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The house is one of the nicest he’s seen in a while. Much better than the shithole the paramedics pulled him from ten years ago. That doesn’t mean he likes being in the back of the social worker’s cigarette scented car, his prosthetic digging into his shoulder. And it definitely doesn’t mean he was okay with being in this situation at all.
His grip tightens on the handle of his small duffle bag when he sees the social worker exit the house and walk towards the car. That’s when he saw them. His new ‘dad,’ not that he would ever call him that, looks old, with his graying hair and wrinkly face but James knows better than to underestimate anyone. Old doesn’t mean weak, it hadn’t in his last house.
“Ready to meet them?” The worker smiles at him from outside the open window. Bucky knows the man told him his name, but for the life of him, he can’t remember it, and he doesn’t really care. He can’t understand how this guy could be so happy dropping off an unwanted child to some random person who probably only wants him to look good with the neighbors.
“Guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” The smile falls from the social worker’s face.
“We’ve been over this time and time again, James. If you can’t find an apartment, and a job on the books to pay for said apartment then legally you can not be emancipated,” the worker drones. The way this man rests his elbows on the window frame and the way he leans down to speak to him with his condescending tone ignites a small match of fury in Bucky’s chest.
“So are you gonna move, or am I supposed to go right through you to meet the new pops?” Bucky snaps. He’s tired of the adults calling all the shots. In one month he would be eighteen. One. But until then, he had to let these people believe they had control over him. He’d follow their rules, but in one month, he could finally disappear, somewhere no one, not even his father, could find him. Slowly regaining his composure, Bucky mumbles a quiet sorry to the shocked worker.
Once the door was opened, Bucky steps out slowly. The worker puts what was supposed to be a comforting hand on Bucky’s back but he quickly shrugs it off. He doesn’t like being touched. Touch has never done him any favors, not from his father, and not from any other “father” after him.
“You know, we all just want what’s best for you, James,” the social worker starts, but he quickly drowns it out with thoughts of the window locks and the security system. If he was going to be here for the next month, he has to know he could be safe.
“Hello! You must be James,” the older man says coming down the steps of the porch to greet him. His face seemed like it could be on the cover of an AARP retirement brochure and his smile seemed warm enough to light a fire. In other words, he looks like a grandpa, maybe a young one but a grandpa nonetheless.
“That’s me,” Bucky smiles, his charm shining through. He might not want to be here but being rude to the man of the house was a surefire way to not get fed, something about seeming ungrateful.
“Well, it sure is nice to meet you, young man. I’m Mr. Coulson but you can call me Phil if you’d like. Oh, and this is my son Clint,” the young man standing at the top of the steps gives a short wave, but a frown adorns his lips. Great, the other kid already hates me. James returns the wave. Clint’s tall, that’s the first thing Bucky takes in. His face looks tense, his bright blue eyes hooded with irritation.
“So this is the point where I leave you guys. James has my number if he needs anything. It was very nice to see you again, Mr. Coulson,” the social worker says, shaking Mr. Coulson's hand and walking back towards his car. The three of them stand in awkward silence until the social worker is gone.
“Well, would you like to come in? There’s someone inside I’d like you to meet,” Mr. Coulson asks. Bucky nods his head and slightly moves his duffle behind his back when Mr. Coulson tried to take it from him. Luckily he takes the hint and drops his hand.
When he reaches the top of the stairs, Clint stood quietly, blocking the path to the door. The boy is taller than Bucky, not by much, but enough for James to notice when the boy stares down at him.
“Hey man, it’s nice to meet you,” Bucky smiles confidently with his hand outstretched, reaching for a handshake. It stays there for a moment as Clint stared down at it and Bucky feels his composure begin to crumble under the older boy’s gaze. He can only pretend to be confident for so long.
“Yeah, real nice,” he dismisses, shooting a glare at Mr. Coulson before walking into the house and calling for someone named Nat. Bad sign. But it didn’t matter because he’d be out of here in a month.
“Oh, don’t mind Clint. He’s really a big softie when you get to know him. He’s just stressed. His archery finals are coming up and if he wins, he’s set for any college he wants,” Mr. Coulson grins proudly. James inwardly rolls his eyes and crosses the threshold of the house. Archery? That's a preppy sport for a foster kid.
The living room looked like the Eighties threw up. The white carpeting still looked pristine and Bucky felt like he should take his shoes off. The television was small and resting on a huge white entertainment case. Picture frames, little white figurines of babies and fake flowers litter the shelves along with just about every romance novel ever written. In the frames are pictures of the family, the three perfect smiling faces staring back at Bucky, mocking him for not having the same fortunate life they do. Didn’t know the Ice King is capable of smiling
A young girl, no older than fifteen is sitting on the couch when Bucky enters the living room. She’s small, but not just skin and bones. Her red hair looks healthy, not knotted or greasy. There are no dark circles under her brown eyes, in fact, her green eyes shine with a certain life that wouldn’t normally be seen in a foster home. There’s no abnormal bruising on her neck, wrists or upper arms. He does, however, notice a few bruises around her knees and down her shins. Her clothes are clean, match, and aren’t ripped anywhere. She sits freely on the couch, legs spread a bit. They sit unmoving, with no amount of bouncing or shaking.
She looks like a normal kid, and for a fleeting moment, Bucky feels a pang of jealousy. That could have been him if his mom had sobered up for a moment to notice what was going on, or if his father had never realized how much Bucky’s body looked like a punching bag.
“This is Natasha, my daughter,” James raised a brow at the idea that she was his daughter, “this is James and he’ll be staying with us for a while.” Mr. Coulson introduced. Natasha gives a tight-lipped smile before taking her phone out of her back pocket. Clint takes a seat on the couch next to her, glancing over at the screen of her phone.
“A month,” James blurts out, his thought to word filter temporarily broken. Clint’s head snapped up, glaring into the side of Bucky’s head. If this guy doesn’t quit it, I’ll lose my mind.
“What was that, James?” Mr. Coulson asks, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“Well, I turn eighteen in a month, July 9th, so I figured you guys would want me out by then,” Bucky explains, eyes shifting around the room, looking anywhere but the three people silently judging him. He thought the ugly decor was much more interesting anyway.
“Oh, James, we aren’t going to kick you out just because you’re eighteen. We want you here. The goal is to adopt you like I’ve done with Clint and Natasha here,” Mr. Coulson says, his hand coming up to rest on Bucky’s shoulder. He flinches slightly, and he thought he got away with it, but Mr. Coulson’s hand never makes contact. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed, but his assumption that Bucky wants to be here in the first place stung. No fucking way I’m getting adopted. He can only bring himself to nod, not wanting to start something in this new place.
“Let me show you to your room,” Clint grumbles. Bucky follows dumbly up the stairs and to the left into the bare room. Four walls, a window, a dresser, and a bed. That’s all the room was. “So this is your room,” Clint says, watching as James lays his duffle down on the bed.
“Thanks, man,” Bucky mumbles, giving a closed-mouth smile. Clint lets out a reluctant huff of air.
“Look, James, I don’t know what happened to you, or where you’re from, and honestly I don’t really care, but Nat, down there, is my first priority and I’m sure she’s Phils too. I’m not exactly ecstatic that you’re here but that’s not my choice,” Clint rubs his hands together.
“If I find out you’re involving Nat in any of your issues or getting her into any of your problems, I will end you. She has been through so much and I won’t have you fucking up any of the progress she’s made. Understood?” Clint states firmly, his features hard as he threatens Bucky. He nods his head slowly, taking in all the new information. “I need to hear it.”
“Understood.”
“Good. I hope it never gets to that point, just keep your head down, don’t make any waves here and we shouldn’t have a problem. I’ll tolerate you being here for a month,” Clint chuckles, the air still tense. “Alright, well, I’ll leave you to unpack,” Clint gives a grim smile before walking out of the room.
Bucky sits on the bed for a moment, letting the older boy’s words marinate in his mind. The deal was better than most at other houses. He could do what Clint asked, he had no plans to involve Natasha in his issues. Not that he had issues. Well, not that he didn’t have issues, but Clint must assume he’s into drugs or gangs or something bad. The worst thing Bucky has done is get drunk, and with the life, he’s led up until this point, who could blame him if he wanted to forget sometimes.
Zipping open his small duffle on the bed, Bucky takes his clothes out. They fill the first drawer of the dresser alone. The room looks just as bare as when he came in, even with almost all of his stuff unpacked. Under his clothes was a ratty old teddy bear, which Bucky quickly hid between the headboard and the wall.
The story of the bear isn’t something that James likes to think about, but every time he looks at the worn, white bear, it brings back the wounds she left on him. It brings back memories of his mother, in those rare, bittersweet moments she wasn’t high or drunk or ignoring him. The ones where she was caring and loving and just being his mother, the memories that made him miss being with her.
But all those sweet moments could never outweigh the bad. Despite the rose-colored glasses he seemed to wear every time he chose to bring the bear to the next house, he hated his mother or the true version of his mother. It took him years to realize that the police officers that took him from the house weren’t the bad guys, but instead, it was his father for wailing on him until his body was ready to give up and his mother for sitting there and letting it happen. Sometimes Bucky thinks that if his mother never got into drugs, they could have run away together, away from his father. Maybe if his mother had loved him a little bit more he would still have his arm, instead of a shitty plastic one that digs into his shoulder as a constant reminder of his sins. Maybe he could have had a regular boring life. But those thoughts were always rose-tinted.
“James?” Natasha asks, standing in the doorframe of his new room. Bucky looks up from his hands. “Phil wanted me to tell you dinner’s ready.”
“Yeah alright, I’ll be right down,” Bucky smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Either Natasha’s really nosy or she was outstanding at picking up on body language.
“So, what happened to you?” she prods.
“Huh?”
“I’m just confused. You look perfect with your brown hair, blue eyes and all those muscles,” She says eyeing the glove on his prosthetic. “So how’d you end up here?”
Bucky raises his eyebrows for a moment.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Bucky snaps. Natasha raises her hands in defense.
“Pretty boy’s got a bite,” she laughs.
“How’d you end up here, living in a foster home, huh? You feel like talking about that?” Bucky nearly growls. Shock runs through his veins as he realizes what he just said. Bucky could picture the next few moments clearly. Her running to Mr. Coulson and Clint, Clint punching him across the jaw and ending with Bucky’s ass hitting the curb.
“Fuck you,” Natasha laughs out, her eyes looking vaguely glossy as she crosses her arms. Bucky smiles a bit. Looks like his ass was safe for now.
“Don’t deal what you can’t take,” Bucky shrugs lightly, a smirk growing on his lips.
“Don’t be a dick,” The redhead mocks.
Maybe these people aren’t perfect after all.