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It's going to be a shit day, Bucky Barnes knows that when he wakes up with a migraine and throbbing phantom limb pain where his left arm used to be. He fumbles on his nightstand for his migraine medication, which will also mitigate the pain in his non-existant arm. He lies there, waiting for the painkiller to kick in. From the light leaking through his blackout drapes, he can tell it's another gloomy Brooklyn day. The low rumble of thunder underscores that perception. No wonder he feels like crap. He thinks about not getting out of bed at all, a pleasant dream that is shattered by a loud crack of thunder that sends him off the bed and to the floor, his arm curved over his head, and his heart pounding.
He cowers there, losing track of time, finally coming back to reality. A reality far away from the cold mountains and caves of Afghanistan, where he'd lost his left arm. He sits up slowly, feeling the smooth boards of his floor, the rough edge of the area rug. It grounds him to the present and he hauls himself to his knees, then more or less upright. He staggers to the bathroom. It's an old apartment, and the mirror is hung high enough on the wall so that he's only visible from his collarbone up. He splashes cool water on his face and tugs a comb through his thick dark hair. It's too long, overgrown and with a slight wave at his temples. He'd cut it, but it hides the scars on his neck and below his jaw where shrapnel from the IED had scored several deep wounds. He doesn't want to be reminded how close he had come to death.
He finally opens the shades in his bedroom and looks out at the gloomy skies. It's only 9am and he's exhausted. He can't be this tired. He's got shit to do. He has to go the the bank and take out some money to pay his rent because he gets a discount for paying in cash. He has to buy groceries, and he has to get to the Brooklyn Veterans center because his physical therapist is there today and it's a lot closer than his usual offices in Hoboken. Bucky can't deal with the train today.
He packs medications, a book, workout clothes and a shopping bag in a backpack. Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. He pulls on a hoodie, stamps into his boots and heads downstairs. The weather has grown sharply colder and Bucky weighs going upstairs for a warmer coat, or sparing his energy and just walking to the bank. Two blocks isn't that far, but throw in another flight of stairs and he might not make it back without spending money on a taxi, which he can't afford this month.
He puts his hood up and trudges along, trying not to bump into anybody, and avoiding anybody bumping into him. He's mostly successful until he's nearly inside the bank. Then he collides with a brick wall of a man. He stumbles back, startled, and the man grabs his arm. This is not good, Bucky thinks and snarls up at the guy, "Let me go!"
The man … who really is built tall and broad as a brick wall, if brick walls had bright blue eyes and blond hair, releases him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to grab you. I was afraid you'd fall."
Bucky wants to make a nasty retort, but honestly, the guy looks so repentant that he decides to shrug it off. "S'okay. Thanks for trying to help." What the fuck was that? He never apologizes much less thanks people who think he's helpless. "Excuse, me. I'd kinda like to get into the bank?"
"Oh .. sure." He holds the door open despite the stink-eye Bucky gives him.
Bucky makes it into the warmth of the bank and fills out a withdrawal form. It's hard, with just one hand, but at least he'd lost his left hand, not the dominant right one. He scrawls his signature and gets into the shortest line.
He doesn't recognize the teller. He must be a loaner or a new hire. Bucky would prefer dealing with somebody familiar, but the other lines are longer and he's already feeling unsteady. He can't help overhearing the transaction ahead of him. An elderly black woman is trying to cash a check, and the teller keeps asking for a photo ID. The woman says, "I gave you my bank card, nobody here tells me I need photo ID to cash a check."
"Then they aren't doing their job," the teller says. "It's the bank's policy to request ID."
"I don't have it with me," she says, her voice trembling. "Can't you just cash the check like usual?"
"You'll have to see the manager."
"Where do I go?"
"She's in a meeting. You'll have to wait."
"I got to watch my husband. He's got the Alzheimer's. I can't wait around for no manager." The quaver in her voice is more than Bucky can take.
Bucky steps forward. "Listen, she's a regular customer with a bank card. Cash the check, okay? I know the manager, she'd agree."
"I don't know who you are, but I don't take orders from guys off the street." The teller sneers. Bucky raises a brow.
"Really? Who'd you bribe to pass customer service school?"
The clerk sputters. "Both of you leave the bank or I'll call security to have you removed."
The woman turns to leave, but Bucky stays her with a touch. "I'll leave after you take care of this lady. Cash her damn check."
Suddenly, the teller's eyes open wide and he's looking at a point beyond Bucky's shoulder. Bucky turns and there is his buddy, the brick wall, looming large. "I come to this branch all the time, and I've never been asked to show ID as long as I have my bank card," he says quietly, but with authority. "Cash the check or I'll report you to the manager for being disrespectful, at the very least, and while you're being polite, assist this gentleman with his transaction as well."
Bucky wants to glare at his erstwhile champion but he can't muster the outrage or the energy. "I was handling it."
"Yes, you were, but you look like you're about to keel over, so I thought I'd facilitate things. People tend to listen to me for some reason."
Bucky eyes him. "Were you in the military?"
The guy blushes, and it's Bucky admits to himself that it's kind of adorable. "Yes."
"Officer?"
"Captain Steve Rogers, at your service."
"Sergeant James Barnes." He holds out his hand. "Must be that aura of command." That and being six plus feet tall with a body like a superhero. Bucky does not say that.
The elderly woman finishes her transaction. She touches Bucky's arm timidly. "Thank you, for standin' up for me."
"It was nothing," Bucky says. "You should thank Captain America here instead." She looks up and up at Rogers, who is at least a foot and a half taller than she is. "Thank you, both. I have to catch my bus back home, otherwise I'd buy you both a cup of coffee." She winks at them and moves on.
Bucky hands his withdrawal slip and bank card to the teller. "You could have used the ATM," he says acidly.
Steve leans over the counter. "Seriously? You want to give a veteran a hard time about this?"
The teller cringes. "No, sir." He takes Bucky's card and after reviewing the screen, counts out his cash. "I'm new and you know how people are about following the correct procedures."
Bucky barely refrains from rolling his eyes. "Yeah, they're sticklers like that," but sarcasm drips from his voice. Behind him, he hears Rogers, suppressing a laugh. He tucks his cash in an envelope and slides it into his backpack.
He looks up at Rogers, still finding it a little disconcerting. Bucky's not used to looking up at people, since he's not exactly short himself. "Well, thanks for helping. I probably would have decked that twerp in another minute."
"Listen, can I buy you a cup of coffee?"
Bucky thinks of the cold walk back to his apartment. Having something warm in his stomach would make it a bit more bearable. "Make it tea, and I'll take you up on it."
"Done."
There is a coffee shop a few doors down from the bank. Rogers, with rare perception, keeps to Bucky's right side. Their hands brush occasionally, and Rogers' fingers are warm. So warm that Bucky entertains a fantasy that he'll actually hold on to Bucky's hand and warm it up. It'll never happen, but it's a nice thought.
When they get inside Rogers points to a vacant table. "Want to get that while I stand in line? What kind of tea do you want?"
Bucky grins. "Since you're buying, a chai latte?"
Rogers doesn't even blink. "Sure."
Bucky makes his way to the table and sits so he can watch Rogers. Looking at the man doesn't exactly hurt. It's a harmless fantasy. Bucky's never been shy about being gay, not once DADT was repealed, but it's not like he had much of a chance at relationships. Rogers is just a stand up guy with a killer body and way too much nobility.
Rogers pays and carries a tray over with their drinks and two scones that are the size of Bucky's hand. "Rogers … just the tea is fine."
"I'm hungry, and it's two for one on baked goods after 10am."
Bucky doesn't believe him, but the scone looks tempting, and he's not going to turn his back on food. There's a sweet creamy spread and a pot of blueberry jam to go with the scone. The scone is rich and buttery; with the cream and jam, it's just about the best thing he's ever eaten.
He glances up at Rogers, who is taking a reverential bite of the pastry. "Pretty good, isn't it, Barnes?"
Bucky tilts his head. "Are we gonna keep up with the Rogers and Barnes thing? My name is Bucky."
"Is there a story with that?"
"My middle name is Buchanan after by mom's side of the family. My younger sister decided that Bucky sounded better, and it stuck."
"Steve. Middle name Grant. No story. Just my name."
"So, Steve, what do you do when you're not out superhero-ing?"
Steve laughs. "I teach art at CUNY Kingsborough."
"Nice." There's a lull and Bucky knows he owes Steve something. "I'm kind of not employable. Working on it, though. Maybe …" he shrugs.
Steve's eyes soften, but he nods. "It took me a while after I came back to get to where I am. Do you go to the Veterans Center?"
"That's next on my agenda." He finishes his tea and the last bit of his scone. "Thanks, Steve. I gotta get going."
"Ah, I'm heading to the center. D'you mind if I tag along?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I can get there on my own."
"Sure you can, but that doesn't change the fact that I have an appointment with Sam Wilson about setting up art therapy classes."
Bucky feels like a heel for thinking Steve was tagging along out of pity because Bucky can't get there by himself. "So, art therapy … tell me about it."
The weather has improved to the point that Bucky isn't shivering in his hoodie as he listens to Steve talk enthusiastically about his plans. Bucky wishes he could muster up that much enthusiasm for anything … hell, for life. Having somebody to walk with, particularly somebody like Steve, makes the it bearable. The walk back won't be nearly as pleasant.
They get to the center and Bucky pauses in the vestibule."Good luck with Sam on your art therapy classes."
"Thanks. Good luck with your therapy. I've been there."
"If you hear anybody crying like a baby, it'll be me."
Steve doesn't look amused by Bucky's humor. "It shouldn't hurt that much."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Rogers! It was a joke." It was. Mostly.
An hour later, when he's feeling like his arm was ripped off again and his legs are as limp as wet noodles, he's done. He leaves his workout clothes in the hamper, grateful that the staff does the laundry for the therapy and other exercise classes. He grabs the clothes he left last week from a shelf in the laundry room and puts them in the backpack.
Steve is lounging in the hall, his long legs stretched out and texting somebody on his phone. When he sees Bucky, he straightens. "How'd it go? I didn't hear you crying."
"It was a silent scream, kind of like that Munch guy."
Steve laughs, his eyes bright. It's like the sun came out in the dim hallway. "Are you ready to head out?"
Bucky blinks. "You didn't actually hang out here waiting for me?"
"Umm, yes?"
"Man, you are too noble for me," Bucky doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. He looks down at his boots. "Are you sure your middle name isn't Galahad?"
"I haven't slain any dragons yet."
"Well, don't get any ideas. I'm not a damsel in distress."
It's cold again outside. Bucky huddles into his hoodie. Steve shrugs out of his leather jacket. "Here. You'll get pneumonia."
"Still not a damsel," Bucky warns him, but Steve's leather jacket holds his body heat and it just feels so good that Bucky will weep if he has to give it up. "Thanks."
The walk is too short. Bucky pauses at the bodega on the corner. "I have to pick up some staples." He reluctantly hands over the jacket. "My building's two doors down. I'll be fine."
Steve takes the jacket. "Well, this day didn't go the way I had planned …"
Bucky's heart sinks. "I'm sorry."
"No! That's not what I meant." He looks down at his feet. "I mean, when I started out this morning, I didn't know I'd meet somebody I'd like to call a friend. It doesn't happen too often, you know?"
"A friend?" Bucky left most of his friends in Afghanistan. He's not sure he's ready for an emotional involvement, even on a level that Steve seems to be suggesting.
"Sure. A man can't have too many friends. Give me your phone."
What the hell, Bucky tells himself as he digs his phone out of his backpack. Steve types in his number. "Call me, text me, whatever or whenever you're ready."
Bucky takes his phone back and presses the recall button. Steve's phone rings. He smiles again like the sun, answers his phone. "Is that a yes?"
"God, you are such an asshole. Forget what I said about being noble." Bucky smiles when Steve saves his number.
"That's too bad. I thought it would be kind of fun to be Barnes and Noble."
Bucky nearly chokes from trying not to laugh as he shrugs out of Steve's jacket. "Thanks. I'll call when I need a rescue, which is more often than you might think."
"I thought you weren't a damsel."
Bucky flips him the bird and goes into the shop. Still warmed by Steve's jacket, his words and his radiant presence, Bucky picks up what he needs, and makes his way to his building. He drops his rent payment into the slot in the super's door. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. The two flights look like Everest. Really, all he has to do is to go up two floors even if he's hampered by the lack of an arm and carrying a bag of groceries. It shouldn't be this hard. He takes a deep breath. Going out with Steve had expended more of his physical reserves than he's used to, but it was so worth it. Maybe ... If he can just make it to his door.
He does. It takes a five minute rest stop on the landing, but he's finally inside his apartment. He musters the energy to put his perishable groceries away, then too tired to cook anything, he opens a can of chicken rice soup and nukes it. He drinks it out of a mug, even the rice. Then downs two painkillers and curls up under his afghan, wishing it was as warm as Steve's jacket. It's warm enough, though, and he falls asleep, waking in the dark. He brushes his teeth, uses the toilet and falls face-first into bed.
His exhaustion carries him to 3am, when a nightmare wakes him up. It's not as bad as the one the night before, but bad enough that he has to turn on the light. After he's been awake for an hour, he gives up. He makes himself a cup of herbal tea and takes out his phone, There is one text, left at midnight by Steve.
[You okay?]
Bucky types back.
[I was at midnight. Not so great right now.] He sends it, not expecting an answer. He nearly drops the phone when it chimes.
[Sorry to hear that.]
[WTF are you doing up?]
[Probably the same reason you are.]
Bucky sends a sad-face emoji.
[Meet me in the diner down your block?]
Bucky thinks about it. Steve sends another text.
[Not a good idea?]
[Thinking about it.]
He doesn't have to do anything tomorrow. He can lie on the couch and watch Netflix all day if he wants. That makes up his mind, even though something says that even if his day had been scheduled up the wazoo, his answer would be the same.
[OK. Give me twenty minutes.]
[See you there.]
Bucky can't help smiling. He dresses in jeans and a heavy sweater. This time, he wears a warmer jacket. The early Spring night feels more like winter, and that makes his mind slightly off-kilter. He focuses on the city lights to ground him. The diner is only a block from his building, and it's brightly lit even though the stores around it are shuttered and dark. Bucky pushes through the door.
Steve is sitting in a small, cozy booth tucked in a corner; the only table that gives both occupants a clear view of the door. Bucky can appreciate that. He slides in the booth so that his left side is away from Steve and shrugs out of his coat. The booth is small enough that their shoulders bump companionably as they look over the menu.
Their waitress is an older woman with curly gray hair and a voice that speaks of years of cigarettes. "What can I get you boys?"
Bucky is starving. Chicken rice soup only lasts for so long. He orders a full breakfast with eggs, sausages and hash browns. Steve orders the same with a side of bacon and a blueberry muffin. Bucky give him a look. "I guess it takes a lot of food to sustain those muscles." And then suppresses an instinct to slap his hand over his mouth.
Steve laughs, and Bucky falls a little in love with him. "That's one reason. The other is, I went for a run earlier and worked off all my calories from the morning."
Bucky smiles slightly. "I remember those days."
"You don't run anymore?"
"Buddy, there are days when I can hardly walk."
"Fair enough, but if you ever think you might like to take it up again, let me know."
Bucky doesn't know what to say. "Why are you being so damn nice to me?"
Steve's brows raise up. "I hope I'm nice to everybody as long as they deserve it."
"So this isn't some sort of misplaced sense of guilt or sympathy?"
"No! It's just that -- I know what it's like to come back from war. I don't know what it's like to come back badly damaged physically, but if you think I made it home scott free, I didn't. I still have the nightmares, I still need to go to therapy groups. And besides, I - I like you."
Bucky hopes his mouth isn't catching flies. "Are you sure you didn't sustain some sort of traumatic brain injury? Most people drop me like a hot potato once they realize I'm not ever going to be 100 percent."
Steve sets his large, warm hand over Bucky's. "I'm not most people. I'm me. And I'm pretty sure I can handle anything you can throw at me. Even hot potatoes."
Bucky can't help it. He laughs. "Fine. But I gave you fair warning. Can we eat? My stomach is getting acquainted with my back."
They eat for a while in silence. Bucky finally pauses to let his stomach settle. "You said you were in PT for a while?"
Steve nods. "I messed up my knee on a mission. Had to have some major surgery to repair it. I was in rehab for a few months. They offered me a desk job, but that's not what I wanted so I took my honorable discharge and the rest you know."
Bucky takes another forkful of eggs, while he thinks about what to say next. Steve is the one to speak first.
"So, what would you do if you could work?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. There aren't many jobs that require sniper skills. Not that I could do that anymore. I've had enough."
Steve is silent. "Hobbies?"
"Insomnia." Bucky gives a short, bitter laugh. "Dealing with PTSD." Steve doesn't laugh and his brows draw level.
"You know what I mean."
"I read, watch innocuous movies, go to the veterans center … " His voice trails off. "Pretty sad."
"No, it's not. Could you work in a library or bookstore?"
"Maybe. But not until I can deal with my oh, so many issues, as my therapist puts it." He pauses, "and I have physical difficulties - not only missing a limb, but phantom pain, migraines, chronic fatigue -- Jesus, why do you even want to hang out with me, Steve?"
"None of those are deal-breakers, Buck. Not for me."
"You know what your problem is? White Knight syndrome. You just can't help being the hero. I don't need rescuing. I need … " he doesn't know what he needs. He suddenly too conscious of Steve's hand over his own. He pulls it away. "I have to go. He puts a twenty on the table. "Give this to the waitress. Tell her to keep the change."
"Bucky, wait -- "
He's standing and putting on his coat. "Why should I wait?"
Steve stands up. He doesn't grab Bucky's arm, but he holds out his hand. "Stay. Please."
"Why?"
"I'd like you to?"
"You don't sound too certain about that. And with me, you need to be certain."
"Believe me, I'm certain. I don't walk away from my friends."
Bucky can't help but believe him. He sits back down. "So, despite my bullshit we're still friends?"
"Yes." Steve blushes and Bucky wonders what that's about, until Steve says, "Unless …" He raises a brow.
Bucky's gaping at him again. "Seriously?"
"Only if you want --"
Bucky suddenly wants everything. He's never asked for much in his life, and to have this offered is beyond comprehension. Why would this glorious, perfect man want anything to do with him? Steve's hand encompasses his. "You'd have to go slow. I mean like glacier slow."
"I can do that."
Bucky thinks he must be hallucinating, or it's one of his rare good dreams, but would he be feeling the warmth and strength of Steve's fingers twining through his if it was? "If I walk outside into the cold, will I wake up and find out this was my brain being difficult?"
"No. This is as real as it gets."
Bucky finally looks up at Steve. "Walk me home?"
'I can do that." He adds his own money to Bucky's twenty and tells their weary waitress to keep the change. Keeping his fingers laced with Bucky's, they go outside.
Steve doesn't let go until they're standing outside Bucky's building. "What?" Bucky asks. "You need an invitation?"
"Are you giving me one?"
Bucky finally laughs. "I said glacial. I didn't say full-stop."
"Well, in that case," he turns Bucky to face him, lifts his chin a fraction and kisses him. "I'm with you to the end of the line."
The End