Chapter 5: Soldier Shoulder

"Hello? Yes this is him." Steve answered the phone that Sam handed him with a dose of formality. Bucky could hear him from the hallway, and when he came around the corner he saw Steve talking on the phone with a worried expression.

"Yes…yes, of course. Thank you." Steve hung up the phone and set it on the kitchen counter. His expression of worry didn't change when he saw Bucky. "Hey…how are you this morning?"

Bucky shrugged, looking right at Steve. He hadn't been talking much. He tried to make it clear that he appreciated the place to stay, but still wasn't up to trying to sort out his thoughts out loud. He and Steve had tried a real conversation once, just to understand where they were. Bucky did his best to communicate that he did remember Steve – knew who he was, at least – but was dealing with so much inside his mind that he just couldn't bring all that pain into the open. Not now. Steve responded with grace, assuring Bucky he would give him the space he needed.

Now Steve looked at Bucky like the foundation of the earth might shatter and they could fall right through. There was so much worry in that expression; Bucky wasn't oblivious to it. He knew Steve cared – yet that almost made it harder. How could he burden him?

"Everything alright?" Bucky asked casually. He had to kill this silence somehow.

Steve furrowed his brow and looked down. "Yeah. Yeah, it was nothin'." From outside the back door, Sam called for Steve to join him outside for the grocery run the had planned earlier. With Bucky staying at Sam's now and therefore Steve always being over there for him, they needed a bit more than they had.

Steve looked back toward Sam's voice, then back at Bucky. "Don't worry." He told Bucky. Because he knew how he got. "We're gonna head out now. You can come…I mean, if you'd like. It might be good for you. You…we'll, it's up to you."

Bucky shrugged again and shook his head. "Nah. I'm good here. Been out too much, really."

"Alright, just…be safe. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Bucky looked up at Steve with realization and confusion dancing through his eyes. That sounded familiar. But how was he supposed to remember what Steve would or wouldn't do? Bucky saw as Steve looked down with an expression that mourned a gesture fallen flat. Pressing past that lingering phrase, Bucky tossed Steve a forced half-smile before turning back to the hallway where he came. Steve looked back at Bucky one last time and then left to join Sam.

As Bucky sat on the bed in Sam's guest room, he tried to control the growing worry that was swelling up inside his chest. Why did Steve look that way? Bucky sure as hell still didn't have all the details, but he knew that he cared about Steve. If something was threatening him, Bucky should know about it; he wasn't about to let anything slip past him anymore. Sure, Steve Rogers was Captain America, but Bucky knew what Hydra was capable of, and if they were looking for Bucky, he'd need to be ready. The tiniest threat to Steve would set him off.

Even the thought of Hydra filled Bucky with rage. He did not want those memories, but when they came it reminded Bucky of why he had walked away, and why he was the way he was. Hydra was the reason to blame for everything. The reason Bucky hadn't just died when he fell from the train in 1944. The reason he had been responsible for hundreds of crimes over the past 70 years. The reason that Bucky had no one, absolutely no one there for him. Hydra was the enemy.

Bucky knew it was dangerous for him to even be there at Sam's, where Steve came to visit all the time. But Bucky didn't want to go, he knew that. So the next best thing was to make sure he was prepared for anything that might come to take them on.

I need to be useful, he thought. Now where would there be a gun? Surely Sam had a few somewhere. Or did he simply fly away from everything? Doubtful. Surely the military taught him to use more than the wings. Even so, Bucky couldn't find any guns at Sam's after 40 minutes of searching. They must be safe and secure somewhere where only Sam could get them. Frustrated, he knew there had to be something else. What else could he use to protect them?

Of course – knives. Bucky sprinted back to Sam's kitchen and began flinging open drawers and cabinets, taking out every knife he could find. There was even a pocketknife in the miscellaneous drawer.

Bucky flicked open the pocketknife and examined the blade, silver metal glinting in the dim light of the kitchen. As the knife became an addition to the bionic arm that held it, he touched the blade with his right fingers. Sharp.

No one would touch them.

One by one, Bucky lined up the knives he had collected from the entire house on the dining room table. It filled him with ease, and maybe even glee, to see the array of weapons at his disposal. He was not defenseless; he would not be caught off guard. He would not let another thing be taken from him.