Life for Bucky during his two year "hiatus" was quite peaceful.
Most of the time, he was doing odd jobs.
Panhandling,washing windows, being a janitor, a delivery man, and his favourite - a nighttime worker at the local bookshop.
He got the gig when he randomly walked in a used books store, small, square, and tight, where the walls, floor, desks and chairs, were all full of books. The store had two rooms, one occupied by a younger man with dirty blonde hair, a straight Roman nose and thick, heavy glasses. His lanky frame reminded him of Steve, pre-Captain. He spoke with a friendly tone, a short stutter when he talks too fast, but all in all, a guy who sounds like the books he read need their dialogues leapt off his chest. He watches over the media section of the store, where vinyls from the when Bucky was born until present day adorned the shelves. Armstrong, Ellington, Morton, and Davis occupied an entire row. "Jazz is separated by subgenres, if you're interested. Vaughan is my personal favourite," the young man said.
Opposite of the vinyls were piles of unorganised cassettes, CD's, and scores. The music section looked like it was either not getting attention, or getting too much of it. The last time Bucky waltzed in, hordes of teenagers had their arms full of vinyls and scores. It seems like the ruckus from then remained. His metal finger wandered to the small collection of VHS in the corner shelf, organised by genre, and whiffed the scent of unopened plastic.
But his personal favourite was the room across. The one where light would not even touch half the area, so covered by titles from the past three centuries, maybe more. It smelled like a home he never had, but somewhere his soul belonged to nonetheless. There was a set of stairs winding up, but the entrance was locked and he never asked why. Bucky moved his rather bulky body against the narrow passageway, and made himself home amongst the books.
"Somethin' bout stories older than yourself that gives yourself a sense of continuity."
The voice came from an elderly man, slightly bent over a giant book, but the twinkle in his eyes directed towards Bucky. It seemed like he knew more than he should. Barnes tensed, but the old man laughed.
"I know a lost man when I see one," he said. Straightening up Bucky noticed the way the old man carried himself was other than normal. He moved lightly for his age, and if it weren't for the wrinkles and the snow white hair he would've estimated otherwise. He spoke with a regal English accent, much like a certain brunette girl he used to know, and a smile that suggested there were secrets he knew that were worth millions.
But of course, seeing the pile of books the old man presumably read, that would be accurate.
"I'm not looking for trouble," Bucky said, shifting uneasily.
"I'm not suggesting! I apologise. I've seen you pass by and wander around a couple times. You're not a forgettable figure."
Bucky looked at his silver coloured hand.
"Your face, my good man. I only seen your hand now. You're looking for something. Perhaps I can help you find it."
Bucky looked at the old man again. Something about him feels vaguely familiar. But the store itself was such a random, haphazard discovery. It couldn't be anything important.
Bucky found the store when he got lost in the streets of Bucharest. Alone and hungry he wandered close to the lit stores near an empty alleyway, hoping that the closing restaurants would spare food. He hated begging, or even just asking, but his stomach has been empty from a week of no work, and he'd rather beg than go to a life of crime to feed himself.
He'd rather die of hunger than turn to a life of crime again.
He got a bag of free bread from a baker who usually made rounds in the homeless areas. The baker noticed him idling near the back of his store and didn't think twice about giving him about a week's worth of different kinds of bread, a couple pastries and a small packet of dried meat.
He took the bag, smiled and thanked him, and the baker told him to knock anytime.
Of course, Bucky never again asked, but the baker was now under his list of priority people who should not come to harm.
Wandering back home he saw the bookstore, with a gas lamp near the door crudely matched with green and pink neon lights that wrote "24 Hour Used Bookshoppe".
The skies grew grey and Bucky thought he'd pass time there. He didn't know it would become a habit.
Over the months he'd come at least once. He would go there in the busiest times, so that he'd be unbothered by the two shopkeepers that only talked to customers when they were spoken to anyways. He still liked precaution.
Now he made the mistake of walking in at two in a Tuesday afternoon.
"My name is Lionel," the old shopkeeper said.
"I do not bring you business, Mr Lionel," Bucky said, shifting around his weight and his gaze.
"My son, these books just need a home. Can I give you one to adopt?"
Bucky looked confused. All the time he just sneaked in and read. He never bought anything. He never referred anyone. He just liked the feel of the store.
"You have an eye for history, from what I remember. My history books don't get much love. Would you like me to make you something like a library card? You return the ones you don't like, and the ones you do, you keep."
Bucky's eyes widened at that.
"What's the catch?"
The shopkeeper smiled. He dusted his apron and rummaged his fingers inter three pockets, searching, and then a card was issued out.
"This bookstore is my home, but I'd like to have someone watch over it when I'm gone. You look like you can protect a measly store. I leave in two months, and that leaves us time to be acquainted. Until then, my offer stands, and you may accept or reject it as you wish."
Bucky was used to confusion, but this was way too personal. With no real address, no real job, and not even a real name, his work prospects have always been weak. And here he was being offered a job that would let him research and read all the information he needed.
"Alright. When do I start?"
