FIXER-UPPER

Bucky woke to the smell of fresh coffee the following morning. He was warm and comfortable and didn't really feel like getting up, but he soon realized that this didn't feel like his bed. Glancing down at the blanket that had been draped over him, he sat up. His head felt heavy, as it almost always did after an episode, and he found himself struggling to remember exactly what had happened. The electroconvulsive part of his conditioning had messed with his memory to the point where there were sometimes gaps just in his day to day life – laundry left for days in the machine, saucepans left to boil over on the stove, conversations he couldn't recall. He was grateful in those moments to have Steve picking up the slack behind him, but still he resented himself for that necessity.

His sudden movement had sent a grating pain through the knuckles of his right hand and he brought his fist up to find the source, completely forgetting for a moment why it was bandaged. He stared at the pale wrapping, then everything came back to him. He turned his head to look to his right and spotted the bloody hole in the wall. Yep, that was still there, too. With a weary sigh he got to his feet.

Nellie was in the kitchen looking a hell of a lot more chipper than he felt – showered, dressed and enjoying a cup of coffee; he had no idea how she managed it. In the short time he had known her, he had never once seen her go to bed before 2am (being an involuntary night-owl himself, coupled with his sensitive hearing, he was able to keep track of such things, and after months of being shut in with little-to-no real mental stimulation, suddenly having someone new in his environment gave him something to focus on). Then again, aside from the dinners they'd shared, she did seem to run purely on caffeine.

"Morning," she greeted him, her warm smile reaching her eyes. He had seen enough false smiles in his time – attempts to calm him or otherwise conceal fear – and he found, especially these days, that he always appreciated the real ones. And hers was always somehow infectious; comforting. Despite the foggy feeling in his head, he felt the corners of his lips twitch up in response.

"Sleep okay?" she asked.

He nodded, realizing now that the blanket had been her. He ran a hand back through his hair in an attempt to tame it, but only seemed to make it worse. He was always a wreck in the morning.

"You?" he asked, watching as she rubbed gingerly at her neck.

"Fell asleep in the armchair," she admitted.

"What a waste of a perfectly good, expensive bed." Catching the questioning look she threw him, he added, "Who do you think signed for it?"

"You signed as James Barnes?" she asked, wondering if any of that paperwork had ever managed to get back to Tony.

"Yeah," he replied, sighing as he took a seat behind the counter, "I thought 'Winter Soldier' might have been a bit too conspicuous."

She chuckled, then a look of playful suspicion crossed her face. "Wait, how do you know it's good? You didn't test that out too, did you? Just decided to go through all my stuff? People don't keep their money under their mattresses anymore, Bucky. At least not anyone under sixty."

He grinned, then said in mock-seriousness, "You think I keep my money under my mattress?"

"Yeah, but I don't think the exchange rate is very high for rubles at the moment." Her smile faltered as something flickered across her face – worry that she may have taken the joke a little too far. But Bucky simply smirked. He much preferred this to having her fuss over him after the mess he'd caused the night before. It helped restore some sense of normalcy.

"Coffee?" she asked, motioning with her own cup to the machine on the bench.

"So it works?" he said.

"It works," she confirmed with a smile.

"Sure, I could use one."

"So you didn't sleep well?"

"It's more the waking up part I tend to have trouble with," he explained.

He watched her as she took out a fresh mug and set about pushing a bunch of buttons on the machine. Steve had shown him how to use it, but in his opinion it all seemed way more complicated than a simple cup of coffee should have been. "You realize you keep offering me stuff in my own apartment, right?" he pointed out, as she watched the steady stream of dark liquid issue from the spout.

She looked over and he thought he caught a touch of color creep into her cheeks. She was quick to recover. "What can I say? I was raised to be a host."

He smiled. "Your parents raise you that way?" he asked

The question struck her as very odd at first, then after a bit of thinking she remembered how many people had been orphaned back in his day; either by war or by disease. She'd had this same conversation – small talk, really – when she had first been getting to know Steve. Of course, his parents wouldn't have been alive now anyway, but as he had explained, they had both passed long before he had even joined the military. All he'd had left was Bucky.

"Them and my grandmother, I guess," she responded, as the machine's sounds ceased. "How do you take it?"

"Black, no sugar."

"Tough guy, huh?"

His smile widened and he accepted the freshly-filled mug from her, grateful for the warmth radiating from it against his palms.

"They live around here?" he asked, before taking his first sip. His eyebrows pulled together briefly as the unfamiliar taste hit his tongue. Steve had been buying the same brand of coffee since he had first moved in with him – Maxwell House. It was a brand that had been around since long before their time, and it was a taste that had given them comfort during the war when little else could; a little reminder of the home they had all left behind. Of course with all the modern leaps in its method of brewing, it didn't taste quite the same, but it was nothing compared to this. This was stronger, and suddenly he was sure he knew how she managed to get by with so little sleep.

"Nah, they're back in California," she replied, catching the tail-end of his reaction to the different taste. She was about to comment, but he managed to cut her off.

"You're from California?" His eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly.

"Yeah. Why do you sound so surprised?"

"You're pale for a Californian," he told her, eyes trailing over the parts of her skin that were exposed.

A feeling of self-consciousness that she hadn't experienced for many years swept over her, and the kitchen suddenly felt a lot smaller. She continued to sip her coffee, averting her gaze as she masked the effect the sudden gesture had on her. She had long-gotten past those feelings of teenage inadequacy, proud of her job and the people she got to work with, and confident in her abilities to do that job well. Sure, she'd had moments when she had first started, especially after meeting Natasha, where she had felt out of place. She was surrounded by good-looking people on a near-daily basis – she had gotten used to being the friend; the colleague. But at least at the end of the day she had gotten to leave that all behind (or at least she was left alone in the library, where she tended to pass out in the early hours of the morning). Dealing with the thoughts at home was a new experience. With Steve it was a different story. They had always been friendly, and she had always appreciated his good nature, but if she was being honest, he wasn't her type. Bucky was a good looking guy – she could only imagine the sort of women he went for – and, unfortunately for her, he was most definitely her type. It was always the dark and brooding ones. She blamed formative years of watching Buffy for that.

Bucky read her reaction before refocusing on his drink, sensing her discomfort. The warmth of his coffee seemed to dissipate under a sudden cold trickle of self-hatred. He could only imagine how her view of him had changed after the night before.

"So," she began, hesitantly, after a beat of uncomfortable silence, "I thought I'd head out today and get some new plates and cups, maybe something to patch up the wall."

"You don't have to do that," he told her, feeling the shame of his actions roll over him once more. He looked up at her and she shrugged.

"I wanted to get out for a bit anyway. I need to get away from paperwork before I strain my eyes."

He smiled dully, but the gesture didn't quell the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. "I should be buying that stuff anyway."

"Do you know how to patch up a wall?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, and she realized from his expression that this wasn't the first time he'd had to.

"I wouldn't even know where to start," she said awkwardly, glancing away from him before he could catch that sudden realization.

"I can show you."

"Might come in handy," she smiled, "I do work around people who are prone to punching things, though usually that's other people, not walls."

"Well, you seem pretty capable of patching people up already," he said, raising his bandaged hand as if to prove that.

"I got first aid certified for a reason. You know, because if giant alien monsters ever invade again, it'll be real handy to know CPR."

This managed to pull another genuine chuckle from Bucky, surprising himself more than anything. Nellie glanced up as he rose from his chair and watched as he walked over to one of the cupboards and pulled out the box of Cheerios he had purchased on their grocery trip. He gestured towards her with the box as he took out a bowl for himself and set it down on the bench, hand moving up to hover above a potential second bowl as he waited for her response. Then he looked up and realized there wasn't a second bowl – he had broken all the others the night before. He lowered his hand and turned back with a sheepish look.

"You know what? You have this one." He slid it across the counter to her and turned back to scan the remaining options. She watched him with a bemused expression as he seemed to consider one of the larger leftover mugs.

"You are not eating cereal out of a mug," she told him.

"We ate all sorts of stuff outta cans during the war. A mug's fine."

She shot him an unimpressed look. "Just have the bowl, man," she said, pushing it towards him. "Before you end up spilling your chivalry all over the nice, clean bench."

He reluctantly closed the cupboard and dragged the bowl a little closer to himself to fill it. "You're not gonna eat?" he asked, as he poured in the cereal.

She shook her head. "I can't eat this early in the morning."

He still didn't seem entirely convinced, the feeling that she was simply pitying him nagging at the back of his mind. He realized he must have zoned out, because when he looked back up at her again he found her watching him carefully, holding out a spoon. He hadn't even heard her open the drawer. He took it from her, and then her expression became a little brighter, lit up with an idea.

"Do you want to come with me today? I mean if you feel up to it."

"Are you asking me out?" he joked tiredly, as he closed up the box.

She gave a sarcastic nod, with words to match it. "Yes, James. Will you go out with me to the local department store to buy plates?"

"And bowls," he added, as he headed to the fridge for milk.

"And bowls," she agreed.

"Okay," he said, taking a seat back behind the counter, carefully pouring the milk into his bowl, "But only if you let me buy you lunch afterwards."

She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the unexpected offer, and tried to hide it by taking a long sip of her coffee. She looked over at him, half to see if he had noticed, and half to pretend his words hadn't affected her at all, but found him smiling as he munched on a mouthful of Cheerios.

"I thought this was a fake date," she said.

"Yeah, but I can still buy you lunch on a fake date, right?" he countered, smirking. "You gotta eat sometime"

"Well, you've got me there."

He smiled down in to his bowl of cereal as he spooned up another mouthful, then looked back up at her. There was no trace of the night before left on his handsome features – no fear left in his eyes, replaced instead with an attractive playfulness. Her eyes flicked away. No. Don't do it, she told herself. That would be a dumb idea. For so many reasons, but namely that she was living with him. And she could only imagine the drama it would cause with Tony. But when she looked back at Bucky she felt some of that resolve give way. She could picture very clearly what he must have been like back in the forties; how charming and popular with the ladies he probably would have been. But the years of torture and abuse had chipped away most of that, leaving him instead with uncertainty and these mere glimmers of the man he had once been. He had moments, when he was with the right people, or under the right circumstances, where he would feel like himself, and hope returned to him that he was actually capable of getting better. But it was events like the night before that shattered that illusion. As she watched him, Nellie could see that internal struggle; the flirting mixed with the guilt of trying to get close to someone, knowing what he was.

"So, do you know any places around here we could go? I don't know the neighborhood very well, and I don't remember seeing anything the other day when we were out."

"To eat, or to shop?" he asked.

"Either."

"No idea," he replied, helpfully.

She reached into her back pocket and took out her phone. Tony had done her a big favor by equipping her with a device of his own creation. It was, of course, far more advanced than anything on the market, and had even been equipped with its own personal, personal assistant: N.O.R.M.A. (or as Tony had explained 'Nellie's Own Research-Making Assistant', which had sounded silly at first until she had found out what J.A.R.V.I.S. had stood for).

Bucky watched with suspicion befitting a man of his age as she set the piece of unfamiliar technology down on the counter.

"Hi, N.O.R.M.A.," she initiated. The device came to life, and a smooth, female voice replied.

"Good morning, Nellie. How can I assist you today?"

Bucky frowned, glancing from Nellie back down to the device that had addressed her by name.

"Can you tell me where the closest department store is?"

"There's a JC Penney approximately six point two miles from your current location," it replied almost instantly, unnerving Bucky even more.

Nellie turned to give him a considering look, nodding, but he seemed more focused on whoever, or whatever, was speaking to her.

"We could get an Uber?" she suggested to him, softly, as though to ensure the device knew she wasn't talking to it. He frowned suspiciously at the vaguely German-sounding word. "It's sort of like a cab," she explained. "Unless Steve lets you drive his car."

Bucky snorted, then looked thoughtful. "You know, I've got a motorbike," he replied, looking back at her. He couldn't help but smirk at the look that appeared on her face; somewhere between surprise and contemplation. "So long as you don't mind riding with me," he added, just to see the effect. She looked over at him and seemed to realize what he was doing, reeling in her expression.

"I don't think that's going to be practical," she heard herself reply, even as she imagined them racing along some coast-adjacent highway, her arms wrapped around his waist, breathing in the scent of his leather jacket…She gave herself a mental shake out of it.

In the end they settled on the Uber. There would be boxes of replacement dinnerware to carry, as well as bags of whatever impulse buys she managed to make, and since her years in New York had taught her reliance on alternative forms of transport (she'd had a car back home in California, but had moved to New York harboring the belief that her own vehicle would be more of an inconvenience than a blessing – which had proven to be true for the most part) ordering an Uber was practically second nature.

When the car finally pulled up and they both hopped in, the pair found themselves eyeing the driver as he greeted them, both looking for signs of recognition when his eyes fell on Bucky. But he simply asked them 'Where to?' and that was that.

Nellie didn't know what was stranger: the amount of times she and Bucky had managed to fall into each other's company since she had first moved in, or the way that it didn't feel weird at all. It had taken her longer to ease into the presence of the Avengers – not that she was ever really an anxious person, they had just been so hyped up by the media that if was a pleasant shock to find out how ordinary they all were (give or take a few state-of-the-art enhancements and superhuman abilities). She wondered if he had always been this easy to know, or if it was a need for more basic human contact that had him willing to spend more time with her after less than a week of knowing her. She still wasn't entirely sure about bringing him out so soon after the episode he'd had, but she was even less sure about leaving him at the apartment by himself to dwell on his demons. She had been there and knew from experience that distraction was one of the most effective ways of coping. She glanced over at him now, at the troubled way he stared out the window, then he seemed to feel her gaze and looked over. The change in his expression was dramatic, whatever dark thoughts had been haunting him, driven away by the reminder that he had company; that he had someone else on his side.