Chapter Text
James Buchanan Barnes is no longer the Winter Soldier.
James Buchanan Barnes is still very much capable of murder.
And right now, he’s weighing the pros and cons of it in his mind. Maybe he’d be able to explain himself to Dr. Raynor. Convince her that a slight relapse was justified given the circumstances.
Because what is Sam Wilson thinking, leaving a cat on his doorstep.
Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to ten very slowly. Maybe he’s hallucinating the whole thing. Maybe he can’t quite trust his mind (or his eyes) yet. Maybe Sam isn’t the single most aggravating person across multiple planets.
But when he opens his eyes and glances down, the cardboard box is still sitting there. And the cat is still sitting in it.
Okay, so this is actually happening. But he’s not done being in denial yet, so his next step is to read the note again. The very brief note containing an entirely unsatisfactory explanation.
Showed up on my porch this morning. Birds don’t like cats.
-Sam
Obviously, rereading the note does not improve the situation at all, so Bucky’s third step is to stare menacingly at the cat while mumbling under his breath in Russian that definitely would have earned him the Eyebrows of Disappointment from Steve. This does not improve the situation either, because the cat seems to be immune to the effects of intense staring. In fact, the cat stares back, which makes Bucky very uncomfortable. But he’s never lost a staredown before, not to Sam, not to anybody, so there’s no way he’s losing one to a cat.
Except that he does. Because there’s something of pre-serum Steve in the way the cat refuses to give up despite the fact that its opponent is several times its size, and eventually Bucky has to look away. The second he does, the cat springs out of the box and winds around his ankles, purring. Some people would call it sweet. Bucky knows better. He’d call it smug.
And he has no idea how to respond, so he just stands there and lets the cat do its thing for a minute. “Okay,” he says finally. “Are we done here? Because I’m going to go call Sam and tell him exactly what I think of this little stunt, and then he’s going to fly over here and pick you up.”
The cat listens while he’s talking, very politely, but it clearly has other ideas. As soon as he’s finished, it slips past his leg into the apartment and curls up for a nap on the floor.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bucky says. He shuts the door and fumbles in his pocket for his phone, keeping one eye on the dozing pile of fur while he does it in case it’s actually a bomb or a bioweapon or something. Sam picks up on the second ring, which tells Bucky he was just waiting for the call.
“So you found it, huh?” Somehow, Bucky can actually hear him smirking.
“Sam,” he says, “come get the cat.”
He has to pause after that, because Sam starts laughing hysterically. “You think this is funny? Well, good, I’m glad. That makes one of us.”
“Come on, man. About time you had yourself a little sidekick! You know, like Redwing!”
“So it’s like Redwing?” Bucky gives the cat another glance. “It’s a robot?”
“What? No. Dude, it’s a cat.”
Sam still sounds totally amused by this whole thing, but Bucky’s starting to feel a headache coming on. “Look, Sam, did you even think about this for more than five seconds before you dropped this thing on my doorstep? What if I’m not a cat person?”
“Do you even remember if you were a cat person or not?”
“Um.” He has to take a minute to think about that one, because sure, he’s technically got his mind back, but ninety years’ worth of memories is a lot to work through, and he’s been focusing on dealing with the big stuff. Until now, his opinion on cats did not make the top of the “need-to-remember” list.
“See?” Sam says. “You’ve got no clue whether you liked cats or not, so all you have to do is decide you like ‘em now. Problem solved.”
“That’s insane. I can’t just- Sam, this is a big deal.”
“C’mon, Buck, it’s not like I dropped a sabertooth tiger on your doorstep. It’s cute. Pet it.”
“I have a vibranium arm. If I pet her, I’m going to break her.”
“Nah. Cats are tough. And you’ve got another hand if you’re that worried. It’s a he, by the way.”
“Oh, so at least you took the time to figure that much out.” Bucky doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance in his voice, because he’s starting to worry for two reasons. First, he’s rapidly running out of excuses. Second, the cat is now awake, and he feels strangely weird about discussing its future while it sits there watching him. Just to be sure, he lowers his voice. “Too bad you didn’t stop to figure out anything else, like what I’m supposed to do with him. It’s literally lying on the floor right now, I don’t even have a couch or anything it can sit on-“
“Then congratulations, I just gave you the perfect opportunity to fix up your sad little place. You’re welcome.”
That reply is so remarkably infuriating that Bucky unleashes another string of angry Russian without even realizing he’s doing it.
“Am I supposed to run that through Google Translate or something?” Sam asks after a minute. “Because you might have to say it again, a little slower.”
“Sam,” Bucky says, feeling strangely desperate, “you’ve gotta listen to me. I can’t keep this thing alive. I didn’t even remember to eat breakfast this morning.”
“Which makes it the perfect pet. You forget to feed it or something, it’ll remind you, and then you can start taking care of yourself too, while you’re at it. He’ll be a good influence!”
“And you,” Bucky retorts, “are a pain in my-“
He doesn’t get to finish before Sam starts laughing again, so he hangs up instead. The cat gets up, stretches itself luxuriously, and weaves around his legs again in a clear demand for attention. Very hesitantly, Bucky reaches down with his good hand and scratches its back. It seems to like it, arching its back and purring, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He crosses the room, the cat trotting at his heels, and pulls the door open.
“I’ll leave it cracked,” he says. “That way you can leave if you want to.”
He spends the rest of that morning keeping one eye on the cat, waiting for it to disappear, but it doesn’t. For better or for worse, it’s decided it likes it here.
Okay, so this is happening. But that’s alright. It’s not a huge thing. He can deal with it. He can figure this out.
And the next time he sees Sam, he’ll have some very choice words for him.
Sam knocks on the door twenty minutes later and lets himself in. “Sarah said I should at least stop by and get you some stuff for the cat, since I kinda sprung this on you,” he explains, holding up two plastic shopping bags as if they can somehow shield him from the venomous glare Bucky sends his way.
Unfortunately, that glare would be a lot more effective if the cat wasn’t curled up in Bucky’s lap. Sam grins. “So much for all that crap about not being a cat person, huh? See, I knew it! C’mon, admit it, I was right!”
There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that Bucky is ever admitting that, no matter how obviously true it is. “I hate you,” he says instead.
Sam just laughs and looks around for someplace to put the bags. There’s only one armchair, which Bucky and the cat are currently sitting in, and aside from that and the TV, the room is pretty much empty. “Man, this is just pitiful,” he comments, setting the bags on the floor in the corner instead. “You got something against furniture?”
In typical Sam fashion, he doesn’t give Bucky a chance to answer that question before he disappears into the kitchen and comes back with one of the chairs from the table. “So did you name it yet?” he asks as he sits down, nodding at the cat, who is now purring loudly and kneading Bucky’s leg.
“Alpine,” Bucky says curtly, because he feels like being mad for a little while longer. “Because he’s white. Snow. Mountains.”
“Not bad.” Sam snaps his fingers, trying to get the cat to come over. Alpine pointedly ignores him, and now it’s Bucky’s turn to grin.
“That’s just cold,” Sam says. “I’m the one who saved your fluffy tail, you know.”
“Merrrt,” Alpine replies. Cat-ese is not one of the several languages Bucky’s fluent in, but he can pretty much translate that one: and your point is?
Sam shakes his head in mock disgust. “So that’s how it is, huh? Even the cat’s giving me attitude?See, I knew you two were made for each other.”
Those words turn out to be an understatement, even if Bucky will never admit how true they are, because life gets a lot better once Alpine’s in it.
In the first place, Bucky sleeps a lot better with Alpine curled under his arm, or on his shoulder, or between his ankles, or any other of the many weird sleeping spots Alpine comes up with. And if he does wake up, just the feeling of someone else being near him is usually enough to send him back to sleep pretty quickly. The cat helps in the mornings, too, because it’s hard to ignore the insistent meows demanding he get up and figure out some form of food for them both. (It doesn’t necessarily have to be cat food in Alpine’s case, because Alpine will eat just about anything. Even if it’s something that’s not supposed to be edible. Like shoelaces. Or paper. Or lint from the clothes dryer).
In the second place, like Sam predicted, having a pet is the perfect incentive to get his act together as far as the apartment goes. It takes him a while to work up the courage, and he has to recruit Sam as his backup, but he does, eventually, buy a couch. And then a rug, and a coffee table, and some bookshelves, and a few other things. Once Sam’s sister hears what they’re doing, she takes over as interior designer, and somehow manages to make the place look...kinda cozy. Alpine loves it, which is all that really matters; he climbs all over everything, giving it the sniff test, and then figures out a few more bizarre nap spots. Such as curled up under the couch cushions, which gives both of them a heart attack when Bucky almost sits on him by mistake.
Little by little, the two of them start to develop a sort of routine. Outside of the occasional team-up with Sam to handle some minor-league bad guy, there’s not a lot of excitement in their lives; whatever world-ending threats might be lurking out there have apparently decided that Earth has earned a break after Thanos. So Bucky spends a lot of time in the apartment, just... hanging out. He discovers that there’s a whole series connected to The Hobbit and starts working his way through it, even though Sam makes fun of him for it. (Sam comes over to watch the movies with him anyway, once he’s done with the books, although they spend most of the first trilogy arguing about whether or not Everett Ross looks like Bilbo. Sam can’t see the resemblance. Bucky can’t get over it).
By the time they’re done with that, Sam’s nephews have put together an entire list of other things that Bucky needs to catch up on. He moves through it slowly, night after quiet night on the couch with Alpine purring on his lap or playing with his shoelaces. It’s surprisingly pleasant, even if it’s not all that exciting. It’s what he wanted, peace and quiet and time to get his life back together. It’s nice.
It just doesn’t last very long.