There had been a basic routine at the house since Bucky had joined you. While you had never met anyone else in quite the same position as him, you figured it wouldn't hurt to keep some semblance of structure for him. So, by the time the oven timer sounded, he was already in the kitchen grabbing plates and silver ware to set the table, a task you had laid on him at the beginning and he never balked at. He would always wait in there for you, though you assumed if you ever needed assistance, all you had to do was ask.

You brought the casserole dish to the dining room, musing to yourself momentarily how you were bordering on 50s housewife these days, without the nice dress or the apron. "Got some insider information that you might like this."

Bucky looked from you to the casserole dish with guarded curiosity as you sat, not saying a word. But when you took his plate and gave him a scoopful, his eyes widened a fraction and even through the curtain of his dark hair you could see something spark to life in them as the corners of his lips pitched upward. "Shepherd's pie?"

"Yeah," you replied gently, almost too afraid to breathe lest you startle him and chase away that hint of a smile that was threatening to crinkle the skin around his eyes.

"Rogers told you I liked this," he stated rather than asked, and his gaze held yours longer than they had since the nightmare.

You nodded, smiling as you put the plate down before him. He lifted his fork with the same rigid motions as before, but he paused once he closed his mouth around the first bite. Paused so long in fact, you had time to get your own plateful, watching his jaw work in deliberate motions. He eventually swallowed, tip of his tongue sliding out over his bottom lip as he looked a bit lost in thought. And suddenly, he wasn't the hardened, ice-cold assassin for a moment, just a regular guy sitting at your table.

"It's delicious," he smiled, an honest-to-goodness smile that softened his face and reminded you that he'd been a fairly young man when his world went to shit. If there had been any doubts in you over taking him in, over offering your help, they were driven away by that smile.

His movements were more natural now, savoring the food a bit instead of shoveling it into his face like he never knew when he'd eat again. When his plate was cleared, as usual, you asked if he wanted more. His face fell as he looked from the dish to his empty plate to your plate to your eyes, like he wasn't sure what to do, almost begging you to take the decision away. "I…"

With a gentle smile, you reached out and scooped more onto his plate. "You can always eat as much as you want. Anything left over you can have for lunch or a snack later."

He nodded, but was much more interested in the food on his plate, easing a little again as he ate. Still, he was quicker with his fork than you, and you finished by the time he'd polished off his second helping. Bucky licked his lips again before asking you "More?"

"If you want," you laughed. You weren't sure you'd ever had someone eat so much of your food at one sitting, and you had to admit it was sort of flattering.

"No," he shook his head slightly. "Do you want more?"

"Oh," you blinked. That was a first. "Uh, no. I'm good."

Giving you a curt nod, he stood and reached for your dishes. He had to pause a moment to keep from stepping on the cat, who had apparently been curled up between his feet under the table. You must have had a confused look on your face, because he gave you a quick glance and said in a gruff voice "I'll do the dishes more often."

"Be my guest," you replied, somewhat more amused by the tone of his voice than actually scared.

You reached down to pick up the uncooperative cat from the floor to allow Bucky to continue on his way. She meowed once in protest, but didn't squirm as you tucked her under your arm to stand and grab the leftover food. You could help baby-talking the indifferent furry mass as you followed your housemate. "Isn't that right, kitty-kitty? He can be our guest. Be our guest. Be our guest. Put our service to the test. Tie a napkin 'round your neck, Cherie, and we provide the rest…"

Continuing to hum the tune, you spun into the kitchen only to find Bucky standing at the sink, staring at you in near-horror. Apparently, he had heard your caterwauling and was none too impressed. "What are you doing?"

"Singing to the cat," was your simple answer as you set her down so she could scamper off to who knows where. Your explanation did little to assuage Bucky's look of concern as he still eyed you warily, running the hot water. "You know, Beauty and the Beast? Disney?"

"Disney," he asked, taken aback. He scrubbed at a plate, pensive, until he looked back at you with brows furrowed. "Kid stuff?"

Ah, so he remembered Disney at least. But you couldn't hold back your mock anger as you went about putting the food away. "Kid stuff? Kid stuff? That's it! We're having a marathon tonight!"

"Aren't we both a bit old for cartoons," he replied, and for a moment, you heard humor in his voice. He flashed you an almost jovial look with his hands moving under the faucet to rinse the forks.

"Okay, fight me," you smirked, urged on by his demeanor. You took an obviously sloppy fight stance, fists balled loosely and held up on cocked wrists, something no one could find a true threat in.

He turned wide eyes to you, another light flickering there when he took you in. A memory… a good memory judging by the smile threatening his lips once more. "Are you… joking?"

"Of course, I'm joking," you nodded, dropping the ruse and leaning against the counter beside him. "About the fighting though, not the movies."

"Steve used to fight," he murmured, far far away in his own head. He looked down at the draining water in the sink like it could give him some clarity. "God, I pulled him outta more scrapes than I can count. He was the scrawniest thing until… until…"

Something dark flashed across his face, agitation etching over his skin. His jaw clenched tight as his muscles tensed. Breath came in short growling bursts as you cautiously inched closer. Suddenly his metal fist banged down hard on the edge of the sink, denting it grotesquely, but not breaking it.

"Bucky," you soothed, pulled from your moment of observation. Your voice was even, calm, though your heart thundered in your chest. "Bucky, you're safe. You're here with me, in my kitchen. We just ate shepherd's pie and you're doing the dishes."

It was almost a dire miscalculation when you reached out to touch the cool metal of his prosthetic. Lightning fast, that fist gripped around you shoulder, fingers digging harshly into your skin. And it hurt, maybe not enough to break bones, but his hand was heavy and tight and it hurt. He was facing you now, but he wasn't behind his eyes.

"Bucky," you tried again, gritting your teeth through the pain and trying not to struggle. Squirming around too would just make it worse, you knew from experience. Instead, you pressed your shoulder up into his palm, reaching out again to settle your hand in the middle of his violently heaving chest. "Bucky, you're safe. You need to breathe. Listen to my voice. Breathe."

You started to coach him, pressing your hand firmer against him when you said to exhale, easing your touch with an inhale, until he was starting to breathe normally and his grip loosened around your shoulder. When his arm fell to his side you stepped into him, hand pressed into his cheek to look up at him while his stubble itched at your palm. Searching his eyes, you found him there again, aware of things again.

"Hey, Buck," you smiled gently. "You did it. You got through this one. You're doing good."

Bucky furrowed his brows at you, angry and confused, and for a moment you thought he was starting to slip back. But his metal fingers curled into the collar of your shirt, tugging it toward your aching shoulder. He paused at your involuntary flinch, swallowing hard before he found his voice, all gravel and disgust. "You call this good? I keep hurting you."

"You don't mean to," you assured, rubbing the scruff along his jawline a little. "Besides, I'm a pretty tough cookie. It'll bruise, but nothing's broken."

"And this," he growled, hanging on to that anger, that self-loathing, as you felt the cool slide of his finger over your new scar. "They shouldn't have left me here with you."

You scoffed at this. "Why? Because I'm not some superhero?"

"Because I could kill you," he ground out coldly, eyes boring into yours. There was no doubt in your mind that is was true, there never had been. But you surprised yourself with how steady your voice sounded when you replied "Do you want to kill me, Bucky?"

He blinked, confused. You guessed it wasn't a question he'd ever been asked before. "No."

"Good," you nodded, tongue darting across your lips before you hooked a thumb toward the end of the kitchen. "Now go grab a big bowl in the far cabinet while I make some popcorn."

His eyes darted over your face, brows knit, obviously jarred by the sudden change in conversation. An easy, reassuring smile spread across your lips, even as you wagged your finger at him in mock reproach. "I told you I wasn't joking about that movie marathon. We are going to sit on that couch and watch cartoons like grown ass adults."

He stared at you a heartbeat longer before finally moving to follow your instructions.