31 8 / 2014
i have a great idea to get S.H.I.E.L.D back on it’s feet
just set up a fundraising booth
"$1 to Punch Grant Ward in the Face"
31 8 / 2014
Anonymous said: Imagine Steve getting really into the punk scene. He likes the aesthetics but the original ideology of anti-isms really appeals to him
What many people don’t realize about Steve is that he’s never ever been much of a law-abiding citizen. He might represent what America could be now, but he has no plans on obeying a government that doesn’t consider women or immigrants like his ma real people. It’s a simple, clear day when he goes on his usual run around DC, and stops when he sees a young woman with studded combat boots, half shaved hair, and a nose and lip ring arguing heatedly with a boy with a blue mohawk. He listens to them from a distance, amazed at how intelligent and interested young people are these days in what’s going on around them.
It makes him curious too. So when he gets home he looks up the style, the artist in him drawn to the bright colors. Turns out it’s a whole subculture called punk. (He absolutely doesn’t think about Bucky, he doesn’t.) Delving deeper into the internet, he finds out that he agrees with what most of it is about.
Anti-establishment, noncomformity, free thought, individualism…it’s like all of his personality put into one package. He wonders if Bucky somehow knew back then but has to stop thinking about it because it gets too painful, and all he can hear now is Bucky slurring out his dog tag number and looking at him with unseeing eyes. Which gives him an idea.
He pulls out his phone and presses on a contact, listening to it ring. “Hey, Natasha?”
A few hours later, Steve exits the tattoo parlor with Natasha next to him, wearing thick, dark combat boots, his shoulder bandaged. “Why those numbers?” Natasha asks.
"They were Bucky’s."
Months later, after the fall of SHIELD and Steve basically living up to everything Bucky called him, he bumps into someone while listening to music as he gets coffee, hair spiked with a blue streak on the bangs, a black jacket that fits his shoulders like cream, his tongue playing with his new lip ring. He jerks up, about to apologize when his voice dies in his throat.
"Hey, punk," Bucky says warmly, soft, hands shoved in the pockets of his threadbare jeans. "You look good."