What if post-endgame Bucky is all “look I know everyone is *apparently* cool with me now, but I’d really rather just figure it out on my own, especially regards money and such.”
And they’re all like well, yeah fine - tbh it makes sense that given your history you’d want to be autonomous and as much in control of your own destiny as you’d like.
So off he goes but the 21st century is so *expensive* and it’s been a long time since he did any kind of real work - plus the work that’s available now doesn’t make much sense to him, all emails and meetings and Teams messages, and how would he do any of that?
He probably could find something more physical and outdoorsy but he’s still coming to terms with the arm and he hates people looking at him funny cause it’s always one of two extremes - abject fear or overly *interested* and he’s not wild about either option as it happens.
In the end he hits - accidentally - on the perfect job, little to no input from him and a steady stream of dollars per month that puts food on the table and keeps the wolf from the door.
The others are a bit intrigued cause he always turns up to the sporadic team events that occur - bbqs and birthdays and Morgan’s kindergarten graduation - but it’s only when Scott has nothing else to read and picks up one of his ex-wife’s romance books that the truth comes to light.
“They just pay me to use my face,” Bucky shrugs around a mouthful of chicken.
“And your hair,” Scott says in wonder, staring at the smouldering gaze on the front of his book. The embossed title reads “Tamed by the Mountain Man.”
“It’s honest work,” Bucky says unconcernedly, reaching for the bread rolls.
“Is it though?” Sam questions, with a wrinkle of his nose and a smile at the edge of his mouth, nudging the bread roll basket just out of reach. Bucky narrows his eyes at him.
“Hey man, it’s cool,” Luis says brightly from the other end of the table. “You know, when I first got out of prison it was mad hard to get a job - Baskin Robbins has like, some secret underground messaging system-“
“-its an inter-company messaging system,” Scott murmurs to himself.
“-so I just sold feet pics.”
