Snowflower612



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    Bucky looks up, and for one terrifying moment, before Stark acknowledges the kid, too, he thinks his programming is acting up again, making him hallucinate.

    Because right there, gym bag slung over his shoulder, and a bicycle helmet tucked under his arm, stands a boy who looks so much like Bucky remembers himself looking almost a century ago, that Bucky has the sudden, hysterical urge to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

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    26 Jun 2026

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    Kids don’t normally fall out of holes in the sky, not even in New York City, but if they do it is, as Tony’s been informing everyone for the last fifteen minutes, entirely Reed Richards’ fault.

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    24 Jun 2026

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    “What the actual fuck?” Tony blurts, incredulous, when the thick steel door slams shut with a resoundingly final clang. “Am I dreaming? No, seriously, is this a dream? A nightmare? What the hell did you drug me with? Because you,” he says, turning away from the where he’s fruitlessly yelling at the ventilation grid to point an accusing finger at the man who’d very unceremoniously been shoved into the room just a moment earlier, “are supposed to be dead.”

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    24 Jun 2026

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    Taking a shuddering breath, Tony shuts off the alarm, puts the phone away to stall for another moment or two, and then finally gets up, and reaches for what he has—very aptly, in his humble opinion—named The Stick of Destiny lying on the edge of the sink. He fumbles with it, almost drops it twice before he manages to turn it right side up, and sees the two bright pink lines that mean he’s royally screwed. And not in the fun way.

    “Shit,” Tony croaks.

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    24 Jun 2026

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    “Hello,” Steve whispers quietly, carefully brushing some of the tears away from the baby's cheeks.

    Giving a sniffle, the baby latches on to Steve’s hand, then whines unhappily, hiccuping wetly.

    “I don’t know how to, you know,” Steve explains helplessly, making something that vaguely resembles a cradling, rocking motion with his free arm. The baby is less than impressed with that, though, and takes a noisy, stuttering breath. Steve’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, no. No, ssh, no. Here, c’mon, it’s all right.”

    Very gingerly, Steve slides one hand under the baby’s back, cups its neck with the other, and slowly lifts the squirmy bundle out of the crib, and against his chest. “There, ssh. That’s better, isn’t it?”

    In answer, the baby tucks its damp face into Steve’s neck, apparently content to stay where it is. Steve glances around the room, a little lost, but the baby just gurgles, and doesn’t start crying again, which he decides to count as a success.

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    24 Jun 2026