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Original Sinner

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The thing was, Bucky didn’t see any other explanation for it.

 

And he had spent a lot of time on WebMD. And a lot of religious websites, ranging from the Jewish Women’s Archive - it was his mom’s go-to for everything, and Bucky had it bookmarked on his phone - to Catholicism.org. But none of it had been helpful. Except maybe he had cancer. And maybe he was cursed by a deity he didn’t believe in, and maybe… maybe he was just going crazy.

 

But Bucky had gone crazy before. Or damn near close to it. And this didn’t feel like that.

 

This felt like…

 

Okay, this felt like he was crazy. Just, a different kind of crazy.

 

And there was only one person in the whole world that he trusted enough to talk to about this shit. The same person who had been by his side when he’d come back from Iraq feeling like a monster and wishing for death and missing an arm. The same person who had bullied his ass into going to PT and signing up for a StarkTech fancy-ass prosthetics trial and going to college and going out on dates and trying to at least act human, even though he’d felt like anything but for the last seven years. Well, it wasn’t so bad these days. These days, he did feel almost human. Kind of.

 

Until lately.

 

Because lately…

 

Lately, weird shit kept happening and Bucky was pretty sure it was his fault, and he was pretty sure it was happening because he was having sex.

 

Which sounded crazy.

 

It had to be crazy.

 

He had to be crazy.

 

That, or he had cancer - according to WebMD.

 

Maybe it was brain cancer. That could explain a lot of it.

 

But not all of it.

 

Because brain cancer wouldn’t make Bucky suddenly able to bench press twice his highest weight at the gym. It wouldn’t make him able to run fifteen miles in an hour and feel only the slightest bit winded. It wouldn’t make a cut on his thumb that was deep enough and long enough that he had momentarily contemplated going to the hospital heal completely in two days.

 

Nothing would make any of that happen.

 

Except… it was happening.

 

Had been happening, as far as Bucky could tell, ever since he’d gotten over the weird stomach flu he’d had after his one-night stand with Garth the hipster three weeks ago. The next morning, Bucky had felt like shit and assumed it was a hangover. But the feeling had lasted for forty-eight hours, and Bucky had wished for death almost as sincerely as he had when he’d been blown up in the desert seven years ago. And then… then, Bucky was fine.

 

Until the next time he had sex - with Alex from his Macroeconomics class after a surprisingly good study session. The sex had been meh, but the next morning, Bucky had gone to the gym and almost thrown the forty pound free-weights he worked out with through the ceiling. Which had led to some cautious experimentation and the discovery that Bucky… Bucky could lift a hell of a lot more than he used to be able to.

 

Three days later, though, he was back to his normal lifting, and totally unable to lift the almost five-hundred pounds on the bench that he had lifted the morning after Alex.

 

But then he and Alex had a repeat meh encounter after their final exam and… once again, the next morning, Bucky was lifting ridiculous numbers. And went for the run.

 

A week after that, Bucky finally took Joe the barista up on his repeated offers to make Bucky coffee at home first thing in the morning and… the sex had definitely been more satisfying than with Alex, the coffee amazing, but Bucky had cut open his thumb while trying to slice open an avocado and… and two days later, it was totally fine.

 

So. It was weird.

 

But Bucky didn’t really think about it that much until four days ago. Because, hell, weird shit happened all of the time, and Bucky still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t at least a little crazy after all the shit he had been through in the Army.

 

Four days ago, though, Bucky had run into Garth the hipster again at a club in midtown. And Garth had grinned at him, had pulled Bucky into the bathroom and sucked Bucky’s dick just as expertly as he had one month ago, and after Bucky came, Garth sat back on his ass and laughed and laughed and laughed until he was sobbing.

 

It wasn’t a reaction Bucky had ever had before from someone who just gave him a blowjob, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

 

Garth, though, finally pulled himself together, cleaned Bucky up and tucked him back into his skintight jeans, and kissed him on the lips.

 

“Thanks for curing me, baby. I had the curse for seventy years. Now, it’s your turn.”

 

With that, Garth had left. And Bucky…

 

Bucky had left the club too, because what the actual fuck ?

 

Three days of unsuccessfully googling, a very awkward conversation with an ancient and very judgemental rabbi at the Flatbush Jewish Center, and even more awkward one with Father John at Saint Finbar, Bucky was ready to admit he needed help.

 

And his sister, for all that she was… the bane of his existence, she was also the pillar he had leaned on time and time again.

 

So, here he was, waiting for Becca at her favorite coffee shop with her favorite cheddar and garlic bagels with lemon cream cheese, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to tell his kid sister that having sex gave him super powers.

 

Or something.

 

-o-


A: Becca has no idea how to help.

 

B: Becca has an idea for how to help.