Chapter Text
There was a cat.
It was tiny, he observed, so small it could sit on his shoulder if he wanted it to, which he didn’t.
Actually, he didn’t know what he wanted. He hadn’t known what he wanted for 70 odd years. He, The Winter Soldier, The Asset, The Weapon, James, Bucky, whoever he was, crouched down a short distance from the cat, eyeing it carefully. It was white but dirty, its fur matted. It was lying down at the end of the damp alley he’d most recently taken refuge in. It had been raining all afternoon. He’d been pacing in the shadows, unseen by civilians, trying to scrounge something stomachable to eat and had managed to steal a couple of plums from a nearby fruit vendor. The rain had stopped now, but the sky remained gray.
The sky was gray and the cat was white and dirty. These were his observations. These observations were not something he would have taken the time to make while he was working for Hydra. These observations made him feel, if anything, slightly more human than he usually did while he sat awake, day in, day out. He took cover in one damp alley or the next, constantly clutching his knife, terrified they were coming back for him.
“Hello,” he said to the cat, dimly aware his words were coming out in Russian. His throat hurt, and his mouth tasted of the sour plums he had eaten too quickly. “What are you doing?”
The cat, a short distance away still lying on its front, simply looked at him. He got a little closer, but the cat remained still.
“I will not hurt you,” he told it, and it blinked in reply. He was crouching next to it now. He put out one hand, shaking slightly. He touched the cat’s soggy fur gently, and stroked it once before immediately withdrawing his hand. The cat meowed, and he thought it sounded happy. Its yellow eyes watched him intently. He reached out and stroked it again. The cat put its head down to rest. It seemed content.
He sat down next to it, his back resting against the brick of the alley. He continued to stroke the cat.
He meant what he said. He was not going to hurt it.
He did not want to hurt it.
The cat got hungry.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked it. The cat yowled in response and settled in his lap. It had taken a few days for him to let it do that, but he’d decided he liked it.
He’d known what he liked. This also, he decided, made him human.
“I don’t know what that means,” he said in Russian. “I don’t speak cat.”
The cat put its head down and, after a few moments, fell asleep. He did not know if he was tired or not. Even if he was, he could not sleep. If he slept, they could creep up on him.
He stroked its fur: still dirty, still matted, but he liked the way it felt under his fingers. The cat seemed to like it too.
He checked the watch that he’d stolen from a young man walking past the first alley he’d taken refuge in. The man had barely noticed. It was 11 o’clock and daylight. Clocks were not something that had changed over the last 70 years. The big hand still pointed at the 12 and the little hand at the 11 when it was 11 o’clock. He picked the cat up and placed it down on the ground. It yowled unhappily.
“Shut up,” he told it. “I’ll be back. You know I’ll be back.”
He may not know what his name is, but he knows Steve’s, and he knows, at 11 o’clock on a Saturday morning (which he knows because of the newspapers he steals and the people that dress more casually) where Steve will be. He makes a list in his head of these things that he knows as he tails Steve from his apartment to the nearby supermarket, ten paces behind and in the shadows, where no one can see him unless he wants them to. This was one of the first things they, Hydra, taught him to do. He knows this. He adds it to the list.
Today, Steve is on the phone with someone. He listens.
“I - I know that, Nat, but- no, Natasha, listen-.”
Natasha. He tries to remember where he has heard the name. He can’t.
“Nat, he knew me. I swear it. I know - I know -,” Steve makes an impatient noise. “You didn’t see him! You don’t know… you didn’t see his face. Bucky-,” he stops again, listening to his friend.
They’re talking about him, Bucky realizes. Me .
“Yeah, I spoke to Sam. He thinks I should keep doing what I’m doing: the routine, keeping it simple. Maybe he’ll come to me.”
There is another pause. Bucky flexes the fingers of his right hand. He can still feel it. He’s not panicking, not yet. Steve sighs.
“I know,” he says, and he sounds sad. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up. But I just want him to know he will be safe with me. I-,” Steve’s voice catches. “Knowing that he’s out there, alone - he’s - I just want him to know I care. That he’ll be okay with me.”
They’re near the supermarket now, so Bucky stops. He retreats into a back alley, sliding down the wall and sitting on the ground before he can stop himself. He reaches out and grabs the first thing he can see: a small, jagged rock. He drags it along the pavement without taking much notice of what he’s doing. His mind, as it always seems to be, is confused ( whirring ) and he’s unable to make much sense of it. All that comes up clear in the mess of English and Russian is one word: safe .
Safe.
He’s sure he’s not felt safe in centuries.
“Safe,” he says out loud, at first in English and then in Russian. The word tastes funny on his tongue.
He continues to drag the rock along the path. He isn’t drawing anything in particular; it’s a mess of scribbles and scrawls. The word has struck some sort of chord within him. He still hasn’t decided whether he trusts Steve or not. But perhaps it was because he’d heard Steve tell his friend that he’d been sticking to a routine for him - for once, he finds it easier to shove down the crippling doubt that he can trust someone.
He goes back to the alley and waits until its dark. The cat yowls about being hungry for a bit but eventually falls asleep on his lap. He watches it sleep for a while in the afternoon, wondering if he’s tired. All he knows is that you sleep when the mission is over and he doesn’t even know what the fucking mission is. He strokes the cat, tempted to try and clean her (at least, he thinks it’s a her) matted fur, but he doesn’t want to do something wrong.
When it’s dark, he’s decided what the mission is.
He knows where the exhibit is; he’s been before. Four times, if he remembers right, which he doesn’t trust himself to do. It doesn’t take him long to get there even though there are people out and about on a Saturday night. He takes the shadows, avoiding strangers, and arrives just as the guards are locking up for the night. He waits, still and undetectable in the darkness, for another half hour. He’s done this before, that he knows for sure, and he remembers that after half an hour there will only be one night guard left. He creeps forward and breaks the lock easily, silently making his way into the building. He shuts the door behind him and hits the guard on the head before he can even turn to see him. He watches the older man crumple to the floor, but he’s only knocked out. He swallows down the bile that rises suddenly in his throat as he realizes that the Winter Soldier, though he may not be currently active, is hard wired into his brain. A US military sergeant would not have the skills to be completely unheard, to melt into the shadows, to take out the guard knowing exactly how long he would be knocked out for, depending on where and the way he was hit.
He moves on.
He follows his body- the one thing he has left to rely on is muscle memory. It doesn’t take him long to find the exhibit. Steve’s patriotic portrait towers over the room, one hand saluting the air above him. He stares up at it for a moment, and a voice starts over the speaker making him jump. His hand automatically goes to his knife.
“A symbol to the nation . A hero to the world . The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice. Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare, one that would transform him into the world's first super soldier.”
He knows this, of course. He’s had the memories here and there. His hand is still clutched around the knife.
He moves on.
It’s only a moment before he’s gazing at himself. The man, James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes, has his eyes (except with more life) his hair (except shorter) his face (except with a smile). He’s staring at himself - only he’s not. He’s staring at a man whose mind is free of incoherent languages and an assassin’s drive. He’s staring at a man who knows exactly who he is. He’s staring at a man who is staring at Steve.
The memory comes quickly, as they always do, and hurtles him back in time.
“And one with the Captain and the Colonel… yes, just there, thank you-,” the short, portly photographer shuffled around bossily before returning to his camera and shooting the image. He looked back approvingly at Steve where he stood next to Phillips less awkwardly than he would have a year ago. Behind the photographer, Bucky leaned against the wall, crossed arms, and raised one eyebrow. Steve suppressed a laugh.
“Alright, thank you Colonel, and can we get the Captain and his team?… Hurry along now…” he shoved Dugan and Morita forward, and Bucky followed, standing next to Steve.
“Nice propaganda smile,” Bucky teased Steve as the now annoyed photographer jostled the other Howlies around, snapping at them for taking too long. “Where’d you learn that one?”
“From the best,” Steve grinned.
One they were done Bucky made to leave, but Steve grabbed his arm. His skin buzzed pleasantly from the touch.
“One of the Sergeant and I, sir?” Steve asked the photographer politely, but his firm tone indicated he wasn’t asking.
“Oh… uh… of course…” the photographer scrambled to his camera again, not keen to disobey an order from Captain America himself.
“Gonna put your arm around me?” Bucky teased from the corner of his mouth once Colonel Phillip had turned away.
“Keep it in your pants, Buck,” Steve replied quietly, and Bucky couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, and Steve, unable to contain himself, joined in right as the camera flashed.
“You were laughing!” The photographer cried in frustration. “The photo is probably ruined now!”
“Oh please--,”
“Thank you, sir, for your service,” Steve straightened his face and cut over Bucky as politely as he could muster. “We do appreciate it greatly.”
“Oh. Well…” the photographer looked flustered at the compliment and gave an odd, half bow to Steve and a strange twitch in Bucky’s direction before packing up his equipment.
Steve turned and walked away from the small group of people nearby, including the Colonel and Peggy. Bucky followed.
Steve made his way to the outskirts of the camp, where fewer people milled around as the evening wore on, keen to be nearby when food was rationed out. They found themselves on a vast, flat rock on the edge of a valley, isolated from the rest of the camp. It was spring, not too cold and not too hot, and the wind had decided to take a break, leaving the evening air still.
“You okay?” Bucky asked Steve as he sat down, sighting. He followed with a fervent look around, and snaked his arm around Steve’s waist.
“Sorry I haven’t seen you much,” Steve replied, leaning into Bucky. “It’s been-”
“Crazy. I know. Don’t worry. Phillips has put you through the wringer.”
“I’ll be fine,” Steve replied, sounding tired. “Are you okay?”
“Course I am,” Bucky said on instinct, hoping to direct the conversation away from the way he was feeling. The truth was it had been a month since Azzano, and his skin was still buzzing uncomfortably, the light too bright and his head too cloudy.
“You think I’m an idiot?” Steve asked him. Bucky grinned.
“A little.”
“I know when you’re lying to me. I know when you’re trying to protect me.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because you’ve been doing it my whole life. Protecting me, I mean.”
“Hmph,” Bucky replied, squeezing Steve slightly. “So what?”
“So… let me protect you,” Steve whispered, looking at Bucky, tilting his chin with two fingers.
Let me protect you.
Is this what Steve was saying indirectly to him when he was on the phone with Natasha earlier? Is this the honest truth of what Steve wants from him? Could he possibly live up to this insurmountable promise of protecting him, a broken soldier? A wind up toy for a terrorist group? Barely half a man?
He shivers slightly as he sits on the cold, concrete floor, his knees pressed to his chest. Eventually he stands up, probably a little too quickly because his head spins, but he can never tell these days what is normal for his body and what isn’t. His eyes travel to the words near the image that had sent him tumbling down towards the floor. They’re in English, obviously, which means he has to stare at every word twice to actually push them through his mind, but eventually he manages to read.
When Bucky Barnes first met Steven Rogers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond.
Born in 1917, Barnes grew up the oldest child of two. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbour. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprevation, and torture, but his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his camp was liberated by none other than childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America. Reunited, Barnes and Rogers lead Captain America’s newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout Europe.
He’s ready for the voice this time, but it still makes him jump.
“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only member of the Howling Commandos to give his life in service of his country.”
He can’t remember what he’d thought last time he’d been here; it was all a blur. But he knows what he’s thinking this time. He was the oldest of two. A sibling. He’d had a sibling. He was smart. Perhaps that’s why he’d been able to push through the fogginess in his brain. He enlisted in the army. Maybe if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here right now. He’d be old and dying and maybe even happy. Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation and torture… He snorts, then a second later feels sick. If only they knew. If only they knew that what he’d experienced in Azzano was nothing, not even a shred of what Hydra had forced him to stomach. If only he’d known then that the worst was yet to come. Invaluable marksmanship… Well that much had stayed the same, he supposes. That wasn’t something Hydra had to drill into his skull until it hurt. He was a skilled murderer long before they taught him to revel in it.
When he returns to the alley, the cat is still there.
“Hi,” he says to it, and can’t tell if it comes out in Russian or in English. She yowls at him.
“You haven’t eaten yet?” he asks, picking her up. “You are an idiot.”
He strokes her for a moment then checks the time. It’s 9 o’clock. It’s dark and still pretty warm, but he doesn’t want it to rain again. The cat hates it. He looks down at the animal in his arms who looks thinner by the day, thinner than him, and he feels something he can’t put his finger on. He’s been struggling to determine what emotions he’s been feeling when. Right now, though, staring at the thin ball of fluff nestling into his chest, he feels sorry for her, meaning that despite The Winter Soldier being present somewhere in his mind, he does have his own thoughts. As he strokes the cat, he thinks (maybe) that feeling sorry for her makes him human. He clasps his hand over his pocket to make sure the knife is still there, pulls the cat a little closer to him, and melts into the shadows once more.
He knows where the apartment is. He’s known for months now, has been tailing Steve since he dragged him from the river. He heard Steve on the phone too, earlier that day. Hadn’t he heard Steve tell Natasha that he was trying to keep to a routine in case Bucky was nearby? This makes him feel oddly comfortable rather than the buzzing in his veins that signalled fear and terror at the idea of someone trying to pinpoint his moves.
Steve did that for him.
When Steve looks at him and ignores what he’s become, he sees his oldest friend. Bucky feels his stomach sink further as he stares at the door, suddenly unable to bring himself to knock on it. No matter how much history he read about himself and Steve in a museum, Steve was still a stranger.
The cat is asleep and purring lightly in his arms, content and fully unaware that her new owner is facing the most frustratingly difficult dilemma he’d faced since he’d pulled Steve from the Potomac river. He raises his hand once, lowers it, raises it, and lowers it once more. He sits down on a sudden whim that maybe he doesn’t have to knock. He could sit here and wait for Steve to open the door himself. But that could be hours, he thinks, standing up again, hand instantly going to the cat’s fur with the arm that is not cold and metal. And what if it bothered Steve? What if he disrupted Rogers’ routine? What if he made him mad? He’s ready to convince himself to turn around and leave after another moment of imagining himself as nothing more than a burden when he stops in his tracks, remembering something he hadn’t taken much notice of when he was in the exhibit.
In the picture that had brought him tumbling back into 1943, he’d noticed the way he was staring at Steve. He’d noticed but hadn’t observed the way Steve was staring at him . Though he couldn’t place the look, they were looking at each other the same way. Bucky knew, whether it was from memory, from the exhibit, or from eavesdropping on Steve (he wasn’t sure which) that it was not a look shared between people that consider each other burdens. He’d been watched by eyes filled with hatred for nearly a decade. Steve has never looked at him like that. He thinks… he thinks that Steve cares.
Ultimately deciding that if it all goes to shit he can run perfectly well without being followed and never see Rogers again, he turns, raises his flesh hand, and knocks . Twice. Hard. Fast.
The ten seconds it takes for Steve to answer the door is the longest ten seconds he can remember experiencing. The door creaks slightly and then quite suddenly swings open.
Steve’s eyes go wide. His jaw drops, but only for a second before he snaps his mouth together and blinks. There is a pause. Steve’s eyes travel to the cat in his arms and then back to his face. They make eye contact. Neither of them drop it.
“Bucky,” Steve breathes, and though the name doesn’t feel like his, it doesn’t feel unfamiliar, either.
There’s another pause in which Bucky chews on his tongue, unsure of what to say. The cat squirms in her sleep in his arms. He looks down at it, then back up at Steve, forcing out the words.
“Do you have any cat food?”
It takes everything, everything , in Steve not to run at Bucky and fling his arms around the other man’s neck.
“I-,” the question Bucky asks catches him off guard. Cat food? He stares down at the ratty looking thing asleep in Bucky’s arms. It looks about as malnourished as its owner. He forces himself to relax, reminding himself it would probably take very little to scare Bucky off. He unclenches his jaw, lets his hands and his shoulders loosen around his sides, and tries to smile. It’s probably coming out as more of a grimace.
Bucky looks awful. There are huge, dark bags under the ghosts of his eyes on his pale skin. The stubble on his chin serves only as a reminder of their late teen years, where Bucky would shave every chance he got; he hated the feeling of it on his skin. His hair is thin and matted, his face blank. Not emotionless - Steve had seen him emotionless. Steve had seen his face on the highway, when he’d asked “Who the hell is Bucky?”, words that haunted his dreams and tormented him for weeks after. No, this is different. He isn’t lacking emotion or humanity. He just looks confused. Scared, maybe.
Lost.
“I, uh,” Steve clears his throat. “I don’t have any cat food, I’m- I’m sorry.”
Bucky simply looks at him.
“But-,” Steve says hastily, “I could - I could go out and get some. The 7/11 down the street will have some.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just watches Steve and analyzes him, as though trying to decide if he trusts him. In fact, Steve realized a second later with what felt like a stab to the gut, that is exactly what he’s doing.
“Do you want to come in?” Steve asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. Bucky’s eyes shift to the top of the doorframe, sweep along the side, and eventually rest on Steve again. He nods. He clutches the cat tighter in his arms and only walks inside once Steve has moved to the side. Steve doesn’t shut the door all the way. He’s worried it would seem like he’s forcing Bucky to stay.
“Come in. The living room is this way.” He walks up three small steps and is about to turn the corner before he turns around again, silently reprimanding himself. “Only if you want to. We can stay here if you want.”
Once again, Bucky’s eyes sweep the environment, but this time he shakes his head and follows Steve up the stairs.
Once they’re in the living room, Steve turns to Bucky, who stands stiffly, taking in his surroundings. His hand continues to stroke the cat’s fur. It yawns in its sleep.
“I like your cat,” Steve says, when he can’t think of anything else to say. “Does it have a name?”
Bucky clutches it a little closer to his chest.
“Don’t worry, I won’t touch it,” Steve says, surprised. “I was just wondering.”
“It’s a girl,” Bucky says suddenly, catching Steve off guard after a moment's silence. His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken for a while. “No name.”
“That’s alright,” Steve says. “Do you want to sit down?” He gestures to the couch awkwardly. Bucky looks at it for a moment, his eyes unreadable, then back at Steve, slowly nodding his head. He sits in the very corner of the couch, practically on the arm of it. The cat stretches, opens one bleary eye, meows lightly at Steve, then nestles herself back into Bucky’s arms. Steve sits down on another chair, not wanting to crowd Bucky.
“Where did you find her?” He asks, hoping the conversation would continue, if not for him to understand how Bucky is doing then to hear his voice.
“Alley.”
Steve scrutinizes the man in front of him, trying to keep his cool. He doesn’t want to scare Bucky off, not now. Not after this is the closest they’ve been in months.
“Is she hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” Bucky replies. “She keeps meowing.”
Steve nods along as though this is the most normal conversation to be having in the world.
“Do you want me to go get her some food from the shop? Or you can go, if you’d like. I’ll give you some money.”
Bucky looks momentarily overwhelmed by these two options, so Steve changes tactics.
“I’ll go get some food for her,” he says firmly, but trying to keep his voice gentle. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes, but you don’t have to stay, okay? I’m not keeping you here.”
After a moment, Bucky nods again slowly and stays sitting while Steve gets his keys and wallet off the kitchen counter.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises. Bucky says nothing, only watches him leave. At the stairs Steve turns and speaks.
“I’m glad you came, Bucky. It’s good to see you.”
Bucky merely looks at him. Steve doesn’t shut the door all the way.
He takes the steps two at a time, and it’s only once he’s out in the damp air that he allows himself to breathe.
Bucky stays on the couch. He looks around from where he sits. Steve hadn’t told him he could move, so he wouldn’t. His eyes sweep every window sill and crevice he can spot from where he sits, looking for anything that could be a threat, but everything seems… fine. It is scarily quiet inside the apartment. The only time he’d been inside four walls over the last few months was when he’d found garages to sleep in or he’d been in the Smithsonian. He can still hear cars outside and people’s muffled voices. His super soldier hearing would never allow him the luxury of perfect silence, but this is… quieter. Better.
The cat wakes up, stretches out over his arms and yawns. She looked up at him with her yellow eyes and meows in question.
“Not yet, idiot,” he replies. “He went to get you food.”
The cat tilts her head to the side and continues to stare at him, as though wondering who the hell he’s talking about.
“Steve,” Bucky says. “The guy from the photo,” he says to himself more than to her.
She leaps down from his arms and begins sniffing around the room, but doesn't leave his line of vision. He watches her bat a cushion on the floor with one paw and starts to think.
He wasn’t going to leave, not yet. Steve seemed to want him to stay, right? He wouldn’t have said that stuff about being glad to see him or that he had the option to leave if he didn’t. Yet he can’t help the cold feeling that creeps under his skin when he remembers how many times he’d been lied to over the years. You can rest after this mission. You can have what you want when you complete this. You’ll be fine. We’ll let you remember this. You kill this target and you be good, you obey orders and we’ll reward you --
He gags on nothing momentarily before he swallows against his dry throat and focuses all his attention back on the cat.
Don’t think. If it all goes badly, you can fight your way out.
You’ve done it a hundred times.
Steve calls Sam as he half walks, half jogs down the street to the 7/11. Sam answers after four rings.
“What’s up man?”
“He - Bucky -” Steve’s voice catches in his throat on the other man’s name and he pauses for a minute, leaning against the brick wall nearby. It’s getting late. It’s dark, but the streets are always busy. He moves out of the way for a couple that are jogging then sinks down onto the ground.
“You’ve seen him?” Sam’s voice is suddenly serious. Steve nods, then remembers Sam can’t see him. He clears his throat.
“No. I mean, yeah. He’s at my house right now. I’m outside- going to the 7/11 to get him cat food-”
Sam lets out a low whistle on the other end of the line. “Holy shit. Slow down, Steve. He’s at your house? He came to you?”
“He came to me.” Steve says, letting the words sink in.
“What did you say about cat food?”
“He’s got a cat with him. Tiny, dirty little thing. Holds it like it’s his only lifeline.”
“Shit, dude,” Sam says. “How is he?”
“He’s- he’s-” Steve falters and swallows against his dry throat. Sam waits patiently for him on the other end of the phone. He’s probably used to this, people panicking and unable to get their words out. He licks his lips nervously.
“He’s not.. He’s not great. Didn’t talk much, seemed… scared as hell. But he came to me, Sam. He came and knocked on my door. That… that must count for something, right?”
“It counts for a lot,” Sam says, but he still sounds serious. “But don’t push things, okay? Make sure he knows he has a choice-”
“I left the door open,” Steve cuts over him a little impatiently, standing back up again. “I told him he doesn’t have to stay. Don’t worry.”
“That’s good. That’s great. Reckon he’ll still be there when you get back?” Sam is ever patient with Steve.
Steve doesn’t know how he does it.
“I don’t know,” he says, and knows Sam hears the slight crack in his voice. “I don’t wanna make him stay if he doesn’t want to, but- but, shit, Sam-”
“I know man,” Sam says, and he sounds sympathetic. “I know.”
There is silence for a moment, and Steve starts walking again. There’s a loud bang in the background of the phone call, and Sam says “dammit it to hell!” loudly.
“What are you doing?” Steve asks, momentarily distracted from the dull ache in his heart.
“I’m trying to fix something on my suit. Stark says the cybernetic link is broken and sent me instructions on how to fix it, but fuck if I know what any of them mean. He thinks its easy and I’ll be damned if I take it to him to fix before I try figure it out myself.”
“Oh,” Steve says. Work stuff seemed significantly unimportant at this moment. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, man,” Sam says. “Listen, if you need anything at all -”
“I don’t want you to be my therapist Sam,” Steve mumbles, staring at the neon sign outside the 7/11. “Or Bucky’s.” Steve feels terrible he calls Sam every time he wants to talk - he doesn’t want his friend to think he’s using him. “You have your own stuff-”
“I’m not being your therapist, dumbass,” Sam says, and Steve can practically hear him roll his eyes down the line. “I’m being your friend .”
“Thank you,” Steve says gratefully. “I’ve gotta go, I don't want to leave him for too long.”
“Of course,” Sam says immediately. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“I will. Thanks, Sam.”
“Anytime man. I mean it.”
Steve hangs up and paces the shop until he finds a few cans of cat food that should be sufficient. He pays and exits again onto the dark street. He considers calling Natasha on his way home, but he wants to get back quickly. His heart speeds up again at the thought of Bucky at his place thinking he’d been abandoned, and instead types out a quick message to her.
He showed up.
Knowing she’ll understand his seemingly cryptic text, he hits send, puts his phone in his pocket and jogs the mile home. The tins dig into his palms, but it feels like they’re digging into his heart.
Bucky knows that Steve knows that he can hear Steve coming from the bottom of the steps. Something within him (appreciation, he thinks) rises up inside of him when he hears Steve, rather obviously, making a lot of noise as he enters through the half open door. He comes up the steps and Bucky looks over at him. He’s carrying five tins.
“I wasn’t sure what kind to get,” Steve says after a minute of silence. “So I got a few.”
Bucky doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Shall I put some in a bowl? See if she likes it?”
Bucky nods.
“Do you want to come? I’ll show you around.” Steve asks, and Bucky nods again. Steve gestures for Bucky to follow him, so Bucky does. They pass a television set and go into the kitchen, which was in Bucky’s line of view whilst he sat on the couch. The cat weaves between his legs. In the kitchen there's a countertop and an oven, a fridge and a big cupboard, and next to him there’s a table with four chairs at it.
“Why four?” Bucky asks, fighting for the words to come out in English instead of Russian. Steve turns from where he’s standing at the bench, scraping cat food from a tin into a small bowl. He tilts his head slightly in question. “Four?”
Bucky clears his throat again. “Four chairs.” He hopes Steve won’t get angry at his question.
He doesn’t.
“Oh! Well, you know, sometimes I have friends around. Not that often. But it’s nice to have options.”
Bucky doesn’t reply. He hopes Steve’s friends don’t come to call anytime soon. He’s barely keeping it together staring at one face he’s supposed to know.
Steve sets the bowl down on the ground and the cat races towards it, skidding slightly on the lino as she reaches the bowl in haste and immediately begins eating. Steve laughs quietly. Bucky looks up at him from where he’s watching the cat on the other side of the counter. Until Steve laughed, Bucky hadn’t realized it was funny.
“Are you hungry?” Steve asks him after a moment of watching the cat. Bucky shrugs. The truth is, he has no idea what he feels most of the time. He can still taste this morning’s banana he took from the market on his tongue.
“I have lots of food,” Steve says, walking over to the cupboard and opening it up. “If you want anything, you can have it.”
Bucky eyes him warily. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Steve - actually, it sort of is - but he is well and truly overwhelmed at this point. His brain, which reminds him of a tangle of yarn, (the sort his cat would probably want to play with) only continues to get bigger and more knotted. Because he thinks it’ll probably make Steve happy, he opens his mouth and replies.
“Okay.”
Steve puts a few crackers, grapes, some cheese and a couple of biscuits on a plate and sets it down on the counter. Bucky looks at him, and he nods, so Bucky picks up a cracker and bites down on it. It tastes like nothing, which is fine. Good, even. So he eats all the crackers and a bit of the cheese, which is strong, but he doesn’t want Steve to be mad so he eats it anyway. Then he eats the biscuits, a little faster now, because he’s worried about taking too long, and by the time he finishes, he feels a little sick. It’s the most food he’s had in weeks, since he broke into that bakery. He swallows, and notices Steve has put a glass of water next to his plate too. Bucky looks at it and then him. Steve nods, so Bucky drinks some, which feels nice against his dry throat. He sets the glass down and goes back to watching the cat, who is licking at the food amicably.
“Want the tour?” Steve asks, and Bucky doesn’t reply but follows him out of the room. The cat catches up in no time, padding along at his side. They go down a hallway after Steve flicks a light switch on, and for the first time in ages, Bucky checks his watch. It’s ten thirty. Bucky wonders what he’ll do when Steve goes to sleep, because he knows most people sleep when it’s dark out, although he doesn’t.
He sleeps when they let him.
The hallway is short, and Steve opens the first door on the left. “This is my room.”
Bucky follows Steve in after a nod and pauses by the bed, which the cat jumps on and claws her way around. The walls are plain but it’s clear someone lives here; the bed is obviously slept in, there’s a washing basket in the corner full of unfolded laundry, a desk with what Bucky remembers (from a mission in Turkey in 2008) is a laptop. Next to it is a notebook and a jar of pens. Books line the shelves above the desk that sits next to a wardrobe which has a mirror on the front. Bucky catches sight of his reflection out of something that isn’t a car window for the first time in months. He stares at himself for a moment, then sees something far more interesting.
Steve’s bedside table has a lamp, a couple of books, a half full glass of water, a small digital clock, and a framed photo of him and of Bucky .
Bucky starts forward before he realizes he doesn’t have Steve’s permission to do so, but Steve smiles at him and nods gently. “It’s okay. You don’t have to ask.”
This is still a foreign concept to Bucky but he moves forward anyway. Steve’s smile seems so genuine he feels warmth emanating from it. He walks around the side of the bed and picks up the black frame. It’s heavy in his hands.
Bucky wonders how Steve got the old picture. In black and white and despite the little he can remember about his life, he knows it’s from before the war. Steve is tiny and Bucky is clean shaven and isn’t covered in scars. He’s laughing and Steve is grinning abashedly, his legs draped over Bucky as though he’s the armchair they sit in that’s far too small for both of them even though Steve is practically skin and bone. He can hear the laughter ringing in his ears but he can’t remember what they were laughing about.
“That was taken the first day we moved into our apartment,” Steve says from behind him, and Bucky jumps a little, shaken out of his stupor. The cat comes up to him on the bed as he places the photograph back down where it came from. He picks her up, stroking her as he turns to face Steve. “We had this real nosy neighbor - Marie - clearly no idea that we were-” he stops himself abruptly then starts again after clearing his throat. “She heard us moving in and offered to take a picture on her camera. I was sitting on the arm of the chair but I fell onto you at the last second, that’s why we were laughing.”
“How did you get it back?” Bucky asks now that it’s clear Steve doesn’t mind questions.
“I have so much stuff I still haven’t looked at that S.H.I.E.L.D gave to me after I woke up,” Steve explains. “Stuff I put away into storage before we went to war, that kind of thing. I got through about two boxes before I had to stop. It was a lot of memories, all at once, overwhelming and... “ He exhales, leaning against the bedroom wall. “Well, a reminder that I was here and not there.”
Bucky looks directly at Steve and speaks before he decides to stop himself.
“I understand.”
Steve feels like crying.
They walk out of Steve’s room and back into the hallway. Bucky hadn’t noticed while he was in there, but he’s starting to feel a little sick. The cat winds herself between his legs and they follow Steve down the hallway until he opens the next door on the right.
“This is the bathroom.”
It’s a decent size fit with a bath, shower, toilet, and basin. There’s a vanity with a mirror above it, and once again Bucky finds himself staring at his reflection. There isn’t a lot to see, so they move on to the last room, down the end of the hall.
It’s plain, with small shelves, a bedside table and some drawers.
Bucky looks around for a moment and can feel Steve’s eyes on his back before he speaks.
“If you decide to stay,” Steve says, and Bucky thinks he catches Steve’s voice shaking, “you can sleep here. If you want. It’s your choice, of course.”
Bucky doesn’t reply. He definitely feels sick now, bile tight in his stomach and his throat dry. His skin is hot and itchy. He clamps his mouth tight shut. Steve analyzes him for a moment, trying to see if he can spot an answer, before he shrugs.
“You don’t have to answer right now. C’mon. Let’s go back out there.”
Bucky follows Steve and the cat races past them down the hallway, into the kitchen. They enter after her.
“Do you want anything?“ Steve asks, leaning over the counter. “Water?”
Bucky opens his mouth to say yes. Instead of answering, he throws up onto the floor.
He freezes. He’s stuck. He’s cold and he’s terrified. He waits for the shouting to start, waits for him to start yelling, hit him over the head and call him an animal, throw him into the wall and make him take it, not allow him to fight back-
“Bucky,” Steve says, and his voice is soft and gentle. It’s not loud or cruel or cold or calculating, and it washes over Bucky with a wave of feelings he doesn’t recognize. He looks up from where he’s staring at the mess he’s made on the floor, his eyes blurry. Steve watches him, and he doesn’t look angry. Bucky has come to know an angry face better than any other. His mouth tastes terrible and he can’t see his cat, and Steve hasn’t said anything and even if his face isn’t angry maybe his mind is, oh god, oh fuck-
“Bucky,” Steve says again. He reaches out to touch Bucky’s arm and one word untangles itself from all the rest and makes him recoil in horror: pain .
Touch means pain. It’s the first thing they taught him.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and he sounds scared. Scared of Bucky? Scared Bucky will hurt him? He doesn’t want to hurt Steve, he just wants out -
“I’m sorry, Bucky, please, don’t panic, okay? Don’t worry. We’re on the lino, it’ll clean up easy, it’s my fault, anyway, I shouldn’t have given you so much food when you probably haven’t eaten in a few weeks, here, come sit down-”
He draws out a chair at the table. After a moment, Bucky listens to his body and follows him, shaking head to foot. The stupid cat jumps up on his lap and it only takes a few seconds before her weight calms him a little. Something Steve said rings in his ears: “It’s my fault.” He opens his mouth to speak before he can stop himself.
“It’s not your fault,” he chokes out. He gasps a little as the cat’s paws prick his thighs. It’s helping, he thinks, but he still feels shaky, worried that Steve is going to turn on him at any second. “I thought I had to eat it.”
“What about this,” Steve says, and he’s standing back against the counter top. He’s a little way away from Bucky, but close enough that when Bucky looks up he can see Steve’s face clearly. It’s warm, genuine, nothing like the face of someone who wants to hurt him. “It’s no one's fault. Just forget about it, okay?”
Bucky strokes the cat and tries to breathe. He doesn’t stop looking at Steve. Seconds ago he was prepared to run and never look back. Now, as he stares into the eyes he reminds himself he once knew and sees no cruelty, he exhales.
“Okay.”
Floors clean and cats fed, Bucky can’t put a finger on what he feels. He’s told Steve, haltingly, that he’ll stay. At least for tonight. Steve can’t hide his smile, and Bucky wishes he could smile back. Steve pulls clothes out of his drawers and puts them on the spare bed for Bucky. He tells him he can shower or have a bath if he wants. He’s not sure if he’s being told to or not, but opts for a bath anyway - a shower is a no go. You can’t hear your attackers coming if the spray is in your ears.
Steve leaves him to run the bath. He’s not sure which taps to pull or whether he can even have a hot bath; he doesn’t remember having a hot bath… ever. He wrenches the cold tap until there’s a shallow tub of water in front of him, listens to make sure he can still hear the cat clawing at the door and whinging, strips down to his underwear (there’s no way he’s taking all of his clothes off) and lowers himself into the water. He runs wet hands down his body and watches months of filth drip off him, turning the water brown in no time at all. He hears the cat at the door and Steve typing on his laptop. He closes his eyes and presses his neck back against the rim of the tub, letting the water soak up feelings he cannot name and does not understand.
Natasha has replied to Steve’s text.
Shit ok.
Doing work for Fury. Be back next week
Tell me if u want me to come over
Then a few moments later when she’d clearly decided this wasn’t enough:
Here if you need me.
Steve snorts. It’s just like her to not tell him where she’s going. She could be in Colombia for all he knew and would still say ‘here if you need me.’ He types out a thanks and then hears the water stop running in the bathroom. He pokes his head out of his bedroom into the hallway and makes eye contact with the cat, who sits at the bathroom door, whining after her owner. She looks at him, meows in hello, then goes back to scratching at the door. Steve supposes, from what he’s seen of what this odd little thing does for Bucky so far, that the sound is grounding him, so he leaves her to it. Back at his desk he opens the laptop. He puts in the password that Tony made sure was so secure he had to write it down on a post it note and stick it on his desk (Which, as Tony later pointed out, completely defeated the purpose of having a password in the first place) and opens his email. He sits, staring at the blank screen for a moment with only the address put in, wondering what to write next. After a few moments, he puts his fingers on the keys and types out exactly what he’s thinking in the most polite way possible.
Fury,
James Barnes arrived at my house earlier this evening and will be staying until further notice. I truly believe he is not a threat. Please inform your people that any attempt to apprehend him without his consent will go very badly for them. It’s not him they’re crossing, it’s me. You know what I’m capable of where he’s concerned, and I urge you to remind S.H.I.E.L.D of that.
Regards,
Steve Rogers
He re-reads it and hits send. Fury can call him if he’s got a problem, but he’s quite sure there won’t be. As far as the director is concerned, Steve taking care of the ‘Winter Soldier Problem’ is one less thing for him to worry about. He stands up, stretches, and sighs. He’s exhausted, but he has no idea how much sleep he’s going to get tonight. Chances are, he’ll stay awake listening to Bucky breathe the way he’s sure Bucky used to do when Steve was sick in the winter and they didn’t know if he’d make it through the night.
Steve knocks on the frame of the open spare bedroom door where Bucky sits on the end of the bed in Steve’s clothes, holding the cat.
“I’m gonna head to bed,” Steve says as he leans against the frame. “The door is locked but if you decide you want to leave…” he trails off for a moment and Bucky thinks he knows what he’s going to say.
“I’m staying tonight,” Bucky says, and he means it. If he can get through this night, he can make a decision tomorrow. A smile plays at Steve’s lips.
“Okay. Sleep well. Help yourself to anything, okay?”
Bucky knows he won’t be able to bring himself to do so, but nods anyway.
“Night, Buck.”
“Goodnight,” he tries. It sounds right and Steve smiles, so clearly he’s not wrong. Steve turns and walks down the hallway to his room. After a moment, Bucky hears the door close.
He sits on the bed for a while longer, stroking the cat, who’s well fed and purring contently in his arms. He doesn’t turn the light off because he knows he won’t sleep. There have been… moments tonight where Bucky felt the overwhelming sense of being safer than usual, but now that Steve has left him alone and the house is quiet, he remembers he’s in a new environment and his skin is buzzing with unresolved anxiety once more. He tries to lie down but the mattress is too soft; he can’t remember the last time he slept in a bed.
Actually, now that he thinks about it, he can.
Mission report, September 3rd, 2012 - he was staying in a hotel for days on end posing as Slavic business man Duscha Sokolov in order to assassinate a threat--
He stands up. He doesn’t want to be on the bed.
He thinks he probably shouldn’t, but he stands up and he walks out of the room with the cat in his arms. He pads down the hallway softly, knowing how to move without being heard. He checks and double checks that all the windows and the doors are locked - not that it’ll stop them if they come back for him, but it’ll give him a moment’s warning - and eventually finds himself outside of Steve’s bedroom. The door is closed and it’s dark in the hallway but he doesn’t need the light to see. He pauses, holds his breath, and listens.
He can hear Steve breathing. It’s not rhythmic enough for him to be asleep, but it’s calm.
Steve lies awake, unable to let sleep take him. His brain is scattered with wild thoughts from many eras of his life, and Bucky is present in every single one of them. After about a half hour, he turns his head a little. He can hear Bucky’s breathing close by. It’s even. Maybe not calm, but not panicked. Not on edge. He settles further down into his blankets and closes his eyes. The breathing washes over him and though his brain is whirring, hours later it lulls him in eventual rest.
Steve’s breathing envelops Bucky in waves of a feeling he believes is comfort. He thinks this, not because he’s experienced comfort recently - he hasn’t, as far as he can remember - but because a memory surfaces. Steve’s breathing is the most familiar thing he’s heard in a very long time. It feels the same way the memory of he and Steve in the museum felt and the way Steve’s name tasted on his tongue that day on the bridge. He observes Steve’s breathing and once more starts to believe that perhaps these observations make him human.
The carpet is softer than the damp concrete he’s used to, but he doesn’t feel like he’s sinking like he does on the bed. Curling up into a ball, the cat purring softly beside him and Steve’s rhythmic breathing in his ears, Bucky falls into a peaceful sleep for the first time he can remember.