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Bucky couldn’t help but laugh to himself when he saw the display of all the food on the table. It was almost excessive. A whole roast chicken, piles of mashed potatoes and every vegetable Bucky could name, and even some he couldn’t were sitting on the table. He could feel his heart beat faster at the number of calories he would be obligated to eat.
“You can sit down you know,” Natasha snickers from her seat at the table. Bucky shoots her a glare and takes the seat next to her. Mr. Coulson emerges from the kitchen holding a basket full of bread.
“Great, everyone’s here. Clint!” he calls through an open door, with a staircase going down. After a moment of no response, Mr. Coulson laughs lightly.
“He must have taken his hearing aids out,” He says setting down the basket onto the full table. In his absence, Natasha begins to pile food onto her plate. She takes a bit of everything, and just watching her made Bucky’s hands sweat. She passes one of the bowls of vegetables to him and he stares at it for a moment. The spinach is drenched in butter. Bucky silently curses Mr. Coulson as he puts the bowl down without taking any for himself.
Loud footsteps bounding up the stairs is the first sign that Bucky’s dinner is going to be stressful. The second sign is the sight of Clint’s shaggy blond hair.
“No spinach?” Mr. Coulson asks as he takes a large spoonful and dumps it on his plate. Bucky feels the urge to gag as he watches the oil shine off his spinach.
“No, thank you,” he chokes out. He looks around at the other dishes of food and they all shine with the artery-clogging oil. Bucky’s heart nearly burns with the speed it’s beating at.
Bucky stares down at his empty plate, not sure how to go forward.
“James, you need to have food on your plate so we can say grace,” Clint says. All eyes are on him as he slowly reaches for the serving fork on the dish of chicken. He takes one slice before setting the fork down and with a short smile, he indicates that he’s done.
“That’s all?” Mr. Coulson asks, a baffled look on his face that Bucky can only assume comes from the lack of food on his plate. He nods wordlessly and angles his head back down.
Bucky hears them saying the prayer but he refuses to close his eyes. He watches as the three of them clasp their hands and bow their heads over the plates. He’s used to the watching eyes, burning into his soul, trying to dissect and judge him. Whether it was his clothes being dirty because there wasn’t a washing machine at the house he was staying, and the change from the couch cushions hadn’t added up yet or his hair was too long because there's nowhere to hide his face when it’s short. When the three Coulson's stop speaking, Bucky takes the cue to pick up his fork, but looking at the greasy chicken, he’s not sure if he can do it.
Carefully, Bucky peels the fatty skin from the meat of the chicken and put it on a far corner of his plate. The white meat still looked too fattening for him to eat. He feels his face heat up when he catches Mr. Coulson look at him with pity. How the hell are they all so skinny if this man only knows how to cook with butter?
“Not hungry, James?” Mr. Coulson asked, shoving a small mountain of buttery, thick mashed potatoes into her mouth. If Bucky opens his mouth now, the only thing to come out would be a scream, so he shakes his head no. Bucky can see his face scrunch up in disdain, but he doesn’t say anything. Natasha lets out a loud cough and when Bucky looks over to her, he sees an inquisitive brow raised. He just shakes his head again, but by the look in her eye, this conversation isn’t over. Clint hasn’t raised his eyes from his plate, slowly eating his food in a methodical pattern.
“So, James, I want to lay down a few ground rules for while you’re staying with us,” Mr. Coulson says. Bucky nods, putting his fork down because it would just be so rude for him to start eating during this important conversation.
“Curfew is ten unless specifically stated otherwise, church every Sunday at nine, and you’ve gotta be here for dinner every night at six. Did I forget anything?” Clint quickly reviews, counting on his fingers as he goes. Natasha lets out a short chuckle, shaking her head.
“Clint,” Mr. Coulson sighs exasperatedly, The accused boy raises his brows.
“What! Those are the rules I have to follow!” Clint exclaims. Mr. Coulson sighs lightly and turns to face Bucky.
“You don’t have to come to church with us if you don’t want to, but the curfew and dinner are true,” He smiles. “Oh, we’ll just need your phone number for emergencies,” Mr. Coulson asks, pulling his phone out and handing it to Bucky.
“I don’t have a phone,” Bucky shrugs, handing the device back. Natasha narrows her eyes.
“Then how do you talk to your friends? I mean you move around so much, how do you keep in touch with everyone?” Natasha inquires, real concern lying behind her usually stony eyes. Bucky feels the urge to snip back at her, but Clint’s protective blanket over Natasha looms over the table.
“I never needed one in the past, no one ever wanted to check up on me,” Bucky says, his cheeks burning when Mr. Coulson frowns at him. Great, just what he wanted, pity.
“I can fix that up for you.”
Clint slams his fork down on the table and stands up from the table so fast, his chair hits the floor behind him.
“This whole thing is bullshit,” Clint mutters, stomping his way up the stairs. The air at the table was thick, not even a knife would penetrate it. Bucky’s chair was suddenly made of spikes and razor blades as he sat, unsure of the proper procedure for a meltdown at the table. Natasha, on the other hand, only rolled her eyes.
“Anyways, Phil, is it still cool for me and Clint to go to Tony’s later? ” she asks.
“Uh, sure,” Mr. Coulson says, giving Natasha a short smile. Suddenly, his face lights up so quickly you could almost see the blinding light from the bulb that had popped up above his head.
“James, why don’t you join them? It would be nice for you to make some friends while you’re here,” Mr. Coulson suggests, much to the dismay of everyone else at the table.
“Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t want to intrude on Natasha and her friends,” Bucky says, struggling to think of an excuse to get him out of it.
“Oh nonsense, you’re going. That’s alright with you, right, Nat?” the older man says, his brows raised at the young red-head. James watches as Natasha wrinkles her forehead while Mr. Coulson only hardens his glare.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Natasha huffs.
“Great. So it’s settled. I’ll even extend curfew to midnight tonight,” Mr. Coulson smiles, glad his meddling is paying off.
Dinner ends, and Natasha immediately runs up the stairs and closes her door with a loud slam. Bucky, however, begins to gather the empty plates the others had left behind at the table. He holds as many as he can, balancing a few on his prosthetic and ignoring the pull on the straps, before laying them down in the sink of the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that, bud. I’ve got it,” Mr. Coulson smiles. Bucky pauses.
“I just thought you would want me to do this. I mean you made all this food for us, the least I could do is the dishes,” the boy explains, firm in his belief that he should be helping.
“Here's the deal, I wash, you dry, I don’t think your arm would appreciate being in the water much” Mr. Coulson suggests with that stupid warm smile. Bucky just nods.
Once all the dishes were in the sink and Bucky was equipped with a drying rag, the two worked in tandem.
“Was it the food?” Mr. Coulson asks, with his hands deep in the soapy mess of the sink. Despite the lack of context, Bucky knows what she’s asking, and it really isn’t a conversation he wants to have.
“Just wasn’t hungry. I had a big breakfast,” Bucky lies. Mr. Coulson makes a conformational noise, but Bucky could tell the older man wasn’t buying what he was desperately trying to sell.
“It’s okay if you didn’t like it, James, you don’t have to lie to me. How about you give me a list of your favorite meals and I’ll see what I can do?” Mr. Coulson suggests, handing Bucky another plate.
“Just make what you guys like to eat. I don’t want to change anything for you,” Bucky shakes his head while putting a few forks into the drying rack.
“Where did you get the idea I don’t want you to change anything? If we didn’t need some change, we wouldn't have gone out of our way to foster a seventeen-year-old,” Mr. Coulson states firmly. What if he’s right? Does he really want him here? Could he actually stay? Have a real family?
Shut up.
He doesn’t belong here. He knows it and they know it. One month and he’s gone.
“Alright, buddy. I think I’ve got it from here. Don’t you want to change before you meet Natasha’s friends?” Mr. Coulson suggests. Bucky finishes drying the last plate and nods shortly before hurrying up the stairs.
None of his clothes are cool. They all look worn and gross and old because they are. In a perfect world, Bucky wouldn’t even be going to hang out with people he didn’t know, but in his reality, he’s standing in the middle of a room in his foster house, feeling like crying because he only owns four shirts. Life is cruel, isn’t it?
A loud knock on the door disrupts his depressive state.
“We’re gonna leave without you if you don’t hurry up!” Natasha yells through the door. Quickly, Bucky wipes at his eyes and psyches himself up to act nice and polite for the rest of the night. Charming smile placed on his lips, he opens the door and is faced with Natasha’s scowl.
“You promise?” Bucky smirks.
“Look, we don’t want you coming as much as you don’t want to come, so we’re all even, alright?” Natasha turns on her heel and walks away.
“Feisty,” Bucky mumbles as he follows her down the stairs to where Clint was standing talking to Mr. Coulson.
“-could be good for you. I just need you to give this a chance, okay?” Bucky hears. The conversation ends between the two when Mr. Coulson spots Natasha and Bucky standing at the base of the stairs.
“Alright you guys, have fun and stay out of trouble.” Mr. Coulson says as the uneasy trio walks out the front door.
“No promises.” Natasha grins wildly before slamming the door shut.
The three teenagers walk in uncomfortable silence.
“So, you’re both adopted?” Bucky asks nervously. Clint huffs quietly and speeds his pace up so he’s not walking with them anymore. Still, in sight but far enough where he couldn't hear them, even if his hearing aids were up all the way, Clint jams his fists into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Is he always like this?”
“No. He’s stressed out.” Natasha answers abruptly.
“Stressed about me being here?”
“Among other things.” she snips. Bucky takes the hint a drops the topic.
“So, you two are close.”
“Yeah, he’s my brother.”
“I mean not really though,” Bucky reasons.
“Maybe in your opinion, but he’s as close as I’ll ever get,” Natasha answers solemnly. I really can’t win.
“So are you like anorexic?” Natasha asks bluntly. Bucky nearly chokes on his own saliva at the accusation.
“No! Where’d you even get that idea?” he shouts.
“First off, lower your voice, people are trying to sleep. Second, you didn’t eat anything at dinner,” Natasha points out.
“I just wasn’t hungry,” Bucky shrugs.
“Don’t lie to me. Why didn’t you eat?” Natasha presses. Bucky feels his heart rate skyrocket and his palms become damp with sweat.
“Can you drop it?” Bucky growls lowly, wringing his hands in an attempt to calm down.
“No. Why didn’t you eat?” The red-head asks once again.
“It’s none of your business. Just leave it, Natasha,” Bucky pleads.
“Actually it is,” Natasha snickers, grabbing a granola bar from her backpack and tossing it to him. The glimpse into her bag nearly made Bucky’s jaw drop. It was full of alcohol. “Can’t have you passing out or yaking in front of my friends.”
“Where’d you even get all of that? You’re like twelve,” Bucky laughs, glad for an opportunity to change the topic.
“I resent that. I’m a sophomore you know,” Natasha smiles.
“Doesn’t answer the question of how you got it,” Bucky says, crunching into the dry bar. When Bucky turns her head, he sneaks a quick glance at the nutrition facts on the back before taking another bite.
“Doesn’t matter. We’re here,” Natasha says, walking up the path to the front door. The Coulson’s house is nice but this house is crazy, he reflects. Clint’s already knocking on the door when Natasha meets him. Bucky stands behind her as the huge front door swings open.
“Nat, Clint! You guys made it!” The kid who opens the door exclaims. He’s kind of short, with dark hair and eyes. Bucky watches as he clumsily hugs Natasha and distantly wonders if he’s naturally a klutz, or just drunk given the near-empty red cup in his hand. Natasha lightly pushes him off her and greets him with a short, “Stark.”
“Hey! Who are you?” The brunette smiles at Bucky, extending his hand to shake. His left hand.
“I’m James,” Bucky says, extending his own, real, flesh hand to shake instead. Stark furrows his brows for a second before accepting the invitation Bucky gave. Add one more bad impression to the list.
“Tony,” the shorter man says, pumping with Bucky’s hand twice before dropping it.
“This is our new foster brother, but you can just ignore the fact that he’s here, Phil made us bring him,” Clint rolls his eyes and pushes past Tony, walking over to a group of guys who greet him with a few whoops and beers. Natasha walks in after Clint, slinging her backpack off her shoulder and grabbing a bottle of vodka.
“So, how are you liking it with the Coulsons?” Tony asks, motioning for Bucky to follow him to the kitchen. The house isn’t packed, but it’s obvious that everyone here knows each other, as if the party is just for one big group of friends.
“Mr. Coulsons nice,” Bucky replies as Tony offers him a beer from the fridge. Bucky hesitates for a second before grabbing the bottle. Bucky points the top of the brown glass bottle towards Tony.
“You mind?”
“Can’t do it yourself?” Tony laughs, popping the lid off his own bottle and pouring it into the red plastic cup. Bucky’s face heats up until he’s sure it’s bright red.
“Not really,” Bucky says, placing the bottle down and tugging on the long sleeve of his shirt, revealing the plastic of his prosthetic. Tony stares for a moment before grabbing Bucky’s bottle and twisting the cap off.
“Sorry,” Tony mumbles, handing Bucky his drink.
“All good dude.”
Bucky raises the bottle to his lips and takes his first sip. It’s been a while since he last had a sip of alcohol and he welcomes the light burn of the bubbles with ease. First night at a new house and he’s already drinking. It’s not a normal thing for him, to be drinking, but after seeing Clint shotgun from a can of beer, he doesn’t think a few drinks will get him in too much trouble.
“I guess it makes sense that Coulson would take in another kid,” Tony shrugs before walking out of the kitchen.
“Hey, Spangles! Got someone for you to meet!” Tony yells out into the living full of people. Spangles? A man with the blondest hair Bucky has ever seen stands up from the couch. His blue eyes shine and his lips are the pinkest pink Bucky could imagine. Woah.
“Very funny, Tony,” Spangles rolls his eyes before flashing Bucky a breath-taking smile. “I’m Steve.” Bucky’s mouth suddenly lost all its moisture.
“This is James, the murder twin's new foster brother,” Tony says. Steve's brows raise quickly.
“ This is James?” Steve asks incredulously. Bucky’s face molds into a look of confusion.
“Should I be offended?” He asks.
“What? No! You’re just not what I expected from Nat’s description,” Steve laughs, and God, it’s the best laugh Bucky has ever heard. Bucky sends back the nicest smile he could muster.
“Hey! If you guys are smoking, you have to go outside this time!” Tony yells. The distinct smell of weed hits Bucky's nose and suddenly he feels as if he’s a child again, living in that crappy house that stole his arm. The scent nearly knocks him flat on his back. Bucky’s eyes scan the room looking for the door.
“They’re smoking weed?” Bucky chokes out.
“Yeah, they are. Outside though!” Tony shouts to the group.
“Thanks, for the beer, and the party, but I’ve gotta go,” Bucky stutters to the other boy, shoving his half-empty bottle into Steve’s hands and rushing out the closest exit. Once he’s outside, he stumbles onto the deck of the backyard and lets the warm summer air fill his lungs. In his exhale, he coughs.
“James! Want a hit?” Natasha giggles loudly, holding out the bowl. She’s sitting in the lap of a guy James has never seen before. The rest of Claire’s dirtbag friends look at him expectantly, wanting him to take the hit.
But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to end up like his mother. Because it all starts with one hit. The hit at the party and then at the next party and then you only go to the party to get high and then that evolves into getting high all the time, but then eventually the weed won’t cut it anymore. And then it’s the heroin and the coke and the neglect and then Bucky can’t breathe anymore.
He violently shakes his head, declining the offer to end his life, and his chest heaves with each breath. With his eyes watered over, he pushes out through his choppy breathes, “I’m going back.”
Bucky walks down the steps of the deck and finds the gate leading to the front. Leaving the situation seems to have done wonders for the pace of his breathing, but the sound of footsteps behind him worry him. A small hand grabs his wrist and yanks roughly.
“Where ya going? We don’t have to be back ‘till midnight,” Natasha smiles lazily, her red, hooded eyes matching his mother’s for a moment. Bucky rips his wrist from her grasp and runs a hand down his face before responding.
“Are you insane?” Bucky asks exasperated.
“What?” Natasha’s brows furrow and her drunk and stoned expression molds into a more angry one.
“Weed? Really? Are you trying to fuck up your whole life?” Bucky nearly cries out.
“This won’t fuck my life up! And what do you care? One month, right?” Natasha smiles venomously.
“You know what? You’re right,” Bucky realizes, turning his back to the swaying girl and walking away. He can vaguely hear Clint’s voice behind him asking Natasha if she’s alright.
As he walks back to the house he’s sleeping in for the next month, Bucky can’t stop the few tears that fall down his cheeks. Drugs caused his own mother to fail him and now this girl he has to be civil with for the next month is a junior druggie. Great. He angrily wipes at his eyes, willing the tears to stop. But they don’t. Not when he quietly enters the Coulson’s house, not when he pulls his jeans off and unstraps his arm, briefly rubbing at his stump and flops onto the bed. And definitely not when he tried closing his eyes to sleep. The bear hidden behind the frame of his bed calls out for him and before his logical brain can stop him, he’s grabbing the stupid thing and clutching it to his chest.
As Bucky lays in the most comfortable bed he’s slept on since he stayed with that nice older lady in Queens, he’s still that scared kid who used to fall asleep with bruised ribs and a second-hand high.