Sorry for the delay. I've had a wild day.
12
Bucky stays inside the next day to grow even more familiar with the apartment and get the message into his brain that this is now a safe space. It doesn't matter that his brain stays hyperaware anyway; the words are there, and eventually they will stick. The same thing had happened in the place where Steve had found him, that cramped and old apartment in Bucharest that had been perfect for Bucky's head.
He passes the afternoon by arranging some of the furniture in a better way; he moves the couch out of an easy view from the window, and changes where the chairs are in the kitchen. At some point he sends Steve a text to let him know that everything is okay. He mostly does it because James points out that Steve will be worrying.
By the time night rolls around for the second time, the apartment feels…better. Bucky can't say exactly why, but it does.
He goes on patrol that night. No one else is awake at that hour save for a man on the second floor who sounds as though he is desperately trying to slurp peanut butter through a broken straw.
When Bucky actually smells peanut butter, he decides to move on.
The building is mostly empty, a rarity in New York, but not for any virtuous reasons. Many of the rooms leak, and according to Potts only one other room had been livable. She had sent "her people" (as Stark calls them) to discreetly fix up Bucky's place before he moved in.
Which was unnecessary, but kind.
There are four other occupied apartments in the building. One on the first floor belongs to a single college student who is gone most days and, from what Bucky can tell, when she is inside, she keeps to herself. Another is occupied by an older woman whose profession is unclear. The third belongs to a young married couple who are avid fans of kids' cartoons. A family of three—two fathers and a young girl—live in the last apartment.
There are no immediately obvious threats, and while the building is dilapidated, its creaky floors and stairwell will make it more difficult for intruders to sneak around. Bucky has already set up tripwires and other traps around his apartment that any potential intruder will not be able to avoid. Therefore, Bucky will find out if anyone enters while he is gone.
He gets a brief flash of the apartment he and Steve used to share. They had a key hidden just outside the door, shoddy windows that couldn't even keep out the rain. No security. But they had still been able to relax.
Bucky knows that he will never be able to drop his guard completely. After the HYDRA robots attacked him in the Tower, another attempt to take him back could come at any time.
On the third day he decides to supplement his food supply. He knows exactly what kind of face Steve will make if he finds out that Bucky has been living on nothing but protein bars and water—
"Buck, I can't take your lunch."
"C'mon, Steve, I've got s'more back home. It'll be fine, just eat it."
"Have we always done that?" Bucky asks when the memory fades and he can speak again without flashing back to Small Steve staring up at him with wide eyes and Steve used to look up at him and Steve used to be so small and that isn't even getting into the rush of emotion that comes with the memory that Bucky has to cram into a box in his head so that he can keep standing. He's already reaching for the notebook, which he almost always keeps close enough to grab easily.
James shrugs in response to Bucky's question, waiting for Bucky to finish transcribing the words before he speaks. Bucky has to pause in the middle of writing to switch to the metal hand because his right one is shaking.
"Pretty much."
Bucky stares at the words on the page, twirling the pen in the metal hand while his right slowly forms a fist on the table. He has been bothered by this for some time now, but this makes its oddness even clearer.
He can't avoid this question anymore.
What was the point? Steve had been asthmatic, sick, prone to fights, and generally unhealthy. What had been the point of being friends with him, of helping him, of doing anything like that if Steve was going to die before he was thirty?
Instead of voicing all of that Bucky just says, his voice cracking before he can stop it because those stupid emotions are spilling out of the box, "Why?"
James is unfazed.
"You know why."
No. Bucky knows his own head and there are blank spots and chasms and pitfalls and dead ends and roads that lead to nowhere wrapped around whatever thing he's supposed to be now and he doesn't. Know.
"I—I don't. I don't remember." Bucky shudders, grasping for information that isn't there, information that slides out of his reach or gone entirely. It's frustrating and Bucky can barely feel the counter beneath his fingers because his head is whirling and he isn't feeling so stable. "I don't fucking remember. Why can't I—why isn't it there? It should be there—right? I should—fuck, I should know. This is—everything I did—everything I've ever done—and it's there but it's not and I can't—remember anything why can't I—why—"
He can't finish, his head is pounding and he can't focus on anything except the metal hand and with a sickening lurch in his stomach he realizes that it's not the metal hand, it's his, he can't get rid of it and he can't get his old one back, he doesn't even remember what it is like to have true sensation in that hand and it's just one more difference that Steve sees just by looking at him and one more separation between him and the person he was and it's absolutely fucking terrible and he can't he just can't pull all the pieces together his seams are tearing with each new memory and he thought he could handle it but he can't he can't he—
He's on the floor. The cold tile of the kitchen floor is pressing against his cheek. His eyes are gritty when he forces them open and he has to squint against the harsh kitchen light and he would panic about whatever the hell just happened but he's tired. He can barely summon the energy to push himself upright, much less think. Instead he shoved everything aside so he can focus.
James isn't in view and Bucky has an awful taste in his mouth.
How long has he been out?
The pen—the one he had been twirling—is on the floor a few paces away, its plastic casing snapped into pieces. Bucky turns his head and sees the oven clock.
Eight hours. He was unconscious—or whatever the hell had happened—for eight hours. The sun is beginning to set and Bucky feels like crap, his body grumbling through the process of getting to his feet. Dizziness nearly overtakes him and Bucky leans heavily against the counter to avoid falling while his world spins to a stop.
When he can balance again, Bucky grabs a glass and fills it with water, instincts he doesn't remember guiding him through each motion, his mind not even on the task as he drinks and then pulls out a box of crackers.
Once he finishes the glass he fills it again and drinks it. The crackers go back into the pantry and Bucky stands in the middle of the doorway between the kitchen and living room, not focused on anything, only moving to take a drink. His mind is scattered, nothing sticking long enough to prompt him into action.
He doesn't know how long he stands like that. Eventually, the thought of a shower gets loud enough that Bucky moves.
He showers, and the water is hot enough to draw him back into his body. He then rests his forehead against the wall while water streams down his back.
"Fuck."
The fourth day is a bust and the fifth day isn't much better and by the sixth day Bucky really needs food. He stands in the kitchen, staring at the almost empty pantry with empty eyes until he shakes his head and makes an effort to ground himself.
He has to get food. That is something he absolutely needs to do. It's a defined task: go out, get food, come back, eat.
Bucky showers again, makes an effort to dry his hair and then pull it back into a messy bun that leaves just as much hair hanging down as it does pulled up. But it suffices, and Bucky changes into his last relatively clean outfit, grabs his wallet and apartment key, and heads out.
To his surprise, the walk around the neighborhood is not as stressful as he had expected. Yes, he keeps looking around and he is well aware of the weapons he carries, but he isn't twitching or cursing every step.
He finds a grocer that is relatively close, not too crowded, and has everything he needs. Bucky loads up a cart with food from all of the food groups, with special attention to fruit and vegetables. Just because he has graduated from Banner's smoothies does not mean he can forgo the healthier side of things.
When he's in line, the cashier makes friendly, only half-scripted conversation with him while she scans his items.
"Paper or plastic?"
"Paper."
He pulls out a credit card and swipes it when prompted.
The money on the card comes from interesting sources. In the days leading up to Bucky's move, Stark, JARVIS, Steve, Hill, and Bucky had all worked to find where the passwords HYDRA had hardwired into the Winter Soldier's brain fit into bank accounts. And then they had discovered that Bucky had only ever been marked as MIA—something about Steve not allowing the status to go to KIA and the army had only corrected that when the Smithsonian exhibit started—leaving a bank account with a lot of back pay sitting with no one to empty it.
He had enough money for groceries. And possibly a few other things. Just a few.
He makes it back to the apartment without major incident. A mugger had eyed him at one point, but a flick of Bucky's wrist had moved the knife hidden there into view long enough for the mugger to realize that Bucky wasn't a good mark.
And now he has food. The Internet is a wonderful place to find good recipes, and Bucky finds one that requires ingredients he has. Soon he has a sandwich loaded with enough meat and greens that it probably counts as a full meal.
While he munches on that, he stares at the notebook that he had moved onto the table earlier that morning.
It burns his eyes, a sunspot that isn't bright but still manages to hurt.
His mind spasms and throws up that goddamned image of Steve looking up at him—
"—you don't have to."
And there's more, Steve taller and broader and broken beneath Bucky's fist, semiconscious but still mumbling the words the Winter Soldier could not comprehend but Bucky could,
"'Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."
Bucky moves without thinking, and the notebook ends up on the floor in the living room and Bucky just stares. He takes ten seconds to calm his breathing.
"You know you didn't mean to do that," James says. "You should pick it up."
"Right," Bucky mutters. He's in the process of setting the notebook back on the counter when he hears scratching at his door.
There are knives in his hands before he realizes what he's done and Bucky grits his teeth. He moves to the door as silently as he can, keeping a knife in his right hand but nothing in his left.
When he looks through the small lens in the door, he sees nothing.
More scratching. And then a short, high-pitched noise.
What.
"Uh," James says. He looks confused. "I think…we recognize that sound?"
Maybe.
Bucky slides the knife back where it belongs and takes the gun he keeps in the plant by the door—a plant Romanoff had insisted on, apparently.
Romanoff makes a good interior decorator. Definitely better than Steve.
Focus.
Bucky opens the door and looks down.
There is—
There is a cat. Outside his door. Meowing.
As Bucky and James watch with equally confused expressions, the black and white cat meows again and steps forward to rub against Bucky's leg. It seems to be completely unaware of the gun Bucky holds in his right hand, hidden from the hallway by the door.
"That's—" James starts, and falters.
"A cat," Bucky finishes. He tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. Something stirs in his head. "There were—we used to have cats. No. They were…nearby. Alley cats."
"Yeah," James says. "Yeah, there were. Stevie liked to draw 'em when they hung around."
Bucky shakes his head to clear it, filing the memory away for later. He then bends down, gently pushing the cat back into the hallway so it doesn't run around in his room. Bucky has his key with him so he lets the door close behind him and, to his confusion, the cat just sits down and stares at the door.
Its pupils dilate.
"Don't," Bucky says.
It tilts its head one way, and then the other.
"Don't," Bucky says again.
It starts meowing again.
Bucky stares at it. "You're awful."
"Oreo! Where are you? Oreooooo!"
Bucky glances over to where the young girl's voice is coming from. The person Bucky assumes is the owner rounds the bend a second later, her preteen features scrunched with worry.
Right before she repeats her call, she sees the cat and sags with relief.
"You silly cat! You worried me."
"It's yours?" Bucky asks.
"Yeah, she's prone to wandering." The girl bends down and holds out her hand, which has a treat resting on the palm. As the cat walks over, the girl keeps talking. "She always slips out but never leaves this floor. Say, are you the new neighbor?"
"Yes. I just moved in."
"Oh, really? Sorry for not introducing ourselves!"
"It's fine."
"Wait, you live in that room, right?" The girl points at Bucky's door. He nods. "Oh. Um. After the other guy moved out, Oreo liked to sneak in there. Guess she's gonna have to get used to someone being there now."
"I guess so."
"Sorry that she was pawing at your door. She'll stop in the next few days. Probably."
The girl stands up, the cat still clutched in her arms and looking decidedly less pleased with each passing second. Somehow, she adjusts the cat so that she can stick out a hand. "I'm Lacy, by the way. Nice to meet you!"
Bucky nearly extends his metal hand before he catches himself and shakes with his right. "James Buchanan. Likewise."
She has a strong grip and lets go before it gets awkward. "Well, see you around, Mr. Buchanan!"
In a few seconds she is gone.
Bucky glances down and sees that he has cat hair coating the shins of his black pants.
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