A/N: Thanks for reviewing!
12. Talk to Strangers
Bucky pulls the coat closer around him, glancing at the people passing them by, wondering if anyone will bump into him, will notice that he's got a hunk of metal for an arm instead of flesh. No scandalized or confused looks so far, but it's hard to pay attention to what Steve and Natasha are saying to him with all these people nearby, pressing in close.
" – to find him some clothes that fit. He can't just wear yours, Steve. You're inhumanly large."
"Thanks, Nat," Steve replies sardonically.
"It's a compliment," she defends herself, smiling back at Bucky, who forces a smile in return. Unsurprisingly, she doesn't look convinced, and looks over at Steve sharply.
"You doing alright, Buck?" Steve asks, his friendly tone hiding his worry pretty well.
"Fine," he answers shortly.
He ignores the look that passes between them and focuses on staying in their wake, before the crowd closes in behind them. Why is it so crowded here? How can any of them feel safe in this environment? He had more control of his surroundings in almost every combat situation he's been in (that he can remember), even the ones that ended badly. This one can't end well, he thinks. But he lets his best friend and … well, another friend, he guesses she would be, lead him through the mall in search of something. Clothes for him, maybe. He has clothes, though, so he suspects the goal of this little exercise is definitely more conditioning him to the real world than dressing him up.
It's not that he doesn't need the conditioning; he understands their reasoning. His current heartrate is a clear indication that he needs some work before being mission-ready. But he isn't sure he'll be able to endure this. In the field, he had orders to follow. The Winter Soldier follows orders. The Winter Soldier does not deviate. Sometimes he would go over the mantra in his head to stay calm when things went awry. He supposes he had something similar to cope with missions during the war. But nothing seems to be working now.
"So, James, anything in particular that you're after?" Natasha asks, slowing her pace to walk beside him and link arms. It's a startling gesture, but he understands her motives quickly – if she's on his left, no one will notice anything wrong with him. Well, not the fact that he has a metal prosthetic, anyway.
He allows a grateful smile to cross his lips for a moment before glancing toward Steve, who smiles at him over his shoulder. "Well, I… I guess I could use some workout clothes," he offers, uncertainly.
A winning smile appears on her face and he considers how easily someone would be ensnared by it, if she wanted them to be. "Excellent choice. I get most of mine here," she adds, waving toward a store. "Shall we try it?"
Both of them have stopped and are looking at him, waiting. "Sure," he answers noncommittally. Steve's brow furrows a little, ready to reassure him, to remind him that they can go where ever he wants. But he has no idea what the options are, let alone what he wants. Wanting things… it's a new mindset. He isn't used to it yet.
The three of them walk into the store. It's brightly lit and smells like plastic. Or maybe vinyl. There are no exits; the door in the back likely leads to a stock room, not a way out. There are four people inside: a cashier, male, early twenties, medium build, not a threat; a shopper, female, late forties, large build, not a threat; a young shopper, male, under ten, small build, likely child of the woman, not a threat; a stocker, male, late twenties, large build, possible threat.
Steve and Natasha are enthusiastic as they find him things that will be useful. He keeps an eye on the other people in the store, threats or not, as well as on the exit, and manages to force a smile from time to time as they show him options.
"Well, I think that's enough. Why don't you go try these on?" Natasha asks, folding her arms over her chest thoughtfully.
He looks at Steve, who nods encouragingly. "Right back there, Buck," he says, pointing. "You can come show us if you want, or just pick what you like and let us know if you want."
Bucky nods slowly, then heads toward the dressing room area. The stockroom is further along than he thought, with a few partitions forming the rooms in question. He checks the perimeter out of habit, and is relieved to find the stock area empty and without any indication of a trap. Then he walks back to the stall and locks the door behind him. Tentatively, he pulls off his over-large jacket, then shirt. There aren't any cameras, he reminds himself; he looked. There isn't any way someone will see his arm, potentially recognize it. Or at least be upset, shocked, horrified, by it.
As he was told, he tries on each of the items Natasha and Steve picked out, giving each the most cursory glance in the mirror. None are better or worse than any others, so he supposes he will pick some at random to purchase and hope it pleases them.
Footsteps interrupt him, and he freezes, listening hard. Light steps – possibly a child. Maybe the boy from the front of the store. It doesn't matter; he holds still and waits, feeling trapped. Focusing on keeping his breathing soundless, he listens as the person enters the dressing room beside his and starts making sounds indicating that he or she is changing clothes.
He glances over at the pile of clothes still to try on and considers whether or not he should continue. Surely it would be more suspicious for him to be here motionless and silent than for him to be using the room for its purpose. With some force of will, he gets his arms to move and continue putting on and removing each item. His neighbor doesn't make any different sort of sound to indicate alarm, so he starts to relax very slightly.
"Mom?" a querulous voice stops him abruptly. There isn't an answer, and sounds of distress cause Bucky to feel the wings of panic fluttering in his chest.
The door next to his can be heard opening, and then there is a knock on his own door. "Excuse me, um, sir?" the voice continues after a pause.
Licking his dry lips, Bucky considers his options. "Yes?" he says at last.
"I'm, um, a little stuck. Could you, um, help me?"
It's not as though he can escape from this place without passing the boy outside, so he hastily pulls a long-sleeve shirt on and opens his door. The child is looking up at him earnestly, big brown eyes, light brown hair, somehow tangled in a shirt. He can't see the problem, and the fingers on his right hand tighten on the door as he holds his left behind his back.
"What… what can I do?" he asks haltingly.
"Could you grab this part?" the child suggests, moving his arm to gesture what he means.
Carefully, Bucky reaches out his flesh hand to take hold of the cloth and pull it gently upward. It is caught on something sharp, and he hears it start to rip. The boy looks upset, close to tears, but gives him a nod to continue. When the shirt is lifted free, Bucky can see the problem. The boy is missing his left arm too. And the prosthetic is, well, considerably less advanced than Bucky's.
"Thank you," the child says, almost despondently, as he looks at the ripped cloth.
"I'm sorry," Bucky blurts, surprised at the intensity of his words.
The kid is, too, and looks up at him sharply. Then smiles a little shyly. "It's alright, sir. It happens sometimes."
Bucky nods slowly. "How did you – " he starts, then cuts himself off abruptly.
"I was born without it," the boy explains, seeming quite comfortable with the situation. "Sometimes, it bothers me not to be like the other kids. But I think a person can adapt to anything, don't you?"
The idea makes Bucky wince. "Yeah, I guess so. You know, I lost my arm a little while back," he finds himself saying.
The boy smiles tentatively. "Really? Do you have something like this?" he asks, holding out his prosthetic.
"Not exactly," he answers, and looks around carefully. Then he pulls his sleeve up and shows his left hand.
"That is so cool!" the boy cries enthusiastically, leaning forward to look. "It works like a real hand?"
"Yeah."
He watches the child turn it over, and flexes his fingers for him. "Amazing! Where did you get it?"
His brow furrows a little, but then he forces a smile. "It was given to me so I could keep doing my job," he tries.
"What's your job?" the boy asks, stepping back to look up at him in wonder. "Are you a superhero?"
Bucky opens his mouth to answer (to deny it), when Steve steps around the corner. "Hey, Buck, are you –" he pauses, seeing the child. "Ready to go?" he finishes after a moment.
"Yes," he says, and smiles at the way the kid looks at Steve. "Let's go."
