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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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The Great Drive: James Hunt and Niki Lauda at Fuji, 1976

I feel really sorry for Niki. I feel sorry for everybody that the race had to be run in such ridiculous circumstances because the conditions were dangerous and I fully appreciate Niki’s decision. After an accident like he had, what else could he do? Quite honestly, I wanted to win the championship and I felt I deserved it. But I also felt Niki deserved to win the championship – and I just wish we could have shared it.

- James Hunt on winning the Japanese Grand Prix 1976 to become F1 World Champion

James Hunt’s epic title battle with Niki Lauda, during what many see as the definitive F1 season, was topped off by a thrilling race in the land of the rising sun. It became an instant classic, one of F1’s Great Drives.

With everything to lose, in treacherous conditions, and with late drama, James Hunt's drive in the 1976 Japanese Grand Prix was one of the greatest of all time.

James Hunt delivered his greatest drive in spite of himself. It wasn’t just the peak moment of his career, but also a defining drive for F1.

The British gentleman racer conquering the world’s best in far away lands – Hunt embodied it.

Despite this, the Brit’s landmark drive came in the midst of late night escapades, mechanical disasters, psychological warfare and F1 politics.

As the ‘76 season approached its climax in North America and Asia, it seemed all might be lost for the McLaren team and its lead driver. Hunt had been duelling with Ferrari’s Niki Lauda throughout the year, but losing his British Grand Prix win to disqualification (announced by the FIA at Round 14 in Canada) seemed to have derailed his season for good.

McLaren team manager at the time Alastair Caldwell describes the state of affairs as they approached the North American leg of the season: “We abandoned the idea of winning the world championship. I let him misbehave in Canada and in Watkins Glen. On both occasions we were pissed on race eve, both of us in a bar after midnight getting rotten – me on alcohol and him on women, because he was always very successful with women.

“James met a girl – the leader of the band at the motel in Montreal – and so he came to the race dishevelled, in the same clothes as he’d been wearing the previous night – and he won the race!

“Even then we still thought we were out of it. Then we won Watkins Glen too! So suddenly we became serious again.”

Lauda had scored 4 points to Hunt’s 18 in this period. With the championship fight back on, the rejuvenated team and driver looked at the season finale in a new light. The championship fight was back on, and as a result, McLaren prepared for the Japanese GP with renewed vigour.

James Hunt had been in Japan a fortnight, ostensibly to test at a circuit new to him. Delays at customs, car problems and bad weather had severely restricted his running, but at least now he was totally orientated and, in his inimitable fashion, ‘relaxed’. That meant when he wasn’t strutting his stuff on the hotel’s squash court, he was billing and cooing with its latest migratory flock of pretty air stewardesses to bed. It beat jogging.

Lauda arrived later, low-key and at a low ebb. The spirit that held the demons at bay during his remarkable Monza comeback had evaporated in Canada and America. Now running on empty, he was full of doubts. While Ferrari team manager Daniele Audetto attempted to whip up retro oppo to McLaren’s ‘illegal’ testing, his star driver looked the other way and wished it over: Lauda was sick of Enzo and his minions, of a season in its 10th month and of press intrusion.

McLaren’s earlier preparations were in sharp contrast to the rest of the field who arrived just for the race weekend itself. According to Caldwell, “The others all turned up on the Thursday, including Niki, you can see them all get off the plane knackered and then trying to find where this new racetrack was.”

It wasn’t just through testing and acclimatisation that Hunt and McLaren stole a march. Caldwell thought he might use interactions with the press to his advantage: “Just for a laugh we spread a rumour. A journalist said to me ‘what’s the track like?’ I said ‘It’s is good but it’s got a lot of loose gravel on it.’”

Enjoying the effect the track surface story had on the rest of the field’s preparations, Caldwell thought he’d develop the rumour into a full-blown design feature.

“Because we were bored and had nothing else to do, the mechanics made mesh covers for all the air intakes on the car, to “protect” the brake ducts and air intake.

“Then Niki (Lauda) came down to our garage, which he always did – he spent more time in our garage then Ferrari’s. He would joke with us and do mechanic’s repartee.

“Psychologically we had them on the back foot right from the start.”

“Niki had come to see what we’d done with the cars as he was also a spy. So I told the mechanics, ‘just by mistake’, to take the covers off the cars so you could see the mesh covers on all the intakes. They did this and then they put it back on in a hurry while I ‘looked displeased’.

“And so then Niki broke off the conversation, trotted back to Ferrari and said ‘f**king hell, McLaren have put vents near these grilles over everything in the car, we got to do the same.’

“The whole Ferrari organisation went out to find these grilles, find where they came from and make them for their three cars. Then we put our three cars in the pit road and took all the grilles off the T-Car. Niki came down and said ‘You f**king bastards!’ They came down the pitroad and Ferrari had this shit all over their car – these grilles all over the radiators.

“He had to tear back and tell them to take them all off. Psychologically we had them on the back foot right from the start, there’s all this psychological warfare.”

Niki was plastered across front pages because of his near-death experience on the track; James was on them because of the life he led off it. Their battle and clashing personalities, though they were good friends, had made the world championship a global news shit-fight. Hunt, outgoing but often lonely in a crowd, pretended to be okay with it. Lauda didn’t.

Friday’s practice sessions provided blessed relief, therefore, even though both men suffered understeer on the stickier Goodyears made available to its faster teams because of the rare presence of Bridgestone and Dunlop on one-off Japanese entries. The title rivals finished the day one-hundredth apart on a provisional third row.

Each improved on Saturday – Hunt to second, Lauda to third – and James, a notoriously slow starter who, by his own estimation, needed to win the race in order to become world champion, was in a much-improved mood. Niki’s never budged.

Then it rained. And rained. And rained some more.

The storm that swept in from China a day later than forecast was the last thing Lauda needed: another element beyond his control. Mist shrouded the snow cone of Mount Fuji, which supposedly bestowed good fortune – when visible – and Niki felt hemmed in by circumstance.

The mind-games might well have been in vain, for the monsoon weather which rolled in on Sunday looked like putting the race in jeopardy. If the Grand Prix was cancelled, Lauda would be handed the World Championship.

Not that Hunt was enamoured with the situation. He spoke privately with Lauda and agreed an attempt to have the race postponed – albeit not before he stressed that he would take the start if necessary and race as hard as Niki forced him to.

The Grand Prix Drivers Association had been formed to have some influence on such matters, to stop the interests of teams, the governing body and sponsors taking precedence over drivers’ well being. Hunt and Lauda were both members and convened prior to the race start in an effort to have it stopped.

“They were adamant the race wasn’t going to be held. Bernie (Ecclestone, Brabham team boss) and I were in the race control tower trying to convince them to hold the race.” says Caldwell “And James kept on saying ‘No no, we’re not going to race’. I tried to explain to him that no race meant no World Championship. He replied “No, no, no, it’s totally unsuitable, we can’t race”.

Alistair Caldwell, McLaren Team boss, resorted to more imaginative tactics to swing the mood towards starting the race.

“I was going down (to the pits) getting my car mechanics to start the engines every half an hour, which would make all the other teams start doing it – they didn’t know why. The engines were making this noise ‘woop, woop, woop’”.

The engineer then turned his attention to activating the spectators.

“I was trying to get some enthusiasm from the passive Japanese crowd, they’d been there for hours doing nothing. They weren’t even talking, just sitting in the rain – miserable.

“I said to our tyre man Lance Gibbs ‘Do you think you could get the crowd going?’ So he got up on the pitwall with his ACME Thunderer whistle, which had been given to the boys to use as a horn, for when they pushed the race cars around the paddock.

“He went ‘beep beep’ and hundreds of spectators did the same – got them doing a concert. We then did the business of slow clapping, when it gets to the end, people can’t keep up, they lose co-ordination and you get a huge noise.

“I went back to the tower and the geriatric Japanese officials and said, ‘Look, you’ve got a riot on your hands’ Bernie was there and he said ‘Yeah, you’ve gotta hold the race. Otherwise you’ll have trouble’. So they said ‘Ok we’ll have the race.’”

With the decision made, the cars finally lined up to start at 4pm. The deliberations had been going on so long that the light was now beginning to fade, reducing the limited visibility even further.

Hunt, nervously retching and hacking more than ever, was so distracted that he took a leak in full view of the spectators. Cue polite applause. Ominously, he then walked a plank laid across a puddle and stepped aboard his McLaren M23. He tipped his helmet back against its roll-hoop and closed his eyes in contemplation. Lauda, crushed by all that had gone before, hunched forward in his 312 T2’s cockpit. Both knew that fate was about to be sorely tempted.

Hunt made a blinding start and held a huge lead by the end of the opening lap. As the rest pecked hesitantly in his rooster-tails, he was out of sight, both physically and metaphorically.

Meanwhile, Lauda, unable to blink because of his burn injuries, was drowning in the pack and questioning his sanity. He formulated an answer by lap two. The Ferrari – “a paper boat in a storm” – rolled into the pitlane and drew up at its garage. Measured. The team descended while designer Mauro Forghieri craned into its cockpit to ascertain the problem.

After just 1 lap, Lauda had seen enough. Deeming the conditions too dangerous, and having already nearly lost his life at Nürburgring that year, the Austrian decided it simply wasn’t worth carrying on. He pulled his Ferrari into the pits and walked away from the 1976 World Championship. Lauda, the reigning world champion, had the skill but not the will to continue. It was “murder” out there – and life was for living.

Hunt, as drivers without a world title feel compelled to, pressed on and kept his date with destiny. Hunt being Hunt, of course, he almost missed it. Not until his post-race red mist lifted could he be persuaded that he hadn’t.

With Lauda out the race, Hunt’s task was now a little more straightforward. He simply had to finish third, and the title was his.

The McLaren driver pressed on and by lap 10 his lead had doubled to over 8sec. Meanwhile, interesting movements were afoot further back in the pack.

Local hero Kazuyoshi Hoshino, driving a privately-entered Tyrrell 007, had made his up to third, from 21st on the grid!

More worrying for Hunt was that March’s Vittorio Brambilla had overtaken Andretti and was beginning to hunt him down. By lap 20, Brambilla had closed right up behind the Hunt.

On the next lap, the March driver decided to go for it. Brambilla, known for an erratic driving style, conformed to type on this occasion by inadvertently out-braking himself as he dived down the inside of the McLaren.

Hunt had been wary of Brambilla and was monitoring the situation constantly. In a moment of brilliant anticipation, he allowed the March to spin in front of him, performing the cutback and before carrying on as if almost nothing had happened.

Brambilla dropped to fourth, the danger to Hunt being over for now. Andretti at this point was gradually dropping back through the pack. It was Hunt’s team-mate Jochen Mass who was behind him now, with a McLaren 1-2 now looking very much on the cards.

Seeking to control the race from here on in, the team’s new concern was the drying line which was now appearing on the track. Caldwell put out a pit board sign telling his drivers to cool their wet weather tyres – this was done by searching for wet sections of the track, the water preventing the rubber from overheating.

To his team manager’s frustration, Hunt didn’t appear to be heeding the warnings: “As soon as Mass saw the sign, he pulled over in the water right in front of us. Then on the next lap he came down the right hand side of the track, splashing through the puddles, which cools the tires down, (while) James didn’t react.

“The next lap we gave it to Hunt again, the next lap again, he still didn’t do it. So we took away the pitboard, just gave him the ‘cool tyres’ sign and he still didn’t react. So then everyone in the team started pointing at it (the sign). Everybody in the team pointed, Teddy (Mayer, McLaren Managing Director) and everyone else and he still did nothing.”

Hunt carried on down the dry line, running his tyres way above their recommended temperature, seemingly oblivious to the warnings.

If Hunt wasn’t going to heed the warnings, then Andretti was: “Because we were emphasising this so much, Andretti saw it and started to cool his tyres. So he started running through the puddles. He didn’t have to stop (as a result).

“But James just resolutely drove down the middle of the dry track, and we could never bring him in, because he was never that far ahead. It was never possible to tactically stop him because there’s a big long pitroad at Fuji.”

Jochen Mass, benefitting from his team’s tyre advice, now began to reel in his team-mate. If he got past, he would have no trouble driving off into the distance to take the win.

However, the German’s diligence came to naught, as he spun off and out of contention on lap 36. This would have a huge bearing on the race later.

For now, Hunt was again in the clear. Another challenger, Shadow’s Tom Pryce, moved into second, but he too retired as his Cosworth engine expired on lap 46.

As the grand prix wore on, Hunt remained in a seemingly trance-like state as he stuck to his line, the situation became critical.

Whilst yet another to danger to Hunt had abated, the McLaren driver was now deciding whether to play the percentages. He could either pit to replace his worn tyres – and lose track position – or try and stick it out at the risk of losing so much grip he would be overtaken anyway.

Hunt took the second option. He could afford to drop to third, and this is indeed what happened. On lap 61, he was overtaken not only by Tyrrell’s Patrick Depailler, but also the resurgent Lotus of Andretti.

If Hunt managed to hold position, he would be world champion. For the next 7 laps, the plan appeared to be working. Then, on lap 68, disaster struck.

The McLaren driver suffered not one, but two deflated tyres – both on the left-hand side of the car. They were, as Caldwell puts it, “worn down to the air”. Hunt managed to drag his car round for half a lap before scraping into the pits.

F1 jacks at the time were not designed to lift a car with puncture at the front and rear of the car. While the jack was used to lift the rear of the car, TV shots show Caldwell and other team members lifting the other end of the car themselves to replace the front-left tyre.

It was a long pitstop, and once out, Hunt found himself back in fifth place. There were four laps left and Hunt was two places down on where he needed to be.

Two more laps passed and the Englishman was no further up the order. It looked as if he may have lost his championship chance.

Then, with two laps left of the race to go, Hunt started the fight back. At the exit of T1 he managed to get past the Surtees of Alan Jones. One more place and the championship was his.

Next up was the Ferrari of Clay Regazzoni. It turned out there were some Scuderia politics at play which would work to Hunt’s advantage.

Caldwell filled in the back story: “Ferrari’s reaction to Niki’s crash was to sack Regazzoni (for 1977). He had already been sacked (by Fuji).

“So he was pissed off at Ferrari. When James came charging along, he just stepped out of the way and let him by.”

After benefitting from Regazzoni’s apparent generosity, Hunt was suddenly back in the golden position, the third place he needed to clinch the championship.

The McLaren man just had to keep it on the road for two more laps and he’d take the title. The tension mounted, both in the team pit and back in the UK, where his family were watching the live television feed at 3am.

Despite two nerve-wracking final laps, the Englishman duly brought his McLaren home in third place. He was the new F1 World Champion.

Photographs show Hunt angrily remonstrating with his team as he climbed from the car. He hadn’t realised he’d got the job done.

Caldwell himself had mixed emotions about the whole affair, “He didn’t look at the board and when he came into the pits he started shouting at us, because he didn’t know what happened. He was incredibly annoying on the day. He did drive magnificently, he kept it on the road – that’s one point of view. From my point of view it was the most frustrating day – I could’ve hit him with a baseball bat! He could have won the race, just strolled the world championship. All he had to do was read this pitboard and drive in the water, which is what Andretti did, so he didn’t wear the tyres out and could paddle across the line with the same ones.”

In spite of Hunt seemingly making a championship-losing decision, he had still managed to pull it off.

However, such was Caldwell’s consternation, the two didn’t discuss afterwards.

I was so angry about it. We flew back to England and I wasn’t talking to him on the plane. He was pissed as a newt anyway – we were all pissed as a newt and totally exhausted. He just went to sleep.”

The two never discussed the reasons behind the events, but it didn’t change the result. Three years after making his F1 debut, Hunt was the world champion.

Ten weeks later Hunt arrived in Argentina to begin his title defence feeling underwhelmed and under-prepared. A few celebratory cigs and tins with his friend Britain’s newly crowned 500cc motorcycle world champion, Barry Sheene, at Fuji and a riotous return flight had been followed by a disorientating whirl of meetings, interviews and engagements. The race-by-race title chase had been thrilling: a sequence of one-day stands. Making it official had cooled the relationship. The love affair was over.

Though both men would retire summarily during the 1979 season, Hunt did so because he felt frightened and disillusioned, whereas Lauda did so because he felt nothing, which frightened him.

Niki, though, had a system – plus a plan to run his own airline – and ultimately would return to the F1 cockpit and be successful. James, whose theories were sometimes somewhat scrambled, would not. He bred budgies instead. You do what you have to do.

Lauda’s decision to stop at Fuji ensured that he would be able to continue. Hunt’s decision to continue ensured that he would have to stop sooner rather than later. One racing mind wiped clean, the other cluttered – and racing.

In spite of his career’s decline, Hunt’s endeavours had captured the imagination of the wider world in a way no racing driver had done before.Hunt knew that life was for living, too. Tragically, however, he had just discovered how best to when fate too soon snatched it from him.

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buckyownsmylife · 3 years

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v e l o c i t y - chapter iii

The one where John’s your true mate, but he doesn’t want you to be his.

In a universe where fate grants you a new mate whenever you lose yours, John has lived quite comfortably for many years with the knowledge that he was alone after Mary. That all comes crumbling down the second that he meets you. How could the universe choose someone so young to be his omega?

for general warnings and author’s notes, please go to the fic’s masterlist. It’s being constantly updated and if you’d like to be tagged on my following John Winchester stories, just fill out this form.

John’s P.O.V.

“Little princess is too good for a beer?” A week had passed since she joined us on the road and still, her effect on me was much too strong to deny it. In fact, it seemed to only grow stronger each day. But of course, I pushed through, kept pretending things weren’t different (even though that was ridiculous), like I wasn’t different.

At least, I’d figured out one way to deal with it - deal with her, and it was getting on her nerves just as much as she got on mine. But even I had to admit that in that game, she was much better than I could ever be.

“I actually prefer scotch.” My jaw dropped when the bartender - who usually didn’t leave his station to serve anyone - came all the way to our table to deposit her drink in front of her. When she realized my surprise, she just winked before taking a sip of the amber liquid.

“You are unbelievable,” I commented, shaking my head to make it sound more like a complaint and forcing myself to avert my eyes from her, so I wouldn’t be caught staring. It definitely wouldn’t help with anything.

“You bicker but you’d miss me if I went my separate way.” I sputtered and had to abandon my beer before I actually went through the humiliating ordeal of choking on the liquid because of her. I didn’t want to think about her leaving, and I definitely didn’t want to think about why it was so hard for me to think about that.

“You wish.” That was the best I could come up with, and still, it wasn’t enough, I knew, and she knew, and the boys knew, but no one said anything. I just had to stand there and accept the fact that she was wearing that smug fucking smile and it was all because of me.

I almost wasn’t mad about it. As much as I hated to admit it, it made her so fucking sexy, especially when paired with the little skirt she decided to wear to the bar tonight. I have no idea why Sam decided to pack that thing out of all the clothing she had, but damn if I wasn’t grateful for it.

I’d stopped giving myself a hard time over admitting that she was attractive. Yes, she was young, and no, I definitely was nowhere near giving in and claiming her, but a man can look. And I knew I wasn’t the only one doing that tonight.

“Fuck, you’re hot.” I whipped around fully prepared to launch onto the poor unfortunate soul that decided to test their luck tonight, but was taken by surprise by two things. First, the fact that instead of being disgusted or angry, Y/N opened up the biggest smile at the stranger, and then promptly threw herself on his arms. Second, he was almost as tall as me, and built like a fucking wall.

This was no ordinary Alpha, that much was easy to notice by his smell. And if that somehow escaped someone’s attention, the leather jacket with an emblem on the back spoke for itself.

He was the head of a gang. The Alpha of a pack.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“James!” I yelled over the bar’s noise, incredibly excited to see him after so long. It’d been… what? Three years since that faithfull summer that we spent together, and he still was able to provoke the same reactions in me.

But I guess it could be said for any omega who had the luck to catch his attention. He was top of the chain, after all - the Alpha anyone would want for them, be it as a mate or as a leader, and the last time we saw each other, he confessed the only one he wanted was me.

“James? Who the fuck is James?!” Of course, as another true and primal Alpha - and one from an older generation than the guy whose hands were still around me - John felt threatened by his presence close to us.

I insisted on not reading it as something about jealousy because it’d been over a week already and as much as he’d accepted and even countered some of my teasing, it was clear John Winchester had absolutely no intention to claim me. I doubt he even found me attractive at all.

“Probably the only person who can flirt with me like that and not get slapped on the face,” I answered John’s question, but kept my gaze on James. It’d been so long. I wondered if he still felt the same way…

“Your scent has changed.” The low murmur by my ear, paired with the way his thumbs rubbed my hips, told me everything. He knew I’d found my mate. He knew I could be claimed now.

“Is he an old boyfriend, Y/N?” Dean, bless his heart, tried to cut the tension in the room while I remained frozen from the words James had said, wondering if this was it, if he’d claim me and take me away from the Winchesters and the humiliating feeling of being rejected.

Despite all of the times we’d joked about it, all of the times he complained about me still needing to find my mate so he could finally have me, I never actually considered it would ever happen. I really thought I would be the one-in-a-million omega who actually ended up with their Alpha, their true mate. Who actually ends up with the guy they lose their virginity to? Princesses in fairytales, that’s who.

I’d also never pictured myself as part of a gang, something that would certainly become inevitable if I got married to the leader of one. Just thinking about it made me feel overwhelmed, and I suppose that wasn’t a good sign of the toughness necessary to be in a gang.

But just as all of those thoughts ran through my head, John Winchester had to say something to piss me off to the point of acting stupid. “As if. Look at him. She’d never go for someone like him.”

I flinched, mind racing as I thought of all the things I could to stop a fight from happening, but much to my surprise, the man behind me laughed, fully laughed, like there was something in John’s comment I couldn’t catch.

“She already has, pal.” A lot of things happened in the second after James nonchalantly announced our past to my new travel companions, hindering my ability to think in the already heavy situation.

First, John’s eyes immediately fell on me. I could feel the weight of his gaze on my body, just like I always did whenever he looked at me. I absentmindedly wondered if it would keep happening if I ended up going with James, if this… calling I felt towards him would suddenly disappear. As much as I wanted to believe it would, I also felt a slight sense of disappointment when I thought about not being in any way connected to him anymore, as stupid as that felt.

Second, James whispered in my ear that he couldn’t believe John thought of me as some goody-goody two shoes. “If only he knew…” He dragged out, the warmth of his breath eliciting shivers in my spine. And that’s when I realized, John didn’t think I’d go for James because he saw me as some type of virginal, innocent little girl.

Third, the guys that accompanied James - I recognized at least the blond one from when we met - called out to him to settle some discussion they were having on the other end of the bar. And so with a nod in John’s direction, my ex lover left, leaving me to decide what to do with the fallout of what had just happened.

And what I decided was that I needed some time to figure out how exactly I was feeling after all of that, so with my own nod towards the oldest Winchester, I shrugged and mocked, “Who says I like it gentle?”, because there was no way in hell I’d let John Winchester believe I was just some innocent little flower he had to protect from the claws of the entire world.

#my series #john winchester x reader #john winchester reader #john winchester reader insert #john winchester reader inserts #a/b/o #supernatural fanfiction #alpha john winchester

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70swonderpoisonstark · 5 years

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Wait, you survived?

// You and Steve survive the plane wreck and end up seventy years in the future. Everything’s different and the only person that understands the confusion and pain of losing your entire world is your now dead husband’s best friend. When the two of you are forced to adapt to the world around you, things can get complicated. //

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I've gotta put her in the water.

Please don't do this we have time- d- we can work it out.

Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere, if I don't put her down now a lot of people are gonna die. Peggy, this is my choice. Peggy?

I'm here.

I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance.

Alright, a week next saturday, at the stork club.

You got it.

8 o'clock on the dot, don't you dare be late, understood?

You know I still don't know how to dance?

I'll show you how, just be there.

We'll have the band play something slow, I'd hate to step on your-

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"Steve, we lost comms." You say, sniffling as you dive deeper towards the icey plain ahead of you. Steve takes your hand in his, holding back tears not for himself, but for knowing you had to die too. He best friend's girl, too stubborn to wait for Hydra to be taken down that you forcefully threw yourself into the howling commandos. He could live with sacrificing himself, but you? The closest thing he had to Bucky himself? It sent a knife straight through his heart.

"I'm so sorry, (Y/N). I never meant for all this to happen. I just, I"

"It's okay, Steve." You squeezed his hand as you cut him off, fighting the tears threatening to fall. "It's okay, Steve. We're gonna go see Bucky, everything will be fine." You kept your hands together, the warmth between the two of you the only comforting part of this entire ordeal. You pulled the metal chain out of your shirt with you free hand, smiling fondly as you read 'James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 03-10-1916' knowing that you'd finally be able to see him again. You softly ran your finger over your wedding band and engagement ring. Remembering that sweet moment when it seemed like you had all the time in the world with the love of your life, no earthly idea of the pain you'd endure a few months afterwards.

"We're going to see Bucky." Steve squeezed your hand firmly, the ice was dangerously close. You both closed your eyes, refusing to let go of the other, relaxing as the ice hit the metal of the plane with a crack, knocking you both unconscious,and into the icey tomb that would keep you both for all eternity.

~70 years later~

After the initial shock of waking up seventy years later, Steve went with Fury back to headquarters and was further explained his situation.

"So you see, the serum made you resistant to the cold. You froze, but not the way the average person would. The serum functioned as a shield to your vital organs and cells, allowing you to freeze slower, keeping your cells from-" Steve jumped up aggressively, his memory returning to him in fleeting glimpses, all he saw was you hair, a red ribbon, and a gleaming smile.

"(Y/N)! Where's (Y/N)? Mr. Fury, I went down with a-a friend, a woman, we went down together, in the plane. Where is she, please tell me you found her too?” Silence followed as Steve mind raced. THoughts flying about at a million miles an hour as he tried to find a way that you might have survived, knowing his heart couldn’t take the loss of another dear friend. “

Oh god, she's dead isn't she? She's dead? You said it yourself a normal person couldn't-" Steve knew, but saying out loud was a whole different monster. He couldn't lose them both, losing his entire way of life was tragic enough, but you AND Bucky? Nothing could prepare him for the intense sorrow that overcame him in those few seconds of speech. He lowered his head to his hands, slinking down to the cold floor, and sobbed, knowing the people who knew him best were gone.

"Captain Rogers, she's not dead. We found her right next to you. Our team can't explain how she survived, but she did." Steve's head quipped up, putting his tears to a halt. Could you really be alive?

"I need to see her, right now, please." Nick Fury was known as a cold and calculated man, but the way this American legend looked up at him, crushed his soul. He could see the hurt, the desire for you to be alive, the hopeful gleam in his eyes. He was praying for you to be alive, begging, pleading with God for you to somehow still be breathing the same air, not daring to believe it before he saw it himself. So Fury obliged, and took Steve, not the Captain, straight to you.

All it took for Steve was a single nod and he ran into your room, opening the door faster and louder than he'd intended.

You jumped, frightened at the loud SLAM of the door as it hit the plaster wall on it's right. You looked up at the source, ready to attack, when the sweet baby faced Steven Rogers was standing right in front of you.

"Steve! You're alive! What-" You ran up to him, embracing him in the warmest hug, crying into his large shoulder as he lifted you off the ground.

"(Y/N) I can't believe you're here, I don't, I'm so, God, (Y/N) ." He pulled away slightly, looking at your beautiful face as you wept happily. He took your face in his hand, wiping away tears of his own, and looked into your eyes.

"Steve, what are we going to do, they have portable phones, I could barely work a radio back home and.." More sobbing, you hugged Steve again, body shaking with every sob you made. Steve knew this was a lot, it was a lot for him too, but at least somebody would be learning everything right there with him.

"Hey, hey, it's going to be okay (Y/N), it's going to be okay." Steve rubbed your back, gently caressing you hair as you cried into his chest. When he felt like you'd calmed down enough, he tilted you chin up with two of his fingers, gazing deeply into your eyes so that the effect of his words would resonate. "As long as I'm alive, you'll never have to worry about a thing, okay? I'm going to take care of you, you're my best girl all right?" You hated that line, even when Bucky used to say it, but hearing it right here in this moment, looking in his eyes, helped ease the ache in your heart, and you believed him fully. Fury cleared his throat, clearly wanting to break up the scene in front of him.

"It's not much, but we've got a decent place for the two of you in Brooklyn, figured you two might need some time before you get back to work."

"Work?" Your voice was almost a whisper, what work could the two of you possibly be good for? You're only superpower was your stubbornness, and Steve's his inability to be careful. In the forties, yes you two were apart of a formidable team, but now? The common cold could probably kill the both of you.

"Yes, both of you have jobs here, at SHIELD, whenever you're ready. We had our historians find and read all of your files in order to gauge where and what you'll be doing. Steve was easy, but you Dr. Barnes, were tough. But even with the times, a weapons expert like you can be very useful. Until then, rest, relax. The world's a very different place now, take some time before you come back." Fury led you to a car, a very fancy, futuristic black Honda Accord (What's a Honda, Steve? Is that like our old Ford, do we know if this is even safe, look at all those buttons.") When you were dropped off at your already furnished apartment you were given credit cards, per SHIELD to 'get your life together', and books and magazines to catch up on the times. You were given fashion magazines, because apparently tan and grey were not as fashionable as you thought, and Steve couldn't read one of those things to save his life so you had to find a way to conceal that you were both from a time of button ups and showing knees was scandalous. Great.

Steve tried to figure out the TV, and sports, and holy- there were so many things to watch on the tv. And you could actually watch them, not just listen in. You could see the athletes run and bat and hit. It was so much, and all in color too.

You had figured out the internet pretty fast. You just told it what you wanted and it listened, kinda. It had a very skinny typewriter attached to a screen, it was called a 'Laptop'. You found clothes, common topics for conversation, current events, and ways to research all the time you and Steve had missed.

"Steve! Look, it's an article about us!" You read quietly, blah blah blah, Captain America, blah blah blah, Steve Rogers, "Okay mainly an article about you, but still!" Blah blah blah, American hero. Whatever nevermind. It's not like you were one of the few people that could handle and rival Starks ingenuity, but yeah let's worship the guy on steroids sure. You closed the laptop, knowing you had plenty of errands to run you yelled out, "Steve! I'm going to buy clothes and food, you want anything?"

"Liquor, lots of it. And plaid, please tell me I can still wear plaid!" Chuckling, at least he hadn't changed. You stepped out the front door of your apartment, happy to get out into the new world and try and adapt. You were always up for a challenge in the 40's, why should this be any different? You wandered around the streets of New-New york, glancing at the windows with ridiculous amounts of color and materials. The skirts and dresses were so short, you couldn't imagine walking home in something like that back then. But wearing a floor length gown wasn't going to be very casual either. You have to get with the times, you told yourself. Maybe the shopkeepers would be of some help. You walked into the first store you passed, very casual, laid back. The second you walked in you were met with two smiling faces and a "Can I help you find anything in particular?" You nodded and explained your situation (Except for the fact that you were from the 40's, were frozen for 70 years and were now living with your dead husband's best friend who just so happened to be Captain America((Okay so you completely lied and didn't tell them anything, whatever)).

You walked out of the shop hours later, walking in and out of every store you liked buying what looked good on you. It was nice having this luxury, you usually made your own baggy clothes at home, now it seemed like everything was perfectly tailored no matter what. You walked into the liquor store, knowing Steve would try to get drunk as best he could you grabbed the strongest stuff you could find, 96% Vodka, and Everclear. Should do the trick, or at least kind of. You smiled at the guy at the register as he checked you out.

"Can I see your ID, ma'am?" You froze slightly, your ID, for what?

"Uh, sure." Nobody's ever asked for your ID when you bought alcohol, what was he even going to do with it, you were obviously of age, what a pointless thing to ask for. You handed him the thin piece of plastic. All it says is (Y/N) (Y/L/N) DOB: (Y/DOB/1919) Oh shit. 1919? He wouldn't believe that at all! Shit shit shit shit shit!! You sat there anxiously as he read over the typed letters on your ID. The cashier shrugged, "Cool, thank you for your service. That'll be $65.78" He handed you your ID back and bagged your liquor. You paid and left, astonished he wasn't thrown of by your date of birth. You pulled out the ID to look at it, "WHAT?" You yelled.

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N) DOB: (Y/DOB/1994) Ninety-four? That's not even close to accurate! What..." You pocketed the ID, not wanting to open up another can of worms that could be taken care of later.

You were thankful for the new clothes, Steve and you were going to fit in perfectly, you had already changed at one of the stores and were now in a high waisted body fit (You can't remember the exact term she'd used to describe it) black and white plaid skirt, a black turtleneck sweater tucked in, paired with knee high black boots and a very stylish black purse. You liked the new look, and felt very modern wearing such revealing clothes, people could see your figure, what a crazy idea these future people had! Your hair was straight, and one of the makeup ladies had fixed you up with a very casual, modern, look. ((Which was just a rip off of what you used to do anyways but)) You dragged all the bags and alcohol up to the top floor of the apartment building and yelled into your apartment as you unloaded.

"Steve! I got the goods!" You turned around and started filling the shelves with food and alcohol, leaving the clothes for later. "You'd been so shocked, they asked for my ID, to make sure I was old enough to buy alcohol!" You heard him clobber his was into the kitchen, "Me! I've never had that happen before, it was so crazy I-" You turned around to see Steve, frozen five feet away from you, jaw on the floor. "Are you just going to stand there and watch me do all the work?" You turned your back, amused at his reaction. He was always such a dork when it came to food, it wasn't even that much and there he was pretending like you'd just bought a buffet.

Steve was down for the count. He always knew you were stunning, but whatever new-age clothes you were wearing solidified the fact that Bucky always knew how to pick 'em. For the first time in Steve's life, your unique body wasn't covered in baggy tan and gray military clothes. It was beautiful, a sudden ping of jealousy and guilt poking him in the side as he mindlessly looked you over. The only thing he'd ever seen you in that was even close to being this fitted was the bulletproof corset Bucky got Stark to make for you as a wedding gift. Forcefully, Steve refocused his attention on the food, trying his hardest not to try and compliment you. His words never came out right, and with other girls he could mess up and be fine, but you were Bucky's girl and that wasn't a line he was willing to cross, even by accident.

//Special shoutout to @lunathepettuna who asked for a Steve related something! Love ya girl! //

#bucky x you #steve x you #steve rogers #bucky barnes #marvel X reader #winter soldier #captain america #love triangle #modern steve x reader #conflict #marvel fandom #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #avengers #avenger love story

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