Author's Note:

Welcome to my first published Bucky Barnes story! These chapters started as a side-hobby of mine; something fun to do with my wild imagination. After a few weeks of writing, I decided to turn it into a published work so that others might, perhaps, enjoy it. I hope you do!

There is no slash, and there never will be; just lots of H/C, angst, bromance & friendship.

Please leave a comment to let me know what you think!

I sigh as I tap the food-runners' screen, clocking out for the day. It's a good thing I can work at all, I remind myself before I can complain. Bucky's gotta eat.

Why am I housing the Winter Soldier? Well… He needs help. I know well enough who he is, since it's been all over the news after the crash of SHIELD, and that's why I'm hiding him. He can't be found by HYDRA or literally any other government organization, and he's pretty scared of the Avengers, what with almost killing several of them the last time they butted heads...

But he was suppressed then; force-fed a deadly education of KILL, ORDERS, MISSION. He's different now.

Or at least… That's what I tell myself.

I throw a glance at the pastry case as I pass it, deciding last-minute to buy a treat. Maybe he'll eat today. Yesterday he was… Well…

He hasn't exactly been sane since I found him huddled in the corner of my living-room, cradling his broken arm. It's only been three weeks since that helicarrier incident with Captain America.

Anyway, he'll probably eat today, I decide as I grab a pumpkin empanada off of the rack, bagging it before heading out the door. The day is a clear sunny one; the air smells just a little bit fresh, like autumn is sending her greeting-card early. Gosh, I can't wait. I love fall.

It's not a long walk to my house… Only about ten minutes pass before I'm unlocking the door of my apartment. I pause before I open it, listening. All I hear inside is some old 40s music that I put on when I left. Still… He doesn't like it when I enter unannounced. I guess it makes sense… All I've done is take care of him, and he still doesn't trust me enough to really get to know me yet.

"Hey, it's just me," I call softly, knowing that he'll hear me just fine with those supertastic ears of his. "I'm coming in now."

Casually… but with care… I open the door, step inside, and close it again, hanging up my keys & purse. I keep my eyes on my busy hands, studiously ignoring the rest of the apartment at first. He doesn't like it when I look for him, either, so I've found that it's best to just act like his presence is as normal as a lampshade.

Only when I'm done putting my things away do I let my eyes sweep the apartment. Bucky isn't on the couch where I left him; he's sitting nervously at the table, leaning heavily on his elbows & wringing his hands. And, as always, he's WATCHING me.

As worried as I am at his odd nervousness, I offer him a kind smile, walking in a relaxed sort of way to the small adjoining kitchen. I manage to wash my hands, start dinner, and get myself some water before looking up at him again. He's still sitting there, but he's looking out of a window now, listening absently to the music still playing. Good. He's adjusted to my presence.

I try to stay quiet, knowing that speaking always puts him a little on edge. He's taught me a lot these past few weeks, like how to be respectful of others' silence. I used to be such a little chatterbox.

Finally, though, I can't resist trying to interact with him again, and I say very softly, "I brought you an empanada."

I'm not looking at him, but I can sense his piercing gaze rest on the side of my head. I just focus on cooking the eggs, keeping my body-language relaxed. If he wants to dialogue, he'll respond. Give him thirty seconds.

Finally, at twenty-two, he murmurs quietly, "What's an empanada?" His voice sounds scratchy, like he hasn't used it in a while. Which, I reflect, he probably hasn't. Except to scream in terror almost every night.

"It's a sweet pastry stuffed with different kinds of foods," I explain casually, trying to be as clear as possible. He can't stand absence of details, even the most monotonous ones. I guess that comes with the trauma, and I can't blame him. "This one is stuffed with pumpkin-filling & sprinkled with sugar on top."

When no answer is forthcoming, I wait another thirty seconds before looking up. "Do you want to try it?"

He meets my eyes, slowly swallowing. Being asked for his opinion is another challenge for him, but I've been picking our battles during the past few weeks, and he's gotten a lot better. He just needs a bit of time to think things over.

"I'd like that," He finally murmurs, looking away again. It was a quick answer, as if he's afraid he'll change his mind if he takes too long to get the words out. Understandable.

"Okay." I return to cooking, smiling to myself. I'll give it to him at dinner.

I abstain from looking at him for a lot longer this time. When I finally do, it's to bring our plates of food to the table. He's staring at his hands now, brow creased in the very middle of his forehead. He looks very… well, not SCARED, exactly, but anxious. He wasn't anxious this morning, so something must have changed in the eight hours I was gone. Maybe he had another flashback.

Trying to decide what to say, I place his plate in front of him, slow with my movements. He darts a quick glance at me, then the food, then returns to his scrutiny of the wooden tabletop. "I'm not hungry."

"Alright," I accept quietly, moving his plate & placing the empanada in front of him instead. "Will you at least try this?"

He darts another glance my way before looking down at the pastry, swallowing again. I mentally kick myself. I shouldn't have worded that as a question.

"Yes," He finally murmurs, picking it up with one hand to examine.

I breathe a sigh of relief, watching him take a bite out of my peripheral vision as I start on my own food. Good… he's eating it. And now he's eating more. As hard as it obviously is for him to consume food when he doesn't want to, he likes it, and he's trying.

I decide this small victory is enough for now.