Marvel Imagines: Book Two

Who The Hell Is Bucky? (Bucky X Reader)

You wrap your arms around Steve's neck to keep your balance as the jet plunges towards the ocean and the barricade of ice that separates you from the numbing cold. Steve keeps the ship as steady as possible, though there was no way to tiptoe around your fate.

"I'm sorry." Steve yells over the roar of the engine, his voice cracking as Peggy calls for him through the coms. You scream as you plunge into the freezing depths of water so eerily still. The last thing you feel is Steve wrapping himself around you to stop you from falling back and slamming your head against metal grates.

>O<

Your eyelids feel heavy as they flutter open, your body reacting to the sound of a familiar chattering on the radio. Groggily, you sit up on your elbows, frown when you find the room you're in not one you've been in before. At your side, Steve begins to stir, blue eyes snap open. His brow furrows, the look on his face matching your own.

"Curve ball, high and outside for ball one. So the dodgers are tied four four, and the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellows capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field. The Phillies have managed to tie it up at four four. But the Dodgers have three men on."

Steve turns to the side, his eyes catch sight of you who is frowning, eyes narrowed when looking towards the chattering radio in the corner. When Steve moves, you look to him, confusion caressing every single feature on your face.

You push yourself up, wobbling slightly, limbs tired from a lack of use. Steve follows suit, his legs swing over the side of his bed. It was now that you notice that both you and Steve and wearing the same outfit. Chino pants and a SSR t-shirt, if you were back at base they would have your clothes.

"Pete leans in. Here's the pitch. Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo. Three runs will score. Reiser heads to the third. Durocher's going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won't get him."

The door on the opposite side of the room opens, a woman, brunette hair pinned back lips painted the wrong shade of red, enters with a smile. She looks between you and Steve as she shuts the door behind her, but she doesn't dare to take a step closer. "Good morning. Or should I say afternoon?"

"Where are we?" Steve asks, voice croaky. You stand on shaky legs that instantly find their balance, probably an effect of the serum that had given you so much in life.

"You're in a recovery room in New York City."

"The Dodgers take the lead, eight to four. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed."

Your head cocks to the side, narrowed eyes now directed towards the woman who sucked at acting and lying. You take a step forward, not caring when she takes a defensive step back. "Where are we really?"

She sighs, smiles around the twitching of her eye. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The game. It's from May Nineteen forty one. I know, 'cause I was there." Steve gets up from his bed, takes a stand at your side. "Now, I'm gonna ask you again. Where are we?"

You look down at the brunettes hand, she grasps something with a flashing red light. She swallows around the lump in her throat, the beat of her heart picks up. "Captain Barnes, Captain Rogers. . ."

"Who are you?" You ask, voice raised, finished with the bullshit and lying that would get you nowhere.

The door creeks open and two men, dressed head to toe in foreign tactical gear, step inside. Their guns were unknown to you, their face not ones you recognised. Both you and Steve take a step back, ready to fight your way out of a room that stood no chance.