Chapter Text
A thousand miles down to the seabed
Found a place to rest my head
— Florence + The Machine, “Never Let Me Go”
“Do you even know how to cook a turkey?” Natasha asked.
Steve and Natasha were standing in the meat department of the grocery store, staring down into one of those open freezers. Thanksgiving was a week away and Steve thought they needed to celebrate. Natasha wasn’t so sure.
“Not exactly, but I can look on the internet,” Steve said. He looked up from the freezer. “Where’s Bucky?”
Natasha’s head snapped up and she looked over her shoulder. “I dunno. He was right next to me just a minute ago.”
Steve stepped into the middle of the aisle and turned all the way around, searching. This had happened before, but it still scared him. Bucky was so quiet he could wander off without either a super soldier or a highly trained international spy noticing.
Natasha thwacked Steve in the upper arm. “Found him.”
Bucky was on the other side of the refrigerated section, standing in front of all the milk. His back was to them. He was wearing the same beanie he wore when he and Steve first came to Chicago. He had since adopted it as his own sort of disguise.
Steve managed to not audibly sigh in relief. He felt bad for not trusting Bucky to not get lost or run over or whatever terrible scenario was constantly playing out in his mind. As the months went on, Steve realized that Bucky was definitely not the same person he had once been.
The medical notes in the KGB file hinted at cognitive problems caused by the constant memory wipes and cryo and depatterning treatments. Bucky still had trouble talking sometimes. He never stuttered or struggled to form words. He just could not force himself to talk.
The file also noted “transient short term memory loss despite thorough mission briefing” and “instances of generalized confusion and agitation after completing assigned tasks.” All that told Steve was that they had succeeded in partially frying Bucky’s brain.
And aside from the obvious differences, there were many other things that were not the same about Bucky. Most were only obvious to Steve, like the fact that he didn’t talk the way he used to. The coarse Brooklyn accent was gone and the impression of arrogance that came with it. Now he was soft spoken, almost demure.
Steve was worried that there was nothing left of the friend that he had grown up with, the one he had followed into godforsaken foxholes in snowy European forests. But occasionally he was encouraged to believe that was not the case.
Bucky’s smile, particularly the way it made the corners of his eyes crinkle, was the same as it always had been. His orneriness had been resurfacing too. Yesterday he snapped Steve across the back of the thighs with a dish rag, making Natasha choke on her coffee.
Not looking away from Bucky, Steve asked, “Have you ever had a Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Not really,” Natasha said with a shrug.
“So then let’s have one. Bucky and I will cook and you can drink wine.”
That sounded like a good idea to Natasha and she told Steve to knock himself out. Steve picked out a frozen turkey while Natasha went over to Bucky. He didn’t even look at her, too concentrated on the jugs and cartons before him.
“What kind of milk do we usually get?” Bucky asked.
“Two percent,” Natasha said.
He pulled open the glass door of the cooler with his right hand and grabbed a half gallon jug of the correct milk with his metal hand. He was pulling the jug out when he suddenly lost his grip on it. The plastic container hit the bottom edge of the cooler just right and broke open. Both Bucky and Natasha were startled by the milk that was suddenly all over the floor. A woman shopping for yogurt turned and stared at them.
“What happened?” Natasha asked.
Bucky reached down and picked up the jug before every drop ran out. “I don’t know. My hand just let go of it,” he said in dismay.
Natasha thought he seemed really distraught. “Sweetheart, it was an accident. Don’t worry about it,” she said.
Steve saw what happened and came over with the cart just as Natasha was going to look for a clerk. Bucky was standing there in the puddle of milk, examining his hand.
“Don’t cry over spilled milk,” Steve said, trying to make joke of it.
Bucky just stared at him. He wasn’t angry or annoyed, just worried. “It was really weird,” he said. “I lost the strength in my hand.”
“Does it hurt?” Steve asked.
Bucky flexed his hand, turned his elbow inward and outward. “It’s sore up in my shoulder, but it’s been that way for a long time. I can’t feel pain in the limb.”
Steve frowned. “Maybe you need to have it looked at.”
Bucky was about to reply when Natasha came back, looking flustered. “The only person I could find was a teenage boy who said he recognized me from the internet. We should go before he comes over here and starts taking pictures for Twitter,” she said.
They weaved their way back through the store so Steve could get all the supplies for cooking a Thanksgiving dinner. Bucky was confused about Steve and Natasha’s discussion about turkey and football, but said nothing. He kept his hand hidden in the fold of his crossed arms and the fabric of his hooded jacket, trailing behind Natasha and Steve.
Laden with three bags each, they took the train back to Natasha’s apartment building. It was only a few blocks from one of the many elevated platforms that sat above the streets of downtown Chicago.
Natasha lived in a cosy loft apartment in a tall brick building. It was the first place she found after SHIELD imploded and she needed a place to hide out. Steve often worried that he and Bucky were outstaying their welcome after nearly seven months of crashing on her pullout couch. However, Natasha insisted they stick around every time Steve even hinted at them leaving.
Chicago was growing on Steve. He had visited the city several times when he was traveling with the USO girls back in the 1940s, but never got the chance to explore it. It was bustling and noisy like any large city, but felt a lot more relaxed than New York or Washington. And with no sight of any HYDRA activity, Steve was actually thinking about getting himself an apartment in Chicago.
He didn’t have the heart to separate Bucky and Natasha, either. He loved the way they chattered on in Russian, even when they were looking at him sideways and Natasha was giggling like a coy little devotchka. Russian seemed to flow better for Bucky than English did most of the time. And that was all right with Steve because it gave him hope. Bucky had come really far since he almost bled to death on Steve’s kitchen floor.
“I’m looking forward to you burning the apartment building down,” Natasha said as the three of them were putting groceries away.
“And I’m looking forward to you telling me how good the food is,” Steve said. He was busy maneuvering the turkey into the freezer.
Bucky was silently putting food in the cupboards, using only his right arm. He wasn’t going to trust the left one for a while.
“Are you okay?” Natasha asked.
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine,” Bucky said.
“Do you want me to call Stark?” Steve asked. “He’s Howard’s son. He’s really good with that kind of stuff—”
“I know who he is,” Bucky said evenly, reaching into a bag for another can.
“I’m sure he’d be more than happy to take a look at it,” Steve said.
Bucky sighed. “I don’t know, Steve.”
“It’s really obvious it’s bothering you,” Steve said.
Bucky looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure most of the groceries were put away. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
Steve and Natasha watched him go, then turned to each other when the bathroom door closed behind him.
“Guess I pushed it,” Steve said.
Natasha shrugged. “Remember us trying to help him take those stitches out? He can’t accept needing help with something,” she said.
“I just don’t want him to be in pain. He said his shoulder hurt.”
“I know. Just let him come around to it,” Natasha said.
Steve agreed. He knew what the problem was, but didn’t know how to circumvent it. It probably stemmed from Bucky not being allowed to complete the simplest of tasks after being pulled out of cryo repeatedly, as noted in the file. People cut his hair, shaved his face, brushed his teeth, dressed him. One technician noted an instance when their subject refused to eat and they attempted to spoon feed him. Efforts were halted when Bucky put a fork through the technician’s thigh.
Steve had trouble imagining himself being thawed out so rapidly there was no time to get the feeling back in his extremities before he was trussed up in leather and had a rifle thrust into his hands. But that’s exactly what Bucky had gone through.
Steve understood why Bucky was intent on standing in front of a mirror and cutting the sutures out of his abdomen himself, why he was reluctant to have someone look at his arm. But Steve still wanted him to get help.
Because in the end, Bucky had trouble using the scissors in the mirror and let Steve remove the stitches. So he hoped that Bucky would soon decide that he needed help with his arm, too.
Natasha got a call from Clint and went into her bedroom to answer it. Steve walked across the apartment and flopped onto the pullout couch, which was currently a mess of pillows and blankets. Natasha had tucked it into an alcove one morning when Bucky and Steve were out running.
He was replying to a text from Sam when he heard the shower turn off. Bucky came out of the bathroom in only his underwear, hair hanging wet and skin reddened from the hot water. Steve glanced up from his phone. He tried hard to not stare and failed.
Bucky had had a nice body to body to begin with. He had muscles that were defined by hard manual labor jobs that Steve never could do, like delivering large blocks of ice to people’s houses. However, the serum Bucky was exposed to just enhanced what he was already graced with.
Bucky didn’t seem to notice Steve looking at him, too focused on toweling off his hair. It was still long, but Bucky was trying to take better care of it. He let Natasha trim it for him back in September, and sometimes threw it back in a small ponytail.
Steve studied the abrupt connection of the metal arm with Bucky’s shoulder. The scarring that delineated the border between cold steel and warm flesh. The way Bucky was holding it against his chest, not using it for anything.
“How’s your shoulder?” Steve asked.
Bucky was pulling a t-shirt over his head. “It’s fine,” he said dismissively.
But he continued to baby it as he laid on the bed next to Steve, picking up one of the three books he was currently reading. One was about Captain America, one was about the Howling Commandos, and one was a biography about himself. Steve didn’t know how Bucky could juggle so much dense reading material, but he had read dozens of books on these subjects since they came to stay with Natasha.
Steve loved it when Bucky would lay the book down and talk to him about the past.
Did this really happen like in the book? Tell me more about Brooklyn. Did I really do that? I wish I could remember your mom. You were really only 5’4” back then? I wonder if I can still dance.
Those books turned Bucky into such a chatterbox. It was almost like before the war. His eyes got bright and he gestured a little when he talked. Steve was just thankful that he had an exceptional memory and could answer all of Bucky’s questions in detail.
Steve was slowly typing out a message to Sam, phone held close to his face. Bucky licked the tip of his finger and turned a page in his book. Natasha came out of her bedroom a few minutes later.
“Aw, look at you two cuties,” she said.
Steve put his phone down. “Wanna get in the middle of this sandwich?” he asked.
“Very tempting, but I don’t think I’d fit,” Natasha said. “We should really just get you guys beds. Or a bed. Sometimes I think you like sharing.”
“How’s your boyfriend?” Steve countered.
He was a pretty proud of the way Natasha blushed at his question.
“He’s fine,” she said. “And he’d be joining us for Thanksgiving but he’s on assignment in the Ukraine. Are you going to invite Sam?”
“I did, but he’s going to Georgia to visit family.”
“More booze for me,” Natasha said.
The next week went by quietly. Steve didn’t say anything to Bucky about his arm, although it was obvious it was an issue. Half the time Bucky cradled it against his body, cupping the elbow with his other hand. But there were also times when he used it normally, so Steve was never sure if he should ask about it.
Steve started cooking around noon on Thanksgiving Day. Natasha was awake but not dressed, sitting at the kitchen table and already drinking a wine spritzer. Bucky was sitting on the kitchen counter. He started out reading, but Steve now had him peeling potatoes.
Steve had a big band and swing station playing on Pandora and was getting really into it. He still couldn’t dance, but he was moving with the music as he banged pots and pans around.
“Don't wanna boast, but I know she's the toast of Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo-zoo,” Steve sang along.
Natasha watched, amused and only encouraging the silly behavior. Bucky was trying to not smile. It wasn’t long before a new song began and Steve whirled around, excited. It was mid-tempo and instrumental, with a melody led by brassy trumpets.
“This was one of your favorite songs, Buck,” he said.
Bucky looked up from the potato he was flaying. “It was?”
“You loved to dance to this. I think it’s a foxtrot.”
“I can’t even picture myself dancing with a girl to this song. Honestly.”
Natasha stood up. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I have you marked down for this song on my dance card,” she said. “Your friend told me you were good.”
Bucky mouthed the words dance card, looking perplexed.
Steve shrugged. “I thought I was doing you a favor, pal.”
Bucky hopped off the counter to meet Natasha, who was standing there expectantly. She almost looked serious about this whole dancing thing, despite the fact that she was wearing sweatpants and a tanktop with no bra on underneath.
“I can’t see how this could go wrong,” Bucky said as they joined hands.
It wasn’t a foxtrot as far as Steve could tell, but they were definitely dancing there in the tiny kitchen. Natasha looked a little surprised as Bucky spun her away from him. He drew her back in with the same graceful fluidity that Steve remembered envying.
It was a quality that was present in all of Bucky’s movements, whether he was dancing with a girl in her pajamas or falling off a moving car and skidding across the pavement on a freeway. It was also a unilateral sort of coordination that Steve never had.
The song was short and ended almost abruptly. Bucky attempted to pull away from Natasha unceremoniously, but was unable to do so before she pecked him on the cheek. Steve was leaning on the island, clapping.
“Man, I was jealous all over again,” Steve said with a laugh.
“Good,” Natasha said as she sat back down at the table. “I’m all a-tingle.”
Bucky was returning to his potato peeling when Steve asked him to get a few cans down from the cupboard right behind him. Bucky opened the cabinet door with his right hand and reached up with his left. One of the cans was on the top shelf and Bucky had to fully extend his arm to get it.
When he straightened his metal arm out, it whined pitifully and he felt his shoulder joint pop. It didn’t exactly hurt, but he was unable to lower his arm. Natasha watched him struggle for only a moment before she was on her feet. Her asking what was wrong caused Steve to turn away from his cooking.
“It’s stuck,” Bucky said, straining to get his arm to move. “Like really stuck.”
“Does it hurt?” Natasha asked.
“Well, now that I’ve had it above my head for a minute, yeah.”
Natasha and Steve watched as Bucky finally grabbed the metal forearm and tried to ease it down. He was pulling hard enough to worry Steve.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Steve said. “Be gentle.”
But Bucky wasn’t. He gritted his teeth and pressed hard. The plates that made up his arm shifted and made disconcerting grinding noises. Natasha thought she could smell burning electrical components.
Bucky yelped in both surprise and pain when his arm finally snapped downward. He felt the bones in his shoulder grind against each other, the muscles and tendons burned. The arm was no longer in contracture above his head, but it was now hanging limp and useless at his side. He hissed through his teeth and squeezed the space between his shoulder and neck.
“Okay, no more helping Steve. You get to sit with me,” Natasha said.
Bucky allowed her to guide him over to a chair at the kitchen table. He sat there, looking miserable, while Natasha went to the freezer for an ice pack. Steve felt awful because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t seem insincere. He turned back to the stove and stirred a pot.
“Steve,” Bucky said.
Steve couldn’t discern the exact emotion in Bucky’s soft voice. He sounded tired, guilty, dejected.
“Yeah?” Steve asked over his shoulder.
“I think you should call Stark,” Bucky said.
“I will tomorrow,” Steve said. “Promise.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Steve alternated between rushing around the kitchen and talking with Natasha and Bucky. Natasha was pretty buzzed and kept offering Bucky and Steve alcohol, even though neither of them could get drunk.
Ice and ibuprofen seemed to help Bucky’s shoulder and in a few hours he could move his arm again. It was still sore when Natasha started to set the table, but he insisted on helping. Steve had made enough food for probably ten people.
“This is unreal, Steve,” Natasha said, looking at the spread on the kitchen counter. It wouldn’t fit on the small kitchen table. “What are we gonna do with all of this?”
“Leftovers, I guess,” Steve said. He sawed into the turkey with surgical precision.
Bucky and Natasha thought the food was great, but Steve was critical of everything he had made. For example, the mashed potatoes had lumps in it that neither the super soldier assassin nor the spy could detect.
“You know this is better than anything either of us could have done, right?” Bucky said.
“No joke,” Natasha said. “This is great.”
Steve just shrugged, but he was smiling a little. “Thanks, guys.”
They continued to chat until they were done eating. That was when Steve came to a sudden realization and practically threw his fork down.
“You know what I forgot?”
Bucky and Natasha exchanged questioning glances.
“Pie!” Steve cried. “Thanksgiving without pie. What is with that?”
“Shame on you,” Natasha said melodramatically.
Bucky shrugged. “It’s okay. I don’t want pie.”
Natasha and Bucky shooed Steve out of the kitchen while they cleaned up and did the dishes. Natasha washed and Bucky dried. Steve listened to them talk candidly in Russian, noting how fast the words seemed to run out of Bucky’s mouth. He thought it sounded beautiful, but what were they talking about?
Natasha was laughing and Bucky sounded evasive. Once he looked over his shoulder and caught Steve’s eye without meaning to. Steve thought Bucky was blushing, but he turned around too fast for him to really tell.
Steve took a long shower and when he was done, Natasha was busy drunk dialing Clint and Bucky was curled up in bed, reading. It wasn’t particularly late, but he was tired.
Steve decided he would draw for a while and laid down next to Bucky with his sketchbook. It was quiet other than the muffled sounds of Natasha talking in her bedroom and Steve’s pencil scritching on the paper. Steve thought maybe he should feel a little bored, but he was content for once.
“What are you drawing?” Bucky asked after a while, not looking away from his book.
“I’ll show you if you tell me what you and Nat were talking about.”
Steve was planning on showing Bucky anyway, since it was a little doodle just for him. But why not use it for coercion if he could?
“She was asking me if we had a thing,” Bucky said.
He said it so nonchalantly that Steve started laughing. But it wasn’t a joke.
“Wait. Do we have a thing?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know, do we?”
Steve rolled to his side, facing Bucky. “Well, what did you tell her?”
“I said I didn’t know. She said she didn’t believe me,” Bucky said. “She was kind of drunk, you know.”
Steve shrugged. “Do you want to have a thing?”
“I’m not even sure what this thing is.” Bucky set down his book. “Show me your drawing.”
Steve closed the little leather-bound sketchbook. He was feeling ornery. “You were blushing.”
“What are you even talking about?” Bucky asked with a brief scowl.
“You and Natasha were chittering on and you looked over your shoulder to see if I was listening,” Steve said. “You looked right at me. And you blushed.”
Bucky closed his book and sat up. “I answered your question. Show me.”
Bucky was right. Steve sat up too and handed him the sketchbook. Rather than flipping to the last page Steve had drawn on, Bucky looked at nearly every page. Softly shaded pencil portraits of people Bucky recognized and people he didn’t. Drawings of buildings and cars. Little paneled cartoons.
The last drawing in the sketchbook was a rough doodle of Bucky standing with his arm locked above his head. A girl that looked like Natasha was running over to him with an oil can. Bucky snorted in amusement and shook his head.
“It’s missing something, though,” Bucky said.
He gestured for Steve to give him his pencil. He was a little worried about Bucky drawing in his sketchbook, but handed him the writing utensil anyway. Bucky drew quickly and passed the book back with a straight face. Bucky had added a couple of stick figures. One was Steve in a star spangled apron and the other was a man with a distinct goatee, armed with a wrench.
Steve laughed so hard he almost cried. He was still laughing a little when Bucky was suddenly in his personal space, kissing him right on the mouth.
For a moment, it was 1935 and they were both sitting crosslegged on Bucky’s bed. The one with the squeaky metal frame that would soon become the bane of their mutual existence. Steve felt that he was small and wheezy again, with skinny arms and the sharp nose he still hated. He had been yammering about something he read in National Geographic and Bucky just leaned forward and kissed him.
Bucky’s scruff scraping Steve’s chin pulled him back to the present. Heat spread across Steve’s shoulders when he kissed back. Bucky pulled away too soon, nervous and not reassured by Steve’s mildly dazed expression.
“I think we have a thing now,” Steve said.