11
That's really not that. Steve may understand Bucky's restlessness but he can't do everything and by the time Bucky is in an apartment every person save Banner and Thor has gotten involved in the process in some way or another.
It's stressful and awful and Bucky regrets it all for two days until he steps foot in the apartment and that fucking terrible feeling disappears.
Steve is with him, of course. Steve and several armfuls of cardboard boxes containing toiletries, sheets, and other essentials that Bucky hadn't even thought about until Potts brought them up, and they've dragged in some furniture but not much and Bucky knows he is going to have to do some adjusting if he wants this place to be more than just livable.
The apartment isn't big; it's a one-bedroom deal with a pullout couch in the living room accompanied by the small mattering of furniture brought in earlier. But it's enough, and Bucky declines Steve's offer to help decorate.
This is his space. He will decorate it.
James is curiously quiet, walking around the apartment with a dazed look on his face. Bucky doesn't want to ask what's wrong because there is a headache hiding behind certain corners of his mind and asking might trigger it.
Bucky quickly checks the apartment for anything unusual and finds nothing. He notes that the refrigerator and pantry are empty and that he doesn't have any dishes or utensils.
Awesome.
His bedroom is around fourteen feet by twelve, with a closet in the wall and a door that opens into the living room. A large window rests on the far wall with the shades drawn. Bucky pulls them aside to glance outside and sees that he has a decent view of a neighboring empty lot. The next building over appears to be empty, its windows boarded up and dark. Bucky can see the graffiti speckled along its sides and concludes that it's abandoned.
Steve is still bringing in boxes when Bucky returns to the living room. "Like what you see?" he asks.
Bucky makes a noise that may be an affirmative and helps Steve carry the last of the supplies in. One of the boxes smells really good and Bucky opens it to see food.
"Clint's suggestion," Steve explains. "He said you might not be up to going shopping for a few days after moving in."
Something blocks Bucky's throat and makes it hard to swallow, but he nods.
"We kept the move low profile, so your neighbors don't know who you are or who you know," Steve continues. "Call me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all. Even if you think it's stupid or pathetic." He smiles. "I like seeing you too, you know."
Bucky nods again, his throat still tight.
Steve looks around, as if reassuring himself that Bucky can live here. Then he seems to come to a decision and takes a step forward.
It's his body language, or maybe his expression. But something about Steve calls up a reflex in Bucky's head and he's closing the distance, wrapping his arms around Steve before he fully realizes what he is doing.
His heart is pounding hard enough to shake his ribs and he can't control his breathing and he's sweating—
Steve returns the hug for one brief second and then Bucky can step back, can put some distance between them and recover—
"See you later?" Steve says. His eyes are shiny and squinted at the corners. Bucky wants to ask him to stay, but at the same time he doesn't. Steve has been his home for the past few months. Even when Bucky hadn't known who he was, he'd had Steve.
But that kind of dependency is dangerous. He has to learn what his limits are, what he can do without Steve at his back.
He won't stop seeing Steve. He just needs to have a choice.
"See you later," Bucky says.
Steve leaves, and Bucky is alone.
The first thing he does is unpack the food and basic supplies. It's a soothing action, repetitive, and it gives him time to come to terms with the different sounds of the small apartment building and its surroundings.
He puts his room together next, adding sheets to the mattress that had been delivered and moving the desk so that it can be shoved in front of the door quickly if necessary.
By the time he has finished unpacking and moved the boxes to the tiny storage space by the bathroom, the sun has begun to set and Bucky's stomach is empty. He grabs a protein bar and munches on that while he cases the apartment one more time, just to make absolutely sure there is nothing that he missed the first time around.
Even when the search finds nothing, Bucky still can't settle down, but he hadn't expected to be able to.
Another protein bar and Bucky finds a spot on the old couch, flicking on the TV Stark had donated. Bucky isn't sure how Steve convinced Stark to help—or maybe the billionaire just wanted Bucky out of his Tower. Bucky doesn't find the thought all that unusual. Though he and Stark have been polite to each other (even helpful, on Stark's end), they have not resolved all of the tension between them.
Bucky settles on a random show about people at work, turning the volume just high enough that it creates comforting background noise even when he goes to the kitchen.
The food that he has is enough for three or four days, depending on how Bucky chooses to eat it. He settles on mac and cheese for tonight, adding a few other ingredients as he goes to supplement the pasta and dairy.
Watching Wilson cook for all those weeks has paid off.
Sure, the pasta comes out a little chewy and the meat pieces are slightly undercooked, but it's better than what Bucky had been eating when he was on his own the first time.
The first time. Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Was that a memory?
"Yes," James says.
"You're done wandering?" Bucky replies, taking his spoils of the culinary war to the table to eat while pocketing the memory to write down when he finishes.
"Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way. It was so much easier to avoid things when we in the nice 'n sleek Tower. This...this is more familiar."
"Good or bad way?" Bucky asks while sitting down at one of the two chairs at the table.
"Good."
The first forkful is good, thought Bucky knows most of the positive taste is because he's hungry. James settles in next to him, and though Bucky knows that James is not a physical presence, it takes a couple of seconds to mentally process and subsequently ignore the false sensations of his weight tipping the cushions.
Bucky makes it ten seconds before he can't stop the curiosity from pushing the words out of his mouth. "What are you?"
James shifts in his chair, drawing Bucky's gaze, though if Bucky focuses on his exact positioning too much his head pounds.
"Tough questions come after dinner," James says.
Fine.
Bucky finishes eating. He washes the dishes and sets them in the dishwasher. He sits back down. He looks at James.
"Talk."
James laughs, his features resolving themselves into the familiar face of the teenager. "Telling yourself to talk. That's a little sideways, pal."
"I've been living with you for weeks now," Bucky says. "That's sideways enough for anything." He works his jaw, puzzling out what he wants to say. "At first it was—weird. Disturbing. You were another ghost except you weren't just in my head. You didn't talk much. I could ignore you. And then I couldn't. So now that we're talking and I know you're more than something I dreamed up, I need to know what you are. Because you're not a simple hallucination."
James sits back in his chair. His features grow fuzzy, until Bucky is looking at the tired soldier.
"I'm James Buchanan Barnes," James finally says. His features twist into a wry smile. "32557038." Bucky flinches at the stream of numbers, blocking them out before they can drown everything else. James doesn't repeat them again. "I'm you. Parts of you. Memory, for one. Bits and pieces—I try to tell you them when they come. When they're more than just the flashes in your brain. Instincts from before the war. Talking to people. Interacting. And—I don't know, really. I don't know exactly what I am."
Bucky swallows. "Then why are you here? How are you here?"
James shrugs. "I have a purpose: to help you not crack apart. Don't know how I came to be; maybe we just realized we needed a push. So I guess I'm something we dreamed up. I just stuck around when you woke up."
"That answered nothing," Bucky says after a beat. James sighs.
"Yeah. Figured. But I don't know anything else."
"But you told me a while ago," Bucky says slowly, "that you were here because I wouldn't want everything at once. You're withholding memories from me, the big ones."
"Yeah, well. I'm holding back the tide and letting you splash around in the puddles."
"If you weren't?"
"I don't know. You'd crack. Go insane. Or maybe you'd be fine."
"Those aren't answers."
"As I said, I'm you, pal. My answers are your answers. We're just from different parts of our head, parts that aren't currently communicating very well."
Bucky closes his eyes for a few seconds to center himself. "So there's me, you, and…the third part."
"The third part," James says, "eclipses me in all the wrong ways. I'd recommend not thinking about it."
"I can't stop thinking about it!" Bucky snaps. "That's the fucking problem!"
James waits and Bucky realizes that he had been far louder than he intended to be. Bucky takes a few deep breaths, counting them out in his head.
"What the hell is wrong with me," he finally says.
"We're working on it," James replies.
Bitterness coats Bucky's tongue. "Sure."
"Do you want to call Steve?"
"I don't know."
"We gotta do something."
"I know."
Bucky stares at the wooden grain of the table for a long time. When he looks up, the sky outside is dark and he realizes that he only has one light on. Bucky goes to the living room and finds the book he had unpacked hours ago. The TV in the background is still going, though the show has switched to people in their homes instead of at work.
It's very strange.
The ridiculousness of the TV coupled with the book help Bucky to settle his nerves to the point at which getting into bed is more inviting than stifling.
He gets a text from Steve: you comfortable?
Bucky sends an affirmative and puts his phone on silent.
One last check of the apartment—with special attention to the locks on the windows and doors—and then Bucky heads for bed. He knows he won't get much sleep, but that's not the point.
It's his bed, in his room, in his apartment.
His. Not Stark's or Steve's.
He finds pajamas among the clothes Steve and Hill had apparently scraped together for him, though they're merely soft flannel pants and an oversized shirt. Still, they are better than his usual, so he changes into them before sliding under the covers.
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