Bucky
Bucky tried. He really, really tried.
But the baker was hot and bothered and he made it so easy.
Bucky had, actually, planned on flying below the radar but the baker. The stupid, gorgeous baker. That was it. Bucky was a stonecold killer, how could this stupid baker-Steve, he reminded himself-ruin his resolve?
Oh, yeah, Bucky thought. He's a good boy that wears tight shirts. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was blond.
He was a problem that Bucky didn't actually want to solve. He wanted to make it worse. Make it such a huge problem that, whoops, now they have to be problems together.
Of course, the baker-Steve-didn't want literal human garbage like him. So Bucky would admire the problem from a safe distance, poking the fire every now and then to watch sparks fly.
He snorted, and cracked his eyes open. The ceiling fan above his bed spun lazily, creating a slight draft that kept the air from sitting still. He sighed and sat up with a groan, resting his elbow on an upraised knee.
He was sore from walking around all day, admiring the sights, catching snippets of conversation, introducing himself as Bucky and not James.
"Who the hell is James?" he muttered to himself. He stared at the eggshell blue blanket underneath him, the worn fabric bunched up under his legs.
He was used to this, immersing himself in a city. That was always his favorite part of the job; learning the language and the culture, the mannerisms of the locals. But this wasn't Europe; he wasn't in Bucharest or Berlin. He was in a small beach town and small towns he was not used to. It was easy enough to read, figure out the terrain and the general attitude of the population. This place was a hodgepodge of people who grew up here, but their parents were from somewhere else-usually Midwest, by what he could tell-or people who retired and moved to get that seafront yard.
There were the odd few, like the redhead who worked for the government-FBI, he figured, but still couldn't tell since he hadn't actually met her-or the rich folks who lived past the woods. He made a mental note to avoid both.
Before, he would introduce himself as James. That's what he was told to do. No one had ever known him as Bucky, not since he joined HYDRA.
Bucky blinked.
He stood, then, purposefully avoiding his gaze in the mirror.
Time for another walk, he thought.
-x-
Steve
Four A.M. was Steve's favorite time of day, even if the day technically hadn't started yet. The sky was still black, so the stars were still out. But the edge of steel gray on the horizon cut through the peaceful focus, almost grounding him. It also helped push away the thought that he was up at such an ungodly hour and running on caffeine.
He liked the fact that he had the whole town to himself. Nobody was out at daybreak. The streets were empty and the birds didn't whistle their own tune for another half an hour, so he just had the sound of the surf and his own footsteps. Or, if he was feeling chipper enough, he would start whistling before the birds. Usually eighties rock ballads were his go to, but today...
He clung to the hot thermos in his hand like a lifeline, taking slow sips every now and then, the black coffee jolting him awake in little bursts. He never drank black coffee, only when he was dead on his feet.
He didn't even notice when he walked by the bakery until his foot fell hard a few inches below the sidewalk. He stared down at the ground, offended at the sudden step down, when an odd smell hit him. He didn't recognize it at first, not until he turned and saw it.
It was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head; he didn't even remember dropping the thermos. He just knew he had to get to the building, it wasn't far, maybe someone else knows about it, too...
Such was not the case. When he got to the building, he skittered to a stop. The streets were devoid of movement, except for the house now sending up plumes of thick, black smoke. It was a small single story, sandwiched between two larger houses. They were all seperated by wide alleys, the gaps pouring out smoke in thick clouds.
Steve leapt up the stairs of the house on the left, banged on the door, shouting something about calling nine-one-one. Probably. He was now running on caffeine and adrenaline and everything was crystal clear and extremely hazy at the same time.
And then, because curse his damned hero complex, he kicked down the door of the burning building and ran inside.
Upon entering, he was hit with deathly dry heat, smoke smothering him and filling his lungs. He pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth and nose, squinting through the haze and the bright flames, looking for any sign of life. The structure was already starting to give way, the beams in the low ceiling exposed and glowing.
He kicked open the first door he saw. On the other side was a bedroom, empty, except for the bed and a small pile of clothes; all currently being turned to ash. He backed out of the room, looking around for another door. There were two. He went for the closest one first, but was met with a collapsing roof, flames bursting on impact. He raised his arms over his head, instictively, and was met with searing pain.
He leapt away, keeping his head covered. He looked through the spaces in the smoldering beams, trying to get a good look inside the room. It was a bathroom, the clawfoot tub charred black.
Empty.
He spun around, searching for the other door. Why is it so hard to breathe? he thought angrily. If his lungs just worked-
Oh. Right.
Mouth covered again, he plowed through the last door. A kitchen. Steve knew the moment he saw it, the gaping hole in the ceiling, above the oven, that this was where the fire had started. He also knew the room was empty. The whole house was. He searched frantically one last time, eyes raking the kitchen. There was another loud crack and he looked up just in time to see the roof cave in completely, crushing him-
He felt something cool and hard wrap around his middle and yank him back, and he briefly remembered the dancing frog who was yanked off of the stage by a shepherding hook.
Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal...
Eyes screwed tight, he didn't realize he hadn't actually died when he hit the ground. No, the ground wasn't that soft... It didn't "oomph" either.
Steve slowly opened his eyes, which were now watering from the smoke, and looked over his shoulder at...
"Bucky?" He didn't register the fact that he was on top of him. Or that Bucky was having a hard time breathing.
"Hey," he managed to grunt out. He unwrapped his metal arm-dancing frog, Steve thought with a grimace-and was patiently waiting for Steve to roll off of him. He was staring up at the sky, unblinking.
"Oh, right," he said when he finally caught on. "Sorry." He felt the need to apologize for being on him first before actually rolling off of him. When he did, he was acutely aware that Bucky winced when he rolled over his arm. Steve stopped himself from saying sorry again.
"Tell me," Bucky said, looking up at Steve from his position on the ground. "Why did you kick my door down?"
Steve blinked. Was he serious? "I thought someone was in trouble," he said, but he realized he phrased it like a question.
"I saved you from my burning house," Bucky said, sitting up with a grunt. "F.Y.I.."
"I didn't know it was your house," Steve said. Why did he suddenly feel like he needed to explain why he was trying to save lives?
Bucky looked up through his lashes at Steve, and then at his house. "It's not much of a house now."
Steve followed his gaze. The fire had leveled the house to the ground by now-when had the fire department gotten there?-the charred beams looked like giant burned matches, sticking into the air but thinned and wilting, breaking under their own weight.
Steve didn't know why he said what he said next. It was probably because Bucky was now homeless-or it was the eyes-and Steve had the capacity to be an extremely generous person-definitely the eyes. But also Bucky saved his life. He didn't feel like he owed him a debt. He was more of a pay-it-forward kind of guy, anyways. And here he was, paying it forward, but also paying it back.
"Need a place to stay?" Steve asked.
Bucky's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"A place to stay," Steve repeated. He thought he'd bow out under Bucky's stare, but he was finding it oddly... encouraging. He really wanted to help him, now. "Permanent or not, I don't care. But there's an attic above the shop, it needs to be cleaned out and it's pretty small, but I can take the day. Won't cost much either." He shrugged like it was no big deal offering a home to a complete stranger.
Bucky blinked. Twice. "What?"
Steve sat down next to him, facing away from the house, giving Bucky his full attention. "You don't have a house."
Bucky nodded.
"I'm offering you a room."
He nodded again, albeit more hesitantly.
Steve was about to say something about getting him some water when Bucky's eyes widened again. Steve hadn't noticed that his gaze had wandered to his arms and when Steve glanced down, his expression mirrored Bucky's.
"You're hurt," Bucky blurted, but he sounded only mildly concerned.
Steve blinked. "Well, look at that," he murmured, lifting his arms to better look at the shining pink flesh.
"I'll go get a nurse or something," Bucky said, standing and leaving before Steve could object. He watched Bucky head towards the paramedics-when had they even shown up?-when he heard a familiar voice.
"Steve? Hey, man," came Sam's voice.
Steve whipped his head around to find Sam jogging over to him.
"Hey," Steve said. He pushed himself off of the ground and dusted the seat of his pants.
Sam, breathing heavily, clapped Steve on the shoulder. "How you doing? Jesus, man, what happened?"
Steve explained the events of the fire.
When Steve had finished, Sam forced a bottle of water into his palm, and glared at Steve pointedly until he drank it.
After a few slow, painful gulps-he hadn't realized how sore his throat was from the smoke until he finished talking-Steve lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He glanced down at his arms, and winced. They weren't terrible burns, but they stung like hell.
"You look like shit," Sam said, nodding in a strangely admiring way.
"Wish I could say the same," Steve said, laughed, then coughed. Sam wasn't wearing his nursing uniform, but a leather jacket and a loosefitting V-neck. Steve always made a point to tell Sam that he was his fashion icon and Sam always made it a point to tell Steve never to dress like him.
Sam clapped his shoulder and frowned. "You have a hero complex, man," he said.
Steve glanced around, looking for a silver glint or saphire blue eyes.
"Lookin' for the guy who lived here?" Sam asked.
Steve nodded, then realized he probably looked kind of pathetic.
Sam shrugged, pushing himself up from his crouching position. "He was talking to the fire captain earlier. He was waiting for you, I think," Sam said, smirking at Steve.
Steve sighed and motioned at the ambulance van.
"He was supposed to get an EMT," Steve mumbled.
"Well," was all Sam said, following Steve.
Steve looked around for the sun and realized that it was barely over the horizon.
"What time is it?" he asked, his thoughts immediately jumping to the bakery, and then the fire, and then Bucky, and...
"Oh," he said, slowing to a stop before Sam even glanced at his watch.
"What?" Sam asked, mimicking Steve's tone.
Steve's mouth snapped closed with a click. He shrugged like he forgot and continued walking.
"Oh, no," Sam said, about to grab Steve's arm but stopped at the last second. "What's up?" His tone did not suggest any leighway.
Steve tried to rub the back of his neck, but the stinging in his arms was constricting his movements. He sighed. Would he even be able to work with these injuries?
"Walk and talk, please," Steve said, "I'm kind of suffering."
"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, rolling his eyes but he pushed Steve forward a little faster.
"So you know how I said i might rent out the attic?" Steve asked, avoiding Sam's gaze, but watching the sky, still gray with early morning.
"Uh-huh," Sam said, like he was waiting for Steve to make his point. His step faltered. "Hero complex."
Steve rolled his head to the side so he could look at his friend. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, and Steve finally noticed the bags under his eyes.
"How did you know I was here?" Steve suddenly asked, and then he noticed Sam's attire, and it had looked clean and crisp at first glance but now he noticed it was disheveled and Sam suddenly looked exhausted.
"Saw the smoke from the clinic," Sam said, and it looked like he was stifling a yawn. "I was there all night."
"How come?"
Sam shrugged. "Paperwork. Now," he grabbed Steve's shoulder and turned him sharply so they were facing each other. Sam pointed his finger in Steve's face, and with each word he spoke he enunciated with a shove of his finger. "You don't even know the guy."
"I can rent out to strangers," Steve said with an eyeroll.
"We were under the impression you would rent out to someone who worked there," Sam said, not enunciating as much with his pointing finger but his grip on Steve's shoulder tightened.
"Maybe he'll help out," Steve offered. He knew he couldn't assume that, but it just slipped out.
"You can't assume that," Sam said, shaking his head. Steve glanced around to make sure no one was listening. That's when he saw Bucky over by the ambulance, chatting it up with one of the nurses.
"Can you accuse me of being an idiot while they're healing my wounds?" Steve asked, his gaze not breaking from the van.
Sam followed his point of interest and did a doubletake. "That's the guy with the arm!"
It was almost, almost, as if Bucky had heard. His head tilted in their direction ever so slightly.
"I can't slap you for that," Steve said, nodding down at his arms. "But shut up."
"Right, right," Sam said. "Dude... Huh." His shoulders rolled a little with the huff. "Small world."
"Small town," Steve corrected, leaving Sam behind so he could finally be taken care of.
-x-
In all honesty, the burns were not that bad. At least, that's what the medic had said, and Sam nodded his approval, as if that settled it.
They covered his arms in ointment and wrapped them, but told him he wouldn't be able to knead any dough for a day or two. They laughed, goodnaturedly, Steve was sure, but he panicked. Silently, but it was there. When's the last time I even took a day off?
He blinked, surprised, because no less than two hours ago he'd said he would take a day off so he could help Bucky clean his attic.
Oh.
He forgot again.
Bucky had wandered off by the time Steve and Sam had gotten to the EMT's, and Steve couldn't help but feel avoided. He didn't even know the guy-he winced when he remembered Sam's words-but he had offered to let him live in his attic. Maybe he was offended? But it was all Steve had to offer, really. It's not like he didn't expect Bucky to be able to afford a new place almost immediately, but just for some sort of comfort. Like he had somewhere to go without having to worry about being able to move in today or in a month. Steve knew the town; availability when it came to rent was sparce.
And here he was, laying this-albeit dusty-cheap room at his feet. Hell, if Bucky didn't have a job, Steve might've hired him on the spot, no rent. It's not like he wouldn't pay him, but just less if he lived above the shop.
It was a fair deal, he figured.
And then he started to wonder...
Did Bucky have a job? He had twenty dollars to spare, but that didn't mean much. He afforded that house, which had to be at least, at least, a thousand a month. It was a one story, open floor plan...
He could have money stored away.
Was he just coming up with excuses not to hire Bucky?
Steve looked up when the EMT patted his arm, letting him know he was all good. Steve gave him a nod, and he stood, exiting the back of the van.
Sam was leaning against the side of the van, staring across the lot. Steve followed his gaze and saw Bucky, hands in his pockets, watching the smoke curl up from the remnants of his house.
How long had he even lived there?
-x-
Bucky
Not even a whole month, Bucky thought, staring at the pile of ash that was his house less than three hours ago.
He couldn't help but feel some sort of grim satisfaction. That fire wasn't meant to scare him, or intimidate him. It was meant to kill him. He knew that the second he saw the smoke.
And he had conveniently decided to take a walk. If anyone asked, he would say he knew, for sure, that someone was going to try to kill him. But of course he didn't. He just wanted to not think and the night sky was the perfect opportunity to not think.
So he walked a few blocks away, definitely not by the bakery, definitely hoping to not bump into Steve.
He raked a hand through his hair, dusty and dry from the ash. It was weird timing. All of it. The walk, the fire, Steve...
What would have happened if he hadn't been there?
Bucky frowned, raking his hand through his hair again. He hated the feeling of it. It was making him angry and he was fueling the fire and he didn't know why.
Steve would have died, Bucky had no doubt. He didn't feel like the guy owed him anything, he didn't believe in paying debts. If he did...
A burned down house is not even close to what he owes the universe.
He sighed and looked up, watching the sunrise cut through the morning fog. He should probably skip town. That would be the safest course of action if he really didn't want to kill anybody anymore. And he didn't. But he felt threatened and instead of feeling scared, like a normal person would, he was furious.
He did not come all this way to be killed in a fire. He did not come all this way to be scared into hiding, which is admittedly what he was doing in the first place, but not again.
He liked the town. Not enough to want to risk dying over it, but he really didn't feel like leaving. The thought of it sapped every ounce of energy he had and he squatted down, braced his weight on his metal arm and fell to the ground with a soft thud.
Need a place to stay?
Bucky looked around, his eyes landing on Steve, who was already watching him. Bucky nodded, hoping Steve would catch on, because lord knows this kid probably didn't understand any universal signals.
But Steve nodded back, and he smiled, and then looked utterly offended when his friend smacked him upside the head.
Bucky decided then that leaving that one asshole alive was the dumbest shit he'd ever done, but at least now he knew who to look for.