When you woke up that afternoon, the first thing you saw was a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on your nightstand. It hadn't been there when you fell asleep and you were momentarily confused. Trying to sit up, the scream in your muscles reminded you of the morning run and you groaned a little at your own stupidity. Bucky must have left the pain killers for you, anticipating how much you would be hurting. You took the medicine and laid back for a little while longer. A quick mental checklist turned up no dreams that you could remember, which was fine by you. You were probably just too exhausted to start with for your mind to worry about dreaming.

Maybe 20 minutes later, you felt just strong enough to try standing. It probably wasn't the best idea, but you weren't one to stay cooped up in bed all day, no matter how much your feet and legs protested when you put your weight on them. You slowly hobbled your way out into the hall where you found Bucky's door slightly open, heard him inside. That was unusual. Normally, it was closed whether he was in there or not. Something about it felt like... an invitation.

"Bucky," you asked curiously, rapping your knuckles on the door which caused it to open wider.

The scene before you had your heart leaping into your throat. Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor, several weapons laid out on a towel before him. The gun in his hand was partially disassembled and it took you a moment to realize he was in the process of cleaning it. That calmed your nerves a bit. He paused to look up at you, unsurprised at your presence, before moving his gaze to the floor opposite him, then back to his task at hand. It seemed to say, come sit, and you listened.

Your unsteady legs carried you to the spot, though trying to sit down was excruciating and you ended up just falling on your butt with a soft thump. The slightest twitch of Bucky's nose signaled his amusement, leaving you wondering exactly when it was you'd learned to read his face so well. He didn't speak, just went about cleaning the gun, meticulous, efficient. You supposed there was no sense in having weapons if you didn't keep them in proper working order. Yet the sight of him doing this felt almost intimate. His work was cool and mechanical, but there was a vulnerableness to him letting you watch something he usually kept hidden.

"Did you..." you began, unsure of how to ask your question. "Are these the weapons you've used?"

"No," he replied, reassembling the gun in his hand and laying it on the towel before picking up the next one. But he seemed to be mulling something over in his head, another response, and you stayed quiet. After a few beats, he spoke again. "Guns and knives, rocket launchers, garrotes; they're tools. I'm the weapon."

"Were," you countered automatically. He looked up at you then, blue eyes scouring your face in question. With a muted chuckle, you explained. "You were the weapon. Now, you're Bucky again. Maybe not exactly like before, but you're human and your own."

He didn't respond, eyes turning back to the gun in his hand as he worked. When that one was nearly finished, you finally said, "Can I help?"

"Have you ever cleaned a gun or sharpened a knife before," he asked, and the teasing tinge to his voice was not lost on you.

"I've sharpened kitchen and hunting knives before," you offered with a small smile. "But I suppose it's not the same."

Bucky set down the pieces he was working on before twisting to reach behind him. He came back to center with a whetstone in hand and placed it on a section of towel in front of you. Then he picked up a knife from his collection, the knife, the one that had scarred your face after his first nightmare. With his fingers careful on the blade, he presented it to you handle first.

"You can have this one," he said as you took it from him. Then added, much quieter, "I don't want it any more."

You flushed a little at that, but said nothing. Soon, the measured sound of steel on stone joined Bucky's cleaning. The cat padded in while you worked, found a square of sunlight on the floor to dose in since the rain had stopped. She added her content purring to the mix. The repetitive motion let your mind wander just a bit, and you decided it was time to broach a subject you'd been thinking about for a while.

"I think," you paused to give a final drag of the blade. "You should talk to Steve."

Bucky stilled. Pain flashed across his face, you could see it even from the down turned angle. You had avoided bringing it up as much as possible, and maybe while he had so many deadly objects in front of him wasn't the best time, but it needed to be said. Steve had come by a few times since Bucky took up residence with you, always with one or two or three others, under the auspice of checking on his friend. A part of you knew a little of what Steve was feeling when Bucky silently refused his help, avoided eye contact, wouldn't interact with him. You'd lived that with your sister and could empathize.

"I tried to kill him," Bucky ground out, and you saw his hand twitch, something remembered.

"And you ended up saving him," you soothed. You knew it was difficult, but a little push could be helpful, just not too much.

"He was my mission." He looked up at you finally, eyes a little frantic though his jaw was set firm.

A thought occurred to you then, the way Bucky was speaking, the particular way he avoided Steve. "Are you worried part of you -that part of you- might still see him that way?"

The look on his face was the only answer you needed. The pain there, the lost expression, even if it was only in his eyes, kicked you square in the gut.

"Steve is your friend," you said gently. "More than that. He's your family, your brother. He's something that ties you back to the man you used to be. It's big and it's scary, but trust me when I say he needs you to let him help you, just as much as you need his help. I know, I've been there."

Blinking, he regarded you a moment, clarity etching his face again. He knew your meaning, though there was still a little doubt there. You decided it was safe to press on.

"What if I call him," you asked, trying to sound more enthusiastic than desperate. "Invite him over this weekend. Just him. We'll have dinner and watch a movie or something. Something boring. Just company. Would you at least -"

"Yes," he cut you off, lowering his eyes to the partially assembled gun in his hand. He let out a gruff sigh. "I'll try. For him. For you. I'll try."

You watched him a few moments more as he worked, trying to catalog the fullness in your chest, the wateriness of your eyes. Ignoring the screaming protest of your aching muscles, you moved to your knees. He didn't look at you until you reached across to him and slid your hand over his cheek. You marked the beginnings of returning scruffiness even as his eyes found yours.

"I'm proud of you, Bucky," you told him honestly. "It might sound condescending or it might not mean a thing to you. But you've been wading through shit up to your eyeballs for over 70 years and you're still trying. It's amazing and I'm proud of you."

Cool, metal fingers slid over the back of your hand. Maybe you imagined the feeling of him pressing your skin closer to his, the slight itch of tiny hairs across your palm. But those fingers curled around yours and pulled your hand away. The blue in his eyes was soft this time as they traced your features. You had to sniffle and clear your throat before you could speak again.

"I'm gonna make lunch," you informed him, sliding your hand from his. "You hungry?"

"A little," he nodded, going back to the work at hand. "This could take a while though."

"I'll bring you a sandwich," you smiled. It took a moment for you to gain your footing, Bucky's well-made bed providing support. "But when you're done, you get to wash the gun oil out of the towels."

"Sure thing, kid," he replied and you saw the ghost of a smile on his lips.

You couldn't help the grin that overtook your face as you worked your way to the door, legs feeling a bit stronger now. "Well, don't break a hip while doing it, old man."

"Old man," he mused. "You're the one who needs a walker."

Turning to look at him, you saw a hint of mischief in his eyes. You stuck your tongue out at him and for the first time, just for an instant, you saw his dimples.