Cold. Phantom feelings. Bucky Barnes sits in the coffee shop with a jacket on and a glove over his left hand. He stares through his cup of black coffee, he can't stand all those frilly flavors, and lets everything fade away but the cold burn where the metal crawled under his skin. Or maybe his skin crawled over it. It doesn't matter. All that matters is the cold burn that is his constant companion. It's the only thing louder than the emptiness he's settled into.
He's tired. He's tired of the emptiness. He's tired of trying to figure out the nuances of actually existing in this era. The waitress that he always sees when he comes here flashes him a smile he can't return. She's called a barista now. He's missed so much. He's missed so much, and Steve is alive, and he really doesn't know what to do with his life now. He's seen Steve on the television in his dusty motel room. He can't go find him. Not after what he's done.
"Would you like a refill?" the barista asks, and it startles him. She glances down at his full cup. "Oh, never mind. Sorry to bother you."
"That's fine," he mutters. She can't seem to manage a cheery smile this time. He reeks of despair and she looks concerned. "Thanks," he adds. She hesitates for moment. She seems as if she is about to say something, but she leaves.
He tosses a handful of bills on the table and leaves, beginning the long walk back to his motel. Eventually he'll have to find something more permanent. For now, though, the dingy room with a lumpy bed and single set of drawers to hold the television is his home. It's better than its predecessor. He sits on the end of the bed and turns on the television. As the news plays in the background, he flips through the help wanted ads in the newspaper. He's been working day jobs. He doubts he can get anything more permanent with his background. There aren't many people who are a hundred years old and look like he does, and he certainly isn't Steve Rogers.
Steve. The name echoes in his mind. Half of him wants to go find him. Half of him knows Steve would probably forgive him. Steve has always been his best friend. There is a malicious voice, however, a voice that sneers at him in Russian, telling him he's worthless. The voice tells him Steve would've turned him in, had he stayed around long enough. He tries to ignore that voice. It is the silence, though, or as close as he ever gets. He wants to ignore the voice. He's tired of hiding. It's been a month. Steve worked so hard to bring him back. Surely he'll forgive him.
Bucky flops back onto the bed, coercing a symphony of creaks that have become his background noise. He rolls onto his side to trace the lines of his metal arm. He stole a set of sharpies and turned the star on his shoulder into a scribbled, crooked Captain America shield. Steve was always so much better at art. He drifts off into restless sleep. He's not good at sleeping anymore, not since Hydra.
The next day he has a job putting up a fence. It's easy work. The chill of the morning keeps him cool, and the sun that shines through the empty branches warms his head. He's grown accustomed to bundling his hair into a ponytail. He knows he should cut it, but he'll do a poor job, and he can't afford a barber. Right now the motel bill is the priority.
"Would you like a drink?" asks the old woman who gave him the job. He manages a weak smile and accepts. Her smile falls away as she concentrates on his face. "You look familiar son," she says, her brow wrinkled in thought.
He turns away abruptly. "I just have one of those faces, I suppose," he mumbles.
"Alright," she replies, though her voice still has an edge of confusion to it, as if there is something just beyond her grasp. "Well I'll go get you that drink. If you'd like, I have some tickets to the Smithsonian for that Captain America exhibit. I've already been."
"No thanks," he says. His grip on the hammer nearly splinters the wood.
After he's done working, he goes back to the coffee shop. He finds it useful to watch the world for a little while. He orders a cup of black coffee, and the barista chuckles.
"I can let you borrow a cup, no charge, if all you want to do is contemplate it," she says, venturing a soft smile.
He's caught off guard, and stutters a moment before he can muster a reply. "No, I'd like the coffee please—" he looks for a nametag, but she isn't wearing one.
"Catherine," she supplies.
"Catherine," he repeats. "I'll take the coffee please, Catherine." He's gotten better at conversation. He's used the jobs as practice. He almost returns the smile Catherine flashes as he takes his change. It's progress.
The coffee shop is his classroom. He watches the mannerisms of the people around him. He was trained as a spy. Observation is easy. Integration is a little harder. Blending in is part of the job though, right? Catherine startles him when she sets down his mug.
"Sorry," she says. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," he says, a little too gruffly. He clears his throat before he continues. "Thanks. For the coffee."
She nods and leaves. Bucky groans, running his hands down his face. A clump of hair has fallen into his eyes, and he brushes it away. Sugar. He needs a little sugar for his coffee before he loses himself in the paper. He doesn't like the tiny packs of sugar. He misses the days when he could go to the diner on the corner and pour sugar into his coffee. He contemplates getting a sugar bottle for his motel room. It wouldn't really do him any good, since he comes here for his coffee. It'd be a frivolous purchase, and he can't afford those yet.
The world has begun to settle down. He can see it in the shoulders of the news anchors. The eyes around him don't dart to and fro so frantically anymore. It makes it easier for him to sit still. Luckily, he can count the people that he's had to convince he isn't the Winter Soldier on one hand, but even one close call is too many.
Winter Soldier. The name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It's the taste of rubber mouth guards and electricity. It tastes like iron, like blood.
A passing siren brings him back, and he realizes he is clenching his jaw, and his cup. Luckily, the mug is in his right hand. It may not have survived otherwise. He takes a deep breath and sips the coffee. It burns his tongue, but he takes another sip. The sting is a solace of sorts. It's distracting.
He leaves once his coffee is gone. He doesn't realize until he's halfway down the block that he returned Catherine's smile.