lightly.
It hadn’t seemed likely for her back when they’d first met, behind the scope of a gun in an abandoned warehouse.
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🌌 new year’s eve.
E.T. phone home, he thought, remembering a movie night with Sam’s nephews —
And when that craft descended and the choice came to stay or to go and she extended that invite, he’d said, Yeah, sure, what the hell.
Which is how they find themselves here: dropped off at a dive bar at the other end of the galaxy, on the edge of Ravager space. Having to scrape by and make ends meet by by whatever means necessary; which for Bucky, sometimes means doing dishes, sometimes being a bouncer for the bar, sometimes picking up more unsavoury jobs like roughing people up. (Being a loanshark’s enforcer is tamer than being an assassin, at least.)
Best of all, Gamora doesn’t have to stay cooped up in hiding anymore; people don’t double-take at the sight of a green woman out here. Mostly, Bucky’s the one the bar patrons goggle at, doing about-turns, sometimes pointing and snapping a photo of him. Humans aren’t too common around these parts.
But it’s a living, and neither of them have to look over their shoulders anymore; SWORD’s jurisdiction ended far away, in Earth orbit. Bucky’s been relishing this chance at a real second start, without having to walk around in the rubble of his memories and his past self, living in a New York which looked both familiar and uncanny and strange at the same time. Life in space is, frankly, fucking cool, and he knows Gamora’s saving up for her own ship.
And there’s a common stardate in this particular quadrant, based on the nearest set of binary stars in some complicated calendrical math which he can’t follow, but tonight is apparently what counts as new year’s eve here. So they’ve both got the night off, and he’s enjoying it accordingly; refills in hand, Bucky slides into his seat next to Gamora at the bar. Pushes her drink over to her. He’s started to learn which ones she likes. The alien liquor usually fizzes and smokes in unnerving ways, but at least it punches through his amplified metabolism.
“Here’s to one more year alive,” he says, lightly.
It hadn’t seemed likely for her back when they’d first met, behind the scope of a gun in an abandoned warehouse.