The cat is orange with a white underside. Its fur is clean and unmarred by injury. It's a house cat, soft-bellied and mat-free. It is obviously a well-loved pet.
So James has no idea why it's sleeping in his fruit bowl.
The cat rouses from its sleep and meows, tail swaying lazily. James looks around his apartment, but unfortunately, all he finds is his furniture and not the cat's owner.
"How did you...?" James frowns. Had he left one of his windows open? Or... James looks up, the vent in the wall blowing tepid air onto his face. Tufts of orange fur are hooked around the jagged metal mesh. James had been meaning to fix that. He still has no idea how he had managed to punch a hole in something eight feet above the ground.
Now he has a cat in his apartment and he has no idea what to do with it.
He should ask his neighbours if they're missing a cat.
He'll... Go do that.
–––
The cat is still there when he gets back, but it's relocated to his couch, balled up against the pillows. James sighs.
None of his neighbours were missing a cat. There was an older woman who had lived on the ground floor who had had cats, but she had died weeks ago. James figures the cat has been hiding in the vents for a while, given how it had entered the apartment.
He watches the cat sleep, feels his exhaustion pile higher and higher. Fuck this. He'll deal with it later.
James turns on the news and begins making lunch. He has a shift in four hours, and before he leaves he needs food and a nap. And some vodka, probably.
While he was laying down the ham on his sandwich, the cat wandered over and begun meowing.
James sighed, ripped up a piece of ham, and fed the bits to the cat one by one. The cat butted his hand and licked his fingers after every bite. James allows this, but only because Its fur is very soft.
This is temporary, he swears to himself later, when he's settling down for a nap, the cat curled up on James' belly, purring. I'll take it to the shelter in the morning.
The next day, he comes home from the pet store carrying two bags.
The cat purrs and buts James' hand when he presents it with a toy mouse.
"You are very cute and I am very weak, Nikolai," he tells the cat.
The cat purrs harder.
–––
Once a month, James would bleach his hair, eat pizza, and watch the news. He wasn't sure how the tradition started, as it was, but it was an important part of his routine.
And now, it allows him valuable bonding time with Niko. If Niko batting around a hair dye box while James watched counts as 'bonding time'. James thinks it does.
He truly didn't mean to keep the cat, but he's glad he did.
It's nice to have someone to talk to. Even if they can't talk back.
The chemical scent of the bleach had lost a lot of its punch over the years. Now it's only &kind of& unbearable, but James has done this enough times to know he will never fully adapt to it.
The news was boring. As usual. As far as James is concerned, if there isn't an international terrorist organization (Hydra) or an alien invasion (New York, 2012) then it's a slow news day. He tells Niko this, but the cat isn't paying attention.
Then Breaking News flashes across his laptop screen, and he regrets saying anything. He sighs and turns up the volume.
The broadcast isn't even over before James' jaw is on the floor.
"Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me!"
Niko mrows, releasing the hair kit from his jaws look at him. James barely registers him.
"James Buchanan Barnes," James says to the still droning laptop, "hasn't set foot out of Bucharest in two years."
He shakes his head, fighting the urge to curse a blue streak because, seriously, what the fuck. Also, terrorist? What is happening and why is that guy wearing James' face?
James shakes his head again. Stands up. He needs to wash the bleach out before it kills his hair. He doesn't know if he's pissed or terrified.
No, fuck it, he's both.
But it's fine, he reasons as he blow-dries his hair. It's not like anyone will clock him as the Winter Soldier, right? There's a reason he bleaches his hair. The guy in the photo was blurry and definitely brunet. James should be fine, right?
... Right?
Right.
He's fine.
This is fine.
–––
It might not be fine.
James wouldn't actually know, since he's barely left his apartment in a week.
He quit his job, because he has enough cash from Hydra to stay afloat for a while and he doesn't think he can handle working right now.
Self-care or whatever.
James spends his days clinging to Niko and obsessively watching the news. So maybe not self-care, because he feels very uncared for. And bad. Watching the news makes him feel bad and he should probably stop.
But they hadn't found him (yet), authorities were still searching. False positives had cropped up, bureaucracy had gotten in the way, and James had slipped through the cracks. Most authorities are convinced that he left Europe days ago.
So for now, James is safe.
He doesn't feel very safe.
–––
In the end, it's his dwindling supplies that force him out. He can go weeks without food, but the day he runs out of kibble, he's pulling on his boots and slipping a money clip into his pocket.
Niko paws at his dish and meows pitifully, like it's been days since his last meal rather than twenty minutes.
"I will feed you later," James says, crouching down to rub Niko's cheeks. "Be good, my darling boy."
He palms the knife at his hip as he's shrugging on his jacket. It won't be enough to ward off an entire team, but it might buy him enough time to get home, get Niko and his go-bag, and run.
He chooses not to think about what would happen if he can't get to Niko on time.
–––
He sets the bags on the counter and begins unpacking them. Pasta, cabinet, milk, fridge, cat food, under the sink. It's a mindless task, an easy one for him to fall into.
He almost doesn't hear the knocking.
Almost.
He eyes the door with trepidation. Agents, Hydra or otherwise, wouldn't have knocked, he isn't close to any of his neighbours, and he paid his rent last week.
So who's at the door?
Tense, James slides open the drawer containing his gun. He checks it over, finds it in working order. With that taken care of, he creeps towards the door and presses his ear up against it.
Breathing, heart racing, racing. Swallow. Shuffling feet. Teeth scraping against each other. Heart slowing. And–
"I know you're there."
A voice.
James freezes, his fingers twitching against the gun.
In only a second, James yanks open the door, pulls the man inside, and shuts the door again. Pushing his hair out of his face, he looks at what he brought inside.
Blond hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, a narrow waist. He swallows.
Steve.
Steve smiles, small and tentative. "Hey, Buck."
James nearly chokes on his tongue. All he can think, all he can say is–"Steve."
It's a broken record playing in his mind, Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve–
"You know me?" Steve asks, shifting on his feet. Bucky can hear his heart, hammering in his chest.
It's an easy question. It is the question, the question James had asked himself a thousand times before.
"You're Steve Rogers. You were mine."
Silver floods his irises. "I still am."
"... Yeah?" Bucky croaks.
Steve takes a step closer, into his space. Bucky doesn't move away, doesn't flinch. "Yeah. But you know what else?"
Bucky shakes his head. Watches silver bleed into blue. Steve brings a hand up, looks between it and Bucky, asking permission.
Bucky nods. All but melts into the gentle touch, soft and warm against his cheek.
Steve leans closer lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "You're still mine."
"Yeah?" He croaks, fighting back tears.
"Til death do we part, Buck. I meant that," Steve says. Bucky slumps against him, Steve taking his weight without complaint. Bringing his arms up to wrap around Bucky.
"I missed you," Bucky says, whispers into Steve's shirt like it's a secret.
Steve whines. "Missed you, too, sweetheart."
He stays burrowed in Steve's chest for a while longer, simply breathing him in, feeling his weight and warmth and presence. Eventually, he does pull away.
"What now?" He asks.
Steve nuzzles his hair. "Whatever you want, my love. As long as I'm with you."
"Are you sure? What about..." Your friends, your team, everyone else.
"I'm sure." His eyes are soft, but his tone is firm. "I have nowhere I'd rather be."
And he sounds sincere. If memory serves he is sincere. And Bucky, well, Bucky's selfish, always has been. He doesn't argue.
"Good," He says. "Neither do I."