Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

14. BUCKY: Decisions

Words: 3.4K

Warnings: Language and cat-call style heckling 

Every day of life is composed a hundred thousand little, teeny-tiny decisions. Each has their very own pleasantries or consequences attached. Most choices we make without reason—such as my mundane pronouncement to board the subway from my Brooklyn apartment to where I work in Manhattan each morning. The choice seems clear, but in retrospect I could've easily chosen to stay in bed all day (or more likely, splurge on an Uber since the weather this week has been particularly rotten). But I am a creature of habit. So, just like every other morning since I moved back to New York three months ago, I board the early morning ride into the city: having absolutely no idea the intentions the three fates have aligned for me today.

No one speaks, nor looks, my way the entirety of my ride. I used to be bothered by New Yorker's lack of hospitality, but I've grown to accept it. I'd much rather be greeted with the Minnesotan way of a friendly smile and wave, but I suppose a glare and lip snarl will have to suffice.

Anyway, I prance off of the subway at my usual stop—thankful for my yellow rain-boots as there looks to have been a real bad rainstorm late last night. Puddles dot the divots in the roads like the unpolished pores of a zit-freckled teenaged boy.

I've always been an early riser, but since moving to New York I've grown to love mornings even more. At the ungodly hours the bakery requires me to be up, the city is hardly awake (which is quite peculiar, as this metropolis has long since been coined "the city that never sleeps"). At this hour, New York is most certainly asleep. It's just barely four a.m., the street lights still flicker, and the sun is pressing the snooze button. The moon's long gone, of course, but he retires to his own liking this time of year.

My legs, long but slow, amble down the damp streets block-by-block. My wide eyes made up with the little bit of peachy makeup and mascara take in the sights I should be accustomed to by now. But each and every day on this trek, I find myself noticing things I've never seen before: whether it's a flower box outside a café window, an overflowing trash can, or a stray cat napping in the gutter.

One of the new sights I see is the electric orange construction signs posted down the block I always walk down. It's a shortcut, really, as the long way around adds thirty extra minutes to my commute. And on foot those thirty minutes really make a difference.

Shrugging, I hardly give the construction team a second thought. I'll just walk right past, I think. They can't possibly keep me from going by.

So I keep on walking. My yellow booted feet take me straight down the sidewalk, checking both ways before crossing the road, then hop back onto the curb. The slight breeze flutters my locks—reminding me I haven't yet pulled it into a ponytail. I scramble for a ribbon or tie somewhere in my bag, finding a blue scrunch. My hands work to lazily bring the hair to the top of my head as I notice the first of many construction workers off to the side of the road. He's behind a road block. Perched up on a crate he's taking a small break—snuffing the smog from a rolled cigarette. The yellow hard hat atop his bald head reminds me of the one's in my roommates "Hot Fireman of the Month" calendar.

The thought makes me giggle.

The construction worker, who has been staring emptily at the sky, notices my presence. He tilts his head to the side with a twitch of his upper lip. Before I can think to look away, he's turned around to call out for someone.

Hardly giving the stranger a second thought, I make the decision to keep on my path.

"Hey, excuse me?"