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Sometimes he imagines he can feel it.
He can't, and if he could he wouldn't get that little jolt of delighted surprise when he sees another scrawled message, but sometimes when he's quick enough to catch the pen-strokes forming on his skin he tells himself there's a little warmth there in the purple lines.
Steve's been gone for three months and twelve days, which means it's been three months and thirteen since anyone's touched his skin. His therapist calls it a codependent relationship and damned right he's dependent on Steve - Steve's got Sam now, though, and Sam's even in his unit, can watch his back while Bucky's balled up on a couch in a narrow New York apartment, curling his fingers around his own wrist like he can pretend they belong to someone else.
Bucky's alone in his dependence, because he's got nothing left for anyone to rely on.
U OK? today's words say. They appeared on the back of his hand somewhere between his bedroom and the bathroom, and Bucky'd had the familiar tiny scared belly-curl that this'd be the time they'd wash off. They're still there, though, will be until his soulmate cleans them away; Bucky grabs one of Steve's fancy markers off the table and turns the O into a sad little face.
He feels like an idiot immediately after doing it, considers going into the bathroom to scrub the ink away, but there're more lines forming before he can do it, tiny purple puffs of cloud forming above his sad face's head. A bigger cloud is drawn above them, and inside it something that's triangular and smudgy that he can't quite make out; careful letters label it 'pizza' after a moment, and he snorts out a laugh.
He shoulda known. Pizza is basically his soulmate's answer to everything. That and dogs.
He looks up at the clock at that thought then swears under his breath. He'd meant to shower before leaving the apartment, but the clock hands have snuck up on him and he's gonna have to go as he is. He shoves a ball cap on over his unwashed hair, swishes a little mouthwash around his mouth and wavers back and forth for a couple minutes before swearing again, louder, and deciding to leave the goddamn prosthetic behind. He doesn't have the time to strap it on, to change his shirt for something with long sleeves; instead he pulls on his khaki jacket and pushes the sleeve into his pocket, shoving his feet into unlaced boots and grabbing his keys.
He's got the address he's heading for written down on a piece of paper, stuffed down deep in his pocket. It takes him a few tries to unfold it and eventually he has to resort to teeth. It's walking distance, at least, and the day is cool enough that he sets a brisk pace. He's got nerves coiling all through his stomach and he can't stop clenching his fist, which is a ball-ache when Steve's been gone so long 'cos his nails are starting to cut into his palm. Bucky turns the corner onto Tompkins and takes a deep breath.
At least this ain't the hard part. In a couple of weeks he's gonna get a service dog - he's gonna be responsible for the life of another being - and the thought has been giving him nightmares for months. It's got to be done, because there’s Sam now, because Steve can't be his left hand forever, but it scares the shit out of him and he's grateful he's getting this chance to practice even if he is nervous as hell.
He'd never really considered it before. Of course service dogs have gotta have training, that's a given, but he'd never really considered that the owners would need training too. For the next couple weeks Bucky's gonna be practicing with one of the trainers and his own service dog, Lucky - practicing the commands and the signals, working out how they're gonna work together, and learning how the hell to take care of a dog.
He has to backtrack a few steps to Quincy, checking the tall shabby brownstone's address against the paper in his hand. He has to concentrate to get his hand steady enough to press the buzzer, waiting for a response as his fingers bite crescents into his hand.
"Hey," a tinny voice says, "Bucky? C'mon up," and the door buzzes. He shoves it open with his shoulder and regards the elevator for a second (it has a note on that says 'Lloyd is an asshole who will FIX THIS TOMORROW - H') before trudging up the stairs. He's kinda expecting barking to meet his knock, but although there's a skitter of paws there's no loud noises from within.
The door opens after a moment to a tall, muscled guy with eyes even bluer than Steve's. He's blond, too, but that's about where the resemblance ends; where Steve's clean-cut with a hero's jawline, this guy's a little weatherbeaten and covered in sticking plaster, and he doesn't look like he's shaved for a couple of days. He's also not wearing a shirt, and Bucky's mouth goes immediately dry - who knew a guy with a more than passing resemblance to his best friend could be even close to exactly Bucky's goddamn type?
"Hey," the guy says, "Clint, hi, sorry about the general state of the place." He grins. It's fucking breathtaking. "Also me, I guess. Maybe mostly me. Lucky's failing at being an alarm clock today."
The dog at his feet - as big and blond and gorgeous as he is, even if the dog's missing an eye - cocks his head at the mention of his name.
"Lucky, this is Bucky," Clint says politely, and Lucky holds out a paw which Bucky bends down to shake, laughing a little under his breath. When he stands up again Clint's kinda staring at his mouth, and almost trips over his feet when he turns to go back into the apartment.
"C'mon in," he says. "Can I get you something to eat or drink? We've got... beer, maybe, and a couple cans of Dr Pepper," he reaches down to cover Lucky's ears, "plus leftover P-I-Z-" he looks kinda confused for a second, checks the back of his hand, and finishes triumphantly, "Z-A, fuck I'm tired."
Bucky'd answer, only he's caught by the purple ink on the back of Clint's hand.