Chapter Text
‘Just please hide him here for a few days,’ Steve had said. ‘He just needs to lay low for a few days,’ he said. ‘He won’t cause any trouble,’ he said.
This and more ran through your mind as you reached up, pulling the knife free from your doorframe with a grunt for the third time that day. You walked across the room to hand it back to Bucky with a slight smile, handle-first. He took it back without touching you. “Think of it this way… If anyone comes for you they won’t be using the front door.”
He merely stared at you silently from behind hair that… really needed washed, if not a trim. Mentally you sighed—he’d barely said a word. Not that you exactly expected him to, after the shit he’d had to deal with, but… a little acknowledgment once in a while would be nice. You weren’t even mad about the marks in the doorframe (mainly because being there meant they weren’t in you ).
You returned to the doorway where you’d left the single bag of groceries when you had to duck upon opening the front door, picked it up, locked the door in full view of Bucky, and went to the kitchen to put things away. “It’s almost lunchtime,” you said over your shoulder, more for the purpose of talking to him than to coax any kind of answer out of him. Animals that were scared or wary tended to respond to a kind or calm voice, right? He wasn’t an animal, but the principle should be the same.
“I’m planning on making pizza or something. Everything I picked up is still sealed,” you added, waving the jar of sauce, “So nothing’s poisoned. I didn’t pick up a frozen pizza because… well, come on. That’s heresy.” Pizza was a safe bet, right? For something he’d like? And you wouldn’t be able to tell if the packaging on a frozen pizza had been pierced with a needle or something, but you didn’t add that part. Plus, it was probably something he already knew; Bucky wasn’t stupid.
Quiet and new to various inventions of the 21 st century, yes. Stupid, no—far from it. Very far. About as far as you were from the far side of Pluto. So you didn’t talk to him like he was an idiot, or unintelligent, or like a pet, or like you’d talk to a child. In your eyes, Bucky didn’t need coddled. He needed someone patient. For instance, Steve was incredibly patient when it came to… almost everything, actually, but especially when it came to Bucky. So you were trying to adopt the same mindset.
It couldn’t hurt anything, right?
“I picked up something else for you to read if you want.” He didn’t respond. Two untouched TIME magazines lay on the island in the kitchen, and you laid the one you’d just picked up on top of those. You figured, if he was going to read something, it probably wouldn’t be fiction and he might want to get caught up on events of the last several decades. You didn’t know when he’d been ‘woken up,’ if indeed a similar thing happened to him as had to Steve, but given that he kept the television in the corner of his eye at all times whenever he was in the living room, you figured he hadn’t been awake all that long.
When you started working with the dough for the pizza, you reflected it was a little disconcerting, getting the feeling someone was watching you and then turning around to find that you were entirely correct. To top that off, Bucky looked really intimidating, all dark colors and hiding his face and big hoodies and height and muscle mass. He reminded you of the ‘bad boy’ type movies liked to portray, except… you weren’t sure Bucky had the stereotypical ‘soft spot.’ And he would kill someone if it came down to it. This wasn’t a movie—this was your life. And his, now.
Did it bother you that you were sharing your house with, as the newspaper headlines had put it at one point, a ‘stone-cold killer?’ Yes. It gave you the same feeling as you imagined keeping a tiger in the next room over might feel. You couldn’t quite sleep too well, the slightest noises would wake you because what if something happened, and you were on edge. The last one you’d countered pretty effectively, if only through sheer willpower.
At one point, when you turned to reach for the sauce, you glimpsed Bucky leaning against the column on the far side of the kitchen, patiently waiting. Or watching. You weren’t sure which, though it could have been both, and you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know—it was hardly your business what went on in his head and you weren’t going to invade his privacy if you could help it.
You were naturally a private person, and you tried to keep your nose out of others’ affairs. What position were you in to judge, anyway? You were hiding an internationally-wanted (formerly?) hired killer in your house at the pleas of a friend of yours.
You weren’t Steve’s closest friend and you wouldn’t try to imagine yourself as anything different. But you were good friends, and you were content with that. One of the bonuses of not being his closest friend was that the officials or higher ups he worked around were barely aware of you, and in this case, that was a very good thing.
So when he’d come to you at an ungodly hour with a terrifying man that he clearly valued, no matter what he said, you couldn’t exactly turn him down. Friends don’t do that shit to each other—say no when the other really needs help, that is. And that’s how Bucky ended up staying in your guest room two days ago, sleeping on the floor beside the bed because the mattress didn’t feel right. You hadn’t taken offense, even though the mattress was fine—he was probably used to sleeping on something harder. The next night, you’d brought an extra blanket in for him and laid it on the end of the bed if he wanted it.
Which reminded you—
“Oh yeah. Bucky?” you asked, washing your hands off in the sink after putting the uncooked pizza into the oven.
Silence answered you, but he was still there, so he was probably listening.
“When I was out I passed a sale on men’s shirts in a department store. Seeing as I’ve only seen you wear that one and it’s worn through at a few points, I’m assuming you didn’t bring any other clothes with you. I had to guess on what size you wear,” you added apologetically, drying your hands off and walking towards your bedroom, “But if it’s really a problem you don’t have to wear them.” You wouldn’t expect him to do so if he had a problem with them.
You hadn’t heard him follow you, but he was waiting at the end of the hall when you emerged from your room, a couple of folded articles of clothing in your arms. You handed the first on the stack out to him, and once unfolded it was revealed to be a dark gray variation of what was commonly referred to as a ‘wifebeater.’ You’d never particularly cared for the term.
Something you’d noticed was that even though his face… never really changed, the majority of what Bucky was thinking could be read through his eyes and the very corners of his mouth. But you had to really be looking for it. And it was at that faint expression of concern that you held another shirt out, this one navy and loose with long sleeves.
Another thing you’d noticed was that he always wore a hoodie, long sleeves, a jacket, or something that covered his arms almost completely. And what wasn’t covered, a pair of gloves took care of. You wanted to ask so badly, but… if he wanted you to know, or if Steve wanted you to know, one of them would tell you. You’d gotten the wifebeater in the hopes of seeing him in something that didn’t look too hot, but when his eyes relaxed slightly at the sight of long sleeves, you were glad you’d picked up both kinds. Maybe his arms had been burned or something and were badly scarred?
Oh well. You weren’t one to judge.
“Also got you these. If they’re too big, which I doubt will happen, the strings on the front will keep them up.” So saying, you held up a pair of men’s pajama pants in—guess what color?—black. You’d chosen a size up from what you thought would fit Bucky, just in case. It was easier to make something oversized smaller than to do the reverse.
The three articles of clothing now in his possession, you turned and headed for the kitchen with the goal of getting something to drink. You were almost onto the tile when you heard a quiet, “Thanks.”
Startled, you turned back around to find Bucky standing where he had been but there was no one else in the house you knew of, so it was a short leap to guess who it had come from.
“… You’re welcome.”
Stupid as it might have seemed, the quiet word from the soldier set you to smiling. Reaching up into one of the cabinets, you caught a coffee mug from the top shelf. “I’m gonna make some tea. You want any?” There was no reply, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him shake his head once.
Oh well. I guess you can’t expect much right off the bat. At least he’d responded, right? That was progress. You turned back to what you were doing, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove to boil. While you waited, you hopped up to sit on the countertop, childishly swinging your legs back and forth. It was just one of those things you’d never quite kick (no pun intended), no matter how old you were. A second glance up to where Bucky had been standing a minute before revealed the space to be empty, but the door to your guest room was cracked where it had been closed before. He probably went to put his new clothes away or something, you decided with a mental shrug.
That was about the time your cellphone started ringing. Not long after Steve had dropped Bucky off, you’d changed your ringtone to the sound of an old-style telephone so Bucky wouldn’t cling to the ceiling like a traumatized cat at the abrupt sound. Or worse, shoot your phone out of your hand and potentially end the situation with you missing a finger.
You immediately held your phone up to your ear, giving Bucky a short two-fingered wave off when he abruptly appeared in the hallway again. “Hey, Steve.” Bucky soundlessly made his way closer with narrowed eyes and you held your finger up to your lips in the universal gesture for silence, then put your phone on speaker. You didn’t want to have to relay everything for him, and even though you ran the risk of Bucky hearing Steve say something about him that you’d rather he not have heard, you weren’t much for starting secrets.
“—and you can’t call this phone back no matter what. I won’t have it on me and it’s probably going in the ocean.”
“You’re using modern technology, I’m amazed.”
“Hah, yeah. Look, uh… Bucky… he’s not causing any trouble for you, right? ”
“No, absolutely not,” you said honestly, not glancing up at the soldier beside you. Both of you were currently leaning on the counter over your phone. As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you began to have an inkling of what Steve might ask.
“You’re sure?”
“I think I would know if he was irritating the piss out of me, Steve.”
“Language. So… how much trouble would it cause you to keep him there another couple of days? ”
“Not too much,” you responded, not surprised by the question. You’d expected this. “Things still a little too hot up top?”
“Bingo. Listen, I’ve gotta go—“
“Yeah, go, go, I get you.” If someone was trying to trace the call, they were getting dangerously close to the time limit. Then again, they wouldn’t have needed to trace the call to find Steve specifically, because if the government heard then they would run voice analysis and figure out who you were. Then boom, they show up at your house with flashbangs, automatics, Vikings, and a dragon or whatever.
“Thanks, ____ .”
The call ended, and you looked over at Bucky, who was still staring at the phone. Briefly, you attempted to guess what was going through his head with limited success. “… I can clear out my call history if you want,” you offered quietly, gazing at him. “It was just a burn phone, and they wouldn’t be able to find it again, but… I can clear it if you want.” A single nod decided the issue, and with a few taps you’d cleared your cellphone’s call history of the last couple of weeks. “Done.”
Opening your mouth before hesitating, you glanced up again, and his eyes flicked from your phone to you. He blinked and you took that as the ‘go ahead’ sign. “Bucky… I know Steve is asking me to ‘keep you’ here—“ Talk about a touchy subject… ”—and you and I both know that if you really wanted to leave, I couldn’t keep you from going, but… please stay, for Steve’s sake as well as yours. Please,” you added again for good measure. Not only did you not want Bucky getting hurt, but Steve had trusted you with his closest and oldest friend, and frankly you didn’t want to let either down.
Your attention returned to the soldier also leaning over the countertop, and to you, it seemed as though he were thinking it over. You didn’t push—in his place, you might well refuse just to prove you could, and he might refuse if you asked again. He didn’t seem like a man of much patience for others.
Not to mention, pressuring him wouldn’t change his mind if he’d already made it. Another thing? Unless it was absolutely vital, pushing someone for a decision was just plain rude.
“… Okay.”
Pushing off from the counter, Bucky retreated from the kitchen, and it was only now that you saw he was wearing the long-sleeved shirt you’d bought him. Guess the one he had really WAS close to falling apart. Still, it made you happy—almost happier than you’d been when he’d actually said something out loud again—and set you to smiling once again. In a sense, it was acceptance. Of a sort. Or… close enough.
You poured yourself some tea and sat down at one of the stools at the island in the kitchen, sipping contentedly at the hot drink. You didn’t follow him or do more than watch him when he left the room, but he didn’t need someone mothering him or watching his every move. He might’ve gotten that in the Avengers base, however briefly he was there—he wouldn’t get it from you. He’d been watched the better part of his life, assuming you counted the years he’d been in Hydra’s hands as ‘part of his life,’ and you didn’t want to add to that.
Besides, if he wanted company, he’d ask for it. Or just sit down in the same room and say nothing, that was an option too, and it had happened the night before when you settled into the couch with a book. Bucky had slipped out of the guest room (you were close to referring to it as ‘his room’ now) and sank down into one of the two armchairs in the living room, across from you. You’d simply smiled at him, asked if he needed anything, and at a silent negative you’d gone back to reading. He sat in his chair for the better part of an hour, and anytime you glanced up over the edge of your book he looked to be deep in thought. When you went to bed, he’d still been sitting there, and you had no idea when he went to bed.
But it had been nice. Company, without the pressure to talk or keep up social niceties. I guess that’s one upside to living with someone who hasn’t been very aware of society’s norms for the past… seventy years or so? you thought, hearing the one-minute warning beep on the oven before the timer would go off. You quickly disabled the timer and turned off the oven, fearing for the wellbeing of your oven should Bucky hear the timer go off and not know what it was.
“Bucky, pizza’s ready,” you called quietly. Your house was usually pretty quiet, so you didn’t doubt he’d hear you. That, and there was no reason to be loud—he could hear you just fine from his room if the door was open. You pulled the pizza stone out and set it on the stove, shedding your oven mitts afterwards and turning to rise up on your toes to get a couple of paper plates from the cabinet. This was when you ran into a slight problem, though. The paper plates weren’t in the cabinet. “Huh.” You turned back to your right to get normal plates, only to all but run into a rather solid, dark-clothed figure.
A surge of panic hit you for a fraction of a second before you realized that whoever it was held a stack of paper plates in their hands, and you looked up to see a face you’d grown to recognize over the past few days. “… Thanks, Bucky,” you told him with a smile, taking two of the plates off the stack and opening the cabinet where they belonged so he could return them. How he’d gotten them without you seeing, you had no idea, but you weren’t complaining. If he wanted to help, you certainly weren’t going to discourage him.
You cut the pizza irregularly, putting half the damn thing on Bucky’s plate and getting a slice for yourself. One thing you remembered when chatting with Steve one time was that Steve’s metabolism was ridiculously fast. If a similar thing had happened with Bucky, which wasn’t impossible to imagine, then he’d have a voracious appetite too, right?
“You want anything to drink?” you asked him, giving him his plate and leaving your own on the counter for a minute to pick a glass from another cabinet. You hadn’t expected an answer, and yet—
“Water.”
“Sure thing,” you said with a smile, even though you were facing away. Lunchtime, and already you’d gotten a few words from him. Three, to be exact, but that was perfectly fine. Progress at its finest. You didn’t make a big deal of his choosing to speak. Doing so might make him go quiet again, which you didn’t want at all.
His voice was rough, you decided as you handed him a glass of water. The kind of rough that came from not using one’s voice over a long period of time, not the kind of rough caused by getting sick, or overusing your voice like at a concert. It didn’t sound like a painful range to be in, but more rumbly, like a growly rumbly. You liked hearing it, and resolved to save the sound away in your memory banks the next time you heard it.
Lunch was a quiet affair, which wasn’t that shocking. Meals tended to be that way for you, since you lived alone, but they were no different with Bucky sharing the house. There wasn’t any pressure to speak, and it made a pleasant change—companionship without the need for talking. And maybe it was wishful thinking, but you thought he might have not minded it either.